Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When two young boys find a woman's body in a quarry, Jill Kennedy and DCI Max Trentham experience a definite feeling of déjà vu. Five years earlier, four women were found murdered in exactly the same way. Weirdly, the bodies had each been discovered wrapped in a shroud - so the killer was soon dubbed 'The Undertaker'. Following Jill's profiling the police tried to arrest a loner called Edward Marshall, but the man had fled and, after a high-speed car chase, lost control and went over a cliff. His car was found but his body never was. Now there are three possibilities: Marshall somehow survived that plunge into the sea; Marshall was innocent and the real killer is back - or a copycat is at work. It is up to Jill and Max to work out whether a terrible mistake was made by the police five years ago... or whether the original murderer had an apprentice waiting in the wings.

Release date: October 11, 2011

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chapter One

Jake was thoroughly pissed off.

It was getting on for six o’clock and his ear was still smarting from the weight of his dad’s hand connecting with it that morning. Dave Walsh, a big, fat, loud-mouthed bloke, wasn’t even his dad. A stepdad, Jake decided resentfully, had no right to lift a finger to him.

‘Sod him!’ Jake muttered to himself for the tenth time that day.

His younger brother, Darren, pedalling speedily ahead of him, shouted over his shoulder, ‘Get a move on, Jake. I’m starving!’

Darren was always starving. Jake was hungry, too, but he was in no mood to sit down to fish and chips opposite Fat Dave. It was always fish and chips on Saturdays. Wednesdays, too. On Mondays they had McDonald’s and on Tuesdays they had KFC. Sometimes, on Sundays, his mam got off her arse to shove a chicken in the oven and chips in the pan.

Stuff ’em. Jake was happier up here, cycling round the disused quarry. With its sheer rock faces and meandering paths, it was a wild, unpredictable place that suited his mood. He pedalled faster to catch up with his brother, and then Darren stopped so abruptly that he cannoned into his back wheel.

‘What you doing?’ Jake snapped.

‘What’s that?’ Darren asked, pointing to something white a few yards off the dusty track.

‘How the hell should I know? An old coat, a bundle of rags – I don’t know!’

‘Let’s have a look,’ Darren suggested, already pushing off.

‘What for?’

‘You never know, do ya?’

Darren was gone and Jake, sighing, followed. Whenever they cycled up here, Darren always found some piece of crap. Last week, it had been a cigarette lighter that he’d wasted hours trying to fix.

Jake’s ear was hurting because he’d gone off with his mates last night when he should have been baby-sitting. Jake, fourteen, didn’t see that his twelve-year-old brother needed baby-sitting, but that’s what he was doing now. Baby-sitting.

For all that, he loved his brother. Fat Dave he hated, and his mother, the woman who willingly spent twenty-five quid on muck for her face and then let Darren go around with holes in his trainers, Jake could take or leave. Darren he loved. It was Darren who kept him at home. If it weren’t for him, Jake would have gone. He reckoned he could easily pass for sixteen and get himself a labouring job on a building site in Manchester. He’d prefer London, as he wanted to get as far away as possible from Lancashire, but Manchester would do for starters.

Darren screamed, threw his bike to the ground and ran off. Jake guessed a dead animal was involved. Darren was soppy when it came to animals.

Ignoring Darren for the moment, although he was aware of his brother being sick, he got off his bike and wheeled it over to the rags. Except it wasn’t rags.

‘Oh, no! No!’ he cried, dropping his bike and jumping back.

He could have thrown up too. Instead, he picked up both bikes and wheeled them to where Darren was bent double.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he said urgently, the gruesome sight still dancing before his eyes and causing the burger he’d had earlier to gag in his throat.

Darren didn’t need telling twice and they were soonracing down the hill. Even at top speed, the track seemed endless. The rocky path threatened to throw them out of their saddles. A black dog appeared from nowhere and began barking as it chased them. It was gaining on them. If they weren’t careful, the stupid animal would have them and their bikes in a tangled heap.

‘Sod off!’ Jake jammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt that sent up a shower of dust and grit. He picked up a large stone and hurled it at the rowdy dog. His shot was on target. The animal yelped and ran off with its tail curled between its back legs. Jake remounted and careered down the hill.

When they stopped at the gate to leave the quarry area, Darren was sick again.

‘We’ll have to tell the coppers,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

‘We don’t tell them nothing.’

‘We’ll have to,’ Darren insisted, still breathless. ‘We don’t have to tell ’em who we are. We’ll use the phone box.’

‘Forget it,’ Jake snapped, closing the gate after them. He knew the police; they’d raided the house looking for stuff they said Fat Dave had nicked. They hadn’t found it, but Dave wouldn’t thank anyone who brought coppers sniffing round again, and Jake was sick of having his ear belted.

‘I’m going to phone ’em,’ Darren said firmly. ‘We’ve got to. It – it had its neck slashed.’ to. It – it had its neck ‘I’m not blind!’

They rode past two phone boxes, but Darren stopped at one in Bacup and went inside.

Jake yanked open the door in time to hear Darren say, ‘Is that 999? Only we’ve found a dead body – wrapped up in a white sheet, it is. And it’s almost had its head chopped off.’ There was a pause. ‘It don’t matter who I am. It’s up at the quarry. Lee Quarry.’

Jake snatched the phone from his brother’s hand and slammed it down on the receiver.

‘Come on,’ he hissed. ‘Forget we ever saw it!’

Fat chance. Jake knew they would remember the hideous sight for the rest of their days.

Chapter Two

Sunday dawned bright and sunny, promising another hot day ahead, and Jill took her breakfast of coffee and fruit juice into the garden. If she’d had a decent night’s sleep, she might have fancied something to eat. But she hadn’t. And she didn’t.

Her garden was a mass of colour, thanks mainly to the sprawling pink rhododendrons, but the grass needed cutting. She might do that later. Battling with the lawnmower might lessen her anger and loosen her tense muscles.

Meanwhile, she sat on the old wooden bench, with her Sunday paper on the table in front of her. She’d finished her juice and had reached the travel supplement when she heard a slightly alarming sound. A car was travelling at speed along the lane. She could hear gravel flying up and hitting the metal.

It came to a stop outside her cottage.

Why, she thought irritably, did she suddenly feel nervous? It was only Max coming to apologize for standing her up last night. Not that he was big on apologies.

A door slammed – viciously.

So he was angry. So what? She was absolutely furious. Last night, after she’d got herself dressed up for a party, she’d finally discovered, from his mother-in-law of all people, that ‘something had cropped up’. She’d had no choice but to go to the party alone. When she’d returned home, soon after midnight, she’d tried his mobile and his landline again. He still wasn’t answering so she’d let off steam by having a good rant at his answer machine.

What had she said? Oh, yes. ‘Just phoning to thank you for a delightful evening. Having had three tyres slashed, I raced back from Liverpool for that bloody party and spent the whole evening inventing excuses for your absence. Don’t let it worry you, though. After all, it takes thirty seconds to let someone know that some-thing better’s turned up. God forbid the mighty detective should waste thirty seconds of his life to phone us lesser mortals.’

Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered how she’d gone on. ‘That’s typical of you,’ she’d yelled at his machine. ‘You drag me into your bed and that’s it. Forget I exist. You’ve always been the same.’ With a heartfelt ‘Bastard!’, she’d cut the connection and taken herself off to bed.

Now, as Max came into view, she was finding it difficult to turn the pages of her newspaper. He marched, hands safely in the pockets of his trousers, across her lawn.

‘Hissy fit over, is it?’ he demanded, towering above her and blotting out the sun. ‘Good God, how old are you?’

‘Old enough to have learned some manners,’ she snapped back.

‘You might have guessed –’

‘I shouldn’t have to guess. You found time to call Kate, you could have called me.’


‘I could. You’re right and I’m sorry. Evil Max.’ He slapped his wrist. ‘OK? Forget about it now, can we?’

‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Forget about it. Well, no –’

‘Whoa! Hang on a minute. This blazing row you’re determined to have, will it be the ten-minute row or the full half-hour row? If it’s the latter, I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve got things to do.’

‘Ah. So the mighty detective’s still too busy.’


‘If you’re interested –’

‘Not particularly.’

He glared at her for a few moments. ‘I’ll make my own coffee, shall I?’

He began striding towards the cottage, calling over his shoulder, ‘Your manners are slipping, kiddo.’

He was almost at her back door when he suddenly stopped, turned around, and began walking back to her.

Once again, he stood in front of her. ‘Just for the record,’ he said quietly, ‘if my memory serves me correctly, and I’m damn sure it does, you dragged me into your bed.’


Without waiting for her response, not that she was capable of giving him one, he turned on his heel and headed for the cottage.

Jill was thankful for that. She put her hands to cheeks that were burning with embarrassment. Technically, he was right. They’d made love, for the first time since she’d walked out on him, in her bed, in her cottage. She pushed the memory aside and stared determinedly at her newspaper.


How his mother-in-law put up with him, Jill would never know, but she did. Ever since his wife, Linda, had died, Kate had been there for him and the boys . . .

He was soon crossing her lawn with two mugs of coffee in his hand.

‘I’ve made you a fresh one,’ he said. ‘It might improve your temper.’

‘Don’t count on it.’

He sat beside her on the bench and, as ever, she was aware of his slightest movement. Only the sounds of distant traffic, a few nearby birds, and a couple of bees buzzing around one of her foxgloves were a distraction. Then someone along the lane coaxed a lawnmower into life.

‘I take it a shag’s out of the question then?’ Max said at last.

‘It’s not funny, Max. You should have let me know.’

‘You’re right, and I’m sorry.’

‘And stop humouring me!’

Damn it. She could feel the beginnings of a smile trying to break through.

She lived next door to what was possibly the most gorgeous-looking bloke she had ever laid eyes on. So why didn’t Finlay Roberts get her pulse beating that bit quicker? Max was as tall as Finlay, but he was nowhere near as hand- some. His nose was too crooked, and there was a tiny scar beneath his right eye. Sometimes, his face had a gentleness to it, but more often than not, it was merely arrogant. His hair was greying, too. It was his eyes perhaps that did it for Jill. They were a deep blue and that piercing gaze of his made people believe he knew their every thought . . .

‘So how was the party?’ he asked.

‘Boring.’

‘Told you it would be. And how was your trip to Liverpool? Your mum and dad OK? Prue?’

‘They’re all fine, thanks.’

‘As I’d have more success getting blood from a stone, is it worth asking how you got your tyres slashed? I take it that happened at your folks’ place?’

‘It did. The little sod,’ she fumed. ‘I happened to glance out of the window, and there he was. No older than twelve. I gave chase, but he leapt over a wall. You know what River View is like.’

‘A rabbit warren,’ he said, nodding.

How her parents could live amongst such undesirables, Jill had no idea, but there was no shifting them. ‘We’ve always lived here,’ Mum would say in astonishment if ever Jill broached the subject. ‘Whatever would we want to move for? It’s home.’

Jill was thankful it was no longer her home.


Thinking about it, apart from the man sitting next to her, and a hefty bill for three new tyres, all was right in her world. She lived in the Lancashire village of Kelton Bridge, and that had to be one of the most beautiful places on earth, she enjoyed her writing, she was returning to her old job with the police force in a fortnight, her parents and her sister were well and happy – ‘Last night,’ Max broke into her thoughts, ‘I did try to call you, but it all got a bit busy. I was up at Lee Quarry. A body was found up there.’

‘Oh?’

She knew the disused quarry well. South of Bacup, the rugged landscape was an ideal place for walking and sheoften went up there to blow away the cobwebs. The only people one met were dog walkers or cyclists. It was very remote, and she could only remember it being in the news once. That was when a sheep had plunged sixty feet down a sheer drop. Fire crews from Bacup, Rawtenstall, Nelson and Preston had been called out and they’d used an inflatable raft to get the sheep off a ledge and across the water at the bottom of the quarry. After all their efforts, the sheep had broken two legs and needed to be put down anyway.

It was a beautiful, peaceful spot. Not the sort of place to find bodies.

Max took a sip of his coffee. ‘A body wrapped in a white sheet.’

‘A sheet?’ She frowned. ‘What sort of sheet?’

‘How many sorts are there?’ he asked, exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘Some might call it a winding sheet. Others a shroud. I call it a soddin’ sheet. It was wrapped tightly around the body. Oh, and a length of bright red ribbon had been tied around her waist.’

Jill’s heart took a brief pause. Déjà vu wasn’t a pleasant experience when it involved bodies wrapped in shrouds with lengths of red ribbon tied around their waists.

‘You’ll be telling me next that the victim was a woman who’d had her throat cut and whose wedding ring had been fastened to that piece of red ribbon.’

Max took another swig of coffee.

‘I will,’ he agreed, and Jill stared at him in horror.

‘You’re not serious, Max.’

‘Oh, I’m deadly serious.’

Five years ago, Jill had worked alongside Max as they had hunted a killer who had quickly been dubbed The Undertaker. His four victims had been married, childless career women in their late thirties. They had all had their throats cut and then their bodies had been wrapped in shrouds.

Thanks mainly to Jill’s profile, however, they’d found the man responsible. Hadn’t they?

‘Has the body been identified?’ she asked.

‘Not officially, but the doctor recognized her. It’s a Carol Blakely. She was thirty-eight, and ran a successful florist’s in Harrington. Correction,’ he said drily, ‘she ran a successful floral design business, although what the difference is, God alone knows.’

‘If you wanted to buy a bunch of flowers, you’d visit a florist. If you wanted a stately home, a cathedral or offices decked out, you’d visit a floral design company.’

Max shrugged. To him, a flower was a flower.

‘Was she married?’ Jill asked, and he nodded.

‘No kids? Career woman?’

He nodded again. ‘Her husband’s been away on a golfing holiday. His plane lands in an hour or so and he’s on his way here to identify her.’

The pages of Jill’s newspaper fluttered in a sudden gust of breeze and she leaned over to pick up a nearby stone to weight it down.

She watched in astonishment as Max reached in his pocket, brought out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light one.

‘I thought you’d given up.’

‘I have,’ he said, tossing the spent match into her hedge. ‘I just felt like buying a packet.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Ask a silly question. Yet she could understand that last night’s discovery would unnerve anyone.

He exhaled, and the smoke went straight into Jill’s face. ‘Chloe Jennings, Zoe Smith, Anna Freeman and Julie Brookes – it’s the same MO, Jill.’

Jill could still remember the victims’ names, too. Chloe had been an attractive barrister, dark-haired Zoe had held down a high-powered job in banking, Anna had run a successful recruitment agency and Julie, with her short auburn hair, had owned a thriving health and fitness centre.

‘There must be differences,’ she insisted.

‘Yeah?’ Max didn’t look convinced.

‘Had coins been put on her eyes?’

‘Yes.’

Despite the heat of the day, Jill felt chilled. If she’d made a mistake and The Undertaker was still alive –

‘What else have you got?’ she asked.

‘Not a lot yet. Someone had thrown up about three yards away from the body,’ he told her, ‘and we don’t think it was the victim. She was dead before she got there.’

‘The killer? Surely not.’

‘Perhaps he’d eaten a dodgy prawn,’ Max replied. ‘Although I expect it’s more likely to be the person who found her. Not a pretty sight.’

‘Who was that?’

‘We don’t know. Someone made an anonymous call. It sounded like a young kid.’ He tossed his cigarette butt into the hedge. A thin spiral of smoke appeared, and Jill wondered if she would have to phone the fire service. Then he emptied his mug and got to his feet. ‘I’ll have to go.’ He reached for her hand and absently stroked her fingers. ‘Sorry about last night.’

‘It’s OK,’ she replied, grudgingly.

‘I’ll call in later this evening, shall I?’ he asked.

‘If you like.’

He dropped a brief, rare kiss on her forehead – an apology perhaps – and strode off.

He was the other side of her lawn when she called out, ‘Eddie Marshall is dead, Max!’

‘Is he?’ And he was out of sight.

A cloud passed in front of the sun, causing Jill to shiver again. Edward Marshall was dead. The fact that his body had never been found had no bearing on that at all. He had to be dead.


Chapter Three

Mowing the lawn was hard work and, when it was done, Jill vowed to keep on top of it. If she kept the grass short, it was much easier. For one thing, she didn’t have the job of raking up the clippings and that was more exhausting than cutting the stuff in the first place.

‘Coo-ee!’

Jill emerged from her shed to see the owner of that voice, Ella Gardner, walking around the back of her cottage.

‘You should keep your doors locked,’ Ella greeted her, ‘until they’ve found the lowlife responsible for this spate of burglaries.’

‘I should, Ella.’ Jill was still breathing hard.

‘Mind,’ Ella sighed, ‘there are few that do in Kelton. We’ve never had a need to until now.’

Ella took the fact that four houses in Kelton Bridge had been burgled as a personal affront. The unknown burglar or burglars were breaking in during broad daylight – no small achievement given the prying nature of local residents – when the occupants were on holiday. How they came by their information was a mystery. Only one of the victims had booked their holiday online, and two of the victims didn’t even have an internet connection, so they weren’t after a computer hacker.

‘You look worn out, girl,’ Ella noted belatedly, and Jill laughed.

‘I am. I’ve mown the lawn,’ she explained, ‘and now I’m going to sit under the lilac tree with a well-deserved glass of something cold. Will you join me, Ella, and make it worthwhile opening a bottle?’

‘I’m delivering the church magazines,’ Ella replied, flicking through the handful she was carrying. ‘I’m sure it grieves them to let a cantankerous old atheist like me do it, but as Joan’s done her ankle in, they don’t have much choice.’

Jill laughed. ‘Was that a yes or a no?’

‘Go on then. Thanks, Jill. Having the magazines delivered by a drunken cantankerous old atheist could well be a first for the village.’

Ella was a great one for walking, and was often seen striding round the village at a cracking pace. Yet, dressed in cream-coloured linen trousers, and loose sleeveless pink top, she was managing to look cool. Jill, in desperate need of a shower, and wearing an old pair of cut-off jeans, felt like a tramp by comparison.

Jill had been friends with Ella almost from the moment she’d moved to Kelton Bridge. Ella, retired and afforded the title of local historian, had a wicked sense of humour that Jill loved. Going on appearances – the short grey hair, the sensible shoes and clothes – one could be forgiven for assuming Ella to be a biddable old soul but, despite the fact that she’d recently lost her much-loved husband to cancer, nothing, outwardly at least, lessened her sense of fun or her pithy observations of life.

‘So what’s new?’ Ella asked when they were sitting in the shade with a glass of chilled white wine each.

‘Not a lot.’ Ella was discretion itself, but Jill didn’t see much point in telling her about the gruesome discovery at the quarry. There was nothing to discuss until they knew more.

‘What about this new neighbour of yours? Olive, old gossip that she is, reckons he’s into black magic.’

‘The tarot and astronomy,’ Jill corrected her. ‘He runs an internet business. And charges people a fortune for readings, no doubt.’

‘Mumbo-jumbo,’ Ella scoffed. ‘Still, if people are daft enough to pay him . . .’

‘Quite.’

‘He’s a looker, mind,’ Ella added. ‘I’ve only seen him a couple of times, but if I were forty years younger –’

‘You’d have to join the queue,’ Jill finished for her.

Finlay Roberts must have kissed the Blarney Stone. He wasn’t Irish, he’d been born in Scunthorpe, but he was full of charm and flattery. His family were circus people, and he’d travelled the length and breadth of the country as a child. He was still travelling, and was only renting the cottage next door for three months because he remembered the area from his childhood and had always vowed to return. His current job, and Jill gathered there had been many, was running his online tarot business. It meant he could work from anywhere that had internet access.

Around the six feet mark, he had a rangy, lean body, brown curly hair and strik. . .