The Final Curtain (20 page)

Again, she appealed, ‘You still don't have
any
idea who's behind this?'

Both women shook their heads. ‘If we had,' Diana Tong said sharply and reprovingly, folding her arms, ‘we would have told you long ago. We're fed up with all this attention. We don't want you coming out here all the time.' She finished with a bitter, ‘We're perfectly aware that you resent it. We just want a quiet life.'

As do we all
, Joanna thought, recalling the temptation of staying in bed with Matthew that morning.

Timony butted in peevishly. ‘Diana's right,' she said, hands wafting in the air in dramatic appeal. ‘All I want is to finish my memoirs and have a peaceful life out here.' She upped the drama and uttered her next lines in a deep drone. ‘Alone with my memories, my
good
memories. That's all. Is it too much to ask?' Her eyes flickered upwards. Towards the heavens. Maybe they'd taught her that move in RADA but it seemed over the top in the Staffordshire moorlands.

‘Apparently, yes,' Joanna said, slightly irritated by the woman and her expansive, arm-waving gestures. ‘It is too much to ask.' She was wondering why she had a growing feeling of dislike towards her. Was it because something about her was insincere? Not just the falseness of the patently obvious plastic surgery or the stary eyes, not the plumped-up lips or even her overdramatic manner. It was the words she spoke and the emotions she pretended to feel. Maybe, she thought with a flash of clarity, it was the disparity between facial expression, or rather the lack of it, and the words she spoke, although with the surgery that couldn't be helped. Joanna looked at her closely. And caught something else. Something much more authentic. Flickering eyes, a quivering of the lips. Something real underneath the facade? So what was it? Fright?

But a second later Timony Weeks, actress, looked not vulnerable but amused. So Joanna was left to wonder whether it had been real terror she had seen in the woman's eyes. And to ask herself, once again, the question that refused to go away – was it all an act?

Diana Tong was watching, her face impassive, hands and body perfectly still, in stark contrast to her employer. Joanna analysed the atmosphere between them. She believed they were both perfectly aware of her scepticism and irritation. But did they care? Not really. As she and Diana Tong exchanged glances she wondered about the exact nature of her role.
Why
did she bury herself out here, devote her life to one woman she didn't seem to particularly like? Was she incredibly well paid? Was she here out of love for the actress, a sort of star-struck desire to be close, to be touched by celebrity and fame even though it was forty years out of date? Was she a sort of … fan? What exactly was the relationship between the two women – two women isolated in this lovely but very private world that they had carefully built up around them? It fascinated Joanna. But looking into Diana's bland face told her nothing. If Timony Weeks was flamboyant in her display of emotions, Diana Tong was the diametric opposite. Her emotions were buried so deep they were invisible. She was impossible to read. And lastly, Joanna wondered, why didn't she live here? She might want to escape Timony from time to time but it would have saved so much money. She was practically always here anyway.

Joanna was glad that Mark Fask had arrived and was already brushing aluminium fingerprint dust on the kitchen window frame. ‘Nothing so far,' he responded to Joanna's unasked question. ‘Nothing on the outside frames. Whoever it was must have worn gloves.' He grinned cheerfully at the two women. ‘I'll want some specimens of yours,' he said, nodding at them, ‘just to exclude them, you see.'

‘Have you had a chance to look through and see what's missing?' Joanna addressed the question to Timony.

‘Surprisingly little.' It was Diana's cool voice which answered.

Timony spoke up then. ‘Some jewellery,' she said. ‘I had a few really good pieces that Gerald had given me. A diamond necklace. Some lovely sapphires and an emerald and diamond brooch. A ruby bracelet, some rings and a watch. I have photographs,' she said helpfully, ‘and the insurance documents.'

‘Good,' both Fask and Joanna said in unison.

Timony was obviously trying to be helpful. ‘I'll be able to make a proper list.'

‘Thank you.'

As Mark came in through the front door Joanna followed him. ‘Is this the work of a local burglar?'

‘Could be.' But he was frowning. ‘I'm not really sure. Things have been a bit quiet on that front since we banged up the Jellicoes last year. But there's always the odd chancer who'll have a go at these isolated country properties. Someone from Stoke or on a crime holiday from Liverpool or more likely Manchester. And they generally do quite well out of these raids.' He made a face. ‘There's always stuff lying around. And this house, for all its isolation, is so easy to spy on from the road.'

‘You noticed that too.'

Fask nodded.

‘So you think it could have been an opportunistic burglary?'

‘Possibly. And then there's the footpath.'

She almost laughed. ‘Come on,' she said. ‘People don't do a burglary halfway round their hike, then put the swag in their rucksacks.'

He grinned at her. ‘I agree; it's unlikely. But …' He held up an index finger. ‘The footpath does pass near the house. A hiker could easily have made a note of Butterfield then come back in the car.'

Joanna pursued her point. ‘But surely this must be someone local – even to be out here.'

‘More than likely,' he agreed in his ponderous way. ‘But I'm keeping an open mind. Things are often not quite what they appear to be.'

‘Tell me about it,' Joanna muttered. ‘But there is one other thing. If the pieces they took are valuable they'll turn up on the open market, won't they?'

‘If they're distinctive it's even more important that I track them down before they get broken up into individual gems and the gold, platinum and silver melted down. There are so many outlets these days for precious metals. Once that's done we'd have no hope of identifying any of the pieces, and that means you and I would be unlikely to secure a conviction. You know, Jo, most times it's the jewellery that leads us back to the criminal. All the collection of forensic evidence does is to link their presence to here in a court of law. The weak point is the Fence.' He grinned and made a joke of his own. ‘More of a hurdle, really.'

‘OK. You carry on. I'll have a word with them.'

The two women were huddled together on the sofa when Joanna re-entered the sitting room. They stopped speaking the moment they saw her. But they looked furtive, as though they had been discussing something they didn't want her to hear. In fact, they looked guilty, almost as though they had committed the burglary themselves. What on earth were they plotting? Joanna wondered as she smiled another hello with a twitch of her shoulders towards the scuffle throughout the house – the SOCOs doing their job. Was this an insurance scam? Joanna was tired of these cat and mouse games. She felt awkward.

‘I'll be leaving now,' she said. ‘Mr Fask will continue collecting evidence. Have you anything to add?'

Both women shook their heads.

‘So if you can let me have the full list of missing property as soon as possible as well as any photographs and receipts I can circulate the details.'

As she left Joanna still couldn't shake off the feeling that Timony Weeks and her hard-faced companion were using her.

She glanced at her watch. One-thirty p.m. Matthew would be pleased. She hadn't stayed out late. And the day was as inviting as possible, clear, clean and frosty. They had a couple of hours' walking time before dark. And then she would cook for him. She could write up the report on the burglary first thing Monday morning.

Matthew was indeed pleased her work hadn't taken up the entire day. As she let herself in he put his finger over her lips. ‘Not a word about work, Jo,' he pleaded. ‘And no more watching any more of that dreadfully stilted programme. The word Butterfield,' he said, laughing in her face, ‘is
verboten
.' She looked at the even teeth, the expression of merriment, this great way he had of loving her, teasing her, mocking and disciplining her all at the same time.

His face was full of happiness.

She giggled and said, ‘So what shall we do with the afternoon?'

His eyes gleamed. ‘I've got a couple of ideas,' he said. ‘One of which is a little walk round the town and then over to Leekbrook. We can end up in the Belgian Bar and then stagger back home.'

‘Matthew,' she said. ‘It sounds perfect. ‘One minute and I'll get changed.'

P
olice officers' reports are meant to be factual, not stories full of ideas and conjecture. They are not supposed to display prejudices or preconceived ideas. Joanna had read the guidelines over and over again. Yet it was hard to keep her personal feelings out of the report on the break-in at Butterfield Farm.

She struggled to find words which did not reveal her instincts about the break-in and the persona involved. She had three goes at it but when she reread the report she thought how bland and uninspired it was. It didn't describe any of the flavour of the woman who lived alone in Butterfield Farm. It could have been any burglary on anyone, anywhere. Yet this was the police force the public demanded, free of prejudice or instinct, not influenced by chance sayings and accidental findings. Back to Plod, she thought resentfully, and away from Frost and Taggart. What the public wanted was a police force grey and unimaginative. OK, she thought. Let them have it.

She glanced through her emails. The forensic reports were, so far, disappointing. The burglars had left little usable trace evidence, no fingerprints, hair or anything else that could have led the Law straight back to the perpetrator. The footprints had proved to be Reebok ZigActives, size nines. A popular shoe and a common size. Not much help there either and there was nothing in the footprints that marked them out, no gouge out of the sole, no unusual wear pattern. It was disheartening. More of a surprise and possibly a vital piece of evidence was the value and distinctiveness of the jewellery Timony had listed as stolen. There were eight pieces in all. A diamond necklace alone was valued at £5,000, an emerald and diamond brooch at £2,000. The entire value of the pieces came to a little over £20,000. Joanna stared at the list. Maybe these pieces would solve this part of the puzzle. As Fask had said, they were distinctive Art Deco – right up until the moment they were broken up into bits. She was disinclined to return to Butterfield but knew she should be assuring a sceptical Diana Tong that they were doing all they could to recover the property. It wasn't strictly the truth. The truth was that she was stuck. What they had done was circulate the photographs of the missing pieces. Now all they could do was sit back and hope that they had a lucky break, because she was right out of ideas. Timony had rung yesterday and put up a reward of £2,000 which, considering the alleged value of the pieces, struck Joanna as overgenerous, but even as she'd spoken she'd sensed that she didn't have much faith in its bearing fruit anyway – whatever the size of the reward. And by now Mike was thoroughly bored by the whole affair, which didn't help. He was much more interested in the gang of car thieves who were targeting top-of-the-range cars, Lexuses, Audis and Jaguars in particular. The tip-off was that they were being doctored somewhere in Manchester, engines re-identified and numbers obliterated. But two of the cars had tracker systems. One had been disabled by the thieves; the other had not been under the bonnet or in any of the usual places but behind the dashboard. So the net was closing in and Korpanski was getting caught up in the action. He was so happy he was humming as he arrived at work. Joanna could read his mind. This was real detective policing. Not pandering to some weirdo. She'd lost her buddy.

It being Valentine's Day, Matthew had woken her early with a huge bunch of long-stemmed red roses and a very sentimental card which had a simple message. YOU, it said in giant letters, ARE MY LIFE.

She had stared at it, then at his face, which held love, hope and sentiment in equal amounts. She handed him her Valentine's Day card and knew it wouldn't measure up to his. A simple Happy Valentine To My Husband, against a black background and a shiny red heart. She'd felt an idiot buying it. ‘I'll cook for you tonight,' she said and made a mental note to pick up a couple of fillet steaks and some salad.

But reading through the report a second time had rekindled her interest in Butterfield Farm, and reminded her of her wet and cold bike ride and Sunday's visitor. Perhaps she should look a little closer at Stuart Renshaw, accountant, date of birth January 21, 1966 – maybe even ask some of the local force to visit him at his address in Monmouth. She scanned down the few further details. There was no criminal record apart from a speeding fine in 2008. Now she was involved in an investigation into a burglary as well as the killing of the cat she decided she could afford to take a risk. She dialled the number which she now knew from memory. As luck would have it, it was Timony herself who answered the phone in a soft, rather tentative voice. ‘Hello?'

‘It's Detective Inspector Piercy here.'

Any normal mortal who has been subjected to a series of events such as Timony had and then been relieved of some jewellery would at least have got curious at this contact, asked whether she had any news, caught the villains or recovered some of her possessions. Not Timony. She merely said, ‘Yes?' in a guarded and suspicious tone.

‘In response to the publicity generated by the jewellery theft,' she said, tongue in cheek, ‘some walkers have reported seeing a silver Mercedes at Butterfield on the twenty-second of January.' She hesitated to allow her statement to sink in. ‘I've checked and it isn't either of your cars.'