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Authors: Priscilla Masters
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sarcastically. ‘It’s a bit soon for you to have made an arrest.’
‘We just don’t know, Judy.’ He could hear the defensive tone in his voice. ‘Put it like this: there isn’t anyone obvious.’
‘Was it theft?’
Had circumstances been different Korpanski might have chortled at the question. From that pathetically poor and neglected farmhouse? What would anyone steal? The family silver?
He tried to say it nicely. ‘I don’t suppose there was a lot to take.’
‘Not the thousands of pounds he kept in his mattress?’
‘Sorry?’
Judy Grimshaw crossed her skinny legs encased in faded jeans. ‘Come on, Mickey, surely you’ve heard about farmers who don’t trust banks.’
He hated being called Mickey. It had been a schooltag, a mockery of his Polish father who had always had trouble speaking the Queen’s English though no problem at all fighting for King and country through the Second World War. The teasing had also been oneof the reasons he worked out at the gym three times a week. If he didn’t want to be called Mickey then he wouldn’t be. His height had helped. Six foot four inches topped most men.
He eyed Judy Grimshaw and couldn’t decide if the money-under-the-mattress yarn was simply that or the truth. He settled on blunt confrontation.
‘Did he?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hardly went near the place.’
Korpanski nodded. It fitted in with what he’d already been told.
‘Can I see him?’
‘If you want to, I can take you to the mortuary. We need—’
‘Identification,’ she supplied.
Concern about the state her father was in must have leaked into his face because Judy gave the ghost of a smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m a nurse. Remember?’
‘Yeah, but surely it’s different – being your dad and all.’
‘I’ve seen it all before,’ she said wearily.
‘OK. But before we go, I have to ask you,’ Mike said, ‘if you know of anyone who had a grudge against him? Anyone who might want him dead?’
The second ghost of a smile. ‘Apart from the inhabitants of the estate who paid grossly over-inflated prices for an exclusive view of the scruffiest farm in Staffordshire?’
If only police too could hide behind the phrase No comment.
Korpanski felt the muscles in his neck stiffen. He stood up and led her out to the parking lot.
During the journey he made an effort at conversation. ‘Married, are you?’
‘Divorced.’ She almost spat the word.
‘Kids?’
‘A daughter.’
‘And your mum?’ He remembered a thin woman with untidy hair and a worn face, who always wore an apron around the farm so that once when Judy was in the choir he hadn’t recognised the woman attending a school concert in a black skirt, smart green box jacket and high-heeled black shoes as her mother.
‘Ha.’ There was venom in the expletive. ‘My mother? Left Dad years ago. Having a fine old time with her lover. Spain, London, New York. You name it.’
She turned and looked at Korpanski. ‘She was young when she met my dad. Just nineteen. Fell pregnant with me practically straight away. Had all these illusions about being a farmer’s wife. She didn’t know how hard farmers expect their wives to work in this part of the world. Years later, when she’d milked and got up at dawn day in, day out, stunk of animals all the time and catered for all the farmhands, she finally saw the light and moved out. Met another man.’
She sat back, folded her arms, pleased with herself. ‘Had a lot of sense, my mum.’
Korpanski struggled to find something to say.
‘Do you see much of her ?’
The mouth distorted. ‘Not since the day she left. Toobusy making up for lost time to get in touch with her daughter.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t be.’ Judy’s face was hard and bitter. ‘I prefer to think of her living it up at the high spots of the world rather than drudging around on that blighted place.’ There was something brave about the words that
‘We just don’t know, Judy.’ He could hear the defensive tone in his voice. ‘Put it like this: there isn’t anyone obvious.’
‘Was it theft?’
Had circumstances been different Korpanski might have chortled at the question. From that pathetically poor and neglected farmhouse? What would anyone steal? The family silver?
He tried to say it nicely. ‘I don’t suppose there was a lot to take.’
‘Not the thousands of pounds he kept in his mattress?’
‘Sorry?’
Judy Grimshaw crossed her skinny legs encased in faded jeans. ‘Come on, Mickey, surely you’ve heard about farmers who don’t trust banks.’
He hated being called Mickey. It had been a schooltag, a mockery of his Polish father who had always had trouble speaking the Queen’s English though no problem at all fighting for King and country through the Second World War. The teasing had also been oneof the reasons he worked out at the gym three times a week. If he didn’t want to be called Mickey then he wouldn’t be. His height had helped. Six foot four inches topped most men.
He eyed Judy Grimshaw and couldn’t decide if the money-under-the-mattress yarn was simply that or the truth. He settled on blunt confrontation.
‘Did he?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hardly went near the place.’
Korpanski nodded. It fitted in with what he’d already been told.
‘Can I see him?’
‘If you want to, I can take you to the mortuary. We need—’
‘Identification,’ she supplied.
Concern about the state her father was in must have leaked into his face because Judy gave the ghost of a smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m a nurse. Remember?’
‘Yeah, but surely it’s different – being your dad and all.’
‘I’ve seen it all before,’ she said wearily.
‘OK. But before we go, I have to ask you,’ Mike said, ‘if you know of anyone who had a grudge against him? Anyone who might want him dead?’
The second ghost of a smile. ‘Apart from the inhabitants of the estate who paid grossly over-inflated prices for an exclusive view of the scruffiest farm in Staffordshire?’
If only police too could hide behind the phrase No comment.
Korpanski felt the muscles in his neck stiffen. He stood up and led her out to the parking lot.
During the journey he made an effort at conversation. ‘Married, are you?’
‘Divorced.’ She almost spat the word.
‘Kids?’
‘A daughter.’
‘And your mum?’ He remembered a thin woman with untidy hair and a worn face, who always wore an apron around the farm so that once when Judy was in the choir he hadn’t recognised the woman attending a school concert in a black skirt, smart green box jacket and high-heeled black shoes as her mother.
‘Ha.’ There was venom in the expletive. ‘My mother? Left Dad years ago. Having a fine old time with her lover. Spain, London, New York. You name it.’
She turned and looked at Korpanski. ‘She was young when she met my dad. Just nineteen. Fell pregnant with me practically straight away. Had all these illusions about being a farmer’s wife. She didn’t know how hard farmers expect their wives to work in this part of the world. Years later, when she’d milked and got up at dawn day in, day out, stunk of animals all the time and catered for all the farmhands, she finally saw the light and moved out. Met another man.’
She sat back, folded her arms, pleased with herself. ‘Had a lot of sense, my mum.’
Korpanski struggled to find something to say.
‘Do you see much of her ?’
The mouth distorted. ‘Not since the day she left. Toobusy making up for lost time to get in touch with her daughter.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t be.’ Judy’s face was hard and bitter. ‘I prefer to think of her living it up at the high spots of the world rather than drudging around on that blighted place.’ There was something brave about the words that
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