There was at least some consolation in being summoned to a remote moorlands house, Joanna reflected as she turned off the Ashbourne road, leaving the town of Leek behind and heading for the vast and empty landscape of the Staffordshire moorlands. She had panoramic views ahead of her, and the sense of limitless emptiness in a landscape that had not changed for centuries. Now, with development protected and even the architecture and materials of the moorlands homes rigidly controlled, it was even less likely to change in the future. She scanned the scene. Undulating hills with craggy stone outcrops, jagged as teeth, isolated farmhouses and the breathtakingly spectacular nature of the landscape made her feel like she was standing at the very top of the world. But even the sense she had of belonging to this wild and raw country did nothing to change her mood, which remained resentful until she had passed the millstone that marked the entrance to the Peak District National Park. She was angry at being sent out on what was most likely a wild goose chase and chuntered loudly to herself: ‘Smoke indeed. Bloody rubbish. Sodding waste of time.’ She knew she could have pulled rank and sent a junior officer but it would have looked peevish and spoiled. It wasn’t her way. And that was why, she reflected, she had gained such respect from her colleagues.
She mucked in. That was what they said about her. Then, quite suddenly, she saw the funny side and chuckled. The party, the celebration and now the let-down.
Using Korpanski’s instructions she left the main road and turned down muddy single track lanes, grass sprouting up the middle. Luckily she met very little traffic – two cars and three tractors. The farmers could ride on the frozen earth and complete their winter chore of muck-spreading the frozen fields. As she took in the pale fields bordered by drystone walls, the far-off peaks iced with snow and white ink blots on the grass where the sun had failed to melt it, she found herself contrasting the scene with the Disney-bright paddy fields, lush scenery and scorched sand of Sri Lanka. This was home. It energized her. She opened her car window a fraction to feel the icy blast on her cheek and drew the cold air deep into her lungs. It felt good to be alive. It might be chilly here but she had always preferred the winter in the moorlands when the holidaymakers stayed at home, leaving the countryside to its hardy natives.
Although her spirits had been dampened both by Korpanski’s news of Colclough’s replacement and the futility of this mission, she could still feel the warmth of the Sri Lankan sun and the thrill of diving on to the reef with Matthew to see the myriads of brilliantly coloured fish which swam through her splayed-out fingers. For a second she almost wished she was back there. And then she truly looked around and reflected: she was lucky to live in such a beautiful part of the country, lucky to work in a job which absorbed her and lucky to be married to a man she loved and who loved her. ‘So, Piercy,’ she scolded, ‘stop whingeing, get this irritating part of the day over and done with and get back to the office.’ She glanced at her satnav. Korpanski was right. It didn’t even recognize there was a road here. On the tiny screen it looked as though she was traversing a green field. So instead she carried on, following Korpanski’s written instructions, and swung left along a stony track, again with feathers of grass sprouting up its middle. She drove gingerly, the car skating across a couple of frozen puddles. She knew she was on the right track when, after a few hundred yards or so, she spotted a plume of smoke drifting out of a chimney far below. She stopped the car for a moment and stared down at the farm with admiration for its symmetry and beauty, but also with a policeman’s eyes. It might be in its own private valley, nestling into a tiny hamlet, but this meant it was overlooked from the road. Its position actually meant that rather than being private and secluded it was exposed and vulnerable. It would also be a difficult place to escape from. One road in; the same road out. Steep. In snow this house could easily become a prison rather than a haven. It was beautiful – an unspoilt mellow stone farmhouse, long and low. It had a slate roof which gleamed like old pewter in the wintry sun; its walls were of soft grey limestone which was mined locally, common to properties in this area, and allowed even under the strict Peak District National Park restrictions. The house looked in good condition, well cared for – immaculate, in fact – with none of the tumbledown barns and muddy areas which marked most of the local properties. It was built in an L shape, angled towards the road. Beyond the gate it had a gravelled drive with a small roundabout at its front which was grassed over and raised, bounded by a low stone wall. In the centre of the roundabout was a well. Not the bijou, twee, suburban garden centre wishing well but what looked like a genuine working well, large and complete with a pitched slate roof, turning handle and bucket. At the side of the house was a huge oak tree, winter-naked now but in spring, summer and autumn it would make this place look even more fantastic. A countryside dream. But Joanna was only too well aware that while it would be a dream in dappled sunshine and daylight, when animals populated the fields and the countryside would seem the ideal place to be, it would be a nightmare through the long winter nights, with no one within shouting – or screaming – distance. The isolation could send someone mad unless they were well adapted to it. Was this what had happened here? Was Mrs Weeks slowly losing her mind, feeling more and more trapped by the remoteness of her home? Added to the location the single-track road in – and out – was steep and stone rough. Even with a four-wheel-drive it would be a challenge to escape, particularly in bad weather. Joanna assessed the incline of the drive with a cyclist’s eyes and felt a tightening of her calf muscles. It was easily a one in four. How quickly the Garden of Eden can turn into a prison. It would only take a few centimetres of snow or a heavy fall of rain to wash the stones towards the house. As Joanna studied the property she felt the first stirrings of curiosity about the woman who lived here. If she was so nervous and paranoid why did she live here alone? Was she a farmer or smallholder? There was no sign of any animals and the tidiness of the property seemed to contradict that theory. Was she then perhaps a local who had lived all her life in the moorlands and would feel claustrophobic in the town? If this was her profile why had she lived here happily for ten years only to suddenly develop this nervousness and delusion of a stalker? Moorlands folk tended to be prosaic rather than histrionic. They needed to be to be able to survive both physically and mentally.
As she descended into the valley Joanna searched for clues about the owner of Butterfield Farm but found none. The grounds were neat, the gravel freshly raked and free of leaves or debris. Either this was a very energetic sixty-year-old or she had help. And that meant wealth, which didn’t come from farming in this area. The moorlands farmers, in general, scratched the poor land and hostile conditions for a living. This was a large and valuable property. She must have made a good living as an actress. Even without a generous acreage, Joanna estimated it would fetch close to a million. But, looking around, if Mrs Weeks did own most of the surrounding land, and probably the entire valley, the property value would be bumped up to nearer two million. This was not the sort of set-up she had expected. It looked too organized, too sane. So, she asked herself, if the call-outs weren’t histrionic, the result of an overactive imagination, what were they? They sounded bizarre, but what if they weren’t?
Before she had arrived she had assumed that this would be a futile visit. Now? Well, she wasn’t so sure. The answer would become clear when she met the woman herself.
Joanna continued gingerly down the track, still asking questions. According to Mike, the call-outs had started in the New Year. Had anything specific happened to trigger paranoia and panic then? Was there anyone in Mrs Weeks’ past who might want to frighten her into abandoning the moorlands? Did a neighbour want her land or her house? Or was her initial instinct correct, and Mrs Weeks was deluded, paranoid?
But as the car crunched over the stones and drew nearer to the house, something else bothered her. Anyone who turned in from the road would have a bird’s-eye view of the property and its surrounds. And a hundred yards or so back she had noticed a public footpath sign. Here, on the edge of the Peak District, in the Staffordshire moorlands, the footpaths were well used for much of the year. Which meant that although Butterfield Farm was remote, plenty of ramblers would notice it. Underlying Joanna’s sense of unease was its isolation and vulnerability, added to the owner’s circumstances. If anyone did want to intimidate her there would be no one to come to her aid. There was no good neighbour. She would, in the end, have to rely on the police.
Joanna revised her approach. Normally in cases like this, once the police had decided there was no real threat, they reassured the occupants, quoting low crime statistics as fluently as a politician. Next they would give practical advice, sometimes to update door and window locks, sometimes to secure outbuildings and occasionally to link their burglar alarms to the police station. But here there was still a problem. It would be no use linking Butterfield Farm to the police station. Timony Weeks would continue calling them out on a daily basis, wasting hours of their time. And if there was an emergency it would take the police at least half an hour to reach her. There wasn’t a police helicopter for miles. It would have to come from Manchester or Wolverhampton. If there really was a serious problem Timony Weeks would be on her own for some considerable time.
Joanna stopped to open the gate which bore an oval sign, Butterfield Farm, gaily painted with a couple of swallows wheeling around in a sapphire sky, and underneath it a second sign, Beware of the Bull. It was an obvious fable – there wasn’t an animal in sight – but at least it was a change from Beware of the Dog. Or, as Joanna had read worryingly outside one house, Beware of the Cat!
With good countryside manners she closed the gate behind her and descended gingerly down the track, avoiding skidding on the icy patches and pulling up outside.
There were two cars parked side by side, a blue Isuzu and a black Qashqai, with garaging room for plenty more. She noted four garage doors, a couple converted from barns, judging by the arches in the brickwork. So Mrs Weeks was not a farmer. Farmers had too many uses for barns to convert them into garages. Close up, the condition of the farm impressed her even more and reinforced her initial instinct that this was the property of either a very wealthy or a very industrious lady. Possibly both. Maybe it was her wealth that was feeding her paranoia. Rich people often suspected someone was about to come along and relieve them of their money and/or possessions. Perhaps this was the simple explanation of the calls to the police. Timony Weeks had so much to steal that she expected someone to rob her. As Joanna wondered she realized something else. Today was as bright and clear as a winter’s day can be. There was no pollution in the moorlands. The air was crystal glass, practically ringing in its clarity. The sky was a sheet of perfect azure. The purity in the air comes only in winter, when dust and pollens are absent and the atmosphere is holding its breath, waiting for spring to breathe again. But however bright the day, the house itself was in the shade, which made it appear colder and darker than its surrounds. It had been built to peer out on the dark side, facing north-east, which gave the farm a forbidding and unwelcoming look. Joanna looked around her and worked out why. The house had been built with its long angle watching the approach. She climbed out of the squad car, conscious that she was treading in the footsteps of almost the entire Leek police force, including Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski. Picturing Korpanski’s size elevens beating a march to the front door, she finally chuckled to herself. It was her turn to meet the old bat.
As soon as Joanna had left the warmth of the car she felt the raw chill bite her face. It was always a few degrees colder out here than in Leek town centre. Snow could lie in the moorlands for weeks after it had melted on St Edward’s Street. These lands not only had their own geography but also their own eco-climate. Global warming seemed a million miles – or more literally, a million years – from here. But the strange thing was that it was even colder down here, in the valley, than it had been up on the ridge. Unusual again. Normally people got blasted away by the cold, the wind and frequently the rain, when they were on the top. Valleys were, in general, where you found shelter – and homesteads. This was where the farmers would traditionally build, facing south to scoop up every ounce of warmth, light and sunshine. But not Butterfield Farm. It had patently been reconstructed in recent years, probably by its current owner. It faced the wrong direction and, besides, this valley was boggy. Joanna had noticed rushes sprouting in the surrounding fields, testifying to a high water level. If she was building a house with unlimited funds she would love Butterfield for its situation but she would have drained the valley and angled the house to face south.
Had this simply been designed by someone who did not understand how to make a house suit the land, or had it deliberately been rebuilt at this angle to face the track and keep watch for a lone traveller coming down the road? She stood and studied the farm. Now she understood she realized something else: every window watched her. Then another thought: was she being infected by paranoia too? Joanna wrapped her coat around her, tightened her belt and strode towards the front door. She hunted for either a bell or a knocker, found neither and thumped. As she had suspected from her distant view, Butterfield was a new build, probably rebuilt on the site of an ancient cottage with barns. That was the only way that you could get planning permission out here. So everything, the angle of the house, the watch over the approach and the fact that travellers could not ring or use a knocker, must have been decided by the owner, together with the architect. Why no bell or door knocker?
Had there never been either or had they been removed? Was the intention to positively discourage strangers from calling in to Butterfield Farm? If so, why?
She only had a minute to reflect before the door was pulled opened by a tall, muscular woman with straggly, greying hair and piercing eyes. She was somewhere in her late sixties, and was wearing baggy dark trousers and a cream polo neck sweater, the sleeves pushed up to display powerful, freckled forearms. She eyed Joanna with suspicion and some hostility.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Weeks?’ Joanna asked dubiously. This did not look like the eccentric old bat she’d been imagining on her drive out. Or a retired actress, for that matter.
‘No, I’m not,’ the woman said flatly. ‘She’s inside. I’m Diana Tong, her secretary-cum-cleaner-cum-general-dogsbody.’
Joanna felt like retorting that she was also a dogsbody, answering a crappy summons made by a cracked old woman as a ‘servant of the public’, but she resisted. If the new superintendent was as humourless as Korpanski had warned she’d better be careful. In future there would be no Colclough to make excuses for her, indulge her and haul her out of scrapes. She could not afford to be the teeniest millimetre out of line. And so she gave the woman a bland smile and introduced herself, resisting any sarcasm. At the same time she flashed her ID card and followed Diana Tong inside.
Again, inside Butterfield was tasteful. They had stepped straight into a kitchen, fitted out in yellowed pine with grey granite tops, an island in the centre and gleaming copper pans hanging from steel hooks. The floor was terracotta tiled, the walls painted a buttery cream. A red Aga stood at one end. The image of a farmhouse kitchen was completed with dark beams criss-crossing a white ceiling. Joanna looked around in admiration. Most women would kill for this kitchen. In fact, she would – well, not literally but … Impervious to her admiration, Diana Tong marched straight ahead, Joanna trailing in her wake. They passed through three rooms. Butterfield was a long, low house, one room deep, each room leading into another. They all had low-beamed ceilings and cream-washed walls. The doors were period oak, with thumb latches, and there were plenty of tasteful pieces of antique furniture, oak, mahogany and some walnut, all looking authentic and valuable. Chinese porcelain and Staffordshire figures sparsely distributed gave the rooms an air of quiet, dignified elegance. The walls were dressed with a few pictures that looked like original oils – a couple of portraits of people in period dress and some landscapes with sheep or cows. Lamps illuminated the darker corners with soft warmth and the ambience of shabby chic was completed by Persian silk carpets carelessly thrown around. But Joanna noticed that every single window faced north-east, watching the approach. Each time they moved to another room she was aware of the empty grey lane. Like a castle it guarded its entrance, as though expecting an assault. Beyond the lane were the pale peaks of the moorlands, today capped with snow. The entire place was like a feature in Period Homes and further evidence of being out of sync with the vision she had drawn up of a scatty, eccentric sixty-year-old who kept calling out the police in a panic because of strange, almost supernatural events. Joanna had to completely hold back on that assumption. This place was organized and controlled, and none of this was making any sense. Her toes tingled a little as she kept up with the broad back and brisk step of the very businesslike Diana Tong, who finally turned back to say, ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ She flung her arms out wide. ‘This is what money can buy, Inspector Piercy.’ Her tone was resentful, her thick eyebrows meeting in the middle in a deep, angry scowl.
Joanna couldn’t think of a suitable rejoinder so she simply nodded and walked behind the ‘general dogsbody’ into a final smaller room at the end of the house. As they entered a Burmese cat exited snottily past them, tail erect and twitching, as though she was too posh to remain in the room with a mere policewoman. Joanna lifted her eyebrows.
A tiny, bony woman was sitting at a desk, absorbed in a computer screen. She looked up and Joanna’s confusion deepened. She looked nothing like the dotty old bat she’d imagined, but a calm woman in her forties, physically no bigger than a child. She was dressed in loose white cotton pyjama pants and a blue silk wrap, something like a smoking dressing gown Noël Coward might have worn. Joanna stared. That was way back in the 1930s. All the same, the woman who was sitting across the room was only missing a long, slim cigarette holder to be cast in a starring role in Blithe Spirit. It made the up-to-date computer that she was working on look slightly anachronistic, as though someone in a Jane Austen novel was chatting on a mobile phone.
Again, like the atmosphere from the outside, Joanna had an odd sensation that something here was not adding up.
She cleared her throat and wondered how to begin this. She wanted Timony Weeks to stop this repeated wasting of police time by calling out of police for what appeared to be ‘minor incidents’ or calling in response to her ‘senses’. On the other hand, she owed the woman the benefit of the doubt.
As she waited the woman was busily studying her. Joanna met her gaze. And had another shock. The clothes might be 1930s; Timony Weeks aged sixty. But the face that looked at her was unlined and almost expressionless, the eyes thickly made-up with heavy black kohl, false eyelashes firmly and defiantly stuck on beneath tattooed eyebrows, while her mouth was plumped up, too big and dominant for the tiny face. Joanna blinked. The final feeling of a doll’s mask was completed by very thick strawberry-blonde hair cut to the actress’s shoulders and a thick fringe which covered the top half of her face. Only her eyes were untouched by the cosmetic surgeon’s attentions. Nothing they could do about the colour except, perhaps, coloured contact lenses. At the moment they were faded blue and regarding her curiously.
Again, Joanna had an odd sense of confusion. The physiognomy had thrown her. She was not sure of anything about this woman, whether she was sane or mad, old or young. Her body was as small as a child’s but her eyes were old and shrewd. Joanna studied her further for clues that would help her fix a label on Timony. Her arms were thin, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows in the stuffy atmosphere. The hands were liver-spotted, sporting large, gaudy rings. Her neck was quite creased. Joanna raised her eyes to the pale pink lipstick thickly applied to her mouth, which didn’t quite move in time to her question: ‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, Leek Police.’
‘They haven’t sent you before.’ The voice was undoubtedly old, cracked, harsh and hostile.
‘No. I’ve been away. I’ve been on my honeymoon,’ she added, still with a sense of unreality at that last spoken word.
‘Honeymoon?’ The woman cackled. ‘I should be the expert on those.’ Another cackle. ‘I’ve had enough of them, haven’t I?’ The question was rhetorical but the dogsbody smiled politely and nodded in agreement.
‘Really?’ Joanna was dismissive. She didn’t want to hear some long, drawn-out life story. She didn’t have the time and she wasn’t interested. She simply wanted to put a stop to these frequent calls to the station so they could all get on with their real jobs. Policing, catching criminals and upholding the law. ‘I’ve come in response to your repeated reports to the station about intruders on your property and requests for a police presence,’ Joanna said briskly, trying to assert her authority. ‘In particular, your telephone call today when you claimed you could smell cigarette smoke.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed with reflected hostility. She’d picked up on Joanna’s implied criticism of people who wasted police time. The two stared each other out.
Then Joanna drew out her notebook. ‘Would you like to tell me about this latest episode?’ She could so easily have inserted the word ‘delusional’.
The woman stared at her with chilly dislike. Then she gave a humph. ‘You’d better sit down, Inspector.’ As Joanna looked around for a spare chair she barked, ‘Not in here. This is my study. Sacrosanct. The sitting room, Inspector, if you please.’
So Joanna followed Mrs Weeks back into the sitting room and sat on the chintz-covered sofa, notebook in hand. Timony Weeks sat opposite her, crossing her legs, high-heeled mules dangling on the end of her feet with orange painted toenails. The secretary had melted away – wise woman – and Timony was still regarding her with undisguised hostility, which was reflected by the cat. They had disturbed its hideaway on a cushion on the sofa and she had responded with arched back and a glare. Timony Weeks reached out and stroked the animal as it extended its neck and narrowed its sly blue eyes.
‘Tuptim,’ Timony murmured, then addressed Joanna. ‘I’d expected them to send Sergeant Korpanski,’ she complained.
Joanna would have liked to have retorted that Sergeant Mike Korpanski had had just about enough of being called out here, but instead she simply smiled and said, ‘It was my turn.’
Timony Weeks narrowed her eyes, similar to her cat, and moved her head. She wasn’t quite sure how to take this statement. After a brief stare she bowed her head and began to talk, her voice softly modulated and expressive so Joanna could glimpse the actress beneath. ‘It was five o’clock this morning,’ she said precisely, the words carefully enunciated. ‘I was in the kitchen, rinsing out some cups, standing at the sink.’ She gave a sour glance towards the door. ‘Diana,’ her voice was sharp with accusation, ‘had left the kettle on the Aga late last night, which had made the room very steamy. The top window had been left open overnight to let the steam out but the glass had some condensation on it, so my vision to the outside was blurred. It was dark but I could see that the floodlights had come on. Obviously I couldn’t recognize anyone.’
Joanna listened carefully to every word. So far Timony Weeks was a perfect witness. Logical, clear, precise and concise, giving all the detail that would be asked of her. Even as she was speaking in her soft, coherent voice, Joanna was realizing just how wrong she’d been in her original assumption. This was not a confused and intimidated old woman but someone with a very clear and sequential way of describing events. She was in full possession of her senses. Not histrionic but lucid. Was she to be believed?
Joanna took careful notice of her choice of words, as Timony continued in a husky voice, ‘Through the open window I distinctly smelt cigarette smoke.’ She leant forward a little, in mute appeal, hands clasped together. ‘Someone, Inspector, was smoking just outside my kitchen window at five o’clock this morning.’
Joanna’s thoughts had been tumbling around in her head but this statement was unequivocal, unmistakable. She couldn’t ignore it. And yet …
‘You’ve called us out for that?’ Joanna couldn’t quite keep the exasperation out of her voice.
Timony Weeks licked her lips, suggesting the first sign of nervousness or vulnerability since Joanna had arrived.
Perhaps she was beginning to realize that she might not be believed. ‘I know you probably think I’m imagining all this but …’ She seemed to be struggling to find the right words to convince Joanna of the veracity of her statement. ‘Inspector Piercy,’ she said, leaning forward even further. ‘My second husband, Sol Brannigan, used to smoke. I never have liked the smell of tobacco so I made him smoke outside.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Sol being Sol, a man who did not like being told what to do, resented that one small rule and, as a minor rebellion, he sometimes used to puff away just outside an open window, knowing full well that the smoke would waft in.’ Her eyes looked distant for a moment before fixing back on Joanna, the pupils small and earnest as though she was asking her to please believe this. ‘So, Inspector, I know exactly what it smells like when someone, just outside an open window, is smoking.’
Joanna was silent. Again, this clear and concise account was hardly the paranoid ranting of an elderly lady. ‘Who did you think it was?’
Timony appeared to freeze at the question. She did not have an answer off pat – or if she did she wasn’t prepared to share it.
Joanna pursued her goal. ‘Did you think it might be your second husband? Is he still alive?’
Timony licked dry lips. ‘I don’t know,’ she said dismissively. Joanna tucked the comment away for future consideration.
‘Did you actually see anyone?’
‘No,’ Timony said patiently. ‘As I have just explained, it wouldn’t have been possible. And if I had seen someone I would have given you a description.’ Now the blue eyes were fixed on hers with a penetrating sharpness that was disconcerting. ‘I have a very sensitive nose,’ she continued. ‘I can recognize most perfumes at twenty paces.’ There was humour in her expression as the stiff face smiled. ‘I am surprised that you go for something as traditional as Chanel No. 5 rather than a more contemporary scent.’
Joanna felt like bowing to her theatrical show off. But it was impressive. This was indeed a sensitive nose. Mrs Weeks was sitting on the other side of the room and Joanna was not in the habit of splashing perfume around. She too smiled. ‘My husband likes it,’ she said. ‘His tastes in perfume are … traditional.’
Timony’s eyes scrutinized her and Joanna felt uncomfortable, as though she was about to make some other observation, but instead she continued, ‘I have an eye for detail too, Inspector. You understand? I remember where things are and where they should remain, considering that I live alone. My attention to detail can be compared with the continuity girl in the film industry. I am very observant and I have a very retentive memory.’
The statements were made in a matter-of-fact manner. Joanna got the picture. This woman was explaining to her that her words should be remembered and relied upon. She sat up a little straighter and began her questions. ‘It was dark outside?’
‘It was five o’clock this morning.’ Timony gave Joanna a haughty look. ‘I waited until six before ringing. I had to report it but I imagined the call wouldn’t be welcome in the middle of the night.’
Joanna nodded. ‘Who’s resident on this property?’
‘Myself.’
‘Doesn’t Ms Tong live here?’
‘Not bloody likely.’ This came from the doorway. ‘I have a life, you know. I live in Ashbourne. I come in four days a week. That’s enough. And it’s Mrs Tong, please.’
Joanna turned her attention to her. ‘You live with your family?’
‘Not exactly.’
This provoked a derisive snort from Timony Weeks, which both Diana and Joanna ignored as Joanna continued her questioning of the dogsbody.
‘And your duties include?’
‘More or less everything. Typing, cleaning, shopping, whatever she wants.’
‘And the grounds? Who manages those?’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Now there I do draw the line. We have a gardener who looks after the land and his wife does cleaning, ironing, et cetera. They come once a week. Usually Tuesdays, which is one of my days off.’
‘Their names?’
‘Frank and Millie Rossington. They live in the town.’
‘And they come one day a week?’
‘Just a morning in the winter and all day through the summer.’
Joanna looked hard at Diana Tong, wondering what her ‘take’ was on these police call-outs. ‘Have you ever seen any evidence of an intruder?’
Slowly, and with an apologetic glance at her employer, Diana Tong shook her head. ‘Nothing convincing,’ she said, looking away.
Which put Joanna two steps back. Was this a charade? Should she even be here? Had she been misled by Timony Weeks’ apparent lucidity and saneness? She was struggling now. There was just one woman’s word and the intruder lights. ‘Do either of you smoke?’
Mrs Weeks shook her head while Diana chortled. ‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at, Inspector. You’re trying to … No, of course I don’t smoke. And even if I did, I’d hardly be standing outside the kitchen window at five o’clock in the morning having a sly one, would I? Particularly on a Sunday night when I’m not even here on a Sunday, it being another one of my days off.’
‘I simply wondered whether you might have dropped a butt outside the window at some other time and Mrs Weeks caught a waft.’ She thought again for a moment before addressing both women. ‘If someone was outside here, smoking, then I need to ascertain why he or she was here, and whether their motive was malicious. If …’ She glanced apologetically at Timony Weeks then looked away. She found it disconcerting to talk to a woman who was sixty but had the undeveloped body of a child and the unlined face of a woman in her forties. ‘If … if no one was here then I can return to more pressing police duties.’
Diana gave a soft huff from the doorway while Timony simply pressed her lips together in fury and possibly some exasperation.
Joanna felt she must appear to be still searching for an explanation. ‘You say,’ she said lamely, ‘that at five o’clock this morning you were to all intents and purposes alone in the house and you weren’t aware that anyone was or could be in the outbuildings?’
‘Yes.’ Timony was showing signs of impatience at having to repeat her statement.
‘This is an isolated house.’ Joanna tried to speak conversationally.
Again, an irritated, ‘Yes.’
‘Excuse me, but you’re not—’
Timony’s eyes narrowed, challenging Joanna to say not young.
Instead Joanna burst out, ‘Why live out here all on your own when it’s patently making you paranoid, twitchy and nervous?’
‘Paranoid?’ The word came out like a whipcrack and Joanna immediately regretted her choice. She flapped her hands apologetically. Oh, no, had she really just accused Mrs Weeks of being mentally unstable?
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’ she said quickly, which provoked a sharp retort from the actress.
‘I can live where I please, Inspector,’ she said haughtily. There was something both brave and dignified in her response, and also an element of poignancy. ‘I will not be frightened into abandoning Butterfield.’
Joanna collected her feelings. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she tried, ‘who would drive all the way out here merely to make you feel uneasy with simple, silly tricks? Just to blow cigarette smoke in through a window?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said angrily through gritted teeth. ‘That’s for you to find out, Inspector Piercy.’
Joanna bit back her retort. At the back of her mind lay something uncomfortable. Something queasy like the smell of drains in a hot country, or oily black canal water in a sleazy area of a city. Something wasn’t right.
She tried again. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said, frowning, recalling the list of trivia her colleagues had been summoned to investigate, ‘we can’t keep coming out here every time you think you see or hear something out of the ordinary. We’ve logged more than sixteen calls from you in the last couple of weeks, all of them over very trivial matters.’ She tried to rescue the dismissal by making a light comment and smiling. ‘You practically need a full-time security guard.’
Timony Weeks’ face assumed a mean, challenging look. ‘Are you doubting my statements, Inspector?’ Her voice was soft as chamois and it fooled neither of the listeners.
‘No-o.’ Joanna was remembering Korpanski’s words about Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush. It sent an icicle sliding down her spine.
Timony sat up a little straighter. ‘But you are refusing to respond to my plea for help.’
Joanna felt like throwing up her hands and saying, What do you expect me to do? Instead she looked down at her notebook and took a risk. ‘You know the story of the boy who cried wolf?’
Timony Weeks didn’t deign to answer, simply pursed her plumped-up lips.
Joanna read from her notes. ‘You called us out because the lavatory seat was left up.’
Timony Weeks didn’t even blink. ‘Two women live here, Inspector.’
‘What about the gardener?’
‘He uses the outside toilet. Always. I don’t allow him in the house.’
Swallowing a snort, Joanna tried again. ‘Well, perhaps his wife, the cleaner …’ she suggested. She left stupid but bound to add, ‘You have to lift the seat to clean a toilet properly.’
Oh, if Korpanski could hear her. She could imagine his swallowed guffaw and smothered grin.
Timony’s response was oddly dignified. ‘It was not a day that Millie was here.’
Joanna went through the list of trivial detail followed by trivial detail. ‘Music playing, your nightdress unfolded, a feeling that someone was watching the house, a dead mouse in the bread bin. Furniture moved.’ She looked up. ‘We’ve never found anything concrete.’
Timony Weeks’ face changed. Suddenly she looked vulnerable, a frightened little girl lost. ‘I don’t know how I can make you believe me,’ she said quietly. ‘Somebody is making repeated sorties out here. I sense their presence and their malevolence. They are doing it deliberately to frighten me and to persuade me to leave here.’
‘Is that what you think the agenda is?’
Her hands gripped the arm of the sofa. ‘I will not be bamboozled into abandoning my Shangri-La.’ She looked around her. ‘Butterfield is my home. My perfect home.’ The crack in her voice gave the words a desperate pathos. ‘What has to happen for you to take me seriously, Inspector? Do I have to have a knife sticking out of my back?’ Her voice rose hysterically.
Joanna shifted uncomfortably, not only at the melodrama of the demand but also of the graphic image it evoked. It was shocking.
Timony Weeks continued, ‘All I’m asking you to do, Inspector, is find out who is playing these silly tricks on me and why they want me to leave here.’
‘You really believe that is the motive?’
Timony Weeks stared her out, not answering. Then muttered, as though this was something she been reluctant to admit, ‘Possibly not.’
Joanna felt she must press her. ‘What other motives can there be?’
But the walls were up now. ‘I don’t want to go into that right now.’
Patience, Joanna, patience.
But she needed to put a stop to this waste of police time. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said. ‘You can’t keep summoning us here unless you give us the full facts. Have you any idea who might “have it in” for you, as it were?’
She looked down sentimentally at the cat who lay blissfully unaware of any drama, snoring softly, her thin flanks rising and falling. ‘Too many people.’
Again, Joanna was frustrated and practically shouted her questions. ‘Who? Why? Why would anyone do this? Surely you can see what nonsense all this is. If somebody really wanted you out they wouldn’t keep playing such subtle tricks. They’d do something far more dramatic.’
That pinned the blue eyes to Joanna’s face and her hands gripped the arms of the sofa even harder. ‘That, Inspector,’ she said, ‘is what I’m afraid of.’
‘Are you talking about neighbours who might want your land or the farm – or someone from your past?’
‘I don’t know. That’s for you to find out.’
Joanna felt that she wanted to escape now. ‘You have a burglar alarm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you put it on downstairs when you’re in bed?’
She nodded. ‘Always. I am very security conscious.’
‘And the intruder lights?’
‘All around the house.’
‘It might not be a person,’ Joanna suggested. ‘They do sometimes come on if there’s a fox or a badger roaming.’
‘Admittedly,’ Timony said in a voice as dry as tinder. ‘But neither badgers nor foxes smoke.’
Joanna would like to have pointed out that that was the subjective evidence.
Instead she tried another tack. ‘Do you have a relative or friend who could come and stay with you for a while – just while these things are happening?’ She looked up. ‘Perhaps Mrs Tong?’
‘Not really. I’m alone in the world.’ The words were spoken with self-pity and sounded more like the lines of a ham actress than a genuine pull on the heart strings. And the glance she shot Joanna from underneath the false eyelashes was unmistakably designed to check on the effect the delivery of those lines had on Detective Inspector Piercy.
Joanna looked around her. Butterfield Farm, if you counted in the land, must be worth well over a million. And Timony Weeks was alone in the world? Sounded like a good deal for the Inland Revenue if she expired.
Timony met her eyes. She could read exactly what the policewoman was thinking. ‘I don’t know who to leave my money to,’ she said quietly. ‘I haven’t even bothered to make a will. What’s the point?’
‘Most people have someone …’
The line was repeated. ‘I am alone in the world.’
And it was no more convincing second time around. ‘You really ought to make a will,’ she responded, feeling more like an advert for a solicitor’s than a detective.
Shrewd Timony was back. ‘I would if I could decide what to put in it.’ She looked down at the liver-spotted hand which rested on the now-purring cat whose nose was up, slyly awake. ‘Perhaps I should leave it all to Tuptim,’ she said. ‘She’s probably the only living thing that loves me. And I love her.’ She smiled as mischievously as the too-tight face lift would allow. ‘She could have a diamond-encrusted collar and her favourite fish dish every day. She could drink champagne-flavoured milk and sit on an ermine cushion.’
The cat yawned, straightened and arched its back then jumped down from the sofa. Timony Weeks watched her go. ‘But then maybe not,’ she said thoughtfully.
Her eyes moved upwards, towards the doorframe where Mrs Tong had reappeared. Timony shot her an edgy look. ‘I couldn’t dream of leaving you anything, Di,’ she said. ‘You might be the one to stick the knife between my shoulder blades.’
Diana Tong returned the compliment with interest. ‘You wouldn’t be worth going to prison for, Timony.’
Timony Weeks was unruffled. ‘Quite,’ she said.
Joanna listened to the banter passing between the two women and couldn’t quite make up her mind about them. It appeared to be a love/hate relationship. In the end she stood up. She wanted out of here. But just in case Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush took an interest in her recent activities she turned to Timony Weeks one more time. ‘I’ll ask again – who do you think is behind these events?’ If anyone, she added mentally.
‘Hmm.’ Timony Weeks eyed her and Joanna suspected she had picked up on her doubt. She leaned back in the sofa, legs crossed, eyes narrowed, regarding her. ‘Do you know, Inspector,’ she said laconically, ‘I have asked the police to come here more than sixteen times because I felt under threat. You are the first officer to ask me what I think. You can come again, Inspector Piercy.’
The face gave a stiff, frozen smile which Joanna returned resentfully. She was invited to ‘come again’? She cursed under her breath. This was not the outcome she had wanted. And Timony Weeks continued to avoid answering the question. She took a step forward. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said. ‘I came here today to try and persuade you to stop calling the police out. I thought you would be someone frail, frightened, vulnerable. I have found the opposite. But I can’t, for the life of me, work out what’s going on.’
Timony Weeks’ mouth tightened. ‘Aren’t you even going to show me the courtesy of taking a look outside the kitchen window?’
Joanna knew she had no option. Inside she gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes. I will take a look outside.’ She tried to make it sound as though this had been in her mind from the start.
‘Hang on, Tims.’ It was Diana Tong who spoke. ‘You can’t go out there dressed like with that thing on. It’s freezing outside. You’ll catch your death. I’ll go with the Inspector. I know what you saw.’ It was kindly said but Joanna wondered if it was meant to give them time alone. Whatever, Timony Weeks acquiesced.