Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Hmm,’ Joanna said. ‘Right then, Mike, time to chat to the neighbours.’

  She replaced her muddy wellies with her clean shoes and they drove back down the farm track, out onto the Ashbourne road and into the estate. Like many developments of a similar size in the middle of the day, the road and houses appeared deserted.

  Except for the last but one house on the right, a smart, three-storeyed residence with a huge pillared portico. Right in front, parked as showily as an advertisement car, was a plum-coloured Porsche Boxster with an ugly scrape along its length.

  They looked at each other. ‘Interesting,’ Joanna commented.

  ‘Well, at least it looks like Frankwell, the builder, is in. He wasn’t around all day yesterday.’

  They parked outside and approached the door, listening for a moment. It was surprising how much you gleaned from covert surveillance – snooping, in other words. But inside all was silent, so Joanna knocked.

  The man who opened the door quickly, as though he had been watching them walk up the drive, was dark-haired and slim, with an oily, continental look. Joanna caught a strong waft of sweet, almost feminine, aftershave. He flashed white teeth at them, particularly Joanna.

  In return she flashed him back a smile and her ID card.

  His eyes flickered across it. ‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’

  Surely, surely he must have realised something was going on?

  ‘May we come in?’

  He tried to resist. ‘It isn’t really a good time…’ But Joanna was rarely refused. Frankwell met her determined gaze, realised this was not a polite question, gave up and stood aside to let them enter.

  Inside it was obvious that Gabriel Frankwell was busily packing up. There were boxes everywhere. Joanna faced him. ‘Moving house, Mr Frankwell?’

  ‘Well.’ His smile and palm-showing was almost disarming. ‘I built these houses, you know. I…umm…I never really meant to live here, you understand. It’s a stop-gap.’

  So one of these houses was for sale in spite of there being no board up. Interesting, Joanna thought. ‘I see. So do you have a buyer for this one?’

  Frankwell showed his eager, businessman’s instinct.

  ‘Almost,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come into the sitting room?’

  The room was lovely, ticking all the boxes: pale colours, a soft-looking ivory leather sofa, abstract prints over a contemporary coal-effect hole-in-the-wall fireplace, conservatory beyond with fine views of an open field peppered with sheep, and to the right, the back of Grimshaw’s cowshed, looking almost pretty smothered in a pink climbing rose. Far enough away to look quaint. Interestingly there was no view of the farmhouse, Joanna noted. Frankwell had kept the best place for himself. And now he was selling it. ‘Very nice,’ she said appreciatively.

  Frankwell looked as pleased as though he had just made a successful sale.

  ‘So where to next, Mr Frankwell? Where are you moving to?’

  Frankwell looked slightly sheepish. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a girlfriend in Brazil. Rio. She’s pregnant, due soon, and I really want to be with her.’

  ‘So you’re anxious to sell,’ Korpanski put in, picking up on Joanna’s thought processes.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘No more property development, Mr Frankwell?’ Joanna mused.

  ‘I’ve got some plans,’ he said, ‘but if you don’t mind I’ll keep them to myself.’

  And at last he asked the question. ‘So, what is all this about?’

  ‘Did you realise there was some activity at the farm yesterday?’ Joanna glanced pointedly at the distant view.

  Frankwell looked puzzled. ‘I wasn’t here all day,’ he said. ‘I had a meeting with the bank manager about transferring my assets to Brazil. Then I went to sign some documents at the estate agent’s.’

  ‘And later on?’

  ‘I spent the evening with my daughter, Phoebe,’ he said. ‘I’m going to miss her when I’ve gone so naturally I’m anxious to spend as much time as I can with her. We went to see a film at Festival Park then went out for something to eat. It was quite late when we got back. I took her back to Charlotte’s.’

  ‘Your ex-wife?’

  Frankwell nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t find it a problem living so close to her, on the same housing estate?’

  ‘No. I elected to so I could spend plenty of time with Phoebe.’

  ‘Before jetting off to Brazil and your new family.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway – yesterday. I was tired. When I got back, I telephoned Lucia and we spoke for about ten minutes. Then I went straight to bed. You can verify most of that, I’m sure.’ He threw the challenge down like a leather gauntlet and Joanna nodded. Frankwell promised to be a worthy adversary.

  ‘I’m afraid the farmer’s been found dead,’ Joanna said. ‘Murdered.’

  Frankwell did a double-take. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Old Grimshaw? No.’ There was something like panic in his voice. ‘It can’t be. When?’

  ‘Some time during the past week, we think,’ Korpanski said carefully.

  Frankwell went chalk white. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered, not addressing either of the two detectives. His head shook from side to side. ‘This is not a coincidence.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Frankwell’s eyes were almost hooded, dark brown and slightly almond-shaped. Joanna decided he must have some oriental blood in him. There was something about the extreme darkness of the hair, his face shape and the olive tone to his skin.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said firmly.

  ‘You can’t shed any light on Mr Grimshaw’s death?’

  ‘No,’ Frankwell said – even more firmly. ‘When did you last see him, Mr Frankwell?’

  Frankwell’s brow furrowed. ‘I haven’t a clue. Not for sure. It’s probably months since I last spoke to him.’

  ‘What about?’ Korpanski this time.

  ‘If you must know I wanted to buy another field from him. I’ve left some access between here and the Barnes’s house and should get planning permission for another five houses. I wouldn’t need to build them – just get outline planning permission. The deal would have financed a few good years in Brazil, just until I get my feet under the table there.’ He gave a cheeky grin and Joanna smiled back innocently, as though she was genuinely interested. ‘So did he sell?’

  ‘He said he’d think about it. I imagined that any day now he’d let me know.’ His eyes flickered towards the window.

  And Joanna smelt the proverbial rat. ‘Just a field, Mr Frankwell? Sure you weren’t trying to persuade him to sell the farm itself?’

  Frankwell’s flash of temper was as sudden and violent as a summer storm complete with lightning. ‘He wouldn’t sell me the farm,’ he said, ‘however much money I offered him. He was as stubborn as a mule.’ He gave a disdainful shrug. ‘He told me he’d live and die there.’

  ‘Really?’ Joanna and Korpanski exchanged glances. It was Joanna who made the comment. ‘Prophetic.’

  She let the word sink into the air before embarking on her final questions. ‘Just for the record, Mr Frankwell, have you any idea where you were on the 10th, 11th and 12th of September? The Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of last week,’ she added helpfully.

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Do you keep a diary?’

  He nodded and the two detectives waited while he left the room to retrieve it. They looked at one another. Joanna lifted her eyebrows while Korpanski made a similar non-committal face.

  Frankwell returned. ‘Monday I was here,’ he said. ‘Tuesday I was in London until late and Wednesday of last week I was packing here all day. My daughter spent the evening with me and I cooked.’ He looked pleased with himself.

  Joanna got to her feet. ‘Just for interest,’ she said casually, which might have fooled Frankwell but certainly didn’t Mike Korpanski, ‘why was Grimshaw so determined to hang on to the field? I imagine you would have given him a good and fair price for it?�
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  ‘Generous,’ Frankwell said. ‘Believe me. He wouldn’t have got a better price from anyone for that poxy bit of land. It is less than two acres.’

  It was Korpanski who asked the next question. ‘So what was he doing with the field?’

  ‘Stubborn old fool was keeping a few sheep on it. Sheep. More trouble than they’re worth. He’d had no end of problems keeping sheep a couple of years back. They all had rotten feet or something. Don’t know why he was continuing with them. No one would have given him a better price for that bit of land,’ he said again. It was obviously one of Gabriel Frankwell’s bandwagons.

  They walked outside then, Frankwell keeping up with them as though he was anxious to see them off his property. ‘Nasty bit of damage to your car,’ Korpanski commented.

  Frankwell’s face darkened. ‘Some people,’ he said, ‘see a nice car and feel envious.’

  ‘And which house does your wife live in?’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ Frankwell corrected quickly and tried to turn it into a joke. ‘I’m not intending bigamy, Inspector. Number 3.’

  ‘Next door but one? That is very close.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Frankwell insisted.

  ‘What complicated lives some people lead,’ Joanna said gently.

  Frankwell shot her a suspicious look, which Joanna bounced back innocently.

  They left then, and noticed that while they had been inside number 7, a silver Mercedes had appeared outside number 3. ‘Let’s go and visit the ex-wife, shall we, Mike? See what she can corroborate.’

  Chapter Five

  Charlotte Frankwell opened the door to them instantly in response to Joanna’s hard knock, leading rise to the suspicion that she had been keeping an eye on them through the window. She was a polished product, Joanna realised quickly. Manicured nails, shining strawberry-blonde hair, neat size-ten jeans and three-inch stilettos. Such women had always fascinated Joanna. How did they keep it up? To never have wild hair, be caught without make-up, slumming it in slippers and a shabby dressing gown?

  Charlotte appraised her right back, gave a cursory glance at their ID cards, swiftly ran her eyes over Korpanski and addressed Joanna. ‘Let me guess,’ she said shrewdly, fixing her with a stare of expertly made-up very blue eyes. ‘You’re here about poor old Grimshaw, aren’t you? I heard he’d been murdered. Bashed over the head,’ she said with relish. ‘How awful. Right on my doorstep too.’

  ‘That’s correct, Mrs Frankwell,’ Joanna said formally. ‘We wondered whether you might be able to shed any light on the crime.’

  The pupils of Charlotte’s eyes became very small and clever. ‘In what way?’ she asked silkily.

  ‘Well – for instance – when did you last see Mr Grimshaw?’

  Frankwell’s ex-wife was no fool. She spent just the right amount of time thinking about it.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that since your officer asked me. I think it was… Look why don’t you come in?’ She asked the question with a charming flash of dazzling teeth. ‘I shouldn’t keep you chatting here on my doorstep, should I?’

  She led them into a large state-of-the-art kitchen, terracotta tiles on the floor, cream units, black granite tops and a splash here and there of red in the wall tiles. Joanna approved. It was three times the size of her kitchen in Waterfall Cottage. They sat round a large, rectangular Victorian oak table. The feel of the room was surprisingly relaxed and comfortable.

  Joanna’s respect for Mrs Frankwell notched up an inch.

  Charlotte reopened the conversation. ‘You asked me when I last saw Mr Grimshaw.’

  Both Korpanski and Joanna nodded.

  ‘I think it was some time over the weekend before last.’ She gave a swift upwards glance at a wall calendar. ‘The weekend of the 8th and 9th of September. Probably the Sunday. He was talking to the little Mostyn girl. She’s crazy about horses and she was riding his little pony.’ Her perfectly lipsticked mouth curved into a smile. ‘He has a soft spot for little Rachel. Probably the only human being he was fond of,’ she reflected. ‘When his daughter came to visit it was nothing but a slanging match. Noisy, too. Judy is no shrinking violet.’ She gave Korpanski a frankly flirtatious look. ‘When do you think he died, Sergeant Korpanski?’

  Joanna smiled inwardly. Mrs Frankwell had memorised Korpanski’s name. She just loved it when women embarrassed him.

  Mike flushed. ‘Almost certainly some time on the Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday of that week,’ he answered woodenly.

  Mrs Frankwell looked appalled. ‘And he’s lain there, dead, all this time?’

  ‘This is what we suspect.’

  Charlotte’s eyes looked horrified. ‘Just the other side of my wall? It could have been me who found him.’

  They couldn’t deny this.

  ‘You didn’t notice the smell?’

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s always a smell here. It’s a farm.’

  Joanna smiled and left Charlotte to take the initiative. ‘I expect you’ve been talking to my husband?’ her question was directed at Joanna.

  ‘Correct.’

  The mouth curved again. ‘I daresay you thought him pretty fanciable.’

  Not my type, Joanna thought, but wisely made no comment.

  Without waiting for a response, Charlotte continued. ‘Then let me disillusion you, Inspector Piercy. My husband would do anything to further his own ends and desires. He pleases himself.’

  ‘Does this have any bearing on the crime, Mrs Frankwell?’

  ‘Who knows?’ she said airily, with a wave of her small hands. ‘He’s certainly been very keen to extend the estate – or at least make some money by buying up a field full of sheep and selling it on with planning permission for more houses. Nice little killing that. He would have made a cool two hundred thousand simply by changing the use of the land, not laying a single brick or digging an inch of foundations. You have to hand it to Gabriel, he’s clever and he would have sat it out except for leetle Lucia.’ She managed the Romanic lilt with the talent of a character actress.

  Joanna smiled. ‘Hardly a motive for murder.’

  Charlotte Frankwell merely lifted her eyebrows. ‘You think not, Inspector Piercy? Well, perhaps you should remember a few things. My husband is unscrupulous and determined. He is also very greedy and a liar. Put these observations together with the fact that Mr farmer Grimshaw is extremely stubborn and fond of his small-holding – the shrunken farm – and you have a potentially fatal combination. Plus,’ she said firmly, ‘Mr Grimshaw is not quite as naive as he appears. He’s not above playing tricks just as dirty as my husband’s.’ She looked pleased with herself for getting this in. ‘Notice his car, did you? The Porsche; his pride and joy. Nasty, nasty scrape on the side.’

  Joanna felt almost nauseated with the woman’s malice and waited for Charlotte’s punchline.

  ‘Of course quite a few of the lanes here are very narrow, aren’t they?’ A stare from the cornflower blue eyes didn’t quite give the desired innocence to the comment.

  ‘Gabriel drives far too fast. And of course tractors take up rather a lot of room, don’t they?’

  ‘Did your husband report the incident?’

  The blue eyes flashed onto Korpanski. ‘No, Sergeant. He didn’t.’

  ‘So it was amicably settled,’ Joanna asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ Charlotte asked.

  The two police officers could well imagine; anger and fury meeting Grimshaw’s bland smile, which probably masked utter glee at the damage done to his adversary’s precious car.

  Joanna leant forward. ‘Let me get this quite clear, Mrs Frankwell: are you making an allegation against your husband? Are you saying that you think he’s responsible for this crime? That he murdered Jakob Grimshaw to get his hands on the land?’

  ‘Ex-husband,’ Charlotte Frankwell said coolly, ‘and all I’m saying is that if I was you, I would consider him very carefully as a suspect.’

  Perhaps it was her very coolness that ma
de Joanna shudder and decide to bring the interview to an end. She stood up. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’ She was like a little cat. Eyes narrowing, curving smile, practically purring as she lapped up a saucer of cream.

  Her face was almost serene as she closed the door behind them.

  Half an hour later, Joanna and Mike were holed up in a local pub, tucking into a bar meal and a pint each of shandy. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you make of that one?’

  Korpanski was silent for a minute. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She must know her husband, his faults and virtues and what he’s capable of. But on the other hand, perhaps she’s simply being bitchy, wanting to spoil it for her husband and his new family.’

  ‘She didn’t strike me as particularly bitter,’ Joanna observed. ‘She seemed more pleased to be rid of him, as though she had other fish to fry.’

  Korpanski grinned. ‘Don’t underestimate the female of the species,’ he said. ‘Deadlier than the male.’

  Joanna joined him laughing. ‘So you say. Personally, I think that’s one of those nasty little clichés.’

  As she studied the humour in her colleague’s face she reflected how much Korpanski had changed since his sullen, resentful, early days. She hadn’t seen him smile like this for at least the first year. Then, slowly, as they had worked together, he had mellowed – perhaps she had too – and out of those changes had emerged this comfortable, companionable, loyal friendship.

  Her mobile phone tone interrupted her thoughts. It was Matthew. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Jo? Where are you?’

  ‘Holed up in a pub with Korpanski,’ she said, ‘having just interviewed a black widow spider.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised stiffly. ‘I just wondered if you would be free tonight?’

  ‘Oh, Matthew,’ she said. ‘With a murder investigation ongoing? No chance. Why? Was it anything special?’

  ‘Caro’s been in touch,’ he came back. ‘She seems keen to have a night out together.’