Authors: Priscilla Masters
She was definitely on the defensive, Joanna mused, and decided to step over the line a bit.
‘How well do you know your neighbours?’
Faria’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fairly well.’
‘Steven Weston, for instance?’
To her surprise, Faria coloured. Her eyes, dark muddy pools, fixed on Joanna’s face. She was debating whether to speak.
Joanna waited.
‘Steven Weston,’ Faria began slowly, ‘was a very lonely man.’
‘A lonely married man?’ Joanna queried.
‘It does happen, you know. His wife was so busy defending animal rights and feeding cats that she had
no time left over for her husband. Ask her,’ she said defiantly. ‘Ask her if her husband would like children. She doesn’t even know – or care. Talk about taking someone for granted. Such women,’ she said haughtily, ‘don’t deserve husbands.’
‘Maybe,’ Joanna said cautiously, ‘but they were still married.’
Faria nodded, in her dark eyes a gleam of mischief. ‘Do you know what the attraction was here?’
Both Joanna and Mike shook their heads.
‘Not me. Not rampant sex on the settee. It was children. Toys. Clutter. Life. Young life,’ Faria said. She threw back her head and laughed, allowing Joanna to admire her dentition. ‘That’s what he wanted. He loved being here, on the floor, surrounded by children, Lego, Fisher Price. Some men are essentially paternal.’ Her eyes were on Joanna and she flushed. It was as though Faria could see right inside Matthew Levin’s soul. Superstitiously, Joanna touched the black pearl on her finger.
Feeling a bit sheepish, the two officers left soon after.
They tried the Barnes’s house but there was no answer. There were no cars in the drive and number 9 held the look of an empty house.
It was a sunny morning. Joanna sensed it even before she opened her eyes. There was a brightness in the bedroom that danced along the wall. She watched it for a moment then flung back the duvet, touching Matthew’s shoulder. ‘I’ll make the coffee,’ she murmured into his ear. ‘It’s a heavenly morning.’
Matthew grunted but when she returned with the two mugs of strong Nescafé he sat up and reached out for it. ‘So what makes you so full of beans this morning, Jo?’
She ruffled his hair then pressed her lips to it. She loved its colour, damp sand, particularly when it was early-morning-tousled. ‘Optimism,’ she said, relishing the shot of caffeine pumping energy into her. ‘I feel I’m about to make a breakthrough. That and the sunshine,’ she mused, ‘and the thought of cycling across the moorland into work.’
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘For a simple murder you seem to be taking your time arresting anyone.’
She gave him a mock punch. ‘Cheeky,’ she said.
They sat companionably together, drinking their coffee, then with a light kiss Joanna disappeared into the bathroom, showered and put on her cycling shorts and top, slipping on the engagement ring last of all. Then, carefully, she folded a skirt and blouse into a rucksack together with some shoes. Downstairs for apple and mango juice and a bowl of Special K, then she wheeled her bike around to the front.
Matthew was still munching his toast, watching her critically through the open window. ‘Be careful,’ he mouthed.
She waved at him. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘When did you say Eloise is coming?’ Try as she might she couldn’t erase the tightness from her voice.
He lent right out through the window to answer. ‘Not until tomorrow afternoon.’ He paused while he eyed her shrewdly. ‘I thought I’d cook,’ he said. ‘Maybe some pasta. A lasagne or something.’
‘Whatever,’ she said, buckled her helmet on and sped off.
Waterfall was a pretty village, still with its own pub – smoke-free now but the beams testified to years of nicotine exposure. The government might be able to bring in new legislation but the scent of nicotine would probably remain for ever. She cycled along the flat road,
taking the ridge in her stride, feeling the sudden drop in temperature as she climbed, then descending into the valley and the town of Leek, recognisable by the spire of St Edwards and the green dome of the Nicholson Institute piercing the early morning mist.
She showered, changed into the neat black skirt and scarlet blouse, slipped her feet into the black leather court shoes, ran a comb through her hair to bring it back to life, slicked some lip-gloss along her mouth and was at her desk by the time Korpanski wandered in. ‘Morning, Mike,’ she said.
He grinned at her and she knew he, too, was in buoyant mood. ‘You didn’t ride in, did you, Jo?’
‘Certainly did. It woke my brain up. Mike,’ she said tentatively, ‘I have a feeling that the noise that Hilary Barnes, Faria Probert and possibly Teresa Parnell heard was not the sound of Jakob Grimshaw struggling with his killer but something else.’
He looked up. ‘I wondered that myself,’ he said. ‘Any idea what?’
‘Not yet but we should visit Hilary Barnes again and then comb through the farmyard to take a better look. We’ve missed something.’ She frowned. ‘Maybe because we didn’t know what we were looking for. But we do now.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, Mike,’ she said. ‘Time to get a move on.’
He started grumbling but really she knew he enjoyed the way she goaded him, teased him, pulled him along. It was one of the many reasons they worked so well together.
Ten minutes later they were speeding along the Ashbourne road towards the Prospect Farm Estate. As they turned in, Joanna reflected that they were certainly attractive houses, architect designed, each one slightly different from the rest. Some had integral garages, others pillared porticos. They all had individually designed windows, bow-fronted, sash or casement. A testament to modern, imaginative architecture. They pulled up outside number 9 and were gratified when Hilary Barnes opened the door, looking concerned. Joanna reassured her with a quick smile. ‘It’s OK, Mrs Barnes,’ she said. ‘I just want to revise your statement about the noise you heard.’
As before, Joanna was conscious of the woman’s intelligence and force of character.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some coffee. I was ready for a cup myself.’
They followed her into the kitchen – clean, white tiled – and watched her boil the kettle and fill a cafetière. As she poured three mugs of coffee and produced a jug of milk, she turned, frowning. ‘I’ve thought a lot about that,’ she said. ‘There were all sorts of sounds. But in the background I heard something metallic, sharp and very loud. A clatter. I have wondered what exactly it was. But I can’t think of anything that would make…’ Her eyes wandered around her kitchen. ‘The only thing I can liken it to is if you dropped a load of saucepan lids.’ Her gaze landed on the shelf of pans over her cooker. ‘Do you see what I mean?’ she asked dubiously.
Joanna nodded, eyed Korpanski and smiled. She was
beginning to see a picture. One of a clever and devious mind. Practised at deceiving.
It had all been set up – a diversion to provide someone with an alibi. When the two women had heard the noise, Jakob Grimshaw had already been dead – possibly for nearly two days.
Joanna was beginning to feel pleased with herself. She wasn’t falling for
that
one.
She eyed the woman across the table. ‘Mrs Barnes,’ she said slowly, ‘I want you to think about the Sunday. Probably the afternoon. Did you notice any comings and goings at the farm?’
The woman was silent for a minute or two, her face screwed up in concentration. She pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘I did hear a car,’ she said. ‘Some time in the evening. It was a dull day,’ she said. ‘I’d been watching television. I think it was around seven or eight o’clock. Maybe even later.’ She raised her index finger in a gesture of excitement. ‘I remember now. It skidded away. I remember hearing the gravel spit and thinking someone was in a tearing hurry.’ She smiled, pleased with herself. ‘I wonder if this will help you, Inspector,’ she commented curiously.
Joanna felt smug. It fitted in with the theory she was forming. ‘I rather think it will,’ she said.
Today, in the dingy weather, there was something desolate about Prospect Farm. Deserted of its animals and its farmer, it looked even more bleak and uncared for than when they had first visited. The neglect was
plain to see: the peeling paintwork, cracked windows, weeds growing through cracks in the concrete. Even the tree in the centre looked droopy and dejected. It looked like a place of brooding and years of sadness, filled with foreboding. As indeed it was.
Joanna slipped on her wellies and she and Korpanski climbed out of the car. The stillness was so thick and heavy they could have sliced it through with a knife. It felt as though the entire place was whispering about its years of secrets and neglect, playing the telltale on Jakob. Joanna stepped forward gingerly.
‘We won’t bother with the farmhouse itself,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we’ll find anything in there. I want to concentrate on the outside.’
Korpanski nodded. ‘Call me a wimp, Jo,’ he said, looking around him, ‘but I have a distinctly uncomfortable feeling here, as though someone is watching us.’
As though in response, a crow, perched on the telegraph pole nearby, gave a loud croak and flapped away. It seemed a bird of ill omen.
Joanna looked around her. ‘Maybe the best thing will be if this place is pulled down and built over. I don’t believe in houses having a bad vibe but this one is giving me the heebie-jeebies.’ She stepped towards the barn. ‘Come on, Mike,’ she said, ‘let’s get on with it and get back to the station.’
They rounded the corner of the building and faced the two huge doors where the dead cattle had been discovered. Korpanski heaved one open with his meaty shoulder and they stepped inside.
The interior was dingy with an odd, stale-hay smell. There was the reek of death mingled in with the scent of manure. It was a disturbing smell. Pungent and strong.
Joanna touched Korpanski’s arm. ‘Leave the door open, Mike,’ she said, ‘we need the light.’
He wheeled around and she knew he wasn’t fooled. There was something claustrophobic about the shed where the animals had suffered and died, and Joanna, sensitive to atmosphere, was spooked.
For once Korpanski had the upper hand. ‘Hey, Jo,’ he said.
She made a face back at him then looked up towards the hay loft. ‘What’s that?’
It was a piece of rope, suspended from the high ceiling, moving ever so slightly in the draught from the open door. It looked like a hangman’s noose.
The hayloft was reached by a ladder. Joanna ascended a couple of steps to peer at the bales of hay recently stacked by a farmer preparing for a winter he would not now see. There was something poignant about the sight – all that harvesting for nothing and no one to enjoy it. Even the animals who would have eaten it were dead. Joanna wondered what would happen to the sheep that had survived the slaughter and its aftermath, whether the neighbour, Dudson, would get lucky. Or would the
hard-nosed
Judy drive a tough bargain once the settlement of her father’s estate was complete and the keys handed to her? Joanna glanced again at the old-fashioned, oblong bales of hay, fastened with orange, nylon twine. Would they simply rot and wait for the building contractors to
get rid of them? By burning or dumping?
She had reflected this way before. After a murder there was always the unforeseen, untidy aftermath – the children left fatherless or motherless, the empty home, the bedroom shut off, the belongings treasured and never quite disposed of, the car that sat for years on the drive or in a garage.
The thought invariably depressed her as much as the crime itself.
She peered over the edge of the hayloft into the cattle stalls below. And then she saw it, something she had possibly noticed before but had not realised its significance. A stack of old-fashioned farm implements randomly scattered behind the barn doors.
From the stiffening of Korpanski’s shoulders, she knew he had seen it too. ‘They would have made one hell of a bang, Jo,’ he said.
She was shaking her head. ‘A clatter,’ she mused. ‘So that’s what they both heard. But,’ she said meaningfully, ‘maybe the noise the three women heard was not Grimshaw’s murder but these implements being knocked over as someone entered the barn, which created a noise that would then be interpreted as a struggle. These things would not have been left there when Grimshaw was alive.’ She allowed herself a moment’s reflection before descending the ladder. Joanna went first; in a skirt, it was not advisable for Korpanski to be below her. ‘Animals can create all sorts of noises,’ she mused. ‘I’ve heard them myself. They can moan and scream, create the same sounds as a human
in distress. Bump against a pile of farm implements. What they heard was the sound of the animals crashing around. Not Grimshaw. They probably didn’t mean to mislead us. They simply reported what they had heard. But the pile of stuff was set up to be pushed over by desperate animals, make a loud noise and divert us from the true time of death. Which is interesting.’ She leant against the door to the shippons and stared into nothing, slotting this new fragment of information into the whole.
Finally she turned to Korpanski, who had been watching her silently. ‘I think Grimshaw died on the Sunday night,’ she said. ‘Roderick Beeston told me the cattle wouldn’t have lasted more than a day or two without water.
They
were in their death throes on Tuesday the 11
th
, not their master. He watered and fed them last on Sunday the 9
th
. Actually, Mike, what were the animals doing indoors in September anyway? Most farmers want to leave them outside as long as they can.’
‘I did ask about that,’ Mike said. ‘They were fairly new beef cattle. He hadn’t had them long. He was getting them tested by the vet before letting them out to graze.’
‘Oh. I see.’ She was quiet for a while. Korpanski could be a very conventional police sergeant. ‘I’ve got an idea, Mike,’ she said. ‘Give me a day or two to think about it and I’ll discuss it with you.’ She hesitated. ‘I want to flush our killer out.’
‘You know who it is?’
‘I don’t
know
,’ she said, ‘but I
think
I know. That isn’t the problem, Mike. It’s proving it. We’ve not exactly had a lot of help from forensics. I doubt we’re going to get much more. The killer’s clothes would be nice. They make a lovely court case but our villain’s had enough time to dispose of those. Everyone who watches
CSI
knows about blood splashes etc. Our problem is going to be making a case stick.’ She glanced around the barn. ‘We’re still missing something,’ she said. ‘Something important but I don’t know what it is.’
They walked outside, into a rare glimpse of sunshine before the sun scurried back behind a cloud, and Joanna knew she was going to have to convince Korpanski about this one. She eyed him slyly. ‘There is nothing worse than knowing your killer, by instinct and circumstance, and watching them wriggle through the net in court or, even worse, watching the CPS do the wriggling for them, is there, Mike?’
Korpanski closed the barn door with a bang before turning and studying Joanna’s face. He was very sensitive to her moods and knew by the sparkle of mischief in her eyes that made them shine
sapphire-blue
and the curve of her wide mouth that she was doing what she loved most – plotting. ‘You’re up to something, ma’am,’ he said, using the title simply to rile her and let her know that he knew. She wasn’t fooling him.
She waited until they were back in the car before she spoke again. ‘The nice thing about the new time of death is that it returns Judy back to the top of the list.
Not only that but she fits the bill because she had an unbreakable alibi for the Tuesday morning, whereas I bet she has none for the Sunday evening. So it would have been well worth her setting up the diversionary tactic. We’ll start with her then comb through the other suspects’ alibis with our team. Concentrating now on the Sunday night. Refresh memories. Start again with a new time of death. Hah.’ She slammed the car door shut with a sharp sense of satisfaction, which in turn let Korpanski know they would have a restless few days ahead.