Joanna stood still for a moment, berating herself for using too much imagination. She was a police officer, here to try and solve a murder. Ideas weren’t going to be what would solve it. And then something hit her. Why had Diana Tong suggested she come here? There must have been a reason. But, surely, there was no lesson she could learn from here, except, perhaps, a lesson of impermanence. Slowly she began to walk away from the farm, disappointed. Then she turned back. Something had been left unharmed. It was still here. The well, exactly as it had been recreated in front of Butterfield Farm in the moorlands. Remembering Timony’s words she stepped towards it and forced herself to look over the wall. The mouth of the well was clogged up with rubbish, almost to the top. Nettles and brambles had knotted a web which had caught passing rubbish, fallen leaves, rusting cans. And they now formed an impenetrable barrier rather than a pool of water, concealing whatever it was that lay beneath. She banged her hands on the stone in frustration.
She stood for a while, trying to fathom out whether there was a reason that Diana Tong had directed her here. Or had she expected her visit to the site to help her focus on past events rather than on the physical property or the series?
Slowly her mind filled in empty spaces with a man clutching at the sides of the well. No one helping him. Fantasy? Reality? If even Timony hadn’t been able to decide how the hell could she?
She drove home in pensive mood, still convinced that the reason for Timony’s menace and ultimate murder lay somewhere in her past, but there was almost too much of it. She was swamped by images of Timony Weeks – the child star, the many-times bride, the child lost to her family – except, surreptitiously, to her sister, Timony the underage mother whose own child had been adopted, Timony being guarded by a cynical production team, Timony who had lost her childhood at the age of eight. There had been so much debris in front of the truth that Joanna had found it difficult to recognize what was real and what unreal, what was significant and what not. So now the challenge was to find a path through the maze of make-believe and locate the centre. And to do that she had to reduce the story to one simple question. Why had Timony Weeks been subjected to a campaign of fear, then finally had to die?
That was the question and this was what she must concentrate on. As she headed back up the motorway towards Birmingham Joanna was a bit disappointed in herself. Usually an explanation occurred to her by instinct which fitted the facts as neatly as a handmade glove. She had always believed, with an almost superstitious conviction, that it was this that made her a good detective, this almost fey belief that her subconscious would worry at a problem until it found a solution that fitted. Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski, as pragmatic a colleague as anyone could have, might scoff. But he and she had both benefitted from her powers of ‘illumination’. Was this talent now about to abandon her? Or was it simply not ready to win through because it did not have all the relevant facts?
And yet. Something pricked her mind. When she got back she could easily look it up on the Internet. Or get Mike to do it.
She pulled into the services and connected with Korpanski. ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘any luck with tracking down Malcolm Hadleigh?’
‘Yeah. He’s appearing at the New Victoria Theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme, the theatre in the round,’ Korpanski said. ‘He’s playing some part in Carmen.’ Korpanski paused and felt he needed to add, ‘It’s an opera.’ Joanna smothered a smile. ‘Ri-ight,’ she said.
‘Don’t ask me and Fran to go,’ Korpanski growled. ‘Not my cup of tea at all.’
‘I wasn’t. I was thinking that maybe Matthew and I should have a night out.’
‘Yeah.’ She could hear Korpanski’s smile. ‘Just don’t tell him it’s work,’ he said. ‘They’re playing every night until next Tuesday.’
‘Great. We should be able to get some tickets. Mike,’ she hesitated, ‘I want us to go together and speak to Freeman,’ she said, ‘but not just yet. We’ll leave it till Monday. I’m heading back to Leek now.’
‘Did your visit to the site inspire you?’
‘Not sure,’ she said, reluctant to tell him that for once her brain was totally devoid of any ideas. ‘Just one thing more, Mike. Find out who owns Butterfield.’
‘Timony,’ he answered uncertainly.
‘Not that Butterfield,’ she said.
‘Aaagh.’ Korpanski had found enlightenment. ‘See you in a bit then, Jo.’
She found the ‘New Vic’s’ website on her smart phone, rang and booked two tickets for the Saturday night before ringing Matthew and telling him to keep the evening free.
‘OK,’ he said cheerfully, not asking why. It was one of things she loved most about him. Matthew was spontaneous, game for almost anything. She could spring surprises on him and he would love it.
‘I’ve got some tickets for the New Vic,’ she partially explained.
He showed no curiosity. ‘OK,’ he said again.
‘Carmen,’ she said.
And he confirmed her opinion. ‘Great. Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘Your victim, Timony.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got some toxicology back. She was so full of barbiturates she’d practically been anaesthetized.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
She’d no sooner stopped speaking to Matthew than another call came in, from Phil Scott this time. ‘We’ve got an address for Rolf Van Eelen and Trixy,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve rung him. We’re on our way there now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s moved to Cardiff.’
‘Cardiff? I thought he was living in Spain.’
‘He left there in 2010. Reading between the lines I think his business went down the chute so he came home.’
‘I’m in Worcestershire,’ she said. ‘I’ll turn around and join you in South Wales. It’ll be interesting.’ And hopefully informative, she thought.
They met at the M4 services and drove in convoy into Cardiff City and Van Eelen’s address. Whatever had happened in Spain he had done well for himself back here. It was a beautiful, large detached stone house at the end of a rhododendron-lined drive in a very smart area of Roath, which is, in itself, an upmarket area in the capital city of Wales. Two cars stood stationary outside: a Mercedes and a Lexus: more evidence that Van Eelen wasn’t exactly strapped for cash. The door was pulled open immediately and Van Eelen strode towards them.
Joanna recognized him from the wedding photograph. He was still big and blond, slightly overweight and very confident. He eyed Joanna uncertainly, his head on one side, as though evaluating her. Joanna introduced herself, WPC Bridget Anderton and DC Phil Scott, Leek Police.
Hot on Van Eelen’s heels trotted the slim brunette from the wedding photographs: skinny black jeans and a floppy white sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbows displaying stringy forearms which rattled with silver bangles. She looked appraisingly at Joanna, obviously a woman who sized up perceived competition without wasting time. Having made her judgement she linked her arm possessively into Rolf’s. The gesture was so patently obvious that Joanna couldn’t help smiling.
She addressed Van Eelen. ‘We’re investigating the murder of your late wife,’ she said carefully. Trixy flinched at the epithet, wife, but otherwise the couple didn’t react.
‘Come in,’ Rolf offered, ‘though I don’t know how I can help you. Timony and I separated years ago.’ An anxious glance skittered across to Trixy, who stiffened. Obviously Timony was still a sore subject.
‘But I understand you have had some contact with her over the years.’
Van Eelen gave a sheepish grin. ‘A bit,’ he said, giving Trixy a very wary glance and taking a tiny step away from her which stretched her arm lock.
Getting out of reach?
‘Mr Van Eelen,’ Joanna said delicately. ‘Can you tell me whether you knew anything about your …’ she couldn’t truthfully say ex so substituted, ‘late wife’s finances.’
Van Eelen’s eyes gleamed. ‘She wa
s worth a bit.’ He remembered himself. ‘Poor old Timony,’ he said, face schooled into tight grief. ‘Dreadful her being shot.’
‘Dreadful,’ WPC Anderton echoed.
‘I didn’t mean how much money she was worth,’ Joanna persisted. ‘I meant: do you know who she’s left it to?’
Van Eelen shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘A cat’s home? Diana? God knows that poor woman’s earned it, spending her life looking after a mad woman all these years.’
His judgement of his wife’s mental state was interesting. Joanna began to wish she’d interviewed Van Eelen sooner. His take on events might have been helpful.
‘If she’d died intestate,’ Joanna said slowly, ‘who do you think would inherit her assets?’
Van Eelen took a long time working this one out. His mouth closed. His eyes darted around the room, resting for a moment on his partner’s glossy mouth, which was pressed tight with disapproval, tiny lines fluting on her upper lip. His gaze fluttered away restlessly, like a butterfly on flowers. ‘I don’t think she’s got any close …’ It was a brave effort.
‘You aren’t actually divorced, are you?’
‘Phhrr.’ He blew out his cheeks in derision. ‘Never really got around to it.’ Another wary glance at Trixy, who had wisely lowered her gaze to hide the fury that was flaming up in her eyes. ‘Why? Is it important?’
Joanna chose her next words with great care, picking them out like chicken from bones. ‘If you aren’t divorced and in the absence of other claimants,’ she said, deliberately avoiding mention of Renshaw, ‘it’s my understanding that you would inherit – after the government had subtracted death duties.’
‘Oh,’ Van Eelen said. It was hard to judge whether he was surprised or not, pleased or not.
‘Just for the record, Mr Van Eelen, where were you in the early hours of March the fourteenth?’
The natural response to this common police question is to say that you have to think about it, consult your diary. Ask your nearest and dearest. Not, as Van Eelen did, say immediately, as though thoroughly and well-rehearsed, ‘Here all night.’ Another wary glance. ‘With Trixy.’ His arm twitched as though he was about to coil it around Trixy. But, probably wisely, he dropped it back to his side.
‘Right. Thank you.’
As they left, Van Eelen made a feeble attempt at a joke. ‘So,’ he said, dredging up a credible American accent, ‘don’t leave town. Hey?’
‘That would be a good rule to follow,’ Joanna responded smoothly. ‘And it would be very helpful if you’d let us have your phone numbers, landline and mobile in case we need you.’
Van Eelen shrank like a pricked balloon.
Saturday night, March 17, 8.45 p.m.
The new Victoria Theatre. Third row, seats fifty-six and fifty-seven
The music was so well known that everyone was enjoying it. Plenty of people were swinging their feet to the rhythms, a few, irritatingly, humming along to the melodies. But hey, it was Stoke-on-Trent. It was a Saturday night and people were here to enjoy themselves. Joanna linked arms with Matthew and gave him a cheeky smile which he responded to with a grin and a brush of his lips on her cheek, muttering, ‘This had better be good.’
They sat back to absorb the rich sexiness of Carmen, flashing her legs, not in the cigar factory but in a supermarket checkout. And then in swaggered Malcolm Hadleigh, aka Sean Butterfield, to the Toreador Song. Joanna leaned forward. He was a little old to play the part of Tony Amore but with dyed black hair – or a wig – he could still swing a cape.
Matthew leaned across, found her lips this time and gave her a soft kiss, whispering, ‘Didn’t know you were into opera, Jo.’
She looked straight into the warm green eyes, as long and narrow as a cat’s as he eyed her. ‘There’s plenty you don’t know about me, Matthew Levin.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ he said.
The theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme is known as the New Vic, as opposed to the Old Vic which closed its doors in 1985. It is one of the few theatres-in-the-round in the UK. And once you have found the taste for this format, which is surprisingly different from the stilted stage of the more common auditorium/stage performance, you wonder how you ever enjoyed the plays so much looking up at a flat, elevated platform, rather than being amongst it all.
In the theatre-in-the-round the cast romps around a central, circular area, sometimes beetling in and out through the corridors of the audience. Added to that, for the relish of the people of Stoke-on-Trent, as well as original work penned by locals, well-known plays or operas are sometimes ‘adapted’, either to bring them in line with modern taste or to make them relevant to the citizens of the five towns. So in the New Vic’s performance of Carmen, Tony Amore was not a toreador but a football star.
Joanna watched Malcolm Hadleigh with interest. He was good, playing his part with relish and not a bad singing voice either. Fifty years ago, as Sean Butterfield, fourteen years old when the series had started, in his twenties by the time it folded, he must have been electric. And charismatic.
At half time they queued at the bar and as Matthew handed her a glass of wine he finally asked her, ‘You seem very interested in the footballer.’ Then: ‘What are you up to, Joanna Piercy?’
She put her face close to his. She didn’t want eavesdroppers. ‘The guy who’s playing the footballer,’ she said very softly, ‘Tony Amore, also played the part of Timony Weeks’ older brother in Butterfield Farm,’ she said. ‘And I’m strongly suspicious that he either raped or coerced Timony into having sex with him when she was just thirteen years old. I also believe that as a result of this she had the child you found evidence of at the post-mortem.’
He pulled his face away, frowning. ‘Thirteen?’ he queried. ‘If anyone had gone for Eloise at thirteen I would have killed him.’
She shook her head. ‘But it isn’t him who’s dead, Matt,’ she said. ‘It’s her.’
Matthew downed the rest of his lager and put the glass back on the counter. ‘So what happened to the child?’
‘I believe he was adopted by her sister.’
Matthew pulled away at that. ‘I’ll be watching the second half in a different spirit.’
Sunday, March 18, 10 a.m.
It was pointless even pretending to have a day off in the middle of a major investigation and Joanna knew she wouldn’t rest until she’d cracked this one. She owed it to Timony to find her killer. She ate her breakfast, hardly saying a word. Then stood up and stretched her hands out to Matthew. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
He knew what was coming. ‘It’s OK, Jo.’
He’d changed since they’d been married. Tried to be more tolerant, but he continued to look at her, as though expecting her to make some commitment.
‘I’ll be home this evening,’ she said, aware that she’d changed too. A couple of short months of marriage and they were both learning.
Next week, she’d decided, she would home in on her chief suspects. Someone had cold-bloodedly shot Timony and she was drawing closer to finding out who and why. But for today she felt she needed to focus on events from a different perspective, that of the general public. The fans. The viewers. She would call in and speak to Colclough’s sister, Elizabeth Gantry again. She rang first and Mrs Gantry sounded delighted. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Joanna. Lovely to hear from you again. I’d been wondering how your investigation was getting on, particularly since poor old Timony was shot. Do, please, come over.’
‘Do you still have all your scrapbooks?’
‘Of course. I shall never throw them away. They mean everything to me.’
‘I’ll be over in half an hour,’ Joanna said.
She called in at the flower shop and bought a small bunch of flowers. Mrs Gantry was bound to like them. She could also give her the autographed photograph – the last autograph Timony had ever signed. Maybe that would make it worth even more.
As she handed the flowers to her the older
woman blushed. ‘It’s a long time since anyone’s bought me flowers.’ Her eyes met Joanna’s. ‘You really shouldn’t have done that, you know. There was no need.’
‘Well, I’m bothering you on a Sunday.’
Elizabeth Gantry simply laughed. ‘Oh, my dear girl,’ she said. ‘Sundays aren’t quite the same when you’re a widow.’
Joanna handed her the photograph too and Mrs Gantry looked at it sentimentally. ‘How terrible,’ she said, ‘that she should meet with such an end.’
Joanna said nothing but let Mrs Gantry gaze at the photograph for a minute or two. Then she regained her native briskness. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’ve got all my albums out as well as the cigarette cards.’
‘Cigarette cards?’
‘Yes. Amazing, isn’t it? They used to put cards in packets of cigarettes and you collected the set.’ She smiled. ‘Encouraging your parents to keep puffing away just so you could acquire the entire lot. And I have, after a lot of swapping and changing,’ she announced proudly, ‘a whole set of Butterfield cards. Probably quite rare now,’ she added. ‘Maybe worth a bit since.’ She swallowed. ‘Since Timony’s …’
The Final Curtain Page 25
