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.
Jill didn’t leave headquarters until seven that evening. She left Max there, digging into Vince Blakely’s affairs.
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
‘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.
Jill didn’t leave headquarters until seven that evening. She left Max there, digging into Vince Blakely’s affairs.
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
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