The Final Curtain (6 page)

‘Was that the first time you'd sent him money?'

‘No. But I told him it would be the last.'

She didn't sound convincing. An easy touch, Joanna thought.

‘Has he asked for any more money?'

‘Not yet.'

Joanna was getting nowhere. She stood up. There was nothing further to be gained from this interview. She finished up with advice to consider installing CCTV.

Maybe Korpanski was right and the woman was barking, but she doubted she was suffering from anything like Alzheimer's. Joanna couldn't help but feel from their exchanges that she had regressed into some kind of fantasy world, had become the actress again, her words carefully timed, prepared and precisely delivered. Was the entire catalogue of events nothing more than attention-seeking make-believe, or genuine paranoia? Stuck by herself, miles from nowhere, with only Diana for company, her acting days long behind her, had Timony retreated into her own imaginative world? Had she planted the cigarette ash? Joanna was thoughtful as she drove back through the moorlands. One thing bothered her. If all the stories were correct and really had happened, and someone was behind every single one of the call-outs, then whoever it was had somehow gained access inside the property. As the stronger of the two characters she was wondering about Diana Tong and her role. It was an odd situation and a bit outdated, this ‘companion' thing. And there was more than a whiff of resentment there. What did Diana really think of Timony? It was clearly a complex relationship. There must be devotion somewhere underneath the façade but it wasn't unusual for two women, thrown together as these two were, to get on each other's nerves. How far would this resentment go? So far as to tease and hint at subtle malice and then deny that anything had happened? She recalled Diana sticking up for her employer when Joanna had dared to suggest she might be histrionic. Something else which wasn't adding up, yet Diana Tong had to be the prime suspect. She was right there, in a perfect position to play tricks on Timony.

But why? Spite? To get even? If she disliked her employer so much why didn't she simply leave? Timony Weeks would miss the strong, practical woman more than Diana would miss her employer, surely?

And then there was Timony Weeks' half-hearted suggestion that a husband she had been married to forty years ago was behind these tricks.

Joanna didn't think so. Sol Brannigan, if he was as his ex-wife had described him, didn't strike her as the sort to drive all the way up from Brighton, stick around the Staffordshire moorlands and play silly little tricks against his ex-wife. Surely if he wanted money it'd be more in character for him to threaten her, blackmail her or simply demand it. After all, she'd paid up before, though five grand wasn't exactly a fortune for someone with Timony Weeks' obvious wealth.

The whole thing was mad, bizarre and infuriating, so much so that Joanna hardly noticed her surroundings on the way back. The moorlands slipped by unappreciated. She was oblivious to the beauty, panorama, weather and wildness, engrossed in tussling with the problem.

Korpanski was on his way out as she pulled into the last available parking space in the station. She opened her window and he stuck his head in. ‘Well?' he asked, grinning. ‘Enjoy that, did you?'

She made a face. ‘You b—'

He grinned, without bothering to hide his humour. ‘So,' he said, ‘what did you think?'

‘Weird,' she said, ‘with that that frozen fish face and odd character. She should be under a psychiatrist.'

‘My impression too.'

‘But she's worth a lot of money.'

Korpanski nodded.

‘How many times have you personally been out there, Mike?'

‘Three, maybe four.'

Joanna felt laughter bubble up inside her. ‘Well, she's quite taken to you. Maybe you should be the one to go next time.'

That wiped the smile off his face. She didn't mention Timony saying that she was also welcome back.

‘What did you make of her?'

He didn't answer straight away but thought about it for a moment, frowning in concentration because he knew Piercy would expect the truth, not some dragged out cliché. ‘Bit of everything really, Jo,' he said. ‘She seems clear enough about what's happened. She tells her stories well. I mean, they make sense. Maybe she is a bit fanciful. A bit … dramatic. I suppose I just thought she was a bit twitchy, a bit histrionic, highly strung. She was an actress, after all. Attention-seeking. Imaginative.' He was struggling. ‘
Over
-imaginative. I mean, there's nothing much to go on, is there? Just little things.' He grinned at her mischievously. ‘There's hardly a body sitting on her doorstep.'

‘Heaven forbid,' she said. ‘That is the last thing we want.' Timony's words swam back into her mind.
What do I have to do, Inspector, have a knife sticking out of my back?

Joanna paused. She recalled the desperation in Timony Weeks' voice, and didn't quite agree with Korpanski's opinion. She might have added another word:
Intuitive.
And another.
Sensitive.

She tried to put her point across without appearing as though she'd swallowed the woman's stories. ‘You know, Mike,' she said, ‘this is the sort of case that initially appears to be nothing. And then, just when you're starting to relax about it, something happens. As far as I'm concerned I thought the whole story hung together just that bit too well. Security lights that come on right on cue. Steamy windows. Cigarette Smoke. Memories, a gangster.' It was coming to her now, what had seemed so unreal about it. ‘I could almost hear music floating around the atmosphere. At the time it might have seemed plausible. But now, it's as though the television has been switched off. Looking back at it now it's more obvious what it was.'

Korpanski looked at her questioningly.

‘Think of it like this,' she said. ‘A film noir script, rehearsed and revised. And then, just as you despair, in comes the shadowy villain.' She made a floaty movement of her hands, letting the fingers drift in front of his face. ‘The scary gangster ex-husband hardly visible beyond the sands of time.' She looked up at him. ‘How am I doing?'

He put his hand on the car window. ‘God,' he said, his eyes warm, ‘I have so missed you.'

It silenced her for a minute. She could do nothing but ignore the comment, pretend it had not been said. Then she held up the evidence bag. ‘However, I did find tangible evidence of an intruder.'

Korpanski looked dubious. ‘What is it?'

‘Some cigarette ash just outside the kitchen window. Someone
was
outside there, smoking, at some point fairly recently. Since the heavy rain. Probably in the last day or two.'

‘Could have been the gardener.'

‘Been there,' she said. ‘I asked. He doesn't smoke.'

‘Well, the window cleaner, then.'

‘Been there too. He hasn't visited Butterfield since before Christmas.'

Korpanski shrugged.

‘And there's something else,' she said. ‘Our smoker might have been careless enough to drop his ash just outside the kitchen window, but he wasn't stupid enough to leave his cigarette butt.'

Korpanski's eyes gleamed for a moment. Then he shrugged again. ‘So, Jo,' he said. ‘Realistically, what are we going to do?'

Joanna sensed, a little like Mrs Weeks must have done with her, that Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski was beginning to get bored by events at Butterfield Farm.

He patted her on the arm. ‘I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation for all this. Nothing's going on there, Jo. Mark my words. There's no major crime being planned.' He smiled. ‘Just a “B” movie. She'll have a nervous breakdown or something, be admitted to a mental hospital and we'll be off the hook. You'll see.'

She responded dubiously. ‘I'm not so sure, Mike. But there's no sign of an intruder inside the property. The doors are all fine. It's more as though she thinks someone's watching her and she wants us to catch whoever it is. Strange. And …'

DS Korpanski waited for her to finish.

‘What if it's all true and she's being set up for something?'

Mike had no answer.

‘And there's something else, Mike. Did you notice the design of the house? It faces north-east and every single window and door faces the front and looks out towards the drive. Keeps watch. It's a house built by a paranoiac. I had an aunt who was like that. She kept the curtains drawn all day because she was convinced that someone was going to steal the family silver. Not only did she keep the curtains drawn tight but she bought some screens and put them in front. Over the screens she draped woollen blankets. Summer and winter they were in place to stop anyone from looking in.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘She lay on the floor for three days with a broken hip and died in hospital. She was intestate so most of her valuables ended up with the government and the rest went to a nephew she'd never even seen who lived in New Zealand. That is paranoia for you.'

‘Mmm.'

She looked up at the burly DS, realized he was going to make no other response and noted he was wearing a jacket. ‘Where are you off to?'

‘Going to interview someone who's had a Lexus stolen. There's been a spate of luxury cars nicked round the potteries and here.'

It didn't sound much more interesting than her morning's task. ‘Then I suppose I'd better go in and write this up, and I might do some checking up on husband number two. I did suggest that she install CCTV and tried to tell her that we can't keep responding to these calls, but I doubt I'll be any more successful than you've been at discouraging her from picking up the phone.'

‘Right ho, Jo. Have fun. See you later.'

She climbed out, locking the door as Korpanski manoeuvred his way out of the car park. A minute later she was sitting at her computer. She had barely finished the report when the desk sergeant knocked on the door.

‘We've got another call, from …' he said, tapping his temples with his fingers.

She could feel her temper rising. This was ridiculous. ‘I'll take it myself.'

She barely recognized the voice on the other end. The woman she had met earlier had seemed rational, lucid, in command of her emotions. Now she sounded hysterical.

‘My husband's watch,' she babbled. ‘It was a Rolex Oyster Perpetual. I had it buried with him. On his wrist. He was my first husband. My first love. Gerald.'

‘What about this Rolex?' Joanna asked, trying to keep her patience.

‘It's here,' she wailed. ‘I found it on my bed just now. It has a black crocodile strap and it's here. How can it have come from the grave?'

‘Look, Mrs Weeks,' Joanna said patiently. ‘If you had your husband's watch buried with him then it is still with him. This must be a similar watch. There isn't only one watch like that in the world. There will almost certainly be a rational explanation for this.'

Her response was angry. ‘You just think I'm a hysterical and confused old woman.'

You read my mind
, Joanna thought, weary and very bored now. She was not going to make a second journey to Butterfield today. She tried again. ‘Mrs Weeks, we simply can't keep coming out to your house. The population of Leek alone is eighteen thousand souls. Include the surrounding moorlands and it takes the number of people that we are responsible for to over twenty thousand people. And then there are the trippers and the tourists and the fact that this is a difficult area to patrol. It's an hour round trip to Butterfield. We simply can't …'

Diana Tong's smooth voice came over the phone. ‘I'll stay with her tonight, Inspector, don't you worry.'

‘Thank you.' Joanna sighed, put the phone down and logged the call.

I'll stay with her tonight. Don't you worry, Inspector.

Timony Weeks didn't know how lucky she was to have such a friend. Or was she?

M
atthew's car was outside when she reached home. She let herself in and immediately smelt flowers. Lilies and roses. She sniffed the air then pushed open the door to the dining room. The table was laid with a white cloth and set with sparkling wine glasses and polished cutlery. In the centre of the table was the source of the scent, a cut-glass vase full of pink roses and creamy pink lilies. She sniffed again. Other smells were coming from the kitchen: onions, bacon, basil. She walked through. Matthew, in a navy-and-white-striped apron over his jeans, was stirring something in a saucepan. Pasta was bubbling vigorously in another. He beamed across at her. ‘Good evening, Mrs Levin,' he said with a sweeping mock bow. ‘Welcome home. How was your first day back at work?'

‘Bloody awful,' she confessed, sitting down, pulling off her shoes and wriggling her stockinged toes. ‘But what would I expect after being in the Garden of Eden for a fortnight with you?'

‘I see,' he said with mock gravity, affecting a heavy frown. ‘Having trouble fitting back into the real world, are you?'

‘Yes.' She stood up, put her arms around his neck and met his soft green eyes. ‘Can't we sneak off for another honeymoon?' She brushed his lips with her own. ‘Is there a law that says you can't have two?'

He looked down at her indulgently and pretended to think about it. ‘Not as far as I know, Jo. But you're supposed to be the expert in law, aren't you? If you want my opinion, two honeymoons sound round about twice as good as one. Where would you like to go to next, my lady?'

‘Oh, I don't know.' In her heart of hearts she knew there could only really be one honeymoon. That was the whole point of them. She stroked his cheek with her fingers. It was rough and prickly and her fingers made a rasping sound. She kissed his mouth, loving the taste of it, feeling the masculinity of his arms, his back, his shoulders, breathing in the spicy scent. ‘Matt,' she said, ‘the flowers.' She folded her arms around him even tighter and was unable to resist pulling his leg. ‘They are lovely. But …' She gave a mock frown, ‘aren't they the traditional penance for an erring husband?'