The Final Curtain

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

RIVER DEEP

SLIP KNOT

FROZEN CHARLOTTE *

SMOKE ALARM *

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 *

 

 

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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.

S
he'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 fantastic.'

‘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.'