The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘You’re on,’ she said, laughing because his face looked so eager, so happy, so animated. ‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse but first I’d better get changed.’

  ‘Good. I can finish my presentation on traumatic amputation.’ He looked up at her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The next slide’s only a thumb.’

  She rumpled his hair and rested her arm on his shoulders, breathing him in. All people have a scent. Matthew was fastidious to always shower at the mortuary before he came home and the mortuary itself had an excellent air exchange system, but in spite of his using deodorants and aftershave his own personal scent invariably held the faintest tang of formaldehyde.

  She had a quick shower and came down in a short black skirt, black tights, high-heeled shoes and a scarlet jacket.

  Matthew looked appreciatively at her. ‘Nice,’ he said and she beamed at him. This marriage business, she thought, felt good. But she felt bound to add words of warning.

  Enjoy the détente, Piercy, she said to herself. While it lasts. Because nothing lasts for ever.

  But for tonight she would party.

  They had a great evening at the pub. The pair who ran it were lively and friendly and the food was locally sourced and home cooked. A few residents of Waterfall were present and a half-hearted game of darts resulted. No one really cared who won. As the usual banter took place Joanna noticed a couple sitting in the corner kept glancing over. Eventually the man crossed the floor and stood in front of their table. ‘Inspector Piercy, aren’t you?’ He had a strong moorlands accent.

  ‘Off duty,’ Joanna responded.

  ‘Arrgh, I know that. You’re investigatin’ the strange goings on at Butterfield, I think?’

  With an apologetic glance at Matthew, who hated her work to intrude on their private life, Joanna answered, ‘Yes, I am. Do you know anything about them?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He put his hand on the table. It was begrimed with years of working the land and quite beyond ever being clean. He would go to his grave with Staffordshire soil ingrained in his skin. ‘I’m John Reeves,’ he said. ‘A neighbour of Mrs Weeks and Mrs Tong.’

  ‘And can you shed any light on events?’

  Reeves didn’t answer directly. ‘I ’eard ’er cat were killed,’ he said gruffly.

  Ah, so that was what had flushed out Farmer Reeves, whose wife was glancing over, a mite irritated by her husband’s defection.

  Joanna nodded.

  ‘I can’t ’elp you,’ Farmer Reeves said, ‘except to tell you that there ’as bin another car there on occasion. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘What sort of car?’ Joanna’s heart missed a beat. ‘Can you remember the number?’

  Farmer Reeves shook his head. ‘Too far away,’ he said. ‘But it were a silver Mercedes.’

  Of which there are probably half a million in this country, Joanna thought.

  Still, it was a start.

  ‘You wouldn’t know which model?’ Too hopeful. He shook his head.

  ‘Can you remember when you saw the car?’

  ‘It were during the bad frost,’ Farmer Reeves said, unable to resist adding a word of explanation. ‘’Cos of the frost I couldn’t get the tractor over the field so I were muck spreadin’.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘So that would have been two weeks ago.’

  ‘How many times have you seen that car?’

  She could almost have predicted his answer.

  ‘Couldn’t tell you that.’

  ‘If you do see it again,’ Joanna said, ‘would you try and get the number plate, please?’ She fished a card out of her bag. ‘And contact me?’

  ‘Sure will, Inspector.’ And with a show of good manners and a swift glance at Matthew, he added, ‘Sorry. Hope I haven’t spoiled your meal.’

  Matthew was at his most charming. ‘Not a bit of it, Mr Reeves.’

  Joanna merely smiled.

  When Farmer Reeves had returned to his table Matthew asked very softly, ‘Are all your witnesses so informative and helpful?’

  She laughed. ‘Mostly. At least,’ she added more truthfully, ‘they try to be.’

  The evening passed pleasantly and they headed back to Waterfall Cottage, arm in arm. It was a night of marital harmony. Joanna hoped for plenty more.

  NINE

  Sunday, January 22, 8 a.m.

  She could hear the rain even as she lay in bed. Thundering down on the roof, splashing from the gutters, pouring into the drains. And she knew that Matthew could hear it too. But, wisely, he knew better than to draw attention to it. He knew that any comment he made on this sad weather would be read by her as an attempt to put her off her bike ride. She lay still, warm, dry and content, snuggling under the duvet and coiling her legs around her husband, feeling the musculature of his torso, which made her just a little bit frisky. She felt his chest move up and down, his arm tighten around her, and drew in a deep breath. So why leave this and go out there, just to get drenched and freezing and make a point? She closed her eyes and breathed in the bedroom air with its whisper of chill through the crack of the open window; neither of them could sleep with the window tight shut. She lay still and reflected. Why did she have to do this, create difficulties? She knew better than most that it is practically impossible to keep your hands and feet warm on a blustery, soaking bike ride. It was January, for goodness’ sake. It would be unpleasant – not fun. So why do it? She almost said it out loud: Why, Piercy? Why do you always have to set yourself these challenges? She cleared her throat and dared Matthew to speak. Wisely he continued to fake sleep and by extraordinary discipline kept his breathing regular and deep.

  She sat up. Delay the moment. ‘Coffee?’ she asked idly.

  It didn’t deceive her husband for a minute. He lay back against the pillow, biting in the smile that was already blooming on his face. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He was daring her to chicken out. ‘Thanks,’ he said, mock sleepy. ‘I’d love one.’ He finished the sentence with a theatrical yawn.

  She drew back the curtains and stared out of the window. The weather was every bit as nasty as she’d anticipated. The rain was streaming down the pane in lively little rivulets. Already she could practically feel the icy water dripping from her cycling helmet and trickling down the back of her neck. She tilted her head back and scrunched her shoulders as though to stop it. She put out a hand and touched the glass. Even this side of double-glazing felt ice-cold to her exploratory touch. It was a day to stay indoors. For the sensible. She smiled. She’d never been accused of that. Besides …

  She’d said she was going on her bike and that was exactly what she was going to do. She’d spent most of Saturday hunched up over either computer or telephone and felt she needed to move. And she did not want to waste another day.

  Matthew was watching her lazily from the bed, a half smile on his lips. If he knew what she was thinking she also knew exactly what he was thinking. That she didn’t want to go on a bike ride at all. But he knew once she’d said she would go she would keep to her word. And so she would ride – whatever the weather. Besides, she wanted to avoid Eloise for as long as possible. And a bike ride followed by a long hot bath would keep her out of his daughter’s way for a while.

  Joanna was tempted to turn around and tell Matthew off for smirking so obviously and spying on her from underneath half-closed eyes but decided it would appear childish. So she went downstairs, boiled the kettle, filled the cafetière with the aptly named Lazy Sunday, and returned with a tray of milk and two mugs. Nothing is as good as the scent of fresh coffee to get you out of bed in the morning. She handed him one, drank hers quickly and, before she could change her mind, tugged on a pair of cycling shorts, tucked her hair underneath a Beanie, cleaned her teeth, put on a slick of lip gloss and left the bedroom without another word. Downstairs she zipped herself into a waterproof, strapped on her helmet and closed the door behind her, letting herself out into the blast of particularly foul weather.

  As she wheeled her bike around the side of
Waterfall Cottage she hoped that the rain had looked and sounded worse from the inside than it was on the outside, but it proved to be a vain and over-optimistic hope. She was quickly drenched and the wind was spiteful, seeming to find any gaps in her clothing to freeze her body core temperature. The cold and the drops stung her face, and even by the time she’d rounded the front of the cottage her feet and hands were already wet and cold. They would get wetter and colder. But she could ignore it when she felt the familiar pull on her legs as she rode through the village, passing the Red Lion pub on her right and descending the hill, the wind screaming behind her, like a pursuing banshee. She closed her eyes for a minute, hearing the noise of the weather and savouring the challenge. Just for the briefest of moments she was sheltered from the wind. Bliss.

  Matthew and Eloise would start the lunch and they’d have a fine old time chatting about immunology and bacteria, radiology and cells. Eloise the medical student and Matthew the pathologist always had plenty to talk about. Whereas she … Joanna grinned to herself, checked for traffic behind her and swung out to her right, to the road that opened out on the ridge that overlooked Butterfield Farm. She had other fish to fry.

  The farm was barely visible through the filter of the weather. But she could make out the ‘L’ shape of the house and the well at the front. She peered through the lashing rain. And had a shock. The black Qashqai was there but the Isuzu was gone. And in its place was a Mercedes, gleaming silver in the rain. She swung her leg over the bike, stood on the ridge and looked down, wondering whose car it was. She ran through the alternatives in her mind. It was perfectly possible that Diana Tong had a second car and this was it. Or that the silver Merc had been sheltering in one of the garages all the time. But she quickly disregarded both these theories. None of the officers conducting the enquiries had mentioned a third car.

  Joanna tried to think things through logically. Today was a Sunday – not one of Diana Tong’s usual days at Butterfield; the missing Isuzu was probably hers. Neither was it the gardener or his wife’s day at the farm. So who was the visitor? It looked as though Timony was alone in the house with the driver of the silver Mercedes.

  The rain continued to lash down, blurring her view, but the place looked peaceful enough. Not the scene of some great drama. Smoke was blasting out of the chimney. Inside the logs must be roaring in the wood burner. It all looked normal. So it probably was. Why shouldn’t Timony have a visitor? She must have some friends from her soap star days. But although Joanna could easily explain a strange car standing outside Butterfield, she still felt curious enough to act. She could almost hear Korpanski’s grunt of disapproval over the cacophony of the warring wind and rain. Feeling more like an amateur sleuth than a detective inspector she wheeled her bike slowly down the edge of the track, keeping her eye on the car and watching out for any of the doors opening. But until she got fifty yards from the house there was no sign of anyone. Then the front door opened. Which put her in a quandary. It would seem intrusive to be seen sneaking up on the place, though she could justify it by saying she was simply doing her job. Surveillance. On a bike? On balance she didn’t fancy explaining her presence at all so she moved back quickly, out of sight, behind a bush, dropping her bike to the ground behind the wall, and watched curiously as someone emerged from the front door.

  It was a man who looked in his forties, smartly dressed in a dark suit, a huge brolly held over his head. Insurance rep, Joanna decided. Then smiled. Maybe Timony had taken out life insurance on the cat? But there was something stiff and reserved in Timony’s manner, holding back from the man as they took their leave of one another. They didn’t shake hands but stood well apart. Like strangers. Over the weather Joanna couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying but their manner looked formal. Almost hostile. Guarded in their interaction, as though neither quite trusted the other. Definitely wary. Joanna had the sense that something was very wrong in this encounter. There was something uncomfortable about it. Then the wind gusted across the scene, the man climbed into his car and drove slowly up the track, passing Joanna without seeing her. She made a note of the number. She would check up on it on Monday. She glanced back at Butterfield.

  Although the weather was foul, instead of going straight back into the house Timony was standing, apparently oblivious to the weather, watching the car ascend the track as though she wanted to check that the driver was leaving the property. There was something bleak in her manner; her shoulders drooped and she passed a hand across her eyes as though wiping back tears. Joanna could almost feel the anguish. She wondered whether to call in on her, say she was passing and check whether anything was wrong. The unexpected visit might tell her who Timony’s awkward visitor was. Then she stopped herself. She wasn’t a nursemaid but a policewoman who had spent the last week (her first fresh from honeymoon) pandering to a histrionic retired actress whose cat had regrettably met a violent death. Even so, she waited until Timony had disappeared behind the door. She didn’t want the actress to see her. In her years in the Force Joanna had learned that when it came to them the public had double standards. While Timony Weeks would have no problem calling the police out on a daily basis, an uninvited attendance from police would be perceived as police intrusion. Harassment, even. Joanna gave a deep sigh as she turned her bike around and cycled back up to the top of the track, turning towards home and bending her head against the weather, which was promising to be more docile now. Like a lion tamed into submission, it had lost its rage. She offered up the prayer that the week ahead would be similarly tame and that Timony and her pal would head off for Devon on Tuesday and the whole thing would be over, the stalker, or whoever it was, tired of their game. Her questions would have to remain unanswered.

  But as she cycled along the ridge she had the feeling that this was perhaps too optimistic. The murder of the cat was no game. It had been vicious and the display of its body calculated to cause maximum distress.

  As she gave her final battle against wind and rain her mind tracked elsewhere. Timony Weeks had said they didn’t have many guests. Many, no. Any was a different matter. There was probably a perfectly rational explanation. Why shouldn’t Timony have a visitor? No reason at all. There was nothing suspicious in it. Joanna knew she was doing what Matthew occasionally accused her of – looking at events with a suspicious policeman’s mind. She arrived back at Waterfall Cottage an hour and a half later, thoroughly cold and wet, but, annoyingly, with curiosity still burning inside her. She wanted to know who the owner of the Mercedes was and what he was doing at Butterfield Farm. Why had Timony seemed so uncomfortable in her visitor’s presence? Or, again, had she read something in the woman’s behaviour that simply wasn’t there? Had the angry weather misled her? She gave a little smile. The answers would likely be banal, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking the questions.

  Rounding the corner towards Waterfall Cottage, she saw Eloise’s blue Suzuki parked outside. Great, she thought as she wheeled her bike around the back and into the shed, giving it a cursory wipe with a towel.

  She pushed the door open. And was met by the appetizing smell of a Sunday roast, but the kitchen was empty. She took her shoes off and walked through. Matthew and Eloise were sitting at the dining table, poring over some books. A scatter of papers covered the surface and Eloise was frowning and looking very disgruntled. ‘I just don’t get it, Dad,’ she was saying.

  Neither looked up as she entered. Matthew, in a dark blue sweater, jeans and slippers, was leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head and his face looked calm and pleasant. He was always happy sharing this love of medicine with his daughter. ‘It is a tough one,’ he admitted. ‘The classifications of pulmonary fibrosis are a bugger but you don’t need to worry about them just yet. That’s tertiary consultant stuff, Eloise. Years in the future.’

  She was not mollified. ‘It pisses me off when I don’t understand something,’ she said petulantly.

  Then, as though on cue, they both ‘noticed’ her. Matt
hew grinned across. ‘Nice bike ride, Jo?’ he asked smugly.

  Eloise simply raised her eyebrows in greeting.

  Joanna took off her sodden Beanie and shook her hair out. Raindrops scattered. And then the three of them laughed. ‘It was bloody horrible,’ Joanna confessed. ‘But I feel better for doing it. I’ll just jump in the bath and then sort out lunch.’

  Matthew’s eyes were warm as he looked at her. Even Eloise managed an almost smile but soon bent her head back over her books again.

  After a scalding hot soak, Joanna rather enjoyed herself cooking the lunch, peeling the veg, crisping the roast potatoes, stirring the gravy as she listened to Classic FM and finally serving the roast beef meal up with a bottle of blood-warm claret. And everyone appreciated her apple pie. With vanilla custard.

  She smiled to herself. Then looked up to see Eloise watching her, amusement making her features less sharp. ‘Bit domesticated, isn’t it, Joanna?’ she challenged, ‘All this?’

  ‘I can do domesticated,’ Joanna responded, trying not to rise to the bait. The fact was she did enjoy cooking. It was just that she didn’t always have the time.

  But Eloise persisted. ‘So is this the new you?’ Perhaps it was only Joanna who heard the mockery in the girl’s voice.

  ‘No,’ she replied testily.

  ‘Oh.’ Eloise batted her fine blue eyes in her father’s direction and Matthew gave her an indulgent smile.

  They loaded the dishwasher together, tidied the kitchen then spent part of the afternoon playing Trivial Pursuit, but it wasn’t long before Matthew and Eloise gravitated back to the dining room table, so Joanna went on the computer and watched another couple of episodes of Butterfield Farm. This time she was struck more by the relationship between the two older brothers and their pretty little sister.