‘What would be the point?’ Diana Tong asked coolly. ‘Who would hear it?’
Heaven help her, Joanna thought as she spoke again. ‘You could have them connected to the police station.’
Diana’s response was a snort. ‘Four false alarms and you’re disconnected.’
She was right. ‘I’ll call over in the morning,’ Joanna said, ‘and we’ll get the scenes of crime team to pick up any evidence. They’ll be along in the morning too.’
She handed the phone back to Millie Rossington, who agreed with her husband’s offer. Perhaps they had guilty consciences about neglecting their employer’s property. ‘We’ll be here, Mrs Tong,’ she said, reassurance oozing out of every pore. ‘We’ll stay and wait for your return.’ It seemed a good idea.
ELEVEN
Saturday, February 11, 8 a.m.
Matthew was none too pleased when she told him she had work to do. They had had the curry the night before but a few hours later than planned. He grumbled for a bit as she climbed out of bed, then said, ‘What time do you think you’ll finish?’
She took in the discontent on his face and responded with false brightness. ‘I expect to be busy for most of the morning. I’m sorry.’ She tried out her charm, sat down beside him and stroked his cheek, smiling at him and waiting for him to return it. She breathed in the spicy tang of his aftershave, felt the muscles in his arms tighten. She could feel his mood change and gave him a broad smile with more than a hint of flirtation. ‘But I should be free this afternoon.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we can go for a walk.’
‘Perfect.’ She kissed the last vestiges of grumpiness away from his mouth and felt it curve into a smile. Matthew didn’t usually sulk for long.
Even as she opened the front door of Waterfall Cottage to let herself out and walked down the path to her car, she realized that it was a good day for a winter’s walk. It was bright, crisp and not quite so cold as it had been lately. Spring whispered to reassure the countryside that it would return and melt the winter blues away. Soon. Soon.
The drive out to Butterfield was pure pleasure today, the air laundered clean by last night’s frost. She only wished she had been on her bike. Apart from the odd slippery patch where the sun had not beamed it was a perfect day for a hard ride followed by a long wallow in a hot bath, scented and oiled.
The farm itself looked Beatrix Potter-esque, peaceful nestling in the valley. It hardly looked like the scene of a crime – even a minor one. This scene seemed a million miles away from sordid city theft, doors kicked in and television sets lugged down three flights of stairs, screaming police cars and deafening burglar alarms.
The three cars stood neatly side by side, the elderly Volvo looking even more ancient and scruffy when sandwiched between the sparkling Isuzu and the Qashqai. The Rossingtons must have kept to their word and stayed the night, or else returned to Butterfield very early this morning. Joanna switched the engine off and sat for a while, thinking.
Nothing about this case felt quite real: the people involved, the incidents. She almost felt, particularly with the farm deliberately mimicking the TV series, that even Butterfield itself was part of a deliberate illusion, a manufactured scenario. Joanna felt like a bit player, someone who had been written in to one of the more dramatic episodes of the soap rather than in real life. For the first time in her life she felt like a puppet, carried along and controlled by others – if not her body then her mind. She still wondered. Was all this about Timony being attention-seeking, wishing to return to the days when she had been star of the show, pet of the people? Did she hanker after fame? Were these little tricks simply a way of getting her headlines back, to draw the public’s attention and sympathy towards her once again and increase the value of her memoirs? Was she using the police to earn an extra half million or so? Poor Timony, victim of a secret stalker. It certainly had a ring to it but even the local paper had not, so far, been interested in running the story. Maybe now, with the burglary … But that would draw the wrong sort of attention, not from the book-buying public but the criminal fraternity. The stupid thing was that Joanna couldn’t work it out for herself. Here she was, a detective of some years’ experience and a psychology graduate to boot, and she didn’t have a bloody clue whether Timony Weeks had invented these events and was using the police for her own ends. Deep down she felt uneasy, particularly by Timony’s claim of ‘grey, wraithlike’ memories from her past attempting to surface. Could these somehow be linked to recent events? Was she really the victim of a sinister and secretive prankster? If so, where would they stop? When would they stop? These are the worst sorts of cases for the police. A murder and you could dive right in with all the resources you needed at your elbow. But this? Sheer frustration. Or was she looking into this too deeply, almost willing events to escalate further? She didn’t know. But, as she chewed over recent goings-on, Joanna had to admit the story of Gerald Portmann’s watch had a particularly pleasing ring to it. Even she could have penned the accompanying headlines. Dead Man’s Watch Found In Star’s Bedroom! And the lines underneath telling of the fact that the watch had been buried in Gerald’s coffin only to magically reappear forty years later certainly had an Edgar Allan Poe-esque ring to them. The Pit and the Pendulum or The Fall of the House of Usher or The Premature Burial. Take your pick.
And now there was the burglary. A simple enough crime, a broken window, probably valuables stolen. But this was completely different. Far more tangible, less reliant on Timony’s testimony, particularly as she had been away at the time and not even been the one to discover it. That had been left to the humble Millie Rossington. But surely this was about gain rather than malice.
Even now Joanna was wondering … Was it possible that Timony Weeks and Diana Tong had not been in Devon earlier in the week but actually had been here, setting the scene for yet another dramatic event? That would make Diana Tong a colluder rather than victim/dogsbody. Somehow Joanna didn’t think so. But the very fact that she was questioning in such minute detail made Joanna aware of how doubtful she was of every single ‘fact’ she had been fed.
She climbed out of the car, locked it and walked the few steps to the door. The truth was the only sort of person she could imagine hanging around Butterfield Farm to play these silly tricks was a histrionic and slightly mad actress. And the obvious answer to that was Timony. Joanna knew that it wasn’t fair to assign a character simply because of a profession, but there was a powerful argument to support this theory. There would be no gain for anyone else. Joanna updated that statement. Now there would be gain. If jewellery had been stolen it would be worth something. It still didn’t exclude Timony. She owned it anyway but there was bound to be an insurance payout. And so the theories and counter theories went round and round in Joanna’s head.
She was just wondering again about Diana Tong’s role in all this when she opened the door herself. And as Joanna looked at the calm and competent face she found it hard to believe that Mrs Tong would enjoy this drama. In fact, if anything, she looked slightly bored with it all. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she said. It looked as though the Rossingtons were just leaving. As Joanna faced Diana Tong they were emerging from the front door, saying their farewells to a stony-faced companion and an embarrassingly effusive Timony Weeks, who gave the odd noisy sob and hugged her cleaning woman. A quick glance at the Rossingtons’ faces told Joanna that they were acutely embarrassed at this show of emotion. Frank hurried past her, head down.
Joanna watched them scuttle away like impatient crabs, climb into their car and drive off. As the Volvo moved up the track it passed the white SOCO van coming down. Things were moving forward.
Once the greetings and introductions were over it was time for business and Joanna became focused. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t tidy up just yet,’ she said to the two women. ‘The police photographer will want to take some pictures and the less you disturb the scene the more evidence we can collect and the greater chance we have of securing a
conviction.’
Again, she appealed, ‘You still don’t have any idea who’s behind this?’
Both women shook their heads. ‘If we had,’ Diana Tong said sharply and reprovingly, folding her arms, ‘we would have told you long ago. We’re fed up with all this attention. We don’t want you coming out here all the time.’ She finished with a bitter, ‘We’re perfectly aware that you resent it. We just want a quiet life.’
As do we all, Joanna thought, recalling the temptation of staying in bed with Matthew that morning.
Timony butted in peevishly. ‘Diana’s right,’ she said, hands wafting in the air in dramatic appeal. ‘All I want is to finish my memoirs and have a peaceful life out here.’ She upped the drama and uttered her next lines in a deep drone. ‘Alone with my memories, my good memories. That’s all. Is it too much to ask?’ Her eyes flickered upwards. Towards the heavens. Maybe they’d taught her that move in RADA but it seemed over the top in the Staffordshire moorlands.
‘Apparently, yes,’ Joanna said, slightly irritated by the woman and her expansive, arm-waving gestures. ‘It is too much to ask.’ She was wondering why she had a growing feeling of dislike towards her. Was it because something about her was insincere? Not just the falseness of the patently obvious plastic surgery or the stary eyes, not the plumped-up lips or even her overdramatic manner. It was the words she spoke and the emotions she pretended to feel. Maybe, she thought with a flash of clarity, it was the disparity between facial expression, or rather the lack of it, and the words she spoke, although with the surgery that couldn’t be helped. Joanna looked at her closely. And caught something else. Something much more authentic. Flickering eyes, a quivering of the lips. Something real underneath the facade? So what was it? Fright?
But a second later Timony Weeks, actress, looked not vulnerable but amused. So Joanna was left to wonder whether it had been real terror she had seen in the woman’s eyes. And to ask herself, once again, the question that refused to go away – was it all an act?
Diana Tong was watching, her face impassive, hands and body perfectly still, in stark contrast to her employer. Joanna analysed the atmosphere between them. She believed they were both perfectly aware of her scepticism and irritation. But did they care? Not really. As she and Diana Tong exchanged glances she wondered about the exact nature of her role. Why did she bury herself out here, devote her life to one woman she didn’t seem to particularly like? Was she incredibly well paid? Was she here out of love for the actress, a sort of star-struck desire to be close, to be touched by celebrity and fame even though it was forty years out of date? Was she a sort of … fan? What exactly was the relationship between the two women – two women isolated in this lovely but very private world that they had carefully built up around them? It fascinated Joanna. But looking into Diana’s bland face told her nothing. If Timony Weeks was flamboyant in her display of emotions, Diana Tong was the diametric opposite. Her emotions were buried so deep they were invisible. She was impossible to read. And lastly, Joanna wondered, why didn’t she live here? She might want to escape Timony from time to time but it would have saved so much money. She was practically always here anyway.
Joanna was glad that Mark Fask had arrived and was already brushing aluminium fingerprint dust on the kitchen window frame. ‘Nothing so far,’ he responded to Joanna’s unasked question. ‘Nothing on the outside frames. Whoever it was must have worn gloves.’ He grinned cheerfully at the two women. ‘I’ll want some specimens of yours,’ he said, nodding at them, ‘just to exclude them, you see.’
‘Have you had a chance to look through and see what’s missing?’ Joanna addressed the question to Timony.
‘Surprisingly little.’ It was Diana’s cool voice which answered.
Timony spoke up then. ‘Some jewellery,’ she said. ‘I had a few really good pieces that Gerald had given me. A diamond necklace. Some lovely sapphires and an emerald and diamond brooch. A ruby bracelet, some rings and a watch. I have photographs,’ she said helpfully, ‘and the insurance documents.’
‘Good,’ both Fask and Joanna said in unison.
Timony was obviously trying to be helpful. ‘I’ll be able to make a proper list.’
‘Thank you.’
As Mark came in through the front door Joanna followed him. ‘Is this the work of a local burglar?’
‘Could be.’ But he was frowning. ‘I’m not really sure. Things have been a bit quiet on that front since we banged up the Jellicoes last year. But there’s always the odd chancer who’ll have a go at these isolated country properties. Someone from Stoke or on a crime holiday from Liverpool or more likely Manchester. And they generally do quite well out of these raids.’ He made a face. ‘There’s always stuff lying around. And this house, for all its isolation, is so easy to spy on from the road.’
‘You noticed that too.’
Fask nodded.
‘So you think it could have been an opportunistic burglary?’
‘Possibly. And then there’s the footpath.’
She almost laughed. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘People don’t do a burglary halfway round their hike, then put the swag in their rucksacks.’
He grinned at her. ‘I agree; it’s unlikely. But …’ He held up an index finger. ‘The footpath does pass near the house. A hiker could easily have made a note of Butterfield then come back in the car.’
Joanna pursued her point. ‘But surely this must be someone local – even to be out here.’
‘More than likely,’ he agreed in his ponderous way. ‘But I’m keeping an open mind. Things are often not quite what they appear to be.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Joanna muttered. ‘But there is one other thing. If the pieces they took are valuable they’ll turn up on the open market, won’t they?’
‘If they’re distinctive it’s even more important that I track them down before they get broken up into individual gems and the gold, platinum and silver melted down. There are so many outlets these days for precious metals. Once that’s done we’d have no hope of identifying any of the pieces, and that means you and I would be unlikely to secure a conviction. You know, Jo, most times it’s the jewellery that leads us back to the criminal. All the collection of forensic evidence does is to link their presence to here in a court of law. The weak point is the Fence.’ He grinned and made a joke of his own. ‘More of a hurdle, really.’
‘OK. You carry on. I’ll have a word with them.’
The two women were huddled together on the sofa when Joanna re-entered the sitting room. They stopped speaking the moment they saw her. But they looked furtive, as though they had been discussing something they didn’t want her to hear. In fact, they looked guilty, almost as though they had committed the burglary themselves. What on earth were they plotting? Joanna wondered as she smiled another hello with a twitch of her shoulders towards the scuffle throughout the house – the SOCOs doing their job. Was this an insurance scam? Joanna was tired of these cat and mouse games. She felt awkward.
‘I’ll be leaving now,’ she said. ‘Mr Fask will continue collecting evidence. Have you anything to add?’
Both women shook their heads.
‘So if you can let me have the full list of missing property as soon as possible as well as any photographs and receipts I can circulate the details.’
As she left Joanna still couldn’t shake off the feeling that Timony Weeks and her hard-faced companion were using her.
She glanced at her watch. One-thirty p.m. Matthew would be pleased. She hadn’t stayed out late. And the day was as inviting as possible, clear, clean and frosty. They had a couple of hours’ walking time before dark. And then she would cook for him. She could write up the report on the burglary first thing Monday morning.
Matthew was indeed pleased her work hadn’t taken up the entire day. As she let herself in he put his finger over her lips. ‘Not a word about work, Jo,’ he pleaded. ‘And no more watching any more of that dreadfully stilted programme. The word Butterfield,’ he said, laughi
ng in her face, ‘is verboten.’ She looked at the even teeth, the expression of merriment, this great way he had of loving her, teasing her, mocking and disciplining her all at the same time.
His face was full of happiness.
She giggled and said, ‘So what shall we do with the afternoon?’
His eyes gleamed. ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ he said. ‘One of which is a little walk round the town and then over to Leekbrook. We can end up in the Belgian Bar and then stagger back home.’
‘Matthew,’ she said. ‘It sounds perfect. ‘One minute and I’ll get changed.’
TWELVE
Monday, February 13, 8.30 a.m.
Police officers’ reports are meant to be factual, not stories full of ideas and conjecture. They are not supposed to display prejudices or preconceived ideas. Joanna had read the guidelines over and over again. Yet it was hard to keep her personal feelings out of the report on the break-in at Butterfield Farm.
She struggled to find words which did not reveal her instincts about the break-in and the persona involved. She had three goes at it but when she reread the report she thought how bland and uninspired it was. It didn’t describe any of the flavour of the woman who lived alone in Butterfield Farm. It could have been any burglary on anyone, anywhere. Yet this was the police force the public demanded, free of prejudice or instinct, not influenced by chance sayings and accidental findings. Back to Plod, she thought resentfully, and away from Frost and Taggart. What the public wanted was a police force grey and unimaginative. OK, she thought. Let them have it.
She glanced through her emails. The forensic reports were, so far, disappointing. The burglars had left little usable trace evidence, no fingerprints, hair or anything else that could have led the Law straight back to the perpetrator. The footprints had proved to be Reebok ZigActives, size nines. A popular shoe and a common size. Not much help there either and there was nothing in the footprints that marked them out, no gouge out of the sole, no unusual wear pattern. It was disheartening. More of a surprise and possibly a vital piece of evidence was the value and distinctiveness of the jewellery Timony had listed as stolen. There were eight pieces in all. A diamond necklace alone was valued at £5,000, an emerald and diamond brooch at £2,000. The entire value of the pieces came to a little over £20,000. Joanna stared at the list. Maybe these pieces would solve this part of the puzzle. As Fask had said, they were distinctive Art Deco – right up until the moment they were broken up into bits. She was disinclined to return to Butterfield but knew she should be assuring a sceptical Diana Tong that they were doing all they could to recover the property. It wasn’t strictly the truth. The truth was that she was stuck. What they had done was circulate the photographs of the missing pieces. Now all they could do was sit back and hope that they had a lucky break, because she was right out of ideas. Timony had rung yesterday and put up a reward of £2,000 which, considering the alleged value of the pieces, struck Joanna as overgenerous, but even as she’d spoken she’d sensed that she didn’t have much faith in its bearing fruit anyway – whatever the size of the reward. And by now Mike was thoroughly bored by the whole affair, which didn’t help. He was much more interested in the gang of car thieves who were targeting top-of-the-range cars, Lexuses, Audis and Jaguars in particular. The tip-off was that they were being doctored somewhere in Manchester, engines re-identified and numbers obliterated. But two of the cars had tracker systems. One had been disabled by the thieves; the other had not been under the bonnet or in any of the usual places but behind the dashboard. So the net was closing in and Korpanski was getting caught up in the action. He was so happy he was humming as he arrived at work. Joanna could read his mind. This was real detective policing. Not pandering to some weirdo. She’d lost her buddy.
The Final Curtain Page 15
