The Final Curtain (7 page)

He laughed and kissed her very gently on the lips, no more than a brush this time. ‘Don't get too used to this treatment, Mrs Levin. It won't happen often.'

‘Oh, shame,' she said, slipping her jacket off.

He grinned at her.

She waited until she had showered, they were sitting opposite each other and she had her mouth full of pasta cooked with bacon, cream, onion, garlic, tomatoes and mushrooms. ‘De-licious,' she said appreciatively. ‘You have my permission to cook this whenever you get the urge. And for your further information I really did have a rubbish day at work. One old biddy is causing absolute havoc calling the police out every day with complete trivia. I think she could take up the entire Leek police force's time. By the time we've written up one report she's back on the blower. Keeps ringing. She's driving us mad. I feel really sorry for Korpanski and the others. They've been plagued by her. I've only been back one day and already I've been out there, and just before I left there was another call.' She raised another forkful of pasta to her mouth. ‘I don't know what we're going to do about her. Once the call's logged we've no option but to go.' She thought for a minute then put her fork down and cupped her chin in her palm. ‘I suppose, realistically, we'll just have to take longer and longer to respond. Maybe she'll get the hint in the end.' She frowned. ‘But, you know what, Matt?'

His mouth was too full of pasta to reply but his eyes encouraged her to respond to her own question.

‘She doesn't strike me as confused or muddled. She's one of those face-lifted, in control sort of women. She was an actress and, true to form, has had more than one husband. But she does strike me as sane, if more than a little overdramatic. So what's going on?'

Matthew swallowed and shrugged. ‘She's just panicky, I guess.'

‘Mmm.' She was unconvinced. ‘The call-outs are quite specific in nature,' she continued. ‘Things that have been moved, a dead mouse – according to her – deliberately planted in the bread bin. I was summoned today because someone had been smoking outside an open kitchen window at five o'clock in the morning.'

‘You're kidding.'

She waved her fork at him then took a sip of wine. ‘I am not.'

Matthew's eyebrows were raised but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She frowned and met his eyes. ‘The odd thing is, Matt, there
was
some fresh cigarette ash outside the window and no one there does smoke, so it all seems reasonable. But this place is miles from anywhere. It's the middle of winter, for goodness' sake – who's going to be standing outside a window puffing smoke into the kitchen? What would be the point? She might even have been asleep and slept right through the whole charade.' She sighed. ‘But there is the indisputable evidence of the ash and it hadn't lain there long. The only other explanation is that she or Diana planted it there.'

Now Matthew was frowning too, so she continued, ‘I thought I'd got through to her that she shouldn't keep calling us out for nothing but I'd hardly got back to the station when there's another call. This time her late husband's watch has turned up in her bedroom this afternoon in spite of having been buried with him in his coffin.'

Matthew looked incredulous. ‘Now that's a trick worthy of Houdini,' he said, grinning.

She nodded in puzzlement and agreement. ‘Surely it has to just be a similar watch,' she said. ‘Either that or it
wasn't
buried with her nearest and dearest. One or the other.'

Matthew grinned at her indulgently. ‘When you've excluded the impossible …' he quoted partially.

‘I can only come to the conclusion that in spite of her apparent sanity Timony Weeks is, in fact, losing her marbles. And fairly quickly.'

At the mention of Timony's name Matt looked at her in disbelief. ‘You're joking.'

‘No. That really is her name.'

Matthew's face was thoughtful. ‘Unless these tricks really are being played on her.'

‘I really don't know what to think. Anyway, that's not all my bad news.'

‘There's more?'

‘As well as being haunted by a sixty-year-old lady, apparently a humourless psycho is to replace Colclough.'

‘All good news then, Jo.' She was tempted to flick a spoonful of Parmesan cheese at him but knew she wouldn't fancy cleaning it all up later so resisted, merely making a face at him, then reaching across and touching his hand. ‘And how about your first day back?' Matthew was a Home Office pathologist, and while his descriptions of his day's work could be gruesome, to Joanna they were invariably fascinating – and a useful education.

‘Oh. The usual. Nothing very interesting. Nothing for you. No murders or even a suicide. Just sickness, death and mother nature.'

She eyed him sharply. ‘You've come down to earth with a bump too, Matt. We've only been married a couple of weeks.'

He smiled at her. ‘We've had our fairy tale, Jo. Now we have to face the real future together.'

She studied him. With his tousled blond hair, stubborn chin, green eyes and lovely grin he was very easy on the eye, as he had been from the time she had first noticed him, when she had met his eyes in the mirror as he had stood behind her, after a particularly unpleasant post-mortem she had attended, and been amused at her squeamishness. Oh, yes. She had noticed him all right. But that angle of his jaw had forewarned her. She and he were two strong characters. There was always going to be a clashing of horns. He was right, though. However turbulent the path ahead might prove they now had to face the real future together.

And that might well be tough.
She
knew she had one vision of their future and
he
another.

She knew he would like to start a family, whereas she …? She could have put it off, perhaps for ever.

As soon as they had finished their meal he stood up. ‘I think I'll just give Eloise a ring,' he said, breaking the magic of the evening. ‘See how she's getting on.'

Which left her to load the dishwasher and put the pans in to soak.

She looked out of the window to a brightening sky. ‘It looks lovely,' she said. ‘I wonder if I could risk the bike.'

Matthew came up behind her and wrapped her in his arms. ‘No, Jo,' he protested. ‘It's too dark. You can't be seen even with lights and a fluorescent jacket. It's too dangerous. And it'll be freezing and slippery.' He nuzzled her neck. ‘Wait until the spring, darling.'

But instead of the warm stroke of his fingers on her neck she felt the cold grip of resentment and instead of turning around to kiss him she stayed where she was, staring out of the window at the silver streaks in the sky that heralded the approaching dawn. He was clipping her wings already. She could feel her shoulders bunch up, feel the words line up, ready to say, sharply, that
she
would be the one to make this particular decision, whether she went to work on her bike or in the car. She could feel by the tension in his fingers that Matthew sensed this struggle too and was holding his breath, waiting for her to resolve it. She turned around then and challenged him with a direct stare. His mouth was in a firm line. He said nothing. He was still waiting.

She smiled, somehow feeling that she had gained the high ground here but not quite sure how. ‘You're probably right,' she capitulated. Then, ‘But I really
must
go out on my bike on Sunday, Matthew, otherwise I'll seize up.'

‘Umm,' he said awkwardly.

She just knew what was coming next.

‘I meant to talk to you about that,' he said, the words tumbling out too quickly, as though they had been gridlocked in his brain and were frantic to escape. ‘I thought it'd be nice to have Eloise over for the day.'

She looked at him, feeling her face and her words freeze. Eloise was Matthew's daughter with whom Joanna had a less than cordial relationship. ‘Nice for whom?'

And watched as his eyes grew as cold as her voice. ‘Nice for all of us,' he said carefully. ‘I thought it would be nice for all of us.'

‘Well, it doesn't stop me from going out on my bike, does it, Matt?'

‘No, it doesn't.' There was an edge to his voice and she recognized, with a feeling of despair, that the icicles were already forming between them.

‘Good,' she said, planning an extra-long route on Sunday whatever the weather. ‘Because I can't wait to get on it.'

His eyes flickered. It was no more than that. A simple flicker, a small yellow light in both green irises. But she read it and felt resentful all the way into work.

Did you really think marriage would solve any of your problems
,
Piercy?
she scolded herself as she manoeuvred the car along the road into Leek.

Korpanski's black Ford Focus was already parked up outside the station when she arrived and he was sitting at his desk, his computer switched on. She hung her jacket up on the hook on the back of the door. ‘Morning, Mike. Any more calls from our …?'

‘Her companion's rung in to say that our friend is going away for a little holiday.'

She sat down and switched her screen on. ‘To the funny farm, I hope.'

‘She didn't say so but she did ask if we could possibly go out there before they went.'

‘What for?'

Korpanski shrugged. ‘Search me.'

‘Shall we both go?'

He stood up with little enthusiasm.

The wind was up and the chilly atmosphere even penetrated the interior of the car as they drove across the moorlands. ‘I'd hate to live out here,' Korpanski said. ‘It's so cold and miles from anywhere.' His eyes scanned the barren landscape. ‘Nothing to look at.'

‘I'd love it,' Joanna responded, her eyes sweeping the panorama, empty apart from a few stray sheep, pale winter grass and drystone walls. ‘It's so wild and fantastically bleak and lonely. I'd
love
it,' she said again. ‘But it does take a particular sort of person to live out here. They need to be private, self-sufficient.'

Korpanski grinned at her. ‘Like you?'

She had missed this idle banter. ‘Bugger off, Korpanski,' she said good-naturedly. ‘Actually, I wasn't thinking of me but our friend Mrs Weeks. Now she wouldn't have struck me as someone who fitted the profile of a moorland person. She seems much more of a townie. And her clothes and tastes seem to fit that too.' She considered for a minute. ‘Plus the fairly obvious and extensive cosmetic surgery.'

Korpanski was smiling. ‘Doing a psychological profile, Inspector?'

‘Bugger off,' she said again, even milder the second time around. Truth was, she was relieved that her recent married status hadn't altered their relationship. In a way, she reflected, when Korpanski had asked whether he should in future call her Mrs Levin or stick with Piercy he had been asking that very question. What would change? Well, nothing.

As she had done on the previous day they stopped at the ridge to look down on Butterfield Farm and Mike echoed her thoughts. ‘For a house that's on its own it's not exactly tucked away, is it? It's easy to overlook from here.'

She turned to face him. ‘You're starting to believe her? That there's some maverick, mad stalker out there?'

‘Not necessarily but—'

‘But what?'

Korpanski's dark eyes scanned the empty panorama. ‘Why stay out here if she's so rattled?'

‘Because she's stubborn, independent, because she doesn't want to give in to her feelings?'

But she too turned to look at the farmhouse which stood in such isolation, trying to hide inside the valley but only succeeding in drawing attention to itself. ‘I don't know, Mike. Maybe she just wants privacy.'

Diana Tong was standing in the doorway, watching them as they drove in. And even before they'd parked they could tell her manner had changed subtly from yesterday. She was less haughty and condescending, stepping towards them as they pulled up and greeting them almost like old friends as they climbed out of the car. ‘Inspector, Sergeant. Thank you for coming. Timony and I, well, we think we should do some explaining. Give you some background, you see.'

It was on the tip of Joanna's tongue to say that this trip was possibly yet
another
waste of time but at the same time she was curious. She stayed silent, managing to limit her acerbity to, ‘We'd be grateful if you keep it brief and help with the frequent calls your employer's been making. If they continue,' she added darkly, ‘we may even be forced to bring a prosecution against her for wasting police time.'

Diana Tong's feathers weren't even ruffled. ‘Just hear Timony's story,' she appealed. ‘I think you'll find it goes some way towards explaining at least some things,' she replied coolly, holding the door open to allow them to file in.

Timony Weeks was sitting on the sofa looking – frankly – terrified, thinner, older and, if her face had been able to display any emotion, Joanna guessed she would have looked distraught. There was a distinct change from yesterday.

Korpanski said nothing but shot her a swift, puzzled look. It was the look a concerned son might aim towards a parent he has suddenly realized is ageing fast. The watch was lying on Timony's lap. She was looking down at it with an expression of revulsion, her hands and back angled away as though its touch would taint her.

‘I had it buried with him,' she said, still looking down at it rather than at the police. ‘It was left on his wrist when he was placed in his coffin. I saw it buckled on, the strap fastened. Gerald loved this watch. It was his favourite thing. He asked to be buried with it – on – his – wrist.' The last few words were spoken in a panicky, hiccupping voice. ‘Someone must have …'

Joanna shifted on her feet, wanting to point out that Mrs Weeks' first husband might have loved his watch so much he'd asked to be buried with it strapped around his wrist, but that meant that it was almost certainly not
this
watch. It was a fairly obvious if tacky trick. Unless she had played it on herself. If she hadn't it was indeed a nasty prank. But if someone else was involved it meant that the person who planted this watch must have known of her late husband's wish.