Dead End (5 page)

There was silence for a few seconds.

The pathologist glanced at Geraldine before he continued. ‘Head wounds are always serious. There's a very real danger of brain damage. In this case severe head trauma would probably have killed her, without immediate medical attention, possibly even with it. She would most likely have died from the knock on the head if she hadn't choked first.’

‘He must have used a very sharp blade to cut her tongue out,’ Geraldine said. ‘It can't have been easy, can it?’ Now that the victim's face had been cleaned, the stump of the victim's tongue was clearly visible. ‘That cut really must have been tricky,’ she repeated. ‘I wouldn't have thought many people could have done that, not without taking their time. And I don't suppose the killer wanted to hang about.’

‘This was carefully planned,’ Paul agreed.

‘By someone intelligent,’ Peterson added.

‘I hope not for your sake,’ Paul replied.

‘Why?’

‘Because if this was a highly intelligent killer, he – or she – is unlikely to make any mistakes and is going to be more difficult to find.’ There was a pause. ‘What about the witness who found the body? Did he see anything?’

‘We haven't interviewed him yet. The constable at the scene took a brief statement but the witness was in shock and he had his young son with him. We're going to speak to him later on and get a full statement. Have you got anything else for us? Any defence injuries?’

The pathologist shook his head. ‘She was wearing gloves which have been sent off for examination, but I can't find any evidence of a struggle.’

‘Where was she going?’ Geraldine was talking to herself. ‘Was she meeting someone she knew? Was she being followed? Or was her attacker a complete stranger?’

‘In which case we could be looking at someone who kills for the sake of killing,’ the sergeant added.

‘A psychopath?’ Paul Hilliard asked. ‘Someone who's mentally disturbed?’

‘Well whoever it was, they were certainly disturbed, even as the average murderer goes,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Not that any murderer is exactly sane, but most of them don't remove their victims’ tongues while they're killing them.’

The pathologist gave a faint smile.

‘We need to keep an open mind,’ Geraldine said, returning Paul Hilliard's smile.

‘Yes, we need to keep an open mind,’ the pathologist agreed.

‘So, anything else you can tell us?’

‘She was about forty years old.’

‘Forty-eight,’ Peterson corrected him.

‘Can you be precise about exactly how long was she dead before she was found?’ Geraldine asked, turning back to the body.

‘She was found at ten-thirty yesterday morning. I attended the scene at eleven-thirty and reported death had occurred some time on Saturday afternoon. It's difficult to be absolutely accurate as she was lying out in the rain overnight. When I carried out a preliminary examination I estimated she'd been dead for around nineteen to twenty-two hours, and you have to remember that's only an estimate.’

‘She died between one pm and four pm on Saturday then,’ Peterson said.

‘Most likely, but there's no absolute certainty. Any number of factors can increase or delay the process of deterioration in a corpse, especially one that's left out in the open.’

‘Do you think she was killed in the wood where she was found?’ Geraldine asked.

‘No. There was mud and leaves in her hair, all consistent with her lying on the ground but there's no sign of any disturbance there.’

‘Well if that's all –’

‘For now. You'll have my full report this afternoon.’

The sergeant couldn't leave the room quickly enough. Geraldine sympathised with his aversion for dead bodies, but she was fascinated by autopsies. As long as she could detach herself from the subjects as previously living people, they intrigued her. She thought Paul Hilliard must feel the same, and wondered what else she had in common with the slim blue-eyed doctor.

When Paul removed his gloves, Geraldine noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. She glanced up from Abigail Kirby and saw he was watching her.

‘I don't remember seeing you here before,’ she ventured.

‘I moved to the area quite recently. Have you lived here long?’ Paul responded with a smile. She registered his friendly response to her tentative overture.

‘I bought a flat near here recently. Just at the height of the market.’

Paul gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘If you like –’ he hesitated. Geraldine waited. ‘I thought we might discuss the case. It's – an interesting challenge, isn't it? With the tongue being removed, I mean.’ Something in his manner suggested that his interest might lie in her, rather than the case. ‘If you have time, that is,’ he added.

Geraldine scribbled down her private number before handing Paul her card. ‘That would be nice.’

Paul smiled and pocketed the card.

‘Is it me, or was there something a bit strange about that Hilliard bloke?’ Peterson asked Geraldine as they left the morgue.

‘Strange in what way?’

‘It's just that he didn't flinch when he was talking about the victim's tongue. He looked like he was admiring the killer's handiwork.’

Geraldine shrugged. ‘He cuts up corpses for a living. What's the odd tongue when you're carving up body parts all day long?’

‘I suppose so,’ Peterson agreed. ‘God, I hate going to the morgue and seeing it all. I don't know how anyone can do that job.’ He shuddered.

‘Just as well not everyone's a big wuss like you,’ Geraldine laughed.

8

Family

T
here was no sign of Abigail when Matthew came home on Sunday morning, and when he knocked on her study door she didn't respond.

‘Abi, are you there?’ He tried the door but it was locked, which meant she wasn't working at home. He went upstairs and checked her bedroom. That was empty too. He peeped in on Ben and Lucy who were both still asleep. Matthew went downstairs, put the kettle on and ferreted in the cupboard for a packet of his favourite cereal before going outside to spend the morning in the garden. It was a bright day, and he was whistling as he went about his chores.

Abigail still hadn't come home by tea time. Ben was despondent, Lucy fractious, but there was nothing Matthew could do about it. He knew better than to try and contact his wife at work. That was for emergencies only.

‘When will she be back, dad? I want to tell her about football,’ Ben said.

‘Shut up,’ Lucy snapped. ‘No one wants to know about your stupid football.’

When the doorbell rang, Matthew thought it must be Abigail. ‘It's not like your mum to forget her key,’ he said. He opened the door and was surprised to see a man and a woman standing in the porch.

‘Matthew Kirby?’ She held up an identity card and Matthew leaned forward to read it.

‘Detective Inspector Steel,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Peterson.’

Matthew nodded. ‘My wife's not here,’ he told them as he straightened up. ‘I know it's Sunday, and half term, but she's been out at work all day. She's a headmistress.’ He tried to suppress the bitterness out of his voice. ‘I assume you want to see her about one of her pupils? You'll find her at Harchester School.’ He began to close the door. ‘I'm afraid I can't tell you anything.’

‘It's you we want to speak to, Mr Kirby. Can we come in?’

‘I'm just about to make tea,’ he began. The two officers didn't budge and Matthew couldn't very well refuse to let them in.

Matthew Kirby led them into a kitchen where a boy of about twelve was leaning back in his chair, hands resting comfortably over his flat stomach, long legs stretched out under the table. With wavy dark hair and blue eyes like his father, he lounged in his chair in a crumpled t-shirt and faded jeans.

‘I helped myself –’ the youngster grinned holding up a huge slab of chocolate cake. ‘Hello,’ he added, catching sight of the two detectives.

‘Hello, Ben,’ Geraldine replied. She didn't return his smile. ‘We'd like to have a word with your father. Where's Lucy?’

Ben sat up, his smile fading at her solemn tone. ‘Dad, who's she?’

His father shook his head. ‘I'll tell you in a minute, son. Just go to your room now.’

‘But I want to know –’ Ben faltered.

Matthew ignored him. ‘My daughter's in her room. She spends most of her time up there on her own. She's a teenager,’ he added, forcing a smile. ‘Teenage girls, you know.’

‘Dad, what's going on?’

‘I've no idea.’

Geraldine glanced at Ben, before turning back to Matthew.

‘Can we can have a few words with you alone please.’ Matthew nodded at Ben who looked at his father with a puzzled shrug before sloping out of the room muttering inaudibly.

‘Gov –’ the sergeant began but Geraldine shook her head. A moment later they heard raised voices, followed by feet thumping along the landing.

‘I have some very bad news for you. Would you like to sit down, Mr Kirby?

Matthew shook his head. ‘Go on. Say what you've come here to say.’

Geraldine watched him as she spoke. ‘I'm afraid your wife's been killed.’

Matthew Kirby spoke quietly. ‘Abigail? Are you sure?’ Geraldine nodded. ‘I don't understand. She was always such a careful driver. What happened?’

‘This wasn't a car accident, Mr Kirby. Your wife wasn't driving. Your wife was assaulted yesterday.’

‘Assaulted? Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?’

‘Yes.’ Geraldine paused to allow him to take in the information. ‘We don't know who's responsible, but we are doing all we can to find out.’ She looked straight at Matthew Kirby.

‘You're saying someone killed Abigail?’ he repeated. ‘You're telling me she was murdered?’ He didn't sound upset, more disbelieving. ‘That's impossible. No, not Abigail. There must be some mistake.’ He looked from Geraldine to Peterson and back again, dazed.

‘Mr Kirby, for the purposes of elimination, can you tell me where you were between about one and four yesterday afternoon?’

Matthew Kirby looked flustered. ‘Yesterday, between one and four? Is that when it happened?’ There was a very long pause. ‘I – I'm not sure. Saturday afternoon…’ he tailed off, at a loss. ‘Oh yes, I gave the kids lunch. And after that I was out visiting a – friend. I came home – late.’

The door opened and a skinny pasty-faced girl burst in, followed by Ben. She looked about twelve and was wearing grey tracksuit trousers and a dull green jumper. Her dead mother's hazel eyes blinked short-sightedly at them from a sullen face half hidden by unwashed hair. Geraldine registered the girl's slovenly appearance, a stark contrast to her mother's expensive grooming. She was barely recognisable as the girl in the photograph Abigail Kirby had been carrying.

‘Is this her then?’ Lucy cried out when she saw Geraldine. ‘What's she doing here? Get out!’ Her voice rose in a sudden shriek. ‘Get out of our house!’ She took a step forward, caught sight of Peterson and stopped in surprise. ‘Who's he then?’

When Geraldine introduced herself and the sergeant, Lucy subsided into a chair making no attempt to apologise for her outburst.

‘What's going on, dad?’ Ben asked. He looked worried.

‘Kids,’ Matthew said. His voice broke and he turned to Geraldine. ‘Tell them. You tell them. I can't. I can't…’

‘I'm afraid your mother's dead.’

Lucy yelped once, like an injured dog. Ben started forward, eyes wide with shock.

‘Mr Kirby, we'll come back.’

‘No.’ He sounded very tired. ‘I don't want you coming back here. Do what you have to do and let's get it over with.’

‘Can anyone confirm your movements yesterday afternoon?’ Geraldine asked.

‘I just said – I was with a friend. Then I came home and the children were both here.’

‘We'll need the name of this friend, and where we can contact him.’

‘Her,’ Lucy said.

‘Geoff. He was playing bridge with his friend Geoff,’ Ben blurted out.

‘That was Friday,’ Matthew said. He seemed uneasy. ‘I was visiting – a work colleague. She's been sick.’ It was obvious he was lying. ‘Her name is – Miss Jones. I – I've got her address somewhere. If you give me a minute, I can go and find it. I was there – we were working on a project – from about two o'clock, maybe closer to three. I didn't look at the time. I stayed there until – late. We had a lot to discuss.’

‘He was with her,’ Lucy sounded angry. Ben was sitting with his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. Neither Matthew nor Lucy made any move to comfort him.

Geraldine wasn't sure if he expected her to believe his story, or if he was lying for his children's sake. She wondered if it had been a mistake, questioning him in front of Lucy and Ben. ‘One more thing, Mr Kirby,’ she said. ‘When did you notice your wife's absence? You didn't report her missing when she didn't come home last night.’

Matthew Kirby shrugged. ‘She…’ He frowned.

‘Yes, Mr Kirby?’

‘She hadn't come home last night by the time I went to bed, but that was nothing unusual. She often worked late. And she went out early this morning. Or that's what I thought. She often went into school early.’

‘On a Sunday?’ Peterson asked. ‘Isn't the school closed for half term?’

‘She was the headmistress of a large school, Inspector. She was worked off her feet. Weekends and holidays were her chance to catch up on paperwork. She had to keep records of everything. I daresay it's the same with you.’ He gave Geraldine a nervous smile. ‘When I woke up this morning, she wasn't here. I assumed she'd gone out early. It didn't occur to me she might not have come home last night.’

‘Thank you, Mr Kirby,’ Geraldine said. She glanced at the two children. Ben was gazing straight ahead, stunned. Lucy was staring at her father making no attempt to conceal her disgust. ‘We'd like to ask Lucy and Ben a few questions, if that's all right.’

‘Can't it wait? It's hardly appropriate –’ Matthew Kirby protested. He threw a worried glance at Ben who was crying again. Lucy turned and ran from the room.

‘We'll come back, Mr Kirby,’ Geraldine promised and Matthew Kirby shrugged miserably.

‘Not exactly what you'd call a happy family,’ the sergeant remarked when the front door had closed behind them.

‘They have just lost their wife and mother but I agree, something's not right. Is there something going on between father and daughter that's more than a normal teenage strop? She kept it up after the news about her mother, in fact that seemed to aggravate her resentment of her father.’ Geraldine paused. ‘She thinks he did it.’