The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  Sean, in particular, seemed very protective of Timony, but occasionally he would have an angry look about him, as though he had a bad temper. There was a lot of flexing of muscles. Even Keith, the oldest brother, seemed wary of Sean. His eyes frequently flitted towards him almost whenever he said something that might annoy him. It was Sean who was the obvious pin-up of the series. Joanna could well understand Elizabeth Gantry’s passion for the dish. In fact, Joanna was surprised that it hadn’t been Sean that Timony had married. He was much nearer her in age. So why had she married Gerald or ‘Joab’, the patriarch? The man, in spite of being well preserved, was unmistakably in his fifties. It was hard to believe that they had married. It seemed incongruous. The age gap must be more than thirty years. On set he appeared more paternal than predatory. There were a lot of shots of him working or driving a tractor, but there were also many scenes when he was doing little but watching everyone and always with that faintly wary expression in his eyes. Once or twice, when the camera was panning around, Joab Butterfield looked disturbed. Worried. And, partly due to the lack of acting skills on show, Joanna sensed that this was not part of the script or action but a very real sense of concern which mixed oddly with the bland and flowery soap. This sense of unease permeated through the two episodes from the mid-sixties that she watched.

  The concern seemed mainly centred on Timony, the artlessly pretty star of the show. It even extended to May, whose gaze was also mainly focused on her screen daughter. And the screen ‘parents’ concern seemed to intensify in the scenes where Sean was comforting his little ‘sister’ over the latest animal tragedy. There were a few shots where all the actors seemed to be looking at some sweet thing that Timony was doing – trying to bake a birthday cake, feeding a lamb, looking for a lost calf. The possibilities were endless. But Gerald’s expression was different from the others’. Of course, Joanna had to remind herself that in the later instalments, post 1969, the ‘child’ Gerald was watching was his real-life wife, but this look of worry made his face seem older and the relationship even less appropriate. Sometimes he looked pensive, as though worried about what would become of Timony. This look sat inconsistently on the face of a moorlands farmer. And yet they were wealthy, successful and he could have had no premonition that he would die within three years of taking his wedding vows. Occasionally the look extended to Sean, but these times it was less worry and more anger.

  Joanna watched, absorbed in this play behind a play being acted out in front of her. Joab’s concerns were for two people, she decided. Timony and Sean. Once or twice he made involuntary movements with his hands when the two were on set, as though to intervene.

  It was intriguing. She kept watching. Keith, the older son, and David, the youngest, didn’t seem to cause their father the same anxiety as the turbulent Sean. In fact, David Butterfield had virtually no part to play apart from looking wide-eyed and a little puzzled by more or less everything. And as for May, his stage wife, Joab hardly seemed to notice her. The couple rarely spoke to each other and never touched. There were no kisses and no holding hands. No affection at all. They were the least emotive and the most stiff on set. Joanna wasn’t surprised there were no bedroom scenes in this family show, but they did appear an exceptionally detached couple. What had been going on behind the scenes at Butterfield Farm?

  TEN

  There followed more than a fortnight’s peace. The Leek Police Force breathed a sigh of relief and continued with their other, slightly more mundane work. There was plenty to keep them occupied. Drugs had started appearing in one of the secondary schools, and the entire Force wanted to find the source. Some of them had children of their own there, which made the case even more poignant and the feelings ran high. Trouble was, in the drugs business, finding a dealer was like cutting off the head of the Hydra. Others simply opened up shop. It could seem like a lose/lose situation, that you were never going to win the battle. But they still needed to try. What worried them all was a youngster trying to have a bit of adventure and losing their life for it.

  Joanna and Mike, in particular, were involved in tracking down the dealers and the sources, which meant long hours talking to chemists. Most drugs had a chemical ‘fingerprint’ which could be traced back to their original sources. But Joanna hadn’t been able to get Timony Weeks and her peculiar problems out of her mind, and had run a check on the silver Merc. It belonged to an accountant from Monmouth, which didn’t ring any alarm bells. Maybe he specialized in ‘entertainment law’. The vet had confirmed Mark Fask’s findings – that poor old Tuptim had had her neck wrung before being pinned to the pretty front door of Butterfield Farm. Timmis and McBrine hadn’t been idle either. They’d spoken to the two farmers whose land was adjacent to Timony, and also to Frank and Millie Rossington, the couple who did the garden and the housework. None of them could shed any light on the cat’s fate. Joanna typed out a detailed report and filed it on her computer. She had a feeling that when Timony Weeks and Diana Tong returned from their holiday things just might blow up again. She hoped not but wanted to be prepared for it. And so, like a guilty conscience, the bizarre events at Butterfield stayed at the back of her mind to fill any idle moments.

  They were just getting used to this new state of affairs when on a Friday evening in February the whole thing blew apart, and the case turned into something completely different.

  Friday, February 10, 6 p.m.

  Joanna was just thinking of packing up for the day and heading home. She slightly hoped that she and Matthew would go into Leek for a curry. She could almost smell it already and taste the sharp spices against her palate. She was salivating in anticipation. Instead … the phone rang and it was an apologetic desk sergeant. He might have guessed she had been planning her evening.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector.’ Everyone in the station knew she hated being called ma’am. Joanna or Inspector was how she liked to be addressed. And in general they stuck to it.

  ‘What is it, Alderley?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know that a Mrs Rossington has just rung reporting a break-in at Butterfield Farm.’

  For a moment Joanna couldn’t think what a Mrs Rossington had to do with Butterfield Farm. Then she remembered: Timony Weeks’ cleaning lady, Millie, other half of Frank. ‘Is she still on the line?’

  ‘Yes. I told her to hang on.’

  ‘Put her through, will you.’ Already she was wondering, what now?

  Millie Rossington’s voice was querulous as she spoke. ‘There’s been a break-in here,’ she said. ‘Frank and I were passing and we thought as we hadn’t been in this week we’d better just check that everything was all right. As we drove up we could see the kitchen window was broken. I looked through and there was glass all over the floor. I know you police like everything kept just so but we had to come in to use the phone as our mobiles don’t work here. We’ve been ever so careful not to touch anything. We thought we’d better not spoil the evidence.’ There was an element of self-satisfaction in her voice. She was patting herself on her shoulder for her forensic awareness.

  Joanna gave a mental Thank you, CSI. ‘Good,’ she said, coat already half slipped on. ‘Stay where you are, Mrs Rossington. I’ll be over right away.’

  Korpanski had already left for the evening so instead she took PC Phil Scott and WPC Dawn Critchlow, making a call to the SOCOs as she left. It was, after all, a crime scene for at least the second time. The question was, how serious was this crime? A petty burglar, realizing the place was empty? Or was there a connection with the strange events that had disturbed the two women since the new year? Did someone know that the house would be empty? She filled the two officers in on some sketchy detail as she drove along the narrow moorlands roads. It was pitch black now, the few blinks of light coming from the isolated farmsteads. The rest of the moorland was an inky black canvas. It was exactly this sort of night, crystal clear and frosty, that can make you feel that pollution is a million miles away and pity the people who live in cities, forced to inhale dirti
er air. It even tasted different out here. It was like comparing spring water with tap water.

  Dawn Critchlow didn’t appreciate the icy blast in her face, so reluctantly Joanna had to keep the window closed and shut out the sharp magic of the night.

  ‘Sounds an odd case,’ Dawn commented prosaically.

  Joanna smiled at her. ‘You don’t know how odd,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t begin to tell you.’ She wouldn’t know where – or when – to start. In nineteen sixty when a child star was born or at any other of the points when Timony Weeks’ life had mimicked a TV soap?

  Phil Scott blew out a puffing breath. ‘Don’t know what the Force is comin’ to,’ he said grumpily. ‘Sometimes I wonder. Half the day you’re cooped up in a speed wagon tryin’ to catch the unwary motorist and the rest of the time you’re lookin’ into Who Killed The Cat?’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s not what I joined up to, ma’am, findin’ out who’s left the toilet seat up.’

  Joanna ignored the ma’am. ‘Well it looks like a burglary this time,’ she said. ‘That suit you better, Scott?’

  ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’

  The three of them chuckled as they turned down the track that led to the farm.

  Like the beam from a lighthouse the lights of Butterfield guided them in across the dark sea, descending into the trough of the valley. The elderly Volvo, silhouetted in the drive, faced them, and behind that the Isuzu. They must have gone on holiday in the Qashqai. Phil Scott gave a low whistle as the floodlights flicked on in response to their arrival, turning night into day with their white intensity. ‘What a lovely place. So this is what a part in the soaps earns you?’ He started chuckling. ‘Maybe I should have been an actor.’

  Dawn Critchlow poked him in his expanding belly. ‘With that?’ But Joanna was distracted by his words. ‘I’m not absolutely sure,’ she said dubiously, ‘where her money came from. She’s had a few husbands, at least one of whom was wealthy. I think in the end it’s been a combination of a successful career and marrying men with a bit of dosh.’ She looked thoughtfully at the large and beautiful house. ‘She certainly is worth a bob or two. It must be worth a million. Maybe two.’

  Scott responded with another impressed whistle.

  The Volvo faced out of the drive, ready to leave. The Rossingtons had obviously simply meant to glance around, not to stay, as Millie had intimated. The car wasn’t even parked straight but slewed at an angle. They were peering out through the broken window as they pulled up. Most of the lights were on, as though they’d been so spooked they had lit every corner of Butterfield Farm.

  Already Joanna was beginning question the situation. Why had they called to check on the property in the dark when it would have been so much easier to come by day, in the light? Butterfield wasn’t on the road to anywhere so how could they say they had just been passing? The single track lane, down from the road, led nowhere else – only here. Two simple questions. What, she wondered, were the answers? Like most cases simple, pointless lies often covered up some not quite so pure motive.

  As they reached the house the front door was opened.

  ‘You go round the side,’ Joanna said to Phil Scott. ‘Keep an eye open for tyre tracks. Dawn and I will check out the house.’

  She’d been right about the Rossingtons. They were goggle-eyed at being party to a real-life crime and, now the police had arrived, they were loving every minute of it. Barely concealing their excitement they led the officers through to the kitchen. The blast of freezing air hit them even before they reached the room. Inside the curtains billowed gently, wafting in the chill. Shards of glass peppered the floor. They trod carefully.

  Phil Scott spoke to them through the window. ‘Whoever it was has used quite a bit of force,’ he said. ‘They’ve splintered the frame as well.’

  ‘Any sign of what they used?’

  Scott searched around with his flashlight. ‘Ah ha,’ he said and held up a sledgehammer.

  Joanna peered at it. ‘Probably found it in one of the barns. Well, bag it up in case our burglar forgot to wear gloves.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ Scott grinned and carried on inspecting the outside of the property, his flashlight making pools of light dance around the yard in the dark corners the security lights couldn’t reach.

  Meanwhile, Dawn Critchlow was checking out the other downstairs rooms while Joanna studied the burglar’s point of entry. There was a clear boot print on the inside window sill, and another on the draining board. The SOCOs would have something to work on. She took a good look around then spoke to the Rossingtons. ‘Why did you call in so late?’

  They looked guilty. ‘We’d promised we’d look in at least once a week and we hadn’t been near.’ It was an explanation of sorts.

  ‘Have you had time to look around and make a note of what’s missing?’

  Millie Rossington answered for both of them, Frank standing at her side, silent and frowning. ‘I did have a quick look around,’ Millie said, still with the same eagerness in her voice. ‘The drawers in the dressing table have been pulled out. That’s where Mrs Weeks kept her jewellery. But I don’t really know what jewels she had. Some boxes have been thrown on the floor which I suppose contained stuff, but how valuable and what it was I don’t know. I never looked inside,’ she finished primly.

  ‘Is anything else gone?’

  ‘Her study has been turned upside down. Maybe they thought she kept money there. It’s in a right mess, papers scattered all over the floor, but I don’t know if anything has been taken. I feel awful, Inspector,’ she confided. ‘I should have come in the week to check up on things but with Mrs Weeks being away there didn’t seem a lot of point. So I can’t even tell you when it happened.’

  ‘In the last couple of days, I think,’ Joanna said, looking around. ‘We’ve had a couple of heavy storms in the last week and a bit of snow but yesterday and today have been dry but cold. There isn’t much sign of rain in here so I’d plump for in the last forty-eight hours.’

  Apart from the glass on the floor the kitchen was untouched. Cupboards and drawers were closed. The room had simply been a mode of entry. Nothing more.

  But the study was a different matter. Millie Rossington had been right. There had been a thorough search here. Papers were strewn all over the floor. Drawers were pulled out, their contents emptied. Books had been pulled down from the shelves and lay where they’d fallen. The computer was tipped over, the screen on its face on the floor.

  Joanna turned to Millie Rossington. ‘Did she keep money here?’

  The cleaning woman looked flustered. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, eyes flickering towards her husband who still stood, mute and watchful. ‘I don’t think Mrs Weeks kept a lot of money around the house. She paid us by standing order. I never saw her with any cash.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Joanna’s mind was busy and, as she glanced at Dawn, she could see the same scepticism in the WPC’s dark eyes.

  They all trooped upstairs next. The burglars must have been in the property for some time. All the bedrooms had been disturbed, drawers pulled out, contents strewn all over the floor, wardrobe doors opened, even clothes, still on their hangers, flung around. Everywhere had a sense of urgency and disruption. Joanna had seen this many times before. It was an all too familiar scene. She knew the ways of burglars. Always in a hurry. In a hurry to get in, find the ‘loot’ and make their escape before someone found them. And that sense of urgency now permeated the entire house. She could almost hear the heavy breathing, the shouts, the flinging around of someone’s personal possessions. They wandered through. The three bathrooms were the only spaces left untouched.

  Joanna came to a decision. ‘We’ll need the SOCOs here and Mrs Weeks will have to come back from her holiday and tell us exactly what’s missing,’ she said. ‘Have we got a contact number for her?’

  ‘I have,’ Millie said. ‘Shall I ring her now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you want to speak to her?’

  ‘I’d be
tter.’

  Millie Rossington took a small notebook from her pocket, studied the entries, then slowly began to dial. The other end was picked up almost immediately and there followed a three-sided conversation, Timony Weeks’ shrill voice piercing the air, Diana Tong’s deep voice in the background and Millie Rossington doing her best to play things down and put some calm into the scene.

  ‘They haven’t done a lot of damage.’

  Shrill shouts from Timony.

  ‘It won’t take me any time to clear it up, only the police want to know what’s missing, Mrs Weeks.’

  More shrill barks down the line and Millie continued with her soothing voice. ‘They’re going to send a scenes of crime team round and they’ll take fingerprints and get any evidence.’ (She spoke the word with great deliberation.)

  Millie’s reassurance didn’t do a lot of good. From where she stood Joanna could hear the muted tones of Timony down the phone, hysterical and sobbing. In the end the phone was handed to Diana Tong, who sounded shaken but a great deal calmer, and Joanna took the phone from Millie Rossington’s hands, which were still shaking with excitement, she suspected, rather than anxiety.

  ‘It’s DI Piercy here,’ she said. ‘We need you to come back. We need to know what’s been taken. And, of course, the property is currently unsecured.’

  ‘We’ll stay.’ Frank Rossington had spoken at last. ‘Till they come back.’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ Joanna admitted.

  Diana’s sensible voice came on the line again. ‘We’ll head back within the hour.’

  ‘You’re in …?’

  ‘North Devon. It’ll take us a few hours to get back to Butterfield but we’ll leave straight away.’

  ‘Just one question, Mrs Tong. There’s no burglar alarm here?’