Dead End Read online

  That evening, Geraldine assumed Paul Hilliard was calling to tell her the body had afforded some new piece of evidence. She wondered why he was phoning her on her private number.

  ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘No, nothing new – but I have a few ideas. The thing is, Geraldine, I find it hard not to think about cases like this when I'm involved, doing the autopsy I mean. I can't help wondering what could have possessed someone to do this. It's been playing on my mind.’ He paused. Geraldine waited, uncertain what he was getting at. ‘It must be the same for you. It must be hard to switch off.’

  ‘Well yes,’ Geraldine answered awkwardly. Usually she did tend to obsess over the victims in her cases, but she had allowed Abigail Kirby's fate to be overshadowed by her preoccupation with her own past – and by her interest in Paul Hilliard. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘But you've got your sergeant, and a whole team to talk it over with.’

  Geraldine smiled, remembering the doctor's clear-cut features, and the way his eyes had held her gaze. ‘It must be hard for you, wondering about it by yourself,’ she ventured.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose, when you put it like that –’

  ‘We could discuss your ideas, if you like?’ She held her breath.

  ‘That would be great. I'd really like to mull it over, if you have time. Perhaps we could meet up for a drink?’

  Geraldine grinned but she kept her voice steady. ‘Why not?’ It never did any harm to see the evidence through another pair of eyes, and the doctor's views might help them start to find a lead to the killer.

  ‘That's the only reason I agreed to meet him on Friday,’ Geraldine explained to her friend, Hannah, when they spoke later.

  ‘Oh yes, a date with a sexy doctor and you only want to talk about work,’ Hannah laughed.

  ‘It's not a date. We're meeting for a drink at lunch time to discuss the victim's injuries.’

  ‘And you're hoping that isn't the only body he's interested in –’

  ‘Hannah, stop it. That's ridiculous, and you know it. I've barely spoken to the guy. And we're not meeting in the evening. It's hardly a date.’

  Hannah laughed again. ‘Your eyes met across a bloody corpse…’

  ‘A mutilated corpse, actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shit, I shouldn't have mentioned it. Look, this woman's tongue was cut out, I know it'll be all over the papers soon enough but, in the meantime, don't say anything to anyone.’

  ‘Her tongue?’

  ‘Please, Hannah, forget I mentioned it. Not a word. It's really important you don't tell anyone.’

  ‘Of course I won't, if you say so.’

  ‘I do. In fact, just forget about it, will you?’

  ‘You think it's possible to forget something like that?’

  ‘Welcome to my world, Hannah.’

  18

  BEN

  Ben Kirby's life, which had always revolved around football and food, changed in one moment, with one terrible announcement. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the dark-haired detective who had brought the news that his mother was never coming back. Life would never be the same again.

  Ben knew his father was trying to comfort him, but it didn't help. It was just words. ‘We've got to be strong for each other,’ his father said. ‘Life goes on. Your mother would want you to be strong. Lucy's going to need your support.’ He paused. ‘I need your support, son.’

  ‘I know, dad, but it's just so – so horrible.’ His voice wobbled. He bit his lip trying to prevent it trembling but couldn't stop his eyes filling with tears.

  ‘We have to look out for each other now.’ Matthew glanced towards the door and Ben knew his father was thinking about Lucy. Ben was fed up with her hostility towards their father. They only had one parent now, but Lucy never let up.

  His father was about to say something else when the doorbell rang and he went to see who it was. Through the open kitchen door, Ben saw the police standing in the porch. He held his breath and clenched his fists, waiting to hear they had found the sick bastard killer.

  ‘Have you brought us any news?’ Ben heard his dad ask. He invited them in but the two detectives hovered on the doorstep.

  ‘We'd like to ask you a few more questions about your movements on Saturday,’ the woman said.

  Something seemed to burst inside Ben's head and he leapt to his feet and raced up the hall. ‘Leave him alone!’ he yelled, feet pounding on the carpet. ‘We've been through enough! He hasn't done anything wrong. Go away and leave us alone!’ He was shaking with rage. Lucy came down the stairs to find out what all the commotion was about.

  The woman detective looked at Ben sadly. ‘I'm sorry, Ben, but we really do need to ask your father a few questions.’

  ‘Ask him here,’ Ben knew he was crying but he didn't care. ‘Ask him right here, right now, and then go away. Go on. You said you only want to ask him a few questions. Ask him then. He's done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Don't worry, son,’ his father said. ‘It's got to be done. The sooner we go through it, the sooner we can get this cleared up and they'll leave us alone so we can start trying to get through this together. Don't take on so. It's not their fault. They're only doing their job.’

  ‘We all know whose fault it is,’ Lucy snapped. ‘Take him away. We don't want him here. You're welcome to him. You can lock him up and throw away the key as far as we're concerned.’

  Ben knew Lucy was annoyed with their father, but he was shocked by her outburst. As for their father, he looked as though he was going to cry. He looked so pale and ill, Ben could have thumped Lucy for being so spiteful.

  ‘I think you'd better come in,’ Ben's dad told the police.

  ‘We can interview you at the station if that's any easier.’ The woman detective glanced at Ben who glared back at her.

  Ben's father sighed. ‘Yes, that might be better. But I'd like to give my sister a ring first, if that's all right. She's offered to come over.’ He reached out and ruffled Ben's hair. ‘Someone has to keep an eye on the place, and sort out washing and things. I think now would be a good time for her to come round. She can make supper, and… Well, I'll go and call her.’ For a heady moment Ben thought his father might be planning to give the police the slip and escape through the back door, but the tall sergeant went with him. ‘Aunty Evie will be here in about an hour, Ben, Lucy,’ their father said when he reappeared a few moments later. He forced a smile. ‘Take care of each other till then, and I'll see you later. With any luck I'll be back before Aunt Evie gets here.’ Ben could tell his father was trying to sound cheerful. He remembered what his father had said earlier.

  ‘Don't worry about us, dad,’ he said, sniffing back his tears so violently that his nose hurt. ‘We'll be fine. I'll take care of Lucy.’

  As the front door closed Ben raced upstairs to his room feeling utterly abandoned and threw himself on his bed. Lucy followed him and knocked on his door. He didn't respond but she came in anyway. Lying on his back, one arm flung across his face, Ben didn't answer when she called his name but hiccupped and turned over on his side to face the wall. He felt the bed jolt as Lucy sat down.

  ‘I'm glad he's gone,’ she said firmly. ‘We don't need him. It serves him right.’ She paused. ‘Ben,’ he could feel her breath tickling his neck as she leaned forward. ‘He killed mum.’

  ‘That's crap.’ His voice sounded muffled through his arm but she heard him all right.

  ‘It's true. He wanted to get rid of her. He wanted a divorce and she refused. He wanted to marry someone else.’

  ‘That's bullshit and you know it.’

  ‘No, it's not. It's what I've been trying to tell you only you won't bloody listen.’ Her voice rose, screechy with emotion. ‘He was seeing someone else. A woman called Charlotte.’

  Ben was interested in spite of himself. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at his sister. ‘What are you talking about, you freak?’

  ‘That's why he wanted a divo
rce. So he could get married to Charlotte, whoever she is.’

  ‘So how come you know all this?’

  ‘I heard mum and dad arguing one night. He wanted a divorce and she said no, and that's why he killed her. So he could marry the other woman. I heard them talking about it.’

  Ben flung himself back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. ‘That's a load of bollocks. You're making it up. I don't know why you hate him so much, but he's our dad and he's all we've got now, so if that's all you've got to say, then fuck off and leave me alone. Go on, get out of my room, freak.’

  Lucy didn't budge. ‘Why do you think I hate his guts?’ she asked angrily. ‘He killed mum.’

  ‘Shut up, shut up! I don't believe a word of it.’

  Lucy stood up. ‘You're a complete pillock. You're an idiot!’ She crossed the room, trampling on his clothes and magazines. ‘I don't need him and I don't need you, and I don't need Aunty Evie poking her stupid nose around.’ She went out, slamming the door behind her.

  19

  Witness

  ‘There's a lad asking to see someone in charge of the Abigail Kirby investigation.’ Geraldine was on her feet before the constable had finished speaking. They were all eager for a lead. As Geraldine entered the room, the boy looked up through a greasy black fringe that flopped sideways across his eyes. He looked about sixteen or seventeen. His pointy nose and chin gave him a gnome-like appearance as he dropped his gaze and sat twisting a chunky silver ring nervously on one finger.

  Vernon Mitchell told her he was seventeen. ‘I'm nearly eighteen,’ he added earnestly, as though it was important.

  ‘I understand you might have some information for us?’ The boy hesitated. ‘Something that could help us in our investigation into the death of Abigail Kirby?’

  Vernon nodded uncertainly. ‘She was my headmistress. I recognised her straightaway. I couldn't believe it when I read she was dead.’

  ‘You read about her death?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it in the paper. It was a shock, seeing it like that.’

  Geraldine closed her notebook. ‘You have my sympathies, Vernon. You knew Mrs Kirby and it's understandable for you to feel disturbed. It's hard to read about the death of someone you know, when they've been murdered.’

  Vernon shook his head. ‘I didn't exactly know her.’ He turned sullen and all at once looked very young for his age. ‘It's not like she showed me any respect.’ He told Geraldine that everyone at school was afraid of Mrs Kirby. If it hadn't been for her, Vernon might have applied to university. Mrs Kirby had joined Harchester School when Vernon was in his final GCSE year and she'd made it clear she had no time for pupils who weren't prepared to apply themselves in the hope of going on to further education. ‘I'd have had to retake English and maths, for starters,’ he explained. The previous headmaster had been decent, Vernon went on, but Mrs Kirby had been determined to weed out the less able pupils. ‘All she cared about was the reputation of her precious school. She didn't care about us.’

  Geraldine tried to hide her impatience. ‘Vernon, your opinion of Mrs Kirby will help us to build a picture of her, but if you can't give us any information that might help us to find out who might have wanted to be rid of her…’

  Vernon snorted. ‘I can't think of many people who wouldn't have wanted her to go. I mean, like I said, she wasn't exactly popular – like, everyone hated her – but killing her is something else. No one would have wanted her dead. It freaks me out to think I might have seen her just a few minutes before she died.’

  Geraldine sat forward, interested at last.’ ‘What do you mean, Vernon?’ His dark eyes flickered in alarm at the urgency in her voice and Geraldine sat back in her chair again. ‘Vernon, take your time. What is it you came here to tell us?’

  ‘I saw her,’ he began and hesitated, twisting his ring again.

  ‘Mrs Kirby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I work in Smith's, in the shopping centre.’ Geraldine nodded. The receipt in Abigail Kirby's pocket confirmed she had been there on Saturday morning.

  ‘What did she say to you?’

  ‘No, it was nothing like that. She didn't speak to me. I doubt if she recognised me. But it was weird. There was this man.’ He paused, struggling to find words to explain what had happened. He had spotted Mrs Kirby as she stood waiting to pay. As the queue shuffled forwards she had glanced around impatiently. Vernon hadn't noticed what Mrs Kirby said to the man behind her in the queue, but he saw the expression on the man's face when Mrs Kirby turned away.

  ‘I mean, I've left school, she doesn't get under my skin any more. School's history. But this guy –’ He shook his head and his long fringe lifted and flopped over his eyes again. ‘It was funny, a grown man like that looking so worked up. I mean, he was old and he was shaking, he looked so mad. I thought he was going to hit her.’

  ‘You thought he was going to hit Mrs Kirby?’ The boy nodded. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Before my morning break at eleven. Probably about ten, maybe ten-thirty.’

  ‘Did you recognise the man?’

  ‘No. I'd never seen him before in my life.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Vernon's earlier reticence had vanished. ‘He was tall, dark hair, in a dark jacket or coat. Mrs Kirby didn't seem to care. Maybe she didn't even notice because this man was behind her in the queue and soon after that they all moved forward and then it was Mrs Kirby's turn to pay and I didn't see her again. I was busy on another till.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else about the man you saw?’ Vernon shook his head. ‘You said he was old. How old was he?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Not old old. I mean he was maybe around forty. It's hard to say.’

  Geraldine quizzed the boy for a few minutes about the incident, but Vernon wasn't able to tell her anything more about the man he had seen.

  ‘You said,’ Geraldine glanced down at her notes, ‘you thought he looked so angry you felt he might hit Mrs Kirby. Why did you think that?’

  Vernon shrugged. ‘I don't know,’ he replied. ‘It was just something I thought.’

  Back at her desk, Geraldine stared at her notes. A vague impression reported by a casual observer probably had no bearing on the case. ‘What do you think? Time waster?’ she asked Peterson. ‘Let's take a look at the CCTV from Smith's. There's probably nothing there, but at least we'd better check.’ As she stood up, she saw her own excitement reflected back at her in the sergeant's eyes.

  Abigail Kirby was spotted on CCTV in the shopping centre at ten fifteen on Saturday morning going in to WH Smith's. She was picked up shortly afterwards on another camera, queuing in a coffee shop. At eleven ten she left the shopping centre, walked past the station, and vanished in the surrounding streets. In the throng of shoppers entering and leaving they picked out a tall man in a dark coat leaving the shopping centre immediately after Abigail Kirby. They were keen to trace him, but they had very little to go on.

  An announcement was made over the local radio and sent to the local paper for inclusion in the following week's printed edition. It went online on their website straightaway.

  ‘Police are keen to speak to a tall man wearing a dark coat who left the Harchester Shopping Centre at eleven ten on Saturday.’ No one was surprised when they received no useful response.

  ‘Just the usual nutters, ma'am.’

  ‘There's a chance this man might be involved,’ the DCI agreed. ‘Geraldine, get a team of constables out to all the shops to see if anyone saw a man matching this description or, better still, if they can find him on their CCTV making a purchase by credit card before eleven ten. This is our best lead so far. Find him.’

  ‘Yes ma'am.’

  Geraldine co-ordinated the search. A bevy of constables asked in every shop and checked through film after film working solidly throughout the day, studying every tall figure in a dark coat or jacket they could find in an attempt to come up with a decent image of his f
ace, and tracking Abigail Kirby's movements in case she encountered him anywhere else.

  ‘Every other bloody man is tall, and half of those are wearing dark coats,’ one of the constables complained and her colleague nodded. It was a hopeless task trying to identify a single shopper on the fuzzy shopping centre CCTV on a busy Saturday in November.

  20

  Hannah

  Geraldine slept badly on Wednesday night and awoke feeling tired and uneasy. The team were brought up to speed at the morning briefing, but the only new development was frustrating. On blurry CCTV film they could make out a tall man talking to Abigail Kirby for a second in the queue in WH Smith's, but was impossible to see him clearly. The woman wasn't even identifiable, but only one figure fitting Abigail Kirby's description appeared in the queue at the right time. Together with the eye-witness evidence from Vernon Mitchell, they were satisfied they had identified her correctly.

  ‘Vernon Mitchell knew her by sight,’ the DCI pointed out. That clinched it. They could see her, in the queue, talking to a man who could be her killer. But they had no idea who he was and his shadowy figure gave them very few clues. ‘Right, we can estimate his height pretty closely,’ the DCI went on. ‘And we can be reasonably certain we're looking at a man. Either that or an unusually tall and masculine-looking woman.’

  ‘Could be a tranny,’ someone suggested quite seriously and there was a faint ripple of amusement around the room.

  ‘They could be arguing,’ the DCI went on. ‘Let's see if we can trace anyone else who was in the queue at that time through the tills. Any customer who paid by credit card should be easy to find and most people pay by card these days –’

  ‘In Smith's?’ Peterson interjected. ‘Buying newspapers and pens?’

  Kathryn Gordon ignored the interruption. ‘Mary,’ she nodded at a constable, ‘get onto it. We need to speak to anyone who witnessed the encounter in the queue.’