Grave Stones (7 page)

He greeted Joanna warmly; they had worked on many cases together and had a good working relationship. ‘Where was it you went, Jo?’

‘Mojacar,’ she said. ‘Southern Spain.’

‘And she’s come back engaged,’ Korpanski put in.

‘Engaged?’ Fask looked shocked. ‘Well I never.’ Then added quickly, ‘Congratulations, Inspector. Does this mean you’ll be retiring from the Force?’

Joanna tossed back her thick hair. ‘Not a chance of it,’ she said.

‘You and Levin are going to be a busy couple then.’

‘Like plenty of others,’ Joanna said calmly, walking on.

The bathroom was downstairs. Joanna had glimpsed it through a half-open kitchen door. Blue linoleum, a white bath with a stained plastic curtain round it, a toilet and a square sink with a tap that dripped with
an irritatingly irregular beat. No modernisation here. She returned to the kitchen and ran gloved hands over the blue and cream cabinet, remembering. When she had been a child, her grandmother had had an identical piece of furniture; tall, with a glazed top and a tray which dropped down to form a work surface. They must have been the height of fashion in
postwar
Britain. How many of these must there have been in existence? She smiled and recalled her grandmother buttering a hot cross bun for her, gnarled hands, an elusive scent of lavender. She looked around and knew no modernisation had taken place in the entire house since the war. The forensics team had been busy here. She could see marks everywhere. She left them to it, knowing that some of the evidence collected could answer some of their questions. The process of digestion, together with the advancing mould on the plates linked to samples of stomach contents, might further help to pin down the date and time of Grimshaw’s death.

The sitting room was very small, with an old television set perched on a cream-painted kitchen chair and a two-seater sofa of brown leatherette. In the corner was a door that led to a narrow staircase. As soon as she set foot on the bottom step, Joanna was aware of the intense search that had taken place here. Feathers, foam and cotton had flown everywhere, creating an unpleasant air of fustiness. Halfway up, she turned to speak to Korpanski. ‘Someone,’ she said, ‘must have walked out of here looking like the victim of a Northern Ireland Sectarian Campaign.’ When he
looked befuddled, she laughed. ‘Tarred and feathered,’ she said.

She reached the top. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, all of similar size and shape, small with slanting ceilings and windows so dirty they hardly let in the light of day. Each held a double bed and they had all been subjected to the same assault. Grubby pink blankets were strewn all over the floor and the mattresses had been ripped apart. Feathers were everywhere, a few still airborne, meandering aimlessly in the breeze that blew in through the poorly fitting window frames. Her eyes settled on the torn covers of the mattresses and she wondered: had they contained money or not? Was this a crime with the simplest of motives – robbery – or something a little more devious?

She held a feather in her hand. ‘Is this a blind, do you think, Mike? Meant to divert us from the true motive for the attack.’

‘If there was a motive,’ Korpanski responded glumly.

She couldn’t argue with the comment. So many crimes these days
were
motiveless or had such a weak reason – ‘I thought he was dissing me’ or ‘I asked for summat, nice, like, and he wasn’t playin’, so I thought I’d kick ’im around a bit.’ Or, increasingly often, ‘Sorry, mate, can’t remember. I’d been on the pop, see?’

She sighed and hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be one of those crimes.

‘Who, out of our likely rogues’ gallery, is out at the moment?’

Korpanski had already thought this one through and
had searched the computer before he’d gone home the previous night.

‘No one that would do this sort of crime, Jo. Not local, anyway. No one who’s out. If this is someone from around Leek, they’re new to murder.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ She swivelled round to peer beyond the houses towards the winding track that led to the Ashbourne road. ‘But as the farm is invisible from the main road, I’d be surprised if it was one of our little visitors from Manchester or some other hotbed of villainy.’

‘So?’ Korpanski held her gaze steadily.

‘Something else strikes me,’ Joanna said, wandering out of the bedroom and back down the stairs, out again into the damp, grey day. ‘If the entire assault took place where Grimshaw lay, our killer was taking a bit of a chance. The farmyard is clearly visible from at least two of the estate houses – number 1, the Weston’s home, and number 3, which is where Mrs Frankwell lives, according to your plan.’

Korpanski nodded.

‘The cowshed obscures the view from the other houses on that side, numbers 5, 7 and 9, unless someone was in the garden and they are open plan.’

‘They’re all fenced in,’ Korpanski replied.

‘As I recall from the briefing, your last definite sighting was from the little Mostyn girl, Rachel,’ Joanna continued, rounding the yard towards the cowshed. ‘And when his body was discovered, Grimshaw had been dead for about a week.’ She grinned at Korpanski. ‘Right so far?’

He nodded.

‘I take it we’re working on the assumption that Grimshaw died round about the 10
^th
, 11
^th
, or 12
^th
of September.’

Again Korpanski nodded in agreement.

‘I suggest, then, that we concentrate our inquiries, initially, on those dates, and spread out if we don’t seem to be getting anywhere.’ She took a step back. ‘I just want to ask Mark Fask something. Oh, and Mike, let’s have another briefing early tomorrow morning, say eight a.m., and get our team to focus on those dates.’

Fask was coming out of the cowshed.

‘Do we know where Grimshaw was
first
attacked?’

‘Interesting, that,’ he said. ‘There was some blood near the back door, which I’ve sent for analysis.’

‘Isn’t that where the dog was?’

‘Ratchet, God rest his soul, if dogs have one,’ Fask grinned, ‘was fastened on a chain. The pool of blood we found, mind – not a splash or a spray, nothing that could travel – was three feet beyond the reach of Ratchet’s chain. I would almost bet my next month’s salary that the blood is Grimshaw’s – not the dog’s. We’ve also found blood at the back of the barn and cowshed, as though he was trying to escape his assailant. My theory is that he was pursued past numbers 5 and 3, ending up at the back of the garden of number 1.’

Joanna felt her mouth drop open. ‘Now I see how it happened.’ She looked at Mike. ‘Incredible. A prolonged and violent attack – in full view of two houses, within shouting distance of another seven. Very risky for the assailant unless he could be absolutely sure
none of Grimshaw’s neighbours were at home that day. Which suggests that either it was not a premeditated attack or that our killer was very familiar with the daily routine of the inhabitants of The Prospect Farm Estate. Grimshaw was first hit near the back door, then pursued round the back of the barns. He was the victim of a prolonged and violent assault then later thrown against the wall and the copestone smashed down on his head. It’s possible he staggered towards the wall hoping for help from his neighbours – then he fell and the murder weapon was to hand.’

‘What could you tell from the ground, Mark? Footprints?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Fask said, ‘there’s been a week of heavy rain. We got no definition of footprints at all.’

‘Hmm,’ Joanna said. ‘Right then, Mike, time to chat to the neighbours.’

She replaced her muddy wellies with her clean shoes and they drove back down the farm track, out onto the Ashbourne road and into the estate. Like many developments of a similar size in the middle of the day, the road and houses appeared deserted.

Except for the last but one house on the right, a smart, three-storeyed residence with a huge pillared portico. Right in front, parked as showily as an advertisement car, was a plum-coloured Porsche Boxster with an ugly scrape along its length.

They looked at each other. ‘Interesting,’ Joanna commented.

‘Well, at least it looks like Frankwell, the builder, is in. He wasn’t around all day yesterday.’

They parked outside and approached the door, listening for a moment. It was surprising how much you gleaned from covert surveillance – snooping, in other words. But inside all was silent, so Joanna knocked.

The man who opened the door quickly, as though he had been watching them walk up the drive, was dark-haired and slim, with an oily, continental look. Joanna caught a strong waft of sweet, almost feminine, aftershave. He flashed white teeth at them, particularly Joanna.

In return she flashed him back a smile and her ID card.

His eyes flickered across it. ‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’

Surely, surely he must have realised
something
was going on?

‘May we come in?’

He tried to resist. ‘It isn’t really a good time…’ But Joanna was rarely refused. Frankwell met her determined gaze, realised this was not a polite question, gave up and stood aside to let them enter.

Inside it was obvious that Gabriel Frankwell was busily packing up. There were boxes everywhere. Joanna faced him. ‘Moving house, Mr Frankwell?’

‘Well.’ His smile and palm-showing was
almost
disarming. ‘I built these houses, you know. I…umm…I never really meant to
live
here, you understand. It’s a stop-gap.’

So one of these houses was for sale in spite of there being no board up. Interesting, Joanna thought. ‘I see. So do you have a buyer for this one?’

Frankwell showed his eager, businessman’s instinct.

‘Almost,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come into the sitting room?’

The room was lovely, ticking all the boxes: pale colours, a soft-looking ivory leather sofa, abstract prints over a contemporary coal-effect hole-in-the-wall fireplace, conservatory beyond with fine views of an open field peppered with sheep, and to the right, the back of Grimshaw’s cowshed, looking almost pretty smothered in a pink climbing rose. Far enough away to look quaint. Interestingly there was no view of the farmhouse, Joanna noted. Frankwell had kept the best place for himself. And now he was selling it. ‘Very nice,’ she said appreciatively.

Frankwell looked as pleased as though he had just made a successful sale.

‘So where to next, Mr Frankwell? Where are you moving to?’

Frankwell looked slightly sheepish. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a girlfriend in Brazil. Rio. She’s pregnant, due soon, and I really want to be with her.’

‘So you’re
anxious
to sell,’ Korpanski put in, picking up on Joanna’s thought processes.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘No more property development, Mr Frankwell?’ Joanna mused.

‘I’ve got some plans,’ he said, ‘but if you don’t mind I’ll keep them to myself.’

And
at last
he asked the question. ‘So, what
is
all this about?’

‘Did you realise there was some activity at the farm yesterday?’ Joanna glanced pointedly at the distant view.

Frankwell looked puzzled. ‘I wasn’t here all day,’ he said. ‘I had a meeting with the bank manager about transferring my assets to Brazil. Then I went to sign some documents at the estate agent’s.’

‘And later on?’

‘I spent the evening with my daughter, Phoebe,’ he said. ‘I’m going to miss her when I’ve gone so naturally I’m anxious to spend as much time as I can with her. We went to see a film at Festival Park then went out for something to eat. It was quite late when we got back. I took her back to Charlotte’s.’

‘Your ex-wife?’

Frankwell nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘You don’t find it a problem living so close to her, on the same housing estate?’

‘No. I elected to so I could spend plenty of time with Phoebe.’

‘Before jetting off to Brazil and your new family.’

‘Yes. Anyway – yesterday. I was tired. When I got back, I telephoned Lucia and we spoke for about ten minutes. Then I went straight to bed. You can verify most of that, I’m sure.’ He threw the challenge down like a leather gauntlet and Joanna nodded. Frankwell promised to be a worthy adversary.

‘I’m afraid the farmer’s been found dead,’ Joanna said. ‘Murdered.’

Frankwell did a double-take. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Old Grimshaw? No.’ There was something like panic in his voice. ‘It can’t be. When?’

‘Some time during the past week, we think,’ Korpanski said carefully.

Frankwell went chalk white. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered, not addressing either of the two detectives. His head shook from side to side. ‘This is not a coincidence.’

‘Sorry?’

Frankwell’s eyes were almost hooded, dark brown and slightly almond-shaped. Joanna decided he must have some oriental blood in him. There was something about the extreme darkness of the hair, his face shape and the olive tone to his skin.

‘Nothing,’ he said firmly.

‘You can’t shed any light on Mr Grimshaw’s death?’

‘No,’ Frankwell said – even more firmly. ‘When did you last see him, Mr Frankwell?’

Frankwell’s brow furrowed. ‘I haven’t a clue. Not for sure. It’s probably months since I last spoke to him.’

‘What about?’ Korpanski this time.

‘If you must know I wanted to buy another field from him. I’ve left some access between here and the Barnes’s house and should get planning permission for another five houses. I wouldn’t need to build them – just get outline planning permission. The deal would have financed a few good years in Brazil, just until I get my feet under the table there.’ He gave a cheeky grin and Joanna smiled back innocently, as though she 
was genuinely interested. ‘So did he sell?’

‘He said he’d think about it. I imagined that any day now he’d let me know.’ His eyes flickered towards the window.

And Joanna smelt the proverbial rat. ‘Just a field, Mr Frankwell? Sure you weren’t trying to persuade him to sell the farm itself?’

Frankwell’s flash of temper was as sudden and violent as a summer storm complete with lightning. ‘He wouldn’t sell me the farm,’ he said, ‘however much money I offered him. He was as stubborn as a mule.’ He gave a disdainful shrug. ‘He told me he’d live and die there.’