Dead End Page 11

  ‘That's not so old. Your father's four years older than me –’ She faltered. After seventeen years Charlotte's father had left her for a younger woman.

  ‘And he's married,’ Charlotte blurted out. She thought she might as well get it over with. Her mother would find out sooner or later. ‘It's not as bad as it sounds,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘they're going to separate soon. He wants a divorce. He's already discussed it with his wife and –’ Charlotte knew immediately that it had been a mistake to tell her mother Matthew was married.

  ‘Just like your father,’ her mother spat. ‘I suppose his wife's older than you too.’

  ‘It's not like that,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘His wife's only interested in her career. She doesn't love him.’

  ‘Oh yes, the same old excuse.’ Her mother, usually so stoical, burst into tears. ‘I couldn't bear to see you hurt, Charlotte,’ she sobbed. ‘Leave this man, he'll be no good for you. You're a beautiful girl, find someone else. Not a married man.’ Her voice rose in a wail. ‘Not a married man. Why can't you find someone who won't make you miserable with all his lies and treachery.’

  ‘He's never lied to me, mum. I knew he was married before we started seeing each other. He's always been totally honest with me.’

  ‘More fool you then.’

  Her mother had never been reconciled to the relationship, and had steadfastly refused to meet Matthew. When she'd learned he was planning to move South, accompanying his wife after her promotion, she had done her best to persuade Charlotte it was for the best.

  ‘He's been telling you for years that he's going to leave her and now, when he has the chance to let her go, what does he do? He's traipsing after her all the way to Kent. If that's not making his priorities clear, I don't know what is. He might as well be moving to another planet. You need to face the truth. It's over, Charlotte. It's time for you to move on and find someone who is prepared to devote himself to you properly as a man should, and make you happy.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘It's not another planet, mum, and I'm going with him.’ Her mother had been too flabbergasted to reply. ‘It's all arranged. He's found me a flat down there – just until his divorce – and I've found a job.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘As a kind of secretary.’

  ‘A secretary? Why on earth would you want to give up your career like that? After all the training you did.’

  ‘It's hardly a great career, stuck in theatre all day, handing over scalpels and mopping up blood.’

  ‘But to go and work in an office –’

  ‘It's my choice.’

  Her mother had never forgiven her for quitting York to follow Matthew to Kent.

  ‘She's an unforgiving woman,’ Charlotte's father had said when she'd told him. ‘Do you love this man?’

  ‘I wouldn't be moving to the other end of the country to be with him if I didn't, would I? If his wife thinks she can take him away that easily, she doesn't know me.’

  ‘And does he love you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then marry him and be happy, Charlotte. You can't let your mother hold you back from what you have to do.’

  The brown suitcase had been far too small for her to take everything she wanted. Reminding herself she could return at any time to collect more belongings, her excitement had been dampened by the difficulty of packing. Even though she would have no use for it where she was going, at the last minute she had taken her nurse's uniform from its hanger and lain it, carefully folded, in the case. Matthew had carried the suitcase downstairs, past the disapproving glare of Charlotte's mother, who had watched them go without a word. In the car, Charlotte looked up as the engine started, but her mother had already shut the front door.

  Matthew had done his best to make it as easy as possible for Charlotte to move, finding her a flat and taking on the rental agreement for her. All she had to do was move in. When she had first seen it she hadn't minded that the flat was pokey and ugly, because she hadn't expected to stay there for long. Although she knew it was wicked to feel glad his wife had been killed, the bitch had stood in their way for so long, it was a relief in the end to be rid of her. If Matthew's wife had still been alive, they still wouldn't have been in a position to discuss marriage. Her only regret was that now she would never know if he would ever have left his wife voluntarily to be with her.

  Charlotte was taken aback when the police came round to question her again. Fireworks were popping loudly nearby as she opened the door, and she caught a smell of smoke from the street, although Guy Fawkes night was still a week away. Hiding her agitation as well as she could, she led them upstairs to her living room. It was typical of her mother to telephone just at that moment.

  ‘I can't talk right now, mum. I'll call you back.’

  ‘He's there, isn't he?’

  ‘No, he's not here, but I can't talk now.’

  ‘You mean you don't want to. I suppose his wife's –’

  ‘I'll call you later.’ She hung up.

  ‘We'd like to go over your movements again on the afternoon of Saturday October 24th,’ Inspector Steel said. Her face gave nothing away. She could have been talking about the weather.

  ‘That's the day it happened, the day she died?’

  ‘The day Abigail Kirby was murdered. We'd just like to go over your movements that afternoon once more.’ The noise of fireworks outside interrupted the stillness, like rapid gunfire.

  Charlotte repeated as much as she could recall of her Saturday afternoon and evening. It was horrible to think that someone had probably been killing his wife at the very time she had been in bed with Matthew. The police kept on at her with their questions, probing into every detail of her account, until she felt a prickle of fear. Surely they couldn't suspect her of being involved in the murder. It had briefly occurred to her that Matthew could have had something to do with his wife's death, but she had immediately dismissed that thought as ludicrous. If he hadn't been prepared to leave his wife for fear of upsetting his children, he was hardly likely to kill her. Charlotte wished the police would hurry up and sort out the mess, so she and Matthew could get on with their lives. They could finally start making plans to get married now his wife was out of the way.

  She decided to be firm. ‘I never met Abigail Kirby. I planned to. I wanted to talk to her, woman to woman, and beg her to agree to a divorce but – I didn't have the guts to approach her directly, and in any case it wouldn't have made any difference. Matthew told me not to bother. He said she wouldn't respond to any sort of emotional appeal, certainly not from me.’ She forced a smile. ‘I don't even know what she looks like!’

  ‘Didn't you see her picture in the papers?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Charlotte felt flustered. In attempting to distance herself from Abigail Kirby, she had allowed the police to catch her out in a lie. They might easily think she had told them other lies too. ‘That's not the same, is it? I meant, I never saw her in the flesh.’

  ‘But like it or not you were rivals for Matthew Kirby's affections.’

  ‘It wasn't like that. We weren't exactly rivals. Matthew loves me and he stopped having feelings for his wife a long time ago. I'm not a marriage wrecker, Inspector. Their relationship was finished long before I met Matthew. They slept in different rooms, you know. They were as good as separated. There was no reason for her to keep on refusing to divorce him.’

  ‘He could have left her anyway,’ the sergeant pointed out.

  ‘No he couldn't. You must know he was worried she'd turn his children against him. If it wasn't for them, he would have walked out on her years ago. We'd never have moved from York at all. It was all because of the children.’

  ‘And Abigail Kirby. You certainly had real cause to hate her.’

  Charlotte shook her head, fighting a sense of panic. ‘I never met her. I didn't need to hate her. Matthew loves me. You can't say I was involved in her death.’

  ‘Did I suggest that?’ The inspector turned to the sergeant. ‘Did
you say that?’ He shook his head.

  Charlotte burst into tears. ‘You're making it sound as though I loathed her and wanted her dead.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I just wanted Matthew.’ While she was wiping her eyes the phone shrilled and she lunged at the handset, hurling it to the floor. ‘My bloody mother!’ As she sank back in her chair there was a brief barrage of explosions from fireworks outside.

  ‘Was that petulance at her mother's interference, or a display of real rage?’ Peterson wondered when they were walking back to the car.

  ‘I don't know, but in any case I don't think Abigail Kirby was attacked in a sudden fit of temper. If you ask me, her death was planned very carefully.’

  23

  WHITEWASH

  He always locked the door before switching on the light. The darkness while he felt for the switch heightened his anticipation. As soon as the light came on, expectation exploded into reality. Finding a cracked basin with a functioning rusty tap in the corner, he had set to work washing the filthy cellar with sugar soap. First time around the water in the bucket had turned black every few minutes. He lugged the bucket over to the sink so frequently that in the end he had dispensed with it altogether and went backwards and forwards to the sink, sloshing water on the floor. It took weeks. When he was satisfied the room was clean, he had whitewashed the walls and ceiling. He had laid the floor lino himself too, working at night because he liked to conceal what he was doing, although no one else ever went down in the cellar. It was his territory.

  Visitors to the house made him feel uncomfortable. The couple from the house next door had rung his bell one Sunday afternoon and introduced themselves a few days after he had moved in. If his wife had been there she would probably have invited them in. She liked to socialise.

  ‘We're from number fifteen,’ the woman said brightly. Her voice grated after the silence in which he had immersed himself. He liked sitting in silence. It helped to rest his mind. He wanted these people off his doorstep, off his property. ‘We called to welcome you to the neighbourhood…’ The voice petered out, the bright smile wavered on her painted lips. He nodded briefly but didn't speak. This was his house. He didn't have to talk to anyone here. ‘If there's anything you want to know –?’ she tried again. He shook his head silently and closed the door.

  To make the cellar secure he had fitted a deadlock on the door – the name made him smile. He had blisters from drilling into the hard wood but it was worth the effort. Only he had a key, which he kept with him all the time. The key to retribution.

  Once the lights were on, the white room was dazzling. Halogen lamps hung from the ceiling. He sat down and gazed around, moved by the simplicity of the view, the purity of the white world he had created. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked gently on his chair, nursing a raw rage. In the stillness his anger seemed more potent.

  All at once he sprang to his feet and strode over to the sink. Donning a waterproof overall, he filled the sink and selected a hard bristled brush. He scrubbed vigorously at the floor before returning to his chair to look around and breathe in the white harmony of his secret chamber. It had taken him a long time to remove the blood stains left by the teacher's execution but at last the lino had returned to its original colour. The surface sheen had been completely rubbed away but there was no discolouration. Next he turned his attention to the wall, studying it closely. A few streaks had smeared when he'd tried to wipe them away, stark against the white setting, but he had scrubbed at them until he had reduced the soiling to a fainter pink though he hadn't been able to remove it without scraping away the paint until the brickwork showed through. Standing back to review the result of his efforts he frowned. Using a roller he painted over an entire section of wall until all the blemishes had vanished. Then he sat down again, exhausted but satisfied.

  He had never worked so hard before. Success had come easily to him until, in a moment, everything had been snatched away. Soon even the loss would be over. Only one more death was necessary. The doctor had to die and then it would be his turn to find peace. The waiting made him uneasy. People who had near death experiences talked of seeing a white light before they died. He gazed around the white room and his shoulders slumped forward as his tension slipped away. Delivering death to others brought his own end closer and he would welcome it when the time came. Life held no meaning for him any more.

  One more punishment and it would all be over. First the girl, then the teacher, now only the doctor remained. Why should the doctor live on surrounded by the dead? He belonged with them. Death was a fitting termination to his life's work.

  24

  DRINK

  All through her preoccupation with the case and her visit to the adoption agency, Geraldine had been buoyed up at the prospect of seeing Paul Hilliard again. On her way to the adoption agency on Thursday she had nipped into Boots and hovered around the make-up counter, looking at different coloured eye shadows. She had tried a silvery blue powder on the inside of her wrist, resisted the temptation to buy a scarlet lipstick, settling instead for her usual neutral pinkish one, and lashed out on a new brown eye shadow. She had spent Thursday evening pampering herself, a routine that she normally reserved for the end of a case, plucking her eyebrows and blow drying her hair. It restored her equanimity after her futile attempt to persuade the social worker to put her in contact with her mother. Life went on regardless.

  Throughout Friday morning she was distracted. ‘It's only a casual drink,’ she told herself fiercely, but it was a while since a man like Paul Hilliard had wanted to meet her alone. After Mark, her partner of six years, had unexpectedly left her for someone else it had taken her a while to trust another boyfriend. Eventually she'd met Craig but he too had left her because, like Mark, he had resented her putting work first.

  Paul had suggested meeting at lunch time at The Gate, a wine bar in the town that Geraldine had seen as she drove past but had never been inside. She arrived just after one as they'd agreed, and was disappointed when she didn't see Paul Hilliard waiting for her at the bar. Glancing around she saw him seated in a corner bay, his face in shadow. She felt drawn by his air of remote vulnerability and pulled herself up short. There was no denying she fancied him, but he could be married for all she knew. Then again, he didn't wear a wedding ring, and he had chosen to meet her in the intimacy of a secluded alcove.

  Geraldine sat down opposite Paul and smiled. He smiled back, but his hand trembled as he poured her a glass of wine. He was clearly jittery and Geraldine couldn't help wondering if his nervousness indicated he was interested in her.

  ‘So,’ Paul began, ‘tell me about yourself. Why police work? Let me guess. It's the problem-solving that attracted you. The challenge.’ Geraldine nodded and Paul went on. ‘People talk a lot of bull about wanting to make the world a better place, don't they? I studied medicine because I found it interesting. I mean, I do my best to be a good person, useful. We all do that. But –’ He shrugged. ‘Being altruistic isn't enough, is it? I need the mental stimulation.’ Geraldine smiled. She liked his honesty. ‘So,’ Paul repeated, ‘what attracted you to your job?’

  Geraldine put down her glass and summarised her advancement from constable to inspector. ‘You're absolutely right,’ she concluded. ‘Maintaining social order is important. Vital. But I do like the problem solving.’

  ‘What about this case you're working on? Abigail Kirby. How is that progressing?’

  ‘Dull and frustrating,’ she told him and launched into a detailed account of the investigation, aware all the time of his eyes gazing steadily at her. It was a relief to be able to speak freely. Usually she had to be circumspect in conversation with friends outside the force. Not only was her work confidential, but the details of murder enquiries were bound to put men off her, unless they were deranged or deviant. Talking about corpses was hardly conducive to romance. Discussing the case with Paul she realised for the first time how constrained she had felt in her past relationships
, always having to guard what she said in case she was indiscreet, or described some detail they found disgusting. Dealing with appalling acts of inhumanity as part of her daily routine didn't make her macabre, just as cutting open dead bodies didn't mean Paul Hilliard was gruesome. As they faced one another across the table Geraldine felt a bond of mutual understanding she had never experienced with anyone outside the force before and realised her interest in Paul was more than simple physical attraction. She felt drawn to him and hoped he felt the same.

  ‘So you think her husband killed her?’ he asked when they had ordered something to eat. He had salmon, Geraldine a haloumi salad.

  ‘He's a suspect, but I'm not convinced.’

  ‘Oh? What else have you got to go on?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ She told Paul all about the witness who had reported seeing Abigail Kirby in WH Smith's.

  Paul was dismissive. ‘He would have been preoccupied with serving customers. You said there was a queue, so the shop was obviously busy.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay it's nothing, but we have to follow up any lead. It's not as if we've got much else to go on. I don't want to bore you,’ she added, aware that she was doing all the talking.

  ‘No.’ He gave a taut smile and leaned forward. ‘I'm not bored at all. I want to know all about you.’ Geraldine saw him look at her askance, as if gauging her reaction, and she lowered her eyes, reminding herself that she had proved a poor judge of men's intentions towards her in the past. Hesitantly she told him about her one long-term relationship.

  ‘You loved him?’ Paul asked gently while his eyes seemed to search hers.

  Geraldine nodded and sipped her wine slowly. Both Celia and Hannah had accused her of never discussing her feelings with them, but Paul was easy to confide in. Perhaps it was the alcohol that led to her unexpected feeling of intimacy with him, but once she started talking she couldn't stop. She hoped she wasn't imagining the sympathy in his eyes, fantasising about recreating the relationship she'd enjoyed with Mark for six years.