The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  He answered on the second ring. ‘Hi, Jo.’

  ‘I’m home,’ she said, ‘and you’re not.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I forgot to mention it. There’s a lecture tonight. It’s on tissue sampling and toxicology. I promised Eloise I’d take her. There’s a dinner afterwards, Jo, so I’ll be quite late and won’t need a meal. I’m so sorry. I simply forgot to tell you.’ His voice was in the stage whisper of someone about to enter a lecture theatre and surrounded by people he did not want listening in.

  Her mouth dropped open. This was a first. Not only was it a first but she suspected it would not be the last. It wasn’t a problem but Miss Eloise being involved was rubbing salt into an open wound. She could just picture the girl’s snide little comment.

  ‘Tightening up the apron strings, Daddy? Being scolded for staying out late?’

  Joanna glowered. She doubted this situation would have arisen before they were married. Was he already taking her for granted? Had marriage given Matthew Levin, her very new husband, a confidence he had lost when he had dissolved his marriage to Jane and resumed his affair with DI Joanna Piercy?

  ‘OK, Matt,’ she managed, in a friendly tone, unwilling for Miss Eloise to score any points at all, ‘I’ll maybe see you later.’

  Piss him, she thought when the call was ended. Piss him. She needn’t have headed home so fast. She could have stayed on at the station, caught up with the backlog that had accumulated during her honeymoon. Or she could have gone out for a drink with Korpanski like the good old days. Instead, like the good wife she was, she had hurried home, hoping to talk to Matthew about children’s TV in the 1960s. She blew out a heavy sigh. She felt foolish.

  Oh, well.

  She poured herself a glass of chilled rosé wine and switched the computer on. This case was intriguing her, pulling her in. Behind the interest, she knew, was her degree in psychology. What makes people think and do the things they do? What influences behaviour and social attitudes? The why and wherefores. And the subject that interested her over all others and which she had done her thesis in: why is a particular era in history the one that produces the Beatles or Hitler, Elvis Presley, Martin Luther King, Tony Blair, Margaret Thatcher? These people all had one thing in common. They had come along at a time when a certain sector of people had needed them. So … could she apply this to a TV series? She believed so. She used this skill to look into children in the early sixties, found Butterfield Farm on the Internet, settled back and began to watch another episode.

  This one was from 1965 and began with the strumming guitar music which was becoming familiar to her. It was the sort of rhythmic sound that she might have associated with an old Western. Relaxed. Easy. As she watched the credits rolled up. Timony Shore was the fourth name. And the action began.

  It started in the kitchen, with Lily holding a tiny lamb and burying her face in it, weeping. She wrapped the lamb in a blanket and sat near the stove, cradling it, her hair falling over her face and the animal. Then she set it down and went to fetch a feeding bottle which presumably contained milk. It was boat shaped, with a teat on the end. The lamb simply moved its head away and flopped down. Even Joanna felt a bit cheated. Surely it was not going to die?

  Then, as she watched, a young man swaggered in. One of the monkeys. Lily’s brother, Sean. Joanna smiled. The one that Colclough’s sister had labelled a ‘dish’. There was certainly a raw sexuality about him. He took the lamb from her and began to rub its fur vigorously. He was stocky, with thick, curling hair and powerful, hairy forearms, shirt sleeves rolled up to expose a tattoo. Joanna peered at it. A tattoo of a tractor? She put her hand over her mouth, giggling. As she watched, Sean stuck the teat into the lamb’s mouth and, as he stroked its fur, the lamb began to suck greedily while Timony watched, eyes wide open. How old was she? Thirteen going on eight. The acting was ham. And Colclough and his sister had been right. It was sickly sweet. And yet, for all that, Joanna had to admit that it did tug at the heart strings. Even she was moved by the plight of the lamb and the little girl.

  You cry, Piercy, she warned herself, and you’ll have to stop watching. And then she wondered. What was it about these corny stories that could have such an effect?

  She watched the next scene, Sean Butterfield handing the lamb, milk bottle and teat very carefully across to his little sister. How old was Sean? she wondered. At a guess nineteen, twenty.

  As the action moved outside Joanna was stunned to realize how closely Timony Weeks had recreated Butterfield Farm. This was no coincidence. She must have copied the place deliberately. Even down to the well at the front, complete with rack and bucket. Of course, everything else was different – old-fashioned lumpy tractors, some Shire horses clopping over cobbles, a Rayburn rather than an Aga in the kitchen. But it sent a shiver down Joanna’s spine as she watched the action, which lasted an hour without any breaks.

  She assumed that Butterfield had been recreated because it had been a period of happiness and success for Timony. It was an unusual but hardly unique scenario. But what the hell did all this have to do with recent events?

  She switched the computer off and sat, staring into the darkness, wondering. When Timony Weeks had her holiday with Mrs Tong, would Butterfield Farm once again be a happy hunting ground? Was that what she wanted? No answers, no explanation? No more bother?

  No. Something wasn’t right here. If she was honest with herself she did want to understand what and why all this had happened. It was preferable to silence and nothing. She wanted to know.

  EIGHT

  Thursday, January 19, 8 a.m.

  As Joanna drove to the station, she was anticipating another summons from Timony Weeks. She felt the apprehension crawl up the back of her neck the nearer she got to the town, which was even more congested than usual because protestors were trying to save a roundabout.

  What next? she thought, as she fumed in the gridlock.

  She was dreading the next call – partly because she didn’t have a handle on the woman or the events, but partly because she had a feeling of impending doom. Things that had happened so long ago could surely have no bearing on recent events? But riding on the back of this was the unpleasant picture of the cat, Tuptim. So elegant and superior in life, with its twitching tail and arrogant posture, but so pathetic in death. Just a cat. A moggie. It was a bit like celebrity, she thought, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Alive they were sportsmen or millionaires, models and royalty. But dead they would all eventually be just corpses, their fame and fortune nothing but memories and photographs.

  Joanna frowned. These thoughts were too morbid.

  But if events were to escalate further what would or could happen next? At the back of her mind, irrational or not, was the image of a mad person stalking a celebrity, waiting for his opportunity, then fighting his way through bodyguards, trying to gouge Timony’s eyes out with a pair of scissors. And judging by the proximity of the scar to Timony’s eye, he had come bloody close. Half a centimetre to the right and he would have succeeded. What would have happened to her career then? She had been just a child – almost fourteen years old in years, about ten in appearance and possibly even younger in her mind.

  Finally she broke through the traffic, parked up and entered the station. Joanna eyed the desk sergeant, who simply grinned at her, wished her a very good morning and added nothing more. She hovered, waiting, but he simply looked at her, still smiling, and added nothing to his greeting. She almost, almost asked him if there was any word from Butterfield Farm but said nothing except to return his greeting.

  Mike breezed in at 8.10 a.m., raised his eyebrows at her in question and when he got no response except a shrug, sat down and swivelled his chair around to face her. ‘No summons up to Butterfield?’

  ‘Not so far,’ she said. ‘What have you got for me, Mike?’

  He grinned. ‘Plenty.’

  ‘You went over there yesterday afternoon?’

  He nodded. ‘Got Mrs Tong all to myself. Madam Timony was
busy with her memoirs.’

  ‘That’ll be an interesting read.’ Joanna stored the information away. It could prove useful. ‘Go on,’ she prompted. ‘Stop teasing.’

  ‘Diana Tong,’ he began, ‘is a very interesting and intriguing character.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘She’s been with Timony since nineteen sixty-four. She was her secretary, teacher, wardrobe mistress, chauffeur, bodyguard and friend. She’s seen her through marriages and divorces, tragedies and periods of happiness. Good times and bad times. You name it, she’s been part of it. The production company employed her as a companion just before the fan attacked Timony. Timony had had a few odd letters and there was a suspicion that she was being stalked. Of course, it turned out that Dariel, the fan who assaulted her, had been following her for a while, so Diana was part bodyguard as well as everything else. When she called herself a dogsbody she was speaking the truth. She’s done everything. Even acted as agent. Got her bookings and parts after Butterfield folded, sorted out travel arrangements. The list goes on and on.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that she was fond of her?’

  ‘It really is a sort of love/hate relationship. I think part of her admires her. She’s done so much.’ He made a face. ‘And Timony needs her. In fact, they both need each other.’

  ‘Symbiosis,’ Joanna murmured.

  Korpanski nodded. ‘And she’s paid very well. She did say that.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘Did she say whether she was aware of any violent behaviour on set?’

  ‘No. Nothing happened, as far as she knows.’

  ‘Anything else? Did you get the impression she had any idea who was behind all these little tricks?’

  ‘That’s the strange thing – she thought it was Timony herself, until the cigarette smoke. Turns out she thought Timony was playing around because she wanted to get back into the public eye, gain some sympathy so she’d make a lot of money from her memoirs. At the moment she’s writing them but having trouble getting a publisher interested. They all say she’s old news, that she should have written them fifty years ago.’ He grinned. ‘Bit unkind, I thought.’

  ‘But probably true.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Diana said that when the cat was killed she knew it wasn’t Timony. She said that Timony adored Tuptim and she couldn’t have killed her.’

  ‘Right, but the fact remains that until then she really thought Timony was doing all this to herself? And ringing the police? Just to get attention?’ Even though Joanna had thought the same she found it hard to stomach that someone so close to the soap star could entertain such a thought. Despite their unusual relationship, Diana was supposed to be Timony’s friend. Was this why she hadn’t said anything until now, when she was sure Timony was innocent?

  Korpanski nodded, sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, Jo,’ he said.

  ‘But why would she do it? Just to rekindle public interest in her and ensure a book deal?’ She folded her arms sceptically. ‘It’s a bit weak. It’s not like she’s in desperate need of the money.’

  ‘It isn’t just that, Jo. A part’s coming up in a new drama. She believes it was made for her. It’s set in and around Buxton so isn’t even that far from her home. More importantly, James Freeman is producing it.’

  ‘He didn’t mention it.’ Then she remembered Freeman’s comments about Timony’s appearance and she doubted whether he was about to throw a part her way.

  ‘So if Timony couldn’t have hurt the cat, who is Diana’s second big suspect?’

  ‘She doesn’t have one.’

  ‘No one else in the picture?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that no one from Timony’s past would try getting their own back for some malicious slight years ago?’

  ‘I tried that tack, Jo,’ Korpanski said indignantly, ‘but she wasn’t biting. Just said the past was the past and to leave it there.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘I guess we wait for the next call,’ Korpanski suggested.

  Joanna sighed but she had no better ideas.

  All morning Joanna struggled to concentrate on other matters. Each time the telephone rang she jumped, convinced it would be Timony. And each time it was somebody else. About something else. Joanna found it hard to concentrate and she could tell that Korpanski was plain fidgety. She wanted to go out in the fresh air and stop phone watching but was too apprehensive and expectant, not wanting to miss anything. Joanna rubbed her hand across her forehead. This was too much. She was being drawn more and more into the situation. She didn’t know whether she wanted Timony to phone or not to phone. And each time she closed her eyes the image of Butterfield Farm seemed pasted to the inside of her eyelids.

  At four p.m., Korpanski spoke. ‘This is the first day she hasn’t rung for three weeks,’ he said. ‘It’s spooky.’

  By five p.m. Joanna was anxious. The silence now seemed ominous. What was happening out there? She dialled Butterfield, got Diana Tong’s cool voice on the other end and was assured that all was peaceful. She replaced the receiver with a sense of anticlimax.

  Was that to be it?

  Friday came and there were no more calls.

  By Friday afternoon Joanna couldn’t bear it any more. It felt like unfinished business. Just because the events appeared to have ceased it didn’t answer any of her questions. She drove out to Butterfield, banged on the door and waited for Diana Tong to open it. It seemed to take an age. It was apparently beneath Timony’s dignity to open the door herself. ‘Sorry,’ Diana said without a note of remorse. ‘I was upstairs, packing. We’ve decided to bring our holiday forward.’ She gave a disarming smile. ‘I suppose it’s Timony you want to see? Your sergeant gave me a pretty thorough grilling the other day.’

  Joanna smothered a grin. She could well imagine. ‘Thank you, yes, if I could speak to Mrs Weeks that would be good. I’m sure Sergeant Korpanski has asked you all the relevant questions.’

  ‘Then I’ll lead on.’ There was a note of mockery in Diana Tong’s voice, as though she was nursing a secret and it would take more than Korpanski’s blunt instrument to wheedle it out of her.

  Timony was sitting in the study where Joanna had first seen her. She looked comfortable at her desk, tapping on a laptop, absorbed in her work. By her side was a pad of notes and on the floor a lever-arch box full of newspaper cuttings. She looked up as Joanna entered and Joanna was struck by how wan and haunted she looked. Frail, fragile and very vulnerable. Timony might blag that she didn’t believe in ghosts but she had to believe in haunting, surely? One only had to look at the dark shadows underneath the eyes to be convinced that something here was terribly wrong. When Joanna had first met the actress she had been struck by how thin she was. Now she looked skeletal. And unwell. Her face was chalk pale. No amount of make-up and plastic surgery could hide this. She gave Joanna a quizzical glance. ‘We haven’t rung you,’ she said simply, then, speaking over her shoulder, she checked, ‘have we, Diana?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing to report.’ The companion gave a watery smile. ‘All quiet on the Western Front.’

  Timony gave Joanna a straight, challenging stare. ‘So why are you here? You and your colleagues have spent enough time telling me off for calling you out. And now you’ve come without me asking.’

  ‘After the cat business I was a little worried.’ Then Joanna lied. ‘This is on my way home so I thought I’d pop in.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ Diana Tong rapped out the question like gunfire.

  ‘Waterfall,’ Joanna responded coolly. ‘Right in the village.’

  This elicited a retort from Diana Tong. ‘That’s not a village,’ she chortled. ‘Just a pub, a church, stocks for the villains, a couple of cottages and no bloody waterfall.’

  ‘I live in one of the cottages,’ Joanna responded tightly.

  Diana Tong’s eyes bored into hers. ‘It’s a bit of a detour, isn’t it?’

  ‘I
prefer the scenic route.’

  Diana Tong stared pointedly out of the window at the grey, uninspiring sky. ‘What you really mean is that Butterfield isn’t on your way home at all.’ Diana Tong gave Joanna a hard stare and leaned towards her, her words hostile. ‘What you mean to say is that the cat business has, at last, worried you.’

  Slowly Joanna nodded.

  ‘Well, let’s hope this little incident’s over then,’ Diana said tartly.

  ‘And that from now on you’ll be left alone,’ Joanna agreed.

  The two women looked at each other then Diana spoke up. ‘We’re both exhausted with all the tension,’ she said. ‘We’ll be going to Devon on Tuesday. Traffic’s too heavy down the M5 on a Monday.’ She paused. ‘We may even stay down a little longer than planned.’

  ‘That would seem a good idea,’ Joanna responded. ‘We’ll do what we can to keep an eye on the place and I take it the Rossingtons will …’

  ‘Continue to come in once a week,’ Diana Tong inserted coolly.

  Joanna still felt she was missing something. She took a step towards the door then stopped. ‘Has anyone ever tried to extort money out of you?’

  Timony looked a little shocked at the idea. ‘No,’ she protested.

  ‘I take it you are quite wealthy?’

  A smug nod confirmed that.

  ‘But you say no one has tried to blackmail you?’

  ‘I said not.’ Timony sounded quite firm and very slightly cross at having the question put to her a second time.

  Joanna turned. ‘So what do you think is the real purpose of it all?’

  The two women gave a swift exchange of glances, but neither even tried to answer the question. Instead they treated Joanna’s question as rhetorical, simply shrugging and saying nothing.

  And Joanna left, again with the feeling that none of this was right.

  This time Matthew was home when she reached Waterfall Cottage. In fact, he was using their table to prepare a talk using PowerPoint, but looked up as she came in. ‘Hi, you. I have an idea. Why don’t we eat at the Red Lion tonight? I could murder a sirloin steak.’ He glanced at the computer screen. ‘For getting on so well with this I can treat myself to a pint or two of real ale; you can have a nice glass of wine and then we can stagger home.’ He eyed her. ‘And make mad passionate love. What say you?’