Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  Korpanski’s dark eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Whatever you got to say, Jo, it had better be good.’

  She grinned at him. ‘Don’t be so grouchy, Mike. I’m thinking “Morticia Addams”, aka Teresa Parnell, and the noise she heard.’

  Korpanski regarded her patiently. ‘I’m not trying to be over cynical,’ he said, ‘but as far as me and the spooks go, I think there’s only one way someone can know the exact time of death and it sure as hell isn’t intuition.’

  She leant forward, her face alive and eager. ‘I’m not saying I believe in second sight and all that, but I’m always ready to take ideas on board. I think that she might have heard something and translated it into fact. Either that or she knows something more definite.’

  Korpanski dipped his head. It was the closest she was going to get to an agreement.

  Mark Fask rang back at 7 o’clock, just as Joanna was arranging the following day’s briefing.

  ‘I don’t know if you want to come over,’ he said slowly. ‘We’ve almost finished the search of the farm. I haven’t come across any postcards, though.’

  ‘Is there anything to do with Grimshaw’s wife?’ Joanna said desperately.

  ‘Well, I have come across something that’s obviously to do with the mother. A small box containing a wedding ring and one other piece of jewellery, but no postcards.’ He paused. ‘None of her clothes are here, nothing except the jewellery box. I haven’t emptied it yet.’ He paused. ‘I thought you’d want to be here.’

  ‘We’re on our way,’ Joanna said.

  It was a dull, damp evening, the only splash of colour provided by some chestnut leaves just beginning to turn yellow at their edges. The Ashbourne road was damp and quiet, with little traffic except for a couple of tractors rumbling along slowly. She overtook, resisting the temptation to switch the blue light on and touch ninety along the straight road. She turned off the main road and passed the entrance to the housing estate.

  * * *

  The farmhouse loomed ahead, a vague, square shape in the gloom. She could see the yellow of the lights, fuzzy in the damp haze, the police cars parked along the sides of the lane. She parked behind one and they climbed out. Once outside she could smell the animals that had, until recently, lived and died there. To her, it was a reassuring farmyard smell. She sniffed it appreciatively as she and Korpanski approached the farmhouse. The nearer she got, the more run-down the place looked. Considering the number of personnel she knew to be there, it was quiet, eerily so, and appeared deserted. It was hard to believe that Fask and his team were inside, beavering away, gleaning every last shred of evidence from the crime scene. As she reached the oak tree she could see the backs of the estate houses, all of them lit bright and clear. Grimshaw must have looked out on this scene often. She could hear the wind whispering through the leaves, pick up on the distant bark of a fox and hear a quiet whoo whoo of an owl. Even with the bulk of Korpanski at her side she was relieved to reach the back door. This place had a bad atmosphere.

  Just as they arrived at the door a spiteful gust of rain caught her, spattering her jacket. Still acclimatised to southern Spain, she shivered. Korpanski gave her a quick look. She couldn’t work out whether he was worried she was going down with something or critical at the effect the place was having on her. He said nothing but plodded heavily at her side.

  Fask opened the door to them, a good-looking guy with nice brown hair, thick and prone to curling at the ends, his paunch accentuated by the unflattering forensic suit, which billowed around his middle. In his gloved hand was a wooden box, intricately worked with the picture of a bird inlaid on the top. Joanna slipped on some gloves and held out her hands. It felt heavier than she would have expected. It was a nice piece of work, not particularly old, probably dating from around the 1980s, but out of place here, where everything was utilitarian with no attention to beauty or decoration. Joanna reflected that this applied to the farmer’s daughter, too. Judy Grimshaw dressed in plain clothes, wore little make up. There was little attention paid to aesthetics here.

  Wondering whether this was equivalent to the release of evil from Pandora’s box, she placed the box on the dining-room table, raised the lid and was confronted by a small, plastic ballerina in a white net tutu, pirouetting slowly to the strains of ‘The Blue Danube’. Joanna watched her for a while, feeling Korpanski’s breath against her cheek. She suppressed a grin. This was about as far from the muscular detective as it was possible to be. She allowed the ballerina to perform a few more turns before switching her off and examining the interior. In the top was a tray containing a narrow, flat gold wedding band.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ she asked, curious.

  ‘In the attic,’ Fask answered. ‘It was covered in dust. It must have been there, untouched, for a while. A year at least. The access hole was quite stuck.’

  ‘So Grimshaw could have put it away when his wife left. But she left behind her wedding ring.’ Superstitiously Joanna fingered the black pearl on her own finger, then glanced at the hands of the two men. Neither Mark Fask nor Korpanski wore a wedding band. This symbolism obviously meant more to her than to them.

  She lifted the top tray out to search underneath, recalling Judy’s mimicry of her father’s voice.

  ‘Her’s in Spain or Portugal. The Algarve. France. You know, spreading her wings.’

  ‘The postcards should be here somewhere’, she mused. ‘This was the obvious place to store them.’

  There was only one item in the bottom of the box: a brooch, studded with turquoise and seed pearls in the shape of a butterfly, tiny rubies or garnets on the end of its antennae. Joanna picked it up and studied it. She didn’t know a great deal about antique jewellery but it looked late Victorian or possibly Edwardian. Not hugely expensive but a lovely keepsake. Perhaps an heirloom? Like the box it was a pretty piece. It crossed her mind that Judy might like to keep these mementos of her mother. She might even know where the two objects came from. But one thing puzzled Joanna. By her surmising, she believed that Avis Grimshaw had had an affair. That much her daughter had told her and it explained Mrs Grimshaw’s disappearance: she had left with the man. Joanna furrowed her brow and thought as she felt the sharp edges of the pretty butterfly’s wings. It was hard to imagine Jakob buying his wife such trinkets, baubles. Both the box and the brooch smacked of the lover.

  So why did she leave them behind?

  The wedding ring she could understand. It was a symbol of the past she was abandoning. But the box and the butterfly were different. Still, it possibly meant nothing.

  She turned her attention back to the box. It was lined with tissue paper of a rather sickly pink, a soft nest to cradle the butterfly. Joanna removed it. And found her clue.

  Under the lining was a blue Basildon Bond envelope with the name Judy scribbled untidily on the front in black ink. The envelope was sealed. Joanna slit the top with the blade of Korpanski’s proffered Swiss Army knife. She slid the one sheet of paper from inside, unfolded it and began to read it out aloud, feeling a dread sickness well up inside her. Just like the feeling she had had as a child when reading the Gothic horror of Edgar Allan Poe tales: The Masque of the Red Death or The Fall of the House of Usher.

  ‘Judy I expect your wondering what really happened to your ma why she never wrote or telephoned. I knew what she was up to. I knew she was planning on going and that would have split the farm because I had to give her money. I couldn’t have that, Jude. This farm has bin in our family for genera,’ this had been crossed out and replaced with ever. ‘Remember when I bought Old Spice? You thought him funny. Well I kept him hungry for a week and I fed er to him and that’s where she is. Recycled you could say into her piglets. Doin her bit fo the farm.’

  She could almost hear a throaty chortle from the old farmer. There was a gasp from the two men as she read the note out loud.

  ‘I suppose you’ve only found this becos I’m dead. I never would have told you if I was still alive but you need to know she is
n’t having a fine time at all unless there really is a heaven. She’s not livin it up nowhere and you so proud of her doin her own thing and that but I tell you Old spice and is missus ate er.’

  Joanna looked at the two men. ‘Her’s in Spain or Portugal. The Algarve. France. You know, spreading her wings,’ she quoted.

  Only not.

  The letter was simply signed, Dad. No love; no kisses.

  Joanna felt really sick now. She looked at Mark Fask. ‘Is it possible?’ she asked, shocked.

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about man-eating pigs.’

  Korpanski had his mouth open. ‘Puts you off bacon, Jo.’ She forgave him the brave attempt at black humour. It relieved her nausea.

  She locked eyes with Korpanski. He knew as well as she did that this put Judy Grimshaw right back in the hot seat. It gave her a powerful motive for wanting her father dead. Revenge. And unlike all the other reasons for Grimshaw’s murder, this was a very credible motive. If she’d known of her mother’s fate. It all hinged on this; was it possible that Judy had read the letter and re-sealed the envelope? Or even, whether she’d seen the letter or not, had she suspected that her father’s version of events was a lie?

  She turned to Fask. ‘Did you say the box was covered in dust?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And the attic hadn’t been entered in years.’

  Mark Fask pondered this one for a while. ‘Given the general state of the place,’ he said, ‘it could have been up there undisturbed for two, maybe three years.’

  Joanna gave a satisfied smile. Well after Avis Grimshaw had vanished. Had Judy simply bided her time?

  Possibly.

  She slipped the box and its contents, together with the letter, into a specimen bag. If they found Judy’s fingerprints on it they would know she had read it. Joanna suppressed a triumphant smile. She wanted it to be Judy Wilkinson. There is nothing in the world better than fingering the collar of a nasty suspect. At that moment, for the first time since she had taken over the case, she felt optimistic.

  ‘Well, firstly I need to know whether it’s possible that a pig could eat an entire human being without leaving any trace,’ she said briskly. ‘Anyone got the vet’s telephone number?’

  Fask produced it from his mobile and Joanna dialled up.

  Roderick Beeston listened to her request and she could hear puzzlement in his voice as he responded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is possible. Pigs have extraordinary—’

  She interrupted him. ‘I take it they would eat a corpse, not kill a live person?’

  ‘No. No records of a pig actually killing anyone. Leastways, not like that.’ Even Beeston sounded vaguely shocked at the thought. ‘But they’ve got a fearful bite, which might get infected. I suppose they could kill you like that but no other way. They wouldn’t actually slay someone. Surely you’re not suggesting that Posh and Old Spice…?’ His voice trailed away as though he couldn’t bear to voice the thought.

  ‘Is there any chance I can see this animal?’ Joanna knew it was an impulse but in the past, impulses had served her well.

  ‘Why on earth do you want to see the pig? Do you think he can tell you who did it?’ Beeston had a little too much black humour for her liking.

  ‘Possibly,’ Joanna answered. ‘You know what I’m like. I have to see things for myself.’

  ‘OK. I can meet you in fifteen minutes at Apple Tree Farm, if you like.’ He gave her directions with a chuckle. ‘The farmer will enjoy showing off his new acquisition, I’m sure. Old Spice is a fabulous-looking animal.’

  She was reflecting on the odd association between vets and beasts as she drove. She couldn’t imagine ever describing a pig as fabulous.

  The weather was even more dingy by the time she met Roderick Beeston at Apple Tree Farm, a further mile out of Leek on the Ashbourne road. She’d always liked the vet with his dark hair, bright blue eyes and irrepressible, if sometimes over-developed sense of fun. They had worked together on a few cases in this largely rural community and he had played his part in helping her solve each case where an animal was involved; a fierce dog, neglected farm animals, cases of cruelty. He took a torch from the back of his Land Rover and together they approached the farmhouse – cautiously. Most farms have dogs, dogs that are meant to protect their territory, and farm dogs invariably have sharp teeth and nasty tempers, a little like the deceased Ratchet.

  The farmer met them at the door, a young man in his early thirties with a mop of blond hair. His face was bright with curiosity as Beeston introduced Joanna.

  The farmer smothered his smile. ‘And you think the pig can ’elp you?’ His voice was good-natured, his face pleasant. ‘Fine old Tamworth,’ he threw over his shoulder as they crunched across the yard. ‘Known Old Spice for a number of years, I have. Had a few of the little piglets to fatten up myself. Made lovely bacon.’

  Joanna felt nauseous again. How would this decent and hard-working farmer feel if he knew what had produced the ‘lovely bacon?’

  He wagged his finger at her. ‘That is, if you hang it for a month or two,’ he added. ‘Old Jakob always promised I would have Old Spice if anything happened to him.’ He shook his head, looking grieved.

  Joanna felt even more nauseous at the thought of the meat ‘hanging’.

  Patently at home with the vet and enjoying Joanna’s audience, the farmer continued prattling. ‘But I still never thought the old boar’d end up in my backyard. Jakob was devoted to the animal. Sit there for hours, he would, just leanin’ over the sty door, lookin’ at him, admiring him, like. I imagined Jakob would easily outlive the pig. I’d watch ’em and think what a pair they made.’

  Indeed, Joanna thought. What a pair. Murderer and evidence-eater. But the real question, hiding behind this musing, was, what bearing did this new development have on the murder of Jakob Grimshaw? If any?

  But surely, she argued to herself, it must have a bearing. It had to have one. Serious crime begets serious crime. The farmer died because he had killed his wife and disposed of her body in a barbaric way.

  Tussling with her thoughts, Joanna peered over the sty and met a pair of piggy little eyes fringed with ginger eyelashes. The pig looked back at her and blinked, snorted once, twice, kept his gaze on her face. She stared back and was reminded of the sharp and devious intelligence of Napoleon in Animal Farm. She asked Beeston the question again, in a slightly different form. ‘Could a pig really devour an entire human body?’

  ‘Every last bit of it,’ he said cheerfully, while the farmer eavesdropped, confused. ‘Even the femur,’ Beeston continued. ‘They’ve got fantastic jaws.’ There was a note of admiration in his voice before he too looked unsure. ‘But surely old Grimshaw’s body was found, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you any more,’ she said stiffly, depressed at the sight of Old Spice snuffling in the dirt, snorting like the man-eater she now knew him to be.

  She left the farm but didn’t go home straight away. The day’s developments had unsettled her. Instead, she drove back to Prospect Farm, sealed off now by Fask’s team, who had gone home for the night leaving only a lonely PC on solitary watch. It was chilly; autumn had arrived. The evenings were dingy and dull making a fireside – particularly with Matthew – an attractive proposition. She leant against the gate and stood peering over. What a dreadfully barbaric and sinister place it was, the scene of two murders. At her side, she could just see the backs of the estate houses, hear the sounds of modern urban living, strains of music, the ceaseless chatter of a television, doors opening and closing, laughter, the tinny electronic tune of a mobile phone ringing. The contrast between the two civilisations had never been more apparent.

  Chapter Nine

  Friday, 21st September. 8 a.m.

  Mike met her with some welcome news. ‘We’ve had a call from a Mrs Barnes,’ he said. ‘Hilary Barnes. Number 9. She says she thinks she heard something.’

  She sank down on her seat. ‘What? When
?’

  ‘On Tuesday,’ he said, ‘the 11th, mid-morning. Around eleven.’

  ‘The same day and time that our friend Mrs Parnell mentioned.’

  He nodded.

  ‘So what exactly did Mrs Barnes hear?’

  ‘Sounds of a struggle.’

  She frowned. ‘Why didn’t she tell us before, Mike? It’s almost two weeks ago.’

  ‘She says she’s only just put two and two together, realised what it was.’ His eyes, like hers, were full of doubt.

  ‘OK. We’ll go round and see her after the briefing.’

  Half an hour later she was facing the eager faces of her investigating team and filling them in on the latest developments.

  ‘You understand this puts Grimshaw’s daughter right into the centre of the picture,’ she said, ‘but there is also the man her mother is alleged to have had an affair with. We don’t know whether it’s true or not. Or who he is. We only have Mrs Wilkinson’s word for it. She says her father told her, but obviously he would have a clear motive for wanting a rational explanation for his wife’s disappearance if anyone asked. However, if what Grimshaw claimed was true and there is such a man, if he had his suspicions that Jakob had murdered his wife he could be a suspect for Grimshaw’s murder.’

  She frowned and everyone in the room could see the obvious flaw in this latest theory. There had been too much of a time lapse between the two crimes for them to rely on this. Grimshaw’s wife had disappeared eight years ago. ‘I suppose it’s possible that Mr X only found out recently,’ she mused. ‘Or perhaps he only gained proof recently. We don’t know.’

  It struck her that they didn’t know anything apart from the fact that Grimshaw was dead along with his wife. Both murdered. Had one crime born the other? It seemed a logical conclusion.

  She returned to the area plan. ‘And we must still consider the inhabitants of the Prospect Farm Estate as well as anyone else who might have a connection. Steve and Kathleen Weston.’ She looked at Korpanski and opened her mouth. ‘I’ve remembered,’ she said, clapping her hand to her forehead.