Authors: Priscilla Masters
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
There was something hostile and calculating in the goggle-eyes behind her glasses. Joanna looked at her and wondered why she was getting the distinct impression that Judy Wilkinson wanted them to fail on this. She didn’t
want
them to discover who had killed her father.
Extraordinary, Joanna thought. Quite extraordinary.
‘Is there anything you can think of that might point us in the right direction?’
Judy shook her head. She had light brown hair, an indeterminate colour, unflattering to her pale face.
‘Had your father had any…trouble recently?’
‘Not apart from half the people on the Prospect Farm Estate trying to winkle him out of his home.’
‘He felt threatened by them?’
Judy gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘You didn’t know my father, did you, Inspector?’
‘Obviously not.’ Joanna could match curtness with curtness.
‘He was in a world of his own. Threats wouldn’t have penetrated his thick, stupid hide.’
Joanna almost started at the dislike in the woman’s voice.
‘No wonder my mother left him,’ she finished.
Ah yes, Joanna thought. The mother.
‘When did she leave?’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘Were you aware that she had plans to go? A hint of someone – somewhere – else?’
A mean, unpleasant look crossed the woman’s face. ‘Not her,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Tight wasn’t the word. She kept herself to herself, did my mum.’ There was a note of pride in Judy’s voice. Not affection, Joanna noted. That was missing.
‘And after she’d left?’
‘Sent postcards.’ A pause. ‘From all over.’
‘Did you see the postcards?’
‘No – my father just told me.
Her’s in Spain or Portugal. The Algarve. France.’
She affected a gravelly, moorlands voice.
‘You know, spreading her wings.’
This, then, was the discordant note. ‘Why didn’t
your mother keep in touch with
you
?’
A toss of the head and a flash of pure spite. ‘She only sent the cards to mock him.’
Joanna practically recoiled at the hatred in the woman’s voice. ‘What was your mother’s name?’ she asked.
‘Avis.’ A touch of sour humour twisted the thin lips. ‘Like the rentacar.’
Joanna felt weary. There was something draining about this woman.
‘Is there anything,’ she appealed, ‘anything that could help us?’
But the appeal simply provoked a sneer. ‘Are you that stuck? No.’ Judy shook her head, picked her handbag off the floor. ‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ she said nastily.
Yeah, for me too,
Joanna thought.
Whatever her personal feelings – she would liked to have told this woman to get on her bike – Joanna responded politely. ‘Thank you for speaking to us. It’s been most helpful.’ If Grimshaw’s daughter picked up the note of sarcasm in Joanna’s voice, she ignored it.
During the journey back to the station Joanna was recounting the woman’s words. Something wasn’t ringing true. She had a bad feeling about this entire case. At the core was something very rotten.
She returned to her office and found Korpanski drinking coffee. ‘Mike,’ she said. ‘Run a check on Avis Grimshaw and ring Mark Fask. Ask him if he’s found a box containing some postcards.’
He picked up the phone and connected with the scenes of crime team, spoke for a minute or two, replaced the handset then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but they haven’t finished their search of the house yet.’
Joanna looked across briefly. ‘Did they give you any idea how much longer they’ll be?’
‘Later today,’ Mike said.
‘Right.’
Bridget Anderton was facing Tim Bradeley across a pine desk in the main office of Farrell’s Animal Feeds, and privately she agreed with his boss. He didn’t look a murderer but an honest Staffordshire man, with blunt features and steady grey eyes. Big hands rested still on his lap.
‘You know about Mr Grimshaw?’
He nodded.
‘I believe that you made deliveries to his farm?’
‘Aye.’
Bradeley was patently a man of few words.
‘When did you last go there?’
Bradeley was quiet, so quiet Bridget Anderton wondered whether she should repeat the question.
But Bradshaw was thinking. ‘Would have been late August,’ he said eventually. ‘The last Tuesday. We have an offer on summer deliveries and he generally goes for it as late as possible.’ The hint of a wry smile. ‘I generally drop on a Tuesday in that area.’
Bridget Anderton looked at her diary. ‘That would be…the 28
th
,’ she said.
‘Aye.’
‘How did things seem?’
Bradeley shrugged. ‘Same as ever.’
‘Nothing out of place?’
Slowly, almost wonderingly, he shook his head.
‘Was Mr Grimshaw on his own?’
Bradeley thought for a minute. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The little girl was with him, sitting on her pony.’ He smiled. ‘Proper little horsewoman, she is.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’
Bradeley shook his head, his brief spurt of vigour gone.
‘Mr Bradeley,’ Bridget said carefully, ‘I have to ask you this: did you know that Mr Grimshaw kept money around the house?’
Bradeley was unfazed by the question. ‘Don’t most people?’
‘I’m talking about a large sum of money..’
Bradeley looked confused. ‘No,’ he protested. ‘How would I?’
‘He paid your bill in cash.’
‘So do most farmers.’
Anderton waited.
‘I never thought about it,’ he said. ‘If I did, I would have thought he’d been to the bank to get the money out, knowing I was coming, like.’
Bridget nodded. Coming from this area, it made sense to her.
Tim Bradeley went red. ‘How do you know that, anyway?’
She started to say, ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that,’ but slow as Bradeley’s thought processes were he was not dull. ‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘The little girl. It has to be. No one else has ever been there when I’ve called. Only old Jakob.’
Bridget Anderton stood up, glanced at Bradeley and wondered. He seemed a little too obvious, his answers slightly too pat. Everyone has faults, she thought, recalling one of Inspector Piercy’s mantras. It’s up to you to unearth them. So what was Bradeley’s?
She fumbled in the dark. ‘Where does the animal feed come from?’
He shrugged. ‘India mostly. They export to us via Eastern Europe. Really cheap, it is.’
Bridget Anderton stored the fact away as one does an old toy – in the attic. It might be useful and be aired again. Then again, it might not.
Mike had been fiddling with the computer. ‘You know you asked me to look up Grimshaw’s wife?’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve checked her under her maiden name and her married name. We’ve looked through deaths and marriages, tried out her National Insurance number and tax details. We can’t find any record of her for the last eight years. She appears to have vanished into thin air.’
But people don’t just vanish into thin air.
And now Joanna was starting to understand why she had had a horrid feeling about this case. Much as she’d fretted they weren’t moving forward fast enough now she was almost dreading moving forward at all.
She froze for a moment. Then said briskly, ‘Ring Mark Fask. I want to know about those postcards. Tell him to find them.’
She knew now it was vital that they found Avis Grimshaw, that finding
her
would help understand the murder of her husband.
It was six o’clock in the evening when Joanna looked up at Korpanski. ‘I’ve had a thought.’
Korpanski was feeling grumpy. It was his night at the gym and he was missing the physical challenge. That and the frustration this case was causing were playing havoc with his emotions.
Korpanski’s dark eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Whatever you got to say, Jo, it had better be good.’
She grinned at him. ‘Don’t be so grouchy, Mike. I’m thinking “Morticia Addams”, aka Teresa Parnell, and the noise she heard.’
Korpanski regarded her patiently. ‘I’m not trying to be over cynical,’ he said, ‘but as far as me and the spooks go, I think there’s only one way someone can know the exact time of death and it sure as hell isn’t intuition.’
She leant forward, her face alive and eager. ‘I’m not saying I believe in second sight and all that, but I’m always ready to take ideas on board. I think that she
might have heard something and translated it into fact. Either that or she knows something more definite.’
Korpanski dipped his head. It was the closest she was going to get to an agreement.
Mark Fask rang back at 7 o’clock, just as Joanna was arranging the following day’s briefing.
‘I don’t know if you want to come over,’ he said slowly. ‘We’ve almost finished the search of the farm. I haven’t come across any postcards, though.’
‘Is there
anything
to do with Grimshaw’s wife?’ Joanna said desperately.
‘Well, I have come across something that’s obviously to do with the mother. A small box containing a wedding ring and one other piece of jewellery, but no postcards.’ He paused. ‘None of her clothes are here, nothing except the jewellery box. I haven’t emptied it yet.’ He paused. ‘I thought you’d want to be here.’
‘We’re on our way,’ Joanna said.
It was a dull, damp evening, the only splash of colour provided by some chestnut leaves just beginning to turn yellow at their edges. The Ashbourne road was damp and quiet, with little traffic except for a couple of tractors rumbling along slowly. She overtook, resisting the temptation to switch the blue light on and touch ninety along the straight road. She turned off the main road and passed the entrance to the housing estate.
* * *
The farmhouse loomed ahead, a vague, square shape in the gloom. She could see the yellow of the lights, fuzzy in the damp haze, the police cars parked along the sides of the lane. She parked behind one and they climbed out. Once outside she could smell the animals that had, until recently, lived and died there. To her, it was a reassuring farmyard smell. She sniffed it appreciatively as she and Korpanski approached the farmhouse. The nearer she got, the more run-down the place looked. Considering the number of personnel she knew to be there, it was quiet, eerily so, and appeared deserted. It was hard to believe that Fask and his team were inside, beavering away, gleaning every last shred of evidence from the crime scene. As she reached the oak tree she could see the backs of the estate houses, all of them lit bright and clear. Grimshaw must have looked out on this scene often. She could hear the wind whispering through the leaves, pick up on the distant bark of a fox and hear a quiet
whoo whoo
of an owl. Even with the bulk of Korpanski at her side she was relieved to reach the back door. This place had a bad atmosphere.
Just as they arrived at the door a spiteful gust of rain caught her, spattering her jacket. Still acclimatised to southern Spain, she shivered. Korpanski gave her a quick look. She couldn’t work out whether he was worried she was going down with something or critical at the effect the place was having on her. He said nothing but plodded heavily at her side.
Fask opened the door to them, a good-looking guy with nice brown hair, thick and prone to curling at
the ends, his paunch accentuated by the unflattering forensic suit, which billowed around his middle. In his gloved hand was a wooden box, intricately worked with the picture of a bird inlaid on the top. Joanna slipped on some gloves and held out her hands. It felt heavier than she would have expected. It was a nice piece of work, not particularly old, probably dating from around the 1980s, but out of place here, where everything was utilitarian with no attention to beauty or decoration. Joanna reflected that this applied to the farmer’s daughter, too. Judy Grimshaw dressed in plain clothes, wore little make up. There was little attention paid to aesthetics here.
Wondering whether this was equivalent to the release of evil from Pandora’s box, she placed the box on the dining-room table, raised the lid and was confronted by a small, plastic ballerina in a white net tutu, pirouetting slowly to the strains of ‘The Blue Danube’. Joanna watched her for a while, feeling Korpanski’s breath against her cheek. She suppressed a grin. This was about as far from the muscular detective as it was possible to be. She allowed the ballerina to perform a few more turns before switching her off and examining the interior. In the top was a tray containing a narrow, flat gold wedding band.
‘Where did you find this?’ she asked, curious.
‘In the attic,’ Fask answered. ‘It was covered in dust. It must have been there, untouched, for a while. A year at least. The access hole was quite stuck.’
‘So Grimshaw could have put it away when his
wife left. But she left behind her wedding ring.’ Superstitiously Joanna fingered the black pearl on her own finger, then glanced at the hands of the two men. Neither Mark Fask nor Korpanski wore a wedding band. This symbolism obviously meant more to her than to them.
She lifted the top tray out to search underneath, recalling Judy’s mimicry of her father’s voice.
‘Her’s in Spain or Portugal. The Algarve. France. You know, spreading her wings.’
‘The postcards should be here somewhere’, she mused. ‘This was the obvious place to store them.’
There was only one item in the bottom of the box: a brooch, studded with turquoise and seed pearls in the shape of a butterfly, tiny rubies or garnets on the end of its antennae. Joanna picked it up and studied it. She didn’t know a great deal about antique jewellery but it looked late Victorian or possibly Edwardian. Not hugely expensive but a lovely keepsake. Perhaps an heirloom? Like the box it was a pretty piece. It crossed her mind that Judy might like to keep these mementos of her mother. She might even know where the two objects came from. But one thing puzzled Joanna. By her surmising, she believed that Avis Grimshaw had had an affair. That much her daughter had told her and it explained Mrs Grimshaw’s disappearance: she had left with the man. Joanna furrowed her brow and thought as she felt the sharp edges of the pretty butterfly’s wings. It was hard to imagine Jakob buying his wife such trinkets, baubles. Both the box and the brooch smacked of the lover.
So why did she leave them behind?
The wedding ring she could understand. It was a symbol of the past she was abandoning. But the box and the butterfly were different. Still, it possibly meant nothing.
She turned her attention back to the box. It was lined with tissue paper of a rather sickly pink, a soft nest to cradle the butterfly. Joanna removed it. And found her clue.
Under the lining was a blue Basildon Bond envelope with the name
Judy
scribbled untidily on the front in black ink. The envelope was sealed. Joanna slit the top with the blade of Korpanski’s proffered Swiss Army knife. She slid the one sheet of paper from inside, unfolded it and began to read it out aloud, feeling a dread sickness well up inside her. Just like the feeling she had had as a child when reading the Gothic horror of Edgar Allan Poe tales:
The Masque of the Red Death
or
The Fall of the House of Usher
.
‘Judy I expect your wondering what really happened to your ma why she never wrote or telephoned. I knew what she was up to. I knew she was planning on going and that would have split the farm because I had to give her money. I couldn’t have that, Jude. This farm has bin in our family for genera,’
this had been crossed out and replaced with
ever. ‘Remember when I bought Old Spice? You thought him funny. Well I kept him hungry for a week and I fed er to him and that’s where she is. Recycled you could say into her piglets. Doin her bit fo the farm.’
She could almost hear a throaty chortle from the old farmer. There was a gasp from the two men as she read the note out loud.
‘I suppose you’ve only found this becos I’m dead. I never would have told you if I was still alive but you need to know she isn’t having a fine time at all unless there really is a heaven. She’s not livin it up nowhere and you so proud of her doin her own thing and that but I tell you Old spice and is missus ate er.’
Joanna looked at the two men.
‘Her’s in Spain or Portugal. The Algarve. France. You know, spreading her wings,’
she quoted.
Only not.
The letter was simply signed,
Dad
. No love; no kisses.
Joanna felt really sick now. She looked at Mark Fask. ‘Is it possible?’ she asked, shocked.
He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about man-eating pigs.’
Korpanski had his mouth open. ‘Puts you off bacon, Jo.’ She forgave him the brave attempt at black humour. It relieved her nausea.
She locked eyes with Korpanski. He knew as well as she did that this put Judy Grimshaw right back in the hot seat. It gave her a powerful motive for wanting her father dead. Revenge. And unlike all the other reasons for Grimshaw’s murder, this was a very credible motive. If she’d known of her mother’s fate. It all hinged on this; was it possible that Judy had read the letter and re-sealed the envelope? Or even, whether she’d seen the
letter or not, had she suspected that her father’s version of events was a lie?
She turned to Fask. ‘Did you say the box was covered in dust?’
He nodded.
‘And the attic hadn’t been entered in years.’
Mark Fask pondered this one for a while. ‘Given the general state of the place,’ he said, ‘it could have been up there undisturbed for two, maybe three years.’
Joanna gave a satisfied smile. Well after Avis Grimshaw had vanished. Had Judy simply bided her time?
Possibly.
She slipped the box and its contents, together with the letter, into a specimen bag. If they found Judy’s fingerprints on it they would know she had read it. Joanna suppressed a triumphant smile. She wanted it to be Judy Wilkinson. There is nothing in the world better than fingering the collar of a nasty suspect. At that moment, for the first time since she had taken over the case, she felt optimistic.
‘Well, firstly I need to know whether it’s possible that a pig could eat an entire human being without leaving any trace,’ she said briskly. ‘Anyone got the vet’s telephone number?’
Fask produced it from his mobile and Joanna dialled up.
Roderick Beeston listened to her request and she could hear puzzlement in his voice as he responded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is possible. Pigs have extraordinary—’
She interrupted him. ‘I take it they would eat a
corpse
, not kill a live person?’
‘No. No records of a pig actually
killing
anyone. Leastways, not like that.’ Even Beeston sounded vaguely shocked at the thought. ‘But they’ve got a fearful bite, which
might
get infected. I suppose they could kill you like that but no other way. They wouldn’t actually
slay
someone. Surely you’re not suggesting that Posh and Old Spice…?’ His voice trailed away as though he couldn’t bear to voice the thought.
‘Is there any chance I can see this animal?’ Joanna knew it was an impulse but in the past, impulses had served her well.
‘Why on earth do you want to
see
the pig? Do you think
he
can tell you who did it?’ Beeston had a little too much black humour for her liking.
‘Possibly,’ Joanna answered. ‘You know what I’m like. I have to
see
things for myself.’
‘OK. I can meet you in fifteen minutes at Apple Tree Farm, if you like.’ He gave her directions with a chuckle. ‘The farmer will enjoy showing off his new acquisition, I’m sure. Old Spice is a
fabulous
-looking animal.’
She was reflecting on the odd association between vets and beasts as she drove. She couldn’t imagine ever describing a pig as
fabulous
.
The weather was even more dingy by the time she met Roderick Beeston at Apple Tree Farm, a further mile out of Leek on the Ashbourne road. She’d always liked the vet with his dark hair, bright blue eyes and
irrepressible, if sometimes over-developed sense of fun. They had worked together on a few cases in this largely rural community and he had played his part in helping her solve each case where an animal was involved; a fierce dog, neglected farm animals, cases of cruelty. He took a torch from the back of his Land Rover and together they approached the farmhouse – cautiously. Most farms have dogs, dogs that are meant to protect their territory, and farm dogs invariably have sharp teeth and nasty tempers, a little like the deceased Ratchet.
The farmer met them at the door, a young man in his early thirties with a mop of blond hair. His face was bright with curiosity as Beeston introduced Joanna.
The farmer smothered his smile. ‘And you think the pig can ’elp you?’ His voice was good-natured, his face pleasant. ‘Fine old Tamworth,’ he threw over his shoulder as they crunched across the yard. ‘Known Old Spice for a number of years, I have. Had a few of the little piglets to fatten up myself. Made
lovely
bacon.’
Joanna felt nauseous again. How would this decent and hard-working farmer feel if he knew what had produced the ‘
lovely
bacon?’
He wagged his finger at her. ‘That is, if you hang it for a month or two,’ he added. ‘Old Jakob always promised I would have Old Spice if anything happened to him.’ He shook his head, looking grieved.
Joanna felt even more nauseous at the thought of the meat ‘hanging’.
Patently at home with the vet and enjoying Joanna’s
audience, the farmer continued prattling. ‘But I still never thought the old boar’d end up in
my
backyard. Jakob was
devoted
to the animal. Sit there for hours, he would, just leanin’ over the sty door, lookin’ at him, admiring him, like. I imagined Jakob would easily outlive the pig. I’d watch ’em and think what a pair they made.’