The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  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?

  FOUR

  Monday, January 16, 7.30 p.m.

  Matthew’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?’

  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.

  Tuesday, January 17, 7.30 a.m.

  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 fee
l 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 …?’