Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Thanks to her satellite navigation system, Jill found Sean Roberts’s address easily. She’d phoned ahead to ask if he could spare a few minutes and he had insisted on giving her a convoluted set of directions.

‘Turn left by the post office then you’ll see that the road curves to the right.’

‘It’s OK, Mr Roberts, I’ll find it,’ she’d promised.

‘I’m sure you will. Now, when the road curves, you’ll see a small newsagent’s. Indicate left there. The left turn will come on you real fast so watch out for it. Then, go right up to the top of the bank, past the junk shop with lots of clutter on the pavement, and past the off-licence. Right up to the top. Then you’ll see a left turn . . .’

Totally confused, Jill had let him give her directions, thanked him, and found her own way.

His flat was in a pleasant-looking block at the very end of the road. There was no real view, but a stiff breeze was blowing and the air was salty and fresh. She walked up the front path, went into a small hallway, and rang the bell for Mr Roberts’s flat.

‘You’ll be the police then?’ a distorted voice answered.

‘Yes,’ she replied. Technically it was true.

The lock clicked and she pushed open the door. There was a lift – with a large handwritten
Out of Order
sign stuck on it. Great. She walked up the three flights of stairs and was breathless when she reached his door. Thankfully, he had it open for her.

‘The lift’s still not working then,’ he grumbled.

‘No,’ she said, gasping for breath.

‘So what’s he done now then?’ he asked, having done with social niceties.

There was no resemblance whatsoever between father and son. The man looking at her now was older than Jill had expected. He was a ruddy-faced, portly man with thinning hair. However, just like his son, he chose to dress very casually. His big toe poked through a hole in a grubby brown slipper and the shirt he was wearing didn’t look as if it was familiar with the inside of a washing machine. The other similarity was an expression on his face that said he intended to enjoy every minute of this. Why?

‘We’re not sure he’s done anything,’ Jill said. ‘May I come in?’

‘Aye. Yes, come in.’

Unlike the son who had few possessions, the father’s home was crammed with a lifetime’s collection of knickknacks. In the small sitting room, there were photographs by the dozen, a collection of porcelain springer spaniels, books, several piles of mail, an old radio, an old television that didn’t look as if it had been switched on in a decade . . .

‘When did you last see your son?’ she asked when she was seated opposite him on an old, hard sofa.

‘About a year ago,’ he answered, taking her completely by surprise.

Damn it. She’d believed he hadn’t seen him since Finlay was six. Why the hell hadn’t someone checked that out?

‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘I’m helping with a murder investigation in Harrington,’ she explained, ‘and your son’s name has cropped up. We’d like to eliminate him from our inquiries.’

‘You reckon he’s killed someone?’ The old man chuckled at that. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Cos he’s half-mad. Takes after his mother.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. She’s mad, too.’

‘You and Finlay weren’t close, were you?’ Jill asked. Or had they got that wrong, too?

‘No. He blamed me for a lot of things. For walking out on him, his mother and his sister, among other things. He knew nothing about the situation, of course. How could he? He was barely out of nappies. But he wasn’t the forgiving type.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s no skin off my nose. As I’ve told him many times, he’s big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself.’

‘Why did you see him a year ago?’

‘Beats me. He was in Lancashire, he said, and he decided to call on me. Said it was time we buried the hatchet and all that. I told him, as far as I’m concerned, there was no hatchet needed burying. He wanted to buy me a drink but I was on the wagon. Still am,’ he added with a touch of pride.

‘Before that,’ Jill said, ‘when did you see him?’

‘Oh, years ago. That’s why I was surprised he found me. The last time will have been when all the trouble kicked off.’

‘Trouble?’ Jill asked, frowning.

‘You don’t know about that? You haven’t heard about Lorna?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, now here’s a tale.’ Mr Roberts relaxed back in his chair and lit a cigarette. ‘Let me see, he would have been about sixteen when he met young Lorna. Perhaps even seventeen. Puppy love it was, nothing more and nothing less, but he wouldn’t have it. As far as he was concerned, it was the real thing. Nothing would sway him from that. Talk about love’s young dream.’ He chuckled. ‘She was his soulmate, he reckoned, and he would rather die than be parted from her. Gets all that emotional nonsense from his mother, too. Well, we had to put a stop to it. At least, his mother did. That’s why she got in touch with me. I was summoned to sort it out. Lorna, you see, was my daughter. By my second wife.’

‘He fell in love with his half-sister?’

Jill recalled the framed black and white photograph that had boasted pride of place next to Finlay Roberts’s bed. Could it have shown a young Finlay and Lorna?

‘Love? Pah!’ the old man scoffed. ‘He said it was love, but if she hadn’t been his sister, it would have fizzled out. Young love?’ He laughed at the very notion. ‘It was illicit. Exciting, you know what I mean?’

Jill did.

‘When you saw him last year,’ she asked, ‘did he talk of Lorna?’

‘No. I bet he can’t even remember her name. He’ll have grown out of it, just like I said he would.’

He hadn’t. Jill would bet her life on that.

‘What about Lorna?’ she asked. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘Not since the trouble kicked off,’ he answered. ‘As you can guess, I’m not the world’s best father. Not that it was entirely my fault,’ he added quickly. ‘Her mother was a flighty piece and left me for someone else. She took young Lorna with her and that’s the last I heard of them till I was ordered to split the pair of ’em up.’

‘How did they meet? Finlay and Lorna?’

‘Typical of Karen, it was,’ he explained. ‘Having run off with someone else, she grew bored and tried to find me. Instead, she found my first wife – Finlay’s mum. It must have been a sort of Ex-Wives Club,’ he chuckled, ‘because damn me if they didn’t become friends. Karen stayed with Petra, Finlay’s mum, for nigh on six months.’ He shook his head at the absurdity of life. ‘Young Finlay and Lorna were thrown together, I suppose you’d say. The stupid thing was, neither kid was told they were brother and sister. No one thought twice about them spending so much time together until they were found in bed together. That’s when all hell broke loose.’

‘And how did you split the pair of them up?’

‘Young Lorna had enough sense to leave Finlay,’ he explained. ‘She just took off and, as far as I know, no one’s heard from her since. She knew it couldn’t be and she accepted it.’

Was that why Finlay moved around the country, Jill wondered? Could it be that he was still looking for her?

‘Do the initials TMD mean anything to you?’ Jill asked him, and he shook his head in bewilderment.

‘Should they?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘So you’ve no idea where Lorna is now?’

‘None at all,’ he said in a couldn’t-care-less way. ‘As I said, after the trouble kicked off, she went away. I’ve no idea if she’s alive or dead.’

‘Where was Finlay’s mother living when he and Lorna met?’

‘Somerset. She took quite a liking to the place.’

‘You say your son was in Lancashire a year ago?’ Jill reminded him. ‘What for, did he say?’

‘He didn’t say. But that’s him all over. Itchy feet. He never has been able to settle in one place.’ He laughed softly. ‘I expect he blames that on me, too.’

He looked at her, and Jill saw the resemblance then. His unwavering stare was the same as Finlay’s.

‘I know you want to, how do you put it, eliminate him from your inquiries, but that usually means he’s suspected of something bad. Do you really reckon he’s killed someone?’

‘Two women have been murdered,’ Jill explained, ‘but, no, he’s not a suspect. As I said, we simply need to eliminate as many people as possible from our inquiries. When he visited you a year ago, how long did he stay in Lancashire?’

‘I’ve no idea. I got the impression he was just passing through, but he didn’t say and I didn’t ask.’

‘Has he been in touch during the last three months?’ Jill asked.

‘No. Why?’

‘I just wondered. As he’s been in Lancashire, I thought he might have.’

‘He’s been in Lancashire again? Well, well, well. He must be getting a liking for the place.’

She asked him a few more questions, but there was nothing more he could tell her.

‘Thank you for your time,’ Jill said as she was leaving. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘Can you eliminate him from your inquiries?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ Jill said, smiling.

Her mind was racing as she got back to her car and drove off.

The traffic was busy for some reason, and it took her an age to get back on to the motorway. Her phone was showing three missed calls from Max, but he hadn’t left a message. There was no need; he’d only be wanting to know why the hell she’d raced off to Blackpool without telling him. He’d want to remind her that Carol and Nikki were killed by the same bloke. He could remind her all he liked but, despite what everyone thought, and despite what the pathologist said, she reckoned they were looking for two men.

Finlay Roberts was still in love with Lorna. That photo by the side of his bed proved that. He was a traveller, and he liked to travel light. He wasn’t a possessions sort of bloke. Yet he must have been carrying that photo all over the country with him for years. Oh yes, he was still in love with her. There was no doubt about that.

Perhaps now she might get Max’s attention . . .

Hands free or not, she didn’t like talking on her car phone. Half the time it was impossible to hear what was being said and concentrate on the road at the same time.

As soon as she got home, however, she fed the cats, made herself a good strong coffee and tried his number.

‘How was the sea air?’ he asked drily, and she smiled.

‘Exhilarating!’

‘And? Out with it then, I can tell you’ve got something interesting to tell me.’

She told him all about her meeting with Mr Roberts senior.

‘So,’ she said, ‘there are two things of interest really. Firstly, Finlay saw his father twelve months ago. He was in Harrington or Kelton – well, Lancashire at any rate – a year ago, Max.’

‘Around the time those videos went missing?’

‘He couldn’t be specific,’ she admitted, ‘but it’s possible.’

‘Mm.’ Max wasn’t convinced, she could tell. ‘What else?’

‘Well, the fact that he’s still in love with Lorna.’

There was a pause.

‘So? What does that have to do with anything?’

‘It means,’ she informed him, ‘that he lied about trying to get Carol into bed. He was chatting her up, we know that because Ruth and Carol were at the florist’s to witness it all, but it wasn’t with the intention of getting her into his bed. He had an ulterior motive.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Max scoffed. ‘I very much doubt he’s lived like a monk since Lorna took off.’

‘I still think he had an ulterior motive.’

‘Like killing her?’ Max asked sarcastically.

‘Maybe.’

‘OK, so what about Nikki? Where the hell does she fit in?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jill admitted.

‘Christ, Jill, you’re dreaming up something from the twilight zone here. So we’ll assume that, a year ago, he came across – stole them, found them, bought them – those videos. He then kills Carol the same way to make us think Eddie is still alive. Then, with that job done, he either sells the videos or throws them away and, lo and behold, someone else finds them or buys them and he too decides to kill someone by the same MO to make us think Eddie is still alive.’

‘Put like that, it’s crap,’ she agreed, growing exasperated. ‘But it won’t have been like that.’

‘How the hell will it have been then?’

The truth was, she had no idea. Finlay Roberts was aloner. He wouldn’t enter into something as serious as murder with someone else. If he wanted a job doing, he would have to do it himself.

‘Max, I’m telling you what I know. As you constantly remind me, I’m not a detective. If you want my opinion, he’s still a suspect for Carol Blakely’s murder.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

The following morning, Max received a phone call from Yvonne Hitchins Vince Blakely’s former employee and current lover. She sounded very nervous.

‘Can you meet me somewhere?’ she asked quickly.

‘Of course. Where?’

‘Somewhere no one will see us.’

It was tempting to suggest the Sea of Tranquillity. Max’s face was on TV every day at the moment so, wherever they went, he would be recognized.

‘Can’t you come here?’ he asked.

‘No. Someone would see me.’

‘OK, then, how about –’

‘There’s a viewing spot on the Burnley to Bacup road,’ she cut him off. ‘A lay-by. It overlooks the wind farm. Meet me there at two o’clock.’

Before Max had a chance to respond, the line went dead.

What on earth did the stunning but dim Yvonne want with him? Presumably, she had something to say about Vince Blakely, but what? And why was she so scared?

‘Do you want me to come along, guv?’ Grace asked.

‘No, I can handle Yvonne, thanks.’

‘Must be your lucky day.’ She grinned at him. ‘What will you do if she cries rape?’

He shook his head, unsmiling. ‘She’s too scared to cry rape . . .’

Max was at the lay-by at ten minutes to two and there was no sign of her. He got out of his car and leaned againstthe bonnet to enjoy the view. The sun was shining and the air was pleasantly warm rather than oppressively hot.

At two fifteen, a car pulled up alongside his. Yvonne Hitchins killed the engine, put on a pair of sunglasses, and got out.

She was wearing amazingly tight jeans, and a lightweight cotton top with a hood that she pulled over her head. Oh, yes, she was scared.

She stood next to him, hands in her jeans pockets. Max wouldn’t have thought there was room for her hands.

‘You OK?’ he asked her, and she nodded, although she looked far from OK.

‘What happens,’ she asked, coming straight to the point, ‘to people who lie to police?’

‘It all depends,’ he said. ‘Why? Have you lied?’

She was a long time answering, and she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was locked on some distant spot. ‘You know you asked where Vince was on the night of that fire? When the architect was killed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Vince told me to say I was with him all night.’

‘Ah.’

‘I wasn’t,’ she said shakily, still not looking at him. ‘But I didn’t think it would matter. He said you suspected him of killing his wife . . . but he was in Scotland then, wasn’t he?’

‘He was.’

Max had been over it a dozen times and there was no way Blakely could have driven or flown down from Scotland to kill his wife and then raced back there. No way. Max had even been shown photographs that Blakely’s friend and fellow golfer had taken, and Blakely had been smiling for the camera.

He could have paid someone else to get rid of his wife, but they could find no evidence of that.

‘So he couldn’t have done it, could he?’ she persisted.

‘It seems not,’ Max agreed. ‘So the night of the fire, where do you think he was?’

‘He says he was at home alone.’

‘Don’t you believe him?’

‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’ She hunted in her bag for a cigarette and lit it with hands that were shaking. ‘I suppose he’s a suspect in the other girl’s murder?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ She took a deep drag on her cigarette. ‘People he knew – OK, he says he didn’t know the architect who died in the fire, but that sounds doubtful. People he knew are getting killed.’

‘He knew Nikki Craven?’ Max’s heart skipped a couple of beats before racing off at a dangerous pace. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Knew of her,’ she said, not quite so confident now.

‘How did he know her?’ And why the hell had his name never cropped up in the investigation?

‘She was drunk in Harrington one night and smashed his car’s lights in.’ Yvonne was frowning at him, mistrustful, as if he was trying to catch her out. ‘That was about a month ago. I was with him at the time. We’d been to the club. Reno’s, you know?’

‘Yes. Tell me exactly what happened, Yvonne.’

‘We were only going out for a bite to eat that night,’ she explained, ‘so Vince drove. Then we decided to go to Reno’s. As he was driving we didn’t intend to stay long, but then he said we’d get a taxi and he’d come back for it in the morning. Anyway, we came out of the club and there were half a dozen young louts hanging around the car park. Vince saw that the headlight on his car had been smashed and he shouted at these louts, wanting to know who’d done it. There were all young blokes, except one, and it was this girl who came forward. “I did,” she told him, and she was laughing. She gave him her name and address as it was a joke. I suppose she knew that Vince couldn’t do anything about it. Especially with her friends hanging around. There was a lot of abuse thrown, but Vince knew he couldn’t prove anything. He drove us home,’ she admitted. ‘He’d had too much to drink, but hewas furious and he wasn’t going to leave his car there. There was no knowing what they might have done to it.’

‘Did he report it?’ Max asked.

‘No. There was no point. As he said, that Nikki Craven would have denied saying anything. A couple of days later,’ she went on, reaching for another cigarette, ‘the window at his office was smashed. He swore it was her, this Nikki Craven. I told him it could have been anyone, but he was convinced it was her. He was livid.’

‘Did he report that?’

‘No, but he was really angry.’

‘Where was he, Yvonne, when Nikki was murdered?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.

‘I see. So if he claims he was with you, it’s a lie. Right?’

‘He won’t do that.’ She ground out her cigarette. ‘I haven’t seen him lately. It’s all over between us.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. He was round at my place one night and we were having a bad evening. It was the day of the fire at the architect’s house. You lot had been to ask if I was with him that night and, because he’d told me to, I said yes. So I asked him what would happen to me if you found out I’d lied, and he lost his temper. He hit me. I thought he’d broken my jaw. He hadn’t,’ she said quickly, ‘but I told him to get out. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’

‘Had he hit you before?’

‘No. He’s always had a bit of a short fuse, but no, he’d never gone that far. He apologized immediately,’ she said, ‘but I wanted out. I’m glad now I chucked him out. People round him keep friggin’ dying.’

That’s why she was so scared. She thought she might be next on the list.

‘Thanks for that, Yvonne. I appreciate it.’

‘What will happen to me now?’

‘Nothing.’ But she was terrified. ‘I’m sure you’re quite safe,’ he went on, ‘but we can send someone round to your house to check on your security and give you some advice. OK? And if he tries to contact you, let me know.’ He handed her a card with his number on it. ‘This will reach me day or night. OK?’

She stared at the number, and looked slightly reassured. ‘OK. Thanks.’

‘Day or night,’ he repeated.

‘Thanks.’ She ground out her cigarette. ‘I’d better be going.’

‘Keep in touch, Yvonne.’

She nodded, and then unlocked her car and slid inside. A few seconds later, she was driving off.

Max lit a cigarette and stared at the view, his thoughts racing. What had he learned? That Vince Blakely had a temper and wasn’t above hitting a woman. That he had no alibi for the night Ralph Atkins – a fellow architect – was burned alive in his house. That he knew, or had at least come into contact with, Nikki.

That was their first real link. So far, he was the only person they’d come across who knew, or knew of, all three victims.

Max flicked his cigarette butt away and returned to his car.

Suppose Vince Blakely had wanted his wife killed. He’d hire someone, then take off to Scotland and make sure he was photographed at the hotel to give himself the best of alibis.

Who would he hire?

Nikki had come into contact with some highly unsavoury characters. If she’d discovered the truth, Blakely would have wanted her dead, too.

Max fired the engine and headed back towards Harrington.

He’d been back at headquarters long enough for a bollocking from his superior when Fletch sought him out.

‘Here’s a coincidence, guv. Ralph Atkins – his wife –’

‘Late wife,’ Max corrected him.

‘Yes. Well, you’ll never guess what her parents did for a living.’

‘Then save me the trouble, Fletch. I’m not in the mood for guessing games.’

‘Her dad,’ Fletch said triumphantly, ‘was a trapeze artist. Not only that, he was a trapeze artist with The Experience. The same circus as Finlay Roberts grew up with. She must have known Roberts. Must have. Which means Ralph Atkins must have known him, too.’

‘Eureka! That’s it, Fletch. Roberts and Blakely were in on it together. Right, I want Blakely in for questioning. If we put enough pressure on him, he’ll crack. That smug bastard Roberts won’t, but Blakely will. Meanwhile, find Roberts. Sod it, he could be anywhere by now, but find him!’