Dead End (6 page)

‘There's no accounting for teenage girls, and I should know.’

Geraldine laughingly pointed out that she had been a teenage girl herself once.

‘Ah, but I've got three sisters. It's a miracle I wasn't put off women for life when you think about it. Oh yes, Lucy Kirby brought back memories, I can tell you. I could swear my sisters used to take it in turns to be stroppy.’ He shook his head. ‘Who'd have children?’

‘You and Bev aren't planning a family then?’

‘It's not something we've talked about really,’ he replied, suddenly serious. ‘I know she wants kids at some point. How about you? Could you see yourself having children?’

‘I don't know. I wouldn't want to stop working. Talking of which, what did you make of Matthew Kirby?’

‘He didn't seem surprised to hear about his wife's death.’

‘That's what I thought. Like he knew what was coming and wanted to get it over with.’

Peterson checked his note book. ‘Say what you've come here to say,’ he read aloud. ‘His expression didn't change, gov. I think he knew what you were going to say.’

‘Let's not jump to conclusions. People take the news of the death of someone close in different ways.’ She paused. She hadn't said the death of a loved one. ‘What about Lucy? What did she say when she saw me? Read out what she said, Ian.’

Peterson flicked through his notebook. ‘Here we go: “Is this her then? What's she doing here? Get out of our house!” She was furious with you about something, gov.’

‘Not with me. “Is this her?”’ Geraldine repeated thoughtfully. ‘I think we'll pay Matthew Kirby another visit very soon, but before that I certainly wish there was a way to find out what Lucy had in mind. I don't know what your take on it is, Ian, but it's pretty obvious to me Matthew Kirby was seeing another woman. What do you think?’

‘Do you think he wanted to get rid of his wife, gov?’

‘We need more information,’ Geraldine said when they were back in the car.

Peterson turned the key in the ignition and glanced in his rear mirror. ‘Hold on, gov. That's her. She's going out. Looks like it might be our lucky day.’ Lucy Kirby came into view scurrying down the front path. ‘I wonder where she's off to?’

‘Visiting friends?’ They watched Lucy hurry along the road, head down, wearing a navy anorak over her baggy jogging pants. ‘Let's see if we can catch up with her.’

They cruised slowly along the road and pulled into the kerb alongside Lucy who scowled as Geraldine's window slid down.

‘Hello, Lucy.’

‘Why are you following me?’

‘We weren't following you, Lucy. We saw you walking by as we were about to leave and stopped to talk to you.’ She opened the car door and climbed out. ‘I thought you might be able to help us.’ Lucy stared at the pavement. ‘I wondered if there was anything you wanted to tell us?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I'll go then, Lucy. But here,’ Geraldine held out her card. ‘I'd like you to take this. If you think of anything that might help us find out who's responsible for your mother's death, call this number and speak to me. Now, is it a good idea for you to be out on the streets alone at a time like this? Can we give you a lift home?’

‘Why would I want to go back there?’

‘Don't you want to be with the rest of your family right now? With your father?’

Geraldine's suggestion sparked a response. ‘Why would I want to be with him?’ Lucy backed away from Geraldine, eyes suddenly blazing. ‘If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't be dead. It would never have happened. Go away and leave me alone!’ She spun on her heel and dashed away.

Geraldine sprinted after her. ‘Lucy, where are you going?’

‘It's none of your business,’ the girl panted. She didn't slow down but Geraldine kept pace easily.

‘Right now everything is my business, Lucy, including your safety. I can't let you wander the streets at a time like this without knowing you've got somewhere safe to go.’

Lucy stopped and turned to face Geraldine. Tears were streaming down her thin face. ‘What about my mother's safety? You didn't care about that, did you? And now she's dead.’

‘If I'd known your mother was in danger, I'd have done everything in my power to protect her –’

‘He killed her, didn't he?’ Lucy interrupted her.

‘We're not sure how your mother died, Lucy. That's what we're trying to find out. Lucy, I'm really sorry about your mother. You know we're going to do everything we can to find out who's responsible.’ The girl nodded, kicking at the ground with a dirty trainer. ‘When you saw me in your kitchen, you said “Is this her? What's she doing here?” and then you yelled at me to get out of the house. What was that about?’

Lucy wiped her nose on the back of her glove. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

‘Who did you think I was?’

‘I don't know.’

‘Lucy, is your father seeing another woman? Is that it? Did you think I was your father's girlfriend?’

Lucy bowed her head. Geraldine had to lean forward to hear what she was saying. ‘My mother knew. I heard them arguing about it. He said he wanted a divorce but she said she wouldn't give him up. She said she didn't care that he was seeing someone else but she was never going to let him go. I thought, why would my mum accuse him of seeing someone if it wasn't true? And he didn't deny it.’ She looked up, her eyes burning. ‘I'm never going to speak to him again. I hate him.’

‘You could be mistaken.’

‘I'm not. I asked my mum about it. We used to talk about things. She told me she followed him one evening and saw them together. Say what you like about her, she had balls, my mum. Nothing scared her. She told me she didn't care about him seeing someone else, but she wouldn't let him have a divorce. She didn't want to break up our family.’ She let out a sob. ‘He's a liar and a scumbag. I wish it was him who was dead, after what he's done.’

‘What has he done, Lucy?’

‘I just told you, he cheated on my mum and now she's dead. I wish he would go off and live with his other woman, and leave us alone. We don't want him.’

‘Does Ben know your father's seeing someone else?’

‘No, he doesn't know anything about it. You know what boys are like.’ Lucy raised a worried face to Geraldine. ‘You won't tell him, will you? He's only twelve and he worships my dad, God knows why. I guess it's a boy thing. He'll have to find out one day but –’ She covered her face with her hands and began to cry again. Her shoulders jerked with silent sobs.

‘Lucy,’ Geraldine broke the silence.

‘What?’

‘You know you have to go home.’ Lucy didn't answer. ‘Your father must be worried about you.’

Behind her hands, it sounded as though Lucy was laughing. ‘He's probably with her right now. He won't notice I've gone. He never knew where mum was. Even when –’ she broke off sobbing.

‘Lucy, who is she?’

‘She's called Charlotte.’

‘Charlotte what?’

‘How should I know? Charlotte. That's all I know.’

‘Thank you, Lucy. That's very helpful. Now, we'll give you a lift home.’

‘You won't tell Ben, will you?’

‘I promise I'll only tell him if it's necessary.’

‘How do I know I can believe you?’

Something about the girl's unkempt appearance touched Geraldine and she felt a rush of pity for her. ‘You don't. But I hope you trust me, Lucy.’

At home that evening Geraldine thought about Lucy, motherless at such a young age, and sighed. At least Lucy had known her own mother. In her late thirties, Geraldine had only recently discovered she was adopted. The revelation had come shortly after the death of the woman she had believed was her mother. However benign the motive, the thought of the deception that had been practised on her was still too painful to contemplate. She had stuffed the paperwork relating to her birth and adoption to the back of her wardrobe behind a stack of towels, and tried not to think about what she had discovered. It helped that her work kept her occupied.

Making herself comfortable with a small glass of chilled white wine and a bowl of pasta, she made a conscious effort to focus on something more positive and settled on Paul Hilliard. He was undoubtedly attractive, and intelligent, and appeared to be single. She wondered if his invitation to meet up was motivated solely by a professional interest in the case.

9

Shock

I
n the quiet room where Abigail was laid out, Matthew Kirby cleared his throat nervously. ‘Can I go over to her?’ he asked, his face pale. Geraldine nodded. ‘That's her. That's Abigail.’ He leaned forward. ‘She looks so peaceful. How did she die?’

Geraldine hesitated. ‘She was hit on the back of the head,’ she replied tersely.

‘Can I touch her? I mean, I'd like to say goodbye.’

‘Yes.’

Matthew reached out and touched his wife's hand. ‘She's wearing her wedding ring,’ he whispered. His voice broke into a sob. ‘I'm sorry, it's such a shock. What's that?’ He pointed to a line of bruising on the dead woman's wrist and his eyes widened. ‘It looks as though she's been tied up.’ Watching him closely, Geraldine was convinced his surprise was genuine. His voice broke as he asked if she had been interfered with in any way.

‘There was no sexual assault,’ Geraldine assured him and he broke down, sobbing.

‘The bastard,’ he kept repeating. ‘Abi was a good woman, a good woman. Why would anyone do this to her? Find out who did this, please.’

‘We're doing everything we can, Mr Kirby.’

It was important to reserve judgement before gathering evidence, but Geraldine found it hard not to form an impression of Matthew Kirby. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her head as she drove home. It wasn't November yet, cold for the time of year. The sky had loomed white all day. The weather forecast was warning of snow in Scotland and there was a feeling that winter was on its way.

They had no idea whether the murder had been the result of careful planning or a chance encounter. If her killer was a random stranger, it might be impossible to trace him without any forensic evidence at the scene and apart from the bizarre removal of her tongue, Abigail Kirby's body hadn't been violated. Geraldine sighed. Every moron knew better now than to leave fingerprints behind at a murder scene and so far they didn't even know where Abigail Kirby had been killed. Sherlock Holmes might have lacked sophisticated forensic techniques, but at least his villains had left clues. Abigail Kirby's corpse had revealed nothing about her killer, although her mutilation posed many questions.

Arriving home, Geraldine kicked off her shoes and shuffled into the slippers waiting for her on the mat. She hung her jacket in the cupboard and gazed around her neat living room. In the kitchen she hesitated by the kettle. After the bustle of the police station, her flat felt silent and empty and she was lonely. There was no one she could call at such a late hour, just to hear the sound of another human voice. Too wound up to sleep, she flicked the radio on and poured herself a large glass of wine before opening the file on Abigail Kirby. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep with so many questions buzzing in her mind.

Abigail Kirby was born in Yorkshire. Her first teaching appointment was at a school in one of the outlying villages. She stayed in the area and moved to a different school in York when she married Matthew, a local surveyor. They had a daughter, Lucy, followed two years later by a son, Ben. With no career break to raise her children, she had rapidly been promoted to deputy head of a local grammar school. A year before her death she had taken up an appointment as headmistress of Harchester School and moved with her family to Kent. Her husband, who had been a partner in a firm of surveyors, went with her.

Geraldine put down the file and tried to block out the memory of Lucy Kirby which was threatening to distract her from Abigail Kirby's history. The question remained. Who would have committed such a terrible atrocity against the mother of those two children, Lucy and her young brother? Perhaps she had been murdered by an ex-pupil who considered his own life blighted by some perceived injustice. It was hard enough to imagine hating someone enough to kill them, but to inflict such excruciating pain on another human being was incomprehensible. Maybe it was no coincidence that Abigail Kirby's death had occurred so soon after her promotion to headmistress, her killer an disgruntled or jealous colleague.

Geraldine's mouth was dry so she put the kettle on and made a mug of cocoa, still thinking about the dead headmistress. Everything about Abigail Kirby followed a logical progression in relation to her career but, after studying the file closely, Geraldine was no closer to understanding Abigail Kirby as a woman. Successful in her career, married with a son and a daughter, from the outside her life appeared ideal. Despite her premature and horrific death, Geraldine felt an irrational stab of envy as she got ready for bed. Alone.

Tired and sweaty she showered and ran dripping into the bedroom. As she pulled a towel from the top shelf of her wardrobe, a pile of them toppled down. She wrapped herself in a bathsheet and bent to pick up an armful of towels from the floor. Turning, she looked up at the shelf, empty apart from a battered old shoe box she had kept hidden there ever since her sister, Celia, had given it to her. They had been clearing out their mother's belongings a few weeks after her funeral.

‘I thought you'd better have this,’ Celia said. Geraldine squinted down at a faded grey box file and read her own name, handwritten on a peeling yellow label. ‘I imagine she would've wanted you to have it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Your papers.’ Celia lifted the box and thrust it at her sister.

‘What papers? Celia, I don't know what you're talking about. What's in the box? What papers?’

‘Your papers. Birth certificate, adoption papers…’

‘You're telling me we're adopted?’

Celia's blonde head bobbed a nod but she didn't look up. ‘Not us, you.’

Geraldine stood with an armful of towels and dithered. There weren't many situations that daunted her and she wasn't sure why she was holding back from looking inside the box. With sudden resolution she pulled it down and sat on the bed. The brittle elastic band holding the lid in place snapped when she tried to remove it. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid to see the box contained a single buff folder.