The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

‘The farmer.’

  Joanna shook her head, ‘No he doesn’t, does he, Mr Freeman?’ And she laid a piece of paper in front of him.

  Freeman hardly bothered to read it. He knew its contents.

  ‘Why did you buy it?’

  Freeman’s face altered, became softer, almost sweet. He gave an abstracted smile. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Sentiment, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as a sentimental man.’

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Well it was my most successful series, Inspector.’

  ‘But you have done other work since.’

  ‘Nothing that ran for twelve years.’

  ‘Do you visit the site often?’

  Freeman shook his head. ‘I haven’t been there in years,’ he said reflectively. ‘Not for years and years.’ Then added: ‘I hardly leave London these days.’

  Joanna gave Korpanski a nod and he continued, ‘When did you last see Timony?’

  Joanna smiled a jam-for-tea bland grimace and let her sergeant continue. Korpanski’s style of questioning was different from hers. Confrontational, blunt, straight to the jugular. And sometimes this approach earned results.

  ‘Again. Years ago,’ Freeman said, his eyes meeting Joanna’s with a touch of regret, as though he would far rather have her proceed with the questions than the aggressive sergeant.

  ‘Did you keep in touch by telephone or email?’

  ‘A bit of both. But not for years, Sergeant.’

  Something wary and deceitful sneaked into the older man’s manner.

  Korpanski blundered on. ‘Did you know she was writing her memoirs, Mr Freeman?’

  ‘She may have said something about it that she might, in the future, one day, perhaps. Lots of people say that and never do it. As I say, I haven’t spoken to her for – now let me see – it must be three years. She invited me to revisit the past and have a holiday at the recreated Butterfield Farm. She told me that from the outside it was practically indistinguishable from the original set. I was tempted, I must confess. But I didn’t go.’ He made a poor attempt at humour. ‘I wasn’t that tempted.’

  Somehow his attempt at offhandedness didn’t quite come off but his charm shone through like old gold.

  Joanna took over. ‘Did the fact that she might pen her memoirs worry you?’

  Freeman didn’t answer straight away but looked thoughtful. Eventually he said carefully, ‘It would depend what she might have put in them.’

  ‘Such as,’ she prompted casually.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The evasion was as obvious as the fact that Freeman wasn’t going to make it easy for them. So Joanna decided to change tack, partly to put him off the scent. She changed her manner to conspiratorial, pretending they were on the same side. ‘Tell me about Diana Tong,’ she said, in a sweet, matey tone. ‘Why did she stay with Timony all these years?’

  Freeman gave a dry, unpleasant laugh. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ he said, practically jeering at her naivety. ‘She’s in love with her. Diana’s a closet lesbian.’

  It gave Joanna the perfect cue. ‘But Timony wasn’t, was she?’

  Freeman sidestepped the question as neatly as a Chinese gymnast. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘All those husbands.’

  ‘I mean, before all those husbands.’

  Freeman stilled and something thick and dark wrapped itself around him.

  ‘Before she was married,’ Joanna said, locking her eyes to his. ‘Before she was sixteen.’

  Freeman stared very deeply into her, trying to corkscrew out what exactly she knew.

  Joanna pressed on. ‘Diana was married once, wasn’t she?’

  It earned her a disdainful glare. ‘Briefly. It didn’t last. She was soon back, dancing around Timony like a lapdog.’

  ‘So she was, wasn’t she?’ Joanna agreed.

  The quiet between the three of them intensified until it was a poisonous, sulphurous cloud full of accusation and finger pointing which clung to the atmosphere. Joanna let it settle for a moment before parrying again, approaching now from another angle. She knew exactly what she was doing, circling Freeman like a vigilant vulture, preparing to move in for the kill so she could peck his flesh. ‘Timony had some time off the set in nineteen sixty-six, didn’t she?’

  Her casual tone didn’t fool Freeman for a second. He eyed her warily and didn’t offer any answer so Joanna produced her sequitur. ‘Why?’

  He didn’t even think about it. ‘She needed a break.’

  Joanna was still in terrier mode and rapped the question out again. ‘Why?’

  ‘The assault upset her terribly.’ Freeman appeared to open up. ‘She couldn’t adjust to the fact that her fans could be anything but adoring – even if Dariel was mad. Poor girl. She was exhausted and terrified that it would happen again.’ He decided he needed to embellish the story and “confide” in the police officers. ‘At one point we wondered whether she would ever return to Butterfield.’

  Joanna gave Mike a swift nod. Now. Now. The time had come. ‘Let me correct you, Mr Freeman,’ she said sweetly. ‘When you say “exhausted” you mean she was pregnant, don’t you?’

  For a moment Freeman looked stunned rather than surprised. Then he gave a brief, jerky nod.

  ‘She was thirteen years old when she became pregnant,’ Joanna said. ‘Who was having underage sex with her?’

  And as Freeman didn’t answer but stared out of the window at the London skyline, as though he longed to escape and dance away across the rooftops, like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, Joanna pressed on. ‘Shall I put it another way, Mr Freeman. Who was the father of her child?’

  The producer’s face changed again, to become bleak. ‘We didn’t know,’ he said. ‘No one knew.’

  It wasn’t the answer either of them had expected or hoped for. Joanna gave Mike a quick, worried glance. Was this to be the end of the road?

  ‘Do I understand that you are saying that you didn’t know who was seducing a thirteen-year-old? A thirteen-year-old, may I remind you, Mr Freeman, who was in your care.’ Freeman hesitated and Joanna realized that the real truth was even more grotesque. She proceeded slowly along splinters of glass, her voice low. ‘Are you trying to tell me that there’s more than one possibility?’

  By her side Joanna felt Korpanski twitch. He almost needed restraining, as would any man who has a daughter.

  ‘Who?’

  Freeman’s shoulders seemed to shrink then. He morphed into his age, now looking a troubled old man easily in his eighties. ‘She was precocious,’ he said defensively.

  Was he actually trying to defend the person or persons who were her abusers?

  ‘I guess that’s true of a lot of young actresses,’ Joanna said coldly. Korpanski simply cleared his throat with a harsh and disapproving scrape.

  Freeman appeared to get the message, realized that more was expected of him. ‘I always thought Hadleigh.’ His eyes flickered from Joanna to Mike. ‘He played Sean Butterfield,’ he explained.

  Joanna leaned forward to give her words more weight. ‘But you have no proof, Mr Freeman.’

  He looked uneasy at that.

  ‘What about …’ The pause was deliberate, ‘Gerald, the man Timony married? Surely he would have been more likely?’

  Surprisingly Freeman shook his head. ‘You may find it hard to believe,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think the child was Portmann’s. I think he would have told me,’ he finished weakly.

  ‘Oh?’

  For the first time since they’d arrived Freeman smiled with genuine warmth and they had the sense that he had been fond of his leading man. ‘Gerald was a sentimental old fellow,’ he said. ‘Old fashioned in the extreme. He would have owned up to the child if it had been his.’

  ‘You know that we’re in a position to check who was having sex with Timony?’

  ‘What?’ The news startled Freeman out of what little composure he’d had.

  Joanna tilted forward in her chair. ‘Did you never w
onder what happened to the baby?’

  The shutters came down. Slam. Freeman folded his arms tightly. ‘She came back without it,’ he said. ‘That’s all I knew. That’s all I needed to know. She came back to work and there was no longer a problem.’

  Joanna was astonished. ‘You didn’t wonder what had happened to it?’

  ‘Not my concern.’

  ‘So whose concern was it?’ Joanna asked silkily.

  Freeman appeared surprised at her ignorance. ‘Diana’s, of course.’

  Then Freeman appeared to shrink back into his chair. ‘Diana’s, of course,’ he said again quietly.

  Joanna gave Korpanski a quick glance. What was Freeman saying? Mike gave her a vague shrug.

  ‘There …’

  ‘Go on, Mr Freeman.’

  ‘I never thought it would come back to haunt me,’ he confessed.

  Joanna waited.

  ‘I thought I would be dead before …’

  He couldn’t find the words. Joanna decided to press again, ‘Why did you buy Butterfield?’

  ‘I told you – sentiment.’

  Joanna shook her head slowly. ‘And as I told you, you don’t strike me as a sentimental sort of man, Mr Freeman.’

  He gave a sad smile. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘all of us are.’

  ‘But there was a reason, wasn’t there? You had to buy it, didn’t you?’

  Slowly, very slowly, James Freeman nodded his aristocratic head.

  TWENTY

  Tuesday, March 20, 3.30 p.m.

  And so, on a bright, clear day that whispered spring is coming, spring is coming, Joanna returned to Butterfield. Back to the very origin of it all. She had a team of officers with her but she hardly needed them. She knew why James Freeman had bought the studio and she knew exactly where to look.

  The gate stood open now, the padlock forced. There were fresh tyre marks in the mud, leading towards the ruin, the tread still sharp in the damp clay soil. The house stood ahead of them, its ruin as tragic as the wrecked face of a past beauty. As they walked towards it Joanna sensed a movement and put her hand on Korpanski’s arm to warn him while the team stayed back, awaiting instructions.

  Diana Tong, a thick coat wrapped tightly around her, was peering down into the well. They watched her for a moment. She seemed in a trance, completely unaware of them. Joanna put her finger to her lips to silence Korpanski before approaching her. ‘Mrs Tong.’ The caution was on Joanna’s lips but the woman who looked back at them was not quite there. She was smiling a sweet faraway smile as she looked up, a little puzzled to see Joanna and Mike. Perhaps she had been expecting another take of the series and thought Lily or Joab or Sean would enter stage right.

  ‘Mrs Tong,’ Joanna repeated gently.

  Diana Tong did not answer but continued on her own line of thought. Then turned. ‘She was my responsibility, Inspector,’ she said. ‘My charge.’ She waited, before adding, ‘I should have looked after her better.’ Then her eyes drifted towards the gaping mouth of the well and Joanna focused on that.

  ‘Who’s down there, Diana, underneath all that?’

  There was a sweet scent of old flowers, desiccated now, and behind that the hint of something long ago. Underlying that was the scent of a deep secret, like a dark red rose. It hinted at something that those who knew of it had believed would remain hidden for ever.

  And then the older woman sank down, rested her head against the stones and began to cry, great racking, terrible sobs.

  Joanna peered in. ‘What is down there?’ she asked again.

  Diana Tong shook her head, once, twice, three times then stood up. She knew what was coming. ‘Her father,’ she whispered.

  With a sigh, and a glance at her sergeant, Joanna began, ‘Diana Tong, I am arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murder and concealment of the body of Hugo Hook, father to Timony Weeks.’

  Known to the nation as little Lily Butterfield.

  ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  It is always interesting to watch how a suspect responds to being charged with a serious offence. In this case Diana Tong simply looked a little disappointed. ‘Oh, Inspector,’ she said, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. It was Timony.’ And the sobs returned.

  DI Piercy was taken by surprise. She gave a quick, startled look at Korpanski. Had she?

  They returned Diana to Leek for questioning, leaving the team with their instructions. Excavate the well.

  Search the premises.

  Find the evidence.

  On the way back, Joanna called up a team to haul in their second suspect, the person she believed was behind it all. Meanwhile, they began to ask their questions, in the presence of a stony-faced solicitor who had less facial expression than the sphinx. As was her way, Joanna didn’t waste time on preamble but dived straight in. ‘It wasn’t your idea, was it, Diana?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was so velvety soft the word was hardly spoken. ‘I would never have hurt her. I couldn’t have done. But …’ The word hung in the air.

  ‘Then why?’

  Diana gave an almost haughty glance at her young solicitor before turning all her attention on the two officers. ‘You ask me why? You ask me that?’ Hands on the table, palms uppermost in an appeal to be believed. ‘Unbelievable. I tried to warn her. I wanted to protect her. But there came a point when I couldn’t any more. I had no choice. No choice at all except to destroy her.’ She extended her arms out on the table. The action made her vulnerable, almost pitiful. ‘Before she destroyed herself. You need to understand the times, Inspector. Butterfield Farm was an iconic series in the early sixties. They weren’t sophisticated times. They were naive and they were happy times. I simply wanted to preserve the memory at all cost. We both did.’

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ Joanna ordered.

  Diana looked up then and Joanna realized how tortured those apparently calm grey eyes were. But they were also deeply thoughtful and intelligent.

  She gave a little smile. ‘You know a lot of it,’ she started, ‘but you’ve come to all the wrong conclusions. You’ve known but you haven’t understood.’

  ‘Then enlighten me,’ Joanna invited.

  The solicitor jerked and Joanna knew he was to tell his client to say nothing but Diana, who must also have anticipated this advice, put a hand on his arm to restrain him. ‘It’ll be a relief to unburden myself after all this time,’ she said.

  At her side DS Mike Korpanski was looking thoroughly confused. Joanna didn’t even need to look at him to know this. Korpanski was practically snorting in frustration. His breathing was fast, his large fingers writhing and occasionally his feet scraped along the floor. Backwards and forwards. Inwardly, Joanna was smiling. DS Korpanski was crap at hiding his feelings. He was also crap at keeping still.

  She turned her attention back to Diana Tong. ‘Start at the beginning, Mrs Tong,’ she said. ‘Start with the silly little tricks that frightened her so much. What on earth did you hope to achieve by them?’

  Diana’s eyes searched for empathy but there was little chance she would find it. Not here, not in a police interview room. By her side the solicitor was making notes with the coolness of a teacher marking a very average essay.

  Diana continued, ‘I thought that if Timony was a little scared that it would work and I wouldn’t need to do anything more to keep the past buried.’

  Joanna reflected that there were two potential meanings to the words.

  ‘But it didn’t work like that. She kept on writing. The trouble was that she couldn’t sort out what was OK to put in and what would be better left out. She couldn’t even differentiate fact from fiction. She thought in storylines and dramatic cadences.’

  And now Joanna was beginning to understand. ‘The body in the well. She was going to write about it in the manuscript.’

  Diana Tong nodded.
Jerky, vigorous movements. She folded her arms and looked straight at Joanna, as though she had decided now was the time for truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  ‘You know, I joined the work force of Butterfield in nineteen sixty-four. The show had been running for nearly four years and, I think I told you this before, I was quite a fan. To meet my idol was fantastic. Lily was my favourite.’ A small laugh. ‘She was everyone’s favourite. She was just a sweet child then. I knew little about her past and James discouraged us from being too curious about her background. No one wanted the press to know that she came from poor stock. It might have destroyed the image the studio and particularly Freeman had built up so carefully. It was as though James wanted her past to remain a mystery.’ She gave a cynical snort. ‘As though he expected everyone to believe a fable, that she’d been dropped by the fairies or something.’ The solicitor’s eyebrows shot up and he gave his client a quick, surprised look before settling back into the bland, uninterested expression.

  Diana continued without seeming to notice the movement. ‘Then one day, on set, a man forced his way in. He was a vagrant. Unwashed.’ A flash of distaste soured her features. ‘He was wearing a badly fitting suit. He wanted money and …’ Her eyes drooped with sadness. ‘To cut a long story short, he threatened to tell the papers exactly who he was.’

  ‘Her father,’ Mike guessed gruffly.

  She looked at him. ‘Our lovely, innocent, sweet Lily,’ she said. ‘Her father a jailbird. It would have been catastrophic. People were a lot more snobbish and judgemental in those days.’ She paused. ‘However the Swinging Sixties and Free Love is bandied about I can tell you what it was like in nineteen sixty-four. It would have been the end of the series. She would have been dropped. Dumped. Abandoned. Her mother wouldn’t have had her back. She had practically sold her into slavery.’

  ‘So he was murdered and his body dumped down the well.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Diana Tong said simply. ‘Not for certain. I’ve always thought that Timony was probably involved, but that doesn’t seem likely. When her memory returned about the well … I do know that James Freeman must have known all about it because it was he who bought the property and sealed it up. It might also have been he who torched it. I don’t know.’