The Final Curtain (23 page)

It was exactly what Joanna was scared of, but she was utterly powerless. What next? she wondered.

S
he didn't have long to wait to find out. Lunchtime brought a phone call from Roderick Beeston. ‘You're investigating a very odd case here, Joanna,' he said accusingly, as though she was personally responsible. ‘First a pretty nasty thing that happened to that poor cat,' he said, ‘and now Brock the badger.'

‘And what exactly did happen to Brock the badger?'

‘Probably run over,' he said. ‘I didn't do a full post-mortem.' He chuckled. ‘I didn't think your budget would stretch to it. Especially with Chief Superintendent Rush about to
hop on your tail
. Or is it
breathe down your neck
?'

‘Don't remind me,' she said darkly. ‘I'm trying not to think about it.'

Even Beeston the jaunty couldn't think up a suitable response to that. He continued with his report. ‘I did do some X-rays, though. His back leg and a couple of ribs were broken. Brock wouldn't have been able to walk very far.'

‘He wasn't …'

‘Alive when he was dropped in the well? Thankfully, no. There was no water in his lungs. No. Poor chap – not that the average dairy or beef farmer would agree with me. They're very hot on the badger being responsible for most of the bovine TB. But Brock had probably been dead for a couple of days before he floated to the top of the well and began to stink quite so badly.' She could sense he was smiling. ‘Good job the weather's been so cold,' he said. ‘Otherwise the stink could have been terrible. They're big animals. Take ages to decompose and they'd have looked for ages to find the source of the smell.'

‘Quite. So what was the point …?'

‘Exactly what I've been asking myself,' Beeston said. ‘Left under a hedge his corpse would have rotted away and been subject to predation. To put it down a well is plain odd. I can only think it was to intimidate the ladies who live at the farm. Someone must want them out of there.'

On the other end of the line Joanna was frowning. ‘But why?'

‘If I'm thinking of the right place,' Beeston said, ‘it is a rather splendid house and in a beautiful location.'

‘Beautiful and splendid enough to play so many odd dirty tricks for?'

Beeston hesitated. When his response came it was smooth and predictable. ‘Luckily it isn't my job to solve your cases, Joanna,' he said, ‘only to feed you the salient facts. There is one other explanation.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, it is just possible that someone simply ran him over and disposed of the body down the well.'

‘It isn't a criminal offence to run over a badger,' Joanna pointed out. ‘It wouldn't make sense to do that.'

Beeston paused then chuckled. ‘None of it makes sense,' he said, adding, ‘the bill will be sent to you as usual.'

Joanna smiled.

The day Roderick Beeston forgot his vet's bill would be the day the Polar ice caps melted. He was a meticulous businessman.

Her mood was sober when she'd thanked the vet and put the phone down. Things were escalating but she wasn't sure in which direction. She was still worried about where it would all end. What had initially appeared like histrionics had developed into assaults on animals and a burglary. What next? She had the horrid feeling that she knew but it was as though she was watching it on television, powerless to change the future. As though she was in a nightmare and could merely watch without any ability to participate.

All she knew was that this wasn't over yet. This very real drama unfolding in front of her had snagged her, so instead of being able to give other ‘more important' cases her full attention she was constantly being drawn back, yet again, towards Butterfield Farm. She sighed as she emailed Beeston's bills to the accounts manager. She might be able to wangle the badger one, pretending she'd wondered if it had TB, but she sensed that Chief Superintendent Rush would sniff this out as a red herring. He was no fool.

She was going to get this one wrong however cunningly she played it. And just when Rush was about to take up his post. It gave her a sinking feeling.

Korpanski was not at all keen on abandoning his luxury car case, even temporarily, to visit Butterfield again. It was obviously the last place on earth he wanted to visit and he was progressing well in his investigation. He'd homed in on a large garage in Manchester which had extensive workshops at its rear. This, he believed, was where the cars were ‘processed' and made ‘clean' for resale. He scowled at her, tore his eyes very slowly and reluctantly from his computer screen and gave a deep, heart-rending sigh so Joanna took pity on him, let him off the hook and took DS Hannah Beardmore instead. She couldn't deprive Korpanski of his moment of triumph. So she patted his broad shoulders, resisted the temptation to ruffle the black hair and left him to it.

Anyway, she liked working with DS Hannah Beardmore. The soft voice and gentle nature of the DS would be a welcome change from Korpanski's fiery questions. Even considering the assaults on the animals he'd made it quite clear he found her interest prurient, claiming it had become an obsession, her questions irrelevant and repetitive, her interest in the sixties soap odd, and the repeated visits a complete overreaction to a handful of happenings and the animals' sad fates. But the drum beat constantly in Joanna's mind was,
What next? What next? What next?
Where do the roots of all this attention lie? Who is the intended victim here, what is the intended outcome? As the events compounded was something more serious lurking around the corner, something she could and should prevent? And the main question: who was behind it?

There was desperation in Diana Tong's eyes as she pulled the door open even before they had had a chance to knock. She must have been watching the lane, perhaps sensing that someone from Leek Police would visit today. ‘We tried,' she said softly. ‘We did try to escape, get away. But we were pulled back by the burglary.' Her eyes skittered around the garden, rested a while on the tape that fluttered around the well. ‘We just had to return.' She put her face close to Joanna's. ‘I am not a fanciful woman, Inspector,' she said, her mouth quivering slightly, ‘but I have a feeling that a trap is being set. There is an atmosphere of evil around here, enveloping Butterfield in a poisonous smog. Someone is …' She frowned and thought but she couldn't find the words. ‘And they will win. You understand? They – will – win.' She stood back, flat against the door. ‘You'd better come in,' she said.

Joanna had the feeling that Timony had taken or been given a tranquillizer. Either that or she had drowned her sorrows in alcohol. Or maybe a bit of both. ‘Finished,' she said without further explanation. Her speech was slurred, her laptop on her desk. She was rubbing her temples and staring down at the screen. As she registered Joanna's arrival her eyes were bloodshot and her gait, when she rose to greet them, was unsteady. She must have realized that Joanna was looking at her with suspicion and cognition because she quickly apologized for her state. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘I'm so upset. First Tuptim and now this.' Her tears started to flow and she reached for a tissue. ‘Tuptim was my child,' she said finally. ‘My family. The only thing that loved me. My beautiful, beautiful pet.'

Diana Tong hovered in the background, still looking anxious but adding nothing. Joanna might have expected her to intervene, contradict her employer's statement, assure Timony that she would always have her. But of course, the relationship between the two women was much more complicated than that. Diana was watching Timony with a look of despair, as though she were a hopeless case, as though she did not know quite what to do with her.

Joanna stopped herself from saying that she could always get another cat to love her. Even she, who was no cat lover, realized that this would appear as insensitive as telling a woman who has just miscarried that she can always have another baby. The comparison caused her heart to skip an extra beat as she recalled her own miscarriage a few years ago.

Hannah Beardmore was already sitting with her arm around the actress, soothing her with words, the equivalent of ‘There, there.' Given the sensitivity of the situation Joanna was extra glad that she had brought the DS rather than Korpanski. He would have contributed precisely zero sympathy. This was exactly what was needed here, a little bit of kindness.

‘It was only a badger that was down your well,' she said. ‘He was almost certainly already dead when his body was deposited there.'

No reaction from either woman. No
by whom
?

She continued. ‘And the other was a wig.' She fixed her gaze on Timony Weeks' head. ‘Red hair,' she said. ‘Just like …'

For the first time ever Timony Weeks looked embarrassed. ‘Sometimes,' she began, swallowed, and spoke again, ‘if I don't get to a hairdresser …'

‘What she's trying to say,' Diana snapped, ‘is that she sometimes wears a wig when her hair's a mess. It belonged to her.'

Behind her Joanna heard a tiny snort. She didn't turn around and meet her sergeant's eyes or she would have joined her. Instead she drew in a deep breath. ‘When we've checked that it doesn't hold any significant forensic evidence we'll return it to you,' she said.

Timony was shaking her head. ‘No, don't,' she said. ‘I don't want it back.'

Joanna should have pointed out that it was her property, and that she should sign a disclaimer if she didn't want it returned, but she desisted.

Diana still watched from the doorway. No offer of tea or coffee. But Joanna sensed that her attention was not focused on either her or DS Hannah Beardmore. All her attention was concentrated on her friend, her employer. She was looking at her with such a look of pity as would have melted a granite heart. Joanna watched and realized that she actually knew very little about these women's personal history besides the essential facts. What glued them together? Diana Tong had another house, lived elsewhere,
was
or
had been
married. Family? All she knew about Timony was in the public domain. She could have gathered it all from a newspaper over the years. But Diana Tong was a closed book.

A secret. Maybe it was time to find out a little more.

She decided to start at the beginning, even if that meant covering some of the details Mike had already gleaned when he'd interviewed Diana. ‘How long have you two been together?' She dropped the question into the room and wondered why Diana Tong's face looked at her now with respect, as though she had been wondering when the police would get around to asking these pertinent questions. She made no reference to her conversation with Mike.

‘Years,' she said, entering the room now and, with a quick glance at Timony, sitting down on the sofa.
At ease
. ‘I was Timony's wardrobe mistress from the mid-sixties. I had been …' She looked a little sheepish. ‘I'd been quite a fan of Butterfield Farm from when it started. In nineteen sixty-four they were looking for someone to take over as Timony's guardian and I was lucky enough to get my dream job.' She smiled. ‘Timony interviewed me herself and we hit it off right away. From then on I was her wardrobe mistress, personal secretary and sometimes bodyguard.'

‘You were there when the fan assaulted her?'

There was a quick look between the two women, as though each was checking her story against the other's. ‘I wasn't there that night,' Diana said carefully. ‘Timony had another escort to and from the studio as well as a chauffeur, so she didn't really need me. I wasn't there,' she said firmly.

‘You were there at the time of her first marriage,' Joanna proceeded conversationally, ‘to Gerald?' Joanna was aware that DS Beardmore was taking all this down in note form.

Timony's face grew sentimental. ‘Gerald,' she said, ‘was my first real love.'

Joanna watched her carefully. True? Or false? She directed her next question to Diana Tong.

‘And what did you think of Gerald?'

Diana Tong was startled by the question. She had not expected this. Her eyes looked a little panicked. Then she quickly recovered herself. ‘He was,' she said, ‘a perfect gentleman.'

Timony looked pleased with the answer.

Joanna was not so sure. ‘Two of Timony's husbands are still alive,' she continued. ‘We wondered whether …'

‘Possibly three,' Diana corrected.

‘Remind me,' Joanna said. ‘Husband number two?'

‘Sol Brannigan,' Timony inserted. ‘We were hardly together.' A quick glance at Diana for confirmation. ‘Were we? I don't know why he married me. For a bet, I sometimes thought. He began so charming, so attentive, and ended up completely not caring. He also stole from me,' she sighed, ‘to fund his gambling habit, I suppose, which doesn't excuse his thieving.' She lay back on the sofa, arms outstretched. ‘I was glad to see the back of him, truth be known.' Her
young
face looked tired. ‘He frightened me. I never could prove it but I always believed that some of the money he splashed around was the proceeds of organized crime. I told you he was a gangster. I knew for a fact that he had guns in our house during the brief time we were together. Strange people used to call at odd times of the day or night. And always I would be ordered out of the room. They threatened me never to listen at the door or pick up the phone during a conversation and eavesdrop. I felt very threatened and it was something he enjoyed.' She half closed her eyes. ‘He loved having power over people.' Her eyes flicked wide open as though she was baring her soul. ‘If you want my opinion these … tricks … and the cruelty towards Tuptim fit in with his character all too well. He liked to irritate and intimidate me. Blowing cigarette smoke into the kitchen was typical of Sol.' She paused. Smiled. ‘And then along came Robert Weeks. So unfortunate he was actually married to my friend, Carmen.' She gave a wicked smile. ‘But then I'm not the sort to let another woman stand in my way.
He
fell in love with
me
,' she said, as though trying to convince her audience to believe this story. ‘Robert Weeks. Absolutely lovely.
Gorgeous-looking
. Terrific actor. He'd hoped eventually to be a director. We married in 'seventy-seven and were happy. We had almost thirteen good years together but, cruelly, cancer took him from me.' Her words might be clichéd theatre but Joanna had no doubt at all that the sorrow behind Robert Weeks' death was genuine. Then Timony's face broke into a mischievous smile. ‘Carmen never forgave me,' she said. ‘She turned up at his funeral, made an awful song and dance about things. She had to be taken out. Such an embarrassment.'