And so on the following morning Joanna found herself driving along a small lane in Worcestershire, turning into a farm entrance and standing on the hallowed turf of what had once been the real Butterfield Farm. One sign remained: a battered piece of wood with its name painted on still attached to a five bar gate. Joanna parked up and stood, leaning over it, staring, her mind’s eye seeing what it must have been like.
The approach was a tarmac drive, weeds sprouting up the middle. There were muddy puddles dotted here and there and the grass was unkempt, almost obscuring the way. There were nettles and brambles. It spoke of years of decay and neglect. Hard to think that it once would have been a hive of bustling activity and glamour.
As the gate was padlocked she climbed over, glad she was sensibly dressed in jeans, low-heeled boots and a skiing jacket, thick gloves keeping her hands warm and dry as she crunched up the drive.
Years ago, it must have been, the real Butterfield had clearly been burnt down almost to the ground. Nothing was left now but a shell, a few piles of discarded bricks. The roof had long ago fallen in, leaving the interior open to the elements. Elders sprouted here and there, nature reclaiming its own. There were large clumps of nettles and the usual detritus of dereliction: rusting cans, a vague stink of stale urine, a few MacDonald’s and KFC’s Styrofoam boxes and a pile of broken beer bottles. It was a forlorn, depressing place now. Whatever its glamorous past no one loved it now. It had been abandoned rather than rebuilt. Half a mile up the road Joanna had passed another sign for Butterfield Farm. It was the most modern of bungalows, solar panels on the roof, triple glazing to the windows. She assumed that it was the rebuild and this was the wreck. After the fire the farmer must have abandoned Butterfield to its fate and replaced it with something much more practical. She searched around, wondering if she would find any sign at all of Butterfield’s past, but she found nothing. Not even an ancient clapper board or a rusting lipstick. Not a piece of sodden paper holding a line of script or a scrap of material from a costume. She would have liked to have found a piece of Timony’s hair ribbon or a piece of shoe leather; something concrete to prove to her that Butterfield really had existed. But standing here, on a cold day, without even a hint of sunshine, it was easier to believe that it never had existed in reality but was all fantasy, something that only existed inside the wooden box of an old-fashioned television. It was not real at all. It never had been.
So what did you expect, Piercy? she muttered. It was fifty years ago.
She turned away, glad she had come alone, without Korpanski. She could just imagine his groan at another wasted morning. But she wished she had gleaned something from the visit. The atmosphere here was oppressive. Depressing. There was finality about this obliteration. It wasn’t just decay. It was more as though it never had been. Well, there was no chance of Butterfield being resurrected, she thought, except it had been. Not here but elsewhere, it had been faithfully copied in the Staffordshire Moorlands. Had this Butterfield been deliberately torched, she wondered, when it had been superseded? Had its destruction been the result of a simple accident? Or deliberate arson? Had someone wanted to cover up what had happened here? Why had it been so neglected when it had once been the epicentre of an iconic series of the sixties? It could have been turned into a tourist attraction. But instead it had been left to ruin, as though it was ashamed of its past and wanted to forget it. Perhaps there was nothing to be learned here because there was nothing of its past left here. She looked around and wondered how many times the actors had stood in this exact spot, replaying scene after scene while Freeman shouted, ‘Cut’, and, ‘Let’s do that scene again’. While the wardrobe mistress fretted over costumes, the animal trainers fussed over their charges, the continuity team and the rest produced what today appeared a heavily dated and rather stilted soap. It must have been so different in those far-off days. Joanna closed her eyes and pictured it as it would have been then, bustling with people and animals, the farmhouse itself pristine, grass and drives manicured as she had seen on the television. Now the place had reverted to a wilderness; nature had claimed her own back.
Joanna stood still for a moment, berating herself for using too much imagination. She was a police officer, here to try and solve a murder. Ideas weren’t going to be what would solve it. And then something hit her. Why had Diana Tong suggested she come here? There must have been a reason. But, surely, there was no lesson she could learn from here, except, perhaps, a lesson of impermanence. Slowly she began to walk away from the farm, disappointed. Then she turned back. Something had been left unharmed. It was still here. The well, exactly as it had been recreated in front of Butterfield Farm in the moorlands. Remembering Timony’s words she stepped towards it and forced herself to look over the wall. The mouth of the well was clogged up with rubbish, almost to the top. Nettles and brambles had knotted a web which had caught passing rubbish, fallen leaves, rusting cans. And they now formed an impenetrable barrier rather than a pool of water, concealing whatever it was that lay beneath. She banged her hands on the stone in frustration.
She stood for a while, trying to fathom out whether there was a reason that Diana Tong had directed her here. Or had she expected her visit to the site to help her focus on past events rather than on the physical property or the series?
Slowly her mind filled in empty spaces with a man clutching at the sides of the well. No one helping him. Fantasy? Reality? If even Timony hadn’t been able to decide how the hell could she?
She drove home in pensive mood, still convinced that the reason for Timony’s menace and ultimate murder lay somewhere in her past, but there was almost too much of it. She was swamped by images of Timony Weeks – the child star, the many-times bride, the child lost to her family – except, surreptitiously, to her sister, Timony the underage mother whose own child had been adopted, Timony being guarded by a cynical production team, Timony who had lost her childhood at the age of eight. There had been so much debris in front of the truth that Joanna had found it difficult to recognize what was real and what unreal, what was significant and what not. So now the challenge was to find a path through the maze of make-believe and locate the centre. And to do that she had to reduce the story to one simple question. Why had Timony Weeks been subjected to a campaign of fear, then finally had to die?
That was the question and this was what she must concentrate on. As she headed back up the motorway towards Birmingham Joanna was a bit disappointed in herself. Usually an explanation occurred to her by instinct which fitted the facts as neatly as a handmade glove. She had always believed, with an almost superstitious conviction, that it was this that made her a good detective, this almost fey belief that her subconscious would worry at a problem until it found a solution that fitted. Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski, as pragmatic a colleague as anyone could have, might scoff. But he and she had both benefitted from her powers of ‘illumination’. Was this talent now about to abandon her? Or was it simply not ready to win through because it did not have all the relevant facts?
And yet. Something pricked her mind. When she got back she could easily look it up on the Internet. Or get Mike to do it.
She pulled into the services and connected with Korpanski. ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘any luck with tracking down Malcolm Hadleigh?’
‘Yeah. He’s appearing at the New Victoria Theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme, the theatre in the round,’ Korpanski said. ‘He’s playing some part in Carmen.’ Korpanski paused and felt he needed to add, ‘It’s an opera.’ Joanna smothered a smile. ‘Ri-ight,’ she said.
‘Don’t ask me and Fran to go,’ Korpanski growled. ‘Not my cup of tea at all.’
‘I wasn’t. I was thinking that maybe Matthew and I should have a night out.’
‘Yeah.’ She could hear Korpanski’s smile. ‘Just don’t tell him it’s work,’ he said. ‘They’re playing every night until next Tuesday.’
‘Great. We should be able to get some tickets. Mike,’ she hesitated, ‘I want us to go together and speak to Freeman,’ she said, ‘but not just yet. We’ll leave it till Monday. I’m heading back to Leek now.’
‘Did your visit to the site inspire you?’
‘Not sure,’ she said, reluctant to tell him that for once her brain was totally devoid of any ideas. ‘Just one thing more, Mike. Find out who owns Butterfield.’
‘Timony,’ he answered uncertainly.
‘Not that Butterfield,’ she said.
‘Aaagh.’ Korpanski had found enlightenment. ‘See you in a bit then, Jo.’
She found the ‘New Vic’s’ website on her smart phone, rang and booked two tickets for the Saturday night before ringing Matthew and telling him to keep the evening free.
‘OK,’ he said cheerfully, not asking why. It was one of things she loved most about him. Matthew was spontaneous, game for almost anything. She could spring surprises on him and he would love it.
‘I’ve got some tickets for the New Vic,’ she partially explained.
He showed no curiosity. ‘OK,’ he said again.
‘Carmen,’ she said.
And he confirmed her opinion. ‘Great. Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘Your victim, Timony.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got some toxicology back. She was so full of barbiturates she’d practically been anaesthetized.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
She’d no sooner stopped speaking to Matthew than another call came in, from Phil Scott this time. ‘We’ve got an address for Rolf Van Eelen and Trixy,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve rung him. We’re on our way there now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s moved to Cardiff.’
‘Cardiff? I thought he was living in Spain.’
‘He left there in 2010. Reading between the lines I think his business went down the chute so he came home.’
‘I’m in Worcestershire,’ she said. ‘I’ll turn around and join you in South Wales. It’ll be interesting.’ And hopefully informative, she thought.
They met at the M4 services and drove in convoy into Cardiff City and Van Eelen’s address. Whatever had happened in Spain he had done well for himself back here. It was a beautiful, large detached stone house at the end of a rhododendron-lined drive in a very smart area of Roath, which is, in itself, an upmarket area in the capital city of Wales. Two cars stood stationary outside: a Mercedes and a Lexus: more evidence that Van Eelen wasn’t exactly strapped for cash. The door was pulled open immediately and Van Eelen strode towards them.
Joanna recognized him from the wedding photograph. He was still big and blond, slightly overweight and very confident. He eyed Joanna uncertainly, his head on one side, as though evaluating her. Joanna introduced herself, WPC Bridget Anderton and DC Phil Scott, Leek Police.
Hot on Van Eelen’s heels trotted the slim brunette from the wedding photographs: skinny black jeans and a floppy white sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbows displaying stringy forearms which rattled with silver bangles. She looked appraisingly at Joanna, obviously a woman who sized up perceived competition without wasting time. Having made her judgement she linked her arm possessively into Rolf’s. The gesture was so patently obvious that Joanna couldn’t help smiling.
She addressed Van Eelen. ‘We’re investigating the murder of your late wife,’ she said carefully. Trixy flinched at the epithet, wife, but otherwise the couple didn’t react.
‘Come in,’ Rolf offered, ‘though I don’t know how I can help you. Timony and I separated years ago.’ An anxious glance skittered across to Trixy, who stiffened. Obviously Timony was still a sore subject.
‘But I understand you have had some contact with her over the years.’
Van Eelen gave a sheepish grin. ‘A bit,’ he said, giving Trixy a very wary glance and taking a tiny step away from her which stretched her arm lock.
Getting out of reach?
‘Mr Van Eelen,’ Joanna said delicately. ‘Can you tell me whether you knew anything about your …’ she couldn’t truthfully say ex so substituted, ‘late wife’s finances.’
Van Eelen’s eyes gleamed. ‘She was worth a bit.’ He remembered himself. ‘Poor old Timony,’ he said, face schooled into tight grief. ‘Dreadful her being shot.’
‘Dreadful,’ WPC Anderton echoed.
‘I didn’t mean how much money she was worth,’ Joanna persisted. ‘I meant: do you know who she’s left it to?’
Van Eelen shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘A cat’s home? Diana? God knows that poor woman’s earned it, spending her life looking after a mad woman all these years.’
His judgement of his wife’s mental state was interesting. Joanna began to wish she’d interviewed Van Eelen sooner. His take on events might have been helpful.
‘If she’d died intestate,’ Joanna said slowly, ‘who do you think would inherit her assets?’
Van Eelen took a long time working this one out. His mouth closed. His eyes darted around the room, resting for a moment on his partner’s glossy mouth, which was pressed tight with disapproval, tiny lines fluting on her upper lip. His gaze fluttered away restlessly, like a butterfly on flowers. ‘I don’t think she’s got any close …’ It was a brave effort.
‘You aren’t actually divorced, are you?’
‘Phhrr.’ He blew out his cheeks in derision. ‘Never really got around to it.’ Another wary glance at Trixy, who had wisely lowered her gaze to hide the fury that was flaming up in her eyes. ‘Why? Is it important?’
Joanna chose her next words with great care, picking them out like chicken from bones. ‘If you aren’t divorced and in the absence of other claimants,’ she said, deliberately avoiding mention of Renshaw, ‘it’s my understanding that you would inherit – after the government had subtracted death duties.’
‘Oh,’ Van Eelen said. It was hard to judge whether he was surprised or not, pleased or not.
‘Just for the record, Mr Van Eelen, where were you in the early hours of March the fourteenth?’
The natural response to this common police question is to say that you have to think about it, consult your diary. Ask your nearest and dearest. Not, as Van Eelen did, say immediately, as though thoroughly and well-rehearsed, ‘Here all night.’ Another wary glance. ‘With Trixy.’ His arm twitched as though he was about to coil it around Trixy. But, probably wisely, he dropped it back to his side.
‘Right. Thank you.’
As they left, Van Eelen made a feeble attempt at a joke. ‘So,’ he said, dredging up a credible American accent, ‘don’t leave town. Hey?’
‘That would be a good rule to follow,’ Joanna responded smoothly. ‘And it would be very helpful if you’d let us have your phone numbers, landline and mobile in case we need you.’
Van Eelen shrank like a pricked balloon.
The music was so well known that everyone was enjoying it. Plenty of people were swinging their feet to the rhythms, a few, irritatingly, humming along to the melodies. But hey, it was Stoke-on-Trent. It was a Saturday night and people were here to enjoy themselves. Joanna linked arms with Matthew and gave him a cheeky smile which he responded to with a grin and a brush of his lips on her cheek, muttering, ‘This had better be good.’
They sat back to absorb the rich sexiness of Carmen, flashing her legs, not in the cigar factory but in a supermarket checkout. And then in swaggered Malcolm Hadleigh, aka Sean Butterfield, to the Toreador Song. Joanna leaned forward. He was a little old to play the part of Tony Amore but with dyed black hair – or a wig – he could still swing a cape.
Matthew leaned across, found her lips this time and gave her a soft kiss, whispering, ‘Didn’t know you were into opera, Jo.’
She looked straight into the warm green eyes, as long and narrow as a cat’s as he eyed her. ‘There’s plenty you don’t know about me, Matthew Levin.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ he said.
The theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme is known as the New Vic, as opposed to the Old Vic which closed its doors in 1985. It is one of the few theatres-in-the-round in the UK. And once you have found the taste for this format, which is surprisingly different from the stilted stage of the more common auditorium/stage performance, you wonder how you ever enjoyed the plays so much looking up at a flat, elevated platform, rather than being amongst it all.
In the theatre-in-the-round the cast romps around a central, circular area, sometimes beetling in and out through the corridors of the audience. Added to that, for the relish of the people of Stoke-on-Trent, as well as original work penned by locals, well-known plays or operas are sometimes ‘adapted’, either to bring them in line with modern taste or to make them relevant to the citizens of the five towns. So in the New Vic’s performance of Carmen, Tony Amore was not a toreador but a football star.
Joanna watched Malcolm Hadleigh with interest. He was good, playing his part with relish and not a bad singing voice either. Fifty years ago, as Sean Butterfield, fourteen years old when the series had started, in his twenties by the time it folded, he must have been electric. And charismatic.
At half time they queued at the bar and as Matthew handed her a glass of wine he finally asked her, ‘You seem very interested in the footballer.’ Then: ‘What are you up to, Joanna Piercy?’
She put her face close to his. She didn’t want eavesdroppers. ‘The guy who’s playing the footballer,’ she said very softly, ‘Tony Amore, also played the part of Timony Weeks’ older brother in Butterfield Farm,’ she said. ‘And I’m strongly suspicious that he either raped or coerced Timony into having sex with him when she was just thirteen years old. I also believe that as a result of this she had the child you found evidence of at the post-mortem.’
He pulled his face away, frowning. ‘Thirteen?’ he queried. ‘If anyone had gone for Eloise at thirteen I would have killed him.’
She shook her head. ‘But it isn’t him who’s dead, Matt,’ she said. ‘It’s her.’
Matthew downed the rest of his lager and put the glass back on the counter. ‘So what happened to the child?’
‘I believe he was adopted by her sister.’
Matthew pulled away at that. ‘I’ll be watching the second half in a different spirit.’
It was pointless even pretending to have a day off in the middle of a major investigation and Joanna knew she wouldn’t rest until she’d cracked this one. She owed it to Timony to find her killer. She ate her breakfast, hardly saying a word. Then stood up and stretched her hands out to Matthew. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
He knew what was coming. ‘It’s OK, Jo.’
He’d changed since they’d been married. Tried to be more tolerant, but he continued to look at her, as though expecting her to make some commitment.
‘I’ll be home this evening,’ she said, aware that she’d changed too. A couple of short months of marriage and they were both learning.
Next week, she’d decided, she would home in on her chief suspects. Someone had cold-bloodedly shot Timony and she was drawing closer to finding out who and why. But for today she felt she needed to focus on events from a different perspective, that of the general public. The fans. The viewers. She would call in and speak to Colclough’s sister, Elizabeth Gantry again. She rang first and Mrs Gantry sounded delighted. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Joanna. Lovely to hear from you again. I’d been wondering how your investigation was getting on, particularly since poor old Timony was shot. Do, please, come over.’
‘Do you still have all your scrapbooks?’
‘Of course. I shall never throw them away. They mean everything to me.’
‘I’ll be over in half an hour,’ Joanna said.
She called in at the flower shop and bought a small bunch of flowers. Mrs Gantry was bound to like them. She could also give her the autographed photograph – the last autograph Timony had ever signed. Maybe that would make it worth even more.
As she handed the flowers to her the older woman blushed. ‘It’s a long time since anyone’s bought me flowers.’ Her eyes met Joanna’s. ‘You really shouldn’t have done that, you know. There was no need.’
‘Well, I’m bothering you on a Sunday.’
Elizabeth Gantry simply laughed. ‘Oh, my dear girl,’ she said. ‘Sundays aren’t quite the same when you’re a widow.’
Joanna handed her the photograph too and Mrs Gantry looked at it sentimentally. ‘How terrible,’ she said, ‘that she should meet with such an end.’
Joanna said nothing but let Mrs Gantry gaze at the photograph for a minute or two. Then she regained her native briskness. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’ve got all my albums out as well as the cigarette cards.’
‘Cigarette cards?’
‘Yes. Amazing, isn’t it? They used to put cards in packets of cigarettes and you collected the set.’ She smiled. ‘Encouraging your parents to keep puffing away just so you could acquire the entire lot. And I have, after a lot of swapping and changing,’ she announced proudly, ‘a whole set of Butterfield cards. Probably quite rare now,’ she added. ‘Maybe worth a bit since.’ She swallowed. ‘Since Timony’s …’
‘Oh, don’t,’ Joanna said, putting a hand on her arm, ‘or I’ll think you have a motive for wanting her dead and arrest you.’
Elizabeth Gantry grimaced. ‘I suppose you could say that crimes have been done for less,’ she said. ‘But it would certainly make headlines in the Leek Post & Times.’ She handed Joanna an album, its covers dark brown leatherette, inside thick black pages in which had been inserted coloured cards, slightly smaller than a credit card.
Joanna looked at the album. How times had changed. She flicked through them. The entire cast was here, all giving cheesy grins: Keith and David, Sean, Joab, Lily, May. The farm, even the animals: Daisy and Bluebell, Friesian cows, lambs named Springer and Jonty, cats – not posh Burmese like Tuptim but ginger and tortoiseshell. She leafed through page after page, wondering what it was she was looking for.
Elizabeth Gantry tried to be helpful. ‘Was there any period in particular that you wanted to look at?’
‘Yes, the years nineteen sixty-four to sixty-six.’
‘Ahh.’ Elizabeth tapped the side of her nose and opened the album at a page. And there it was. November 1965. Lily Butterfield in a smock. How clever.
Elizabeth Gantry was looking over her shoulder. ‘Sweet, isn’t she?’
If only she knew. Elizabeth Gantry, and probably every single one of Butterfield’s fans, had failed to understand why little, sweet Lily Butterfield was wearing a smock. And why Dariel, who was not quite sane but celebrity obsessed, had felt inclined to destroy her for losing her purity.
And after fumbling around in the dark the beginning of the week, at last, brought compensation. Joanna had decided to call a briefing at a civilized hour for once, giving her officers time to prepare their reports before meeting together. She knew they would not let her down. She’d turned to the list on the board and wondered whether it was complete. It might be a focus for their enquiries but … She stared at it, wondering, then faced the room.
Phil Scott was grinning at her. Obviously he had news.
‘You’d better go first,’ she said.
‘We’ve tracked down Sol Brannigan,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘And what’s better, he’s not legit.’
‘Go on,’ Joanna prompted. Eyeing the officers she could see one or two of them had something to report. Korpanski was watching her, looking intrigued. He was wondering what she’d been up to over the weekend. She’d tell him – later. Maybe even sing him a couple of songs from Carmen.
Phil Scott continued, ‘He’s been under surveillance for money laundering. He runs a sort of property business based in Brighton but the Special Branch think it’s a cover. He’s been linked to organized crime – people trafficking, smuggling in cigarettes and illegal alcohol.’
Joanna frowned. ‘If he’s been under surveillance from Special Branch I take it he couldn’t have had any link to Timony’s murder?’
‘Yeah,’ Phil Scott said. ‘They tend to keep a pretty close eye on their targets.’
‘Looks like he’s in the clear then.’ Joanna drew a line right through Sol Brannigan’s name, trying to look on the bright side. Even being able to exclude someone from their enquiries was a start. ‘Do we have any news on the gun?’
WPC Dawn Critchlow supplied the information. ‘A .22 semi-automatic pistol,’ she said. ‘Probably a Walther PP.’
‘Any sign of it?’
Obviously not. Every single head in the room was shaking. ‘A no, then,’ she said briskly. ‘Right,’ she continued. ‘Who’s next?’
Paul Ruthin stepped forwards. ‘I spoke again to Stuart Renshaw,’ he said. ‘He knew he was adopted but he claims he didn’t know that Timony might be his real mother. He was under the impression that she was his adopted aunt. He said he was very fond of her and enjoyed hearing her stories about celebrity life.’
‘Did his adopted mother never tell him about the blood relationship?’
Ruthin shrugged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He was under the impression that, like many adopted children, his adopted mother didn’t know much about his blood mother.’
Joanna was incredulous. ‘And he never tried to find anything out?’
Ruthin shook his head.
‘And never asked for access to his original birth certificate?’
Again, Ruthin shook his head.
‘And how did he respond when you told him that his dear aunt was still legally married to our friend Van Eelen, so he would be unlikely to inherit?’
Ruthin smirked. ‘I got the feeling,’ he said, ‘that it came as a nasty shock. But he covered it up well.’
‘Thanks.’ She turned around. ‘Right. Now we have a different list of suspects.’ She added Stuart Renshaw to the bottom of the list.
‘Mike,’ she said, ‘I want you to work alongside me. Jason, well done. You can work with Phil Scott.’ Jason gave Mike a sort of resigned nod. He’d enjoyed working with the burly sergeant whom he’d hero-worshipped since his first day as a special. In his daydreams he was Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski, kicking and punching his way through.
Unaware of Jason Sparks’ lofty aspirations Joanna turned around to look at the whiteboard. The list was growing rather than shrinking.
James Freeman, Malcolm Hadleigh. She hesitated for a minute before studying the name, Diana Tong. Aware that Korpanski was watching her she spoke without turning around. ‘I’ll want us to go back to Butterfield, Mike, and speak to Diana Tong again at some point, but not just yet. I want to press her a little more.’
Korpanski nodded. And she could tell that he was glad they were working together again, even if it did mean a break from his luxury car scam.
She smiled at him. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your forage into the celebrity world.’
He made a face. ‘It’s OK,’ he said easily.
Alan King was just filing out with the others but she called him back. ‘Can you give me the number of Paul Dariel’s case worker?’
He fumbled for his pocket book and she copied it down.
Ruth Morgan. Community psychiatric worker.
When the room had emptied Joanna dialled the number and was lucky enough to get straight through to her. She seemed refreshingly normal, willing to help and pleasantly sympathetic, down to earth and friendly, if a little prickly and defensive of her charge. ‘Paul is a pleasant man,’ she said. ‘He’s very different from the person he was years ago.’
‘Is he still dangerous?’
‘He wouldn’t be out if he was,’ she answered sharply. ‘Whatever the media say we’re not in the habit of letting dangerous schizophrenics roam the streets attacking people.’
Joanna gave Mike a quick glance. ‘Is that what his diagnosis is, schizophrenia?’
‘Provisionally, yes.’
‘Provisionally? After all this time? Does that mean you’re not sure, that it could be something else?’
‘Psychiatric diagnoses are a little less precise than a broken leg or a chest infection,’ Ruth said briskly.
‘But the reason that he gave for the original assault?’
‘He claims he did it because she had defiled her body. It’s very typical of the sort of reason a schizophrenic would give for an assault.’
But she had. He had not been deluded but correct.
Possibly interpreting Joanna’s silence as a failure to understand, Ruth Morgan explained, ‘He said she was pregnant.’ She snorted. ‘She was, at the time, thirteen, fourteen years old? If she was she was a bit bloody young for that. She was a famous actress, for goodness’ sake. In the public eye. There was nothing in the media. Paul was mistaken. That’s all. He’s never even threatened anyone else.’
‘Why her eyes?’
‘It’s where they always go for.’ She said it so casually the psychiatric worker could have been saying that she shopped at Tesco’s. ‘Letting the devil out,’ she continued, finishing lamely. ‘And such.’
‘He spent how long in Broadmoor?’
‘He was released in nineteen seventy-five, so ten years.’
‘Have you asked him whether he still harbours thoughts about her?’
‘When we heard about her murder we did think to ask him some questions,’ she admitted reluctantly.
Joanna wanted to bleed it out of her. AND? Instead she skirted around. ‘Does he know where she lives?’
It was at this point that Ruth, the professional, lost confidence. ‘It’s a bit difficult,’ she said awkwardly. ‘He says she lives in Butterfield. It’s what it said in the papers,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t sure whether he meant the house in Staffordshire or …’
Joanna gave Mike a quick anxious glance. Butterfield. It could be interpreted as a clever answer, ambiguous and smart. Or …
‘How intelligent is Paul?’
‘He’s bright.’ The answer came with a certain degree of resignation, as though she had anticipated this question. ‘Of above average intelligence.’
‘In your opinion, Ruth, is it possible that he could have travelled to Butterfield?’
There was no answer.
‘Is he supervised all the time?’
‘No.’
‘Then is it, in your opinion, possible that Paul Dariel returned to Butterfield and shot Timony Weeks?’
There was the slightest of pauses and when Ruth Morgan answered Joanna knew she had picked her words out with great care. ‘In my opinion, no. It isn’t just Paul’s current mental state,’ she added quickly. ‘There’s the logistics. Although he’s not considered a risk any more a case worker always stays at the house. For him to travel from Manchester to remote Staffordshire would be very difficult – there isn’t a good public transport system. It would take all day to get there and back and although he isn’t constantly supervised he does have to be present for all meals – breakfast, lunch and dinner. Added to that your officers told me that there had been a prolonged programme of small tricks being played on Mrs Weeks. Paul doesn’t drive, Inspector. How on earth was he supposed to get from Manchester to the wilds of Staffordshire on numerous occasions, sometimes in the middle of the night? Someone would have had to drive him.’
‘OK,’ Joanna said. Ruth Morgan had presented a convincing defence case for Dariel’s innocence. ‘We may still need to interview him. Would that be possible?’
‘We can bring him down to you if you think it’s necessary.’
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ she said. ‘If we do want to speak to him we’ll be in touch.’
‘OK.’
‘And now?’ Mike was looking at her expectantly.
‘The theatre,’ she said gaily. Lunchtime rehearsals at the New Vic.
Without an audience the atmosphere was very different. The production seemed as amateurish as a school play, with just as much teasing and ragging, Hadleigh at close quarters looking considerably older than at Saturday’s performance. They could see bags under his eyes, a line of white roots along the parting to his black hair. He greeted them warily.
The theatre had a small anteroom which they used to talk to Hadleigh. ‘I suppose it’s about Timony,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and watching them from beneath warily lowered lids. ‘I heard it on the news. Always a drama queen. Knowing her I’d almost suspect she’d done it herself.’ He seemed to realize he’d overstepped the mark and, as people do, instead of retracting the statement, he plunged in deeper, looking from one to the other. ‘For the attention?’
He closed his mouth to stop it from saying anything more.
Joanna made no comment but launched into the questions. ‘Did you keep in touch with Timony over the years?’ she asked conversationally.
‘Not really. She was just a kid in the Butterfield days,’ he said quickly, then chewed his bottom lip.
‘Just a kid, as you say,’ Joanna said. ‘But twenty by the time it folded. Twenty and married.’
‘Yeah, well. She was a lot younger than me.’
Joanna looked at Hadleigh for a moment without speaking. She hadn’t expected someone so normal-looking. At Saturday’s performance he had seemed A toreador. A hero. A swaggering leading man. In Butterfield he had seemed as charismatic as Elvis or Robert Redford. But close up he was very unremarkable. Shorter and smaller than she remembered. What was this thing called a screen presence that made you appear so powerful? You wouldn’t have given him a second glance if you’d passed him in the street. Medium height, medium build, grey hair. Walked with a slight shuffle now, stared a little too hard and intently right into Joanna’s eyes before sitting down and waiting, politely, for them to continue. Sidetracked into reflection, Joanna had lost her thread so Korpanski took over, beginning with a noisy clearing of his throat which focused Hadleigh’s stare on him.
There was always only one way Korpanski was ever going to conduct this interview. Bluntly.
‘You knew that Timony got pregnant in nineteen sixty-five?’
Hadleigh looked as though he was going to brazen this one out. His jaw tightened and he said nothing.
Korpanski continued smoothly. ‘And gave birth to a child in nineteen sixty-six? A little boy that her sister subsequently adopted?’
Hadleigh leaned forward. ‘It was nothing to do with me,’ he hissed. ‘Nothing. She went away for a few months. That’s all I knew.’
Korpanski proceeded with the interview like a steam roller. Unstoppable, not even slowing down to Hadleigh’s protestations. ‘Did you have sexual relations with Timony?’
Hadleigh still brazened it out. ‘You can’t prove anything,’ he said.
It was Joanna’s turn to speak. ‘We can get DNA from Stuart Renshaw,’ she said, ‘Timony’s son.’
‘And you’ll find out that I am not his father. Look higher up the evolutionary scale.’
‘Gerald?’
Hadleigh blinked. ‘It’s your job to find out,’ he said, standing up. ‘Now unless you’re going to arrest me,’ he said, with all the dignity of an ageing actor, ‘I have to get on with my rehearsal.’
As they left the theatre Joanna wondered. Had she been wrong about Hadleigh? Had she misread the creepy on-screen flirtation? Had the child maybe not been his but the man Timony subsequently married?
Maybe she should find out. She might not get permission to exhume Gerald’s body to see if he was wearing his Rolex watch but she had a much better chance if she needed to extract some DNA.