Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall (5 page)

‘There’s a light on in the back.’ Max tapped on the glass.

After a few moments, a woman, presumably the old Greek witch, came out and gestured to the
Closed
sign. Max pressed his ID against the glass and she very reluctantly opened the door.

‘Mrs Asim – Asim . . .’

‘Asimacopoulos,’ she helped him out. ‘Don’t worry, hardly anyone can pronounce it. Believe it or not, it’s quite common in Greece. I married a Greek,’ she explained. ‘Call me Ruth, it’ll be easier all round.’

Ah, so she was English. Jill had thought that the only Greek thing about her was an enviable tan that looked as if it was courtesy of a foreign sun rather than a bottle. She was around the forty mark, Jill guessed, with long, curling dark hair. Tall and slim, she was a very striking woman. Not beautiful, but certainly striking, and there was nothing remotely witch-like about her.

Some distance behind her was another girl, presumably Cass Jones, her assistant.

‘You can leave the
Closed
sign up,’ Max said. ‘We’re sorry to bother you both, but we need to ask you about your employer, Mrs Blakely.’

‘Yes, of course. You’d better come in.’ Ruth closed and locked the door behind them. ‘Sorry, but neither of us feels up to dealing with customers at the moment. Cass, love, the police want a word with us.’

Cass was in her late teens or early twenties, tall and blonde. She walked towards them, her eyes red and moisture-filled, and a bundle of damp tissues in her hands.

‘Shall we all have a coffee?’ Jill suggested, eyeing two empty mugs on the counter. ‘This must be a very difficult time for you both.’

‘It is,’ Ruth Asimacopoulos said. ‘And yes, coffee. Cass, put the kettle on, love.’ To Max and Jill, she added in a whisper, ‘She’s better if she keeps herself busy.’

Ruth and Cass seemed very distressed considering their employer supposedly had no time for people . . .

They walked into a large back room and the four of them were soon sitting at a small wooden table, one that wasusually used for arranging bouquets. Each of them had a coffee in front of them. The slogan on Max’s mug, appropriately enough, read
I’m Boss
. Carol’s mug presumably. The one on Jill’s said
Over the Hill
.

‘What can you tell us about Mrs Blakely?’ Max began when suitable sympathies had been expressed.

‘She was the kindest woman imaginable,’ Ruth said quietly. ‘Always ready for a laugh, always a generous, thoughtful employer, never forgot my birthday – never.’

This last comment had Ruth blowing her nose loudly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘but I can’t accept that she’s gone. She had her whole life in front of her. It was such a shock when Mr Blakely phoned me this morning. I’ve been in Spain on holiday,’ she explained, ‘and I didn’t get home until gone eleven last night because the plane was almost six hours late. I got up for work as normal this morning and I couldn’t believe it when Mr Blakely phoned me with the news. I still can’t take it in.’

So the tan was from Spain. Jill hoped she came back from her own holiday in Spain the same colour . . .

‘Do you know Mr Blakely well?’ Jill asked.

‘No.’ Ruth grimaced. ‘He’s been to the shop a few times, but I couldn’t say I know him well. I can only go on what Carol told me about him. And even she didn’t speak too badly of him. She hated living with him, and had asked him for a divorce, but she didn’t badmouth him.’

Jill frowned. ‘Carol asked her husband for a divorce? Are you sure?’

‘Yes. He wasn’t happy about it, I can tell you that. From what Carol let slip, he wanted a good financial settlement. His own business – he’s an architect, you know – isn’t doing very well. He’s into saving the planet, which is all well and good, but it’s too expensive for most people. So Carol wasn’t happy about his demands. She saw her solicitor about it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. She wanted a divorce but, understandably, she didn’t want him living a life of luxury on the strength ofher hard work. She changed her will at the same time, I gather. It was out of date. I think there were still bequests to her late sisters in it. I don’t know the details though.’

‘When was this?’ Max asked.

‘About a month ago.’

‘Interesting,’ Max murmured.

‘It were on my birthday.’ This was the first time Cass had spoken. ‘She bought me this –’ The girl showed them a silver dolphin hanging from a chain around her neck. ‘She bought me this for me birthday and took me and Ruth out for lunch to celebrate. She sent us on ahead – remember, Ruth? – and said she had to see her solicitor to sign her will.’

‘Yes, that was it,’ Ruth confirmed.

‘It’s lovely,’ Jill said gently, nodding at the silver dolphin. ‘And when was your birthday, Cass?’

‘Ninth of June. It were a Friday and she let me go home after we’d had lunch. She were like that.’ More sniffling followed this statement.

Less than a month after signing that will, Carol was murdered.

‘Which firm of solicitors did she use?’ Max asked.

‘She saw the young girl, name of Susan, at Godfrey’s.’

‘Ah, yes. I know them. Thanks.’

‘Was there anyone else in her life?’ Jill took a sip of – well, she hadn’t yet decided if it was coffee or tea. It tasted awful, she knew that much. ‘You said she and her husband weren’t getting along too well. Was she seeing someone else, I wonder?’

‘She did have a couple of dates with someone,’ Cass told her, ‘but it were only in fun. Lovely-looking he were, too. Came from Bacup or somewhere.’

‘I can’t think of anyone.’ Ruth was shaking her head.

‘Yes, you know who I mean. It were that fortnight I should have been off, remember? I was supposed to be going on holiday to Majorca,’ she explained for Jill and Max’s benefit, ‘but Sally, the mate I were going with, caught chicken pox so we cancelled at the last minute. Wegot our money back OK.’ She looked at Ruth. ‘You must remember that.’

‘Well, yes, but I don’t remember Carol seeing anyone.’

‘You must remember that chap who came in. He was from Bacup or – no, it was Kelton Bridge,’ she remembered. ‘He’d just moved there. I think he were renting a cottage. I can’t remember his name. It were unusual,’ she said, chewing on her lip as she tried to remember. ‘Lovely-looking he were, though. I don’t know how many times she saw him, but he called at the shop twice to take her out. We laughed, don’t you remember, Ruth? Carol were always smartly dressed and he turned up in old jeans and a T-shirt that were covered in paint.’

‘Oh, him. He didn’t mean anything to her,’ Ruth scoffed.

‘Finlay Roberts?’ Jill asked in amazement.

‘That’s it,’ Cass said. ‘Finlay Roberts!’

‘He’s a neighbour of mine,’ Jill explained, recovering from the surprise.

‘It was nothing,’ Ruth said. ‘She saw him twice and that was that.’

‘Was there anyone else?’ Max asked. ‘Other friends? Other people she was close to?’

‘Not really,’ Ruth answered. ‘You know about her sisters? Brenda and Angie?’

‘Her husband told us about the accident. Tragic,’ Jill murmured.

‘God, it was,’ Ruth said with feeling. ‘I’d only been working here for three months. My divorce was going through at the time. Andreas, my husband, didn’t take it well and came over to England a couple of times. It was Carol who helped me cope with that. And then the accident happened, and Carol changed totally. She never did get over it. She was always saying she wished she’d died with them.’

It was a warm day but this room, although ideal for keeping flowers fresh, and they were surrounded by buckets filled with every colour and variety of bloom imaginable, was chilly. And damp.

The whole place had a sad atmosphere to it.

Carol Blakely, despite claims to the contrary from her husband, had loved this shop and the people in it. In return, she had been loved.

‘This shop,’ Max said, gesturing at the front room, ‘is it doing OK?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Ruth answered immediately. ‘You’ll appreciate, though, that this is a very small part of the business. Having said that, most of the actual work is done here. You can see the order book. There are the weddings and funerals, of course, but the main business comes from the contracts with hotels and suchlike.’

They followed her into a small side office where Max looked at the ‘order book’. All records were neatly stored on the computer.

‘Can you print out details of the jobs done – people placing the orders, that sort of thing – for, say, the last six months?’ Max asked.

‘Of course.’ Ruth was glad to be occupied.

While the printer spewed out pages, Max explained that someone would call later to take the computer away.

‘We’ve got the laptop Mrs Blakely used at home,’ he said, ‘and we’ll need to check this one, too.’

Ruth nodded. ‘That’s OK. So long as I’ve got copies of the orders, I’m better with a notebook anyway.’

Until instructed otherwise, Ruth would see that Carol’s business ran as efficiently as ever.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Max told Ruth and Cass again, and Jill knew that he too had been touched by their sadness, ‘but I promise you we’ll find the person responsible.’ He handed Ruth a card. ‘If you think of anything else, call me, will you? You may remember someone with an usual request, someone Mrs Blakely was meeting – anything.’

Ruth looked doubtful, but she pocketed his card.

On an impulse, instead of going home, she pulled into the Weaver’s Retreat’s car park. It was a long time since she’d put in a full day and it would be good to relax with a drink. She’d planned to do some writing this evening, but she was too tired.

Once again, she asked herself if she was ready to return to work. Or even if there was a need to. The self-help books she penned provided her with what was just about a sufficient income. Still, it was too late for doubts. The decision had been made and there was no going back. Besides, people were right when they said she was wasting her qualifications. Thanks to her mum’s pushing, she’d worked hard as a youngster to escape the Liverpool council estate on which she’d been brought up. And really, she loved the work. A few last-minute doubts were normal.

Yes, she’d made the right decision.

The Weaver’s Retreat was busy and she said a quick hello to several locals as she made her way to the bar.

‘Had a good day, Jill?’ Ian, the landlord, asked as he poured her a glass of lager.

‘Sorry? Oh, no. Well, I don’t know. Something came up and I had to give the races a miss. I gave my ticket to Bob.’ She glanced across at the blank television screen. ‘Can I put the telly on, Ian, and check the results?’

‘Be my guest.’ He handed her the remote control.

As she was going through the results, Barry joined her.

‘Mine are still running,’ he grumbled.

She grinned at him. ‘Still backing the outsiders?’

‘Not much point backing the favourites,’ he told her. ‘I can’t see any fun in putting on a pound to win a pound.’

Jill couldn’t either, but Barry’s bets were bigger than he made out. It was nothing for him to lose five hundred pounds on a horse.

‘I had a second, a third and a non-runner.’ She scowled at the screen. ‘I almost backed The Typhoon, too. He was a good price.’

‘He was. Oh, well, I’d better be off. The day I’ve had, I can’t afford Ian’s prices. Be seeing you, Jill.’

‘See you, Barry. Better luck next time.’

She returned the remote control to Ian. ‘A waste of time.’

‘What kept you away from the races then?’ he asked as he gave change to someone else.

‘Oh, something . . .’

‘Ah, police work. This murder?’

‘Mm,’ she agreed.

‘Do they have any idea who did it?’

‘It’s early days, Ian. Is it in tonight’s paper?’

He ducked behind the bar for the
Evening Telegraph
and handed it to her. A photo of Carol Blakely dominated the front page and several more had been printed on page two.

Jill skimmed the article and handed it back.

‘Did you know her, Ian?’

‘No. On the rare occasions I need to get flowers for something or someone, I stay local. I don’t know the husband either, although he’s a member at the golf club and I’ve seen him up there. That reminds me . . .’ He pointed at some raffle tickets. ‘Can I sell you a ticket?’

‘You usually do,’ she replied with amusement. If he hadn’t been a publican, Ian would have made a great salesman.

With raffle tickets in her purse, Jill picked up her drink and moved away from the bar. She headed outside to see if anyone was taking advantage of the tables in the small garden at the back of the pub.

Finlay Roberts was sitting at one, staring into an almost full pint of beer. It was rare to see him alone. Usually, he was surrounded by people, carrying on as if he were the life and soul of the party.

‘May I join you,’ she asked, ‘or would you prefer to be alone?’

His face cleared, he rose to his feet and gave her a sweeping bow. ‘My darling girl, what a wonderful surprise!’

Stunning-looking he was, but Jill suspected his over-the-top gestures would drive people mad in a short space of time.

‘You were looking thoughtful,’ she remarked as she sat opposite him. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Wonderful!’ The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘How’s your day been? You had a day at the races, I hear.’

‘Sadly not. I had to cancel. Police work,’ she said.

‘Ah, yes. The murder. It puts our burglaries into perspective, doesn’t it?’

‘It does.’ Jill took a sip of her drink and waited for him to say more. Nothing was forthcoming, however. ‘I gather you knew her,’ she said at last.

‘Not really.’ He pushed his hair back from his face. ‘It was like this. I had flowers to order for my ma’s birthday so I went into her shop. Three days later, my sister had her baby so I went back. I had to reassure her that I wasn’t a stalker.’ He smiled at that. ‘She was a beautiful woman.’

‘So I gather.’ He was being surprisingly reticent. ‘It’s awful when something like this happens, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘Especially when you know the person involved.’