The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ Joanna said, putting a hand on her arm, ‘or I’ll think you have a motive for wanting her dead and arrest you.’

  Elizabeth Gantry grimaced. ‘I suppose you could say that crimes have been done for less,’ she said. ‘But it would certainly make headlines in the Leek Post & Times.’ She handed Joanna an album, its covers dark brown leatherette, inside thick black pages in which had been inserted coloured cards, slightly smaller than a credit card.

  Joanna looked at the album. How times had changed. She flicked through them. The entire cast was here, all giving cheesy grins: Keith and David, Sean, Joab, Lily, May. The farm, even the animals: Daisy and Bluebell, Friesian cows, lambs named Springer and Jonty, cats – not posh Burmese like Tuptim but ginger and tortoiseshell. She leafed through page after page, wondering what it was she was looking for.

  Elizabeth Gantry tried to be helpful. ‘Was there any period in particular that you wanted to look at?’

  ‘Yes, the years nineteen sixty-four to sixty-six.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Elizabeth tapped the side of her nose and opened the album at a page. And there it was. November 1965. Lily Butterfield in a smock. How clever.

  Elizabeth Gantry was looking over her shoulder. ‘Sweet, isn’t she?’

  If only she knew. Elizabeth Gantry, and probably every single one of Butterfield’s fans, had failed to understand why little, sweet Lily Butterfield was wearing a smock. And why Dariel, who was not quite sane but celebrity obsessed, had felt inclined to destroy her for losing her purity.

  Monday, March 19, 9 a.m.

  And after fumbling around in the dark the beginning of the week, at last, brought compensation. Joanna had decided to call a briefing at a civilized hour for once, giving her officers time to prepare their reports before meeting together. She knew they would not let her down. She’d turned to the list on the board and wondered whether it was complete. It might be a focus for their enquiries but … She stared at it, wondering, then faced the room.

  Phil Scott was grinning at her. Obviously he had news.

  ‘You’d better go first,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve tracked down Sol Brannigan,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘And what’s better, he’s not legit.’

  ‘Go on,’ Joanna prompted. Eyeing the officers she could see one or two of them had something to report. Korpanski was watching her, looking intrigued. He was wondering what she’d been up to over the weekend. She’d tell him – later. Maybe even sing him a couple of songs from Carmen.

  Phil Scott continued, ‘He’s been under surveillance for money laundering. He runs a sort of property business based in Brighton but the Special Branch think it’s a cover. He’s been linked to organized crime – people trafficking, smuggling in cigarettes and illegal alcohol.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘If he’s been under surveillance from Special Branch I take it he couldn’t have had any link to Timony’s murder?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Phil Scott said. ‘They tend to keep a pretty close eye on their targets.’

  ‘Looks like he’s in the clear then.’ Joanna drew a line right through Sol Brannigan’s name, trying to look on the bright side. Even being able to exclude someone from their enquiries was a start. ‘Do we have any news on the gun?’

  WPC Dawn Critchlow supplied the information. ‘A .22 semi-automatic pistol,’ she said. ‘Probably a Walther PP.’

  ‘Any sign of it?’

  Obviously not. Every single head in the room was shaking. ‘A no, then,’ she said briskly. ‘Right,’ she continued. ‘Who’s next?’

  Paul Ruthin stepped forwards. ‘I spoke again to Stuart Renshaw,’ he said. ‘He knew he was adopted but he claims he didn’t know that Timony might be his real mother. He was under the impression that she was his adopted aunt. He said he was very fond of her and enjoyed hearing her stories about celebrity life.’

  ‘Did his adopted mother never tell him about the blood relationship?’

  Ruthin shrugged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He was under the impression that, like many adopted children, his adopted mother didn’t know much about his blood mother.’

  Joanna was incredulous. ‘And he never tried to find anything out?’

  Ruthin shook his head.

  ‘And never asked for access to his original birth certificate?’

  Again, Ruthin shook his head.

  ‘And how did he respond when you told him that his dear aunt was still legally married to our friend Van Eelen, so he would be unlikely to inherit?’

  Ruthin smirked. ‘I got the feeling,’ he said, ‘that it came as a nasty shock. But he covered it up well.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She turned around. ‘Right. Now we have a different list of suspects.’ She added Stuart Renshaw to the bottom of the list.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘I want you to work alongside me. Jason, well done. You can work with Phil Scott.’ Jason gave Mike a sort of resigned nod. He’d enjoyed working with the burly sergeant whom he’d hero-worshipped since his first day as a special. In his daydreams he was Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski, kicking and punching his way through.

  Unaware of Jason Sparks’ lofty aspirations Joanna turned around to look at the whiteboard. The list was growing rather than shrinking.

  James Freeman, Malcolm Hadleigh. She hesitated for a minute before studying the name, Diana Tong. Aware that Korpanski was watching her she spoke without turning around. ‘I’ll want us to go back to Butterfield, Mike, and speak to Diana Tong again at some point, but not just yet. I want to press her a little more.’

  Korpanski nodded. And she could tell that he was glad they were working together again, even if it did mean a break from his luxury car scam.

  She smiled at him. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your forage into the celebrity world.’

  He made a face. ‘It’s OK,’ he said easily.

  Alan King was just filing out with the others but she called him back. ‘Can you give me the number of Paul Dariel’s case worker?’

  He fumbled for his pocket book and she copied it down.

  Ruth Morgan. Community psychiatric worker.

  When the room had emptied Joanna dialled the number and was lucky enough to get straight through to her. She seemed refreshingly normal, willing to help and pleasantly sympathetic, down to earth and friendly, if a little prickly and defensive of her charge. ‘Paul is a pleasant man,’ she said. ‘He’s very different from the person he was years ago.’

  ‘Is he still dangerous?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be out if he was,’ she answered sharply. ‘Whatever the media say we’re not in the habit of letting dangerous schizophrenics roam the streets attacking people.’

  Joanna gave Mike a quick glance. ‘Is that what his diagnosis is, schizophrenia?’

  ‘Provisionally, yes.’

  ‘Provisionally? After all this time? Does that mean you’re not sure, that it could be something else?’

  ‘Psychiatric diagnoses are a little less precise than a broken leg or a chest infection,’ Ruth said briskly.

  ‘But the reason that he gave for the original assault?’

  ‘He claims he did it because she had defiled her body. It’s very typical of the sort of reason a schizophrenic would give for an assault.’

  But she had. He had not been deluded but correct.

  Possibly interpreting Joanna’s silence as a failure to understand, Ruth Morgan explained, ‘He said she was pregnant.’ She snorted. ‘She was, at the time, thirteen, fourteen years old? If she was she was a bit bloody young for that. She was a famous actress, for goodness’ sake. In the public eye. There was nothing in the media. Paul was mistaken. That’s all. He’s never even threatened anyone else.’

  ‘Why her eyes?’

  ‘It’s where they always go for.’ She said it so casually the psychiatric worker could have been saying that she shopped at Tesco’s. ‘Letting the devil out,’ she continued, finishing lamely. ‘And such.’

  ‘He spent how long in Broadmoor?’

  ‘He was released
in nineteen seventy-five, so ten years.’

  ‘Have you asked him whether he still harbours thoughts about her?’

  ‘When we heard about her murder we did think to ask him some questions,’ she admitted reluctantly.

  Joanna wanted to bleed it out of her. AND? Instead she skirted around. ‘Does he know where she lives?’

  It was at this point that Ruth, the professional, lost confidence. ‘It’s a bit difficult,’ she said awkwardly. ‘He says she lives in Butterfield. It’s what it said in the papers,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t sure whether he meant the house in Staffordshire or …’

  Joanna gave Mike a quick anxious glance. Butterfield. It could be interpreted as a clever answer, ambiguous and smart. Or …

  ‘How intelligent is Paul?’

  ‘He’s bright.’ The answer came with a certain degree of resignation, as though she had anticipated this question. ‘Of above average intelligence.’

  ‘In your opinion, Ruth, is it possible that he could have travelled to Butterfield?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Is he supervised all the time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then is it, in your opinion, possible that Paul Dariel returned to Butterfield and shot Timony Weeks?’

  There was the slightest of pauses and when Ruth Morgan answered Joanna knew she had picked her words out with great care. ‘In my opinion, no. It isn’t just Paul’s current mental state,’ she added quickly. ‘There’s the logistics. Although he’s not considered a risk any more a case worker always stays at the house. For him to travel from Manchester to remote Staffordshire would be very difficult – there isn’t a good public transport system. It would take all day to get there and back and although he isn’t constantly supervised he does have to be present for all meals – breakfast, lunch and dinner. Added to that your officers told me that there had been a prolonged programme of small tricks being played on Mrs Weeks. Paul doesn’t drive, Inspector. How on earth was he supposed to get from Manchester to the wilds of Staffordshire on numerous occasions, sometimes in the middle of the night? Someone would have had to drive him.’

  ‘OK,’ Joanna said. Ruth Morgan had presented a convincing defence case for Dariel’s innocence. ‘We may still need to interview him. Would that be possible?’

  ‘We can bring him down to you if you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ she said. ‘If we do want to speak to him we’ll be in touch.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And now?’ Mike was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘The theatre,’ she said gaily. Lunchtime rehearsals at the New Vic.

  Without an audience the atmosphere was very different. The production seemed as amateurish as a school play, with just as much teasing and ragging, Hadleigh at close quarters looking considerably older than at Saturday’s performance. They could see bags under his eyes, a line of white roots along the parting to his black hair. He greeted them warily.

  The theatre had a small anteroom which they used to talk to Hadleigh. ‘I suppose it’s about Timony,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and watching them from beneath warily lowered lids. ‘I heard it on the news. Always a drama queen. Knowing her I’d almost suspect she’d done it herself.’ He seemed to realize he’d overstepped the mark and, as people do, instead of retracting the statement, he plunged in deeper, looking from one to the other. ‘For the attention?’

  He closed his mouth to stop it from saying anything more.

  Joanna made no comment but launched into the questions. ‘Did you keep in touch with Timony over the years?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘Not really. She was just a kid in the Butterfield days,’ he said quickly, then chewed his bottom lip.

  ‘Just a kid, as you say,’ Joanna said. ‘But twenty by the time it folded. Twenty and married.’

  ‘Yeah, well. She was a lot younger than me.’

  Joanna looked at Hadleigh for a moment without speaking. She hadn’t expected someone so normal-looking. At Saturday’s performance he had seemed A toreador. A hero. A swaggering leading man. In Butterfield he had seemed as charismatic as Elvis or Robert Redford. But close up he was very unremarkable. Shorter and smaller than she remembered. What was this thing called a screen presence that made you appear so powerful? You wouldn’t have given him a second glance if you’d passed him in the street. Medium height, medium build, grey hair. Walked with a slight shuffle now, stared a little too hard and intently right into Joanna’s eyes before sitting down and waiting, politely, for them to continue. Sidetracked into reflection, Joanna had lost her thread so Korpanski took over, beginning with a noisy clearing of his throat which focused Hadleigh’s stare on him.

  There was always only one way Korpanski was ever going to conduct this interview. Bluntly.

  ‘You knew that Timony got pregnant in nineteen sixty-five?’

  Hadleigh looked as though he was going to brazen this one out. His jaw tightened and he said nothing.

  Korpanski continued smoothly. ‘And gave birth to a child in nineteen sixty-six? A little boy that her sister subsequently adopted?’

  Hadleigh leaned forward. ‘It was nothing to do with me,’ he hissed. ‘Nothing. She went away for a few months. That’s all I knew.’

  Korpanski proceeded with the interview like a steam roller. Unstoppable, not even slowing down to Hadleigh’s protestations. ‘Did you have sexual relations with Timony?’

  Hadleigh still brazened it out. ‘You can’t prove anything,’ he said.

  It was Joanna’s turn to speak. ‘We can get DNA from Stuart Renshaw,’ she said, ‘Timony’s son.’

  ‘And you’ll find out that I am not his father. Look higher up the evolutionary scale.’

  ‘Gerald?’

  Hadleigh blinked. ‘It’s your job to find out,’ he said, standing up. ‘Now unless you’re going to arrest me,’ he said, with all the dignity of an ageing actor, ‘I have to get on with my rehearsal.’

  As they left the theatre Joanna wondered. Had she been wrong about Hadleigh? Had she misread the creepy on-screen flirtation? Had the child maybe not been his but the man Timony subsequently married?

  Maybe she should find out. She might not get permission to exhume Gerald’s body to see if he was wearing his Rolex watch but she had a much better chance if she needed to extract some DNA.

  NINETEEN

  Tuesday, March 20, 8 a.m.

  Today she’d set aside to interview Freeman again. This time in the flesh.

  She had already warned him to expect a visit. So she and Mike met at Leek Police Station nice and early. They’d have to battle through the Potteries traffic to reach the M6 but then would take the Toll motorway, avoiding the M6 congestion around Birmingham and the M40. They made good time, arriving at central London in just three and a half hours, using a satnav to find their way to Sargasso Mansions. James Freeman, ex-producer of Butterfield Farm, had obviously made plenty of money. Sargasso Mansions proved to be an imposing block of 1930s apartments, eight storeys high, with bay windows all the way up. Entrance was via a radio link. Joanna eyed Korpanski, pressed the button and grinned. ‘Well, here we go, Mike.’

  Korpanski grinned back, his fingers crossed as Freeman’s voice responded crisply to Joanna’s introduction and the door was released. Inside the hallway was equally luxurious, polished black marble floor, panelled walls, a gleaming central round mahogany table on which stood a vase of lilies, two lifts doors facing – the expensive ambience furthered by the scent of the flowers and lavender wax polish.

  They took the lift to the seventh floor.

  Even in the flesh Freeman was still a very distinguished-looking man. Tall and thin, with a large, aquiline nose, thick white hair and shaggy eyebrows. He peered at them both, hostile eyes blazing bright blue, and scowled. ‘Don’t know what on earth you can possibly want with me,’ he grumbled as he led them indoors, ushering them into a room elegant in pale green and chinoiserie. They sat on some flimsy-looking
armchairs upholstered in gold and suddenly Joanna didn’t quite know where to start, not even in which decade. So she chose what she thought would initially be neutral ground, to him at least. He wouldn’t know what she knew. ‘The original set of Butterfield,’ she said. ‘The real farm you used as a backdrop.’

  He was instantly dismissive. ‘Most of it was shot in a studio,’ he said grumpily.

  Joanna glanced at Korpanski. It was the response they’d anticipated. But she smothered her irritation. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I mean the farm you used for the backdrop of your outside shots.’

  The eyebrows drew together and Joanna mused that those same shaggy eyebrows may well have been the warning signs to the cast that the day’s takes had not gone well.

  ‘It was in Worcestershire,’ Freeman finally said reluctantly, ‘not too far from the main studio which was BBC Birmingham, later Pebble Mill.’

  ‘I know,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘I’ve been there.’

  Freeman looked up. ‘Then why …?’

  Joanna shrugged, anxious to give no more away than she had to. She could play the game of secrets too. ‘It was burnt down, wasn’t it?’

  Freeman nodded. ‘I believe so,’ he said.

  ‘Deliberately?’

  Freeman shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ He sounded uninterested.

  ‘Do you know who burnt it down?’

  ‘I believe no one was ever charged.’

  Joanna nodded. She’d checked the police records. It was down as an unsolved arson.

  ‘Do you know when?’

  Freeman was getting irritated. ‘Is there a point to these questions?’

  ‘Just answer me, please.’

  ‘Must have been after nineteen seventy-two,’ he answered grumpily, ‘when the series folded.’

  ‘Do you know why it was burnt down?’

  The question provoked a long, angry sigh. ‘No bloody idea,’ he said testily.

  ‘Who owns it?’