The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you put it on downstairs when you’re in bed?’

  She nodded. ‘Always. I am very security conscious.’

  ‘And the intruder lights?’

  ‘All around the house.’

  ‘It might not be a person,’ Joanna suggested. ‘They do sometimes come on if there’s a fox or a badger roaming.’

  ‘Admittedly,’ Timony said in a voice as dry as tinder. ‘But neither badgers nor foxes smoke.’

  Joanna would like to have pointed out that that was the subjective evidence.

  Instead she tried another tack. ‘Do you have a relative or friend who could come and stay with you for a while – just while these things are happening?’ She looked up. ‘Perhaps Mrs Tong?’

  ‘Not really. I’m alone in the world.’ The words were spoken with self-pity and sounded more like the lines of a ham actress than a genuine pull on the heart strings. And the glance she shot Joanna from underneath the false eyelashes was unmistakably designed to check on the effect the delivery of those lines had on Detective Inspector Piercy.

  Joanna looked around her. Butterfield Farm, if you counted in the land, must be worth well over a million. And Timony Weeks was alone in the world? Sounded like a good deal for the Inland Revenue if she expired.

  Timony met her eyes. She could read exactly what the policewoman was thinking. ‘I don’t know who to leave my money to,’ she said quietly. ‘I haven’t even bothered to make a will. What’s the point?’

  ‘Most people have someone …’

  The line was repeated. ‘I am alone in the world.’

  And it was no more convincing second time around. ‘You really ought to make a will,’ she responded, feeling more like an advert for a solicitor’s than a detective.

  Shrewd Timony was back. ‘I would if I could decide what to put in it.’ She looked down at the liver-spotted hand which rested on the now-purring cat whose nose was up, slyly awake. ‘Perhaps I should leave it all to Tuptim,’ she said. ‘She’s probably the only living thing that loves me. And I love her.’ She smiled as mischievously as the too-tight face lift would allow. ‘She could have a diamond-encrusted collar and her favourite fish dish every day. She could drink champagne-flavoured milk and sit on an ermine cushion.’

  The cat yawned, straightened and arched its back then jumped down from the sofa. Timony Weeks watched her go. ‘But then maybe not,’ she said thoughtfully.

  Her eyes moved upwards, towards the doorframe where Mrs Tong had reappeared. Timony shot her an edgy look. ‘I couldn’t dream of leaving you anything, Di,’ she said. ‘You might be the one to stick the knife between my shoulder blades.’

  Diana Tong returned the compliment with interest. ‘You wouldn’t be worth going to prison for, Timony.’

  Timony Weeks was unruffled. ‘Quite,’ she said.

  Joanna listened to the banter passing between the two women and couldn’t quite make up her mind about them. It appeared to be a love/hate relationship. In the end she stood up. She wanted out of here. But just in case Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush took an interest in her recent activities she turned to Timony Weeks one more time. ‘I’ll ask again – who do you think is behind these events?’ If anyone, she added mentally.

  ‘Hmm.’ Timony Weeks eyed her and Joanna suspected she had picked up on her doubt. She leaned back in the sofa, legs crossed, eyes narrowed, regarding her. ‘Do you know, Inspector,’ she said laconically, ‘I have asked the police to come here more than sixteen times because I felt under threat. You are the first officer to ask me what I think. You can come again, Inspector Piercy.’

  The face gave a stiff, frozen smile which Joanna returned resentfully. She was invited to ‘come again’? She cursed under her breath. This was not the outcome she had wanted. And Timony Weeks continued to avoid answering the question. She took a step forward. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said. ‘I came here today to try and persuade you to stop calling the police out. I thought you would be someone frail, frightened, vulnerable. I have found the opposite. But I can’t, for the life of me, work out what’s going on.’

  Timony Weeks’ mouth tightened. ‘Aren’t you even going to show me the courtesy of taking a look outside the kitchen window?’

  Joanna knew she had no option. Inside she gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes. I will take a look outside.’ She tried to make it sound as though this had been in her mind from the start.

  ‘Hang on, Tims.’ It was Diana Tong who spoke. ‘You can’t go out there dressed like with that thing on. It’s freezing outside. You’ll catch your death. I’ll go with the Inspector. I know what you saw.’ It was kindly said but Joanna wondered if it was meant to give them time alone. Whatever, Timony Weeks acquiesced.

  THREE

  Joanna followed Diana Tong around to the front of the house and stood outside the kitchen window. Like the rest of the property everything was in order: the path neatly gravelled, the window immaculately painted, the glass polished to reflect the landscape. Although it was a cold day the window was ajar and moved slightly in the breeze, changing the reflection as it shifted.

  There was a scent. Joanna breathed in and caught the very vaguest tang of stale tobacco. She ran her finger along the window sill. It must have been wiped down recently. There was no mark on her fingertip, no dirt, dust or ash. Next she bent down and studied the gravel. There was some cigarette ash amongst the stones but no butt. That was a shame. She straightened and met Diana Tong’s gaze full on. ‘Do you smoke, Mrs Tong?’

  Diana shook her head with a vaguely mocking smile.

  ‘Does your gardener smoke?’

  ‘A pipe.’

  ‘Window cleaner?’

  ‘Possibly.’ She shrugged. ‘I really don’t know, Inspector, but he doesn’t come often in the winter. I don’t think he’s been here since before Christmas.’

  Had the ash been dropped before Christmas? Joanna remembered the weather just after Christmas. There had been heavy rain in the week between Christmas and New Year, just before her wedding. Better than snow, she had thought, as the wedding had been at the foot of The Roaches, high in the moorlands and prone to being cut off by a snowfall. So the cigarette ash had not lain here for more than three weeks. It would have been washed away. Ergo even if the window cleaner was a smoker he was off the hook. Diana Tong’s eyes moved in a similar direction and appeared to reach the same conclusion. She cleared her throat as though about to speak but said nothing. Neither needed to point out that far from being an elderly woman’s fantasy this pointed to a real and physical presence.

  Ash was one thing, Joanna thought as she slipped some into a specimen bag. It was a fairly pointless exercise. Sherlock Holmes might have been able to tell you someone’s characteristics from cigarette ash but she, sure as hell, couldn’t. Neither could the forensic lab. A butt would have been far more valuable. But then, life was never easy.

  She straightened up and faced the woman. ‘Mrs Tong,’ she said, meeting the other’s gaze, ‘we’ve been called out to investigate a string of improbable trivia. Some might consider it wasting police time.’ She looked curiously at the woman. ‘What do you think?’

  Diana Tong pushed a fistful of hair as coarse and grey as steel wool out of her face. She looked a strong woman, both physically and mentally. Her eyes flickered and she did not speak at once but seemed to be considering very carefully what to say and how to say it. ‘To understand that question you would need to understand Timony,’ she said slowly. Then laughed. ‘Timony is not her real name, by the way, but her stage name. She is – was – an actress.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me? That she’s histrionic?’

  Diana Tong put her head back and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Why does everybody do this – make assumptions about someone’s character by their profession? It’s as insulting as if I were to assume you are an unimaginative Plod merely because you are a policeman – or a violin-playing opium fiend because you are a detective. Timony worked very hard to maintain her rol
e as an actress.’ She frowned. ‘Actresses are not quite what you think but hard-working, professional women. Timony’s character makes her vulnerable rather than an imaginative hysteric.’ Her face softened. ‘We’ve been together for years. I’ve been her secretary-cum-wardrobe-mistress-cum agent. And now she is “in retirement” I daresay I’ll finish up being her nursemaid.’ She smiled. ‘I admit initially I did think the whole thing was attention-seeking behaviour. Yes, I did. The events were so nebulous and her response, well, yes, a little histrionic. Now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any tangible evidence of an intruder?’

  Diana Tong looked towards Joanna’s evidence bag. ‘It’s all stuff like that,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Could be something. Could be nothing. Hard to say and harder to prove.’

  Joanna pinned her with a look. ‘What’s your gut feeling, Mrs Tong?’ she asked.

  The blunt question threw Diana Tong off balance. ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘In that case you might suggest to Mrs Weeks that she gets herself a dog,’ Joanna said, irritated. ‘A good guard dog. Something like an Alsatian, a German shepherd. They make excellent guard dogs.’

  ‘She won’t get a dog,’ Diana Tong said. ‘It might not get on with Tuptim.’

  ‘I consider someone’s safety more important than the feelings of a cat,’ Joanna said sharply. ‘And besides, there is an issue of wasting police time.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ There was a mute appeal in the hard grey eyes.

  ‘Wasting police time is currently my primary concern,’ Joanna said, ‘as it doesn’t really appear that Mrs Weeks is in any danger. Even if these little dramas are real and not exaggerated or imagined, there appears no real malice behind them.’

  Diana made a face. ‘Are you taking her seriously?’ There was simple curiosity in her voice.

  ‘Like you,’ Joanna said, ‘I’m not sure. Certainly nothing serious has happened so far, but …’ She looked around her. ‘Mrs Weeks is sixty. This is an isolated property. It’s as well to be cautious and aware. As I’m here I’ll just check the outside doors.’

  As she walked around the place there were the odd little questions Joanna wanted to ask. Why did all the windows face north-east? Who had designed Butterfield this way? Why, if she felt threatened, did Timony Weeks cling on to this place with an almost superstitious fervour?

  But as it was Joanna did not want to extend the visit by asking what seemed to her to be trivial questions. She wanted to get back to the station and do some real police work.

  Every door had the insurance companies’ requisite five-lock-security. And they were all intact. There was a good burglar alarm system and plenty of movement-activated floodlights which would drench the property with bright white lights. All was in order and there were no further signs of an intruder.

  She entered the house again. This time Diana Tong held back in the kitchen, allowing Joanna to find her own way through. Timony Weeks had returned to her computer and appeared absorbed in her work, almost deliberately ignoring Joanna – which didn’t do much for Joanna’s rising temper. She waited for a moment then cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said, ‘who is it you think is behind these silly little tricks?’

  ‘As I said, I really don’t know,’ Timony said, still focusing on her computer screen. ‘I suppose it could be Sol Brannigan, but I’m not convinced.’

  Though Joanna already knew she asked, ‘And he is?’

  ‘My second husband – I told you.’ She paused. ‘My worst and most dangerous husband, actually.’ With the last word she swivelled her head and met Joanna’s eyes.

  Ah, yes, Joanna thought. The husbands: an exclusive but well-populated club.

  ‘What was his full name?’

  ‘Sol.’ She hesitated. ‘I think his real name was Solomon but everybody always called him Sol. I was married to him for a brief period in the early seventies.’

  ‘That’s forty years ago. It seems a bit strange to drag him into this.’

  Timony looked irritated at the challenge. ‘He was three-quarters of the way to being a gangster.’

  ‘Does he have a criminal record?’

  Timony shrugged. ‘Probably. I haven’t kept up with his criminal activities,’ she said haughtily. ‘We were only together for eighteen months.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  For the first time Timony looked slightly embarrassed, passing her hand across her face, but it was as if she hadn’t heard Joanna’s question. She seemed to have her own script and was sticking to it. ‘He rang me,’ she said, ‘eight months, a year ago. He said he needed money.’

  ‘And you sent him some?’

  Timony shot a swift, worried look at the doorway. Joanna knew she didn’t want her companion to hear her next sentence.

  ‘I put a cheque for five thousand in the post.’ She anticipated Joanna’s next question.

  ‘An address in Brighton,’ she finished quickly. Then added, ‘We had no mutual friends so once we’d split up he sort of disappeared from view. I haven’t heard from him since I sent the money.’

  ‘Was that the first time you’d sent him money?’

  ‘No. But I told him it would be the last.’

  She didn’t sound convincing. An easy touch, Joanna thought.

  ‘Has he asked for any more money?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Joanna was getting nowhere. She stood up. There was nothing further to be gained from this interview. She finished up with advice to consider installing CCTV.

  Maybe Korpanski was right and the woman was barking, but she doubted she was suffering from anything like Alzheimer’s. Joanna couldn’t help but feel from their exchanges that she had regressed into some kind of fantasy world, had become the actress again, her words carefully timed, prepared and precisely delivered. Was the entire catalogue of events nothing more than attention-seeking make-believe, or genuine paranoia? Stuck by herself, miles from nowhere, with only Diana for company, her acting days long behind her, had Timony retreated into her own imaginative world? Had she planted the cigarette ash? Joanna was thoughtful as she drove back through the moorlands. One thing bothered her. If all the stories were correct and really had happened, and someone was behind every single one of the call-outs, then whoever it was had somehow gained access inside the property. As the stronger of the two characters she was wondering about Diana Tong and her role. It was an odd situation and a bit outdated, this ‘companion’ thing. And there was more than a whiff of resentment there. What did Diana really think of Timony? It was clearly a complex relationship. There must be devotion somewhere underneath the façade but it wasn’t unusual for two women, thrown together as these two were, to get on each other’s nerves. How far would this resentment go? So far as to tease and hint at subtle malice and then deny that anything had happened? She recalled Diana sticking up for her employer when Joanna had dared to suggest she might be histrionic. Something else which wasn’t adding up, yet Diana Tong had to be the prime suspect. She was right there, in a perfect position to play tricks on Timony.

  But why? Spite? To get even? If she disliked her employer so much why didn’t she simply leave? Timony Weeks would miss the strong, practical woman more than Diana would miss her employer, surely?

  And then there was Timony Weeks’ half-hearted suggestion that a husband she had been married to forty years ago was behind these tricks.

  Joanna didn’t think so. Sol Brannigan, if he was as his ex-wife had described him, didn’t strike her as the sort to drive all the way up from Brighton, stick around the Staffordshire moorlands and play silly little tricks against his ex-wife. Surely if he wanted money it’d be more in character for him to threaten her, blackmail her or simply demand it. After all, she’d paid up before, though five grand wasn’t exactly a fortune for someone with Timony Weeks’ obvious wealth.

  The whole thing was mad, bizarre and infuriating, so much so that Joanna hardly noticed her surroundings on the way back. The moorlands
slipped by unappreciated. She was oblivious to the beauty, panorama, weather and wildness, engrossed in tussling with the problem.

  Korpanski was on his way out as she pulled into the last available parking space in the station. She opened her window and he stuck his head in. ‘Well?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Enjoy that, did you?’

  She made a face. ‘You b—’

  He grinned, without bothering to hide his humour. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what did you think?’

  ‘Weird,’ she said, ‘with that that frozen fish face and odd character. She should be under a psychiatrist.’

  ‘My impression too.’

  ‘But she’s worth a lot of money.’

  Korpanski nodded.

  ‘How many times have you personally been out there, Mike?’

  ‘Three, maybe four.’

  Joanna felt laughter bubble up inside her. ‘Well, she’s quite taken to you. Maybe you should be the one to go next time.’

  That wiped the smile off his face. She didn’t mention Timony saying that she was also welcome back.

  ‘What did you make of her?’

  He didn’t answer straight away but thought about it for a moment, frowning in concentration because he knew Piercy would expect the truth, not some dragged out cliché. ‘Bit of everything really, Jo,’ he said. ‘She seems clear enough about what’s happened. She tells her stories well. I mean, they make sense. Maybe she is a bit fanciful. A bit … dramatic. I suppose I just thought she was a bit twitchy, a bit histrionic, highly strung. She was an actress, after all. Attention-seeking. Imaginative.’ He was struggling. ‘Over-imaginative. I mean, there’s nothing much to go on, is there? Just little things.’ He grinned at her mischievously. ‘There’s hardly a body sitting on her doorstep.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ she said. ‘That is the last thing we want.’ Timony’s words swam back into her mind. What do I have to do, Inspector, have a knife sticking out of my back?

  Joanna paused. She recalled the desperation in Timony Weeks’ voice, and didn’t quite agree with Korpanski’s opinion. She might have added another word: Intuitive. And another. Sensitive.