She was in early, Korpanski too. No briefing today, just the two of them, working doggedly through the statements, trying to piece together what was fact and what was carefully contrived fiction.
Korpanski spoke first. ‘So Judy admitted she knew what had happened to her mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘When? I wonder.’
‘Sorry?’ She spoke lazily. Last night had turned into a later night than she had planned and she felt distinctly sleep-deprived.
Korpanski, it seemed, did not.
‘Two summers ago.’
‘Mmm.’ Korpanski absorbed the fact. ‘Let’s try another angle,’ he suggested energetically. ‘Let’s look at the man Mrs Grimshaw was supposed to have had an affair with.’
‘Except she didn’t have an affair, did she? That was obviously a fantasy Grimshaw dreamt up to explain Judy’s mother’s disappearance.’
‘OK, OK.’ He held his hands up. ‘Maybe.’ His eyes were on her. ‘So why did her husband kill her then?’
‘I don’t know.’ Joanna was exasperated. ‘Maybe she didn’t feed the cows right or knocked the milk churn over. Or maybe he needed the pigs fed. Maybe he was just fed up with her. There’s all sorts of reasons why a man might kill his wife. Anyway, Mike,’ she continued, ‘you’re getting side-tracked. We’re not investigating the murder of Judy’s mother. We know who killed her.’
Mike stood up, agitated. ‘Do we?’
‘We have a written confession from old Jakob himself,’ Joanna pointed out. Then she was silent. Korpanski had a point.
‘Handwriting?’ He didn’t need to say anything more.
It was worth checking.
In all cases there is a moment when you start hearing answers to questions. There is no warning. It often comes quite out of the blue. A small statement that seems to unlock a door. A door that leads to a room in which there is a window that overlooks a completely new vista. Perhaps it is a chance encounter. Putting the right question at the right time in the right way to the right person. Perhaps not. Dogged determination, checking, checking, believing no one, taking no one at face value, waiting and moving in the right direction at the right time.
These are what solve cases. All of that plus the little bit of luck so frequently sung about in musicals.
They drove out towards the Ashbourne road, both pondering the issues.
Mike turned into the now familiar Prospect Farm Estate.
Their first call of the day was Teresa Parnell.
The apparent collusion between her and her neighbour was not a coincidence. In fact, police take an awful lot of convincing to believe in coincidence at all.
She met them at the door in a faded pink towelling dressing gown and grubby beige fur slippers. Without make-up, she looked less like a mystic medium and more a tired, middle-aged woman.
But she was slippery to deal with. The straighter the questions put to her the more devious she became.
Joanna opened the questioning. ‘You seem to believe that Mr Grimshaw was murdered on the Tuesday, at around eleven. But all you actually heard was some noise.’ She met Teresa’s eyes, tried to read what deviousness was behind them. ‘What made you hone in on that particular date and that time?’
Mrs Parnell looked positively sly. ‘The forces.’
‘What forces?’ Mike burst out, scepticism making his voice sound harsh, which only made Teresa look smug. ‘If you don’t understand,’ she said in a mocking voice, ‘there’s no point me explaining.’ She folded her hands across her lap.
‘Try me.’ Joanna’s voice was low and controlled. Anyone who knew her even superficially would have recognised the danger signs. Like a cobra, she was at her most still in the seconds before she struck.
‘It was an auspicious time,’ Teresa said strangely.
Don’t give me ‘the stars were in Jupiter,’ Joanna thought. Per-lease.
‘I was in the front room, in a trance,’ Teresa Parnell continued, wrapping the dressing gown tightly around her, ‘when I was aware of an evil, violent presence.’
Both Joanna and Korpanski were well aware that Teresa Parnell’s sitting room faced the road, across and beyond which was the farm.
‘Were you sitting or standing?’
‘Sitting,’ Teresa said. ‘One can’t enter into a trancelike state—’
‘Did you actually hear anything?’ Joanna interrupted impatiently.
‘A rush of wind as though a presence was moving within my soul.’
Joanna hoped that only she had heard Korpanski’s muttered, ‘Garbage.’
She could have thought of a few interesting alternative interpretations to this rush of wind but resisted the temptation to smirk.
‘Carry on,’ she said.
‘Later on in the week I was talking to my friend, Mrs Barnes,’ Teresa said. ‘And I realised that she had experienced a similar feeling.’ She gave a slightly proud smile. ‘We’re in tune, you know.’
‘Harrumph.’ Joanna cleared her throat and squirreled the fact away. So Hilary Barnes and Teresa Parnell had swapped their experiences, which made coincidence fly straight out of the window.
‘Anyway,’ Teresa resumed, ‘it was more than a week later that we could translate these feelings into what had probably been the very moment of the poor man’s murder. God rest his soul.’
Joanna eyed her curiously. Surely the last thing a medium wanted was for a soul to rest? Didn’t the entire practice rely on souls wandering around communicating, restless and searching?
‘Can you remember any other sounds – a car, the dog barking, the animals?’
Teresa Parnell shook her head. ‘No. Only that, sounds of someone shouting, a scuffle and that dreadful, icy wind.’
To emphasise her words she wrapped the pink dressing gown around her and gave a theatrical shudder.
‘Is there anything else you can add to your statement, Mrs Parnell?’
Teresa shook her head sadly. ‘I wish I could help,’ she said. She put her large, bony hands in front of her, wringing them in a gesture of distress.
‘So – genuine or not?’ Joanna asked Korpanski when they were safely outside.
He shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said.
Joanna stood still for a moment. ‘If she did really hear something,’ she said, ‘it leaves Judy in the clear. She has an unshakeable alibi for the entire Tuesday morning. If, on the other hand, Teresa Parnell is leading us astray, deliberately or not, we can keep Judy Grimshaw as our chief suspect.’ She turned to face Mike. ‘My instinct is that we should keep a very open mind.’
He grinned at her. ‘Suits me,’ he said.
They crossed the road. ‘We’re missing something, Mike,’ she said suddenly, halfway across, ‘some connection.’ She looked up and down the peaceful estate. ‘Some underbelly of this little bit of suburbia. It all looks so peaceful, so innocent, so…’
He was watching her. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said.
‘Someone,’ she said softly, ‘is playing a game with us. The question is, who?’
Korpanski said nothing. He gave a little snort.
As it was a Saturday, most of the inhabitants of the Prospect Farm Estate were at home, catching up with house-chores, cleaning the car, polishing windows, pruning bushes.
Gabriel Frankwell, in jeans and a navy polo shirt, was polishing his Porsche Boxster with a vigour that made him look a much younger man. Though Joanna knew he’d seen them, he ignored them until they were right behind him.
‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘You made me jump.’
Was nothing real about this man? She studied the suave face, white-toothed smile and smooth tan, and decided probably not.
Except it seemed that he did feel some devotion for Lucia. She looked closer at the man. He was older than she had first thought and around his eyes there were sharp lines of tiredness. She had a sudden insight. He was sick of all this. He simply wanted Elysium, his mistress and their child, in the bright sunshine of Brazil.
She glanced at the car. ‘You’ve had the scratch resprayed,’ she commented.
Frankwell’s fingers instinctively stroked the paintwork. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to sell it otherwise,’ he said regretfully.
So the Porsche was to go as well. He really was scampering away from the UK as fast and as completely as he could.
‘Quite,’ she said and followed him indoors.
‘Explain to me,’ she asked when they were sitting on his leather sofa, cups of coffee in their hands, ‘just how this land deal works?’
Frankwell’s eyes flickered. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said.
Joanna leant forward, placing her coffee mug on the glass coaster provided. ‘Try me.’
‘OK.’ Frankwell seemed resigned. ‘Initially, I bought the acreage on which this estate is built without planning permission. It’s a chance you take and I was able to buy it substantially cheaper than if I had waited for the planning applications to be granted.’ He gave her a smile that had a tinge of sadness about it. ‘I obtained planning permission and built the houses. To be honest, it was all a bit speculative. The estate…’ he smiled, ‘or development, as I called it, is four miles out of Leek. I wasn’t sure how that might impact on the price. Also, I was aware that at the time Mr Grimshaw defined himself as a farmer and was unlikely to sell the farm in his lifetime. Even beyond that there was a daughter who might have wanted to farm. Naturally, all this would also make a difference. People who’ve paid a lot for a smart, modern house, don’t, in general, want to overlook a fairly scruffy farm.’ He gave a wry smile and Joanna realised that the purchasers of the properties had possibly made Gabriel Frankwell’s life difficult – to say the least.
‘All this,’ Frankwell continued, ‘might have made the houses difficult to sell.’
‘And were they?’
Frankwell gave her a guarded look. ‘They didn’t exactly fly out,’ he admitted.
It was Korpanski’s turn now to put the thumbscrews on. ‘So why try to buy the extra land?’
‘Because I was offered it for an advantageous price.’ He gave another engaging grin. ‘I’m a property speculator. It would have been against my nature to have turned it down. The houses on Prospect Farm sold eventually, which isn’t bad considering this has not been a good year for the housing market. Even in Leek, which has become quite the place to live. I got a good price for them and lately Mr Grimshaw had told me, in confidence, that he was ready to retire from farming. Naturally, the farm would have come up for sale. I could buy that too, and then the land, with planning permission, of course, would have been worth many times what I paid for it.’
Frankwell nodded. ‘I was fairly sure I’d eventually get planning permission for the whole lot,’ he admitted. ‘The farm had been the main stumbling block and the access from the far side of the farm, as there’s a small stream there. The cost of living in Brazil is a fraction of what it is here and I could have managed the project easily with a few business trips a year. I could, I suppose,’ he said disdainfully, ‘have continued with my building interests over there but the law is very different and the property market not quite as…’ he hesitated, choosing the word carefully, ‘stable as it is over here. I think it perfectly possible I would have retired and simply spent time with my new wife and child.’ There was something both sad and cynical in his voice as he spoke the next few sentences. ‘I was very busy when my own daughter, Phoebe, was young. I missed out on her early years. She’s growing up fast.’ Another twisted smile. ‘I don’t want to make that mistake again.’
And now Joanna found herself wondering about him. Was he a big-hearted daddy or a conniving and greedy businessperson capable of murder for gain?
She stared at him, searching his face for clues, caught none and tried another tack.
‘Were you aware that Mr Grimshaw had sold another plot of land to a private buyer?’
Frankwell look astonished. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Where?’
‘The field immediately to the right of the farmhouse.’
Frankwell was silent for a while, chewing this new fact over. Then he said, ‘The double-crossing…’
Joanna felt sure the expletive would have been insulting.
‘Would that have that altered your purchase of the land?’
Frankwell spluttered. ‘Yes it bloody well would. It would have scuppered my plans completely.’ He looked furious.
A different person, eyes bulging, face distorted. Not Mr Charming any more.
How easily the mask had slipped.
If he had known about the land deal he could have… What? Committed murder? Out of fury?
‘Who bought it?’ he asked.
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you but it’s in the public domain.’
She stood up. It was time to go.
The Westons were out, the house locked up and dark, but they were in luck with Peter Mostyn. He opened the door to them, looking strangely pleased to see them.
‘Inspector Piercy, Sergeant Korpanski,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you now?’
They caught sight of Rachel descending the stairs very slowly, her eyes wide and curious, fixed on Joanna’s.
‘Daddy?’
Her next query was to Joanna. ‘Is there any news of Brutus?’
‘He’s being well looked after by another farmer,’ Joanna said. ‘I suggest you contact him and ask if you can ride him.’ She dredged up the tiny bit she knew about ponies. ‘He’ll be missing the exercise.’
‘Yes, he will.’ The little girl looked overjoyed and not for the first time Joanna mused that children could be heartless. The farmer’s death had not touched Rachel, but the loss of her pony rides had.
She wondered whether to Eloise, Sparky had made up for Matthew’s defection. The thought tacked miserably on to the fact that in a few short days Eloise would be at Waterfall Cottage. And if she gained her place at the medical school in the future…? A frequent guest, no doubt. At the very least.
‘Mr Mostyn,’ Joanna said, ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of things about the field you bought.’
Mostyn looked instantly alert. And in that very moment Joanna decided that she didn’t like him. There was something creepy about the man, those plump, sausage fingers, that nervousness whenever money was mentioned. She’d always had a suspicion of accountants – particularly ones who had not made it beyond junior partner of the firm. She looked into his pale but unfathomable eyes and wondered whether he could read her thoughts. A swift glance at Korpanski told her that he, at least, did. He gave her the ghost of a smile.
They sat in the kitchen, Joanna deliberately facing Mostyn so his face was lit up by the sunshine. It was as good as a Gestapo interrogation light.
‘When did you buy it?’
‘Just over a year ago.’ Mostyn looked shifty but Joanna didn’t take too much notice of this. She tended to have this effect on anyone even remotely connected with a case.
‘That must have been not long after your divorce.’
Mostyn’s mouth tightened, making it look as sour as though he had just sucked a lemon. After a pause he nodded, his eyes flickering around the room.
‘I would have thought money would have been tight then,’ Joanna said conversationally.
‘It was,’ Mostyn said through clenched teeth, ‘but I had to think about my future.’
‘Quite, quite.’
Korpanski continued the line of questioning. ‘So did Mr Grimshaw offer it to you or did you approach him?’
‘He asked me.’ Mostyn looked thoughtfully at both of them in turn, patently wondering where this was leading.
‘Go on,’ Joanna prompted.
‘He saw me over the wall one day.’ Mostyn smiled and stroked his chin. ‘I was telling him about the divorce and how angry and powerless I felt. I knew his wife had walked out.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘It sort of bonded us, you could say.’
Korpanski’s eyes flickered across the table and Joanna tightened her mouth. The story would leak out eventually.
Mostyn continued. ‘He seemed to want to do something to help and asked me if I would be interested in buying the field beyond the farmhouse.’
Mostyn seemed unsure how to continue. ‘He didn’t seem to like the fact that that slimy devil Frankwell was mopping up the whole farm.’
‘You must have commented that the field would be no good while the farm blocked access. I understand there’s a stream on the far side.’
‘He said it would be an investment.’
‘Did he also say that he was thinking of retiring from farming?’
Mostyn shook his head then sucked in a deep breath. ‘But I could tell his days in farming were numbered.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘He was always complaining about his arthritis.’ There was an unexpected twinkle in his eye and Joanna smiled. She suddenly had a vision of the old farmer, bent double, complaining. It was a nicer image than the ‘stiff’ she had viewed at the mortuary.
She and Korpanski ate sandwiches in the car, watching the peaceful-looking, select estate. Violent crime was usually a foreigner to these middle-class havens. Not for the first time, she reflected on the oil and water mix of the twenty-first century rubbing shoulders with eighteenth-century rural England – a more law-abiding time?
Not if you search through the history books.
She took a final swig from her bottle of Ashbourne water and opened the car door.
The smell of a rich, meaty meal wafted down the drive as they called in to see Hilary and Richard Barnes. Hilary, it seemed, was a good cook.
She looked flustered as she opened the door and Joanna sensed she was anxious for the food not to spoil. ‘We won’t be long,’ she said. ‘I realise that you’re preparing a meal.’
This seemed to put Mrs Barnes at her ease. She relaxed and gave Joanna a warm smile.
‘Are you any nearer to finding out who did this horrible thing?’
‘Unfortunately and truthfully, no, we’re not,’ Joanna said.
No point hiding behind fiction.
‘I just want to go over your statement, Mrs Barnes. What exactly did you hear?’
Hilary Barnes did not answer straight away but looked thoughtful. ‘The trouble is, Inspector Piercy,’ she said frankly, ‘that now I wonder what I actually heard and what I’ve added later. I thought I heard a cry, sounds of a scuffle. I don’t remember when I last heard the dog barking. Oh, yes, I do,’ she said suddenly. ‘He woke me early on Sunday morning.’ Her eyes were unfocused, as though she was remembering that morning. ‘He was making an absolute racket and I wondered what on earth was happening. Then he went quiet. I don’t remember hearing him bark again,’ she mused. ‘I think he was quiet on the Tuesday. Even though the garage had come out to mend the tractor,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘again.’
Joanna’s mind was busy thinking. ‘You didn’t mention this before, Mrs Barnes.’
‘No? Well, the tractor was always breaking down.’
She didn’t seem to realise the significance of what she was saying.
‘I saw the van, didn’t see the farmer but heard the tractor spluttering away a few minutes later.’
As they came out of the Barnes’ house they caught sight of a racing green Range Rover. The Westons were back, rowing noisily as they climbed out of the car.
‘You’ve been—’
‘No. I promise you…’ There was an air of desperation in his voice.
Joanna gave Mike a swift glance. Perhaps all marital arguments are essentially the same? Accusations, denials. No resolution. A relentless hammering.
They waited a few minutes before banging on the door. Kathleen Weston opened it to them.
She looked in despair, hopeless, and it was easy to see why. Her husband was standing behind her with the guilty air of a boy who has been stealing sweets…or a man who has been found out courting a mistress. Both would deny and both were patently guilty as hell.
‘Yes?’ Even Kathleen’s voice was hopeless, colourless and flat. She looked a woman at the end of her tether.
‘We’re just checking all the inhabitants of the estate,’ Joanna said, ‘hoping to find out a little more about Mr Grimshaw. Tell me, what did you think of him?’
Kathleen Weston’s face lit up with a passion.
‘He was a dreadful man,’ she said. ‘Very, very cruel to his animals. The way he left the poor dog barking on the end of a chain all day was positively barbaric. He shouldn’t have been allowed to keep any animals, let alone a farmyard full.’
But, Joanna thought, farmers do not neglect their animals. Sure – they don’t treat them as Poochy Pets but cows that are not cared for don’t thrive or yield milk. Sheep that are neglected contract diseases. Farm animals have to be cared for. Still, she listened.
‘He should have been shot,’ Kathleen ranted on without realising what she was saying.
Her husband, standing behind her, did though. ‘Steady on, Kath,’ he said mildly.
She turned on him then and vented her venom. ‘Steady on? What do you care, Steven? What do you care about anything except…?’
He mumbled something in reply but she simply sniffed.
Joanna fingered the smooth pearl on her finger. When, she wondered, does a loving couple turn to this? When does the marital bed become such a battlefield? When a man takes a mistress – as Matthew had. Had it been that which had soured his marriage or had it already been cold?
She tried again. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked again.
‘No,’ said Kathleen, and her husband nodded his agreement.
She and Korpanski donned their wellies and walked right round the boundary of the farm. The weather remained dry – they were even treated to the odd patch of blue sky – but the ground was waterlogged and full of thistles and rushes. Still, it did them good to be out of doors for a while. Returning to their desks was an anti-climax. They managed a few hours’ work before calling it a day.
‘Bugger.’ Joanna was zipping up her new jeans. Perhaps, optimistically, she had opted for the very snug fit of the size eight. Breathing in, in the shop, and without the benefit of a healthy breakfast, they had seemed relatively comfortable. But this morning Matthew had tempted her with the scent of frying bacon and shouts of ‘Breakfast, Jo.’
And although it was a Sunday morning and they were meeting Caro and Tom for lunch at one of the moorland pubs, she had succumbed. But now, struggling with her zip, she was already regretting it.
Matthew was lying on the bed, watching her, smiling at her struggle. ‘You don’t think you should have opted for the size ten?’
She turned to look at him. ‘Absolutely not – well, maybe,’ she admitted before picking up a pillow and aiming it at him. ‘Matthew Levin,’ she said with mock severity, ‘are you accusing me of putting on weight?’
‘Certainly not,’ he answered, still grinning at her.
She finally won over the zip. ‘There,’ she said, ‘ready.’
‘Ah, but can you breathe?’
‘Who needs to breathe?’ She laughed, twirled around and extended her hand to pull him off the bed. ‘Come on, Matt,’ she said, ‘we don’t want to be late.’
‘We’ve plenty of time. It won’t take longer than ten minutes to get out to Grindon.’
‘And the temporary traffic lights on the Ashbourne road?’
‘Will be green.’ He stood up, put his arm around her and planted a kiss on her mouth. ‘Plenty of time,’ he said again and pulled her down on the bed on top of him, hungry for her.
Later, she struggled for a second time with the fastener, zipped her ankle boots up – without any of the fight she had had with her jeans – whisked a brush through her hair and left the bedroom. Matthew was waiting. But at the top of the stairs she paused and peeped into the second bedroom. Waterfall Cottage was small and when Eloise came to stay, it seemed smaller still. She sighed and skipped down the stairs to see Matthew standing at the bottom. He grinned at her and she knew from the gleam in the green eyes that he was about to make another comment about the skinny jeans. She gave him a severe frown, which he ignored, simply smiling.
Matthew had a beautiful smile. She had loved it from the very first, catching sight of it in the mirror over the sink in which she was vomiting. It had been her very first post-mortem and she hadn’t expected that the cadaver’s face would be pulled down like a rubber mask. She had met his eyes and read the humour there. He was laughing at her squeamishness. Later, she reflected that she couldn’t have been the first detective he had seen bent double over the sink and wondered, what had they seen in each other that had made them both catch their breath, stare and find themselves unable to return to their equilibrium?
She had never really found the answer except that they hadn’t. Weeks later he had bought her some sandwiches. A month down the line they had been sharing dinner and when Jane had burst in on them at a restaurant, they had made an effort to forget each other.
Except they hadn’t been able to. Something had happened. A chain of emotions.
The stuff of Mills & Boon – that much derided romantic fiction which can mean so much. Yet most romances are similarly clichéd.
Knowing he was married, she had avoided attending post-mortems when he was to be there, but even then she had constantly wondered about the tall, blond pathologist. Now, looking at his face again, so familiar, she couldn’t resist him. She gave him a light kiss, giggled and stepped back.
‘Jo,’ he said. ‘You look…’ He paused, choosing his word carefully. ‘Sexy,’ he came up with.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Thank you,’ she said archly. ‘I shall remember that. Later.’
Matthew said nothing; the light in his eyes said it all.
In spite of the delay they made The Cavalier in Grindon at precisely two minutes past one.
It didn’t take them long to locate Caro. They could hear her voice the moment they stepped inside. High-pitched, loud and definitely not a native of the moorlands. She was busily chatting up the barman, who was staring at her as though she’d just stepped in from another planet – which, in a way, she had. Caro was Joanna’s journalist friend. She had cut her teeth on the Leek Post and Times before taking up a post in London. A few years ago she married another friend, a local solicitor named Tom.
Caro was always on the lookout for another story.
She rested her chin on her hand and eyed the barman up. ‘So how do you make the Chicken Cavalier?’
‘Well, you see,’ the barman was scratching his head, ‘we takes a breast of chicken and hammers it out flat. Then we fills it with breadcrumbs and stuffing and skewers it and then we cook it in the oven.’
‘Hmm.’ Caro sounded impressed. ‘What’s in the stuffing?’
The barman looked confused. ‘I don’t rightly know. I’ll ask the missus to write it down for you, if you likes.’
‘I would likes,’ Caro said innocently. ‘I might even give it a try. And can you also find out how hot the oven should be and how long I should cook it for?’
She turned around and caught sight of them, shrieked and threw her arms round them both. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘my very best friends in the world looking simply wonderful. Jo – how do you do it? Those skinny jeans. You look fantastic. Have you lost weight?’
Joanna smirked until Matthew supplied the answer.
‘She’s just poured herself into a smaller size.’
‘Hope you can breathe. You look good too, Matt. The States must have agreed with you.’
‘In a way,’ he said uncomfortably.
They’d hardly noticed Tom, already sitting at a table in the corner. If Caro, with her ash-blonde hair and pencil-thin figure, was someone you always noticed, Tom was the exact opposite. Quiet, soberly dressed, with thinning brown hair and large, horn-rimmed glasses, he always blended with the background – wherever he was. He blinked at them, grinning broadly, and stood up. ‘It seems ages,’ he said. ‘We haven’t been together since the wanderer returned.’
Matthew shook his hand warmly while Joanna gave him a hug. ‘Good to see you, Tom,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Caro returned from the bar with a menu and a tray of drinks. ‘Though,’ she said airily, dropping the menus on the table, ‘I don’t think you need to look at these. The special of the day is Chicken Cavalier and it sounds very edible. Shall I just order four?’
‘Yes. May as well.’ They were all in agreement.
As Joanna had expected, it didn’t take Caro long to spot the black pearl. She looked at it, then at Joanna and Matthew, who both felt incredibly smug. Matthew’s arms stole around Joanna’s shoulders.
‘Congratulations!’ Caro said. ‘When’s the great day to be?’
They explained that they hadn’t fixed an exact date yet but that it would be soon.
‘Some time over the winter,’ was Matthew’s contribution.
‘Having decided,’ Joanna said, ‘we can’t see the point of a long engagement.’
Matthew nodded vigorously.
Then Caro dropped her bombshell, patting her stomach. ‘And I have something to tell you,’ she said.
They could guess.
‘Well,’ she said defensively, ‘I’m not getting any younger, you know, and Tom really wants this child.’ She patted her perfectly flat stomach indulgently.
‘But your career…’ Joanna protested.
‘I can go freelance,’ Caro said airily. ‘Lots of people do.’
Tom tried to look bland but his eyes, behind their thick glasses, already looked every inch a proud father.
But what Joanna couldn’t stomach was the look of undisguised, pure envy in Matthew’s eyes.
They ate their food, the Chicken Cavalier living up to its promise, but for Joanna the day was losing its shine. Matthew wanted more than just the wedding and she couldn’t ignore it. Each time she looked at him she knew that he was guiding her towards something he wanted very much. And once they were married she couldn’t fend off this lust for ever – to be a father again. Provide a half-brother or sister for Eloise. And if Joanna couldn’t ignore Matthew’s desire, neither could she ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was walking up a road in the wrong direction.
They arrived back at Waterfall Cottage a little after six. The evening had turned damp and drab, which reflected Joanna’s feeling of apprehension perfectly. She was glad when Matthew switched the TV on. It avoided the need to talk.
But if she was quiet throughout the evening she was also aware that Matthew needed the silence too.