Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall (8 page)

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.

Chapter Nine

Jill parked at the back of Forget-me-nots and then walked round to the front of the shop. It was almost six o’clock, but the
Open
sign was still showing so she walked inside.

She was having a day at the races tomorrow, and had lots to do this evening, but she’d been driving past and had been surprised to see the shop still open. There were several people looking at the fresh flowers, a couple looking at silk flowers, a woman inspecting a display of vases, and a man trying to choose a greetings card from the stand.

Jill hadn’t realized that Carol Blakely’s business was so lucrative, or that this shop was such a small part of it. Including Ruth and Cass, Carol had employed a staff of eighteen. Practically every hotel and town hall in Lancashire, it seemed to Jill, boasted contracts for flower arrangements with Carol. When the solicitors had done their bit, Ruth would be a wealthy woman.

Seemingly oblivious to this fact, the woman was wrapping white roses for a young, suit-clad man.

‘Can I help?’ she asked Jill when the man had left.

‘Jill Kennedy,’ she reminded her. ‘I was hoping for a word about –’

‘Ah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you for a minute. Come through to the back.’

‘Thanks.’ Jill followed her to the back room.

‘Can you give me a couple of minutes to help Cass with the rush?’

‘Of course.’

‘Help yourself to tea or coffee,’ Ruth added as she headed back out front.

Jill didn’t bother with coffee. Instead, she looked around the chilly room. Flowers sat in buckets of water, and despite the fact that the shop would soon be closing for the day, several tied bouquets awaited collection or delivery. The room at the side looked exactly the same apart from the empty space where the computer used to live. The monitor and printer sat forlornly with their cables dangling.

Ruth returned and Jill was pleased to see her looking stronger, more able to cope. She was wearing a long, mauve skirt, a black waistcoat and lots of bracelets and necklaces. On Jill’s last visit, Ruth either hadn’t applied any make-up or it had been washed away by tears. Today her face was made-up and she looked more striking than ever.

‘We’ve been busy all day,’ she told Jill, taking a seat at the desk. ‘We’re always busy first thing with people on their way to work. It’s the same at lunchtimes, and just before hospital visiting times. We usually have a rush about now, with people leaving work to go home, but it’s been exceptional today.’

Morbid curiosity, Jill suspected. People would have read about the murder and come for a closer look at Carol’s shop. However, she didn’t say so. They talked about the business for a couple of minutes until Jill got to the point of her visit.

‘I wondered if you’d had more time to think about things? We’re really trying to find out if Carol – Mrs Blakely – was romantically involved with anyone.’

‘I’ve already been asked the same thing, and no, I’m sure she wasn’t. She would have told me.’

That’s what Jill had thought.

‘We know she saw Finlay Roberts a couple of times,’ Jill went on. ‘Did she tell you about that? I know you and Cass saw him when he came to the shop, but did she mention having a couple of evenings out with him?’

‘Not that I remember.’ Ruth played with a stray thread on her skirt. ‘We were close. If there was anything important, she would have told me.’

‘Phew!’ Cass came through to join them. ‘I’ve locked up,’ she said, and Ruth nodded.

‘That’s it for another day then.’

‘Cass,’ Jill began, ‘do you remember Carol mentioning a date with Finlay Roberts?’

‘Oh, yes. She laughed about it. Don’t you remember, Ruth? She said she must be mad because she was going out with a customer just because he was handsome and he made her laugh. She said he could be an axe-murderer for all she –’ Cass put a hand to her mouth, horrified at what she’d said. ‘Sorry, but that’s what she said. Those exact words.’

‘And that was all?’ Jill asked.

‘As far as I can remember, yes.’

‘What about when you saw him in the shop?’ Jill pressed on. ‘What happened then? How did they seem together?’

‘It were mad, weren’t it, Ruth?’ Cass smiled at the memory. ‘Carol were a quiet person, not shy, not in the least, but a bit reserved. A private person. He were different again. At one stage, he were dancing around the shop with a red rose between his teeth. Then he put it in Carol’s hair and danced her around, didn’t he, Ruth?’

‘He did, yes. Gosh, I’d forgotten that.’

Unless Jill was mistaken, Cass was another who had fallen for Finlay’s roguish charm.

‘Then,’ Cass rushed on, ‘saying that red suited her, he bought a length of red ribbon – you know, the sort we use for the bouquets? – and tied that in her hair.’

‘Red ribbon?’ Jill could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage.

‘Yes.’ Cass laughed. ‘He bought the whole roll, in fact.’

‘Oh? Have you got some here? Can you show me a piece?’

‘Of course we have.’ Ruth got to her feet. ‘Is it important?’ she asked, heading for the shop.

‘Who knows?’ Jill said lightly.

The ribbon that had been tied around Carol’s waist had been checked at the lab, but they’d found nothing that might help. All they could say was that it was a common ribbon that could be bought almost anywhere. They’d found no fibres, no clues . . .

Ruth returned to the back room with four rolls of red ribbon.

‘I can’t remember which sort he bought,’ she said. ‘I have it in my mind it was this one.’ She handed the roll of two-inch wide ribbon to Jill. ‘Although it may have been this one,’ she added, handing over another, slightly narrower roll.

Jill knew that the ribbon tied around Carol’s waist had been half an inch wide.

‘May I take samples of each of these?’ she asked.

‘As much as you want.’ Ruth reached for the scissors. ‘Is this important?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jill said, surprised at how heavy her heart felt.

She liked Finlay Roberts. She enjoyed his sense of fun, his refusal to take life seriously. Added to which, she didn’t want to think she might be living next door to a killer.

‘It was definitely this colour?’ she asked, her throat dry.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Do you sell any other sizes?’

‘No,’ Ruth told her. ‘Just these four widths.’

Ruth carefully cut six-inch strips from each of the rolls, put them in a small, white paper bag and handed it over.

‘Thanks.’ Jill put it in her handbag. ‘Finlay Roberts and Carol – did they seem close, do you think? Could it be possible that they’d known each for a long time?’

‘No,’ Ruth scoffed. ‘They hadn’t met before. They were like a pair of school kids really. As Cass said, Carol was quiet and reserved normally, but he made her laugh. He was behaving like a clown. They were just having a bit of fun.’

Just having a bit of fun . . .

They were strangers, or so everyone believed. Carol had never met Finlay Roberts until he walked into her shop one day. So what took him there? Was it really that he needed flowers for his mother and his sister? Or did he have a more sinister motive?