Pearson Street had always been a little down-at-heel. A newsstand with no papers, a mini-mart with a mountain of cheap alcohol behind the counter, a travel agent with fading posters of the sun, two bookies, a pub on its last legs, a party accessories shop, a nail bar, and a boarded-up café.
And then the Flower Mill had moved in. Peter Ward’s shop, bursting with color, a little rainbow explosion on this gray street.
And what flowers! Peter Ward knew his stuff, and when you know your stuff in a small town, word soon gets around. People started making little detours from the town center. And they’d tell their friends, who’d tell their friends, and before you know it, someone down from London has spotted the boarded-up café and bought the lease, and now there were two reasons to visit Pearson Street. Then a bride ordering flowers from Peter and enjoying a latte in the café sees this little street is on the up, and wonders if it might be the place to open a small hardware store. So now the Tool Chest sits next to the Flower Mill, opposite Casa Café. The travel agent suddenly has people walking past and feels the need to change those posters, and those people start walking in. Twentysomethings, mainly, who had no idea what a travel agent might be. The Londoner with the café buys the pub and starts doing food. Terry at the newsstand starts ordering in more papers, more milk, more everything. The nail bar paints more nails, the party shop sells more balloons, the mini-mart starts stocking gin alongside the vodka. John from the butcher’s counter at the supermarket takes the leap and opens a store of his own, taking his customers with him. A local artgroup hires out a vacant storefront and takes it in turns to buy pieces of each other’s art.
All thanks to Peter Ward’s orchids, and sweet peas, and Transvaal daisies.
Pearson Street is just what you want a shopping street to be—busy, friendly, local, and happy. Joyce thinks it’s so perfect that it’s surely only six months away from having a Starbucks and losing what it now has. Which would be sad, but Joyce has to admit that she likes a Starbucks; she must shoulder some of the blame.
Joyce and Elizabeth are sitting in Casa Café. Peter Ward has just bought them each a cappuccino. Becky from the Tool Chest will keep an eye out for customers while he takes half an hour off. It’s that sort of street.
Peter Ward is graying and smiling, and has the easy air of a man who has made a series of good decisions in life. A Folkestone florist whom karma has rewarded for a lifetime of kindness and calmness, a man whose good deeds have won him the prize of happiness.
This impression is misleading. As the scar under his right eye and the bulge of his biceps will tell you, Peter Ward is Bobby Tanner.
Or perhaps Peter Ward has left Bobby Tanner behind? That is what Joyce and Elizabeth have come to find out. Is the fighter still there? The killer, perhaps? Has he recently made the short trip along the coast to Fairhaven and bludgeoned to death his former boss? Elizabeth lays the photograph on the table between them, and Peter Ward picks it up, smiling.
“The Black Bridge,” he says. “We had a few nights in there. Where’d you get this from?”
“A number of places,” says Elizabeth. “Well, two places, in fact. One was sent to Jason Ritchie, and one was found by the corpse of Tony Curran.”
“I read about Tony,” Peter says, nodding. “That was about time.”
“You’ve never seen this photograph before?” asks Elizabeth.
He looks again, then says, “Never have.”
“You weren’t sent one?” asks Joyce, sipping her cappuccino.
Peter shakes his head.
“Well, that’s either good news for you, or it’s good news for us,” says Elizabeth.
He raises an inquiring eyebrow.
“Well, it’s either good news for you, in that Tony Curran’s killer has no idea where you are. Or it’s good news for us, in that you killed Tony Curran yourself, and we haven’t wasted a trip to Folkestone.”
Peter gives a half smile and looks at the photo again.
“Not that the trip would really be wasted,” says Joyce. “We’re having a very nice day.”
“The police have the idea that Jason killed Tony Curran,” Elizabeth begins. “And perhaps he did. But for reasons of our own, we would prefer that he didn’t. Would you have a view on that, Bobby?”
Peter Ward holds up a hand. “Peter around here, please.”
“Would you have a view on that, Peter?” asks Elizabeth.
“I don’t see it,” he says. “Jason went nowhere near that side of things. He looks mean, but he’s a teddy bear.”
Joyce looks up from her notes for a moment. “A teddy bear who funded a major drugs ring.”
Peter acknowledges this with a nod.
Elizabeth puts the photo back down on the table. “So, if not Jason, then perhaps you? Or perhaps Turkish Johnny?”
“Turkish Johnny?” says Peter.
“He took the photo.”
