The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  Timony continued, ‘Then sometimes I am not sure. I think some things must have been … different from how I recall them. Something determined to push into my mind; the sunshine of my past is hidden by a cloud. And yet when I try to push the cloud away and remember whatever lies behind it, it slips away downstream, laughing at me as it goes. Certain things trigger these memories – the tricks that have been played. But how can anyone know what’s buried so deep in my mind that even I struggle to remember it? When I smell smoke when none of us here smokes, or see the toilet seat left up as though a man had just used it, or I hear certain music playing softly which evokes half a memory. When I find the watch that was buried with my long-dead husband or the burglar alarm goes off at three o’clock in the morning, startling me out of a dream or a nightmare.’ She met Joanna’s eyes. ‘I can’t even answer that bit, whether it was a dream or a nightmare. But when these things happen it seems to awake a monster that had been long dormant. Do you understand, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ Joanna said, knowing that her blunt honesty would risk Mrs Weeks’ trust but unable to even try to deceive her. Timony Weeks was smart enough to sense when the truth was being told. And if she thought the detective was even trying to pretend Joanna would be the one to lose status.

  ‘Well, this … all these … events are something to do with that.’ She fumbled for the words. ‘Those ghouls and goblins that peep at me from behind the curtain. When I turn to look all I see is a ripple of cloth, and feel the air rush of a billowing curtain. I know they are there but I cannot see them. I cannot put my hand on them. Possibly I never will because they are insubstantial. Perhaps none of this exists outside my imagination.’

  Joanna was stunned by Timony’s frank admission. At last, were they getting to the truth? Was Timony Weeks mad after all? A schizophrenic, deluded, living in two different worlds? But if she was telling the truth, what were these long-suppressed memories threatening to rise to the surface? And why would someone want her to remember? With Rush peering over her shoulder she could not afford to be investigating the delusions of a mad woman. He’d soon have her back on sergeant’s pay.

  Timony’s frightened eyes peeped out of her flawless, featureless face. ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that something happened. I seem to remember horrible things. Something dark and threatening.’

  ‘Do you mean the fan who assaulted you?’

  ‘No. No. I see and remember that clearly. I see his hand, the flash of the blade, blood trickling down my face. I see the bodyguards throw him to the floor – too late. No, Inspector, it isn’t that. It is these grey, wraithlike memories. I think I remember things – like someone dying horribly on the set. Most times I think it must have been part of the storyline – the cowhand dying down the well. But I’ve watched most of the episodes a couple of times and I can’t remember ever seeing anything about a murder.’ She paused. ‘So then I start worrying. If it wasn’t part of the plot where did it come from? Why do I have this feeling of panic, of powerlessness? I’m not imaginative enough to have dreamed the whole thing up. I was just an actress, speaking lines that were written for me. And I was a child. How could there have been anything in a family soap that would give me this horrid feeling? Why should I feel permanently frightened?’ Her eyes appealed to Joanna for the truth, an explanation.

  It was something Joanna could not give. ‘What exactly do you remember?’

  The question made Timony Weeks angry. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said. ‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? I can’t tell you. Things flit in and out.’

  ‘What things?’ Joanna tried to be patient.

  ‘A man’s face,’ Timony said. ‘He’s looking up at me. He’s appealing for something. He’s moving away from me. I know he is going to die. That’s all. That’s it. End of story.’

  Not exactly a story. More a fragment of a story.

  ‘Why do you say a murder then? It could be a cliff rescue or an accident – a car down an embankment. Something like that.’

  ‘No,’ Timony said flatly.

  ‘Why not? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I’m glad he’s there. I know he’s going to die and I don’t care.’

  ‘You think you killed him?’ It sounded like a fairly typical bad dream to Joanna and Mike gave a tiny, almost imperceptible, agreeing nod.

  Timony was staring into space.

  Joanna tried again. ‘Why do you feel glad?’

  ‘Because he won’t be able to hurt me any more.’

  ‘Hurt you? How? Who?’

  It was no good. Timony’s eyes were drifting away. Joanna wondered whether she had been dosed up with a sedative. She needed something more concrete to move this case on. ‘Do you recognize the man?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about him?’

  That pulled Timony up short. ‘He’s unwashed. He smells. He has dark hair. He wishes me harm. I have to stop him doing something.’ She frowned. ‘Or …’

  ‘Or what?’

  But nothing came. ‘Age?’

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty … thirty … forty?’

  ‘And you’re still sure it wasn’t part of the storyline?’ Joanna looked up at Korpanski and caught the twitch of his mouth.

  It would be just like her to be looking into a murder that happened in a soap forty years ago.

  ‘Part of the storyline?’ Timony frowned. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ Her voice changed. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘I only remember that there was a period …’ She looked up with panic in her eyes, as though she thought she’d said too much. ‘I’m not sure I know what’s real any more,’ she said, looking at Diana Tong for support. ‘I only seem to remember that there was a time,’ she said, ‘when there were police around.’

  This was concrete. Police kept records. At least, real police did. Actors probably didn’t. If the police were real they should be able to find out something.

  ‘Was it the same time as when the fan went for you?’

  Timony simply shrugged. Out of the window Joanna could see the police van slowly descending the track. Forensics was here. She stood up.

  She heard them banging on the side door, went to answer it and started to direct their operations. At the same time she took the opportunity to speak to Mike privately. ‘Well,’ she said, eyebrows raised, ‘mad, bad or intuitive? What on earth are we up against?’ Korpanski was frowning as his eyes scanned the door with its grisly decoration and the forensic team’s methodical approach to the scene. ‘Someone did that,’ he said. ‘Knowing how much store she put by it I’d say it’s like doing that to a child. That cat was her pet – she loved it. Whoever did that wanted to hurt her, upset her, frighten her. I know only two things, Jo. It really happened and she didn’t do it.’

  SEVEN

  Joanna was thoughtful as Mike drove them back to the station. The killing of the cat, though horrible and an obvious attempt to upset its owner, was not, as far as the police were concerned, even factoring in the plethora of recent call-outs, going to be a big enough case to attract major resources. But if it was the portent of a more serious crime, ignoring it could prove to be a big mistake. And one which she had no doubt that Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush would take pleasure in noting. So she decided she would not turn it into a major investigation, but she would make sure that all the evidence of the assault on Tuptim was preserved as meticulously as if it was part of a murder investigation.

  Having reached a decision she looked across at Korpanski. ‘So, who do you think did this?’

  ‘Someone either doesn’t like cats or they’ve got a grudge against our child actress,’ he said gruffly, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Maybe they resent the fact that the child star has grown up.’

  ‘State the obvious, Mike, why don’t you?’

  He simply grinned across at her, completely unruffled by her manner. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what I really think is it could be anyone
who doesn’t much like her, from our dear Mrs Tong to the bloody gardener or one of the farmers from hereabouts.’

  She glanced at him sharply. ‘Aren’t you ignoring Timony’s famous and high-profile past?’

  Without waiting for a response she continued, ‘You don’t think it’s someone connected with Butterfield – the soap? You think her stories of a dead person down the well are untrue, either made up or a figment of her imagination?’

  Korpanski shrugged. ‘I’m keeping an open mind, Joanna, but wherever this nightmare of someone dying came from it didn’t come from the TV series.’ He looked across at her. ‘I think we’re all agreed on that. It wouldn’t have fitted in, would it?’

  ‘No,’ she said dubiously. But what bothered her was that Timony had portrayed the scene just a little bit too graphically, as something she had actually seen, as real as though it had just happened. Added to that was the fact that the scene had embedded in her subconscious rather than in her conscious memory. Perhaps it was nothing more than that – a dream. She continued thinking aloud. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, Mike. Ghosts didn’t murder that cat.’ She glanced across at him, frowning. ‘Maybe you’re right. Looking at it objectively it is much more likely that these recent events are coming from someone who’s close to her now. The TV series was too many years ago. Most of her fellow actors would be in their sixties, at least. It would be a bit unlikely for them to start playing these tricks after all this time. Why wait until now? What would be the point?’ She screwed her face up. ‘What does someone hope to achieve by this? That’s what I don’t understand. What is the bloody point?’

  Korpanski had no answer so she carried on. ‘The only likely outcome is that Timony ups sticks and leaves Butterfield. I can’t think of anyone who’d want that. It wouldn’t benefit a single soul.’

  ‘Except, maybe, the neighbouring farmers.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Joanna was unimpressed by this.

  Struggling through the roadworks that seemed to bedevil Leek, they’d finally reached the station. Korpanski swung the car into an empty parking space, switched the engine off, turned around and challenged her. ‘So what do we do next?’

  She shared her decision. ‘We’ll hang on to the forensic evidence and run it through the labs if anything else happens. No one is going to fund a load of fingerprint stuff and DNA analysis on the killing of a cat. The last thing I want is Rush arriving here and straightaway taking the piss out of me for wasting police resources on finding the Hanger of Cats.’ She formed her fingers into claws and wriggled them in front of Korpanski’s eyes. He couldn’t help himself smiling and gave a little chuckle. ‘And for now?’

  ‘We’ll ask Timmis and McBrine to keep an eye on Butterfield. It won’t be hard for them, the place being so visible from the road.’

  Police constables Josh Timmis and Saul McBrine made up the Moorland Patrol. Based in Leek but covering a huge area of largely empty moorland, isolated farms and craggy outcrops such as The Roaches, their day-to-day work consisted of rescuing overambitious climbers and sorting out road traffic incidents caused by drivers who assumed that the Highway Code didn’t apply up here. And then there were the minor offences: littering, heath fires and the results of extreme weather conditions, whiteouts and blizzards, torrential rain and the occasional mud slip. They were kept fairly but not too busy. Josh Timmis was both a bloodhound (persistent) and a terrier (he never let go). Thorough and honest, he had watched the moorlands for years. Saul McBrine had recently married his long-term girlfriend, Josie, and rumour had it that Josie McBrine was expecting their first child.

  While Timmis was short and wiry, McBrine was tall and lanky. They were firm friends and enjoyed working together, usually. Luckily this Wednesday lunchtime they were in the station together rather than out on patrol, and at two p.m. were listening to Joanna and Mike’s accounts of recent events.

  ‘Have there been any other attacks on animals in the area?’

  Timmis shook his head. ‘Not that we’ve heard.’

  ‘No one been spotted brandishing a knife?’

  ‘No.’ Timmis was frowning. ‘I know that place,’ he said, ‘though I’ve never called in there. It always looks deserted – apart from an elderly couple who drive over once a week.’

  ‘Haven’t you seen Mrs Weeks herself? Skinny, dyed red hair, wears sort of theatrical clothes,’ Mike asked bluntly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long has the house been there?’

  ‘’Bout ten years, I suppose. There was a tumbledown cottage there. Old shepherd’s place. It was demolished and Butterfield was built on the site. They’d never have got planning permission otherwise. You know how tight the moorland planning department is,’ Timmis volunteered. He was obviously spokesman today. ‘You want us to visit?’

  ‘No.’ Joanna shook her head. ‘Nothing too obvious but keep an eye on the place. And keep a log, will you, of who comes and goes? There is a sort of secretary-cum-companion called Diana Tong. She’s tall and well built, straggly grey hair and generally wears trousers. They have two cars, a blue Isuzu and a black Qashqai. The elderly couple you’ve seen are the Rossingtons, Frank and Millie, home help and gardener. They have an ancient Volvo estate, dark green. I understand they come once a week, for a full day in the summer and a morning in the winter. Any other cars are visitors which Timony Weeks tells me they rarely have so considering recent events any strangers would be noteworthy. Do you know who owns the surrounding land?’

  McBrine took over. ‘There’s a couple of farmers got land borderin’ on Butterfield,’ he said. ‘To the north-west is a guy called John Reeves. He’s a decent, honest sort of chap but an ’opeless farmer. How he’s kept going over the last few years I don’t know. In fact, I’ve heard that he’s not keepin’ his head above water but is sinkin’ fast with major money worries.’

  ‘Right. And the other one?’

  ‘Tom Brassington owns the land to the south-east. He’s a sticky one. Hard to work out,’ McBrine said. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Josh?’

  His colleague nodded. ‘I think he’s a bit on the fiddle. Nothing major, just insurance scams, animals lost, a cow struck by lightning, that sort of thing, you know? He’s a bit sharp. Kind of bitter. Goes on a bit about the tough life of farmers, you know. Feels the world owes him a living just because he’s a farmer.’ He finished the sentence in a sing-song voice that made Joanna think that he had heard this phrase once too often.

  ‘Plenty of people like that about,’ McBrine concurred. ‘The rest of the land is owned by the Peak District National Park.’

  ‘There was one episode a few years back,’ Timmis said slowly. ‘Never really came to anything but it seems he took a pot shot at a guy whose dog was chasing after some of his pregnant animals.’

  This sounded a bit more like it. ‘Was the guy injured?’

  ‘No. Shaken up. He made a complaint but no one could prove anything.’

  ‘Surely there was some evidence?’

  ‘Plenty of shotgun pellets lying around but it didn’t prove anything. Brassington said he often shot at rabbits so there would be plenty of shotgun pellets lying around. The case was dropped. There was never a chance of it going anywhere.’

  Joanna met Mike’s eyes. This sounded a bit more promising, though it didn’t really fit the profile. Brassington sounded too much of a blunt instrument. Not subtle enough to have played the minor tricks. The murder of the cat and the display of her body, however, sounded more like his style. Perhaps it was a lead.

  ‘OK. Talk to the two farmers,’ Joanna requested. ‘Keep an eye on them, particularly Brassington. See if you can pick anything up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘General stuff, their attitude towards Butterfield and its inhabitants, anything. If they had nothing to do with the cat business maybe they saw something or have heard a rumour.’

  Joanna gave them one of her very best smiles. ‘Look, you two, this is hardly going to be a major investigation, is it? A cat hanged, even if
it was a snooty Burmese named Tuptim. I wonder where she got the name from,’ she mused. Korpanski and the two moorland patrol officers simply shrugged, uninterested. Surely it could have nothing to do with this minor investigation?

  ‘OK, then?’ McBrine asked. They were anxious to return to their native moors.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  When they’d gone Korpanski gave Joanna one of his looks. Stubborn, pugnacious and above all, curious. ‘So, what are we going to do now?’

  ‘You are going to do a bit of digging into Diana Tong’s past,’ Joanna said, ‘while I am going to speak to James Freeman.’

  ‘Who the hell is he?’

  Joanna tapped her computer screen. ‘He, Sergeant Michael Korpanski, is or was the producer of Butterfield Farm. He’s now in his eighties, has all his marbles and a website devoted to his work, mainly, of course, the long-standing series, which was, apparently, his greatest success. I have emailed him outlining events and he has just emailed me back. He lives in Knightsbridge and I have set up a video link and am about to interview him.’ She couldn’t resist a smirk, which Korpanski bounced right back.

  ‘So how much time are we going to spend on this case, Jo? The case of the mad woman and a dead cat?’

  ‘We’ll keep it on the back burner,’ she responded, ‘but I’m not dropping it. I’ll have a word with Fask later and see what forensics he’s got on the cat’s corpse and the door, et cetera. I can’t see Rush authorizing a ton of expensive tests on a cat’s demise but if things do escalate further at least we’ll be ready for them.’ To her sergeant, who could be a superstitious being, the phrase, flippantly uttered, sounded like a temptation to the fates.

  She settled back in her chair and focused on the screen. James Freeman, she decided, as she looked at the image displayed in front of her, was one of those lucky people who never age. They never become frail or weak; they don’t lose their hair, their teeth or the use of their legs. Their voices remain firm and strong and their memories crystal clear. He was a delight to interview, with an impish sense of humour and a frank honesty that endeared him to her from the start.