Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘What about Saturday?’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring her back and see how she’s fixed Saturday.’ He paused and Joanna sensed he had more to say.

  ‘Also, I thought you might like to know I went over the Grimshaw post-mortem with Jordan. He’s done a great job. I didn’t really have anything to add except that from the first blow to his death was probably ten to fifteen minutes. There’s substantial bruising around some of the defensive injuries to the forearm.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how that fits in with the crime scene.’

  She frowned. ‘Neither do I. I’ll have to go back there, Matt, with a couple of stand-ins, and see how it could have happened.’

  Matthew Levin tucked his last phrase in as though it was a casual after-thought, had she not known better. ‘Oh, by the way. You haven’t forgotten Eloise’s interview is next Wednesday and Thursday, have you? It is OK if she stays with us Wednesday night, isn’t it?’

  Coward, she thought. He’d asked her over the phone, knowing she would not be alone and therefore unable to give vent to her true thoughts. Then she went deeper and explored why. Matthew wasn’t a natural coward at all. This was simply something he would always shrink from – putting his daughter and his now-fiancée face to face.

  ‘Fine by me,’ she said, imitating the casual tone Matthew had affected.

  He rung off then and Joanna made a face at Mike.

  ‘Remind me to work very late next Wednesday,’ she said and immediately felt disloyal to Matthew – even to Eloise, her about-to-be stepdaughter.

  She felt her mouth stiffen. Miss Eloise Levin was a very difficult young woman, a lethal mixture of utter devotion to her father and plain dislike for Joanna.

  They finished their lunch and Joanna felt fidgety, as though something was unfinished – unsatisfactory.

  ‘We should go back to the farm,’ she said. ‘Matthew thinks the assault on Grimshaw was quite sustained. He mentioned ten to fifteen minutes.’ Again she frowned. ‘That’s a long time, Mike. I find it hard to believe that no one saw anything.’

  Korpanski nodded.

  She paused, allowing her thoughts to sink in, move forward and conclude.

  ‘Three houses back onto the murder scene: Mostyn, whose little girl used to ride Grimshaw’s pony; Charlotte Frankwell and the Westons. I suggest we return to Charlotte Frankwell’s, even if it’s just to rattle her cage a bit. I’d like us to go over her exact movements on the three critical days. Is it really possible none of these people saw anything?’

  As they walked back to their car she recalled something else that had struck her as odd.

  ‘Mike,’ she said slowly. ‘Did you notice that all the curtains to number 4 were closed?’

  ‘Not really, Jo,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know who lives there?’

  Korpanski consulted his Filofax. ‘A Mr and Mrs Parnell,’ he said.

  ‘Who interviewed them?’

  Again Korpanski consulted his trusty Filofax.

  ‘Alan King and Dawn Critchlow.’

  ‘What did they say about them?’

  ‘Mr Parnell was away on business. Mrs Parnell was a bit weird.’

  She gave him a keen look.

  ‘In what way?’

  Korpanski shrugged. ‘Didn’t say. Just that something struck them as not quite right.’

  Joanna let out a long, whistling breath. ‘Someone else we should visit then.’

  As she might have expected, Charlotte Frankwell had her answers off pat. She’d been at work on all three days in question; her daughter had been at school, then either in an after-school club until five o’clock or out with her father. ‘For all his faults,’ she said grudgingly, ‘Gabriel is genuinely fond of Phoebe. She’ll miss him when he goes.’

  Joanna was quick to pick up on the regret in her tone. ‘You’d probably prefer him not to go so far away?’

  Charlotte Frankwell frowned. ‘Of course I would. Phoebe simply adores her father. She was heartbroken when I broke the news that he was going away and that she wouldn’t be seeing so much of him in the future.’

  Joanna had an uncomfortable glimpse of a child bereft of an adored parent and felt a slight twinge of guilt.

  ‘Where do you work?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘In a small dress shop along St Edwards Street. Top Hat.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Mostly on my own but the proprietor pops in and out through the day. It happens to be quiet most of the time except Saturdays – and we’re closed on a Sunday.’

  Joanna tucked the fact away. ‘But you’re not at work today?’

  The comment seemed to irritate Charlotte Frankwell. ‘I’m owed some holiday,’ she said haughtily. She squared her shoulders and faced Joanna with a bold stare. ‘Are you saying I’m a suspect, Inspector?’

  Joanna was tempted to quote the Clouseau line: ‘I suspect everyone and I suspect no one.’ But it would have been inappropriate and would probably lead to a complaint of levity in a serious case.

  ‘The evenings?’

  ‘I was in on my own during the evenings.’

  Joanna nodded. No alibi, then. But from what Matthew had said, the assault on Grimshaw had been sustained. Looking at the forensic evidence of the blood spots, the progression towards the wall where he had finally died would have taken him past the backs of three houses. For somewhere around fifteen minutes there would have been prolonged shouts and screams. If, as Joanna suspected, Grimshaw had headed towards the wall hoping to attract the attention of one of his neighbours, he would have made sure he made a noise. As much as possible. On the other hand, this was the sort of housing estate that’s deserted from nine to five – a ghost town during the working day. An ideal time for murder. Not so the evenings, when people might be in their gardens or have windows open and either see or hear enough to call the police.

  In broad daylight then.

  ‘Do you mind if we take a look at the bottom of your garden?’

  Charlotte shook her head then gave a swift glance, for the first time looking upset. ‘He was there, wasn’t he? I’ve seen the little white gazebo you’ve erected. So near,’ she mused.

  Neither of the two police could deny it. It was a fact, which Charlotte was too shrewd not to recognise. She shuddered. ‘It could easily have been me who found him,’ she said, ‘or worse – it could have been Phoebe.’ She actually paled. ‘She’s just ten years old.’

  She then looked up again, her face stricken. ‘I suppose as he was lying so near my property I’m a suspect?’

  It was Korpanski who found some sympathy for her. ‘Not exactly, Mrs Frankwell,’ he soothed. ‘You don’t have a motive. Besides, he was actually behind the Weston’s part of the wall.’

  The comment seemed to make Charlotte smug – arch, even.

  ‘Right,’ she agreed. ‘Come on then.’

  Even from her patio doors the police activity was all too obvious. Joanna could hear voices and police radios, see arc lights and a lot of people walking around purposefully. Then there was the white tent, the cars, the general air of busyness.

  Charlotte slid open the patio doors and they stepped outside.

  Approaching the murder scene from the opposite side it seemed different. A mirror image of the view she had taken in earlier. But Joanna noticed other things, too. The cowshed looked huge from here, dwarfing the farmhouse to its right. From this angle, the farmhouse appeared less run-down, less ramshackle. Prettier. Almost quaint. The yard that surrounded the house looked picturesque, with the oak tree spreading shelter over almost its entire span. As she and Mike walked up the garden path with Charlotte two steps behind, she was aware of this new approach to the murder scene, the curving path, the neatly clipped sides of the lawn, a climbing rose ambling its way lazily over the wall. As she stood and studied this reverse angle, she began to realise how many blind spots there were. The back door to the farm was hidden, the area between the farmhouse and the barns, the far side of the barn. Perhaps the killer h
ad been safer than she had thought.

  She made a mental note to visit the Weston family in number 1 before the day was out. She wanted to assess the view from their garden in the daylight too.

  The longer she stood and gazed, the less like a crime scene the vista appeared. She was almost lost in the scene. Until Korpanski touched her arm and broke into her thoughts.

  ‘Jo,’ he said softly. When she turned she realised she could have stood there, eyeing the farm for hours. There is something tranquil and timeless about a farmyard. Even when it is both devoid of animals and is a murder scene.

  They left Charlotte Frankwell and returned to the farmhouse. Mark Fask met her at the gate, red in the face and obviously angry. ‘We’ve had a bit of trouble with Grimshaw’s daughter,’ he said. ‘She seems resentful of the fact that we’re doing such a thorough search of the farmhouse.’

  Korpanski gave a grunt and an apologetic shrug in Joanna’s direction. ‘That’s her all right. Told you she was tricky.’ Joanna looked along the track to see a slim woman in her forties, dressed casually in cargo pants, olive green sweatshirt and wellies, striding towards her. Even from thirty yards it was easy to see she was angry too. Her wellies slapped through the mud, splashing it behind her. ‘Are you Inspector Piercy?’ she called when she was ten yards away.

  Joanna admitted that she was.

  Grimshaw’s daughter reached her. ‘Is all this…’ she waved her hands around, ‘really necessary?’

  Joanna was already irritated. It was hard to believe they were investigating the murder of this woman’s father. ‘Sorry?’ she said bluntly. And anyone who knew Joanna Piercy at all – let alone well – would have recognised the steeliness and hostility in her voice. All the warning signs of an approaching storm.

  Judy Grimshaw looked at Mike, who spoke for her. ‘This is Mr Grimshaw’s daughter, Judy.’ He sounded apologetic, as though it was somehow his fault that she was so angry.

  Joanna gave the woman another chance and held her hand out. ‘Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy,’ she said with a pleasant but bland smile, ‘Leek police. I’m the senior investigating officer in your father’s murder case. I’m glad to have met you.’

  But Ms Grimshaw didn’t bother returning the civilities. ‘Is it really necessary for your little terriers to go right through every single cupboard and drawer of my father’s house? What on earth do you think you’re going to find?’

  ‘We don’t know, Miss, Mrs—?’

  ‘My married name is Wilkinson,’ Judy Wilkinson snapped.

  ‘Mrs Wilkinson. I would have thought you would have wanted to unearth anything that might lead to the apprehension of your father’s killer.’

  ‘I don’t think this,’ she waved her hands at the activity all around, ‘will lead you any nearer his killer.’

  Joanna simply regarded the angry woman without replying. The truth was that she wanted her removed from the crime scene before she exploded. She wanted to re-enact the actual murder, and that wasn’t possible with Grimshaw’s daughter looking on. Even if she hadn’t been a difficult, stroppy cow. This was tiresome.

  She looked at Mike, knew he was reading her thoughts exactly, and hoped he would come up with some solution. But he simply stared ahead, as though trying to block out the mini drama.

  So it was up to her. Thanks, Mike, she thought.

  ‘It’s intrusive.’ Judy Wilkinson carried on the tirade. ‘An invasion of human rights.’

  Yeah, yeah, Joanna thought, trying hard not to roll her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Mrs Wilkinson,’ she said, dragging out the last ounce of her politeness. ‘We have our job to do. We also need to isolate the crime scene for the afternoon. I wonder… Do you think? Would you mind?’

  The farmer’s daughter gave Joanna a sour look. ‘It’s all right, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I have to be at work anyway.’

  Phew, Joanna thought, slightly surprised that she had not taken compassionate leave.

  Once Judy Wilkinson’s little red car had shot off down the road they could proceed with the reenactment of the actual crime. She used Korpanski as the farmer and Hesketh-Brown as the perpetrator, with Mark Fask timing the action.

  Fask was at his best doing this sort of thing, threading forensic clues through post-mortem evidence and working out the sequence of events.

  He stood at the back door. ‘I think our perpetrator began the attack here,’ he said. ‘This is where there was a large pool of blood and some fresh splintering on the back door frame. We found blood on some of the splinters and underneath, where the wood had been broken. They were consistent with the baseball bat injuries. I thought it was likely that it was during this initial assault that Grimshaw’s arm was broken. We found traces of blood going down the path and towards the cowshed. It’s possible that Grimshaw was thinking of barring himself in at this point. If that was what was in his mind, it’s possible that the broken arm made him unable to lift the bar.’ To illustrate his thesis, he pushed open the bar that held the barn doors together. ‘It’s quite stiff and heavy and our victim would have been weakened by the attack.’

  Joanna nodded. So far it was making sense.

  ‘We found spots of blood in many places in the yard,’ Fask continued, while Mike and Hesketh-Brown ‘slugged it out’. ‘Particularly behind the cowshed.’

  They moved behind and took the path Fask was suggesting. ‘Concealed from the estate,’ Joanna observed.

  ‘Just a theory, Jo,’ Fask continued, as they moved around the back of the cowshed, ‘but there is a pink rambling rose here. Dr Cray removed a rose thorn from Grimshaw’s hand. There are also a number of blood spots here. I wondered if Grimshaw was shouting by now, trying to make his way around towards the wall and attract the attention of the people whose gardens back on to his land.’

  Joanna rubbed her chin. ‘It’s possible,’ she said slowly. Her eyes drifted across to the dry stone wall, the boundary between the two civilisations. Old and new.

  She stood at its base and peered over at the row of houses with their neat garden furniture, tidy flowerbeds and immaculate lawns. There could hardly be a greater contrast. So now she was looking at the correct, rather than the reverse angle. The way Grimshaw must have looked at it in his final moments. She was silent as she collected her thoughts. Then she studied the spot where Grimshaw’s body had been found and marvelled. It might have been slumped against the back of the wall but it was only a few feet away from the Weston’s house and Charlotte Frankwell’s garden. The killer had taken a risk.

  She turned and looked back at the farm.

  Something was…

  ‘Tell you anything, Jo?’

  ‘Not sure, Mike. Not sure.’ She met his dark gaze. ‘I know one thing. To understand this crime it is necessary to stand both in the farmyard and the neighbours’ gardens.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, Mike, let’s go and interview the Westons.’

  4.25 p.m.

  Steven Weston was at home alone, looking distinctly uncomfortable to see them. Joanna wondered what he had been doing. She could see no book out, no computer on; the TV was switched off and the radio was silent.

  ‘Mr Weston?’ He looked nervous. He was a thin-faced, ferrety-looking man with small, pale eyes and a nervous tick in the corner of his right eye. He peered around the door, nose and right eye twitching. ‘Hello?’

  Joanna went through the repetition of who she was and what she was doing there. He stretched out a big hand warily. ‘Yes, they said you’d probably want to talk to me.’ They followed him into a sitting room with a brown leather corner sofa and a large plasma screen TV.

  ‘It was my wife, really. Not me. She noticed the smell.’ A nervous, silly smile. ‘She’s always had sensitive nostrils.’ Sillier than the smile was his giggle. Joanna hated men who giggled. She felt her toes grow cold.

  ‘When did she first mention the smell?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Weston waved those big hands around. ‘Some time in the week, I expect. I can’t remember prec
isely.’ His glance was constantly shooting back to the window. Once or twice he pulled his sleeve up clumsily to glance at his watch.

  The answer was soon apparent.

  ‘Better that she tells you herself.’ Another glance at his watch. Less surreptitious this time. ‘She’ll be home in a bit. Any time now. The shop closes at four thirty. She doesn’t usually work on a Wednesday but one of the other helpers is on holiday and they don’t like people to be there on their own. Safety, you know.’

  Right on cue they heard a car pull up outside and the door slam, footsteps treading the path, a key in the door. Then Kathleen Weston stood before them.

  She was a plump woman, tall and big-boned, with penetrating dark eyes, and a fury of fading red hair. She wore no make-up and exuded an air both of power and of motherliness. Joanna and Mike stood up and introduced themselves. Joanna eyed Mrs Weston. There was something familiar about her. Some retained memory of an event in which this woman had taken part. She frowned, irritated that her power of recall had temporarily deserted her.

  ‘It was a good job I did investigate,’ she said. ‘I wish I had sooner. Maybe then some of the animals might have survived. I can’t bear the thought that, had I just peered over the garden wall, some of the animals might not have died.’ She looked up. Her brown cow eyes were brimming with tears. ‘How is Old Spice?’ she asked.

  Joanna looked helplessly at Korpanski. ‘Last I heard, he was doing all right, Mrs Weston.’

  ‘Oh good,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I put it off but then I had to look. I’m glad I did or poor old Jakob would have lain there for ever.’

  Not for ever, Joanna thought, but for a lot longer, and she wondered what difference it would have made. Another day…or two?

  ‘When did you first notice the smell?’ Joanna asked.

  Kathleen thought for a moment, dug into a capacious handbag, consulted her diary then focused her eagle gaze on Joanna. ‘I was at work on the Tuesday,’ she said slowly, glancing down at her diary. ‘Last Wednesday, a week ago, I had my hair done. I don’t remember noticing a smell then. But when I came home from work last Thursday I did notice something. It got stronger, you know? Does that help you?’