The Final Curtain Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Recent Titles from Priscilla Masters

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Selection of Recent Titles from Priscilla Masters

  The Martha Gunn Mystery Series

  RIVER DEEP

  SLIP KNOT

  FROZEN CHARLOTTE *

  SMOKE ALARM *

  The Joanna Piercy Mysteries

  WINDING UP THE SERPENT

  CATCH THE FALLEN SPARROW

  A WREATH FOR MY SISTER

  AND NONE SHALL SLEEP

  SCARING CROWS

  EMBROIDERING SHROUDS

  ENDANGERING INNOCENTS

  WINGS OVER THE WATCHER

  GRAVE STONES

  A VELVET SCREAM *

  THE FINAL CURTAIN *

  *available from Severn House

  THE FINAL CURTAIN

  A Joanna Piercy mystery

  Priscilla Masters

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Priscilla Masters.

  The right of Priscilla Masters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Masters, Priscilla.

  The final curtain. – (A Joanna Piercy mystery ; 11)

  1. Piercy, Joanna (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Women detectives–England–Staffordshire–Fiction.

  3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8304-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-426-3 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Monday, January 16, 8.30 a.m.

  She’d half expected it. Some ragging on her first day back after her honeymoon, a trick or a practical joke: a couple of helium balloons here, confetti planted in her locker ready to spill out when she opened it, maybe even a couple of sexy things like a thong or a condom left where she would find them. But even she hadn’t anticipated this. Joanna pushed the door to her and Mike Korpanski’s office open and there they all were waiting for her, big grins on shiny faces.

  He spoke first, his dark eyes warm and welcoming and his voice equally so, rich as treacle, not hiding the fact that he was glad to see her back. ‘Welcome home, Jo.’

  And it was home.

  The rest of the team echoed his words: ‘Welcome back.’ It seemed to bounce at her from the very walls of the room and come straight from their hearts. She felt happiness well up inside her and beamed around at them. ‘I’m glad to be back.’

  ‘You won’t be for long,’ Korpanski said darkly. ‘Not once your honeymoon happiness has melted away. You’ll soon wish you were back in wherever it was.’

  She might have known he would be the one to bring her back down to earth.

  She still grinned at him, her pleasure undented, so far. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  ‘My pleasure, as they say.’ But his dark eyes were still sparkling.

  They all watched as she flicked on her computer and read what was winking at her from the screen. ‘Nice honeymoon?’ A raucous message followed underneath along with a fairly explicit activity picture of a couple doing what couples usually did on their honeymoon. She giggled, hand over mouth, then stretched and read the message again, watched by all the other officers who hoped that Detective Inspector Piercy – or Mrs Matthew Levin – would remain in this light and frothy mood.

  It was a vain hope. She looked up from the screen. ‘No one got any work to do?’

  The honeymoon was over.

  One by one the other officers melted away, leaving her and Korpanski alone. She tossed a small wooden box on to his desk. It landed with a thud and a soft, dry rattle. He picked it up, studied the picture of a temple dancer with four arms and read the label. ‘Tea? Thanks. I’m glad you had time to think of your old work colleagues while you were living it up.’

  She smiled across at him. Korpanski and she had started badly, with a frosty and suspicious relationship. But with every case they had moved closer until they were, to the resentment of Mrs Korpanski, bosom pals. ‘I got it at the airport when we were coming back. I didn’t feel I could return empty-handed.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’ He gave her a sly look. ‘So, Jo,’ he said, ‘how was it? Actually, where was it?’ Matthew Levin had been secretive about the honeymoon’s destination. Even as Joanna had walked up the aisle she had not known where it would be – apart from the fact that it would be somewhere hot and sunny and very beautiful. A tropical honeymoon, Matthew had promised her, telling her she would need little more than a bikini and a couple of sarongs. He had spoken no more or less than the truth. It had been perfect. Korpanski picked up on her secret smile. ‘Did you find out where you were going before or after you’d boarded the plane?’

  ‘Before – just,’ she answered. ‘And then only because Matthew was reading a guide book. It sort of gave the game away. Besides, I had to know from the check-in queue, destination Colombo and the departure lounge. He’s rather good at keeping secrets, my husband,’ she finished, flushing self-consciously. The word was still foreign to her.

  ‘So it was …?’

  ‘Sri Lanka. And it was … just wonderful.’ She leaned back in her chair and gazed up at Korpanski, who had left his desk and was now standing over her, humour softening his face. ‘Close your eyes, Mike,’ she said, ‘and imagine the most perfect honeymoon. Diving, sightseeing Buddhist temples, golden sand, beautiful sea, hot sun, blue whales and dolphins, elephants and leopards. Mongooses and tropical birds, coconut palms and mangrove swamps. All simply wonderful – except for the tsunami alert.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. There was a tsunami alert but it sort of blew over. Anyway, it was a wonderful, wonderful honeymoon and the nights were long, hot and balmy.’

  Korpanski chuckled. ‘OK, Jo, I get the picture. It does sound fanta
stic.’

  ‘It was.’ She closed her eyes for a moment and recalled Matthew, her husband. Matthew the romantic, his arms around her, his legs wrapped around her, his words, the wonderful romanticism of diving together, pointing out fish and corals, hearing the spout of the blue whales before they dived, riding elephants through the jungle, kissing in dazzling sunshine, sharing breakfast and dinner and simply everything. She opened her eyes. Korpanski was giving her ‘a look’.

  She sat up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I just wonder if we ought to be calling you Inspector Levin?’

  She was back to earth with a bump. ‘I don’t think so, Mike,’ she said sharply. ‘Piercy’ll do just fine, thank you very much.’

  He looked relieved. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I was a bit worried that …’

  ‘Marriage will change me into a marshmallow? Again, I don’t think so, Mike.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ he mumbled. He left her desk and returned to his own, switched his computer on and smirked across the room at her. ‘I was a bit worried you’d turn soft on me.’

  She was tempted to throw something at him but in these days of computers she was lacking a safe missile – a rubber or biro, pencil or notepad. And she couldn’t do without her mouse. She tried to give him a withering look instead, which failed completely. He was still laughing, and she joined him. ‘I’ve got married, Mike,’ she said soberly, ‘not had a frontal lobotomy. Anyway, what was all that about, “You won’t be for long”? What’s been going on while I’ve been away? A spate of burglaries? Jack the Ripper moved into town? Another Doctor Shipman set up in General Practice?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wish.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been idling, Korpanski? While the cat was away … Don’t tell me Leek’s gone law abiding on us? Pur-lease.’

  ‘It has been pretty quiet while you’ve been away,’ he admitted. ‘Post-Christmas rush, bad weather. Half the regulars banged up for the festive season and some nasty frosts have kept all the criminals shivering at their fires. There’s only really been one thing.’

  ‘Ah-ha. Go on.’

  ‘Some old biddy who lives right out in the moorlands has been ringing us up – sometimes more than once a day – with all sorts of trivial stuff. And I mean really trivial.’

  ‘How trivial?’

  ‘This trivial: an invisible intruder, someone sneaking round the house. She’s never actually seen him, she simply senses his presence.’ Korpanski’s scepticism made his face angular and twisted. She could sense his irritation. ‘And that’s just the beginning,’ he continued. ‘Her nightdress had been moved off the bed on to a chair. The lavatory seat had been left up when only women live in the house. A window was left open in the kitchen when she’s certain she locked it. A dead mouse deliberately planted in the bread bin.’

  Joanna’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘She’s always saying she’s sure this time someone will get her and as she does live alone in an isolated location we feel honour bound to at least call. I can just imagine the headlines in the Leek Post & Times if something did happen: Woman found dead after numerous desperate calls to the police.

  Joanna nodded and Korpanski continued in the same, grumbling tone.

  ‘However many times we go out there and find nothing tangible we’ll always be blamed if something subsequently goes wrong. If you want my opinion she’s barmy, saying someone’s outside watching her house, that she’s smelt things or heard things, saying she’s frightened and demanding we go out there. In the two weeks you’ve been away we’ve logged more than fifteen calls from her, Jo.’ Desperation was now making his voice hard. ‘She needs her own private security force or a psychiatrist. Something, anyway. She’s driving us mad. And …’ he swivelled around in his chair, ‘… more importantly, she’s taking up time we can’t really afford. We can’t keep going out there. It’s a good half hour’s drive each way.’

  ‘Have you ever found any evidence of an intruder?’

  Korpanski shook his head. ‘Not a bloody thing,’ he said. ‘And it’s a devil of a route, down a muddy old track for a mile or so. It takes at least two hours out of our day, going there and back and taking statements. The place where she lives is remote. Butterfield Farm, it’s called.’ He said the name with the snort of disdain a country dweller directs at a city person who idealizes the muck and mud of the moorlands. ‘There’s no one else for miles around. And she lives on her own. Obviously she gets imaginative and twitchy.’

  Joanna yawned, bored already. ‘Why doesn’t she move into the town like most people do when they get a bit older, live alone and are worried about the isolation?’

  ‘We’ve suggested that,’ he said glumly. ‘We’ve even gone so far as to tell her about more suitable places.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘There’s some lovely sheltered accommodation down by the football field but she hasn’t taken it up – so far.’

  ‘You say you’ve found no evidence of an intruder?’

  ‘Not a sausage.’

  ‘Each time?’

  Korpanski shook his head.

  ‘Has she a history of mental illness, paranoia? Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. We had a quick word with her doctor. He says he isn’t aware of anything like that. I don’t think she’s crazy, Jo. Just nervous and a bit over-imaginative.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘How long has she lived there?’

  ‘Almost ten years.’

  ‘Has she ever called us out before these recent episodes?’

  ‘No. Never. We didn’t even know she was there. We haven’t been there before. Even Timmis and McBrine didn’t know it was there – it’s so tucked away in its own private little valley. And they’re patrolling the moorlands all the time,’ he said, referring to the two constables. ‘It started, quite suddenly, around New Year, when you were setting off on your honeymoon.’

  Joanna shot him a look. ‘Coincidence, surely,’ she said with deliberation.

  ‘Yeah. Well. Since then …’ He opened up the file on his computer and Joanna stared down at an impressive list of dates and events involving police attention.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘She has kept you busy.’ What was the world coming to that they had to deal with this sort of crap?

  Korpanski gave an exasperated sigh as he closed the file. ‘She’s a sixty-year-old incessant time-waster,’ he said, but a twinkle lit his eyes as he spoke the next sentence, swivelling around in his chair to watch her face square on and gauge her response to his next sentence. ‘Which is why we’ve elected you to be lucky enough to pay the next visit. And in case you worry that you might have to wait a while for the pleasure she’s already rung in today. Six o’clock this morning she dialled our number to tell us that she could smell cigarette smoke in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’m supposed to respond to that?’

  Korpanski didn’t even bother replying or concealing his smirk. ‘Her name, by the way, is Timony Weeks.’

  Joanna’s head shot round. ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘Ah-ha,’ Korpanski responded, shaking his head, his eyes still sparkling with merriment. He was savouring this moment. ‘Hand on heart,’ he said, suiting his action to the words. ‘And to cap it all, she’s an ex-child actress. Used to be known as Timony Shore, now Timony Weeks.’ He gave a bland smile. ‘So off you go, Inspector Piercy, to Butterfield Farm.’

  In spite of her irritation Joanna couldn’t help smiling. It sounded so pastoral, so quaint.

  ‘It’s eight miles away,’ Korpanski added. ‘Most of it along icy and muddy lanes. I’ll give you directions. Your satnav won’t find it for you.’

  It got better and better. Disgruntled, she picked up her coat from the back of her chair. ‘You’re right,’ she said grumpily. ‘It is not great to be back.’

  Korpanski’s grin broadened. ‘Told you it wouldn’t take long, didn’t I, Jo?’ He handed her a piece of paper on which he had written directions. ‘Oh.’
His tone changed. ‘Before you go – there’s something else.’ Now his expression was wary and more serious. There was something he wasn’t looking forward to telling her. And Joanna picked up on this right away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve appointed a replacement for Colclough,’ he said quietly. ‘And it’s not good news. At least, not for you.’

  ‘You’re really making my day, Mike.’

  He was eyeing her with visible trepidation.

  ‘Go on. Shoot.’

  ‘He’s from Birmingham. A guy called Gabriel Rush. By all accounts he’s a stickler for protocol. Does everything by the book. The officers who’ve worked underneath him say he takes violent dislikes to people – particularly women officers – who “don’t know their place”.’ DS Korpanski could hardly look at her. ‘Doesn’t sound like he’s going to spoil you rotten. Not like indulgent Arthur.’

  It was true. Chief Superintendent Arthur Colclough had made a pet out of Joanna, the first female senior detective he had ever appointed. He had indulged her and sometimes made excuses for her. Even when she had broken the rules she had had a soft fall and had hardly ever been in his bad books. Patently that era was at an end. She’d have to look out in future.

  Joanna banged the door behind her.

  Korpanski watched the door shiver and sensed that in Leek Police Station sparks would soon be flying. Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, for all their friendship, was an officer who could be fiery when opposed. He didn’t know who to feel sorrier for: the new chief superintendent or Joanna. Or maybe he should look out for himself, as he would inevitably be the one caught in the crossfire.

  TWO

  There was at least some consolation in being summoned to a remote moorlands house, Joanna reflected as she turned off the Ashbourne road, leaving the town of Leek behind and heading for the vast and empty landscape of the Staffordshire moorlands. She had panoramic views ahead of her, and the sense of limitless emptiness in a landscape that had not changed for centuries. Now, with development protected and even the architecture and materials of the moorlands homes rigidly controlled, it was even less likely to change in the future. She scanned the scene. Undulating hills with craggy stone outcrops, jagged as teeth, isolated farmhouses and the breathtakingly spectacular nature of the landscape made her feel like she was standing at the very top of the world. But even the sense she had of belonging to this wild and raw country did nothing to change her mood, which remained resentful until she had passed the millstone that marked the entrance to the Peak District National Park. She was angry at being sent out on what was most likely a wild goose chase and chuntered loudly to herself: ‘Smoke indeed. Bloody rubbish. Sodding waste of time.’ She knew she could have pulled rank and sent a junior officer but it would have looked peevish and spoiled. It wasn’t her way. And that was why, she reflected, she had gained such respect from her colleagues.