Dead End (29 page)

Ian shook his head. ‘Only that they were at the same school, at the same time… Do you think we at least ought to tell the DCI?’

‘Not yet. I'll question him first.’

‘I think the DCI should –’

Geraldine stood up. ‘I said I'll speak to him.’

‘Is it a good idea, your questioning Dr Hilliard?’

‘What?’

‘It's just that your relationship with him –’

‘What relationship?’ She glared at him. ‘Are you challenging my decision?’ They both knew he was, but he backed down under the force of her anger. ‘I'll question him. On my own.’

‘Yes, gov.

‘And don't challenge my judgement again, Sergeant.’ Peterson inclined his head but privately he decided he couldn't let this drop. It was possible Paul Hilliard had met Abigail Kirby while they were both living in York and Ian wasn't convinced the DI was being objective. It put him in an awkward position, but he knew what to do. He would get nowhere with the DI by voicing vague suspicions, so he would only raise the matter again if he could find evidence to back up his allegation. That meant he had more legwork to do. It might all be for nothing but he had to see it through.

Geraldine's fury abated as she drove to the morgue. She understood exactly what was happening. She had seen it before. Ian had allowed his judgement to be clouded by the frustration of waiting, and casting about for inspiration had lighted on Paul Hilliard. The flimsiest of reasons could appear to take on disproportionate significance in the absence of any genuine leads.

Paul looked surprised when she walked in but she thought he seemed pleased to see her. ‘Geraldine, what brings you here?’ He pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Here? Or –’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Can I take you out for lunch?’ She hesitated. ‘A drink?’

‘I'm on duty.’

‘How about coffee then?’

‘Yes, that would be fine.’

‘Coffee it is then. You're a difficult woman to please.’ He smiled.

‘Not always.’ Unintentionally Geraldine had begun flirting. She bit her lip and followed him in silence, wondering how to question him without alienating him.

‘There's a little bistro round the corner. Are you sure I can't tempt you to a quick bite? I'm starving.’

She caved in. ‘So am I.’

While they were waiting for their order, Geraldine plunged in. ‘There's something I need to ask you.’

‘This sounds serious.’ He smiled uneasily.

‘It is. That is, I'm sure it's nothing, but I am here in an official capacity.’ Paul raised an eyebrow and she regretted having agreed to question him in a restaurant. It was hardly an appropriate setting. ‘I have to ask you about your daughter.’

‘I don't see that my daughter is any business of yours.’

Ignoring his dismissive tone she ploughed on. ‘We know your daughter attended a school where Abigail Kirby was teaching.’

‘Really? Are you sure? Well, I don't suppose they were there at the same time –’

‘That's the point, Paul. They were.’

Their food arrived and they fell silent while the waitress placed their dishes on the table.

Paul picked up his knife and fork and began cutting neatly into his meat. He seemed perfectly composed. ‘I can see it might look odd, their being at school together, but I assure you I had no idea. I might have read in the paper that Abigail Kirby came from York, now you come to mention it – I seem to recall registering the coincidence – but I had no idea they were at the same school. It's a large school and to be honest,’ he drew a hand across his brow, creased now with a frown, ‘I left all that – parents’ evenings and so on – to my wife. Not that I wouldn't have liked to be more involved, but I was busy at work. You know how it is. So can we drop this please?’

‘Paul, I need to clear this up. Are you sure you never met Abigail Kirby in York?’

‘Of course I'm sure. Obviously I would have recognised her if I had, and I would've told you what I knew about her. I might not even have carried out the autopsy, depending on how often we'd met. I don't understand. Why the questions all of a sudden?’

‘We've only just discovered the connection between Abigail Kirby and your daughter.’

‘Was there a connection, as you put it? Did Abigail Kirby teach my daughter? I didn't recognise the name and I read all of my daughter's school reports.’ He put his knife and fork down, suddenly vexed. ‘What are you trying to say, Geraldine? I thought you of all people could at least be straight with me. Am I under some sort of suspicion?’

‘No, of course not. But we have to eliminate you from the enquiry. It's routine procedure. You know that.’ Geraldine gazed miserably at her plate. He was clearly angry with her. They passed the rest of the meal in virtual silence. Paul ate very quickly, called for the bill as soon as he had finished and slapped some cash on the table.

‘Not a great feeling,’ he mumbled as he stood up, ‘knowing someone you trust suspects you of – what? What exactly am I being accused of?’

‘Nothing. You're not being accused of anything, really. Like I said, it was just routine. We had to ask –’

‘If you say so. Well, I've got to get back to work.’ He turned and left without another word.

It was raining outside, a cold steady drizzle, as Geraldine drove back to the station. Her mood didn't improve when she saw Peterson.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’ she snapped.

‘Did you speak to Paul Hilliard?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘You can see my report – on second thoughts it hardly warrants any paperwork, or are we going to report every conversation we have now? You'd better write your report on me then. And the DCI.’

The sergeant opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it.

53

PANIC

B
en eyed the fat sausages, his mouth watering. There were definite advantages to having Auntie Evie staying with them. ‘Shall I call Lucy?’ he asked.

‘She knows it's time for breakfast,’ his aunt replied a trifle sharply. ‘She'd be down here if she was hungry.’ They ate in silence, Auntie Evie watching complacently as Ben wolfed down his breakfast.

‘Those sausages are great, Auntie Evie. Are there any more?’ She stood up without a word to fetch the pan. At last Ben scraped his plate clean with his knife, sighed, and stood up to leave.

‘Where is that girl?’ Evie said. ‘She'd better not still be asleep.’

‘I'll go and call her. I've got to go up and get my school bag.’ Ben trotted upstairs and knocked on Lucy's door. There was no answer. ‘Lucy,’ he called. ‘Lucy! You're going to be late for school.’ He paused. ‘It's eight o'clock. I'm leaving.’ He pushed her door open and peered inside. The curtains were drawn but he could see her bed was empty, the duvet neatly in place, the pillow smooth. Ben stepped inside. ‘Lucy?’ he repeated, although he could see she wasn't there. ‘Lucy?’ He left the room and knocked on her bathroom door. ‘Lucy?’ The door swung open. There was no one inside.

Ben raced downstairs in a sudden panic and ran into the kitchen where Auntie Evie was bent over the dishwasher. ‘Auntie Evie, Lucy's gone.’

His aunt turned round. ‘And so should you if you don't want to be late. Where's your bag? I thought you went up to get it.’

‘Auntie Evie, I don't think Lucy's gone to school.’

‘Well I can't imagine where else she would have gone at this time in the morning. Now hurry up or you'll be late. You'll probably catch up with her on the way.’

‘Do you think so?’ Auntie Evie turned to the sink and began to run the tap. ‘I thought – I thought –’ Ben stopped. He'd been about to say he suspected Lucy had run away from home but Auntie Evie seemed so calm and everything in the kitchen looked so ordinary, he thought it would sound silly. Lucy had made idiotic threats before but she never carried them out. Auntie Evie was right, it was just more of Lucy's attention seeking behaviour. He ran upstairs, grabbed his bag and rushed out of the house. He had to hurry or he'd be late for school.

Ben forgot about Lucy until lunch time. Glancing around the dining room he couldn't see his sister in the melee but the canteen was so crowded it was hardly surprising. He wanted to ask one of her friends where she was but realised he didn't actually know who her friends were. She'd never mentioned anyone's name. After lunch he was making his way to the field where the boys were having an informal game of football, when he passed a couple of girls who looked about Lucy's age.

‘Do you know Lucy Kirby?’

The two girls stopped and stared at him, chewing gum. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I'm her brother.’

‘Poor you.’ They exchanged a glance and sniggered.

‘What?’ Losing interest, the girls turned away. ‘I wanted to know if you've seen her today,’ Ben said but the two girls walked off, arm in arm, without answering.

‘Come on, Ben,’ one of the boys yelled, and they raced each other to the field.

Ben didn't think about Lucy again until he reached home. His father was out and Auntie Evie was in the kitchen, putting a large dish in the oven. Ben grinned in anticipation, called out to her to let his aunt know he was home, and went upstairs to his room. He dumped his bag on his bed and wandered along the corridor to speak to Lucy, but her room was still empty. Ben sat down heavily on her bed. He was genuinely worried now. He tried her mobile number but she didn't answer.

‘Lucy,’ he said aloud. ‘Where are you?’ After a few minutes he ran downstairs and burst into the kitchen where Auntie Evie was laying the table. ‘Auntie Evie, Lucy's not in her room. I haven't seen her all day. I can't find her. I think she's run away from home.’

‘Don't be ridiculous. What would she want to do that for?’ She wiped her hands on a tea towel and set a plate of wet potatoes on the table beside a saucepan full of water. ‘Supper will be ready at six so you've got plenty of time to do your homework. Are you going to do it in your room or do you want to sit at the table in the dining room?’ She sat down and began peeling potatoes.

‘Where's dad?’

‘Your father's not home and he said he won't be here for supper.’ Evie pressed her lips together, looking vexed. ‘He's gone to see his friend.’

‘Charlotte, you mean?’ His aunt pulled a disapproving face but didn't answer. ‘I'm worried about Lucy,’ he went on.

‘Yes, dear, we're all worried about Lucy. But it's nothing you need concern yourself about. You're not responsible for your sister. You should be concentrating on your school work. Lucy'll soon settle down. It's just a phase she's going through.’

‘I think she's run away.’

His aunt frowned and shook her head, dropping a peeled potato into the saucepan of water. ‘Not now, Ben. I'm tired, and I'm sure you are too. Now, homework –’

Ben sat in his room staring at his school books but he couldn't settle. Now that he was alone in a quiet room, with no distractions, he kept thinking about his sister and he knew something was wrong. He'd tried talking to his aunt but she hadn't taken him seriously. He picked up his phone and dialled his father's number but there was no answer. It was all well and good Auntie Evie saying he wasn't responsible for his sister, but no one else seemed to know – or even care – where she was. He jumped up and ran downstairs.

‘I need to speak to dad.’

Auntie Evie looked up from her magazine. She was obviously irritated at the interruption but she spoke gently. ‘He's not here, Ben. He won't be home till – late.’

‘I have to speak to him. I tried to call him but he's not answering his phone.’

‘I expect he's busy. Now shouldn't you be doing your homework?’ She looked down at her magazine.

‘You don't understand –’

‘I'm sure it's nothing that can't wait –’ She flicked over the pages of her magazine and began to read.

‘But Auntie –’

‘Run along now. Whatever it is can wait.’

‘What if it can't wait? If it's urgent, I mean? I don't know. It's Lucy – she's not come home.’

Engrossed in her magazine, Auntie Evie answered without looking up from her magazine. ‘Don't worry about Lucy. She'll come home when she's ready.’

Ben went out into the hall. He was going to go back up to his room, and his homework, but he suddenly reached a decision. ‘I'm going out,’ he shouted. He heard his aunt's voice but not what she said as he yanked his jacket off its peg and ran out, slamming the front door behind him.

‘There's a young boy here,’ a constable told Geraldine.

‘What does he want?’

‘I don't know, but the thing is, he's Abigail Kirby's son, so I thought you might want to see him yourself.’

‘Is he accompanied?’

‘No, he's by himself but he insists he wants to talk to someone. He's very agitated, ma'am.’

Geraldine stood up. ‘Is there a children's officer with him?’

‘DC Everton's there. She's trained to interview underage witnesses. That's the best we can do for now, but the boy's very insistent he wants to speak to someone urgently.’

Geraldine hurried to the interview room where Ben Kirby was sitting on the edge of his chair, biting his nails. Detective Constable Christine Everton, a plump woman of about forty, was sitting quietly at his side. He looked up when Geraldine entered, his eyes wide, pupils dilated, his breathing fast. ‘It's my sister,’ he said, straightaway.

‘Lucy?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about her?’

‘She's run away from home.’ To Geraldine's consternation he burst into tears. Not quite sure of her ground dealing with a distraught child, Geraldine was glad Christine Everton was in the room with them.

‘Ben,’ Geraldine said gently. ‘If you know anything about where she is, you must tell me. You do understand that, don't you?’

Ben looked up at her tearfully, wiping his nose on his sleeve. The constable handed him a tissue. ‘She said she was going to stay with a friend.’

‘What friend?’ Geraldine asked. He shook his head and began snivelling again. ‘What friend, Ben?’

‘I don't know. I don't know.’

‘Can you tell me the names of all Lucy's friends?’ He shook his head again. ‘Any names you know.’

‘Lucy didn't have any friends.’ He covered his face with his hands again and wept noisily.