The Final Curtain (24 page)

‘Is Carmen Weeks still alive?'

Timony shrugged. ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘The last I heard she was living in Dubai.' Her expression changed. ‘I told you, Inspector, I'm not a good person when bad things happen to me. And I'm definitely not good on my own. I married on the rebound the following year. Another mistake. Adrian MacWilliam was a lot younger than me.'

Mentally Joanna was compiling a list of potential ‘perps'. So far it contained two fairly unlikely persona, Sol Brannigan and Carmen Weeks. ‘Go on,' she prompted.

‘When Robert died I was desperate not to be alone but I knew within a month that Adrian was a big mistake. He was a drinker.' Her mouth tightened, became almost prim.

‘Is Adrian still alive?'

Timony shrugged. ‘Haven't a clue,' she said, ‘but I would think so. He would only be in his early fifties.'

Joanna glanced across the room at Diana Tong. ‘Do you know?'

Mrs Tong was patently surprised at the question. It startled her. ‘No,' she said bluntly. ‘Should I?'

‘He might be,' Timony interspersed, ‘although he was a drunk. And they don't tend to live such very long lives, do they?'

‘I suppose not. That is if they don't mend their ways,' Joanna said. ‘And then there was Mr Van Eelen.'

‘Another mistake.' She gave a sudden radiant smile. ‘I have had an eventful life, haven't I, Inspector?'

No one could disagree with this statement. Joanna nodded, as did Hannah Beardmore.

‘I've made enemies.'

Joanna nodded again, warily.

And Timony suddenly burst out: ‘What do I have to do to convince you? I know there is a threat, Inspector. I want you to find out where it's coming from and do something about it. Stop it, please.'

‘But I don't know where to look,' Joanna said, exasperated. ‘I've asked repeatedly who you think might be behind this, and for any information or clues you might have. All I get is vague answers. I need your help.'

Both women sat stony-faced, silent.

Joanna appealed to Diana Tong. ‘Was an arrest made of the fan who went for her?'

‘I believe he went to Broadmoor. He was insane.'

‘And his name was Dariel,' she confirmed.

‘Yes,' Timony put in, shuddering. ‘Paul Dariel. Look, I really don't want to have to remember all this. He stalked and threatened me for years. I was just a child, thrust into the limelight, living in an artificial world created by a television series. I was thirteen years old when he started but my mental age was much, much younger.' Her face assumed an odd, faraway look. ‘I'm beginning to realize that now. Emotionally I really was Lily, the little girl who lived at Butterfield Farm with her mummy, daddy and her brothers. When, all of a sudden, I am catapulted from a Disney view of the world into a Tarantino or a Kubrick, I was, emotionally, unable to deal with it. It was horrible. The studio didn't seem interested in my mental state.' She looked across at her friend sentimentally. ‘If I hadn't had Diana I don't know what would have happened. Just to keep me working the studio had assured me that they didn't take the threat seriously and I think that provoked Dariel. I didn't have the skills to convince them how frightened I was. I was just a child.' She dropped her hands into her lap. ‘Completely naive. It is only now, as I have been writing my memoirs and reliving the times, that I see just how simple I was. How I saw things in my own way, without understanding.' Timony half smiled. ‘You mustn't forget, Inspector, that all this was a very long time ago. Dariel himself would now be in his sixties. He may still be in Broadmoor. He may even be dead.'

Joanna nodded. She could easily find out about Paul Dariel. ‘So five years after you broke up with Adrian MacWilliam you married Rolf Van Eelen.'

Timony lost the anxious, distraught look and appeared mischievous again. ‘Ah, the lovely Rolf. A toy boy,' she said, not without affection. ‘I was forty-eight. He was thirty-one and gorgeous. A hotel porter.' She chuckled. ‘Not stupid, but uneducated. I really should have known better, shouldn't I? He just loved the fame, the attention, the money, the jet-setting lifestyle. He loved all that. Trouble was he didn't love me.'

Joanna smiled in sympathy. Hannah Beardmore was looking completely fascinated. Goggle-eyed, her mouth slightly open, she looked like a star-struck fan herself. The story of Timony Weeks' life was a long way from her own moorlands background, her husband's infidelity and the subsequent battle scars.

‘And you're still …' Joanna asked the actress delicately.

There was a twinkle in her eyes as she replied. ‘Yes. Still legally married. Never bothered with a divorce. Every now and then Rolf is in contact, tries to touch me for some money, like Sol. Sometimes I send it, sometimes I don't. Depends how I feel. I told you he went off with a sort of friend of mine, Trixy. Good name for her, though I'd have spelt it differently. Glamorous blonde with no breasts – at least, not real ones. An actress who'd been married to a very wealthy financier who conveniently died not two years after they'd been married.'

‘Are they still together?'

‘Far as I know.'

‘And where was he when you last heard from him?'

‘Appropriately enough, Marbella,' Timony said with a snort. ‘But that was a few years ago now. I haven't heard anything for two or three years.'

‘Has he ever threatened you if you don't give him money?'

‘Gracious, no,' Timony said with another snort. ‘For all his faults Rolf was not an evil character, not like Sol. He was not a bully and certainly not violent. He would wheedle stuff out of you. He was greedy. And boy, did he like the women. He had an extraordinary appetite for them.' She gave a secretive smile. ‘And I don't mean just sexually, Inspector. He just loved women's company. Any age, blondes, brunettes, redheads, old, young, fat, thin, tall, short. He just liked women.' Her eyebrows moved up a difficult fraction of an inch. ‘Particularly rich ones in expensive clothes, smelling of expensive perfume, high maintenance and generous with their assets.' She laughed. ‘He was born to be a gigolo, that one.'

‘Mmm,' Joanna said. ‘Should I be interested?'

‘Unfortunately, probably not,' Timony said. ‘None of these mind games is in his character.'

‘And then there is this long-lost sister who also stalked you for years. Freeman mentioned her.'

Timony sat up, wary.

‘Did you, in fact, have a sister?'

‘No.'

‘So …?'

‘It went on for years, from the early sixties. Letters. All made up. The woman was a fantasist. She was always trying to meet up with me. She was a creepy one. Sent me photographs of my “family”. MY family!' For the first time Timony seemed angry.

‘Did you ever find out who she really was?'

‘No.'

‘What did she want out of you?'

‘For us to be together, loving sisters, that sort of thing.' She grimaced and continued. ‘It was quite scary, you know, not knowing who she was. She could have been anyone. And I never knew where or how the next approach would be. There were telephone calls that went dead when I answered, tears and threats down the phone, presents I didn't want, cheap stuff.'

‘Similar to what's happening to you now,' Joanna observed. ‘Edgy practical jokes.'

‘Yes, except …' Timony frowned. ‘Except that these seem more subtle. Cleverer. And more sinister. I knew what my “sister” wanted. Money. Love, affection, an acknowledgement of our supposed relationship. With this I don't know what this person wants.' Her small fist beat the palm of her hand. ‘My life or my sanity, I suspect.'

Joanna frowned. The interview was quickly descending into the usual melodrama.

‘You can't imagine how famous I was,' Timony said, her eyes bulging. ‘I was like Liz Taylor or Sophia Loren. People wanted a piece of me.' She leaned forward. ‘Have you seen any of it? It's available in DVD.'

‘I've seen a couple of episodes,' Joanna said, awkward that she couldn't honestly claim to have either enjoyed it or been impressed by it. So she fixed on a smile. Timony looked pleased anyway and Joanna proceeded towards the point of her reference.

‘It seems to me that you've deliberately recreated Butterfield Farm here, even down to the well.'

‘The well was already here, Inspector,' Timony said severely. ‘It belonged to the cottage that was here before. It was its water source.'

‘But the farm itself is a faithful copy,' Joanna persisted.

‘Yes.' Timony appeared to feel the need to defend her actions. ‘My childhood was special and wonderful. I was happy then. When I was settling for my autumn days it was natural to want to return to those memories.' But Joanna detected a glimmer of uncertainty, as though she was trying to convince herself. Had Timony remembered something from her past?

‘Quite so.' Joanna avoided mention of the fact that all the windows faced north-east keeping watch over the approach.

She had one more avenue she wanted to explore. ‘I suppose,' she said slowly, ‘that it's possible the two farmers whose land borders yours might want you out of here?'

‘Why ever would they?' Timony looked genuinely surprised at the suggestion. ‘I don't own much land and they couldn't afford Butterfield.' There was hint of snobbishness about her. ‘It would be out of their league.'

Joanna rose. She hadn't really learnt anything that would help either explain or put an end to the events surrounding Butterfield Farm.

She had one last request. ‘I wonder,' she said awkwardly. ‘Would you mind?'

Timony looked up, puzzled.

‘My chief superintendent's sister is a fan of yours. I wonder … would you mind signing an autograph for her?'

With a practised hand Timony fished a photograph out of the drawer, turned it over and looked up. ‘What's her name?'

‘S
he's been shot.'

Sergeant Alderley did a quick double take. ‘Sorry?'

‘She's been shot,' the female voice repeated, distressed and irritated.

‘Sorry, ma'am, who is it speaking?'

The voice got angrier and louder. ‘I'd have thought you'd have recognized
my
bloody voice by now.'

Unfortunately Sergeant Alderley did – only too well. ‘Who's been shot, Mrs Tong?' He paused. ‘It
is
Mrs Tong, isn't it?'

‘Ye-es.' The voice cracked with emotion. ‘I blame myself. I left her late last night at Butterfield because I needed to go home. But when I woke this morning I had a dreadful feeling. I tried to ring her first thing but there was no answer so I came round straight away. I thought she was asleep at first. Maybe just tired. I tried to wake her. And then I realized.' She gulped. ‘She's dead. Please, please, please send someone round. Now.' There was a quick gasp of a sob. ‘Please come. Hurry.' She was panicking now, falling off the edge. In freefall, a scream only microseconds away.

‘Are you sure she's dead? Shall I call an ambulance?'

Diana Tong was quickly regaining her composure. ‘She's dead, poor lamb. But please, do hurry. I'm frightened.'

Alderley's finger was already on the button, his mind working furiously to make sense of this latest development. She's
been
shot, she'd said. Not she's shot herself.
Been
shot could only mean one thing. Timony Weeks had been murdered. The stalker had finally got to her. The thought sobered him up quickly as he took stock of the situation. There had been the teasing threats, the gentle reminding of her vulnerability, the intimidation. And now this. ‘Are there signs of a break-in?'

‘I – I haven't looked around. I came straight upstairs. Please hurry.'

The hairs on the back of Alderley's neck began to prickle. ‘Is it possible someone is still in the property?'

‘It's possible.' There was a stiff, sudden pause as Diana Tong considered the possibility. ‘At least …'

Alderley could imagine her glancing behind her, looking over one shoulder then the other. Checking around the room, seeing her own face palely reflected in the mirror. Another face behind it? But he had something else to consider. ‘You say she's been shot. You're absolutely sure she's dead?'

‘I – I think so.'

‘Do you know where to look for a carotid pulse, Mrs Tong?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll stay on the line. See if you can feel it.'

There was silence. Alderley heard footsteps padding across a thick carpet, each step a muffled tread. Then—

‘I can't feel a pulse.' She snatched in a sob. ‘She feels cool.'

‘And she's not breathing?'

‘No.' Another noisy gulp. ‘I'm quite sure she's dead.'

‘Right. Listen carefully.'

‘Yes.'

He could hear her nervousness bouncing off the walls, a frightened voice in an empty room in an isolated house, empty apart from a corpse. Alderley could practically feel the mounting terror and was glad he wasn't there. Knowing the location of Butterfield Farm, he was aware that she couldn't exactly ‘pop' next door and wait for the emergency services over a cup of hot, sweet tea with the neighbours. He felt chilled. ‘I want you to leave the house,' he instructed. ‘Get into your car and drive to the top of the track.' He was all too familiar with the geography of the place from descriptions the officers had fed him after their numerous wasted attendances. ‘We'll send someone round straightaway with an ambulance.'

He felt he should add some more practical advice to focus her mind, keep her thinking rationally. ‘Don't touch anything. Don't disturb anything or move anything. Someone will be with you as soon as possible.' Alderley was shaken himself. He felt a measure of responsibility. He'd spoken to both women, living and dead, on numerous occasions. He knew just how much of a nuisance the pair of them had been. He'd managed to put them off once or twice. Now he felt guilty for the dismissal that must have come across.