Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you’ll be sticking to the straight and narrow, Tommy? That takes some believing.’

  ‘It’s true.’ He leaned back in his chair, his smile gentle and relaxed. ‘As soon as I’m free, when I’ve repaid my debt to society, I’m going to theological college.’

  Max groaned. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found God.’

  ‘He found me,’ Tommy corrected him. ‘I was lost, now I’m found.’

  Max groaned again.

  ‘What did you talk about?’ Jill asked briskly. ‘You and Eddie Marshall,’ she put in quickly, ‘not you and God.’

  ‘We didn’t talk about much at all. He shouted at the injustice of it all and I agreed with everything he said. He had a vile temper so I wasn’t going to argue with him.’

  ‘Did he mention his wife?’ she asked.

  ‘Mention her? He talked about little else. He reckoned it was wrong him being banged up, and he was going to show her that he wasn’t a man to be pissed about. I just used to let him hold forth. As I said, I wasn’t going to argue with him.’

  ‘Who else did he talk to?’ Max asked.

  ‘No one that I can think of. Eddie didn’t talk as such. He’d pace the cell and shout and curse. It was more the ravings of a nutter than talk.’

  ‘If there was so little conversation between the two of you,’ Jill said, ‘how come he visited you after he was released?’

  ‘At the time, I couldn’t understand that myself,’ Tommy said thoughtfully. ‘He was even worse then, too. I thought he was probably on drugs. He had a bright-eyed look. Seemed wilder and more out of control, if you know what I mean. I always said he was mad.’ He gave Jill a bold stare. ‘He saw enough of you shrinks, but you all reckoned he was sane. I didn’t.’

  ‘He must have said something to you,’ Jill insisted.

  ‘He said he was going to do for them all, I remember that.’

  ‘Them all?’ Jill queried.

  ‘At the time, I’d no idea who he meant by that. Later, I realized he meant those women. Well, he must have, mustn’t he?’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘I wanted him to leave. “Calm down, forget revenge and get on with your life,” I told him. We had a bit of an argument. As he was only visiting, I felt safer, as if I could say what I liked to him. I told him he wasn’t man enough to do half the things he claimed he would, and he went ballistic. “I’ve done one,” he said, “and I’ll do the rest of ’em.” I told him to stop being so dramatic, but he swore he had proof. Said it was all on film. I tell you, he was mad. I was glad when he left. And no,’ he added with a smile, ‘before you ask, I never heard from him again, thank God.’

  ‘On film?’ Max said. ‘Are you sure he said he’d already done one and that it was on film?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’d bought one of those camcorders. Secondhand, he said it was, but a bargain. Everyone wanted digital, that’s why he got it so cheap.’

  Bingo. The bastard must have filmed the murders. If Jill was right and they did have a copycat on their hands, that person must have got hold of the film.

  ‘What did he say about it? Think, Tommy! Did he mention the make, say where he’d got it from, anything like that?’

  ‘He probably did, but it didn’t mean nothing to me. All I can remember is him saying he’d make a copy of the video and send it to me. As if I was interested in anything that sicko did. Mad he was. Stark, staring mad!’

  A video. That had to be it.

  ‘What about letters or phone calls when he was inside?’ Max asked. ‘Did he write to anyone? Speak to anyone?’

  ‘His brother wrote to him once, I remember. I saw the letter. Not that he showed it to me, but it was hanging around and I couldn’t help reading it. It was full of sympathy for Eddie’s predicament. Whether his brother had genuine feelings for him, I don’t know. Eddie never mentioned it, but he did keep the letter.’

  ‘What about interests?’ Jill asked. ‘Was he into stamp collecting, coin collecting, antiques – anything like that?’

  ‘Not that I knew of, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He always reckoned life was better in days gone by.’ He grinned. ‘He blamed most things wrong in our society on giving votes to women. Very old-fashioned in his outlook. He hated women. Oh, except his grandmother. She was a saint, by all accounts. His own mother was one of eleven children, I recall . . .’

  Max’s thoughts were still on that camcorder, and Tommy couldn’t tell them much else.

  ‘I’ll see you in court then, Tommy,’ Max said as they were leaving.

  ‘You’ll see me in church,’ Tommy retorted, the smile still in place. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll pray for you.’

  They were soon out of the prison and striding towards Max’s car.

  ‘A bloody camcorder,’ Jill burst out. ‘It makes sense. Eddie Marshall thought he was doing society a favour and he would have wanted society’s gratitude. He had to have proof that he was the man responsible. The bodies were laid out for the cameras all right. Our cameras and his. The sick bastard was his own audience.’

  ‘It seems like it. Would he film the body, or would he film the murders?’

  ‘Oh, he’d film the lot. Everything would be caught on camera. He was proud of what he was doing. Bastard.’

  ‘So if he can just trace this film –’

  ‘Which will be as easy as tracing this killer . . .’

  They were soon out of Preston, but traffic on the M6 was moving slowly.

  ‘Carol Blakely’s killer,’ Jill mused. ‘OK, he probably wasn’t filming himself but he was trying to make us think Eddie Marshall was still alive. Fair enough. With the film in his possession, that probably makes sense. After all, if we’re busy digging into Eddie Marshall’s past, it takes the heat off him. Yet why was Carol Blakely his victim? This isn’t someone like Marshall who wants revenge on career women. Carol was chosen for a reason.’

  ‘Indeed. Which has her husband top of my list of suspects.’

  ‘You have a list? Wow. It must be one of hell of a short list.’

  It was. Vince Blakely was top and Finlay Roberts, for a reason Max couldn’t fathom, was second – or bottom.

  ‘Vince Blakely wanted a divorce,’ Max said. ‘They both wanted a divorce, but he wanted a financial settlement. He didn’t know she’d changed her will and left everything to Ruth Asimacopoulos.’

  ‘Who did know?’

  ‘No one. Ruth said Carol never discussed financial matters, that money meant very little to her.’

  ‘So even her best friend didn’t know.’

  ‘No.’ Max took his gaze from the road briefly and smiled. ‘If she had, I’d have three suspects on my list.’

  ‘And if she hadn’t been in Costa Wherever at the time,’ Jill put in drily.

  Max lit a cigarette and wound down the window to release the smoke.

  ‘So, Vince Blakely kills his wife,’ Jill said, speaking louder to make herself heard above the traffic noise, ‘and expects to live happily ever after on the proceeds?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a flaw there. He was on a golfing holiday when she was killed.’

  ‘Only in Scotland. It’s easy enough to drive or fly down from Scotland and then get back.’

  It was possible. They needed to check with the hotel again and see if he was unaccounted for on Friday night or Saturday morning.

  The traffic was still moving slowly, but Max was in no hurry. He often found that when he was concentrating on his driving, his subconscious was working away on more important issues.

  It was another hot, sticky day and, with the air conditioning on, it was more comfortable inside the car than out.

  ‘I need a coffee,’ Jill said, breaking a long silence.

  ‘Blackburn Services is about five miles away.’

  ‘And a muffin,’ she added.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘This whole Undertaker thing –’ she said, ignoring that. ‘So
meone’s trying to piss us about. Because we’re concentrating on Eddie Marshall, we’re missing stuff closer to home.’

  ‘But if we’re right,’ Max said, ‘and there was a video, how the hell would someone get hold of that without knowing Marshall?’

  ‘True.’ She sighed. ‘I need that coffee. I’ll think better then.’

  ‘We’ll have a coffee,’ Max said, ‘and then we’ll get Vince Blakely brought in. It’s about time we had a long, serious chat with him.’

  ‘He’ll want a lawyer there, just to keep everything right and proper. Smug bastard.’

  ‘You’re right. Scrap that. We’ll have an informal chat with him at his place.’

  Chapter Eight

  Blakely was sitting in his garden when they arrived, and Jill wondered if it was his relaxed attitude that made her dislike him so much. He might have been working, as he was sitting at a large wooden table with a set of drawings spread out in front of him. There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and a half-empty glass by his side, however, which didn’t do a lot for that theory. Shorts and a loose red and white shirt were the dress code for the day.

  ‘We were passing,’ Max told him pleasantly, ‘so thought we’d update you.’

  ‘Good of you. Thank you. Please, have a seat.’

  As they sat opposite him, shielding him from the sun, Jill marvelled at how calm he was. He certainly wasn’t her idea of the grieving widower.

  She cast her mind back to when she, too, had lost a spouse. Like Blakely and his wife, she and Chris had been on the brink of starting divorce proceedings. They, too, had known their marriage was over. The love they’d shared was over and the vows they’d exchanged were meaningless. Nevertheless, on the day Chris was killed, shot by a gang of thugs as he’d worked in the streets of London, she’d been distraught. The sense of loss had been immense. True, there had been no bitterness between them, but even so, the man she had once thought herself in love with, the man she’d woken beside each morning, the man who should have had a long, happy life before him was dead.

  Yet Vince Blakely was emotionless.

  ‘How are you coping, Mr Blakely?’ she asked curiously, a sympathetic smile pinned in place.

  ‘Life goes on,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t sink in really. Ahuge shock, of course. It’s very difficult but, as I said, life has to go on, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jill agreed.

  ‘So?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘What progress have you made?’

  ‘We’re following several leads,’ Max said carefully. ‘Trust me, we have every available officer working on this case and we will find your wife’s killer.’

  Several leads, Jill scoffed inwardly. If only.

  Blakely seemed satisfied, and he didn’t seem unduly concerned at Max’s promise to find his wife’s killer. Because he was innocent? Or because he thought they didn’t have a hope in hell of catching him?

  ‘Why do you think your late wife changed her will and left everything to Ruth Asimacopoulos?’ she asked. ‘If, as you say, she had no time for people, it seems an odd gesture.’

  ‘How would I know? As I told you, I didn’t even know she’d made a will.’

  ‘You must have discussed the matter at some point,’ Jill said. ‘Couples do.’

  ‘We didn’t.’ He thought for a moment. ‘In the early days of our marriage, we said we ought to make them – you know, when we saw one of those ads that solicitors put in the paper. That was as far as it went, though. We never got round to it.’

  ‘You haven’t made one either?’ Jill asked curiously.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So if you’d died last month, your wife would have inherited everything?’

  ‘Yes. And before you ask, no, it wouldn’t have bothered me. If I’m dead, I’m hardly likely to worry, am I?’

  That was fair enough. Jill knew he wasn’t alone, either. Many people died intestate. Most people assume they have plenty of time to put their affairs in order. Others are super- stitious. They believe that, as soon as a will is made, their number will be called.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t know why or when she made a will. She didn’t discuss money.’

  ‘But why Ruth Asimacopoulos?’ Max murmured.

  ‘Because the old witch was her closest friend. Besides, the business was everything to her. She’d want it to carry on.’

  ‘There’s no provision for that in the will,’ Jill pointed out. ‘Everything goes to Ruth – Mrs Asimacopoulos – regardless of whether she keeps the business or sells it.’

  ‘She’ll keep it. You mark my words.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Jill murmured, tracing a pattern with her finger on the wooden table, ‘that she wanted to make sure you didn’t benefit from her assets. That was the reason for her refusing a divorce, wasn’t it? You couldn’t agree on the financial settlement.’

  ‘Oh, you’re right in that she wouldn’t want me to get anything,’ he said bitterly, ‘but as I told her on several occasions, I wanted a divorce more than I wanted her money.’

  Liar. If that were the case, he’d have been granted that divorce.

  ‘The success of her business,’ he went on, ‘ was due, in the main, to the capital I forked out in the beginning. My own business was doing well at the time so I helped her to get hers going. I only wanted what I felt was rightfully mine.’

  ‘I see,’ Jill murmured.

  ‘Do you know a man called Finlay Roberts?’ Max asked, changing the subject.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Mrs Blakely went out with him a couple of times,’ he explained.

  Blakely shrugged. ‘That was her business. I wasn’t her keeper.’

  ‘If we knew about anyone she was seeing socially, it would help,’ Max pointed out.

  ‘We never discussed such things.’

  Another lie. Jill couldn’t imagine any married couple, happy or otherwise in their relationship, not discussing, or at least making snide remarks about, anyone the other person was seeing.

  ‘Look, I’d love to help,’ he said, ‘but her life was exactly that. Her life. She could have been sleeping with half of Lancashire for all I knew.’

  He didn’t say ‘or cared’ but it hung in the air between them.

  ‘One other thing,’ Max said casually, ‘we wondered if we could look at her DVDs, CDs, old records, videos –’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Blakely asked in astonishment.

  ‘There were a couple of internet sites she visited,’ Max lied. ‘We’ve had one under observation for some time. If we can find something she purchased – they specialize in older stuff, vinyl and videos.’

  ‘You can look.’ He stood up and began walking to the house. Jill and Max followed.

  The inside was as immaculate as the first time Jill had seen it.

  ‘They’ll be in her den,’ Blakely threw over his shoulder.

  They followed him along a thickly carpeted hallway, down two steps and into the den. It was a large study where Carol Blakely’s computer had lived until the police had taken it away. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was cosy and cluttered. In short, it looked lived in.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Blakely said. ‘Apart from the things your bods moved, it’s just as she left it. This is how she lived,’ he added, and it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

  ‘I like it,’ Jill said.

  The large wooden desk was covered – apart from the empty space where her computer had sat – with trinkets and framed photographs. For someone who had no time for people, she certainly liked photographs.

  ‘Her sisters?’ Jill guessed, pointing at the photos.

  ‘Yes.’

  A complete wall was shelved and full of books, floor to ceiling, and a quick glance at the titles told Jill that Carol had collected old books on gardening and flower arranging.

  ‘Your people spent hours in this room,’ Blakely reminded Max, ‘so I expect they’d have found anything if it was here.’

>   ‘Yes, I’m sorry for this further intrusion, but we weren’t looking for anything specific at that point. I’m sure that you and your late wife’s family want her killer found as quickly as possible. This could give us a useful lead.’

  A small unit housed a few music CDs and half a dozen DVDs, all romantic comedies. There were no old videos. Jill hadn’t expected to see any.

  ‘Are there more in the house?’ Max asked. ‘It may be that she bought you a gift –’

  ‘I have loads of old music videos,’ Blakely said. ‘You’re welcome to look, but I don’t remember her buying any of them. In any case, most of them are stuff I taped from the television.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  They were taken to a second study at the other end of the hallway, this one used by Vince Blakely. Prints of classic sports cars adorned the walls and Max admired those while Jill looked at the rest of the room. It was used mostly for work. He had an office in Harrington, but he must work from home a lot. His desk was glass and chrome, with not a speck of dust on it. The cleaner he employed did a good job. A heavy glass ashtray sat on the desk, holding down yet more drawings.

  A cabinet with smoked glass doors stood next to the desk and, much to Jill’s surprise, Blakely produced a small key from a bunch in his pocket.

  ‘You keep this locked?’ she asked.

  ‘Um, yes. Our – my cleaner’s a nosy old biddy and I wouldn’t want her seeing some of these. Oh, it’s only soft porn, the same as everyone has, but she’d feel duty bound to tell everyone she met.’

  There was nothing of interest in his video collection or in his study. The soft porn looked to be exactly that, and it was on DVD anyway. The old videos were, as he’d said and as he took them into the lounge to demonstrate, concerts that he had taped from the television.

  He hadn’t loved his wife, he hadn’t even liked her, and he wasn’t sorry she was dead. But that didn’t make him a killer.

  He was neat. A perfectionist in fact. If he’d got hold of those videos and wanted to play copycat, his MO would have been exactly the same as Edward Marshall’s. Marshall put old pennies on the victims’ eyes and Vince Blakely would have done the same, no matter how difficult it was to obtain old coins.