Dead End (15 page)

‘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.

‘Tell me when I get boring.’

‘No, you're not boring,’ Paul assured her as he went to refill her glass.

She shook her head. One glass of wine was enough for her at lunch time when she was working. ‘I'll better stick to water now.’

‘Have you heard from Mark since he left you?’

‘Not a word.’

‘It's probably best that way.’

‘I really believed it would work out with Mark but he said he felt my work was more important to me than he was, and maybe he was right. I've always been focused on work.’

‘Sometimes things just go wrong.’

‘I know.’ Without meaning to, Geraldine started telling Paul about her own family history, what she knew of it.

‘And you didn't find out you were adopted till you were in your thirties?’ Paul sounded surprised. ‘You had no idea while your mother was alive?’

‘No idea at all. She never breathed a word. I don't think I'll ever forgive her. It's such a betrayal. My own mother! Only she's not my mother, is she?’ Geraldine stopped, aware that she was feeling slightly drunk. She didn't want to sound bitter. ‘She must have known I'd find out one day. My sister knew, and my father, and God knows who else knew. But not me.’

‘And you don't know who your parents are? Your blood parents, I mean.’ She shook her head. ‘You could find out, if it's bothering you.’

‘I went to the adoption agency yesterday. They said my birth mother has refused to have any contact with me.’ She smiled, aware that she was slightly tipsy and feeling reckless. ‘You're the only person I've told.’

‘Maybe it was better for you not to know. Perhaps she wanted to protect you.’

‘Everyone has a right to the truth, to know who they are.’

‘You know who you are,’ Paul said, firmly.

Geraldine felt light headed. ‘Yes.’ Their eyes met across the table and the thought that the two of them might become close hung between them, unspoken. Exhilarated at having shared something of her inner life, it felt like a breakthrough for Geraldine. She could never speak this freely, not even to her oldest friend, and certainly not to her adopted sister with whom she shared only a distant upbringing. But she held back from showing that she might be falling for Paul. It was too sudden, and she sensed that he too had been hurt. She would need to take things slowly although he could hardly be more guarded against intimacy than she was, and she had already opened up to him.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Have you – are you…’ She felt herself stumbling but he didn't come to her rescue, even though her meaning must have been obvious. ‘Have you ever been married?’

His face creased in a frown before he turned away. ‘I don't like to talk about it.’

Geraldine immediately regretted her question but it was too late to recall it. ‘I've really enjoyed meeting, Paul. Thank you. And I'm sorry if I intruded –’

‘No,’ he said, turning to her, his face relaxing into a strained smile. ‘I'm the one who should be apologising for being so abrupt. I hope you can understand, Geraldine.’ He paused. ‘I suppose I'm a private kind of person. I don't like to rush into relationships.’

‘Of course I understand.’ She tried not to smile at the word on his lips. ‘And there's no need to apologise. You've been hurt.’

‘And threatened.’

‘Threatened?’

‘Yes, I had an unpleasant experience once, with a stalker, I suppose you'd call it.’

‘A possessive woman?’

‘No, actually it was nothing like that. It was someone who objected to the work I was doing. All that's in the past and I really don't want to discuss it, but it's made me more cautious with people. It's no excuse I know, but –’ He shrugged apologetically.

‘I'm sorry, I had no business asking about it.’

‘No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have mentioned it. I've never told anyone, but you're so easy to talk to.’ He smiled at her. ‘We should do this again.’

Geraldine made no attempt to hide her relief. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

‘Perhaps I can take you out for dinner?’

‘Sounds even better.’

‘I don't suppose you're free tomorrow evening?’

25

EVIE

B
en was hunched in a chair, channel hopping. ‘Stop changing channels.’ Lucy held out her hand for the remote.

‘Let him be –’ Aunt Evie began. She was doing her best to be patient with her niece. Matthew had warned her Lucy was being difficult at the moment, but Evie was shocked to discover how foul-mouthed her niece was these days. Lucy had never been an engaging child; as a teenager she had lost her earlier childish appeal and had become quite unattractive.

Ben interrupted her. ‘Shit!’

Abigail's face was staring at them from the television screen next to a picture of her school.

‘Abigail Kirby, headmistress of Harchester School in Kent, was the victim of a fatal knife attack last Sunday. She leaves a husband and two children.’

‘That's us,’ Ben said.

‘Shut up, I'm listening.’

The picture switched to the deputy head of Harchester School standing beside the school sign. He spoke in a dreary monotone, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. ‘I have worked closely with Abigail Kirby. Her death is a personal as well as a professional loss. We are all in a state of shock and extend our condolences to Abigail's family.’

‘That's us,’ Ben repeated.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ Lucy muttered. ‘Smug git. He's probably after her job.’

‘Where's dad?’

‘He's gone to see her,’ Lucy replied.

‘Daddy had to go into work,’ Auntie Evie said quickly.

Lucy turned on her aunt. ‘Why do you lie to cover up for him all the time? And stop calling him “daddy”. We're not fucking two-year-olds.’

Evie pressed her thin lips together and patted her grey hair nervously. ‘Now Lucy,’ she began and faltered. She had no idea what to say to her niece. She breathed in deeply and tried again. ‘Your father has had to go into work. He's been off all week and felt he had to sort out a few things before the weekend. He's a conscientious man and deserves more respect –’

‘He's a liar and a cheat,’ Lucy snapped. ‘You don't believe he's at work any more than we do.’

‘I believe it,’ Ben said. He was fed up with Lucy trying to make out he sided with her on everything. She had no right. And anyway, Auntie Evie wasn't nearly as bad as he had been expecting. She still had the horrible boney hands and pinched face that had led him and Lucy to think she was a witch when they were young, but she was there to support his dad, and she made great mash and gravy, and lots of it. She never stinted with his portion. If anything, she seemed to want him to eat more – not that he needed any encouragement – and she let him watch the football on the telly, when Lucy wasn't around shoving her oar in. He knew his aunt only pretended to follow the game, but he didn't mind. At least she was trying to be nice, which was more than he could say for his bitch of a sister.

‘We don't need you here,’ Lucy blurted out. ‘We're fine without you.’

Auntie Evie smiled, her mouth stretched wide. ‘I'm here for your father as well as to take care of you two. He needs my support. He needs all of our support right now, Lucy.’

‘They're going to arrest him,’ Lucy said.

‘No, no. They just wanted to ask him a few questions, that's all.’ Auntie Evie forced a smile which she hoped was reassuring.

‘And stop grinning all the time. You don't fool anyone.’ Lucy stood up and went to the door.

School started again on Monday but there was no way Lucy was going back there. Everyone would have heard about her mother. Seeing her face on the television, Lucy had made up her mind. They couldn't go on pretending that life would go on as before.

‘Where are you going?’ Auntie Evie asked.

‘I'm going to my room.’ She ran out before her aunt could ask any more questions. ‘Mind your own bloody business, can't you?’ Lucy added under her breath as she hurried up the stairs.

Alone in her room she sat on her bed trembling. The words rang in her head. ‘…the victim of a fatal attack… Abigail Kirby leaves a husband and two children…’ Somehow her mother's loss hadn't truly hit her until she had seen it on the television, as though that made it official. Auntie Evie was the last straw. Lucy had to get away.

She went out onto the landing and listened. From downstairs she could hear the muffled buzz of the television. Ben and Auntie Evie must be watching, as though nothing had happened. Lucy went into the spare room where her mother used to sleep. It was hard to believe she wasn't busy at school now, and coming home late. Lucy felt a sudden desperation to feel close to her mother. She sat down on the bed and waited, perfectly still, but she could find nothing of her mother in the still atmosphere. The police had searched the room, strangers’ fingers rifling through her mother's private belongings, seeing more than Lucy ever had. The thought of it made her feel physically sick.

She crept downstairs and slipped along the corridor to her mother's office. The door was locked. Even in death her mother kept her out. She hurried back to her own room, flung her rucksack on the bed, pulled a pile of t-shirts from her wardrobe and stacked six of them neatly beside it. With her underwear and jeans, she already had nearly enough clothes to fill the rucksack, and she would need to pack other belongings beside clothes. Rolling up her jeans as tightly as she could, she stuffed them into the bag and pushed them down as far as she could. The jeans filled half the space so she pulled them out and chucked them on the bed. She would have to do without a spare pair.

Her bed was covered in clothes and toiletries and she was trying to force her washbag into the rucksack when her door flew open.

‘Piss off, Ben. You can't come in here. I'm busy.’

‘Busy, busy,’ he replied. ‘You're always busy, but you never do anything –’ He broke off, looking at her bed. ‘What are you doing?’

Lucy glared at him, clutching her rucksack to her chest. ‘Mind your own business.’

‘Why are you packing?’

‘What?’

‘Your rucksack…’

Lucy dropped it on the bed. ‘I'm having a clear out. Not something you'd understand. It's called being tidy. If it's any business of yours.’

Ben shrugged. ‘Auntie Evie wants to know –’

‘Tell her to mind her own business. And close the door behind you!’ Lucy yelled. She ran across the room and slammed the door after him then sat down at her computer and switched on. Zoe was online.

‘Hey, Zoe.’

‘Hey you.’

‘What you been doing?’

‘Not a lot. You?’

‘You mustn't tell.’

‘You know I won't.’

Lucy paused before she went on. ‘It's a secret!’

‘Go on then.’

‘I'm leaving home!’

‘Because of your dad?’