Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  She went inside, closing the door behind her.

  But even though she closed every single window in every room of the house she could still smell it permeating her luxury home. The scent of rotting meat.

  She knew exactly what it was.

  Korpanski gripped the restraint that fitted tightly over his chest. Would Ricky despise him if he squeezed his eyes shut? He tried to laugh it off. ‘What a laugh, hey?’

  Ricky looked at him curiously and slipped his hands in his. ‘Aren’t you just a bit frightened, Dad?’

  This is the dilemma of a father. To be honest and confess he was, sharing this with his son and making him feel normal for experiencing fear? Or bluff it out, deny any cowardice, bolster up the male ego and shrug it off. Which one?

  Korpanski had no more time to make a decision. He saw Fran and Jocelyn way down below them. Managed a weak wave. And then…

  He thought his heart would stop. He could not breathe. The air rushed passed him. Beside him his son shrieked in terror as they dropped. Vertically. He felt sick. And then they were in the black hole, braced against the final jolt which came out of the unknown.

  And out again in the fresh, cool air. And then it was all over. Korpanski sucked in a deeply relieved breath. He heard the click as the restraints were released. He lifted it up, grinned shakily at his son. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘That was absolutely fantastic.’

  His wife and daughter were waving, Jocelyn dancing towards them. Fran met his eyes and gave a small, cynical, sideways, lop-sided smile. He might have fooled Ricky, she was saying, but he hadn’t fooled her, not for a second.

  ‘Careful,’ Matthew said, gripping her arm. ‘There’s a big wave coming.’ He dived underneath it as she stood her ground, feeling the surf crash against her body. She felt dwarfed by the power of nature. Breathless, exhilarated, gasping for air, Matthew surfaced, clenching his right hand into a fist. ‘Look what I found,’ he panted triumphantly, ‘on the sea bed.’ His hair was sticking to his head, seawater streaming down his face. He held his hand towards her then curled the fingers back, one by one, until Joanna could see what he held. ‘Oh, Matthew,’ she breathed. ‘Matthew.’

  It was a ring, a single black pearl, set in a hoop of silver studded with diamonds. She stared at it speechlessly before looking up at him and reading the mix of amusement and anxiety in his face while the waves continued crashing around them. But she was oblivious to all but the man standing in front of her and the object in his hand. He was smiling that ever-hopeful smile.

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to go down on one knee,’ he said. ‘I might just drown.’ He paused, his gaze focused on her. ‘I think you know what I’m saying, Jo.’

  ‘No. You don’t need to go down on one knee,’ she said, standing against him, brushing his lips with her own. ‘I understand.’

  He moved even closer and took her left hand. ‘I take it that’s a yes, then?’

  For answer she slipped the ring onto her finger, put her arms around his neck and stood, looking up at him, oblivious to the surf smashing around her legs.

  We can all ignore the surf breaking around us but it is still there. Energetic and furious, it can still bruise us.

  Together they walked out of the sea. Matthew took hold of her hand and gazed down at the ring. ‘It’s a Tahitan pearl,’ he said eagerly, as they walked up the beach. ‘I wanted something unusual – different.’

  ‘It is that,’ she agreed.

  ‘It’s set in white gold. The pearl,’ he continued, ‘is between nine and ten millimetres and…’ he was grinning with more confidence now, ‘is AAA quality. That,’ he carried on speaking quickly, continuing the teaching session as they walked over the coarse dark sand, ‘means that it has been graded for lustre, surface quality, cleanliness and something called nacre, which is the amount of pearl which covers the piece of grit, the initial flaw which gave rise to such beauty.’ He cradled her left hand in his then lifted it to his lips.

  ‘I have to give you this, Matthew Levin,’ she said. ‘You certainly do your homework.’ It was typical of him that he would think, research and then buy. All before asking her. ‘It’s lovely,’ she continued. ‘And so unusual.’

  It was so him.

  Matthew nodded. ‘I thought a black pearl was somehow right for a detective inspector.’ His grin was wide and warm. ‘Sinister, beautiful, mysterious.’ His light grin robbed the words of any cliché. ‘Unpredictable, Jo, just like you, with a bit of grit at your centre.’

  ‘Should I be insulted?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Oh Matthew,’ she said, pulling his face down to hers. ‘I do love you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said comfortably, tucking her arm inside his.

  She touched the pearl. ‘And after all that studying,’ she mocked, ‘if I’d said no?’

  He was silent and instinctively she knew the answer.

  It would have been the end. He would not have asked again but had risked all on that one throw.

  She would not ask that question again. Ever.

  The ring felt strange on her finger but it was a perfect fit. ‘How did you know my size?’

  ‘And you’re supposed to be the detective?’ he mocked.

  She looked at him even more carefully, studied the tousled hair the colour of damp sand, which he wore a little shorter these days, a little tidier; the bright green eyes that could hold such warmth but more often than not held a very straight, uncompromising message. Matthew could be a very stubborn man, which was easy to read in his face – from the firm set of his mouth to the square angle of his jaw. Many times she had watched the full, generous lips tighten. She reached out and touched the smooth cheek, remembering. Their love had stood many tests; one a wife, two a daughter, and three her career, which was always a threat side by side with Eloise. Yet in a way it had been these tests that had constructed their love.

  Stone by stone.

  She twisted the ring around on her finger, the band feeling strange in her hand. All beauty comes at a price. An oyster spoilt by a piece of grit, a relationship so easily spoilt in the same way. And yet from that irritation was formed a stone of such depth and beauty. This ring and its significance might mean many things to Matthew but it could ultimately cost her a sacrifice. She was well aware that they had a lot to talk about before they tied the knot – and not just the trifling details of a wedding.

  ‘We should celebrate tonight,’ she said. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

  Always sensitive, Matthew’s face changed to become suddenly strained. He pressed his index finger against her lips. ‘One step at a time, Joanna,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s not spend the evening talking about how high some of the fences are that we need to jump.’ He frowned. ‘Let’s just enjoy the moment as a romantic interlude.’

  ‘Enjoy the moment,’ she echoed, ignoring Eloise, the house, her career, his yearning for a son. As they reached their sunloungers Joanna was aware of the fact that they were a different couple from the one that had left them.

  This had changed everything.

  The Korpanski family were on their way home, relaxing in a pub in Ipstones, a small village between Alton and Leek. Korpanski was downing a pint of Rudyard Ruby, a beer brewed locally in Cheddleton. Fran had offered to drive for the rest of the day as a reward for his bravery earlier on. He only wished he could eradicate the amused look in her eyes every time she met his eyes. Why do wives read their husbands so completely when every man wants to be a hero.

  Ricky was telling his wide-eyed sister how terrifying it had been – the climb that seemed to go on for ever, the fall into the unknown, the jolting, the screaming, the terror, the speed. He pulled his face out of shape with his fingers inserted into the corners of his mouth to illustrate the effect of the G force. Satisfyingly, his sister’s mouth was wide open with admiration.

  8 p.m. Mojacar

  Something must have appeared different about them that night because the man with a guitar serenaded them, th
e gypsy in a flamenco dress gave them a rose without asking for any Euros and the waiter who had served them each night since their arrival offered to take a picture of them together. And so they froze onto the screen of Matthew’s digital camera, a newly engaged couple, heads close, smiling into the lens.

  Riding on the back of that was the next hurdle, something she had pushed to the back of her mind. Matthew wanted another child while she didn’t want any of her own. But Matthew’s daughter, Eloise, was almost grown up and he felt he’d missed out on years of her childhood because his marriage had broken up. Eloise Levin was currently doing her A levels and had been having long discussions with her father about medicine as a career. Something even worse had been whispered: Eloise was talking about applying to Staffordshire University. It was a well thought of, new medical school, with a growing reputation. Its buildings were, according to Matthew, first class, its facilities equally so. He should know. He taught Pathology there. Joanna had overheard the telephone conversations with his daughter without voicing her own, private objections.

  That would mean that Eloise would be living very close to them at best. At worst…

  Joanna stared into the corner of the restaurant, watching a skinny black cat scavenging beneath a table. She couldn’t bear to face it. Surely, surely Eloise wasn’t thinking of living with them? But a quick glance at Matthew’s face seemed to tell her different. There was an unnerving set to his jaw. Perhaps he thought that if he and Joanna were engaged or married she would be less likely to object to Eloise’s presence. Joanna’s eyes lingered on Matthew’s face and she remembered something else.

  In the last few months he had started to find their cottage too small. He wanted to move into the town, preferably into one of the large Victorian houses that lined the Buxton road. But she loved Waterfall Cottage. She loved living in the quiet moorlands village where they had finally moved more than a year after Matthew had left Jane, his first wife, Eloise’s mother. Waterfall Cottage had been their first home together. A romantic love nest. She didn’t want to move. She almost sighed and handed Matthew the black pearl back. But something stopped her.

  It was all or nothing now. And she couldn’t bear the thought of nothing. It was later, much later, as she was getting ready for bed, pulling the ring off her finger, that Joanna started to count the complications. There would have to be a wedding. Where? What sort?

  In number 3, Prospect Farm Estate, Charlotte Frankwell was sitting in shell pink satin lingerie, painting her nails. She had allowed them to grow long and had filed them straight across into sharp, deadly weapons. Now she was applying white French nail varnish to the tips and admiring the effect, splaying her fingers wide in front of her. When the scent of something unpleasant wafted through the open window she stood up angrily and slammed it shut, careful not to damage her nail varnish, and turned back scowling. An expression that would have made her ex-husband disappear quickly.

  When she had accepted number 3, Prospect Farm Estate as part of her divorce settlement, she had not expected a real farm, with real smelly animals in her back yard. She wouldn’t have minded little moos and baahs but the smells could be simply atrocious. And that scruffy, rude man in his disgusting clothes. Did he ever wash? Charlotte doubted it. Whenever she saw Farmer Grimshaw tending to his animals in the farmyard that backed right on to her garden, she studiously ignored him. Her mouth tightened. Added to that, Gabriel was practically her next-door neighbour; there was only creepy old Mostyn in his shiny black suit between them when she’d hoped he’d be far away in Rio by now with his pregnant little gold-digger juvenile delinquent, leaving her free to pursue other goals. This was not ideal.

  Her eyes narrowed and her orange-painted mouth curved. Friends said Charlotte Frankwell had about the most unpleasant smile in the human race. It held malice and spite, cruelty and vindictiveness, and no mirth at all.

  Next door, in number 5, Peter Mostyn was sitting at his computer, attempting to make sense of the accounts in front of him. Once he had paid the mortgage and standing orders he had little enough left. Then Carol got her claws into his last pennies. That solicitor she’d hired to handle the divorce was a bloodsucker. A criminal. Mostyn clenched his jaw. Did he want him to starve? Didn’t he realise that Carol and her paramour had plenty to live on? They didn’t need his money. His anger bubbled up. How was it that a wife could abandon her husband for another, richer man, rob him of his children and still bleed him dry? There was no justice in this immoral world. He flexed his fingers and wished they were fastened around the bastard’s scrawny little neck. He leant forward to peer again at the screen. He was in trouble. He simply wasn’t managing his finances. He’d have to put the house on the market and buy somewhere cheaper. He heaved a great long sigh. He loved this place. It was so good for when the children came over for the holidays. It felt old-fashioned, traditional and peaceful. He too caught the waft of something unpleasant in the air but, unlike Hilary Barnes, it meant nothing to him. The physical smell merely mingled, unrecognised, with his bitterness and anger and lay there, rancid and oily, at the bottom of his heart. How much would the place fetch? £400,000? £425,000? With a bit of luck. It had not been a good investment in spite of the assurances Frankwell had given him. The property market had been anything but healthy lately and Leek wasn’t exactly Mayfair with its still exploding house prices.

  He wandered into the kitchen to flick the kettle on, his eyes scanning the room with some appreciation. All done to the highest specifications. He’d give Frankwell that. Handmade units, granite surfaces, built-in appliances, bathrooms aplenty, separate bedrooms for all three offspring. Once he had taken up residence he had never wanted to move again. But now, with his financial situation so dire, his pleasure in the place was turning as sour as his life. The more he liked it the worse it would be to move. ‘Bloody Carol’, he muttered, filling his mug with boiling water and spooning in powdered milk and coffee. And all for the man Carol had left him for, the one he called ‘that Simmonds chap’, who was fifty if he was a day, hugely overweight. And made of money. So why did she want all of his? Spite. It had to be. It was a travesty of justice. That was what it was. Mostyn sipped his coffee, his eyes peering over the rim suspiciously. Carol and Simmonds were clever. They lived together but were wisely avoiding tying the knot. He could appeal but that would be more expense. Every time he rang the solicitor he seemed to see the man’s finger hovering over the time clock, totting up the pounds. The last bill had been over a thousand pounds. Just for a few letters.

  Carrying the mug of coffee he returned to the study and peered again into the computer screen. Solicitor’s bill. He hadn’t put that on the accounts. So that was why he was overdrawn – again – at the bank. It was no use asking for another extension to his overdraft facility. He wouldn’t be able to pay it back unless…

  Mostyn’s face narrowed to grow sly and cunning, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

  He had a secret.

  When he had bought number 5 he had brokered a very smart deal. He had bought the field on the far side of the farm from old Grimshaw for a snip of a price. It was a good-sized field – an acre and a half – and to further the masquerade that it still belonged to Grimshaw he’d allowed the farmer to continue grazing his cattle on it. He would bet on it that no one knew it no longer belonged to the farm. He had to hold back the smirk when Frankwell boasted about expanding the estate, swallowing up the farm, building a further fifty houses on the fields where sheep and cows now grazed. In Mostyn’s mind’s he imagined the small, select development expanding to a larger estate, which would turn his field into a building plot and raise the price accordingly. All it had needed was planning permission, which Carol, with her customary lack of confidence in his financial acumen, had grumpily assured him would never be granted. ‘It’s Green Belt,’ she’d said when he’d confided in her. ‘It’s yet another pig in the poke from Mostyn Estates and Co. You’re wasting your money, Richard.’

  He’d encouraged her to believe
this was so right through the divorce settlement but actually, through a business acquaintance in the Planning Department of the local council, he knew different. Leek was short of houses. Overspill from the Potteries had soaked up every available dwelling and people liked the quaint town with its picturesque streets and mock Victorian buildings. Prices had continued to creep up even over the last year, when the rest of the property market had stagnated. And with the flood plains being no good for building on, mutterings were being made about the need to build on Green Belt. After all – Prospect Farm Estate itself had been built on Green Belt. Why shouldn’t it expand? And without the farm itself, the estate would rise in value.

  Unconsciously, Mostyn rubbed his palms together. If he could only manage his finances until the children had finished school he would be all right. His father was elderly, his mother dead. Being an only child he would inherit all. So the dismal figures on the screen were simply a symptom of a temporary cash flow problem. And then he had his piece of land. There was only one thing that stood in the way of an excellent profit there. The farm. When he had bought the field he had realised that if the estate were to be expanded the farm would stand in the way. The only access to his field was through the farmyard, which was why he had been able to buy it so cheaply. Even he, with his optimism, knew that no planning permission could be granted unless the farm was also sold as building land. The far side of the field was bordered by a brook. If only Grimshaw could be persuaded to sell up the road could curve around, finally ending in his field. They could even keep the duck pond as a feature. But the last time he had talked to the farmer Grimshaw had looked bemused. ‘Sell my inheritance? No way, sir. That farm is all I have left of my family tree. My old bones belong here. No doubt Judy’ll sell up after I’m dead. I can’t do much about that. She despises farming. She’s no interest in the land and all it can yield. Oh yes. She’ll sell up for sure after I’m dead, squander it all on high living, a smart car and some foreign holidays, I’ll be sure.’ His face had grown even meaner. ‘She only wants money, that girl. Greedy, she is. Money’s all she’s ever been interested in – even as a little girl. Always wanting more of everything: food, toys, presents, a bigger horse, a smarter bedroom.’ The old farmer looked weary. ‘I couldn’t keep up with her demands. Not on a farmer’s salary. It weren’t possible.’