The Final Curtain (33 page)

She addressed Van Eelen. ‘We're investigating the murder of your late wife,' she said carefully. Trixy flinched at the epithet,
wife
, but otherwise the couple didn't react.

‘Come in,' Rolf offered, ‘though I don't know how I can help you. Timony and I separated years ago.' An anxious glance skittered across to Trixy, who stiffened. Obviously
Timony
was still a sore subject.

‘But I understand you have had some contact with her over the years.'

Van Eelen gave a sheepish grin. ‘A bit,' he said, giving Trixy a very wary glance and taking a tiny step away from her which stretched her arm lock.

Getting out of reach?

‘Mr Van Eelen,' Joanna said delicately. ‘Can you tell me whether you knew anything about your …' she couldn't truthfully say
ex
so substituted, ‘
late
wife's finances.'

Van Eelen's eyes gleamed. ‘She was worth a bit.' He remembered himself. ‘Poor old Timony,' he said, face schooled into tight grief. ‘Dreadful her being shot.'

‘Dreadful,' WPC Anderton echoed.

‘I didn't mean how much money she was worth,' Joanna persisted. ‘I meant: do you know who she's left it to?'

Van Eelen shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Haven't a clue,' he said. ‘A cat's home? Diana? God knows that poor woman's earned it, spending her life looking after a mad woman all these years.'

His judgement of his wife's mental state was interesting. Joanna began to wish she'd interviewed Van Eelen sooner. His take on events might have been helpful.

‘If she'd died intestate,' Joanna said slowly, ‘who do you think would inherit her assets?'

Van Eelen took a long time working this one out. His mouth closed. His eyes darted around the room, resting for a moment on his partner's glossy mouth, which was pressed tight with disapproval, tiny lines fluting on her upper lip. His gaze fluttered away restlessly, like a butterfly on flowers. ‘I don't think she's got any close …' It was a brave effort.

‘You aren't actually divorced, are you?'

‘Phhrr.' He blew out his cheeks in derision. ‘Never really got around to it.' Another wary glance at Trixy, who had wisely lowered her gaze to hide the fury that was flaming up in her eyes. ‘Why? Is it important?'

Joanna chose her next words with great care, picking them out like chicken from bones. ‘If you aren't divorced and in the absence of other claimants,' she said, deliberately avoiding mention of Renshaw, ‘it's my understanding that
you
would inherit – after the government had subtracted death duties.'

‘Oh,' Van Eelen said. It was hard to judge whether he was surprised or not, pleased or not.

‘Just for the record, Mr Van Eelen, where
were
you in the early hours of March the fourteenth?'

The natural response to this common police question is to say that you have to think about it, consult your diary. Ask your nearest and dearest. Not, as Van Eelen did, say immediately, as though thoroughly and well-rehearsed, ‘Here all night.' Another wary glance. ‘With Trixy.' His arm twitched as though he was about to coil it around Trixy. But, probably wisely, he dropped it back to his side.

‘Right. Thank you.'

As they left, Van Eelen made a feeble attempt at a joke. ‘So,' he said, dredging up a credible American accent, ‘don't leave town. Hey?'

‘That would be a good rule to follow,' Joanna responded smoothly. ‘And it would be very helpful if you'd let us have your phone numbers, landline and mobile in case we need you.'

Van Eelen shrank like a pricked balloon.

The music was so well known that everyone was enjoying it. Plenty of people were swinging their feet to the rhythms, a few, irritatingly, humming along to the melodies. But hey, it was Stoke-on-Trent. It was a Saturday night and people were here to enjoy themselves. Joanna linked arms with Matthew and gave him a cheeky smile which he responded to with a grin and a brush of his lips on her cheek, muttering, ‘This had better be good.'

They sat back to absorb the rich sexiness of Carmen, flashing her legs, not in the cigar factory but in a supermarket checkout. And then in swaggered Malcolm Hadleigh, aka Sean Butterfield, to the Toreador Song. Joanna leaned forward. He was a little old to play the part of Tony Amore but with dyed black hair – or a wig – he could still swing a cape.

Matthew leaned across, found her lips this time and gave her a soft kiss, whispering, ‘Didn't know you were into opera, Jo.'

She looked straight into the warm green eyes, as long and narrow as a cat's as he eyed her. ‘There's plenty you don't know about me, Matthew Levin.'

‘I sincerely hope so,' he said.

The theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme is known as the New Vic, as opposed to the Old Vic which closed its doors in 1985. It is one of the few theatres-in-the-round in the UK. And once you have found the taste for this format, which is surprisingly different from the stilted stage of the more common auditorium/stage performance, you wonder how you ever enjoyed the plays so much looking up at a flat, elevated platform, rather than being amongst it all.

In the theatre-in-the-round the cast romps around a central, circular area, sometimes beetling in and out through the corridors of the audience. Added to that, for the relish of the people of Stoke-on-Trent, as well as original work penned by locals, well-known plays or operas are sometimes ‘adapted', either to bring them in line with modern taste or to make them relevant to the citizens of the five towns. So in the New Vic's performance of Carmen, Tony Amore was not a toreador but a football star.

Joanna watched Malcolm Hadleigh with interest. He was good, playing his part with relish and not a bad singing voice either. Fifty years ago, as Sean Butterfield, fourteen years old when the series had started, in his twenties by the time it folded, he must have been electric. And charismatic.

At half time they queued at the bar and as Matthew handed her a glass of wine he finally asked her, ‘You seem very interested in the footballer.' Then: ‘What are you up to, Joanna Piercy?'

She put her face close to his. She didn't want eavesdroppers. ‘The guy who's playing the footballer,' she said very softly, ‘Tony Amore, also played the part of Timony Weeks' older brother in Butterfield Farm,' she said. ‘And I'm strongly suspicious that he either raped or coerced Timony into having sex with him when she was just thirteen years old. I also believe that as a result of this she had the child you found evidence of at the post-mortem.'

He pulled his face away, frowning. ‘Thirteen?' he queried. ‘If anyone had gone for Eloise at thirteen I would have killed him.'

She shook her head. ‘But it isn't him who's dead, Matt,' she said. ‘It's her.'

Matthew downed the rest of his lager and put the glass back on the counter. ‘So what happened to the child?'

‘I believe he was adopted by her sister.'

Matthew pulled away at that. ‘I'll be watching the second half in a different spirit.'

It was pointless even pretending to have a day off in the middle of a major investigation and Joanna knew she wouldn't rest until she'd cracked this one. She owed it to Timony to find her killer. She ate her breakfast, hardly saying a word. Then stood up and stretched her hands out to Matthew. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘I'm really sorry.'

He knew what was coming. ‘It's OK, Jo.'

He'd changed since they'd been married. Tried to be more tolerant, but he continued to look at her, as though expecting her to make some commitment.

‘I'll be home this evening,' she said, aware that she'd changed too. A couple of short months of marriage and they were both learning.

Next week, she'd decided, she would home in on her chief suspects. Someone had cold-bloodedly shot Timony and she was drawing closer to finding out who and why. But for today she felt she needed to focus on events from a different perspective, that of the general public. The fans. The viewers. She would call in and speak to Colclough's sister, Elizabeth Gantry again. She rang first and Mrs Gantry sounded delighted. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘Joanna. Lovely to hear from you again. I'd been wondering how your investigation was getting on, particularly since poor old Timony was shot. Do, please, come over.'

‘Do you still have all your scrapbooks?'

‘Of course. I shall never throw them away. They mean everything to me.'

‘I'll be over in half an hour,' Joanna said.

She called in at the flower shop and bought a small bunch of flowers. Mrs Gantry was bound to like them. She could also give her the autographed photograph – the last autograph Timony had ever signed. Maybe that would make it worth even more.

As she handed the flowers to her the older woman blushed. ‘It's a long time since anyone's bought me flowers.' Her eyes met Joanna's. ‘You really shouldn't have done that, you know. There was no need.'

‘Well, I'm bothering you on a Sunday.'

Elizabeth Gantry simply laughed. ‘Oh, my dear girl,' she said. ‘Sundays aren't quite the same when you're a widow.'

Joanna handed her the photograph too and Mrs Gantry looked at it sentimentally. ‘How terrible,' she said, ‘that she should meet with such an end.'

Joanna said nothing but let Mrs Gantry gaze at the photograph for a minute or two. Then she regained her native briskness. ‘Here,' she said. ‘I've got all my albums out as well as the cigarette cards.'

‘Cigarette cards?'

‘Yes. Amazing, isn't it? They used to put cards in packets of cigarettes and you collected the set.' She smiled. ‘Encouraging your parents to keep puffing away just so you could acquire the entire lot. And I have, after a lot of swapping and changing,' she announced proudly, ‘a whole set of Butterfield cards. Probably quite rare now,' she added. ‘Maybe worth a bit since.' She swallowed. ‘Since Timony's …'

‘Oh, don't,' Joanna said, putting a hand on her arm, ‘or I'll think you have a motive for wanting her dead and arrest you.'

Elizabeth Gantry grimaced. ‘I suppose you could say that crimes have been done for less,' she said. ‘But it would certainly make headlines in the
Leek Post & Times
.' She handed Joanna an album, its covers dark brown leatherette, inside thick black pages in which had been inserted coloured cards, slightly smaller than a credit card.

Joanna looked at the album. How times had changed. She flicked through them. The entire cast was here, all giving cheesy grins: Keith and David, Sean, Joab, Lily, May. The farm, even the animals: Daisy and Bluebell, Friesian cows, lambs named Springer and Jonty, cats – not posh Burmese like Tuptim but ginger and tortoiseshell. She leafed through page after page, wondering what it was she was looking for.

Elizabeth Gantry tried to be helpful. ‘Was there any period in particular that you wanted to look at?'

‘Yes, the years nineteen sixty-four to sixty-six.'

‘Ahh.' Elizabeth tapped the side of her nose and opened the album at a page. And there it was. November 1965. Lily Butterfield in a smock. How clever.

Elizabeth Gantry was looking over her shoulder. ‘Sweet, isn't she?'

If only she knew
. Elizabeth Gantry, and probably every single one of
Butterfield
's fans, had failed to understand why little, sweet Lily Butterfield was wearing a smock. And why Dariel, who was not quite sane but celebrity obsessed, had felt inclined to destroy her for losing her purity.

And after fumbling around in the dark the beginning of the week, at last, brought compensation. Joanna had decided to call a briefing at a civilized hour for once, giving her officers time to prepare their reports before meeting together. She knew they would not let her down. She'd turned to the list on the board and wondered whether it was complete. It might be a focus for their enquiries but … She stared at it, wondering, then faced the room.

Phil Scott was grinning at her. Obviously he had news.

‘You'd better go first,' she said.

‘We've tracked down Sol Brannigan,' he announced triumphantly. ‘And what's better, he's not legit.'

‘Go on,' Joanna prompted. Eyeing the officers she could see one or two of them had something to report. Korpanski was watching her, looking intrigued. He was wondering what she'd been up to over the weekend. She'd tell him – later. Maybe even sing him a couple of songs from
Carmen
.

Phil Scott continued, ‘He's been under surveillance for money laundering. He runs a sort of property business based in Brighton but the Special Branch think it's a cover. He's been linked to organized crime – people trafficking, smuggling in cigarettes and illegal alcohol.'

Joanna frowned. ‘If he's been under surveillance from Special Branch I take it he couldn't have had any link to Timony's murder?'

‘Yeah,' Phil Scott said. ‘They tend to keep a pretty close eye on their targets.'

‘Looks like he's in the clear then.' Joanna drew a line right through Sol Brannigan's name, trying to look on the bright side. Even being able to exclude someone from their enquiries was a start. ‘Do we have any news on the gun?'

WPC Dawn Critchlow supplied the information. ‘A .22 semi-automatic pistol,' she said. ‘Probably a Walther PP.'

‘Any sign of it?'

Obviously not. Every single head in the room was shaking. ‘A no, then,' she said briskly. ‘Right,' she continued. ‘Who's next?'

Paul Ruthin stepped forwards. ‘I spoke again to Stuart Renshaw,' he said. ‘He knew he was adopted but he claims he didn't know that Timony might be his real mother. He was under the impression that she was his adopted aunt. He said he was very fond of her and enjoyed hearing her stories about celebrity life.'