Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Dollars,’ King put in.

  Korpanski swivelled his chair round to face the computer screen. ‘I’ll run a few checks.’

  ‘Which leads us to another line of inquiry,’ Joanna continued. ‘The lorry driver – the supplier of animal feeds. He knew there was money upstairs, too. We need to run a check on him.’

  She stood up. ‘Well, we have a few leads thanks to the Mostyn girl.’ She considered for a moment, recalled the desperate glance the girl had given her father when she had asked who else knew.

  ‘Run a check on Mostyn,’ she said. ‘I’d be very interested to know his current financial state.’

  They spent another hour collating the information they’d gathered and preparing for the following morning’s briefing. Korpanski and Alan King decamped to the pub, inviting Joanna along with them, but she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have a fiancé to return home to.’

  She owed Matthew that, at least.

  She arrived home at nine-thirty to find Matthew sitting on the sofa, lamps on, his blond head bent over a book about Egyptian Mummies. Matthew had eclectic reading habits. Their bookshelves were overflowing with books on varied subjects – from history to modern art, poisons to birds of America, travel and, naturally, forensics, while Joanna preferred her crime novels.

  Matthew looked up and grinned as she entered. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How about I massage your neck while you drink a glass of wine?’

  She kissed him before flinging herself down on the sofa. ‘Are you trying for the Man of the Year award?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Husband of the Year.’

  She let the comment ride until he was rubbing her neck and she’d taken a few sips of the wine. ‘It’s September now,’ she said, testing out the ground. ‘Are you suggesting we get married before the year is out?’

  ‘Not seriously,’ he said, his fingers digging into tense muscles. ‘Unless you want a very low-key Registry Office sort of wedding.’

  She turned the ring around on her finger remembering Mrs Parnell’s dark warning. She still hadn’t got used to the feel of the pearl, smooth, round and bulky. ‘Well, there’s an idea,’ she said without turning around.

  ‘By the way, on the same subject, your mother phoned.’

  Joanna swivelled around, making him lose contact with her neck. ‘Did you tell her?’

  He was smiling down at her. ‘Yes, I did. She was very overexcited and started babbling straight away about bridesmaids and churches and things.’

  ‘Oh? Did you disillusion her?’

  ‘No,’ he said steadily, his eyes on her, ‘because you and I haven’t really sat down and talked about the actual wedding.’ He paused. ‘And what it means to us both.’

  She took a long draught of the excellent wine. ‘Perhaps we should at least open the subject?’

  ‘OK.’ He went into the kitchen, brought back the bottle of wine and a beer for himself and sat in the armchair, opposite her, his green eyes steadily focused on her face.

  She inclined her head towards him. ‘You start.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I don’t really care much about the actual ceremony – as long as it’s legal.’

  She was in agreement with this. ‘Same here except I don’t want a church wedding. The thought of slinking up the aisle to the sound of the “Messiah” or something fills me with the heebie-jeebies. Anyway,’ she gave him a straight look, ‘not all churches will marry you if you’re divorced.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I did wonder…’

  ‘The hotel near the Roaches does weddings,’ he said quickly. ‘The entire package. It’s right on the moors, very wild and very much our sort of place.’

  So typical of Matthew to have done the groundwork. ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘A few months ago,’ he admitted. ‘One weekend when you were working. I was out that way and saw it and thought it looked great so went in and got a brochure.’

  She held her hand out and he fetched it from his desk.

  He was right. It was Victorian Gothic, right out on the Roaches, a high and wild place between Buxton and Leek, part of the National Park and popular with climbers. She leafed through the brochure. The rooms looked exquisite and atmospheric, the views stupendous, the food mouth-watering.

  Suddenly she was imagining it – a winter wedding, a frosting of snow and a wild wind, holly and scarlet berries, plenty of red and green, mulled wine and the scent of cinnamon. Music, lots of it, from reggae to pop, from Chopin to Scarlatti. Violins, a harp, a church organ.

  She looked up and nodded and let her mind scamper away again.

  White velvet for her and a white fur cape, her hands buried in a white fur muff. An Anne Boleyn headband sparkling with crystal and a short muslin veil, and her niece, Lara, in scarlet.

  She looked across at Matthew and by telepathy realised that they were sharing the same vision.

  ‘I don’t think Eloise will want to be a bridesmaid,’ he said.

  She shook her head. It wouldn’t be Eloise’s idea of fun at all. ‘But I do want her there,’ he added.

  She nodded. ‘Of course. She’s your daughter.’

  Matthew came and sat by her, very close. She could feel the warmth of his body, the hard muscles of his legs, and inhale the scent of shampoo from his hair. He was right next to her but didn’t hold her hand or put his arm around her. She glanced at him. He was biting his lip.

  She knew what was coming next and decided to save him the trouble of having to ask her.

  ‘You know I don’t want to give up my job,’ she said tentatively.

  He nodded. His eyes flickered.

  ‘But I know you would love another child, preferably a boy.’ She hesitated. ‘Matthew, no woman can promise that,’ she said. ‘These things have a habit of sorting themselves out.’ She smiled into the fireplace, not at him, recalling her miscarriage. ‘But if it happens, I wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘Not a troop of offspring,’ she warned. ‘One – at the absolute, ultimate most two. No more but…’ His hand was stealing towards hers. He took the hand wearing the pearl and kissed it.

  And for the first time she saw real happiness in his face. It was creased with joy.

  Oh my goodness, she thought. This means so much to him and I have withheld it all until now. She felt almost humbled.

  Thursday, 20th September. 8 a.m.

  She’d driven in again, resenting the denial of her bike ride. Autumn was sliding away. It would soon be too dark to cross the moorland alone on her bike, so she’d be using her car every day. She’d have to try and go out over the weekends or she’d lose her ‘form’.

  She kept the briefing factual, using wall charts to illustrate her points.

  She spoke to Alan King and Dawn Critchlow about Teresa Parnell and they said they’d found her strange.

  ‘Get some medical information on her,’ Joanna said.

  She detailed Bridget Anderton to look into the animal feeds lorry driver and Hannah Beardmore to run some local villains through the computer. She sensed there was more to this crime than met the eye – something criminal underlying the assault. She couldn’t say why she believed this except that it seemed logical. This was no simple murder.

  As the officers gave their reports she was sure that the teams had all done their best and interviewed everyone on the estate, but it was equally obvious that no one had actually seen or heard anything.

  Joanna knew that she had some issues to deal with. She had to see Jakob Grimshaw’s body for herself, run through the attack, speak to the pathologist who had performed the post-mortem.

  At the back of her mind was Teresa Parnell’s flat statement. ‘He died at 11 o’clock on Tuesday the 11th of September.’ Why had she been so specific? Joanna didn’t believe in mumbo jumbo but as a psychology graduate she did realise there could be an interaction between a physical incident and the subconscious, which could translate into intuition. Something had fed Mrs Parnell that specific ti
me and date and she wanted to know what it was. At the same time, she would be interested to meet Mr Parnell.

  * * *

  Roderick Beeston rang at eleven confirming that Ratchet, the dog, had died of a barbiturates overdose and the cattle and the sow of dehydration. ‘Old Spice,’ he said jauntily, ‘has been rehoused in a neighbouring farm, where he seems most content.’ He chuckled. ‘Not missing his wife at all.’

  Joanna laughed with him. She was fond of pigs herself, and not just as bacon. She thanked the vet for his trouble and asked about the pony, Brutus.

  ‘Well,’ Beeston said. ‘He’s just turned out in the field at the moment. I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. I suppose like the other animals, he’ll be considered part of the estate and sold. When it’s all wound up. These things take a heck of a time, don’t they?’

  Joanna felt a momentary sympathy for Rachel Mostyn, who had formed an attachment to the animal, but she soon forgot about her.

  Some of the forensic results were starting to roll in already. The dog’s dish had had plenty of fingerprints on it – all of them Jakob Grimshaw’s. The contents confirmed the vet’s findings. Ratchet’s last dinner had been heavily laced with barbiturates. Phenobarbitone.

  ‘Any old can’t-sleep-biddy has access to the stuff,’ the chemist said. But there weren’t any old can’t-sleep-biddies on the Prospect Farm Estate. So where had the barbiturates come from? Mrs Parnell? Was she on a sedative?

  * * *

  After the officers had dispersed, Joanna sat with Mike discussing the case. ‘We’ve looked at the people on the estate,’ she said. ‘Let’s look at possible motives.’ She sighed. ‘They all seem weak. Money being the strongest one. The land? Frankwell wanted to build on it and he was never going to manage that until the farm had been sold but Grimshaw wasn’t playing ball. Over my dead body was his attitude.’ The irony of the words seemed almost cruel.

  She carried on, ‘Pollution from the farm? They all seemed to complain about the smell and Teresa Addams – sorry, Parnell – is one of those hand-washing people. Did you notice the kitchen, Mike?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Remind you of an operating theatre?’

  Again he nodded.

  She shivered. ‘Spooky.’

  They were both silent until Joanna spoke again.

  ‘Ill treatment of animals? Kathleen Weston is an animal lover, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Exactly. Would her love for animals have led her to this?’

  ‘It was a vicious, risky and prolonged violent attack. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I need to see the body for myself,’ she said. ‘This isn’t working. I just don’t have a complete picture. I got back a day too late. Did Jordan Cray say it had to be a male who carried out the assault?’

  ‘Apparently not. The copestone could have been simply slid off the wall and Grimshaw was a skinny, frail old thing. A woman could have attacked him.’ Korpanski qualified it with, ‘a reasonably fit woman, anyway.’

  They were interrupted by Danny Hesketh-Brown and he looked excited.

  ‘Guess what?’ he said. ‘We’ve just spoken to Grimshaw’s bank manager. He was worth a bit.’

  Joanna looked up. ‘How much of a bit?’

  ‘£750,000 worth of a bit,’ he said, grinning. ‘And that’s not including the farm and the land.’

  ‘And the money under the mattress,’ Mike said. ‘All that slashing and tearing. I wonder how much he was really worth.’

  She realised Danny was still standing in the doorway. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Some of the money came from the sale of a field earlier on this year. I spoke to Grimshaw’s solicitor. Guess who bought it?’

  She couldn’t deny the detective his moment of fame.

  ‘Catherine Zeta Jones,’ she said.

  Hesketh-Brown grinned, unfazed by Joanna’s sarcasm. ‘Richard Mostyn. According to the solicitor he bought the field off Grimshaw for £8,000 – well over what it would be worth as farming land but a good investment if…’ He crossed to the board and pointed to the map. ‘This is the field,’ he said. ‘Beyond the farm. It has no other access except through the farmyard. Its far side is bordered by a stream. The neighbouring fields belong to another farmer, who has two strong sons who farm with him. They’re not going to sell up. No, the field was virtually worthless unless…’

  ‘Grimshaw sold his farm,’ Mike chimed in.

  ‘Interesting,’ Joanna mused. ‘And it’s the little Mostyn girl who rode the pony. Mmm.’ She looked at the officer. ‘What else?’

  ‘Pretty predictable,’ he said. ‘Grimshaw died intestate.’

  ‘What?’ Joanna was surprised. Farmers, in general, were very careful how and where they left their money. This was another puzzle. ‘Well, his daughter will probably inherit.’ But even saying it she was dubious. ‘Or his wife. Were they divorced?’

  Hesketh-Brown shook his head slowly. ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Joanna said. ‘And she’s a nurse?’

  ‘Yes.’ Korpanski answered.

  ‘Wouldn’t that give her access to barbiturates?’

  Both detectives were watching her mind tick away. ‘Perhaps I was a little hasty and unsympathetic this morning,’ she said, ‘in my dealings with Mrs Wilkinson. Maybe I should get to know her a little better. What do you think, Mike?’

  Korpanski wedged his thick thighs between the two desks and made his way to the door. ‘Even Judy Grimshaw looks a bit more of an attractive proposition with all that dosh behind her,’ he said.

  Chapter Seven

  WPC Bridget Anderton was a competent police officer. Born and bred in the Staffordshire Moorlands, she understood the workings of the natives’ minds, their prejudices and attitudes. She drove out to Cheddleton, passing the Flint Mill and the Caldon Canal. Farrell’s Animal Suppliers was a cluster of Dutch barns where the feeds were stored and a small, square office. It was an extensive concern; their lorries were to be found right across Staffordshire, and parts of Derbyshire too, supplying plenty of hungry animals throughout long winters.

  She focused on the red-faced director, who was grumbling noisily. ‘I can’t think what any of this has to do with us,’ he said. ‘We’ve nothing to do with poor old Grimshaw’s death.’

  Bridget was short and dumpy with stubby legs but her beauty was in her smile. Wide, warm and friendly, it usually disarmed people, made them feel welcome and confidant. Her hair was toffee-coloured and naturally shiny, swinging to her shoulders, and her eyes were another good feature. Warm brown, with a direct gaze. WPC Anderton was blessed in another way – with an optimistic nature – which she needed as her husband suffered from chronic depression and had spent time in hospital. He had trouble keeping a job and flittered from one to another between bouts of the sad disease.

  WPC Anderton was using all her charm on Robert Flaxon, manager and company director of Farrell’s Feeds, but it was having little effect.

  ‘We need to know which driver delivered to Prospect Farm,’ she said.

  Flaxon tried to stare her out, failed and tightened his lips. ‘Bradeley,’ he muttered. ‘Tim Bradeley covers that area. But he’s a sound chap.’ Flaxon was scowling at her now. ‘There’s no way he’d be up to any monkey business.’ He raised tired eyes to hers. ‘He’s a family man. He’s worked here since leaving school.’

  ‘I just want to talk to him,’ Bridget Anderton said, unruffled. ‘We need to ask him some questions.’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ Flaxon snapped. ‘He’s out on his rounds.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  Flaxon gave a quick look at his wristwatch. ‘In an hour,’ he said, ‘or so.’

  ‘Then I’ll return in an hour,’ Bridget Anderton said sweetly. ‘Please tell him we need to talk to him, will you?’

  Flaxon gave no answer but stared fixedly into his computer screen while she left the room.

  She sat in the c
ar, wondering. Was Flaxon naturally rude? Did he consider helping the police with their inquiries wasting company time? Or did he have something to hide? Did he resent the police sniffing around his premises? If so, why?

  Interesting.

  But she didn’t want to wait around so she headed back to the station.

  Joanna and Mike were holed up in their office. ‘I think it would be a mistake to focus solely on the inhabitants of the estate,’ Joanna was saying. ‘Let’s look at that list Hannah Beardmore compiled of other villains in the area.’

  Mike tapped a few computer keys on the PNC, gave a grunt and leant back in his chair so that Joanna could see the result of his search.

  ‘Kenny Roster’s gang robbed some farms,’ he said, ‘a couple of years ago. They never resorted to murder, though.’ Joanna stared at the screen. ‘Well, they’ve been banged up in Walton jail anyway,’ she said, ‘since March of last year, so they’re out of the picture.’

  ‘There’s always the Whalleys,’ Mike said. ‘Lovely family business of burglary and helping themselves to other people’s stuff.’

  ‘Haven’t they retired?’

  ‘We haven’t heard anything from them for a while,’ Mike said. ‘I think I picked up a rumour that they’d headed off to Spain. I’ll ask around.’

  Joanna smiled. She knew who he’d ask. Like most police forces, they had their old lags who would swap a bit of information for twenty fags and/or a bottle of whisky, depending on how valuable the information was. Legitimate expenses that could save pounds on a major investigation. And Melvin Grinstead was theirs – about as seamy a character as it was possible to imagine. Long grey hair, scruffy, always dressed in the same smelly clothes: an ancient tweed coat, saggy brown trousers and grubby trainers. But he was also sharp-eyed and at times unobtrusive to the point of invisibility.