Grave Stones (10 page)

The girl shook her head.

‘Did you ever hear him shouting at anyone?’ Again this elicited another shake of the head.

‘This next one is a difficult question, Rachel, but I can tell you you’re helping us very much, so I want you to think carefully about your answer. Do you know if Mr Grimshaw kept any money around the house?’

Her eyes were as round as saucers. She swallowed hard, again looked at her father for a cue. ‘He did,’ she whispered. ‘One day someone came with animal feed. A big lorry. He went upstairs. I don’t know where but when he came down his hand was full of twenty-pound notes. Full,’ she repeated.

Joanna looked at Mike. This was one avenue they had omitted to explore. But now…

She turned back to the little girl. ‘This won’t get you into trouble, I promise. You’ve done nothing wrong. But did you tell anybody about the money?’

The girl’s head shot round to look at her father. Richard Mostyn flushed. She might as well have pointed the accusatory finger.

There was an awkward silence, which the child filled with her plaintive voice. ‘Will I be able to ride Brutus again?’

‘I don’t know, love.’ Mike said. As a father, he knew better than to make idle promises, to keep it vague. ‘I expect so. We’ll have to see what happens to him and then ask his new owner.’

Again the child looked at her father and asked the tacit question. This time he shook his head with regret. Rachel didn’t protest but lowered her head before looking up again and volunteering new information.

‘He didn’t like me going near the pigs, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘He said they were capable of eating me.’ She looked at Mike. ‘Is that true?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve never heard of a man-eating pig, have you?’

By turning the grim question into a joke he’d reassured the child. Though where this little gem of information could possibly lead, Joanna couldn’t guess. She kept trying. ‘Is there
anything
you can think of that might help us know who hurt Mr Grimshaw?’

Again that doleful shake of the head.

They thanked the Mostyns, father and daughter, and left.

So what had they gained?

They were back at the station, drinking yet another coffee out of a styrofoam cup. The station had recently installed a coffee machine so they were on cappuccino, which wasn’t as bad as it might have been.

Joanna leant across the desk and spoke to Korpanski and DC Alan King. ‘So far, we’ve concentrated on the inhabitants of the estate,’ she said. ‘But Rachel Mostyn’s claim that there was money stored at the farm makes me wonder how far that story might have spread. There are plenty of villains hanging around who would kill for a fistful of—’

‘Dollars,’ King put in.

Korpanski swivelled his chair round to face the computer screen. ‘I’ll run a few checks.’

‘Which leads us to another line of inquiry,’ Joanna continued. ‘The lorry driver – the supplier of animal feeds. He knew there was money upstairs, too. We need to run a check on him.’

She stood up. ‘Well, we have a few leads thanks to the Mostyn girl.’ She considered for a moment, recalled the desperate glance the girl had given her father when she had asked who else knew.

‘Run a check on Mostyn,’ she said. ‘I’d be very interested to know his current financial state.’

They spent another hour collating the information they’d gathered and preparing for the following morning’s briefing. Korpanski and Alan King decamped to the pub, inviting Joanna along with them, but she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have a fiancé to return home to.’

She owed Matthew that, at least.

She arrived home at nine-thirty to find Matthew sitting on the sofa, lamps on, his blond head bent over a book about Egyptian Mummies. Matthew had eclectic reading habits. Their bookshelves were overflowing with books on varied subjects – from history to modern art, poisons to birds of America, travel and, naturally, forensics, while Joanna preferred her crime novels.

Matthew looked up and grinned as she entered. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How about I massage your neck while you drink a glass of wine?’

She kissed him before flinging herself down on the sofa. ‘Are you trying for the Man of the Year award?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Husband of the Year.’

She let the comment ride until he was rubbing her neck and she’d taken a few sips of the wine. ‘It’s September now,’ she said, testing out the ground. ‘Are you suggesting we get married before the year is out?’

‘Not seriously,’ he said, his fingers digging into tense muscles. ‘Unless you want a very low-key Registry Office sort of wedding.’

She turned the ring around on her finger remembering Mrs Parnell’s dark warning. She still hadn’t got used to the feel of the pearl, smooth, round and bulky. ‘Well, there’s an idea,’ she said without turning around.

‘By the way, on the same subject, your mother phoned.’

Joanna swivelled around, making him lose contact with her neck. ‘Did you tell her?’

He was smiling down at her. ‘Yes, I did. She was very
overexcited and started babbling straight away about bridesmaids and churches and things.’

‘Oh? Did you disillusion her?’

‘No,’ he said steadily, his eyes on her, ‘because you and I haven’t really sat down and talked about the actual wedding.’ He paused. ‘And what it means to us both.’

She took a long draught of the excellent wine. ‘Perhaps we should at least open the subject?’

‘OK.’ He went into the kitchen, brought back the bottle of wine and a beer for himself and sat in the armchair, opposite her, his green eyes steadily focused on her face.

She inclined her head towards him. ‘You start.’

He took a deep breath. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I don’t really care much about the actual ceremony – as long as it’s legal.’

She was in agreement with this. ‘Same here except I
don’t
want a church wedding. The thought of slinking up the aisle to the sound of the “Messiah” or something fills me with the heebie-jeebies. Anyway,’ she gave him a straight look, ‘not all churches will marry you if you’re divorced.’

‘True.’

‘I did wonder…’

‘The hotel near the Roaches does weddings,’ he said quickly. ‘The entire package. It’s right on the moors, very wild and very much our sort of place.’

So typical of Matthew to have done the groundwork. ‘You’ve been there?’

‘A few months ago,’ he admitted. ‘One weekend when you were working. I was out that way and saw it and thought it looked great so went in and got a brochure.’

She held her hand out and he fetched it from his desk.

He was right. It was Victorian Gothic, right out on the Roaches, a high and wild place between Buxton and Leek, part of the National Park and popular with climbers. She leafed through the brochure. The rooms looked exquisite and atmospheric, the views stupendous, the food mouth-watering.

Suddenly she was imagining it – a winter wedding, a frosting of snow and a wild wind, holly and scarlet berries, plenty of red and green, mulled wine and the scent of cinnamon. Music, lots of it, from reggae to pop, from Chopin to Scarlatti. Violins, a harp, a church organ.

She looked up and nodded and let her mind scamper away again.

White velvet for her and a white fur cape, her hands buried in a white fur muff. An Anne Boleyn headband sparkling with crystal and a short muslin veil, and her niece, Lara, in scarlet.

She looked across at Matthew and by telepathy realised that they were sharing the same vision.

‘I don’t think Eloise will want to be a bridesmaid,’ he said.

She shook her head. It wouldn’t be Eloise’s idea of fun at all. ‘But I do want her there,’ he added.

She nodded. ‘Of course. She’s your daughter.’

Matthew came and sat by her, very close. She could feel the warmth of his body, the hard muscles of his legs,
and inhale the scent of shampoo from his hair. He was right next to her but didn’t hold her hand or put his arm around her. She glanced at him. He was biting his lip.

She knew what was coming next and decided to save him the trouble of having to ask her.

‘You know I don’t want to give up my job,’ she said tentatively.

He nodded. His eyes flickered.

‘But
I
know you would love another child, preferably a boy.’ She hesitated. ‘Matthew, no woman can promise that,’ she said. ‘These things have a habit of sorting themselves out.’ She smiled into the fireplace, not at him, recalling her miscarriage. ‘But if it happens, I wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘Not a troop of offspring,’ she warned. ‘One – at the absolute, ultimate most two. No more but…’ His hand was stealing towards hers. He took the hand wearing the pearl and kissed it.

And for the first time she saw real happiness in his face. It was creased with joy.

Oh my goodness, she thought. This means so much to him and I have withheld it all until now. She felt almost humbled.

She’d driven in again, resenting the denial of her bike ride. Autumn was sliding away. It would soon be too dark to cross the moorland alone on her bike, so she’d be using her car every day. She’d have to try and go out over the weekends or she’d lose her ‘form’.

She kept the briefing factual, using wall charts to illustrate her points.

She spoke to Alan King and Dawn Critchlow about Teresa Parnell and they said they’d found her strange.

‘Get some medical information on her,’ Joanna said.

She detailed Bridget Anderton to look into the animal feeds lorry driver and Hannah Beardmore to run some local villains through the computer. She sensed there was more to this crime than met the eye – something criminal underlying the assault. She couldn’t say why she believed this except that it seemed logical. This was no simple murder.

As the officers gave their reports she was sure that the teams had all done their best and interviewed everyone on the estate, but it was equally obvious that no one had actually seen or heard anything.

Joanna knew that she had some issues to deal with. She had to see Jakob Grimshaw’s body for herself, run through the attack, speak to the pathologist who had performed the post-mortem.

At the back of her mind was Teresa Parnell’s flat statement. ‘He died at 11 o’clock on Tuesday the 11
^th
of September.’ Why had she been so specific? Joanna didn’t believe in mumbo jumbo but as a psychology graduate she did realise there could be an interaction between a physical incident and the subconscious, which could translate into intuition. Something had fed Mrs Parnell that specific time and date and she wanted to know what it was. At the same time, she would be interested to meet Mr Parnell.

Roderick Beeston rang at eleven confirming that Ratchet, the dog, had died of a barbiturates overdose and the cattle and the sow of dehydration. ‘Old Spice,’ he said jauntily, ‘has been rehoused in a neighbouring farm, where he seems most content.’ He chuckled. ‘Not missing his wife at all.’

Joanna laughed with him. She was fond of pigs herself, and not just as bacon. She thanked the vet for his trouble and asked about the pony, Brutus.

‘Well,’ Beeston said. ‘He’s just turned out in the field at the moment. I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. I suppose like the other animals, he’ll be considered part of the estate and sold. When it’s all wound up. These things take a heck of a time, don’t they?’

Joanna felt a momentary sympathy for Rachel Mostyn, who had formed an attachment to the animal, but she soon forgot about her.

Some of the forensic results were starting to roll in already. The dog’s dish had had plenty of fingerprints on it – all of them Jakob Grimshaw’s. The contents confirmed the vet’s findings. Ratchet’s last dinner had been heavily laced with barbiturates. Phenobarbitone.

‘Any old can’t-sleep-biddy has access to the stuff,’ the chemist said. But there weren’t any old can’t-sleep-biddies on the Prospect Farm Estate. So where had the barbiturates come from? Mrs Parnell? Was she on a sedative?

After the officers had dispersed, Joanna sat with Mike discussing the case. ‘We’ve looked at the people on the estate,’ she said. ‘Let’s look at possible motives.’ She sighed. ‘They all seem weak. Money being the strongest one. The land? Frankwell wanted to build on it and he was never going to manage that until the farm had been sold but Grimshaw wasn’t playing ball.
Over my dead body
was his attitude.’ The irony of the words seemed almost cruel.

She carried on, ‘Pollution from the farm? They all seemed to complain about the smell and Teresa Addams – sorry, Parnell – is one of those hand-washing people. Did you notice the kitchen, Mike?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Remind you of an operating theatre?’

Again he nodded.

She shivered. ‘Spooky.’

They were both silent until Joanna spoke again.

‘Ill treatment of animals? Kathleen Weston is an animal lover, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Exactly. Would her love for animals have led her to this?’

‘It was a vicious, risky and prolonged violent attack. I don’t think so.’

‘I need to see the body for myself,’ she said. ‘This isn’t working. I just don’t have a complete picture. I got back a day too late. Did Jordan Cray say it had to be a male who carried out the assault?’

‘Apparently not. The copestone could have been
simply slid off the wall and Grimshaw was a skinny, frail old thing. A woman could have attacked him.’ Korpanski qualified it with, ‘a reasonably fit woman, anyway.’

They were interrupted by Danny Hesketh-Brown and he looked excited.

‘Guess what?’ he said. ‘We’ve just spoken to Grimshaw’s bank manager. He was worth a bit.’

Joanna looked up. ‘How much of a bit?’

‘£750,000 worth of a bit,’ he said, grinning. ‘And that’s not including the farm and the land.’

‘And the money under the mattress,’ Mike said. ‘All that slashing and tearing. I wonder how much he was
really
worth.’

She realised Danny was still standing in the doorway. ‘Is there anything else?’