Dead End (10 page)

The man behind Mrs Kirby in the queue was old, so Vernon was surprised to see an unmistakable expression of loathing on his face as he looked at Mrs Kirby. Vernon's own aversion to her was already fading. He didn't really care any more. But there was no mistaking the man's abhorrence as he stared at the back of Mrs Kirby's head.

Vernon struggled to describe the scene to Susie, aware that his anecdote sounded boring. It had made such a vivid impression on him at the time that he still remembered it as clearly as though it was taking place now, in front of his eyes, although nothing had actually happened. A stranger had seen Mrs Kirby and Vernon thought he'd looked disgusted. Big deal.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I saw her on Saturday morning, and it said in the paper that she was killed sometime on Saturday.’

Susie was really interested now. ‘You might have been the last person to see her alive.’ She bent forward again, lowering her voice. ‘And the man you saw, he might have been the killer!’

Vernon gasped. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. ‘Do you really think so?’

Susie nodded, wide-eyed. ‘You have to tell the police –’ she began, but just then her phone rang. She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder, still talking on the phone. Then, with a wave of her hand, she was gone.

Vernon stared disconsolately at a smear of lipstick on her glass. He almost wished he hadn't told her about seeing Mrs Kirby, because he knew she was right and he ought to tell the police. It was just possible he had seen Mrs Kirby's murderer. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what the man had looked like.

16

Matthew

O
n her way to the morning briefing Kathryn Gordon stopped Geraldine in the corridor. ‘I had a word with a colleague last night.’ Geraldine hesitated, uncertain where this was heading. ‘A colleague on the Met.’ Since the investigation had started Geraldine had barely given a thought to her proposed career move. The Met was having a recruitment drive and Geraldine had discussed her position with Kathryn Gordon who had agreed to support her application for a transfer to London; joining the Met would be equivalent to a promotion. The DCI had contacts in the Met and had even offered to put in a good word for Geraldine. Such assistance could make all the difference, but weeks had passed and she had heard nothing. ‘I told him you couldn't possibly be released at the moment so I'm afraid any possibility of a transfer is on the back burner for now.’

‘Of course.’ Geraldine held open the door of the Incident Room. ‘And thank you.’

‘We have a warrant to search the Kirby property,’ the DCI announced. ‘Let's see if that throws up anything new. But first, what else have we found out?’ She looked at Peterson who had been researching Matthew Kirby's affairs.

‘Well, he's run up some debts since moving. He's been taking money out of the joint account he had with his wife, about thirty thousand pounds since he left York, plus he owes on two credit cards in his own name, that's another fifteen thousand pounds.’

‘Did his wife know?’ someone asked.

Kathryn Gordon thought for a moment. ‘Funding Charlotte Fox's move?’ she suggested.

‘None of this gives him a motive for killing his wife, deliberately mutilating her body, and then disposing of her where she was only found by chance,’ Geraldine pointed out, irritated that they were focusing all their attention on Matthew Kirby when she was impatient to explore other possibilities. ‘Surely we're looking for someone more resolute and single-minded than a man who was too weak to leave his wife?’

The meeting broke up shortly afterwards and Geraldine and Peterson set off to question Matthew Kirby again.

‘Charlotte Fox is a good looking woman,’ Peterson commented as they drove.

‘So assuming Matthew Kirby wanted to leave his wife for her, why didn't he just walk out?’ Geraldine asked.

‘There could be any number of reasons. For a start he was worried about the effect on his children. I don't think he wanted to feel responsible for breaking up his family. Lucy's at a vulnerable age and Ben's very close to Matthew.’

‘So you're saying he killed his wife to keep his family together? Well I'm afraid I'm still missing something here, because that makes no sense to me at all.’

‘Of course it doesn't make sense. Only a maniac would mutilate a corpse. You can't expect to make sense of it.’

‘If he couldn't even bring himself to leave her, how could he have killed her?’

‘You really don't believe he's our man, do you?’

‘I've already said I don't think he did it.’

‘Lucy Kirby's convinced it was him.’

‘Lucy Kirby's a confused teenager.’

‘What's your take on it all then, gov?’

‘Let's start with what we actually know. Abigail Kirby was killed some time on Saturday afternoon, and her body was left by the recreation ground, hidden in the trees, presumably during the night. So far there's nothing to indicate the identity of the killer.’

‘We know she wasn't killed at the recreation ground. Her body was just dumped there. If Mr Whittaker hadn't been out flying his kite on Sunday morning the body might not have been discovered for days, maybe even weeks.’

‘But the killer had made no attempt to conceal the body. Sooner or later it was going to be found. Didn't he care?’ Geraldine frowned. ‘We don't really know anything about the circumstances of her death at all, do we? We don't even know where she was killed. What about motive?’

‘She seems to have made enemies at school.’

‘Some of the staff have been there for years. Some hostility to the changes she introduced were inevitable. But is a school teacher – or anyone else for that matter – going to kill and mutilate their new boss for making changes? We're agreed that our killer is insane, but isn't that pushing it a bit?’

‘What sort of changes?’

‘Does it matter? She was bound to be making changes that the staff resented, it goes with the territory, but how many people hate their boss? And how many people end up killing them? They go home and forget about it until the next day. They grumble and gossip, or look for other jobs, but it's hardly the sort of resentment that erupts in grisly murder. If everyone who didn't get on with their boss killed them, there'd be no one left! And this was hardly a straightforward killing, even as violent murders go.’

‘We're looking for a monster then, not a man,’ Peterson agreed.

‘A monster walking the streets, looking as normal as anyone else.’

‘A monster disguised as a man. We could be writing the front page for the tabloids!’

They drew up outside Matthew Kirby's house. ‘Back to the motive,’ Peterson said as he switched off the engine. ‘A husband forced to choose between his career and his children. He must have resented his wife for that, perhaps even hated her. And he was desperate for a divorce. Charlotte Fox must be getting on for thirty. How long was she going to wait for him?’

They fell silent as they approached the house.

Matthew Kirby looked surprised to see them when he opened the door, but soon recovered his composure. ‘Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ His blue eyes peered down at her from beneath enviably long lashes and she understood how Charlotte Fox might find him attractive. At the same time she was surprised by this relaxed and courteous greeting from a recently and violently bereaved husband.

‘Mr Kirby we'd like to come in and take a look around here.’ She held out the warrant. Matthew Kirby was no longer smiling but he stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Of course, Inspector. Feel free. It's not as if I can stop you, even if I wanted to. My wife has – had – her own office in the back,’ he went on. ‘I expect you'll want to look in there, but I'm afraid I don't have a key. She liked to keep her work private, even from me.’

Geraldine easily selected the key to Abigail Kirby's office from the bunch that had been found in the victim's jacket pocket. She stepped inside, followed by the sergeant who held up a hand when Matthew Kirby attempted to follow them in.

‘We'll do this alone, Sir, if you don't mind,’ Peterson said before he closed the door.

The room was tidy, the furniture and décor new and expensive: one wall was covered in polished wooden shelving protected by glass doors, a solid mahogany desk ran almost the entire width of the room in front of floor-length dark red velvet curtains, and a faint scent of polish hung in the air. Every file was labelled, alphabetically arranged and colour-coded. Geraldine pictured Abigail Kirby scanning documents, signing letters and making decisions in the hushed sanctity of her personal space. The atmosphere was different from her public office at the school with its thin carpet and metal filing cabinets. This space belonged to Abigail Kirby; yet it remained impersonal.

Geraldine checked through the drawers of Abigail Kirby's desk. None were locked. A desk diary contained meetings and appointments all relating to her school, all neatly recorded in legible longhand. There were no coded messages, no inexplicable asterisks or isolated letters or symbols, no unidentified telephone numbers or email addresses. It appeared Abigail Kirby kept her room locked so that she could work uninterrupted, not to hide any dark secrets that might lead them to her killer. Geraldine felt a fleeting sympathy for the dead woman. She might have been unpopular, but she was undeniably dedicated to her work. Glancing up, Geraldine caught a glimpse of her face reflected in gleaming glass and wondered what her own work colleagues would say about her if she died unexpectedly and they went rummaging through her flat.

Peterson pulled a set of photo albums down from the book shelves and rifled through them.

‘Found anything?’ Geraldine asked, looking up.

‘Some old school photos.’ He gazed at picture after picture of Abigail Kirby seated in front of a whole school, or posing with different groups of pupils. At one stage in her career she had worked with girls and had been photographed standing with a group who looked like sixth formers, although it was impossible to tell these days. Several of them looked as though they were wearing make-up and gazed at the camera with knowing expressions, perhaps flirting with the photographer. A girl stood next to Abigail Kirby, her hair arranged in a long fringe. She would have been exceptionally pretty if it wasn't for a large angry birth mark disfiguring her left cheek.

‘Nothing here,’ Geraldine said, straightening up.

‘Nor here.’ Peterson replaced the albums on the shelf.

There was no sign of a sharp blade in the house, apart from the usual kitchen knives, all too blunt to have been used in Abigail Kirby's mutilation, and no wooden knife block with one blade missing. A cursory search of wardrobes, laundry baskets, washroom and rubbish bins, revealed no bloodstained clothes or discarded gloves. Matthew Kirby watched Geraldine with a puzzled frown as she rifled through the shirts in his bedroom.

‘What are you looking for, exactly?’ he asked. She didn't answer.

Ben Kirby was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, his eyes bloodshot, as though he had been crying. He didn't notice them at first.

‘Hello, Ben.’

‘Have you found out what happened to mum? Who did it?’ He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve.

‘We're still looking into it, Ben.’

‘You will find out what happened, won't you?’

‘Yes, Ben. We'll find out.’

‘And you'll tell us, won't you? We want to know who…’ He turned his face to the wall.

‘We'll tell you anything we can as soon as we know it, I promise you.’ Geraldine left her sergeant to question the boy gently, while Matthew Kirby stood nervously watching.

They found Lucy, glued to her computer. ‘Go away!’ she yelled. She minimised her screen view without looking round.

‘Lucy, it's the police,’ Matthew said gently.

She spun around then. ‘Have you come to arrest him?’

‘We're pursuing our enquiries,’ Geraldine told her.

‘Pursue them with him then, because he's the one who did it, not me. I can't help you. If I'd seen him in a blood stained shirt, clutching a knife, I'd tell you, but he's too clever for that.’ The girl folded her arms and glared at them, waiting for them to leave. As Matthew sighed and closed the door, Geraldine caught a glimpse of Lucy turning back to her computer.

That evening Geraldine thought about Lucy, isolated in her bedroom. Motherless. On a sudden impulse she knocked back the rest of her glass of wine and went to her bedroom. Fine dust made her sneeze as she lifted the buff folder out of its box. Slowly she slid an envelope from the folder, opened it and pulled out a yellowing birth certificate.

Place of Birth – Wexford Nursing Home Ashford Kent

Name and Surname – Erin Blake

Sex – Female

Name and Surname of Father – blank

Name Surname and Maiden Name of Mother – Millicent Blake

Occupation – Shop Assistant

Occupation of Father – blank

Where Registered – Ashford District

Geraldine stared at the document for a few seconds before she registered that the piece of paper in her hand was her own birth certificate.

Her name was Erin Blake.

‘Why did you hide it from me all that time?’ Geraldine asked out loud, knowing she would never hear the answer. But she had opened the box. There was no going back.

Her name was Erin Blake.

The box file contained a few faded baby photographs and a small brown envelope. She shook the envelope and a tiny discoloured baby tooth fell into her lap. Geraldine stared at it in surprise, touched that her adoptive mother had kept her first tooth. She realised that tears were slithering down her face, dripping into the box.

There were no papers about her adoption but she thought she would be able to trace the adoption agency that held her records. She had a name and an address: Wexford Nursing Home in Ashford. She ran into the living room and turned on her laptop. A quick search revealed a database of homes for mothers and babies. Wexford had closed down in 1984. That avenue was closed, but she would find another way to discover the truth. It was what she had trained to do. She located the agency that had arranged adoptions for Wexford Nursing Home and applied for access to her adoption file. Her finger poised over the key before she tapped it once. Send. There was nothing more she could do now at one o'clock in the morning.