Dead End (13 page)

‘But –’

‘But nothing. If I was too busy to meet, I'd have said.’

‘Good. You know I'm always here.’ Hannah smiled.

As they talked over olives and a glass of wine, Geraldine felt as though she had opened a door and glimpsed normality as her friend chattered about her husband's recent promotion, and her son's new teeth.

‘Really?’ Geraldine said and Hannah grinned. ‘What's funny?’

‘That's a crap pretence at showing interest if ever I saw one!’

‘Sorry. I'm a bit preoccupied.’

‘Work again? Don't tell me.’

‘No, not work.’

‘Must be a man then.’ Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘Is this the one who cuts up dead bodies for a living?’

‘Paul.’

‘So? Tell me about Paul. How far have you got with him?’ The waitress brought their food and they tucked in without talking for a few minutes. Hannah broke the silence. ‘So? What's the latest? Have you seen him again?’

‘No, I'm seeing him tomorrow.’

‘Oh. Well, what do we know about him?’

Geraldine told her friend what little she knew. ‘The thing is, I used to think I was a good judge of character but I just can't work out if he's interested in me. And if I can't understand anything about people, how can I even hope to do my job properly?’

‘Listen to yourself.’ Hannah put down her knife and fork. ‘This has got nothing to do with your work. How can you possibly compare what's going on with this Paul with how well you do your job? In your work you're objective and that's what makes you so good at it. This is personal. It's all about your feelings. Obviously you're not going to be detached about it, especially if you fancy him.’

‘I had a really weird dream about him.’

‘Tell me about it and I'll interpret it.’

‘Hannah, I'm being serious.’

‘Go on then. I'm listening.’

‘I can't remember exactly what happened, but Paul was there. He wasn't exactly threatening me, but I sensed he was going to hurt me. I was terrified, but I knew I couldn't show it. I had to get away from him but I knew if I left he'd follow me. And all the time I was talking to him and having to pretend everything was fine.’

‘Well, it's obvious what that means. You know you're taking a risk and he might hurt you. But if you let the possibility of getting hurt put you off, you'll never have another relationship. If you like him, you just have to take that risk.’

‘I do like him, I think.’

‘Well, be careful not to get involved too quickly. You don't know that much about him yet. Do you even know if he's single?’

‘Well, I don't know really. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring.’

‘That doesn't mean anything. But if you think there's even a possibility you might get involved – I mean, you ought to find out before you start. Can't you just ask him?’

‘I don't think he's with anyone. He seems to be on his own. That's the impression he gives.’

‘You need to be more certain than that.’

Geraldine shrugged miserably. The thought that Paul might be with someone had crossed her mind. ‘You're not helping, Hannah. I just feel ready.’

‘For what?’

‘For a relationship. It's six years since Mark and I split up. Time to move on.’

Hannah laughed. ‘You mean you fancy this doctor of yours.’

‘He's not mine. Not yet, anyway.’

‘All I'm saying is, find out more about him before you go leaping in. You know what you're like.’

Geraldine nodded. With the best of intentions she never seemed able to make sensible choices where men were concerned.

‘I just think Paul might be different.’

‘Let's drink to that.’

21

Agency

‘S
o how have you been coping since your mother died?’

Hannah asked. ‘She was a wonderful person. That chocolate cake she used to make when we were kids! I loved coming home with you after school.’

‘Nothing to do with me, then?’

‘No. Our friendship is based purely on chocolate cake.’ They both laughed. ‘Seriously, Geraldine, if you ever want to talk about her – well, it's OK to open up, you know. We've known each other since school, you can talk to me. It's not good for you to bottle everything up the way you do.’

Hannah was beginning to sound like Celia, voicing concern that was somehow demanding. By nature reticent to discuss her feelings, Geraldine was painfully aware of her emotional vulnerability but she couldn't explain it to Hannah. She wasn't even sure she understood why it was easier to talk about dead strangers than her own life. As she hesitated, the waitress came over with the bill and the moment passed. It was nearly a year since her mother had died, and soon after the funeral Geraldine had discovered the truth about her own birth. After so much time had elapsed it might be awkward now to reveal that the mother Hannah remembered had been an imposter.

‘I'm fine, honestly, but I've really got to go.’

‘That's OK. Work calls.’

Geraldine almost explained that she had an appointment at the adoption agency at two o'clock, but decided it was best to say nothing. Hannah might be upset that she hadn't been told about the adoption before.

The agency was located in the town hall, a Victorian building urgently in need of external renovation. Geraldine went up stone steps to a dingy reception area where she waited impatiently until a social worker came out to collect her.

‘Hello. I'm Sandra. We spoke on the phone.’ She led Geraldine along a draughty corridor.

An effort had clearly been made to make the interview room welcoming. The chairs looked new and a narrow-leaved plant drooped on the table beside a box of tissues. The social worker sat down holding a folder in her lap, and Geraldine perched anxiously opposite her.

‘You applied for access to your adoption records?’ Sandra asked. Geraldine nodded. ‘I understand you have a copy of your original birth certificate?’

‘Yes.’ Geraldine's mouth felt dry. ‘I was given it recently, when my mother – the woman who adopted me – died. Before I contact my birth mother, I'd like to know if there's an explanation in the file about why she gave me up for adoption.’ The social worker hesitated and Geraldine felt a vague sense of unease that her mother was dead. ‘Can I see the records please?’

‘The sight of adoption records can be disappointing,’ the social worker said. She patted the file. ‘The explanation you've asked for is that your birth mother was only just sixteen when you were born. That's probably why she didn't name your father. He would almost certainly have been prosecuted for having sexual relations with an underage girl. As a sixteen-year-old single mother, she gave you up so you could have a better start in life.’ The social worker looked at Geraldine. ‘I'm afraid it wouldn't be appropriate for you to be in touch with her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There's a letter on file from your mother in which she says she doesn't want to have any contact with you.’

‘Can I see it?’ The social worker looked down at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I want to see it, please.’ Geraldine was surprised. Her voice betrayed a desperation she hadn't been aware of feeling.

The social worker gave her a letter handwritten in a childish script.

Dear social worker

If my daughter ever tries to find me, tell her I don't want to see her. Please tell her it's not personal but I want to forget it ever happened. I hope she has a good life but I don't ever want to see her. You can give her my photo if she wants it but tell her not to try and find me.

I'll let you know if I ever change my mind but I won't. I have to put all this behind me now and I know she'll have a better life without me.

Thank you for your help

Milly

ps

Tell her I'm very sorry.

The social worker held out a small photo of a young girl's face. She looked about twelve. Geraldine stared at familiar features: dark eyes looked back at her from a face that would have been beautiful if it hadn't been spoiled by a slightly crooked nose. It could so easily have been a photo of Geraldine as a teenager.

‘She wanted you to have it,’ the social worker said gently. ‘You know you look just like her.’

‘She doesn't want to see me.’

‘No, she doesn't want to see you. This kind of circumstance can be emotionally very difficult. If you'd like to talk to someone –’

Geraldine stood up abruptly. ‘Thank you. I'm perfectly alright.’ She gave a forced laugh. ‘It's not as if I've been waiting all my life to meet her. I only recently discovered I was adopted, when my adoptive mother died.’

‘Are you sure you're alright, Geraldine?’

‘I'm fine,’ she lied.

When she felt in her pocket for her car keys, Geraldine realised she was still clutching the photo. She regretted not having asked for a copy of her mother's letter, but she couldn't go back now she was crying. She climbed in the car and sat perfectly still staring at the small faded photograph in her hand. Her mother would be over fifty now – if she was still alive. Geraldine wondered how much she had changed from the thin, wide-eyed child in the picture. Perhaps her hair was turning grey. She'd probably had more children, and might have put on weight or been seriously ill. Geraldine didn't even know if she was still alive. One day she would find out, but she knew her mother might reject her all over again and she wasn't ready to take that risk yet.

It was just as well Geraldine was on duty that evening. It helped keep her mind off Milly Blake. Even so, her eyes looked puffy and red from crying.

‘Are you all right?’ Peterson asked when he passed her in the Incident Room.

‘Fine.’

‘You looked exhausted. Coffee?’

Geraldine shook her head. ‘Too much to do,’ she answered with a miserable smile, wishing he would leave her alone. His rocky relationship with Bev was a relatively simple situation to chat about. Her own problems were too complex to discuss over a quick coffee. But as the sergeant walked away Geraldine felt unexpectedly tearful and escaped to the toilet. Once again she had been betrayed by a mother who should have offered her unconditional support. Caught out by her outburst of emotion she pulled herself together with an effort, blew her nose and told herself it was pathetic for a woman of her age to break down like that. But she didn't trust herself to maintain her composure and scurried out to her car without looking around, like a criminal skulking in the dark.

The following morning they questioned Matthew Kirby again.

‘You can't keep me here,’ he protested. ‘I've done nothing wrong. I've just lost my wife, for Christ's sake. Why are you doing this to me? I shouldn't be here.’

Despite his protestations, he was questioned at length.

‘It would've made life easier if we could've told the papers he'd confessed,’ the DCI said afterwards. Her shoulders were bowed and she looked tired, as though all the fight had gone out of her. ‘We need a quick result. We've been on this for nearly a week now and we've come up with nothing.’ She held up a newspaper. ‘You've all seen the national papers?’ A buzz went round the team. Geraldine had read the short article, largely accurate, on the front page of the Guardian.

HEADMISTRESS MURDERED

The body of Abigail Kirby, 48, headmistress of Harchester School, was discovered in woods beside a recreation ground on Sunday.

The police are treating the death as suspicious. ‘We are following several leads,’ Detective Chief Inspector Katherine Gordon said. The police are appealing to anyone who may have seen Mrs Kirby on Saturday to come forward. ‘If you have any information about the victim's whereabouts at the weekend, please let us know,’ the Detective Chief Inspector said.

Mrs Kirby leaves a husband and two children, a son and a daughter.

But for once the phones were silent. No one seemed to know anything about Abigail Kirby's whereabouts at the weekend. Even the usual nutters didn't bother picking up the phone to claim responsibility for a crime they hadn't committed.

22

CHARLOTTE

C
harlotte gazed at the faded wallpaper in her living room, the dated armchairs and worn brown carpet. Although it was drab and depressing, she'd made no effort to brighten it up; that would be an admission that she planned on staying there, and she didn't intend to live alone in a one-bedroomed flat for long. She sighed, remembering her accommodation in York, light and bright, and just a short walk from the river and the centre of town. Her mother still lived in the semi–detached house where Charlotte had grown up in Heslington, a fifteen-minute bus ride from town. Her bedroom there had been pretty, with a view out over fields.

‘I don't understand why you would want to spend all that money when you could stay here,’ her mother had complained when Charlotte had announced she was moving out to live in the town.

‘It's not as if I'm moving far. But I don't want to stay in Heslington all my life. There's nothing here.’

‘What do you mean, nothing here? There's the university right on our doorstep. You used to like going up there with Karen.’

‘Used to,’ Charlotte echoed. ‘But I'm twenty-five, mum. I've grown out of all that. The students are all younger than me and anyway, I don't fit in there.’ And her friend, Karen, who was married with a baby, had lost interest in hanging around the student bars a long time ago.

The argument had dragged on for weeks until Charlotte left. ‘I'll still come and visit, all the time,’ she'd promised.

Her mother stood on the doorstep, stony-faced, watching her leave.

Then Charlotte had met Matthew.

‘So when are you going to introduce your young man to me?’ Mrs Fox had asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Charlotte had been uncertain how much to tell her. ‘He's not exactly that young, mum. He's over thirty.’ Forty, to be accurate.

‘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.