Joanna felt frustrated. She’d been looking forward to getting back on her bike after the holiday. Autumn was such a colourful time to ride through the moorlands and the nights would soon be drawing in, the clocks going back and the pleasure of her morning and afternoon trips to and from work would be diminished.
But now there was a major investigation. And she’d carried out enough major incident cases to know that time was of the essence. No meandering around wobbling on a bicycle like an old-fashioned Plod. The public expected something much more snappy. Also, she might need to use her car during the day. So she reluctantly left her cycling shorts in the drawer and picked out a straight black skirt, black shirt, a scarlet jacket and medium-heeled black shoes. She gave a regretful glance at her paperback, which was sitting on the chair. Charlie Fox would have to suspend activities until things quietened down a bit. She glanced out of the window. The day looked dull but it felt warm so she didn’t bother with tights. She always laddered them anyway and her legs were quite brown. She slipped the pearl ring on her finger and wondered what Korpanski would say. He could be unpredictable but, of course, distracted by a major investigation, which he had handled for the critical first twenty-four hours, he probably wouldn’t be in the slightest bit interested in her personal life.
As she brushed her hair she reflected – one good thing about returning to work at full speed was that it was the perfect excuse for delaying telling her mother and sister about their engagement. ‘Too busy, Mum.’ She mouthed the words.
She and Matthew had a quick breakfast before loading the dishes into the dishwasher. She kissed him goodbye and left.
Her Honda started the first time like the great little workhorse it was and she was in the station within fifteen minutes, parked in one of the protected lots. Cycling in would have taken her a lot longer. Even discounting the necessary change and shower.
From the moment she walked in it was easy to tell that things were far from normal. For a start, there were clusters of officers talking in the hallway. She greeted them before going straight to her office to find Korpanski already at his desk. And that, in itself, was out of the norm.
‘Morning,’ she said lightly. ‘Thanks for the message.’
Korpanski stood up, his eyes glowing a welcome. ‘Great to have you back, Jo.’
‘I’d like to say it’s nice to be back,’ she said dryly, ‘but it isn’t.’
‘You look well,’ he commented. ‘Tanned. Happy.’
She planted a box of chocolates on his desk. ‘Little pressie,’ she said, ‘from España.’
‘No need to ask if you’ve had a good time.’
She shook her head.
‘Or what you’ve been doing with yourself. Judging from your tan, not a lot more than sitting in the sun.’
She giggled. ‘Not only that,’ she said.
Now was the ideal time to tell him, while all his attention was on her, but Mike moved on quickly.
‘I’ve arranged a briefing for nine thirty.’
‘Which just gives you time to fill me in.’
‘Yeah.’ He paused.
‘I gave you the bare details on the phone. Farmer’s name: Jakob Grimshaw. Age: sixty-three. Lived alone—’
She interrupted. ‘No wife? No family?’
‘One daughter lives and works in Stoke, wife either divorced or separated. She went her own way years ago.’
‘Go on.’
‘Last seen alive for certain on Sunday, 9th September, just over week ago. He kept himself to himself. Neighbours started noticing a smell a few days back. One of them, a Mrs Kathleen Weston, went to investigate. The odd numbers of the Prospect Farm Estate back on to the farm. The boundary is the dry stone wall. Grimshaw’s body was found propped up against it. The copestone was found near the body with traces of skin, hair and brain tissue on it. Forensics are analysing everything but I can you their findings without the benefit of a microscope.’ Korpanski gave one of his mirthless smiles, lifted by a twinkle in his eyes. Joanna smiled back. ‘The even numbers of the estate back onto fields. The neighbour, Mrs Weston, from number 1, climbed the wall to investigate the smell and the flies and found the farmer’s body collapsed against it.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Post-mortem findings?’
‘Cause of death was a head injury caused by the copestone from the top of the wall—’
‘I know what a copestone is, Mike.’
He grinned at her. ‘I missed your acid wit, Jo.’
She was tempted to punch him but he was doing a good job. It was more appropriate to listen.
‘As I said, the head injury was caused by the copestone making contact with the back of his skull.’
‘It could have been an accident.’
Korpanski shook his head. ‘Defensive injuries: a broken arm, bruising. He fell against the wall and hurt his back. Then there’s the poisoned dog.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed.’
‘I mean the dog had been poisoned deliberately but the other animals died accidentally. They were shut in the barn without water. If the farmer’s body had been discovered earlier they might have survived – like the pig.’
She smiled. ‘Well there’s some good news then.’
He looked at her uncertainly, unsure how to take this. She smiled again, reassuringly, and he nodded.
‘How many houses actually border the farm?’
‘Five.’
‘Have you any suspicions if any of them might be responsible?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing obvious, Jo. According to the house-to-house comments, the inhabitants of the entire estate felt that the farm was scruffy and it devalued the property, but you don’t murder someone because your property’s devalued.’
‘You might if— Are any for sale?’
Korpanski shook his head. ‘No boards up, anyway.’
‘Right.’
She felt suddenly self-conscious, as though her ring was huge and would be noticed instantly. It felt hot and conspicuous on her finger.
Ten, nine, eight… He’d notice it in a minute. Seven, six, five…
But Korpanski’s attention was all on the case.
‘There is one thing,’ he said. ‘The guy who built the estate lives in one of the houses. He’s divorced and his ex-wife lives a couple of doors away.’
‘Really? That sounds interesting. So he hasn’t sold the final property?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll interview both him and his ex-wife. Nothing like a divorcee to spill the dirt, is there, Mike?’ She thought for a minute, then asked, ‘What about the farmer’s daughter?’
Mike practically shuddered. ‘Judy bloody Grimshaw,’ he said. ‘She was at school with me.’
Joanna couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘Not a schoolboy crush, Mike?’
‘Not likely. You want to see her.’
‘Well – is not being a beauty and being a schoolmate of yours likely to make her guilty?’
Korpanski grinned. ‘Much as I’d like to say yes, she was probably at work anyway.’
‘We have an alibi to check then, don’t we, Mike? I take it she’ll be the beneficiary?’
He nodded. ‘Probably. If the wife doesn’t surface.’
‘And this farmer’s daughter – is she married?’
‘Divorced, apparently.’
‘Right.’
‘A partner?’
Korpanski shrugged.
Joanna nodded. ‘It’s early days yet. But it might be worth talking to both her and her ex. As I said – nothing like a bit of spite to flush out the truth. There is one other significant fact that I haven’t had time to go and look at for myself. Mark Fask is doing the scenes of crime bit and he said that all the mattresses had been slashed.’
Joanna waited.
‘Grimshaw’s daughter said there was a rumour that her father kept money there.’
‘Not under the mattress, surely?’ But whether the story was true or not they both knew rumour could create sufficient motive. When Korpanski simply turned his dark eyes on her she continued with a sigh. ‘Well – at least it gives us a potential motive apart from the posh housing estate, though neither appears a valid reason for murder.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Right – let’s get on with it.’
‘After you.’
That was when his eyes landed on the ring. They widened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’ He looked at her, confused.
‘Congratulate me, Korpanski.’ She hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharply but the truth was that she’d dreaded this moment.
‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘Congratulations, Jo. No need to ask who the lucky man is.’
‘No,’ she said shortly, before bursting out. ‘Well, you might sound a bit happier about it, Mike.’
‘Why should I be?’ He was at his truculent worst.
She glared at him. We all have our own perspective on events.
He planted himself in front of her. ‘Does this mean a big life change?’
Again she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘It does not.’
‘And does Levin know this?’
Bloody Korpanski, she thought irritably. Why did he invariably put his finger right on the throbbing pulse of a problem? The truth was that they hadn’t really discussed this aspect of their engagement – or any other aspect for that matter. She frowned.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We can grab a coffee on the way.’
* * *
All briefings are the same, she reflected; interminable reading out from notebooks of irrelevant and frankly boring detail. The truth was that she was itching to get out to the farm, catch the feel of the murder scene, make her own observations, rather than rely on Korpanski’s and the officers assigned to the case. She wanted activity, to be involved, to speak to the main protagonists herself, size them up, get their measure and decide why Grimshaw had met with such an end.
So she listened with half an ear, ran her eyes down the diagrams and scenes of crime photographs, memorised the names and felt the old restlessness.
An hour later, she and Mike were heading out of Leek, along the Ashbourne road, towards Prospect Farm.
The day had brightened and the trees were beginning to show the first tinge of autumn. She sat back and let Mike drive, her Wellington boots in the back of the squad car. She’d worked on farm crime scenes before and was familiar with the hazards.
They passed the neat ‘development’ with its individually designed, generously sized homes and tidy lawns to the front. ‘Did you say nine houses, Mike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why stop at nine, I wonder,’ she mused. ‘Does Gabriel Frankwell have plans to build more?’
Korpanski shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We ran a check yesterday. There’s no current planning permission application in that area. He lives in number 7 but he was out all day yesterday,’ he said, ‘so we haven’t spoken to him yet.’
‘Then keep your fingers crossed he’s around later,’ she said. ‘I shall be interested to meet these people myself.’
The entrance to the farm was only a couple of hundred yards beyond the estate and Joanna was immediately aware of the contrast. A gate, rotten and hanging drunkenly almost off its hinges, a dingy farmhouse beyond, reached by a muddy track. She was glad of the wellies.
Police tape had been stretched across the gate and it was easy to see the activity of the scenes of crime team. White-suited men were everywhere, looking like busy spacemen. To the left of the farmhouse, against the wall, stood a white forensic tent.
They left the car near the road and walked towards the scenes of crime team, squelching noisily through the mud.
Fask greeted her warmly. ‘Good holiday, Jo?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Very good. Thanks.’ She glanced towards the wall. ‘Shame for me to have missed some action but Korpanski here has filled me in. I’ll look at the murder scene first, I think. I’ll start from there.’
They stood outside the police tape, staring down at the wall, Joanna noticing everything The missing stones told their own story; the assault and then the neighbour scrambling over before climbing just as hastily back to the safety of her own garden, starting a land slide of smaller stones. Her eyes took in the jumble of moss-covered lime-stone rocks, the numbered wooden pegs sticking out of the ground, marking where samples had been removed, shallow impressions where earth had been scooped up ready for the geologist’s analysis. After a while she turned away and followed Korpanski in the direction of the farmhouse.
‘The dog was lying here.’ He indicated the spot on the concrete yard where Ratchet had been so pathetically stretched out. The spot indicated by white marks and a round impression where the dog’s dish had been. To one side lay a small bouquet of wild flowers. Joanna eyed them and faced Korpanski with a question in her eyes, which he deliberately misunderstood.
‘I bet you any money it’s Mrs Weston,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She’s a real animal lover.’
‘And how the hell did she gain access to the scene of a crime?’
Fask intervened. ‘We only had one guy here last night,’ he said. ‘And her house backs onto here.’
‘Hmm.’ Her disapproval needed no other expression.
‘Have you heard back from Beeston about the dog?’ Joanna enquired.
‘Not yet. He said it would take a couple of days.’
Joanna nodded.
‘Shall we take a look inside next?’
They walked into the parlour of the farmhouse. Parlour seemed an appropriately old-fashioned word for it – damp, undecorated since the nineteen forties, ancient flowered wallpaper – dirty cream and faded pink – a baize covered table with the remains of more than one meal on it. It spoke of a lonely, empty life with no pretence at tidiness or civilised cleanliness.
Joanna recalled a silly rhyme she had chanted as a child, Will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly.
She shook her head. Being fanciful was not going to solve anything.
Fask was a civilian scenes of crime officer, with a talent for being able to mop up every single piece of forensic evidence from a crime scene. He was a good-looking guy, short, about five-foot-six, built squat and muscular like a Welshman, with very dark brown hair, heavy eyebrows and a spreading paunch.
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?’
‘I take it we’re working on the assumption that Grimshaw died round about the 10th, 11th, or 12th 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.’
‘Really?’ Joanna and Korpanski exchanged glances. It was Joanna who made the comment. ‘Prophetic.’
She let the word sink into the air before embarking on her final questions. ‘Just for the record, Mr Frankwell, have you any idea where you were on the 10th, 11th and 12th of September? The Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of last week,’ she added helpfully.
‘Not a clue.’
‘Do you keep a diary?’
He nodded and the two detectives waited while he left the room to retrieve it. They looked at one another. Joanna lifted her eyebrows while Korpanski made a similar non-committal face.
Frankwell returned. ‘Monday I was here,’ he said. ‘Tuesday I was in London until late and Wednesday of last week I was packing here all day. My daughter spent the evening with me and I cooked.’ He looked pleased with himself.
Joanna got to her feet. ‘Just for interest,’ she said casually, which might have fooled Frankwell but certainly didn’t Mike Korpanski, ‘why was Grimshaw so determined to hang on to the field? I imagine you would have given him a good and fair price for it?’
‘Generous,’ Frankwell said. ‘Believe me. He wouldn’t have got a better price from anyone for that poxy bit of land. It is less than two acres.’
It was Korpanski who asked the next question. ‘So what was he doing with the field?’
‘Stubborn old fool was keeping a few sheep on it. Sheep. More trouble than they’re worth. He’d had no end of problems keeping sheep a couple of years back. They all had rotten feet or something. Don’t know why he was continuing with them. No one would have given him a better price for that bit of land,’ he said again. It was obviously one of Gabriel Frankwell’s bandwagons.
They walked outside then, Frankwell keeping up with them as though he was anxious to see them off his property. ‘Nasty bit of damage to your car,’ Korpanski commented.
Frankwell’s face darkened. ‘Some people,’ he said, ‘see a nice car and feel envious.’
‘And which house does your wife live in?’
‘Ex-wife,’ Frankwell corrected quickly and tried to turn it into a joke. ‘I’m not intending bigamy, Inspector. Number 3.’
‘Next door but one? That is very close.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Frankwell insisted.
‘What complicated lives some people lead,’ Joanna said gently.
Frankwell shot her a suspicious look, which Joanna bounced back innocently.
They left then, and noticed that while they had been inside number 7, a silver Mercedes had appeared outside number 3. ‘Let’s go and visit the ex-wife, shall we, Mike? See what she can corroborate.’