Wednesday 7 November, 11 a.m.
It wasn’t until Joanna stood in number 40 Mill Street that she realized how deep the hatred was that Kath Whalley had felt for her, and understood how being in prison she had harboured and nurtured that hatred; how she had spent her entire sentence planning and plotting her revenge.
When she entered the small square room and pushed the door behind her, she came face-to-face with the image of herself punctured with a thousand holes, one dart still stuck in the bull’s-eye of the pupil of her left eye. As she waited for the police photographer to record the image, Joanna realized that each dart had been thrown with enough venom and hatred to scar the wood of the door behind. A couple had gone right through. Joanna looked at the punctured blue eyes and the hundreds of tiny holes in the swollen belly that held Matthew’s precious child, be it son or daughter. So this had been behind it all. The abduction, the concealment of Mr Foster. All planned carefully. She knew her husband would never forget this, but it was also possible that Matthew would never really forgive her either.
His dealings since that night had been cool and she knew he was deeply damaged by how near he had come to losing both wife and child. His silence more eloquent than any words or finger-pointing.
Hoping he would never see it, the door was wrapped, sealed and removed as evidence.
She hadn’t spoken to Fran Korpanski – neither had she explained her connection to Mike. She would tell him at some future date. Just not yet. Not until she knew whether he was going to lose his leg. The word from the hospital was still wrapped up in typically neutral language, and they were still waiting for forensic analysis of specimens recovered from the van which hadn’t been completely destroyed in the fire. But Joanna would guess that whoever had been behind the wheel, it had been Kath Whalley who had organized it.
She had hoped that little of the dramatic events at Lud’s Church had reached Fran Korpanski, who was too smart not to put two and two together. What she needed was a private word with Mike, so at five p.m. on the Wednesday she headed for the hospital.
As luck would have it, Fran was sitting by her husband’s bed and, in spite of Joanna’s girth, showed absolutely no sign of leaving them alone or giving up her seat. All Joanna had to communicate were her eyes. She plonked a bunch of grapes on to the locker and managed a grin. Korpanski looked back at her steadily. ‘Jo?’
There wasn’t another chair and there was no chance of Korpanski’s wife giving hers up. She didn’t even look at her but gave an angry snort down her nostrils. Great, Joanna thought. That’s two people who absolutely want me off the face of the earth.
‘How are you doing?’
His dark eyes fixed on hers. ‘Not bad. And you?’
‘Won’t be long now.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
His wife shifted on the chair.
‘I meant …’ He gave her a very Korpanski grin. ‘Drama in the moorlands, eh?’
‘It bloody well was,’ she said.
‘Shame I wasn’t there.’
His wife’s back stiffened.
‘A set-up then?’
She nodded, then tried to change the subject before Fran cottoned on. ‘How’s your leg?’
He shook his head and his face crumpled. ‘They won’t say, Jo.’ He tried to smile. ‘At the moment I have to be just grateful I’ve still got two. For now.’
There was an awkward pause then Korpanski took in a sharp breath. ‘Do you have any idea who was driving the van?’
‘No. We’ve got a bit of blood splatter on the front and a fingerprint on the steering wheel, as well as some marks where they hot-wired it.’
‘I thought they torched it.’
‘They missed a bit.’ And something suddenly burst out of her. ‘You’re going to be off for ages, Mike.’
‘If he ever returns.’ Fran’s voice was an acid drop.
‘And I’ll be on …’ A meaningful glance at her ever-active bulge.
The conversation was so stilted. Korpanski took up the subject. ‘So who’s going to keep Leek law and abiding?’
‘I don’t know.’
She felt swamped in despair and, looking at Mike, she could see he felt the same. At which, wife present or not, she bent and kissed his brow. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Keep in touch.’ Turning to Mrs Korpanski, she said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and without waiting for response or questions, she left.
Heading down the hospital corridor, her mind was filled with memories. Korpanski’s initial resentment at working beneath (as he’d seen it) a woman inspector; Korpanski when she had dragged him along on a stakeout which both had known was both dangerous and against rules. And he had taken a bullet meant for her. Korpanski’s pride in his children, his mischievous leg-pulling, his advice and his friendship.
Her life would have been poorer without him.