Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  ‘I'm sick of working with blood and guts,’ she had assured him. ‘And I can earn more if I quit.’

  But after all that, Abigail obstinately refused to agree to a divorce.

  ‘I can't do it without her,’ he told Charlotte miserably. ‘She's threatened to turn the children against me. She'd do it, too. You don't know my wife.’

  Charlotte was growing impatient. ‘Tell her you insist. Just do it, Matthew. Go to a lawyer and get the papers drawn up. She can't force you to stay with her.’

  Charlotte wondered whether to tell Matthew she'd received another letter from Ted, the third that week. After moving to Kent she'd thought she would finally be rid of him, but he still hadn't given up.

  ‘You can't leave,’ he had protested when she'd told him she was going. ‘You belong here with me.’

  ‘Ted, we went out once when we were still at school. That was years ago. There's nothing between us. There never was and there never will be. Get over it.’ Seeing his stricken expression she had softened. ‘We can still be friends. We don't have to fall out over this.’

  ‘You're going away with him, aren't you?’

  ‘He's got nothing to do with it,’ she'd lied, annoyed again. ‘Leave me alone, Ted. My life is none of your business.’ They hadn't spoken since that argument, but a week later the letters had begun. They would have made her uneasy if she hadn't known Ted so well, poor stupid Ted, too soft to harm a fly. She couldn't believe she'd ever agreed to go out with him but he'd worn her down with his persistence, and at fifteen she'd been foolishly flattered.

  ‘He must really like you,’ one of her school friends had said.

  ‘He's a dork,’ someone else added. It hadn't lasted long, was never a real relationship, just a few wet kisses and a hurried fumble on a park bench. Ted had been distraught when Charlotte finished it. The break up had been the source of much chatter at school. Charlotte's girlfriends had been unanimous in advising her to stand firm.

  ‘It'll only get more difficult if you let it go on.’

  ‘Just tell him plain and simple you don't want to go out with him.’

  ‘He'll get over it.’

  But Ted hadn't got over it. ‘I'll wait for you,’ he'd told her.

  ‘You'll have a long wait.’ She'd laughed at his intensity then relented and tried to be kind. ‘You'll find someone else.’

  ‘I don't want anyone else.’

  Charlotte checked her appearance in the hall mirror as she passed it. With blonde curls and a snub nose, she looked younger than thirty-three. Twelve years older than her, with children of his own, Matthew didn't appreciate how urgently she needed a commitment from him. Several of her friends were already mothers.

  ‘Just get yourself pregnant. That'll force his hand,’ one of her friends had suggested.

  ‘Or you'll end up a single mother,’ another friend pointed out.

  Charlotte carried on doing what she could to persuade Matthew to leave his wife. ‘You're miserable with her. I'll make you happy. You deserve that much after all she's put you through.’ She wisely avoided the subject of children. Matthew had already told her he didn't want a second family, but Charlotte was confident everything would be fine once they were married. Only first he had to leave Abigail. She was ruining everything.

  Charlotte opened the door. Matthew burst into the flat and swept her off her feet in a whirling embrace. She laughed out loud, Ted and his plaintive letters forgotten in her excitement at seeing Matthew again.

  ‘Has Abigail agreed?’ She saw the answer in his face, the droop of his shoulders.

  ‘Don't worry,’ Matthew replied. His smile was forced. ‘We'll be rid of her for good before too long. I promise.’ Charlotte had been listening to his promises for years. Matthew was kissing her, pressing her up against the wall. ‘It's cold out there,’ he muttered. ‘What are you going to do to warm me up?’

  I can make you a nice cup of tea?’ she suggested, laughing, as he took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom.

  3

  Discovery

  The kite was one of Dave Whittaker's earliest memories. His dad had bought it for him when Dave was about eight. They must have been on holiday because Dave remembered flying it over the beach. He had never seen his dad looking so happy.

  He felt a flutter of excitement now, watching his own son tearing the plastic cover off a new kite. The so-called recreation ground wasn't an ideal location, surrounded by woods, but it was the nearest open space to their home and they were both impatient to try it out.

  Zac held it up in the air as high as he could while Dave backed away, playing out the flying line. ‘Now!’ Dave called out. ‘Let go!’ Zac threw the red diamond up in the air and groaned as it dived to the ground.

  ‘What's wrong, dad? Why won't it fly?’

  On their third attempt the breeze caught it. Zac squealed as the kite rose fluttering in the air.

  ‘Don't go too near the trees,’ Dave warned him, when he handed over the line.

  ‘It's OK, dad. I'm not stupid.’

  A gust of wind seized the kite. It flew up, scudding frantically while Zac chased after it, shrieking.

  ‘Stand still and loosen the string,’ Dave called to him. ‘Give it some slack.’

  Zac lost his footing and the line slipped from his grasp. The kite rose, a diminishing splash of scarlet against the grey sky. They watched it soar for a moment before it swooped gracefully downwards, heading for the branches.

  ‘Dad! Do something.’ Dave began to run towards the falling kite. It disappeared in the trees. ‘Dad!’ Zac wailed.

  ‘You wait here,’ Dave shouted. ‘I'll get it.’ Cursing, he thrust his way into the woods. The undergrowth scratched at his legs and he stumbled on the uneven ground. There seemed to be a sort of rough track. Someone had been there before him, snapping off protruding twigs on either side of a narrow pathway. He reached a small clearing and stopped abruptly. A woman lay flat on her back at the foot of a tree.

  Dave hesitated. ‘Are you all right?’ He took a step closer and froze. Her eyes stared blankly. Below her nose was an oozing mess of black where her mouth and chin should have been. Dave stared at her unblinking eyes, unable to move. A light breeze rustled past, agitating a few dry leaves that hadn't yet fallen. Apart from that, the woods were silent. Dave held his breath and stared at the dead woman. There were bits of leaf mould in her dishevelled hair. It looked damp. Her jacket was stained black with dried blood. He wondered how long she had lain there, abandoned to the elements, as he stared in disgust at her face. At first he assumed her chin had been chewed off by a wild animal; a closer look revealed that her face was intact, but bloody.

  Tearing his eyes away, he fumbled for his phone. ‘Police, police, I've found a body. A dead body.’ The phone shook in his grasp. His teeth were chattering so violently he could barely speak. He thought he might be sick and swallowed hard, concentrating.

  ‘Can I have your name, caller?’ The calm voice helped Dave to think. He spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I'm in the woods beside the recreation ground. I'll go back and wait at the edge of the trees, to show you where she – it – she – is.’

  He had a horrible feeling he wasn't alone, as if he were being watched. In a panic, he hurried back through the trees, calling Zac's name. He felt dizzy with relief when he heard an answering call as he emerged into the open.

  Zac started forward. ‘Dad! Dad! Did you find it, dad?’

  Dave frowned, blinking in the sunlight. For a few seconds he didn't know what Zac was talking about. Then he remembered the kite and shook his head.

  ‘Oh my God, Zac,’ he said. ‘My God.’

  ‘Dad –’ Zac began to whine. He looked up at his father and his expression changed. ‘Don't worry, dad. It's not that important. We can get another kite. It doesn't matter, dad.’

  Dave put his hand on Zac's shoulder. ‘You need to be very grown up, now, Zac, and very sensible. Listen, I want you to go and sit in the car. There's – something's
happened, son. The police are going to be here soon. Maybe an ambulance…’ He paused.

  ‘The police?’ Zac burst out. His eyes were shining. ‘Coming here? How do you know, dad?’

  ‘I know because I called them. They need to see – something I found in the woods. Now let's go and open the car and you can wait for me. I need to show the police – something – and then we'll go home.’

  Zac was jumping up and down. ‘What is it? What's happened? Why are the police coming? Why, dad?’

  Dave gazed at his son for an instant and made up his mind. He crouched down and stared into Zac's eyes. ‘You remember grandad –’ he began. A worried frown creased his brow. He didn't want to frighten his son.

  Zac interrupted him. ‘Is it a dead person, dad? Have you found a dead person in the woods?’

  Dave nodded solemnly. ‘The police will be here soon,’ he said. ‘And then we can go home and forget.

  ‘This is so cool,’ Zac burst out. ‘Who is it, dad? Can I see it, dad, can I? This is wicked, dad. Wait till I tell them at school. Did you get a picture? Please tell me you've got a picture!’

  4

  Team

  Celia smiled. ‘It's so nice to see you looking relaxed for once. I worry about you a lot, you know.’ Geraldine didn't answer; she knew perfectly well what her sister meant. For nearly a year Celia had been struggling to come to terms with the unexpected death of their mother. Unlike Geraldine, Celia had been very close to their mother. Now she wanted Geraldine to fill the gap left by their mother's loss but, as a detective inspector on a Murder Investigation Team, Geraldine's free time was limited.

  ‘I really don't understand why you have to work such long hours,’ Celia went on. ‘It's almost as though you don't want to see us. I sometimes feel I don't really know much about you at all. You know you're not an easy person to get close to, you keep yourself to yourself so much. Chloe's growing up so fast and I know she'd like to see more of you. She misses mum, you know. It won't be long until she's a teenager and then it'll be too late. She won't want to know any more.’

  Geraldine felt a surge of relief when her work phone rang and interrupted her sister's recriminations. She was on her feet before the call ended. ‘Sorry, Celia, I've got to go.’

  ‘You've only just arrived! At least finish your tea before you go –’ Celia remonstrated. ‘Can't you even wait and say hello to Chloe? She'll be back soon and I know she'll be disappointed if she misses you.’

  Geraldine gave an apologetic smile. ‘I really can't wait. Tell her I'm sorry.’

  ‘The busy life of a detective inspector on the Murder

  Investigation Team.’ Celia smiled but her voice was bitter. ‘It's always the same with you, isn't it? Never mind your family. Never mind what we want. Work always has to take priority doesn't it, because without you we'd all be in danger of being murdered in our beds. Now what am I supposed to tell Chloe?’

  ‘I'll make it up to her, I promise.’

  ‘Well, you'd better. You're letting her down, you know. She was expecting to see you. But don't worry. We're used to it.’

  Geraldine turned to Celia with a flash of impatience. ‘I'll see you as soon as I can,’ she promised as she took a hurried leave.

  It would take Geraldine about half an hour to reach the station in Barton Chislet where the investigation headquarters was being set up. The first few hours in any investigation were crucial, before evidence could be contaminated. This was especially true when death occurred outdoors. She didn't yet know how long the body had been exposed to the elements before protective covering was erected. She drove fast through a steady drizzle, and arrived with ten minutes to spare before the initial briefing. Finding her way to the toilets, she did her best to smooth down the tangle of short dark hair sticking up on top of her head. Her eyes glowed with health above the slightly crooked nose that spoilt her looks.

  ‘I'm afraid there's no room to give you a separate office. We're only a small station,’ the duty sergeant apologised.

  ‘No problem.’ Geraldine actually preferred working in the hub of activity to the relative quiet of her own office space.

  ‘That's your work station,’ the duty sergeant added, nodding to a desk in the far corner. Geraldine thanked her and went to sit down. Looking round the room, she was pleased to catch sight of Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson. She turned to her computer screen and had just logged on when he interrupted her. She liked and trusted Ian Peterson who was clearly pleased to be working with her again. Having worked closely together on their last two investigations, they occasionally met for a drink between cases.

  ‘Morning, gov.’

  ‘Hello Ian. How've you been?’

  He nodded complacently. ‘Can't complain. So, what's to know?’

  Geraldine looked up. ‘Difficult to say –’ Before she could continue, Detective Chief Inspector Kathryn Gordon strode into the room. The buzz of conversation faded as everyone turned to face the incident board where she stood, waiting for silence. Geraldine exchanged a quick glance with Ian Peterson. They had worked with Kathryn Gordon on a previous case. To begin with Geraldine had found her intimidating but gradually she had come to appreciate her strict work ethic.

  With Kathryn Gordon in charge this was not going to be a relaxed investigation and she launched in without any preamble. ‘I'm your Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Kathryn Gordon. The body of a forty-eight-year-old woman, Abigail Kirby, was discovered at ten-thirty this morning beside the recreation ground known as The Meadows, two miles North of the town centre.’ She turned to a photograph pinned on the board. Hazel eyes smiled at them from a square jawed face. It looked like a professional shot of a reasonably attractive, immaculately presented woman who had just stepped out of the hairdresser's. Geraldine unconsciously raised her hand to smooth down her own unruly hair.

  Kathryn Gordon pointed at the photo with a hand that trembled, although she spoke calmly. She turned away from the incident board and glanced down at her notes. ‘The body was discovered by a local resident, David Whittaker, when he was out flying a kite with his young son. The kite flew off into the trees and when Mr Whittaker tried to retrieve it, he found Abigail Kirby instead.’ She pointed to a map of the recreation ground. To one side of the open land, an area had been circled in red ink. ‘The medical examiner should be arriving any time so we'll know more soon. The victim looks robust, and there's no sign of a struggle. Did she know her attacker or was she taken by surprise? And what was she doing there? The remote location suggests she was meeting someone.’

  ‘Do we know she was killed there? Or could it she have been killed somewhere else and the body dumped there?’ someone asked.

  ‘How did she die?’ another officer wanted to know.

  ‘We don't have any details yet. We need to get down there and find out. We're waiting for a medical examination. A forensic medical examiner should be on the scene soon.’

  ‘The woods around the recreation ground aren't used much, especially at this time of year,’ a local sergeant chipped in, ‘so we're hardly likely to find a witness.’

  ‘It's possible someone saw her,’ Kathryn Gordon replied. ‘It depends what time she arrived – and if she was still alive when she got there. The more people there were around, the greater the chance someone saw her, and whoever was with her, but it may be she was taken there during the night. It might be that she was killed somewhere else and dumped there under cover of darkness. Now,’ she went on, suddenly brisk, ‘that's enough speculation. Let's see what the scene of crime officers can tell us, and then find out what we can about Abigail Kirby.’

  ‘Oh my God, it's Mrs Kirby!’ a female constable called out suddenly.

  ‘What do you know about Abigail Kirby?’ Kathryn Gordon asked.

  ‘My son goes to Harchester School. Mrs Kirby is – was – the headmistress there.’

  ‘Not any more,’ someone muttered.

  ‘What do you know about her?’ the detective chief inspector repeated.
r />   ‘Not much, ma'am. I've never met her myself. I just heard her address the parents as a group. My boy's only been going to Harchester High since September.’

  ‘Right. Was she popular? What sort of reputation did she have?’

  The constable gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I couldn't really say, ma'am. Like I said, my boy's new.’

  ‘See what you can find out. What's the talk in the playground, at the school gates?’

  ‘I've not heard anything, ma'am, except – ‘

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She had a reputation as a strict disciplinarian. My boy was terrified of her.’ She laughed apologetically.

  ‘She was the head,’ Kathryn Gordon pointed out, as though she approved of figures in authority being intimidating. ‘If you can find out names of any gossips among the parents, and the staff, that would help. I'll have someone else interview them, keep you out of it as much as possible.’

  ‘Thank you, ma'am.’

  The detective chief inspector turned back to the Incident Board and tapped the picture of the victim with one finger. ‘The post-mortem report should be ready later today. We know the victim's name, Abigail Kirby, we now know she was headmistress of Harchester School. Until we know more, let's not jump to conclusions. In the meantime, we need to start gathering information. Check your schedules with the duty sergeant and get started. Let's get cracking and wrap this one up quickly.’

  5

  Scene of Crime

  Geraldine and Ian chatted effortlessly as they drove past a modern shopping centre away from the centre of town.

  ‘How's Bev?’

  ‘She's great.’

  Geraldine sighed. Somehow her own relationships never lasted. She envied the sergeant who seemed settled with his long term girlfriend. ‘How long have you been together now?’

  Peterson shrugged. ‘Feels like a lifetime.’

  They parked by the edge of the recreation ground, passed the police cordon and collected their protective suits and shoes from the forensic van in silence. Treading carefully to avoid disturbing anything, they walked in single file along a rough track through the trees, bending low to avoid overhanging branches. A protective tent had been erected at one edge of a small clearing in the trees. White suited scene of crime officers were busy photographing and measuring foot prints, scuffed earth, and disturbance in the bracken and grass under the trees around it in a painstaking process, scrutinising every centimetre of the area surrounding the body for microscopic shreds of evidence; even careless killers wore gloves these days.