Grave Stones Read online

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Korpanski shook his head. ‘Not unless some minor criminal is maturing.’ He swung his chair round, his blunt features screwed up in concern. ‘But murder, Jo? Poisoning the dog? Letting animals die of thirst? I don’t think so.’

  She stood up, suddenly frustrated, and crossed the room to the window. It was her bad luck that the office assigned to her was no more than three feet from a high, brick wall. It was an uninspiring view for a senior investigating officer. All too often it simply reflected the progress of an investigation. She turned around to face Mike. ‘So who then? One of the neighbours? His daughter? Or someone else? And why? Why kill a harmless old farmer? Why poison the dog? Was he aggressive? Would he bark? Was it a robbery? Why not wait until Grimshaw was out for the day?’

  ‘He virtually never was,’ Korpanski answered.

  ‘Why the sustained attack? Why murder, Mike?’

  She wandered back to the computer, practically willing the screen to spew something out. Anything that would give their investigation some direction. The early days of an investigation were always bad – worrying that it would join the Unsolved Cases folder.

  ‘Mike,’ she said in a low voice, and he knew what was coming next.

  ‘Time I left for the mortuary.’

  Korpanski nodded.

  ‘No need for you to come, Mike.’

  ‘OK.’

  It was a slow drive into the Potteries, crawling down the A53 Leek road and threading through the city. Traffic was practically stationary in parts and there were the usual road works in Endon. She bit her lip, drove patiently, and finally arrived at the mortuary.

  Matthew met her at the door. ‘Jo?’

  She gave him a warm, intimate smile. There was something about wearing this ring, that he had chosen and bought for her, that made her feel extraordinarily close to him. It wasn’t her way to belong to anyone, to become a man’s property. She had always prided herself on her independence, but she knew she was as close to Matthew Levin as she ever could be to any human being. She brushed his cheek with her lips, smelt the spicy tang of his aftershave, felt the bony prominence at the back of his neck under her fingers and wondered how long she would feel like this towards Matthew. Would this passion, this strength, this weakness continue for ever? Even the word ‘fiancé’ spread warmth throughout her. It was a different status. One she had not known before. No wonder engaged women looked so smug. If being affianced brought this, how would she feel when she was married?

  ‘Matt,’ she said, as they walked along the corridor. ‘Do you know all the post-mortem findings? Or do I need to talk to Jordan?’

  ‘I think I know most of it. Everything you need.’ He looked at her fondly. ‘If you ask me a question that stumps me, I’ll get hold of Cray. OK?’

  She nodded, already knowing that he would know all the answers she needed. Matthew took great pride in his thoroughness.

  They’d reached his office. The door was ajar and they wandered in to sit at the desk. ‘So, Jakob Grimshaw’s injuries,’ she began. ‘Were they the result of a gang attack or was there one assailant?’

  Matthew thought for a minute. ‘There’s no evidence,’ he said carefully, ‘that it was a gang attack. We’re working on it being a single killer. There weren’t that many injuries and it’s easy to trace what happened. It began with a full frontal assault with a weapon similar to a baseball bat, during which he sustained his defensive injuries – the broken arm, bruising etcetera.’

  ‘And would it have to be a male? Did it require strength?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Grimshaw was frail,’ he said, ‘almost emaciated. He weighed only eight stone. A relatively fit female could have attacked him. And he finally collapsed against the wall. Jordan found traces of moss on the back of his sweater. It only took our assailant to topple the stone on him. It just happened to be there.’

  Joanna fixed her eyes on him knowing that he disliked coincidence as much as she did. ‘Just happened?’

  Their eyes met. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  Matthew shifted in his seat. ‘I suppose you want to view the body?’

  She nodded slowly, reluctantly. ‘I think I ought to.’

  He led Joanna into the room with its tiers of chilled drawers. He selected one then pulled it out.

  The old farmer was neatly wrapped in a shroud, a tag looped around his toes. Matthew untied the shroud and pulled it back, allowing her to look, for the first time, at the subject of her murder investigation.

  He was skinny almost to the point of emaciation and looked older than his years. His waxen face was, considering, surprisingly peaceful. The damage to his skull was easy to see, also the bruising to his arms, the misshapen right limb.

  ‘Fractured ulna,’ Matthew supplied. ‘And the radius was dislocated. They used to call it the swordsman’s injury.’ He held his own arm up in a defensive pose. ‘Like this. That appears to be the initial injury. It would have hurt like hell and winded him.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Head injury, fractures of the cervical spine, extensive bruising on the shoulders, probably from the assault as well as the stone as it dropped, a rose thorn in his hand,’ Matthew finished. ‘Poor chap.’

  He waited a moment, then said gently, ‘Have you seen enough?’

  ‘I think so.’ She looked at him. ‘It hasn’t brought me any nearer to the killer though, Matt. I thought it would, but it’s done nothing.’

  He slid the body back into the fridge. ‘So what next?’

  She made a face. ‘Much as I don’t want to, I’m going to have to speak to Grimshaw’s daughter again. She’s an unpleasant thing but I have a feeling there’s something there that I’ve missed. Something important. But first,’ she said cheekily, ‘I wouldn’t mind being taken for lunch.’

  Matthew’s eyes sparkled. ‘Hospital fare?’

  She linked her arm in his. ‘Just as long as it isn’t tripe and onions.’

  He drove her to the restaurant in the City General Hospital and they shared gammon and onion rings. Then they returned to the mortuary, Matthew to complete his afternoon’s work and Joanna to pick up her car and drive back to Leek.

  She found Mike speaking to Richard Mostyn.

  ‘Great, Jo,’ he said. ‘Mr Mostyn brought himself in to make a statement.’

  ‘Very thoughtful,’ she said.

  Now why would Mostyn volunteer information? She looked at the pale, soft man with a permanently worried look on his face. ‘Shall we go into the interview room?’

  Mostyn was nervous. ‘I thought I’d better come in,’ he began, ‘because I was worried you’d get the wrong end of the stick.’

  Joanna raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You see…’

  Joanna waited.

  Mostyn gulped in a lungful of air. ‘I didn’t know whether you knew…’ his voice trailed away. His eyes darted from Joanna to Korpanski and back to Joanna.

  ‘I own some of the farm land.’

  Silence.

  ‘A field,’ he said, ‘beyond the farm.’

  He started to relax and babble. ‘It doesn’t have planning permission,’ he said. ‘It’s just grazing land.’

  Joanna lifted her eyebrows and let him prattle on.

  ‘You see – I’d hoped to buy the pony, Brutus, for my daughter as a Christmas present. As a surprise. Grimshaw said we could keep it in the stable.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Joanna commented. ‘She’s a very lucky girl.’

  Mostyn’s face changed. ‘She would have been. I don’t think the farmer’s daughter’s keen on me having Brutus. I don’t know why,’ he said peevishly. ‘It’s far too small for her.’

  He looked at Joanna out of the corner of his eye and she felt a tingling in her toes. This might be Mostyn’s story but it was a story. A plausible one but she didn’t believe it for a minute. A man in his straightened circumstances wouldn’t have paid over the odds for a piece of land for senti
mental reasons. He’d paid double the price for grazing but if it got planning permission it would have worked out a bargain. She gave him a bland smile. No. It was much more likely that he had bought it as an investment.

  But she let the matter pass.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ she said, ‘where were you on Monday and Tuesday?’

  ‘Work all day,’ he said quickly. ‘I work in Macclesfield. It’s an easy commute.’

  ‘And in the evenings?’

  Mostyn thought for a minute. ‘I was at home on the Monday,’ he said. ‘I arrive back at about seven-ish. Tuesday I was with a client from Holland. We were out in a restaurant until around eleven.’

  ‘I see,’ Joanna said. ‘Have you anything more to add?’

  Mostyn shook his head, keeping his pale eyes firmly fixed on her.

  She let him go after that.

  Joanna arranged to speak to Judy Grimshaw and prepared herself to be more patient, more civil this time around. After all, the woman had just lost her father in violent and upsetting circumstances. She had a right to be brusque.

  Judy lived in one of the older terraced houses with a front door that opened straight out onto the pavement. Her face appeared at the window in response to Joanna’s knock. Moments later she pulled opened the door and led Joanna inside without a greeting.

  Inside, it was small but homely, tastefully decorated with magnolia walls, a cream carpet and black leather suite.

  She sat down opposite them. ‘Are you any nearer to finding out who killed my father?’ she demanded.

  It had taken Joanna less than a minute to decide that she didn’t like Judy Grimshaw any better the second time she met her.

  There was something smug about the woman – something too self-possessed, as though she held the key to all the problems of the world.

  Joanna spoke formally. ‘Judy, we’re trying very hard to find out who killed your father.’

  ‘I should think so,’ she said tartly.

  It wasn’t helpful.

  ‘The trouble is that we don’t even know for certain when he died. Not only the time but the date, even. He was a very solitary person.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  There was something hostile and calculating in the goggle-eyes behind her glasses. Joanna looked at her and wondered why she was getting the distinct impression that Judy Wilkinson wanted them to fail on this. She didn’t want them to discover who had killed her father.

  Extraordinary, Joanna thought. Quite extraordinary.

  ‘Is there anything you can think of that might point us in the right direction?’

  Judy shook her head. She had light brown hair, an indeterminate colour, unflattering to her pale face.

  ‘Had your father had any…trouble recently?’

  ‘Not apart from half the people on the Prospect Farm Estate trying to winkle him out of his home.’

  ‘He felt threatened by them?’

  Judy gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘You didn’t know my father, did you, Inspector?’

  ‘Obviously not.’ Joanna could match curtness with curtness.

  ‘He was in a world of his own. Threats wouldn’t have penetrated his thick, stupid hide.’

  Joanna almost started at the dislike in the woman’s voice.

  ‘No wonder my mother left him,’ she finished.

  Ah yes, Joanna thought. The mother.

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Eight years ago.’

  ‘Were you aware that she had plans to go? A hint of someone – somewhere – else?’

  A mean, unpleasant look crossed the woman’s face. ‘Not her,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Tight wasn’t the word. She kept herself to herself, did my mum.’ There was a note of pride in Judy’s voice. Not affection, Joanna noted. That was missing.

  ‘And after she’d left?’

  ‘Sent postcards.’ A pause. ‘From all over.’

  ‘Did you see the postcards?’

  ‘No – my father just told me. Her’s in Spain or Portugal. The Algarve. France.’ She affected a gravelly, moorlands voice. ‘You know, spreading her wings.’

  This, then, was the discordant note. ‘Why didn’t your mother keep in touch with you?’

  A toss of the head and a flash of pure spite. ‘She only sent the cards to mock him.’

  Joanna practically recoiled at the hatred in the woman’s voice. ‘What was your mother’s name?’ she asked.

  ‘Avis.’ A touch of sour humour twisted the thin lips. ‘Like the rentacar.’

  Joanna felt weary. There was something draining about this woman.

  ‘Is there anything,’ she appealed, ‘anything that could help us?’

  But the appeal simply provoked a sneer. ‘Are you that stuck? No.’ Judy shook her head, picked her handbag off the floor. ‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ she said nastily.

  Yeah, for me too, Joanna thought.

  Whatever her personal feelings – she would liked to have told this woman to get on her bike – Joanna responded politely. ‘Thank you for speaking to us. It’s been most helpful.’ If Grimshaw’s daughter picked up the note of sarcasm in Joanna’s voice, she ignored it.

  During the journey back to the station Joanna was recounting the woman’s words. Something wasn’t ringing true. She had a bad feeling about this entire case. At the core was something very rotten.

  She returned to her office and found Korpanski drinking coffee. ‘Mike,’ she said. ‘Run a check on Avis Grimshaw and ring Mark Fask. Ask him if he’s found a box containing some postcards.’

  He picked up the phone and connected with the scenes of crime team, spoke for a minute or two, replaced the handset then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but they haven’t finished their search of the house yet.’

  Joanna looked across briefly. ‘Did they give you any idea how much longer they’ll be?’

  ‘Later today,’ Mike said.

  ‘Right.’

  Bridget Anderton was facing Tim Bradeley across a pine desk in the main office of Farrell’s Animal Feeds, and privately she agreed with his boss. He didn’t look a murderer but an honest Staffordshire man, with blunt features and steady grey eyes. Big hands rested still on his lap.

  ‘You know about Mr Grimshaw?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I believe that you made deliveries to his farm?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Bradeley was patently a man of few words.

  ‘When did you last go there?’

  Bradeley was quiet, so quiet Bridget Anderton wondered whether she should repeat the question.

  But Bradshaw was thinking. ‘Would have been late August,’ he said eventually. ‘The last Tuesday. We have an offer on summer deliveries and he generally goes for it as late as possible.’ The hint of a wry smile. ‘I generally drop on a Tuesday in that area.’

  Bridget Anderton looked at her diary. ‘That would be…the 28th,’ she said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How did things seem?’

  Bradeley shrugged. ‘Same as ever.’

  ‘Nothing out of place?’

  Slowly, almost wonderingly, he shook his head.

  ‘Was Mr Grimshaw on his own?’

  Bradeley thought for a minute. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The little girl was with him, sitting on her pony.’ He smiled. ‘Proper little horsewoman, she is.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  Bradeley shook his head, his brief spurt of vigour gone.

  ‘Mr Bradeley,’ Bridget said carefully, ‘I have to ask you this: did you know that Mr Grimshaw kept money around the house?’

  Bradeley was unfazed by the question. ‘Don’t most people?’

  ‘I’m talking about a large sum of money..’

  Bradeley looked confused. ‘No,’ he protested. ‘How would I?’

  ‘He paid your bill in cash.’

  ‘So do most farmers.’

  Anderton waited.

  ‘I never thought about it,’ he said. ‘I
f I did, I would have thought he’d been to the bank to get the money out, knowing I was coming, like.’

  Bridget nodded. Coming from this area, it made sense to her.

  Tim Bradeley went red. ‘How do you know that, anyway?’

  She started to say, ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that,’ but slow as Bradeley’s thought processes were he was not dull. ‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘The little girl. It has to be. No one else has ever been there when I’ve called. Only old Jakob.’

  Bridget Anderton stood up, glanced at Bradeley and wondered. He seemed a little too obvious, his answers slightly too pat. Everyone has faults, she thought, recalling one of Inspector Piercy’s mantras. It’s up to you to unearth them. So what was Bradeley’s?

  She fumbled in the dark. ‘Where does the animal feed come from?’

  He shrugged. ‘India mostly. They export to us via Eastern Europe. Really cheap, it is.’

  Bridget Anderton stored the fact away as one does an old toy – in the attic. It might be useful and be aired again. Then again, it might not.

  Mike had been fiddling with the computer. ‘You know you asked me to look up Grimshaw’s wife?’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve checked her under her maiden name and her married name. We’ve looked through deaths and marriages, tried out her National Insurance number and tax details. We can’t find any record of her for the last eight years. She appears to have vanished into thin air.’

  But people don’t just vanish into thin air.

  And now Joanna was starting to understand why she had had a horrid feeling about this case. Much as she’d fretted they weren’t moving forward fast enough now she was almost dreading moving forward at all. She froze for a moment. Then said briskly, ‘Ring Mark Fask. I want to know about those postcards. Tell him to find them.’

  She knew now it was vital that they found Avis Grimshaw, that finding her would help understand the murder of her husband.

  Chapter Eight

  It was six o’clock in the evening when Joanna looked up at Korpanski. ‘I’ve had a thought.’

  Korpanski was feeling grumpy. It was his night at the gym and he was missing the physical challenge. That and the frustration this case was causing were playing havoc with his emotions.