Grave Stones (16 page)

‘Some time over the winter,’ was Matthew’s contribution.

‘Having decided,’ Joanna said, ‘we can’t see the point of a long engagement.’

Matthew nodded vigorously.

Then Caro dropped her bombshell, patting her stomach. ‘And I have something to tell you,’ she said.

They could guess.

‘Well,’ she said defensively, ‘I’m not getting any younger, you know, and Tom really wants this child.’ She patted her perfectly flat stomach indulgently.

‘But your career…’ Joanna protested.

‘I can go freelance,’ Caro said airily. ‘Lots of people do.’

Tom tried to look bland but his eyes, behind their thick glasses, already looked every inch a proud father.

But what Joanna couldn’t stomach was the look of undisguised, pure envy in Matthew’s eyes.

They ate their food, the Chicken Cavalier living up to its promise, but for Joanna the day was losing its shine. Matthew wanted more than just the wedding and she couldn’t ignore it. Each time she looked at him she knew that he was guiding her towards something he wanted very much. And once they were married she couldn’t fend off this lust for ever – to be a father again. Provide a half-brother or sister for Eloise. And if Joanna couldn’t ignore Matthew’s desire, neither could she ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was walking up a road in the wrong direction.

They arrived back at Waterfall Cottage a little after six. The evening had turned damp and drab, which
reflected Joanna’s feeling of apprehension perfectly. She was glad when Matthew switched the TV on. It avoided the need to talk.

But if she was quiet throughout the evening she was also aware that Matthew needed the silence too.

They should have been feeling energetic, full of power and optimism. But as Joanna faced the assembled force, they knew that all they had were a motley collection of statements and no real facts. Nothing to connect them. There was a link missing, because this was a fractured case. For a start, they still didn’t know for certain the time or even the date of death. Knowing the time of death would lead in turn to establishing alibis…or not. The key to unlocking the door. Mark Fask had been as thorough as only he knew how but the fact was he had gleaned little forensic evidence from the crime scene. It was frustrating for the entire team. They were not short of motives. In fact, one thing this case had for sure was an abundance of motives. It was all here: love, hate, land, money, revenge. A barbaric murder. These were all the traditional motives. Solid, believable. Plenty of murders had been committed for each one of these
reasons, and yet something told Joanna that they had not uncovered the epicentre, the heart of this seemingly simple murder – that of an aged farmer.

But, of course, Jakob Grimshaw had not been the simple man he had appeared. He had murdered his wife before disposing of her body in a way only he could have thought of, taunted his daughter with this fact, teased and deceived his neighbours.

No, this was no simple murder. It was more subtle than that. It was a crime of layers.

And now Joanna had gone full circle. It all came back to the time of death.

True, both Teresa Parnell and Hilary Barnes had suggested that Jakob Grimshaw had been killed on the Tuesday. It was tempting to accept their beliefs, but they were based on thin evidence: supposition without any real support. Unfortunately, it was the nature of these housing estates to be virtually deserted during the day.

Joanna couldn’t understand why she felt that the time of death was the key to unlock the door. She’d gone to great lengths to try and find out the truth. They’d put boards up on the Ashbourne road but these had born no fruit. Apart from these two oddly connected women, no one else had come forward, which led Joanna to start considering alternative times of death. Maybe Teresa Parnell and Hilary Barnes had colluded. Maybe not. Or maybe the noises they had heard had been something else. What? Maybe she and Mike should take another look around Prospect Farm and see if they could gain something.

The officers were getting restless. Inactivity suited none of them and they were too intelligent to keep busy and distracted by endless house to house inquiries.

She stepped forward.

‘OK,’ she said briskly. ‘We still don’t know time of death.’ She felt Korpanski’s steady eyes on her but kept her gaze right out into the room; she needed to reach all of them. ‘So instead, let’s look at motive. Obviously the person with the strongest motive is Jakob’s daughter, who will, presumably, inherit the farm.’

They all knew that as Grimshaw had died intestate it would take much longer for his daughter to be able to take control of her father’s estate and probably sell it.

‘How much was his estate worth?’

It was Korpanski who’d asked the question, in a lazy, half-interested voice, which fooled no one.

Dawn Critchlow turned to focus on him. ‘A million and a half,’ she said, ‘when everything’s taken into account.’

There was a Mexican wave of nods around the room. A million and a half was easily enough to justify a murder.

Joanna turned to the whiteboard. ‘So,’ she said slowly, ‘let’s consider the inhabitants of the Prospect Farm Estate again. Try and give me a flavour of what they’re like. We’ll start with the families whose gardens back on to the farm. Number 1, the Westons – Steve and Kathleen. What do we know about the couple and what can we surmise?’

Alan King moved forward. ‘No children. Just the
two of them. Kathleen is a fanatical animal lover. Mrs Weston resented the way Grimshaw ran his farm, seeing it as cruel.’

The faces around the room were all dubious.

Joanna frowned. ‘Has Mrs Weston ever been in trouble with the law over her animal rights sympathies?’

King answered with a slow, reluctant shake of the head. ‘Her husband, Steven, appears to be very much under his wife’s thumb. However…’ he was leering, ‘Mrs Weston strongly implied that there was a relationship between Mr Weston and Faria Probert, the “Turkish” lady who teaches belly-dancing.’

‘Did you get a chance to speak to Mr Weston on his own?’

King shook his head regretfully. ‘His wife always seemed to be in the way. I got the impression that she didn’t want me to speak to her husband alone.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And who interviewed Mrs Probert?’

Hannah Beardmore’s finger was raised. ‘She sort of implied that everyone gossiped about her on the estate. But she’s got five kids. Five kids
and
an affair?
And
teaches belly-dancing? That’s some energy output.’

Most of the officer’s nodded – in admiration.

‘What’s she like?’

She hesitated. ‘A bit of a flirt – likes to think she’s really sexy. But…’ Everyone in the room could have finished the sentence.

‘How many nights a week does she teach?’

‘Two. Mondays and Thursdays. Monday in Leek and on the Thursday she travels to Rudyard. Apparently she’s quite good.’

‘Really?’ Joanna couldn’t resist pulling her leg a little. ‘A potential pupil, are you?’

Hannah blushed. She had a very healthy appetite, which was reflected in her spreading waistline.

‘And her husband?’

‘George. He seems a quiet, inoffensive sort of chap. Pleasant but not exactly sparky.’

Joanna smothered a smile. ‘Right. And the person who lives in number 3?’

Korpanski supplied the answer. ‘Charlotte Frankwell. Divorced from the lovesick Gabriel, and her daughter, Phoebe, ten years old going on twenty.’

‘We’ll get to him later,’ Joanna said. ‘I have met him.’

‘She runs a dress shop on St Edward’s Street,’ Danny Hesketh-Brown supplied. ‘Quite a successful business, I understand. She’s a smart-looking woman with quite a dress-sense.’ He recalled the tight jeans and low-cut T-shirt with a smirk of appreciation mainly for the benefit of his male, testosterone-fuelled colleagues.

‘And she did quite well out of the divorce,’ he added. ‘She’s a survivor, that one.’

Joanna nodded. That was the impression she had derived from Frankwell’s ex-wife: a hard-headed business woman. The divorce had suited her.

But try as she might she could not seem to force Charlotte Frankwell into the frame. Having sorted her
life out so comfortably, why on earth would she want to rock her boat by murdering the old farmer? Like the Westons, there was no motive. Not clear or strong. It bothered Joanne, and privately tempted her to discount them as suspects.

It was one thing not knowing the time of death but quite another sorting out which motive was the correct one. Motiveless murder was bad news for the police force. Motives provided clues.

‘Number 5?’ she asked, almost gloomily.

‘Peter Mostyn?’

McBrine shot to his feet. ‘Well, at least here we have a hint of a motive. He bought the land beyond the farm for a couple of grand. He’s up to his ears in debt since the divorce. It’s cost him hard. His ex-wife drove a tight bargain in spite of leaving him for a wealthy man. For an accountant to slide into debt is bad news. What with that and looking after his kids, he’s a very bitter man. He could only realise a good profit from his purchase if the farm was also sold for building land. The money would have made a great deal of difference. Quite apart from the money stashed away in the mattress.’

‘Ah yes,’ Joanna said. ‘The money. The phantom money. Or not. Quite apart from the balance in Grimshaw’s bank account.’

Dawn Critchlow nodded. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Grimshaw might have kept some money around the house to pay bills but certainly he had more than eighty thousand in Barclays bank.’

Joanna nodded. ‘So no money in the mattress.’
One by one the apparent motives for the crime were dissolving away, like sugar in hot tea.

So which was the real motive? She looked back at PC McBrine. ‘Carry on,’ she said.

‘It’s become obvious,’ he began, ‘that Grimshaw was stringing Frankwell along, pretending he still owned it, tying it in to the field directly behind Frankwell’s property, the sheep field.’

Which gave Frankwell a motive: wanting revenge on the farmer. Frankwell had struck Joanna as a man who would resent being double-crossed – particularly by someone he would consider an unworthy opponent. Joanna felt a twinge of familiarity. Now this seemed more plausible as a motive. She could imagine Frankwell as a killer more easily than Peter Mostyn.

She tucked the facts away. ‘So what was the plot worth as farming land and what potentially as building land?’

‘Farming land is worth roughly three thousand an acre.’ McBrine hesitated. ‘If you can find a buyer. And that’s the sticking problem. Realistically, the market is limited to neighbouring farmers. Naturally, farmers want land that adjoins theirs so they can easily move animals and machinery. Otherwise there can be a lot of travelling along main roads, quite apart from cattle stealing, which has gone on in the moorlands for the last few centuries.’ He leant forward. ‘Building land, on the other hand, can be worth twenty or thirty thousand – and upwards – an acre, depending on how many houses the developer can squash in and what price-range the
properties are in. But of course, as it was, the access to Mostyn’s few acres was hopeless, right
through
the middle of the farmyard. Added to that, there’s a brook bordering the far side of the field, which could make access almost impossible except right through the middle of the farmyard, and that would mean demolishing the farmhouse. Otherwise he wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting planning permission for anything other than farmland, which would have meant spending money he could ill afford for absolutely no profit.’

Joanna sat up. ‘So Mostyn stood to gain quite considerably by the farmer’s death.’ The next question was obvious. ‘Did he need the money so much?’

‘Oh yes. He’s been sliding into debt over the last year. There’s another thing. He’s desperate to keep solvent and stay in the house. He’d like the children to be with him, particularly Rachel. He seems very close to her so he encouraged her to pop across to the farm and ride Grimshaw’s pony. It meant she was always very keen to be with her daddy.’

Joanna had to ask it. ‘Was there anything sinister in the friendship between little Rachel and Grimshaw?’

‘No – I don’t think so,’ McBrine said quickly. ‘I think she reminded him of happier days. Grimshaw was obviously lonely. He and his daughter seemed to do nothing but argue. I think he liked little Rachel to ride the pony. She was like a granddaughter to him.’

‘And Mostyn’s other two,’ Joanna glanced at the board of names. ‘Sam and Morag?’

‘Sam is virtually addicted to computer games and
doesn’t much care where he plays them, and Morag’s only four. She doesn’t really qualify for anything much.’ McBrine gave an indulgent, father’s smile. ‘She’s just a little tot.’

‘One more question,’ Joanna said softly. ‘Just out of interest, if Grimshaw had sold, who is the neighbouring farmer?’

‘A guy called Dudson. Early sixties. Been there for years.’

Joanna nodded. ‘OK. Let’s move on to Hilary Barnes, one of our witnesses.’ She paused. ‘One of our
key
witnesses. Her husband’s name?’

Hesketh-Brown supplied it. ‘Richard. Both in their fifties. They’ve three children, none of whom live with them. They’re all grown up, married and moved away. She’s quite a pillar of society, charity fundraiser for anything from Saving Maer Hills to supporting the Douglas Macmillan Home and the Donna Louise Trust. She was packing, ready to visit her daughter, Alexandra-Rose, who lives in
Leigh-on-
Sea with her husband, Mark, when she heard the noise, which she describes as a clatter.’

Joanna squirreled the word away.
A clatter
. A clatter, to her sounded like something metallic falling. Not an assault on a frail old man.

A clatter.

Hesky continued. ‘She left later on that Tuesday, sometime in the mid-afternoon. Her car was seen at various places down the motorway. In a way, you could say she has the best alibi of all. She was well away from it all.’

But Joanna wasn’t falling for that one. ‘If the noise,’ she said pleasantly, ‘was the sound of Grimshaw being murdered, you couldn’t be more wrong. She was there. And she admits it. It could be a clever move, Sergeant.’ It was practically a reproval. ‘Is there any reason that you unearthed why Mrs Barnes – or Mr Barnes, for that matter – might want their neighbour dead?’

Hesketh-Brown looked sheepish. ‘No. Nothing that I picked up on.’

‘And have you any comment to make on the relationship between Mrs Barnes and Teresa Parnell?’

‘No, ma’am…’

Joanna’s lips tightened at the ‘ma’am’. She hated being addressed as such. It made her sound such an old bag.

Hesketh-Brown looked up. ‘Nothing apart from being neighbourly.’ He frowned. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought they were the same type. I’d be surprised if they were good friends.’

‘Apart from a mutual interest in the occult?’

‘Even that doesn’t seem likely, Mrs Barnes seems too level-headed to be taken in by that.’

‘You’d be surprised at the people who pin their hopes on horoscopes and such like,’ Joanna said lightly. ‘Did she, for instance, consult Mrs Parnell on astrological matters?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Joanna glanced at Mike and resisted the instinct to give a really deep sigh. They were going to have to sort this one out themselves.

She wished the assembled officers didn’t look quite so despondent at this obvious failure. It was necessary to move them on.

‘So – let’s come down the other side.’ She glanced down at her notes. ‘The Watkins family in number 8 saw and heard nothing and the Chappells have been away on a cruise since early September. Then we come down to number 4 and Teresa Parnell, who is either in touch with the spirit world, plain barmy or else very clever.’