Timmis and McBrine approached with caution. Ten yards away they caught the scent too; years of working in the police force had taught them both to recognize the stench of putrefaction. Whenever there was a world catastrophe they knew why everyone wore a mask. Whether it was 9/11, To-hoku, Sebrenica or a tiny Indian Ocean island affected by the 2004 tsunami, the stench was the same. They also knew that no mask in the world kept the smell from entering your nose, your mouth, your nasal passages, down into a heaving stomach and back up into your brain to surface and be recalled every single time you smelt that smell again. It was strong and pungent enough to draw vultures and carrion crows from five miles away, and disgusting enough to make police officers vomit. It was the stench of death which embedded itself in the memory. PC Timmis’s police issue torch was more powerful than Roger Faulkener’s. But like the hiker he peered right into the depths of the water and he, too, saw something that looked like luxuriant red hair.
Behind him, Diana Tong gasped.
THIRTEEN
Wednesday, February 29, 3 p.m.
It took ages to get the police diver out. Diana Tong had left them to inform Timony what was happening while Timmis and McBrine had rung Joanna to inform her what was going on. The Faulkeners hung around, partly out of excitement and curiosity, but also because they were uncertain whether they could go. And so the four of them had spent an uncomfortable few hours sitting around the kitchen table, the unwelcome guests of a tight-lipped Diana Tong and an increasingly hysterical Timony whose odd, jerky movements and strange throaty noises made them all think she was already having a breakdown. None of them referred to whatever was down the well, though when they met each other’s eyes they knew that they all shared the same nightmare and that the divers would pull out … It was too horrible to contemplate. But none of them actually voiced their fears. They skated around the subject like professionals, weaving and ducking away from the issue. It was as though by not referring to it they could pretend it did not exist, that nothing was down there and that whoever or whatever it was would simply disappear. Vaporize.
Resentment and possibly worry stiffening her demeanour even more, Diana Tong poured them all a second and then a third cup of tea without asking anyone if they actually wanted one. It was only by putting their hands over their cups that the Faulkners avoided a fourth cup. The silence was broken only by the cheerful wail of the kettle as it reached the boil on the Aga. No one tended to it straight away. The paralysis apparently extended even to Diana Tong. And Timony Weeks was motionless apart from the tremor which vibrated her hands. So the kitchen became increasingly hot and steamy as the kettle boiled away, furiously demanding attention and not getting it. In the end Diana Tong’s gaze swivelled towards it and she made another pot of tea, but no one would have another cup. After all that tea Betsy Faulkener wanted to go to the loo but she felt embarrassed to ask where it was. Besides, there was some safety in numbers, some measure of comfort in the fact that they were all together, even in this hot and humid kitchen. She and Roger both wanted to escape the embarrassing comradeship but didn’t quite dare. Most of all, Betsy didn’t want to be separated from Roger, who was the only person here that she really trusted, apart from the two policemen, who were sitting a little apart from the others, watching the proceedings with a wooden stare at each of them in turn, followed by a cynical twist of the lips and a silent exchange of views. While Roger simply stared back when they looked at him, Betsy had the horrid feeling that they could see right through her, even to the bulging bladder, but that they would still interpret her discomfort as guilt. She took a sneaky glance at the two women, the tiny, fragile-looking Mrs Weeks with the tough-looking woman who seemed like her minder. They were odd enough. Then when she recalled the thing floating in the black water she decided that she didn’t want to be led along the corridor by either of them to locate the toilet. In spite of the idyllic location and luxurious interior of the farm there was a disturbing atmosphere here. So Betsy ignored the protestations of her bladder and crossed her legs. Roger stood up, restless, and she joined him. They both felt the need to escape the claustrophobia of the room and finally wandered around the outside of the farmhouse, trying to forget why they were here and playing the fantasy game of: if they sold their Fulham flat and their newly acquired holiday cottage they could afford to live here and somehow stretch the distance to their jobs, which were both in central London. They felt more comfortable out here than in the kitchen, back in their laced-up, muddy boots and fleeces, even though when the wind shifted direction, wafting the scent towards them, they were reminded why their walk had been cut short. At least out here they could talk normally. Inside, after the usual chat about jobs and how lovely and unspoilt the Staffordshire moorlands were, the conversation had dried up to an awkward, desiccated silence. But after twenty minutes they’d grown cold and returned to the kitchen.
Just as things were getting really embarrassing a white van with a pink stripe appeared at the top of the track and started to descend slowly, scraping to a halt outside the front door. Once the introductions were over the diver squinted at the dark patch that broke up the oily surface, sniffed the air, joked that he wouldn’t need his deep-sea diving equipment today and started tugging on his wet suit. There followed a long delay while an elaborate but presumably safe system of ropes and pulleys was set up by his buddy and he could be lowered into the well to retrieve whatever was down there.
PCs Timmis and McBrine watched curiously. Working high up in the moorlands meant that this was only their second encounter with the Police Diving Unit. Their first had been when a girl had been found floating face down in the Mermaid’s Pool, which had proved not to be bottomless but nevertheless was no less sinister for all that. Roger and Betsy clung to each other as though they were about to be parted on the Titanic but watched the events with unblinking fascination while Diana and Timony stood back in the doorway, looking as though they might dart inside any moment and bolt the door behind them if anything nasty came up. The clunking and clinking started up and the diver was lowered.
There was some splashing and the silky sound of oily water moving around, then a rush of water as something was drawn up.
It was red, hairy, dripping, and landed with a soft splosh on the plastic sheet, laid down to receive whatever was in the well. Then the diver went back down again and something much bigger and even more foul-smelling was pulled out, water pouring from its putrefying body. That, too, was laid on the sheet of plastic.
They all stared, unable to comprehend or make any sense of what their eyes were registering.
It was PC Josh Timmis who broke the silence with an embarrassed chuckle. ‘Call me a country bumpkin,’ he said slowly, ‘if you like. But that,’ he indicated the larger item, ‘looks like a dead badger to me. And as for that …’ He touched the second item with the toe of his police issue policeman’s boot. ‘I’m no fashion expert but it looks like a wig.’
Betsy was tempted to laugh. This was a joke. They’d been taken in by this? She put her hand over her mouth and giggled. Then she looked back at the two women.
It might be a joke to her but it wasn’t to Mrs Weeks, who was shrinking away from the sodden red hair, her eyes wide and staring as though it truly was a person’s head. Then Betsy Faulkner realized something else. The wig was exactly the same style, length and colour as Timony Weeks’ hair. She looked from one to the other and realized why the woman was bordering on hysterical.
A few minutes later the diver was cranked back up. ‘No worries,’ he said, unable to resist a smirk. ‘Nothing more there. No dirty deeds. Just a badger.’
‘Fallen into the well?’ Roger Faulkner stepped forward. ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’
‘Suppose it is,’ the diver acceded grudgingly. ‘But these things ’appen.’
‘And the wig?’ Roger persisted.
‘Someone must have got tired of it.’
Timmis and McBrine were arguing amongst themselves who should be the one to report bac
k to Detective Inspector Piercy, who had already been tried enough by this place.
The diver’s mate couldn’t resist it. ‘Ding Dong Bell,’ he said loudly to everyone’s annoyance.
Timmis and McBrine were still in a bad mood and couldn’t resist muttering to each other that they’d known this would prove to be nothing – again. Basically they’d been ‘had’ and were cross with themselves. But most of all with these two infuriating women.
‘Hardly the crime of the century,’ Saul McBrine grumbled, feeling particularly exposed, but his colleague who had sharp eyes and bloodhound tenacity had, like Betsy Faulkener, made the connection between the dripping wig and Timony Weeks. Rather than draw attention to it he squirrelled the knowledge away. Then he looked closer at the bloated corpse of the badger. Holding a scarf over his nose and mouth he moved nearer. ‘Looks more like roadkill to me,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll take that along to the vet.’ He paused. ‘Just to make sure.’
His colleague looked puzzled. ‘Sure of what?’
‘Use your noddle,’ Timmis said softly so no one else could hear. ‘Why would you put a dead badger down a well right in front of a house? They’re just left by the road or picked up by a badger’s charity. Not this,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but what does it matter?’
‘I just want to be sure that the badger was dead when he was dropped into the well.’
His mate looked sceptical.
‘All I do know,’ Timmis muttered, ‘is that it does matter. Someone is playing silly buggers both with those two.’ He indicated the two women in the doorway. ‘And with us.’
Timony was watching the proceedings frozen in horror, eyes wide, hands in front of her face, covering her nose and mouth as though to block the smell of the rotting corpse and perhaps to suppress any scream. As the bloated body was sealed in a body bag she shrank back. ‘First Tuptim,’ she said to Diana, ‘then this. Next it’ll be me.’
‘Nonsense, don’t be ridiculous,’ Diana said in her usual matter-of-fact voice, but she too looked shaken. ‘The policeman must be wrong,’ she said, quickly searching for a better explanation. ‘The badger must have been injured, crawled down the track and fallen in,’ she said. ‘Poor thing was looking for somewhere to lick its wounds and lost its footing. That’s all.’
‘And if you believe that …’ Timony said scornfully.
It was a few hours before everyone had left the two inhabitants of Butterfield alone. The two hikers had cadged a lift back into Leek in the police car. It was late now and starting to get dark. They’d lost their appetite for a moorlands hike anyway and didn’t fancy finishing their walk so McBrine took pity on them and dropped them off in Hartington. They were subdued all the way back, sitting hand in hand in the back of the police car without exchanging a word. Neither of them could decide whether they felt silly for having raised the alarm, or good citizens. Certainly they were disappointed that it had not turned out to be the manhunt they had expected. They were puzzled about the red-headed wig and upset to have seen the badger in such an advanced stage of decay. Timmis, too, was quiet all the way back to the station. ‘Think I’ll just have a word with Inspector Piercy,’ he muttered thoughtfully when they turned into the station car park.
He was concise in his report but Joanna’s eyes were serious as she listened to all that he said. ‘So,’ she said briskly. ‘Another false alarm. Another trick.’
Timmis simply waited for her to make a decision, glad it wasn’t his job. ‘OK,’ she said finally, ‘I’ll authorize a post-mortem but you do realize whatever the result is it won’t prove anything. It is just a badger.’
Though he didn’t quite agree with her Timmis nodded and made a last attempt to put his point over. ‘I realize that, Inspector,’ he said, ‘but putting all the facts together, the odd occurrences that, let’s face it, we’ve all taken with a pinch of salt, then the burglary and the business about the cat and now this. Something’s going on out there. I’m sure. I don’t pretend to know quite what it is but something is very, very wrong.’ Joanna listened carefully to her junior officer, noting the concern in his face. She liked working with colleagues like this, whether senior or junior to her: people who enjoyed their work, worked hard at it, were willing to go out on a limb and take chances, people who had ideas and weren’t afraid to act on them. People with intelligence and curiosity. It was what you needed. She smiled to herself. That and a good dollop of intuition.
She assured him she had heard his comments and would be thinking about how to act next. He left looking a little less troubled.
When PC Josh Timmis had left the room she waited for Mike Korpanski to return to the office and spent an hour holed up with him, listening to his opinions too. It was hard to get him to focus on anything but the luxury cars but he was listening, his dark eyes thoughtful, his brow furrowed. Finally he spoke. ‘There’s a lot going on here, Jo,’ he said. ‘Loads of stuff from the past. Who knows if there’s a stalker or something? People are odd when it comes to fame. Even years later.’ He looked up. ‘Someone’s out to rattle her, at the very least.’
‘And if they’re just going to keep playing silly games we probably don’t need to take it all too seriously. But if it becomes more serious than a burglary we’re going to wish we’d stepped in a bit sooner. Listened a bit harder.’
It was exactly what Joanna was scared of, but she was utterly powerless. What next? she wondered.
FOURTEEN
Friday, March 2, 2 p.m.
She didn’t have long to wait to find out. Lunchtime brought a phone call from Roderick Beeston. ‘You’re investigating a very odd case here, Joanna,’ he said accusingly, as though she was personally responsible. ‘First a pretty nasty thing that happened to that poor cat,’ he said, ‘and now Brock the badger.’
‘And what exactly did happen to Brock the badger?’
‘Probably run over,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do a full post-mortem.’ He chuckled. ‘I didn’t think your budget would stretch to it. Especially with Chief Superintendent Rush about to hop on your tail. Or is it breathe down your neck?’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she said darkly. ‘I’m trying not to think about it.’
Even Beeston the jaunty couldn’t think up a suitable response to that. He continued with his report. ‘I did do some X-rays, though. His back leg and a couple of ribs were broken. Brock wouldn’t have been able to walk very far.’
‘He wasn’t …’
‘Alive when he was dropped in the well? Thankfully, no. There was no water in his lungs. No. Poor chap – not that the average dairy or beef farmer would agree with me. They’re very hot on the badger being responsible for most of the bovine TB. But Brock had probably been dead for a couple of days before he floated to the top of the well and began to stink quite so badly.’ She could sense he was smiling. ‘Good job the weather’s been so cold,’ he said. ‘Otherwise the stink could have been terrible. They’re big animals. Take ages to decompose and they’d have looked for ages to find the source of the smell.’
‘Quite. So what was the point …?’
‘Exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ Beeston said. ‘Left under a hedge his corpse would have rotted away and been subject to predation. To put it down a well is plain odd. I can only think it was to intimidate the ladies who live at the farm. Someone must want them out of there.’
On the other end of the line Joanna was frowning. ‘But why?’
‘If I’m thinking of the right place,’ Beeston said, ‘it is a rather splendid house and in a beautiful location.’
‘Beautiful and splendid enough to play so many odd dirty tricks for?’
Beeston hesitated. When his response came it was smooth and predictable. ‘Luckily it isn’t my job to solve your cases, Joanna,’ he said, ‘only to feed you the salient facts. There is one other explanation.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, it is just possible that someone simply ran him over and disposed of the body down the well.’
> ‘It isn’t a criminal offence to run over a badger,’ Joanna pointed out. ‘It wouldn’t make sense to do that.’
Beeston paused then chuckled. ‘None of it makes sense,’ he said, adding, ‘the bill will be sent to you as usual.’
Joanna smiled.
The day Roderick Beeston forgot his vet’s bill would be the day the Polar ice caps melted. He was a meticulous businessman.
Her mood was sober when she’d thanked the vet and put the phone down. Things were escalating but she wasn’t sure in which direction. She was still worried about where it would all end. What had initially appeared like histrionics had developed into assaults on animals and a burglary. What next? She had the horrid feeling that she knew but it was as though she was watching it on television, powerless to change the future. As though she was in a nightmare and could merely watch without any ability to participate.
All she knew was that this wasn’t over yet. This very real drama unfolding in front of her had snagged her, so instead of being able to give other ‘more important’ cases her full attention she was constantly being drawn back, yet again, towards Butterfield Farm. She sighed as she emailed Beeston’s bills to the accounts manager. She might be able to wangle the badger one, pretending she’d wondered if it had TB, but she sensed that Chief Superintendent Rush would sniff this out as a red herring. He was no fool.
She was going to get this one wrong however cunningly she played it. And just when Rush was about to take up his post. It gave her a sinking feeling.
Korpanski was not at all keen on abandoning his luxury car case, even temporarily, to visit Butterfield again. It was obviously the last place on earth he wanted to visit and he was progressing well in his investigation. He’d homed in on a large garage in Manchester which had extensive workshops at its rear. This, he believed, was where the cars were ‘processed’ and made ‘clean’ for resale. He scowled at her, tore his eyes very slowly and reluctantly from his computer screen and gave a deep, heart-rending sigh so Joanna took pity on him, let him off the hook and took DS Hannah Beardmore instead. She couldn’t deprive Korpanski of his moment of triumph. So she patted his broad shoulders, resisted the temptation to ruffle the black hair and left him to it.
The Final Curtain Page 17
