The Final Curtain (2 page)

Joanna yawned, bored already. ‘Why doesn't she move into the town like most people do when they get a bit older, live alone and are worried about the isolation?'

‘We've suggested that,' he said glumly. ‘We've even gone so far as to tell her about more suitable places.' He looked aggrieved. ‘There's some lovely sheltered accommodation down by the football field but she hasn't taken it up – so far.'

‘You say you've found no evidence of an intruder?'

‘Not a sausage.'

‘Each time?'

Korpanski shook his head.

‘Has she a history of mental illness, paranoia? Alzheimer's?'

‘Not as far as we know. We had a quick word with her doctor. He says he isn't aware of anything like that. I don't think she's crazy, Jo. Just nervous and a bit over-imaginative.'

Joanna frowned. ‘How long has she lived there?'

‘Almost ten years.'

‘Has she ever called us out
before
these recent episodes?'

‘No. Never. We didn't even know she was there. We haven't been there before. Even Timmis and McBrine didn't know it was there – it's so tucked away in its own private little valley. And
they're
patrolling the moorlands all the time,' he said, referring to the two constables. ‘It started, quite suddenly, around New Year, when you were setting off on your honeymoon.'

Joanna shot him a look. ‘Coincidence, surely,' she said with deliberation.

‘Yeah. Well. Since then …' He opened up the file on his computer and Joanna stared down at an impressive list of dates and events involving police attention.

‘Mmm,' she said. ‘She
has
kept you busy.' What was the world coming to that they had to deal with this sort of crap?

Korpanski gave an exasperated sigh as he closed the file. ‘She's a sixty-year-old incessant time-waster,' he said, but a twinkle lit his eyes as he spoke the next sentence, swivelling around in his chair to watch her face square on and gauge her response to his next sentence. ‘Which is why we've elected
you
to be lucky enough to pay the next visit. And in case you worry that you might have to wait a while for the pleasure she's already rung in today. Six o'clock this morning she dialled our number to tell us that she could smell cigarette smoke in the kitchen.'

‘I'm supposed to respond to
that
?'

Korpanski didn't even bother replying or concealing his smirk. ‘Her name, by the way, is Timony Weeks.'

Joanna's head shot round. ‘You're having me on.'

‘Ah-ha,' Korpanski responded, shaking his head, his eyes still sparkling with merriment. He was savouring this moment. ‘Hand on heart,' he said, suiting his action to the words. ‘And to cap it all, she's an ex-child actress. Used to be known as Timony Shore, now Timony Weeks.' He gave a bland smile. ‘So off you go, Inspector Piercy, to Butterfield Farm.'

In spite of her irritation Joanna couldn't help smiling. It sounded so pastoral, so quaint.

‘It's eight miles away,' Korpanski added. ‘Most of it along icy and muddy lanes. I'll give you directions. Your satnav won't find it for you.'

It got better and better. Disgruntled, she picked up her coat from the back of her chair. ‘You're right,' she said grumpily. ‘It is
not
great to be back.'

Korpanski's grin broadened. ‘Told you it wouldn't take long, didn't I, Jo?' He handed her a piece of paper on which he had written directions. ‘Oh.' His tone changed. ‘Before you go – there's something else.' Now his expression was wary and more serious. There was something he wasn't looking forward to telling her. And Joanna picked up on this right away.

‘What?'

‘They've appointed a replacement for Colclough,' he said quietly. ‘And it's not good news. At least, not for you.'

‘You're really making my day, Mike.'

He was eyeing her with visible trepidation.

‘Go on. Shoot.'

‘He's from Birmingham. A guy called Gabriel Rush. By all accounts he's a stickler for protocol. Does everything by the book. The officers who've worked underneath him say he takes violent dislikes to people – particularly women officers – who “don't know their place”.' DS Korpanski could hardly look at her. ‘Doesn't sound like he's going to spoil you rotten. Not like indulgent Arthur.'

It was true. Chief Superintendent Arthur Colclough had made a pet out of Joanna, the first female senior detective he had ever appointed. He had indulged her and sometimes made excuses for her. Even when she had broken the rules she had had a soft fall and had hardly ever been in his bad books. Patently that era was at an end. She'd have to look out in future.

Joanna banged the door behind her.

Korpanski watched the door shiver and sensed that in Leek Police Station sparks would soon be flying. Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, for all their friendship, was an officer who could be fiery when opposed. He didn't know who to feel sorrier for: the new chief superintendent or Joanna. Or maybe he should look out for himself, as he would inevitably be the one caught in the crossfire.

T
here was at least some consolation in being summoned to a remote moorlands house, Joanna reflected as she turned off the Ashbourne road, leaving the town of Leek behind and heading for the vast and empty landscape of the Staffordshire moorlands. She had panoramic views ahead of her, and the sense of limitless emptiness in a landscape that had not changed for centuries. Now, with development protected and even the architecture and materials of the moorlands homes rigidly controlled, it was even less likely to change in the future. She scanned the scene. Undulating hills with craggy stone outcrops, jagged as teeth, isolated farmhouses and the breathtakingly spectacular nature of the landscape made her feel like she was standing at the very top of the world. But even the sense she had of belonging to this wild and raw country did nothing to change her mood, which remained resentful until she had passed the millstone that marked the entrance to the Peak District National Park. She was angry at being sent out on what was most likely a wild goose chase and chuntered loudly to herself: ‘Smoke indeed. Bloody rubbish. Sodding waste of time.' She knew she could have pulled rank and sent a junior officer but it would have looked peevish and spoiled. It wasn't her way. And that was why, she reflected, she had gained such respect from her colleagues.

She mucked in
. That was what they said about her. Then, quite suddenly, she saw the funny side and chuckled. The party, the celebration and now the let-down.

Using Korpanski's instructions she left the main road and turned down muddy single track lanes, grass sprouting up the middle. Luckily she met very little traffic – two cars and three tractors. The farmers could ride on the frozen earth and complete their winter chore of muck-spreading the frozen fields. As she took in the pale fields bordered by drystone walls, the far-off peaks iced with snow and white ink blots on the grass where the sun had failed to melt it, she found herself contrasting the scene with the Disney-bright paddy fields, lush scenery and scorched sand of Sri Lanka. This was home. It energized her. She opened her car window a fraction to feel the icy blast on her cheek and drew the cold air deep into her lungs. It felt good to be alive. It might be chilly here but she had always preferred the winter in the moorlands when the holidaymakers stayed at home, leaving the countryside to its hardy natives.

Although her spirits had been dampened both by Korpanski's news of Colclough's replacement and the futility of this mission, she could still feel the warmth of the Sri Lankan sun and the thrill of diving on to the reef with Matthew to see the myriads of brilliantly coloured fish which swam through her splayed-out fingers. For a second she almost wished she was back there. And then she truly looked around and reflected: she was lucky to live in such a beautiful part of the country, lucky to work in a job which absorbed her and lucky to be married to a man she loved and who loved her. ‘So, Piercy,' she scolded, ‘stop whingeing, get this irritating part of the day over and done with and get back to the office.' She glanced at her satnav. Korpanski was right. It didn't even recognize there was a road here. On the tiny screen it looked as though she was traversing a green field. So instead she carried on, following Korpanski's written instructions, and swung left along a stony track, again with feathers of grass sprouting up its middle. She drove gingerly, the car skating across a couple of frozen puddles. She knew she was on the right track when, after a few hundred yards or so, she spotted a plume of smoke drifting out of a chimney far below. She stopped the car for a moment and stared down at the farm with admiration for its symmetry and beauty, but also with a policeman's eyes. It might be in its own private valley, nestling into a tiny hamlet, but this meant it was overlooked from the road. Its position actually meant that rather than being private and secluded it was exposed and vulnerable. It would also be a difficult place to escape from. One road in; the same road out. Steep. In snow this house could easily become a prison rather than a haven. It was beautiful – an unspoilt mellow stone farmhouse, long and low. It had a slate roof which gleamed like old pewter in the wintry sun; its walls were of soft grey limestone which was mined locally, common to properties in this area, and allowed even under the strict Peak District National Park restrictions. The house looked in good condition, well cared for – immaculate, in fact – with none of the tumbledown barns and muddy areas which marked most of the local properties. It was built in an L shape, angled towards the road. Beyond the gate it had a gravelled drive with a small roundabout at its front which was grassed over and raised, bounded by a low stone wall. In the centre of the roundabout was a well. Not the bijou, twee, suburban garden centre wishing well but what looked like a genuine working well, large and complete with a pitched slate roof, turning handle and bucket. At the side of the house was a huge oak tree, winter-naked now but in spring, summer and autumn it would make this place look even more fantastic. A countryside dream. But Joanna was only too well aware that while it would be a dream in dappled sunshine and daylight, when animals populated the fields and the countryside would seem the ideal place to be, it would be a nightmare through the long winter nights, with no one within shouting – or screaming – distance. The isolation could send someone mad unless they were well adapted to it. Was this what had happened here? Was Mrs Weeks slowly losing her mind, feeling more and more trapped by the remoteness of her home? Added to the location the single-track road in – and out – was steep and stone rough. Even with a four-wheel-drive it would be a challenge to escape, particularly in bad weather. Joanna assessed the incline of the drive with a cyclist's eyes and felt a tightening of her calf muscles. It was easily a one in four. How quickly the Garden of Eden can turn into a prison. It would only take a few centimetres of snow or a heavy fall of rain to wash the stones towards the house. As Joanna studied the property she felt the first stirrings of curiosity about the woman who lived here. If she was so nervous and paranoid why
did
she live here alone? Was she a farmer or smallholder? There was no sign of any animals and the tidiness of the property seemed to contradict that theory. Was she then perhaps a local who had lived all her life in the moorlands and would feel claustrophobic in the town? If this was her profile why had she lived here happily for ten years only to suddenly develop this nervousness and delusion of a stalker? Moorlands folk tended to be prosaic rather than histrionic. They needed to be to be able to survive both physically and mentally.

As she descended into the valley Joanna searched for clues about the owner of Butterfield Farm but found none. The grounds were neat, the gravel freshly raked and free of leaves or debris. Either this was a very energetic sixty-year-old or she had help. And that meant wealth, which didn't come from farming in this area. The moorlands farmers, in general, scratched the poor land and hostile conditions for a living. This was a large and valuable property. She must have made a good living as an actress. Even without a generous acreage, Joanna estimated it would fetch close to a million. But, looking around, if Mrs Weeks did own most of the surrounding land, and probably the entire valley, the property value would be bumped up to nearer two million. This was not the sort of set-up she had expected. It looked too organized, too sane. So, she asked herself, if the call-outs weren't histrionic, the result of an overactive imagination, what were they? They sounded bizarre, but what if they weren't?

Before she had arrived she had assumed that this would be a futile visit. Now? Well, she wasn't so sure. The answer would become clear when she met the woman herself.

Joanna continued gingerly down the track, still asking questions. According to Mike, the call-outs had started in the New Year. Had anything specific happened to trigger paranoia and panic then? Was there anyone in Mrs Weeks' past who might want to frighten her into abandoning the moorlands? Did a neighbour want her land or her house? Or was her initial instinct correct, and Mrs Weeks was deluded, paranoid?

But as the car crunched over the stones and drew nearer to the house, something else bothered her. Anyone who turned in from the road would have a bird's-eye view of the property and its surrounds. And a hundred yards or so back she had noticed a public footpath sign. Here, on the edge of the Peak District, in the Staffordshire moorlands, the footpaths were well used for much of the year. Which meant that although Butterfield Farm was remote, plenty of ramblers would notice it. Underlying Joanna's sense of unease was its isolation and vulnerability, added to the owner's circumstances. If anyone did want to intimidate her there would be no one to come to her aid. There was no good neighbour. She would, in the end, have to rely on the police.