Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  The noose was tightening around Judy’s neck.

  They let Dudson go.

  Joanna glanced at her watch. Six thirty. She’d promised Matthew she would sit down to dinner at seven thirty. More than anything, she wanted to haul Judy Grimshaw in and question her through half the night. But Matthew would not forgive her. Whatever the reason, he would think of it as an excuse. Korpanski was eyeing her expectantly. They’d worked together on enough cases for him to be able to anticipate her next move. With a sigh, she stood up. So this was what it meant to have conflicting loyalties: always to feel wrong-footed.

  Avoiding Korpanski’s eyes, she spoke. ‘We’ll talk to Madam Wilkinson in the morning.’

  Korpanski watched her, incredulous. ‘You’re kidding?’

  He knew her methods. Knew she really wanted to grill the woman until she told them something. She felt the struggle inside her, and then picked up the phone, almost seeing Matthew’s lips curl in disbelief as he answered. ‘I’m really sorry, Matthew,’ she said. ‘Something’s come up. I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  He spoke the words for her.

  ‘Don’t wait up,’ he supplied. ‘Funny,’ he said angrily, ‘that it should “come up” now, at this time, just when Eloise is here. Well, I’m sorry too, Jo. Sometimes, you know, you simply have to make an effort.’ And he put the phone down.

  Joanna fingered the pearl on her finger. It hadn’t made things any easier, had it? More difficult, if anything. She was more than ever conscious of the grit that was at the centre of this lovely gem.

  Judy was defiant, her pale eyes staring at them when she opened the door of her terraced house. ‘I don’t know why you keep bothering me,’ she said grumpily. ‘Typical of the police. Grab the next of kin and you’re halfway there.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘So what is it this time?’

  ‘We simply want some clarification,’ Joanna said steadily. Initially, she’d felt dislike for this woman. Now it was turning into something much stronger. Not a good idea to feel such prejudice against a suspect; she was well aware that it could cloud her judgement.

  Judy’s eyes became wary. ‘Clarification,’ she demanded, ‘on what?’

  ‘You knew about the letter your father wrote,’ Joanna said. ‘When did you realise it wasn’t true?’

  Judy’s face changed. Still wary but tense now. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your mother is not dead, is she?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  Judy took a long time to speak again. Her chest moved, her face moved but she said nothing. Finally, she did speak. Differently. She had lost some of her bounce, her aggression, and simply looked a skinny, sad woman. ‘Can I get this straight, Inspector?’ she said. ‘Are you telling me that my mother is still alive?’

  Oddly enough there was anger underlying her voice. That and a terrible uncertainty. Joanna watched the emotions cross her face, wondering, what’s going on?

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Your mother is alive.’

  Judy sank back in her chair. ‘Bitch,’ she spat. ‘So where’s she been?’

  ‘She’s been working in Spain and other countries.’

  ‘And she never once got in touch with me. What a mother,’ she exploded. ‘What a fucking mother!’

  Joanna had to agree with her.

  Quite unexpectedly her own feelings towards Judy Grimshaw changed. She felt sorry for her. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that your mother wanted to escape the stifling atmosphere of farm life rather than you. You were the price she paid.’

  And just as unexpectedly Judy looked furious rather than mollified by the words. ‘I don’t want your opinion on my mother and her dirty behaviour, Inspector,’ she said viciously. ‘Just find out who killed my father. And I suggest you do concentrate on his next of kin.’

  Behind Joanna, Korpanski cleared his throat noisily.

  They left soon afterwards and drove back to the station. ‘I’m toying with the idea that maybe we should consider getting a warrant to search Judy Grimshaw’s house,’ Joanna said. ‘And I would love to be a fly on the wall when mother and daughter are reunited.’

  Korpanski nodded in agreement, his mouth pursed up.

  It was nine o’clock when she crept in, feeling utterly guilty. Mike had given her a lift home, which seemed to rub in the conflict between work and home life. She had almost been tempted to stay the night in the police station but that would solve nothing. She could not stay there for ever taking evasive action.

  They were talking as she entered the room. The two of them in earnest conversation, blonde heads close together, Eloise’s pale hair making a contrast with Matthew’s straw-coloured locks.

  ‘Hello.’

  Matthew managed a smile. Eloise simply regarded her steadily, dislike sharpening her small features so she looked even more like her mother. It didn’t help. ‘Hello, Joanna.’ Eloise spoke finally. ‘Looks like you’ll be seeing even more of me in the future.’

  Joanna couldn’t dream up a suitable response.

  Matthew stood up. ‘Shall I pop some lasagne in the microwave?’ he said awkwardly.

  She answered without turning her head. ‘That’d be nice. Thanks.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen and Joanna settled into the armchair opposite. ‘So,’ she said to Eloise, ‘how did your interview go?’

  ‘They’ve offered me a place.’

  Joanna’s heart sank. ‘Will you take it?’

  Eloise was watching her. Too much perception in the green eyes. Her father’s eyes. Her father’s beautiful eyes.

  She nodded. ‘I haven’t had the formal offer yet,’ she said. ‘There are the tiny fences of A levels. They’re bound to want high grades for entry, but I would like to go there. I was impressed with the university campus and the quality of teaching. It’s one of the best for practical medicine. Besides…’ Her eyes were still resting on Joanna, challenging her. ‘I’d like to be near Dad. He can help me with my studies and things.’ She smiled. ‘I’m going to struggle with chemistry and they’ll insist on that to gain entry.’ She hesitated before her next sentence. ‘Don’t worry, Joanna, I’m not about to try and intrude on your little Arcadia but he is my dad and I’ve missed him in the time since he left. I’d like to stay close to him.’

  Right on cue, Matthew walked in with a tray of food and three tall glasses.

  ‘So,’ he said, with hearty jollity. ‘Shall we toast?’

  ‘It could be a bit premature, Dad.’

  ‘No,’ Joanna said softly. ‘Let’s toast. To you, Eloise, to the grades that you need and to having your father near you.’ She felt happy, relieved. It would work out – surely?

  Matthew popped the cork from some sparkling wine and the three of them drank, more companionable than they had ever been before.

  Eloise sipped from her glass. ‘And to you, Joanna,’ she said. ‘Congratulations.’

  The green eyes looked perceptively deep into hers and Joanna flushed then drank the toast.

  It was later when Matthew asked her about the events of the day.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any of this coming out.’ She gave a warning glance at father and daughter. ‘But Grimshaw’s wife turned up, right out of the blue.’

  Matthew threw his head back and laughed, and she knew he wasn’t laughing because of what she’d said but because he was happy. Genuinely happy. After a second or two she and Eloise joined in.

  ‘Is nothing safe, nothing predictable?’

  Joanna took a thoughtful sip of the wine. ‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘this has been the last straw. For a simple homicide it is proving to be the most frustrating of cases. Every time I think I know something it turns out to be false. It’s pissing me off, quite honestly.’

  ‘How does this affect the daughter’s inheritance?’ Eloise asked the question slowly.

  ‘We-ell,’ Joanna pondered the point. ‘Mrs Grimshaw will be the next of kin. Grimshaw died intestate. It might go to court fo
r an expensive argument. Judy doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort and there’s patently very bad blood between mother and daughter. Unless she and her mother have more to tell me and they have been in touch, this has been nothing more than a pointless charade. I’d say that they’d be well advised to come to a private agreement and keep it out of the courts. Of course, there’s no predicting what will actually happen.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Matthew said, grinning. ‘A three-pipe problem?’

  She was tempted to aim a cushion at him.

  But sitting, drinking quietly as father and daughter chattered, she rolled a few possibilities around in her mind. Was it possible that Judy had shown Dudson the letter to provoke him? To murder? Had Mrs Grimshaw returned out of the blue coincidentally or to claim her inheritance?

  Was her reappearance cause or effect? Had she killed her husband?

  They were questions she badly needed the answers to.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thursday, 27th September. 8 a.m.

  Breakfast was a stilted affair with Eloise appearing, yawning, pushing the blonde hair out of her eyes, wrapping herself tightly in a dressing gown over a pair of pink pyjamas. She looked very young, much younger than her eighteen years, almost the small girl Joanna had first met when she had visited Matthew’s farm once to question him about the murder of a nurse. Eloise accepted some cereal and fruit juice and swigged away at an enormous mug of coffee Matthew had brewed.

  ‘Well,’ Joanna said awkwardly, standing up and clearing her dishes into the dishwasher. ‘I have to go now. Good luck,’ she said to Eloise. ‘I hope you get your place.’ She gave a sly peek at Matthew. ‘Your father will love to see more of you.’

  Eloise’s green eyes gave her a look so transparent Joanna could read their message: Not you, though.

  The two women smiled at each other and Matthew looked happy, taken in by the charade.

  Joanna kissed his cheek, then, feeling a wave of affection at the scratchy bristles, his mouth. ‘Bye, darling,’ she said. ‘See you later.’

  He nodded. She ran upstairs to clean her teeth and minutes later was on her bike, which Mike had managed to stow in the back of his Volvo last night.

  As she cycled across the moors her mind was as furiously busy as her legs. Question after question presented itself. Who was the friend who had recognised Mrs Grimshaw? she wondered. Because this supposedly chance encounter had set in motion a train of events. If Mrs Grimshaw was telling the truth, her discovery, living under an assumed identity, had been the key that had led to her return home. What bearing might this have had on her husband’s murder? There was one way to find out.

  Even though Joanna shared one characteristic with most other police officers – a mistrust of anyone’s statement – the answer was inescapable. Ask her.

  Mike almost groaned when she put her suggestion to him. His dark eyes rested on her with a look of impatience. ‘I don’t see where that’s going to lead us, Jo,’ he said grumpily. ‘The murder was committed here, not abroad. It’s a local thing. A squabble about land, resentment about the intrusion of a farm on a posh housing estate, a false claim of murder of our victim’s wife, a daughter who stands to benefit from her father’s death. It all happened in Leek. So it’s here that we need to look for motive and method. Not some bar in Eastern Europe. Grimshaw had never even been out of the country. So why would there be a foreign connection?’

  She was surprised at Korpanski’s outburst. Whatever her line of inquiry, he generally went along with it. Not opposing. He tended to trust both her judgement and her decisions. Unbidden, a vision of the inside of the barn at Prospect Farm swam in front of her eyes. Plastic sacks of animal feed, the rope, dangling free, the oblong bales of hay, neatly stacked. ‘There is a foreign connection,’ she said stubbornly, ‘but we won’t know what it is unless we probe a bit more.’ She attempted to retrieve Korpanski’s missing good humour. ‘You know how I hate loose ends, Mike.’ She picked up the phone.

  Mrs Grimshaw was in an equally negative mood when Joanna put her question to her. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she snapped.

  ‘Mrs Grimshaw,’ Joanna said. She was getting fed up with all this. ‘Just give me the name and let me decide what, if any, bearing this has on your husband’s death.’

  There was a long pause, so long that Joanna was on the point of asking the question again, but Mrs Grimshaw finally grunted and provided the name. Reluctantly. Joanna had the impression that she had caught Grimshaw’s widow on the hop. Whatever questions she had expected, this had not been one of them. Ergo, she did not have an answer prepared.

  ‘Brian Young,’ she said, the name being dragged out of her. ‘He was an old school friend of mine, years and years ago. He wandered into the bar where I was employed and – well – he recognised me. I knew then that the game was up, that he would soon spread the gospel.’ The bitterness in her voice was a puzzle to Joanna. Avis Grimshaw could easily have moved on to another city, another country, even, and vanished again even if her cover had been blown. It would have taken the police years to catch up with her; she would have been a low priority on the long list of criminals.

  Avis continued. ‘He never could resist being the centre of attention and seeing me there, going under the name of a neighbour he knew to be dead – well – I didn’t have a chance, did I?’

  ‘His address?’ Joanna repeated, unwilling to be deflected. Sulkily, Mrs Grimshaw gave it to her. ‘I don’t know the actual address,’ she said, ‘but he owns a garage on the Ashbourne road. He lives above it – on his own – in a flat. He and his wife split up years ago. I don’t know who his current partner is. When he was in Bratislava, he came alone.’

  Joanna thanked her and put the phone down. ‘Brian Young,’ she said thoughtfully to Mike. ‘Now why does that name ring a bell?’

  Korpanski supplied the answer. ‘He came out of prison eight months ago.’

  ‘What was he in for?’

  ‘Drugs. Quite the little baron. He had a ring that extended down to the south of Spain, using the back door of Morocco, smuggling in marijuana. Made a nice packet out of it right up until he got busted by the Drugs Squad.’ Korpanski nibbled the top of his pen. ‘Now, I wonder what he was doing in the Czech Republic.’

  ‘Right.’ Joanna was thoughtful. ‘What did we discover about this end of the operation?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Korpanski said, then added, ‘not enough really. We tracked down some of his accomplices but never felt we had the full story. And he wasn’t telling. In the end they banged him up for eight years. He was out after three.’ He gave a long, heartfelt, regretful sigh. Had it been up to Sergeant Mike Korpanski, the entire parole system would have been scrapped.

  Joanna stood up. ‘Well, Korpanski, let’s go and visit this Mr Young.’

  They tracked Young down to the workshop at the side of a very busy and prosperous-looking site. Queues of cars were waiting to fill up with fuel. There was a rumour of yet another price hike in the oil industry so customers were taking no chances. Young was standing with his head under the bonnet of a blue Honda Jazz and looked up warily at the two police, recognising them instantly. It’s a talent most ex-cons have – the ability to recognise police personnel at forty paces – even if they’ve never met before. It’s a useful instinct in the criminal fraternity.

  He didn’t even question their identity or wait for them to flash their ID cards before speaking. ‘I’ve done my time,’ he said. ‘You’ve nothing on me now.’

  Joanna decided to play him along.

  ‘Your visit to Bratislava,’ she began.

  Young looked instantly even more wary. ‘So, what of it? I’m allowed a legitimate holiday, aren’t I?’

  ‘Of course,’ Joanna said soothingly. ‘I’m only really interested in someone you met over there. An old school friend?’

  Young looked bemused.

  ‘A Mrs Grimshaw.’

  ‘Oh.’ His brow cleared. ‘Her. What of it?’

  ‘Y
ou didn’t know she was there?’

  Young wiped his hands on an oily rag. ‘Not only did I not know she was there,’ he said. ‘I understood she’d vanished. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I walked into the bar and there she was, serving at tables. She’d walked out on her husband years ago. No one knew what had happened to her. Like most people round here, if I thought about it at all I just assumed she’d gone off with a man. She always was a feisty sort of woman. Not your typical farmer’s wife. It gave me a shock to see her. And I don’t think she was too pleased to see me either. She started off asking me not to say anything to anyone at home.’ His eyes were pale blue and surprisingly shrewd with tiny, sharp pupils. He smiled with his teeth without it even grazing his eyes and Joanna guessed that he had not reassured Mrs Grimshaw that he would keep quiet. He was more likely to have tried to blackmail her. She returned the smile, noticing that he had omitted to mention that his old school friend was living in a foreign country under an assumed name. ‘Next thing I knew,’ Young finished, ‘I heard she was back. And then—’

  ‘Her husband gets bumped off,’ Korpanski supplied.

  ‘Exactly.’

  And that, Joanna thought, was that.

  She decided to rattle Young. ‘And how did you enjoy your…’ her pause was deliberate, ‘holiday, Mr Young?’

  Young scowled.

  She tried one more tack. A blind leap. ‘What was the name of the bar? Where exactly was it? Who owned it?’

  ‘It’s called Posh.’

  Joanna couldn’t resist a smirk at Korpanski.

  ‘It’s in the Old Town just behind the main square. Fantastic place, it is. Must be worth a fortune. It was packed every night I was there. Heaving.’

  Now Joanna was curious. ‘What sort of a place is it?’

  Young shrugged. ‘Bit of everything. Music, cabaret, food, drinks. And round the back is a sort of motel extension. Must be twenty or thirty rooms. And the grounds. Well…’ He narrowed his eyes.