Grave Stones (8 page)

‘Really?’ Joanna and Korpanski exchanged glances. It was Joanna who made the comment. ‘Prophetic.’

She let the word sink into the air before embarking on her final questions. ‘Just for the record, Mr Frankwell, have you any idea where you were on the 10
^th
, 11
^th
and 12
^th
of September? The Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of last week,’ she added helpfully.

‘Not a clue.’

‘Do you keep a diary?’

He nodded and the two detectives waited while he left the room to retrieve it. They looked at one another. Joanna lifted her eyebrows while Korpanski made a similar non-committal face.

Frankwell returned. ‘Monday I was here,’ he said. ‘Tuesday I was in London until late and Wednesday of last week I was packing here all day. My daughter spent the evening with me and I cooked.’ He looked pleased with himself.

Joanna got to her feet. ‘Just for interest,’ she said casually, which might have fooled Frankwell but certainly didn’t Mike Korpanski, ‘why was Grimshaw so determined to hang on to the field? I imagine you would have given him a good and fair price for it?’

‘Generous,’ Frankwell said. ‘Believe me. He wouldn’t have got a better price from anyone for that poxy bit of land. It is less than two acres.’

It was Korpanski who asked the next question. ‘So what was he doing with the field?’

‘Stubborn old fool was keeping a few sheep on it. Sheep. More trouble than they’re worth. He’d had no end of problems keeping sheep a couple of years back. They all had rotten feet or something. Don’t know why he was continuing with them. No one would have given him a better price for that bit of land,’ he said again. It was obviously one of Gabriel Frankwell’s bandwagons.

They walked outside then, Frankwell keeping up with them as though he was anxious to see them off his property. ‘Nasty bit of damage to your car,’ Korpanski commented.

Frankwell’s face darkened. ‘Some people,’ he said, ‘see a nice car and feel envious.’

‘And which house does your wife live in?’

‘Ex-wife,’ Frankwell corrected quickly and tried to turn it into a joke. ‘I’m not intending bigamy, Inspector. Number 3.’

‘Next door but one? That
is
very close.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Frankwell insisted.

‘What complicated lives some people lead,’ Joanna said gently.

Frankwell shot her a suspicious look, which Joanna bounced back innocently.

They left then, and noticed that while they had been inside number 7, a silver Mercedes had appeared outside number 3. ‘Let’s go and visit the ex-wife, shall we, Mike? See what she can corroborate.’

Charlotte Frankwell opened the door to them instantly in response to Joanna’s hard knock, leading rise to the suspicion that she had been keeping an eye on them through the window. She was a polished product, Joanna realised quickly. Manicured nails, shining strawberry-blonde hair, neat size-ten jeans and
three-inch
stilettos. Such women had always fascinated Joanna. How did they keep it up? To never have wild hair, be caught without make-up, slumming it in slippers and a shabby dressing gown?

Charlotte appraised her right back, gave a cursory glance at their ID cards, swiftly ran her eyes over Korpanski and addressed Joanna. ‘Let me guess,’ she said shrewdly, fixing her with a stare of expertly made-up very blue eyes. ‘You’re here about poor old Grimshaw, aren’t you? I heard he’d been murdered. Bashed over the head,’ she said with relish. ‘How awful. Right on my doorstep too.’

‘That’s correct, Mrs Frankwell,’ Joanna said formally.
‘We wondered whether you might be able to shed any light on the crime.’

The pupils of Charlotte’s eyes became very small and clever. ‘In what way?’ she asked silkily.

‘Well – for instance – when did you last see Mr Grimshaw?’

Frankwell’s ex-wife was no fool. She spent just the right amount of time thinking about it.

‘I’ve been thinking about that since your officer asked me. I think it was… Look why don’t you come in?’ She asked the question with a charming flash of dazzling teeth. ‘I shouldn’t keep you chatting here on my doorstep, should I?’

She led them into a large state-of-the-art kitchen, terracotta tiles on the floor, cream units, black granite tops and a splash here and there of red in the wall tiles. Joanna approved. It was three times the size of her kitchen in Waterfall Cottage. They sat round a large, rectangular Victorian oak table. The feel of the room was surprisingly relaxed and comfortable.

Joanna’s respect for Mrs Frankwell notched up an inch.

Charlotte reopened the conversation. ‘You asked me when I last saw Mr Grimshaw.’

Both Korpanski and Joanna nodded.

‘I think it was some time over the weekend before last.’ She gave a swift upwards glance at a wall calendar. ‘The weekend of the 8
^th
and 9
^th
of September. Probably the Sunday. He was talking to the little Mostyn girl. She’s crazy about horses and she was riding his little
pony.’ Her perfectly lipsticked mouth curved into a smile. ‘He has a soft spot for little Rachel. Probably the only human being he was fond of,’ she reflected. ‘When his daughter came to visit it was nothing but a slanging match. Noisy, too. Judy is no shrinking violet.’ She gave Korpanski a frankly flirtatious look. ‘When do
you
think he died, Sergeant Korpanski?’

Joanna smiled inwardly. Mrs Frankwell had memorised Korpanski’s name. She just loved it when women embarrassed him.

Mike flushed. ‘Almost certainly some time on the Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday of that week,’ he answered woodenly.

Mrs Frankwell looked appalled. ‘And he’s lain there, dead, all this time?’

‘This is what we suspect.’

Charlotte’s eyes looked horrified. ‘Just the other side of my wall? It could have been
me
who found him.’

They couldn’t deny this.

‘You didn’t notice the smell?’

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s
always
a smell here. It’s a farm.’

Joanna smiled and left Charlotte to take the initiative. ‘I expect you’ve been talking to my husband?’ her question was directed at Joanna.

‘Correct.’

The mouth curved again. ‘I daresay you thought him pretty fanciable.’

Not my type,
Joanna thought, but wisely made no comment.

Without waiting for a response, Charlotte continued. ‘Then let me disillusion you, Inspector Piercy. My husband would do anything to further his own ends and desires. He pleases himself.’

‘Does this have any bearing on the crime, Mrs Frankwell?’

‘Who knows?’ she said airily, with a wave of her small hands. ‘He’s certainly been very keen to extend the estate – or at least make some money by buying up a field full of sheep and selling it on with planning permission for more houses. Nice little killing that. He would have made a cool two hundred thousand simply by changing the use of the land, not laying a single brick or digging an inch of foundations. You have to hand it to Gabriel, he’s clever and he would have sat it out except for
leetle Lucia
.’ She managed the Romanic lilt with the talent of a character actress.

Joanna smiled. ‘Hardly a motive for murder.’

Charlotte Frankwell merely lifted her eyebrows. ‘You think not, Inspector Piercy? Well, perhaps you should remember a few things. My husband is unscrupulous and determined. He is also very greedy and a liar. Put these observations together with the fact that Mr farmer Grimshaw is extremely stubborn and fond of his small-holding – the shrunken farm – and you have a potentially fatal combination. Plus,’ she said firmly, ‘Mr Grimshaw is not quite as naive as he appears. He’s not above playing tricks just as dirty as my husband’s.’ She looked pleased with herself for getting this in. ‘Notice his car, did you? The Porsche;
his pride and joy. Nasty, nasty scrape on the side.’

Joanna felt almost nauseated with the woman’s malice and waited for Charlotte’s punchline.

‘Of course quite a few of the lanes here are very narrow, aren’t they?’ A stare from the cornflower blue eyes didn’t quite give the desired innocence to the comment.

‘Gabriel drives far too fast. And of course tractors take up rather a lot of room, don’t they?’

‘Did your husband report the incident?’

The blue eyes flashed onto Korpanski. ‘No, Sergeant. He didn’t.’

‘So it was amicably settled,’ Joanna asked.

‘What do you think?’ Charlotte asked.

The two police officers could well imagine; anger and fury meeting Grimshaw’s bland smile, which probably masked utter glee at the damage done to his adversary’s precious car.

Joanna leant forward. ‘Let me get this quite clear, Mrs Frankwell: are you making an allegation against your husband? Are you saying that you think he’s responsible for this crime? That he murdered Jakob Grimshaw to get his hands on the land?’

‘
Ex
-husband,’ Charlotte Frankwell said coolly, ‘and all I’m saying is that if I was you, I would consider him very carefully as a suspect.’

Perhaps it was her very coolness that made Joanna shudder and decide to bring the interview to an end. She stood up. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘The pleasure’s
all
mine.’ She was like a little cat. Eyes narrowing, curving smile, practically purring as she lapped up a saucer of cream.

Her face was almost serene as she closed the door behind them.

Half an hour later, Joanna and Mike were holed up in a local pub, tucking into a bar meal and a pint each of shandy. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you make of that one?’

Korpanski was silent for a minute. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She must know her husband, his faults and virtues and what he’s capable of. But on the other hand, perhaps she’s simply being bitchy, wanting to spoil it for her husband and his new family.’

‘She didn’t strike me as particularly bitter,’ Joanna observed. ‘She seemed more pleased to be rid of him, as though she had other fish to fry.’

Korpanski grinned. ‘Don’t underestimate the female of the species,’ he said. ‘Deadlier than the male.’

Joanna joined him laughing. ‘So you say. Personally, I think that’s one of those nasty little clichés.’

As she studied the humour in her colleague’s face she reflected how much Korpanski had changed since his sullen, resentful, early days. She hadn’t seen him smile like this for at least the first year. Then, slowly, as they had worked together, he had mellowed – perhaps she had too – and out of those changes had emerged this comfortable, companionable, loyal friendship.

Her mobile phone tone interrupted her thoughts. It was Matthew. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Jo? Where are you?’

‘Holed up in a pub with Korpanski,’ she said, ‘having just interviewed a black widow spider.’

‘Sorry,’ he apologised stiffly. ‘I just wondered if you would be free tonight?’

‘Oh, Matthew,’ she said. ‘With a murder investigation ongoing? No chance. Why? Was it anything special?’

‘Caro’s been in touch,’ he came back. ‘She seems keen to have a night out together.’

‘What about Saturday?’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring her back and see how she’s fixed Saturday.’ He paused and Joanna sensed he had more to say.

‘Also, I thought you might like to know I went over the Grimshaw post-mortem with Jordan. He’s done a great job. I didn’t really have anything to add except that from the first blow to his death was probably ten to fifteen minutes. There’s substantial bruising around some of the defensive injuries to the forearm.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how that fits in with the crime scene.’

She frowned. ‘Neither do I. I’ll have to go back there, Matt, with a couple of stand-ins, and see how it could have happened.’

Matthew Levin tucked his last phrase in as though it was a casual after-thought, had she not known better. ‘Oh, by the way. You haven’t forgotten Eloise’s interview is next Wednesday and Thursday, have you?
It is OK if she stays with us Wednesday night, isn’t it?’

Coward, she thought. He’d asked her over the phone, knowing she would not be alone and therefore unable to give vent to her true thoughts. Then she went deeper and explored why. Matthew wasn’t a natural coward at all. This was simply something he would always shrink from – putting his daughter and his now-fiancée face to face.

‘Fine by me,’ she said, imitating the casual tone Matthew had affected.

He rung off then and Joanna made a face at Mike.

‘Remind me to work very late next Wednesday,’ she said and immediately felt disloyal to Matthew – even to Eloise, her about-to-be stepdaughter.

She felt her mouth stiffen. Miss Eloise Levin was a very difficult young woman, a lethal mixture of utter devotion to her father and plain dislike for Joanna.

They finished their lunch and Joanna felt fidgety, as though something was unfinished – unsatisfactory.

‘We should go back to the farm,’ she said. ‘Matthew thinks the assault on Grimshaw was quite sustained. He mentioned ten to fifteen minutes.’ Again she frowned. ‘That’s a long time, Mike. I find it hard to believe that
no one
saw
anything.
’

Korpanski nodded.

She paused, allowing her thoughts to sink in, move forward and conclude.

‘Three houses back onto the murder scene: Mostyn, whose little girl used to ride Grimshaw’s pony; Charlotte Frankwell and the Westons. I suggest we return to
Charlotte Frankwell’s, even if it’s just to rattle her cage a bit. I’d like us to go over her exact movements on the three critical days. Is it really possible none of these people saw anything?’

As they walked back to their car she recalled something else that had struck her as odd.

‘Mike,’ she said slowly. ‘Did you notice that all the curtains to number 4 were closed?’

‘Not really, Jo,’ he said.

‘Do you know who lives there?’

Korpanski consulted his Filofax. ‘A Mr and Mrs Parnell,’ he said.

‘Who interviewed them?’

Again Korpanski consulted his trusty Filofax.

‘Alan King and Dawn Critchlow.’

‘What did they say about them?’

‘Mr Parnell was away on business. Mrs Parnell was a bit weird.’

She gave him a keen look.

‘In what way?’

Korpanski shrugged. ‘Didn’t say. Just that something struck them as not quite right.’

Joanna let out a long, whistling breath. ‘Someone else we should visit then.’

As she might have expected, Charlotte Frankwell had her answers off pat. She’d been at work on all three days in question; her daughter had been at school, then either in an after-school club until five o’clock or out with her father. ‘For all his faults,’ she said grudgingly,
‘Gabriel is genuinely fond of Phoebe. She’ll miss him when he goes.’

Joanna was quick to pick up on the regret in her tone. ‘You’d probably prefer him not to go so far away?’

Charlotte Frankwell frowned. ‘Of course I would. Phoebe simply
adores
her father. She was
heartbroken
when I broke the news that he was going away and that she wouldn’t be seeing so much of him in the future.’

Joanna had an uncomfortable glimpse of a child bereft of an adored parent and felt a slight twinge of guilt.

‘Where do you work?’ she asked quickly.

‘In a small dress shop along St Edwards Street. Top Hat.’

‘Who with?’

‘Mostly on my own but the proprietor pops in and out through the day. It happens to be quiet most of the time except Saturdays – and we’re closed on a Sunday.’

Joanna tucked the fact away. ‘But you’re not at work today?’

The comment seemed to irritate Charlotte Frankwell. ‘I’m owed some holiday,’ she said haughtily. She squared her shoulders and faced Joanna with a bold stare. ‘Are you saying
I’m
a suspect, Inspector?’

Joanna was tempted to quote the Clouseau line: ‘I suspect
everyone
and I suspect
no one
.’ But it would have been inappropriate and would probably lead to a complaint of levity in a serious case.

‘The evenings?’

‘I was in on my own during the evenings.’

Joanna nodded.
No alibi, then
. But from what Matthew had said, the assault on Grimshaw had been sustained. Looking at the forensic evidence of the blood spots, the progression towards the wall where he had finally died would have taken him past the backs of three houses. For somewhere around fifteen minutes there would have been prolonged shouts and screams. If, as Joanna suspected, Grimshaw had headed towards the wall hoping to attract the attention of one of his neighbours, he would have made sure he made a noise. As much as possible. On the other hand, this was the sort of housing estate that’s deserted from nine to five – a ghost town during the working day. An ideal time for murder. Not so the evenings, when people might be in their gardens or have windows open and either see or hear enough to call the police.