Dead End (22 page)

‘Because–?’

‘We were on our holidays, me and the wife and the kid.’

‘Can you remember where and when you went?’ Peterson asked.

Whittaker threw the sergeant a puzzled glance. ‘Can I remember? What that fortnight cost me, I'm not likely to forget! We went to the Costa del Sol to the Hotel Miramont, for the last two weeks in August. Lovely place. Two whole weeks, now that's the life for me!’ He grinned. ‘Beats working here.’

‘Thank you, Mr Whittaker.’

‘That's it then, is it?’

‘For now, sir.’

Whittaker turned back to the engine he had been working on. He was whistling as they left.

‘I suppose it's true he never met her,’ Peterson commented as they reached the forecourt.

‘She brought her car here, and two months later she's killed and he happens to find the body, concealed in the trees.’ She shook her head. ‘It's a bit odd, isn't it? But it's the coincidence that's odd, not the witness. He seemed to be on the level.’

‘You believed him when he said he'd never met her?’

‘Yes. Still, he can keep his mouth shut when he wants to,’ Geraldine added. ‘He didn't tell his wife he'd found a body at the recreation ground. We need to check out his alibi. Get onto it straightaway, will you?’

Geraldine knew it was rash to call Paul that evening, but she was impatient to know whether he wanted to see her again. If he gave her the brush off, at least then she would know where she stood. Nowhere. While things remained uncertain between them, she was unable to put him out of her mind. The last words he had said to her were that he would call. He hadn't said when. It could mean anything, or nothing.

‘Geraldine, I was going to phone you this evening.’ So far so good. She didn't believe him, but at least he sounded pleased to hear from her. ‘How have you been?’ It was an encouraging start. Paul made no reference to Saturday evening. Geraldine was nervous about making another gaffe so, after a brief and slightly stilted exchange about the weather, she steered the conversation round to the investigation. In any case, it was a relief to talk freely to someone who was involved in the case, yet not on the police investigation team. They had all been convinced Matthew Kirby was guilty; Geraldine alone had believed in his innocence all along.

Even Paul sounded surprised to hear that Matthew Kirby was no longer a suspect. ‘I would've thought the husband was the most likely person to treat her like that. It had to be a crime of passion, surely. Whoever killed her must have been involved with her in some way. Cutting out her tongue in such a gruesome manner seems so specific, doesn't it? Unless the killer was completely insane.’

‘Whoever it was could hardly be sane.’

‘No. That's true. So if it wasn't the husband, was she seeing someone else?’

‘As far as we can tell, she wasn't. She was only interested in her work and her children. I doubt if she'd have had time for another relationship and we've found nothing to suggest she was seeing anyone else.’ Geraldine paused. Abigail Kirby and her husband had been sleeping in separate bedrooms. Matthew had told them it was because he was seeing another woman. The possibility that Abigail herself had been having an affair had never been raised. ‘You know, we probably shouldn't rule it out, because we already have to assume there may be another man involved.’

‘You just said you don't think she was seeing someone else, and now you're telling me there is another man involved?’

‘No, not necessarily involved with her. I mean that whoever killed her was probably a man. You said that yourself. I didn't mean involved in the sense that she was having an affair. At least, we never considered that as a possibility, although we probably should. We need to view this from every conceivable angle because we don't have anything else to go on right now.’

‘What about the boy from the shop? Hasn't he been able to describe the man he saw?’

‘No. And the CCTV footage is very blurred. But at the moment, that's the only lead we've got, insubstantial as it is. Only now the boy's disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Yes.’ Miserably Geraldine told Paul about Vernon Mitchell. ‘And I can't help feeling responsible. I mean, if I'd taken him seriously when he told me he was being followed –’

‘But there was no evidence to support that, was there? And a seventeen-year-old boy staying out overnight is hardly cause for alarm. I'm sure you'll find he went to stay with a girlfriend and didn't think to tell anyone.’

‘Maybe. We also interviewed the man who discovered the body again, because we thought it might not have been a coincidence, his finding her the morning after she was hidden.’

‘Yes,’ Paul sounded thoughtful. ‘That was a stroke of luck, wasn't it? But I suppose she'd have been found sooner or later. The body wasn't exactly carefully concealed, was it? A lot of people walk their dogs along there. It's almost as though the killer wanted her to be found.’

‘Or was in too much of a hurry to stop and bury her.’

‘Maybe he just didn't care enough to do anything but dump her and go. You said it yourself, the killer's got to be completely insane. It's impossible to imagine what he could have been thinking when he mutilated that poor woman.’

‘We have to try,’ Geraldine replied. ‘We have to try and get inside his head.’

‘Inside the head of a maniac who cut out someone's tongue?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, good luck with that.’ He sounded sceptical.

‘We'll find this killer,’ she assured him. ‘Someone somewhere must know something.’

‘Well, all I can say is, I hope you find him soon. I've been wracking my brains to think of any clue the killer might have left on the body, beyond the obvious one of cutting out her tongue.’ There was a pause. ‘I wondered if you fancied meeting again for a drink one evening? I know I –’ He hesitated.

‘Yes, I'd like that very much.’ Geraldine said quickly.

‘Good. I'll call you.’

She hoped he would.

38

AGREEMENT

W
hen Matthew went to see Charlotte after work on Wednesday he expected her to be overjoyed to learn he was no longer a suspect. Twenty-four hours after hearing the news, he was still ready to weep with relief when he thought about it. The idea that he might have had to abandon his motherless children to serve a prison sentence was unbearable. Even if a jury had acquitted him, he might have spent months in custody awaiting trial, leaving his children to the care of Evie. And Matthew was already tearing his hair out over Lucy. Her tutor had assured him Lucy was fine at school, but he wasn't sure he believed it.

‘Of course she's distressed, but we're keeping a close eye on her. All the staff are aware of the situation, and Sister has told Lucy she can go to the medical centre if she ever feels she needs some space. It's bound to happen from time to time. It's only natural. And if she ever needs to come home, we'll contact you straightaway.’

‘You've got my mobile number?’ Matthew asked, although he knew he was probably the last person Lucy would want to see if she was feeling upset. She was better off with her friends at school.

To his amazement, Charlotte flew into a rage. ‘You knew about this yesterday, and you've only just decided to tell me!’ Her blue eyes glared wildly at him.

‘I tried to phone you, several times, but you weren't answering your phone,’ he protested.

‘And it didn't occur to you to leave a message?’

‘I wanted to tell you myself, not tell some answering machine that I'm a free man.’

‘You could have come round.’

‘It's not so easy now Evie's staying with us.’

‘Why not?’

Matthew ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It just isn't. She doesn't know about you –’

‘You mean you haven't told her.’

‘Yes, obviously.’

‘Well tell her. Go on. Phone her up now and tell her. Tell her where you are.’

‘It's not that easy.’

‘Why not? What could be more easy? Just pick up the phone and tell her: I'm seeing someone. She's called Charlotte and we're getting married.’ She lunged forward, seized the telephone from its cradle and thrust it at him. ‘Here. Phone her. Go on. Or would you rather I told her?’ She began to press the keys wildly, her features twisted in anger.

Matthew wrenched the handset from her grasp. ‘Stop it!’ He clung on to the phone, staring at her face, which was glistening with tears. ‘I can't tell her, not yet. Jesus, my wife's been dead for less than two weeks and you want to tell my family about us. I don't care about my sister so much – although God knows she'll be trouble enough – but my son has no idea what's going on with us. I can't just blurt it out.’ He crossed the room and replaced the receiver on the cradle. ‘You'll have to be patient, Charlotte.’

‘Patient?’ she shrieked. ‘I've been patient for three fucking years! I've waited and waited for you because you said your wife refused to give you a divorce. And now she's not in the way any more, you're asking me to be patient all over again because your son doesn't know about us. Tell him, Matthew!’

‘I will. But I have to give him time to get over what's happened. The boy's just lost his mother, for Christ's sake! Show some consideration. You may not give a damn, but she was his mother!’

‘So now I'm inconsiderate? Well, if I'm such a bitch, maybe you'd better not see me any more.’

‘Don't be ridiculous.’

‘What's ridiculous is that your wife's gone, and now you've suddenly come up with another reason why we can't be together, just like that. I left my home for you, I quit my job and left all my friends and my mother back in York to follow you down here, and it's all turning out to be a stupid wild goose chase, just like my mother said it would. I should have listened to her. I never should've let you talk me into this. And now where am I?’

It took Matthew some time to reassure her that her fears were unfounded. He wanted to marry her. The time just wasn't right yet. ‘We won't have to wait much longer, I promise.’

‘So you keep saying. But how long?’ Her voice was jerky with sobs.

Matthew took a deep breath. ‘Let's give it three months. That'll give us time to get through the funeral and for the children time to come to terms with what's happened. That's three months from now. How does that sound?’

‘You want to get married in February?’ Charlotte had stopped crying and was staring at him, listening intently.

‘Yes, February. Why not? What's wrong with February?’

‘No one gets married in February. It'll be freezing for a start.’

‘Then we'll get married abroad – in Las Vegas. We'll get married in Las Vegas!’

A grin lit up Charlotte's tear stained face, smudged with black eye make-up. ‘Really? Do you mean that? We're finally going to get married? In Las Vegas?’ She laughed out loud.

‘Of course we're going to get married. Isn't that what we both want?’ She nodded. ‘Time to kiss and make up?’ She smiled and stepped towards him. ‘I want to make up properly, with the future Mrs Matthew Kirby –’ She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘I've got to practise carrying you over the threshold,’ he whispered as he lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. Married, not married, it made no difference to him. He just wanted to please her.

‘I must look awful,’ she said, wiping her dripping nose on the back of her hand, as she lay down on the bed.

‘You're the most beautiful woman in the world,’ he replied. He wasn't looking at her face as he undid her shirt, and she giggled in anticipation. She knew that nothing could spoil her happiness now, not even the desperate letter she had received from Ted that morning.

‘You won't stay with him, I know you won't. And when it's over, I'll be waiting for you.’

Matthew suddenly thought about his wife, lying in a cold drawer in the morgue, and blinked in an effort to dismiss the image from his mind. Abigail had been dead to him for a long time. His happiness depended on Charlotte now, warm and eager for his touch.

‘A man's entitled to some happiness,’ he told himself fiercely but, for the first time, he couldn't make love to her. Charlotte lay rigid on the bed beside him and refused to meet his gaze as he tried to explain to her.

‘I'm just worn out with the stress of it all, I think,’ he sighed. ‘I'll soon be… it's nothing to do with you.’

He could imagine her thoughts: ‘You see, you don't really want to marry me, do you? The idea's put you right off me.’

39

INTEREST

T
he following morning Geraldine's bell rang before she was even dressed. She opened the door and was surprised to see a boy holding a large bouquet of flowers.

‘Geraldine Steel?’

‘Yes.’

The message on the card said simply: ‘To Geraldine, from Paul.’ It was brief but it started her wondering if they might possibly have a future together and, if so, what would happen about her application for a transfer to London. She tried not to get excited at the idea that he might be interested in her as she hunted for a vase large enough to hold the flowers. In the end she put them in a plastic Pimms jug, the largest suitable container she could find.

Geraldine called Paul mid-morning to thank him and they arranged to meet up for a drink later on.

‘I'm glad they arrived OK,’ Paul said, ‘and that you like them.’

‘They're lovely.’

Geraldine didn't have time to go home and change, and scrutinised her face carefully in the mirror of the station toilets before leaving. She decided not to bother with eye shadow but applied her mascara carefully and put on some lip gloss before setting off. They were meeting at The Gate again. It was a pleasant place and convenient, with a public car park round the corner which was free after six-thirty.

This time Geraldine spotted Paul straightaway sitting in a corner bay waiting for her, an open bottle of Champagne on the table. It was Wednesday evening and the wine bar was packed with young men and women out for a drink after work. Geraldine was glad she didn't have to fight her way to the bar where people were waiting, three deep, to be served.

‘Skulking in the corner again,’ she said with a grin as she sat down. ‘The flowers really were beautiful, Paul. Thank you again.’