Grave Stones

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Who owns it?’

  Young looked surprised. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Avis does,’ he said.

  This was food for thought. Joanna and Mike exchanged startled glances. It wasn’t exactly how Avis had portrayed her missing years. ‘Really?’

  They left Young to his mechanics then and returned to the station.

  As soon as they were safely back in their office, Joanna began to speak. ‘Not quite the penniless barmaid then, was she?’

  Korpanski shook his head.

  She continued. ‘What bearing this’ll have on our investigation I don’t know, Mike. But it is significant.’ She met his eyes. ‘Where did she get the money from, Mike? How did she make so much?’ She hesitated for a moment before adding a question. ‘Do you smell a rat, Mike?’

  ‘Property’s probably done well over there since the mid-nineties. She could have done it legitimately.’

  Joanna said nothing.

  He tried again. ‘She’s obviously a good businesswoman. She could have borrowed the money and made the whole thing work.’

  ‘Under a false name. Open to blackmail,’ she continued. ‘But if her business over there was legitimate except for her assumed name, she could still have continued. She’d have to have come back here, assumed her own identity, had her wrists slapped. But if on the other hand she was up to something more…’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘There’s something else, Mike. Something we’ve missed out on.’

  For no apparent reason the image of the barn was still in front of her eyes, nagging for her attention. The neat bales of hay, the plastic sacks of animal feed, the rope swinging, almost beckoning her to follow.

  She knew the clue was there. Right in front of her eyes.

  When she looked up, Korpanski was watching her with a strange, almost worried expression in his eyes.

  ‘There’s something in this that intrigues me, Mike,’ she said.

  He perched on the corner of the desk, swinging his muscular legs to and fro. ‘What exactly?’

  She met his eyes with a hard, confident stare. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly, ‘except coincidence. Mrs Grimshaw remains hidden for years, a fellow from Leek finds her. She returns and the next thing her husband’s dead. She openly tells us she was on his premises on one of the days that he could have died. This knowing she would be chief suspect. Why? Why? All along I’ve felt time of death was significant. A false trail was laid deliberately to lead us to believe that Jakob Grimshaw died on the Tuesday, in which case Avis could have spoken to him. But we’ve surmised that the Tuesday was a false trail.’ She frowned. ‘Why? To give Judy an alibi? One we could never break – a list of patients waiting to see her. Did mother and daughter have contact in the intervening years? Is their apparent hostility nothing but a clever device to make us believe they could not have worked together, covered for each other? How did Avis Grimshaw make all that money? A lot of evidence leads us towards Jakob’s wife and daughter but it isn’t the entire story. The farm is encircled by a ring of hostile neighbours who all have their own reason for wishing the place off the map. The Westons, for animal rights reasons; Mrs Frankwell, to get a good price for her property; Mostyn, who stands to gain if his land beyond the farm is granted planning permission; Frankwell, who is desperate to sell his house and has been deceived by the old farmer.’ She couldn’t resist a smirk, remembering the deep scratch that had scored the side of the Porsche. ‘I can’t see Gabriel Frankwell being too pleased at being made a fool of by Grimshaw, can you? Then there is the wild card, that after years, generations, of clinging on to the farm, Grimshaw may have been about to sell up. And we have more. A daughter who has believed her mother dead for eight years, that her father murdered her and disposed of the body in a most barbaric way. If her story is true, Judy Grimshaw held this story to her heart for more than a year before she divulged it to Dudson, the neighbouring farmer, the man she’d believed her mother might have had an affair with but who fairly obviously had not eloped with her.’ Her eyes met Korpanski’s. ‘I don’t have to tell you; these are all powerful ingredients for catastrophe. But did one event cause the next, were they a sequence of events, a pack of cards, and if so, which circumstance is the most significant?’

  She reached for the phone again. ‘Mrs Grimshaw.’ The snappy tone of the returning voice made Korpanski wince.

  ‘I just wondered whether you’d met up with your daughter yet?’

  ‘I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, Inspector,’ Avis replied acidly. ‘It has no bearing on the murder of my husband.’

  ‘I simply wondered what her response to you might have been.’

  Avis’s response was swift and unmistakable. ‘Mind your own bloody business.’

  Joanna replaced the phone and gave a wry smile at Korpanski. ‘Friendly as ever,’ she said. ‘Nice family.’

  Korpanski simply grinned. ‘Flea in the ear, Jo?’

  ‘If I wasn’t such a lady,’ she said, ‘you’d be getting the two-fingered salute, Sergeant. Now concentrate.’

  She frowned. ‘We’re still missing something, aren’t we?’

  Korpanski nodded glumly. ‘The whole bloody lot if you ask me.’

  She smiled. ‘Optimistic as ever,’ she mocked. ‘Have faith. It’s like peeling an onion,’ she said. ‘Strip one bit away; it might sting your eyes but underneath you find something further, more complex. This looked like the most parochial, the simplest of cases but search underneath and there is another dimension. We started with neighbours and local motives. And look what happens?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘We end up with a European case, a drugs connection. What next, Mike?’

  ‘It is like peeling an onion,’ he repeated. ‘It makes your eyes sting and water so much you can’t see a damned thing.’

  She was silent, waiting for Korpanski to turn the corner as she knew he would – eventually.

  ‘I’ve been wondering, Jo,’ he said slowly, ‘why did she go off like that in the first place? Why not just leave, get a job somewhere, write to her daughter and explain? That would be more normal. Why leave the whole thing open so Grimshaw could tell that horrible lie about where her mother had gone, plant the letter in a place he knew his daughter would one day find?’ Korpanski was scowling and scratching the back of his neck – a well known gesture when he was both irritated and confused. ‘Why are we concentrating so hard on the wider part of the story? After all, we don’t think Jakob Grimshaw had anything to do with foreign climes – or drugs, do we? He was never off the farm, Jo.’ Korpanski’s voice was tight and raised. He was almost shouting at her.

  Joanna ignored his aggression and continued calmly. ‘So was it a coincidence that his wife heads abroad, makes a lot of money and just happens to bump into and be recognised by one of our local drug dealers just out of clink? Come on, Mike,’ she said. ‘Leek is a tiny place. Avis had never lived anywhere else until she left.

  The coincidence of her bumping into a fellow native, a criminal at that, is not high. Think,’ she appealed. They worked in silence for a few minutes, then Joanna looked across at Korpanski. ‘Mike,’ she said slowly, her face worried, ‘what if…?’ She didn’t complete the sentence but realised her mind was working furiously now. Grimshaw had stumbled on something – or someone. It had been that that had caused his death. And why was the image of the barn where the animals had died persistently snagging at her consciousness? She stood up, knocking a file onto the floor. Korpanski picked it up. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t get overexcited now, Jo.’

  But she was feeling impatient, every cell in her body straining. ‘When Avis called at the farm on Monday the 10th, we assumed that Jakob was already dead? Correct?’

  Korpanski paused before adding. ‘The only problem with that is, what about the dog?’

  ‘Alive? Asleep? Or dead?’ she said. ‘Stretched out was what she said. All she said was that it didn’t bark. And that is if she was telling the truth.’

  They looked at each other for further minutes before Joanna
spoke.

  ‘She’s playing us on the end of a string,’ she said softly, stretched out her hand and picked up the telephone, tucking it under her chin. ‘Feeding us…’ she couldn’t resist it, ‘little porkies.’

  Even Korpanski was surprised at the question she asked when she was connected.

  ‘Tell me, does your garage service tractors?’

  She met Korpanski’s eyes. ‘The ones at Prospect Farm?’

  He strained to hear the answer.

  ‘Did you get a call out to there on Tuesday the 11th of September?’

  Korpanski guessed the reply was in the affirmative because Joanna’s next question was, ‘Can you tell me who you sent?… Ah. I see.’

  She looked pleased with herself as she replaced the handset.

  ‘Guess who paid a little visit to Prospect Farm on that Tuesday morning, Mike?’

  Without waiting she said softly, ‘Young.’ Then, ‘We have to go back to the farm,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Now.’

  He studied her for a moment, knowing there was more she was not telling him, knowing he’d always mocked her instincts. When she remained silent he tried to prompt her. ‘Any explanations? Am I going to be in on this?’

  ‘No,’ she said flatly, ‘because I may be wrong, but tell Fran you might be late tonight. I’ll leave a similar message for Matthew.’

  ‘Are we telling anyone where we’re going?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Not even the duty sergeant?’

  ‘No.’

  He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘You expect a lot of me, Joanna Piercy,’ he said, a smile lifting the corner of his lips.

  For some reason she flushed and touched her ring. ‘I know,’ she said, frowning to cover her discomfort. ‘Believe me, Mike, I know.’

  ‘OK,’ he said steadily. ‘I’ll drive.’

  It was dusk by the time they drew up to the gate that led to the farmyard. In some ways it was a perfect time and place for a stakeout. Misty, rainy, dull, mysterious. Colourless. Uninspiring, in a way. Abandoned now that the scenes of crime team had left. Instinctively, Joanna knew that at last she was walking along the right track. It was like the game of hot and cold. Each step towards the property felt a degree or two warmer.

  ‘Put the car round the back,’ she instructed Korpanski. ‘Out of sight.’

  He did little but raise his eyebrows at her but did as she’d asked, hiding the car round the side of the farmhouse, out of sight from the approach. To all intents and purposes, the farm appeared deserted.

  ‘The barn,’ Joanna said next.

  The creak of the huge doors was as eerie as the sound effect in a Hammer House of Horrors movie

  The place was equally gloomy inside, the scent of the dead cattle fading behind the fusty but not unpleasant scent of hay.

  A fresh wind blew in through the cracks in the barn door and up through the opening in the hayloft. Without a word Joanna started climbing the ladder, Korpanski close behind her. They had worked together enough times to make verbal communication hardly necessary.

  Mike spoke softly in her ear. ‘How long do you think we’ll have to stay?’

  ‘All night if we must,’ Joanna said, equally quietly. ‘We watch. The police guard only left this morning. There’s been no opportunity till now.’

  ‘For what?’

  In the gloom, Joanna faced Mike. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  He stared at her, his nod hardly more than a twitch of his head.

  ‘Do we really believe Judy Grimshaw didn’t know her mother was still alive?’

  Korpanski shrugged. ‘They’re a weird family,’ he said. ‘It’s possible.’ Then, ‘Well, if I’m staying I’d better make myself comfortable. Take a hay bale, Joanna.’

  It was minutes later before he spoke again. ‘Is this a stake out?’

  ‘Possibly not. I might be wrong, Mike.’

  ‘Ah,’ Korpanski said. ‘So that’s why the secrecy.’ He paused. ‘That’s why no back-up.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  In the growing darkness Joanna smiled to herself. ‘Can you imagine a dozen clumsy-footed coppers hiding around this place?’

  Korpanski said nothing.

  More minutes passed in silence. ‘Your phone’s on silent, Mike?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Mine too.’

  The silence was now icily penetrating, chill and fresh and heavy. The wait was growing longer. ‘It’s getting bloody cold in here,’ Mike grumbled.

  ‘Sit against me,’ she suggested. ‘I’m freezing too.’

  More silence.

  ‘And if they don’t come tonight?’

  ‘My guess,’ Joanna said softly, ‘is that they’ll be in a huge hurry to get their stuff and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  It was at that point that she realised her eyes and mouth had worked together. ‘The animal feed sacks, Mike,’ she said. ‘Look where it comes from.’

  ‘The Czech Republic,’ he said. ‘So what?’

  ‘My guess is fake cigarettes,’ Joanna answered.

  ‘Where do you get that from?’

  ‘More money than drugs these days with the high taxes, an Eastern European connection, a sudden return when the safe storage place looks like being threatened.’

  ‘Is that what this is all about then?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Joanna said softly. ‘But nearer to the truth than we’ve been so far.’

  ‘If you’re talking about Judy,’ Korpanski said, almost to himself, ‘she’s no dope. She’ll know something’s going on.’

  ‘I know she’ll know what’s going on. That’s the trick!’

  They heard a car leave the Ashbourne road and pull up a few hundred yards away. The engine was switched off. They heard no voices, no footsteps, yet they knew their quarry was near. Alone?

  A figure skulked around the barn.

  There was a soft mutter as someone realised the barn door was ajar. Joanna cursed herself. They should have shut it tight after them. The worst thing was that she knew why she hadn’t insisted they close it and shut out the last of the light: a terrible claustrophobia in this place of death. This dreadful atmosphere.

  She almost felt the stiffening of hairs on their quarry’s neck.

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  He or she, like them, was spooked by the interior of the barn. ‘Is anyone there?’

  It was a frightened whisper.

  They heard rasping, irregular breaths, in, out, in, out. Heard the sound of feet stepping across the crisp, dry hay, a waft of damp when the floor was moist. Slowly. Slowly, getting nearer. Joanna felt Mike stiffen against her. There was a loud clatter as whoever it was bumped into one of the farm implements, followed by a soft curse.

  Neither Joanna not Mike moved a single muscle. Their quarry must have reached the bottom of the ladder because they heard the slap of shoes against the rungs, the gentle creak of the wooden tread.

  Then came the unmistakable click of a shotgun being adjusted.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Don’t move,’ Joanna mouthed. ‘Stay still.’

  Korpanski was breathing hard. Behind the panic they were both aware that they had broken all the rules. Who knew they were here? No one. They had staked out a crime scene without sharing their knowledge at all. Joanna was cursing herself for the way she had followed her own instincts, broken a cardinal police rule: you don’t work alone. And now she had put herself and, worse, her sergeant’s safety at risk. She tugged her mobile phone out of her pocket and fingered it, pressed triple nine and let it run as a head appeared over the top of the ladder, silhouetted against the dim lights outside. She saw him raise the gun and steady it on the top rung. ‘Police,’ Joanna managed in the same instant Korpanski moved in front of her and they heard the blast of a shotgun. She felt the hot wind against her face as Mike slumped across her. Then she felt the warm stickiness of his
blood on her hands.

  Literally and metaphorically.

  She heard the gun click again and moved, shoving Mike’s body off her. She grabbed the rope and swung, heard a shout, and their assailant toppled off the ladder. She braced herself but nothing more happened. She heard soft moaning on the floor beneath them and felt a moment of grim satisfaction, swiftly followed by a feeling of blind panic. Korpanski was silent.

  She felt sick with guilt. What had she done?

  She spoke into her mobile. ‘Ten-nine,’ she said. ‘Ten-nine. Officer shot. Prospect Farm in the barn.’ She repeated the phrases over and over again, feeling for a carotid pulse and, thank God, finding one. Better, a strong, steady pulse hammering away in Korpanski’s thick neck.

  She didn’t move again until she heard the welcome scream of police cars and saw the blinding flash of blue lights filling the floor of the barn.

  At the same time her phone flashed a call.

  ‘Where are you?’

  It was Detective Constable Alan King. Steady, worried, in control. ‘In the barn,’ she managed, ‘in the hayloft. Korpanski’s been shot. We need an ambulance.’ At the same time she was wondering how it would reach them, with an armed man beneath them. She tried to give them the information they needed. ‘An unidentified man climbed the ladder. I pushed him off it. I’ve had no response since.’ She was aware she was speaking almost incoherently. But her mind struggled to be sane and steady.

  So this is what shock is like, she thought. And felt a strange, floating detachment, as though this was happening in a film. That was when she knew she was in danger of losing it.

  DC King spoke again. ‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘The man with the gun. What state is he in?’

  She crawled away from Korpanski, heard him groan with a feeling of exhilaration; he was alive.

  She peered over the side of the hayloft. The man was sprawled beneath, the gun a few feet from him.

  ‘He appears to be lying still,’ she whispered. ‘The gun is three – four yards away from him.’

  ‘You know the rules,’ King said softly. ‘We cannot risk another officer being hurt.’

  The word another stung her.