Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Would you say Mrs Kirby had any enemies, Mr Ramsey?’

  ‘Call me George. Everyone else does.’

  ‘George, can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Mrs Kirby? Anyone who might have wanted her out of the way?’ She paused. ‘Perhaps someone with a temper?’

  ‘Well, this is in confidence, isn't it? I mean, you won't go telling anyone you heard this from me, will you? Although I daresay you'll hear the same from anyone you speak to.’ He leaned forward and Geraldine put her mug down on the table. ‘Mrs Kirby wasn't popular with the staff. She's only been here since last September, just over a year, and there have already been a few – incidents. She's put a lot of people out. It's not so much the changes, which have meant more pressure for all the staff here, it's her manner that upsets people.’ He hesitated. ‘There's been talk. Some of the staff have been going around criticising her behind her back.’

  ‘What sort of talk?’

  ‘Some of them accused her of being incompetent – not to her face, of course – and they've all complained about extra duties they've been having to do since she came, that sort of thing. They called a meeting to discuss their grievances but nothing ever came of it. They won't do anything, that lot, they just sit around and whinge. I've never known people grumble as much as teachers. You wouldn't think it, would you?’

  They thanked George Ramsey for the tea and asked who else was in school over half term. The secretaries, IT support and maintenance staff would be working, he told them, and the deputy head was due in shortly, but the rest of the teaching staff were unlikely to appear on site during the half-term break.

  Geraldine wanted to see the headmistress's study. ‘Please make sure no one enters the room. We'll put a constable on the door until a team has been in to make a thorough search, but I'd like to have a quick look round now, while I'm here.’

  The caretaker led them across a concrete yard to the administrative building. They passed an unmanned reception desk, their footsteps echoing as they followed him down a corridor to a locked door. Once they were inside Abigail Kirby's carpeted office, they found everything easily accessible. Desk drawers were unlocked, unbolted filing cabinets held neatly labelled folders, the empty rubbish bin had a new plastic lining in place, waiting for the next day's detritus; everything in the room combined to give an impression of quiet efficiency.

  Abigail Kirby had clearly been single-minded in her focus on work. There was nothing in the office that didn't relate directly to her professional life, no personal diary or notes, not even any photos of her family. They had almost finished flicking through the drawers and files when a man's head appeared round the door.

  ‘Hello?’ He strode into the room with an unmistakable air of authority. His lips pursed when Geraldine held out her warrant card but he introduced himself courteously enough as Derek Maloney, deputy head. ‘How can I help, Inspector? What are you looking for? And shouldn't we wait for Abigail? This is her office.’ He managed to look well turned out, even in casual clothes. Geraldine suspected his jeans had been ironed. Thinning hair slicked back across the top of his head failed to conceal the shiny bald pate beneath. The lenses of his glasses gleamed, masking his expression. ‘What seems to be the problem, Inspector? I'm not sure where Abigail is, but we're on half term. If this can possibly wait until next week –’

  ‘It can't.’ Briefly, Geraldine outlined the reason for their visit.

  Derek Maloney was visibly shaken. He sat on the headmistress's sofa and gazed helplessly round the room. ‘She's dead? But – how? She was such a strong woman.’

  Peterson described how Abigail Kirby's body had been discovered the previous afternoon.

  ‘And you're certain this was murder? She couldn't have fallen and hit her head against something?’

  ‘I'm afraid there can be no doubt she was killed, and the evidence suggests it wasn't accidental.’

  ‘This is terrible.’

  ‘Mr Maloney, it would assist our enquiries if you could tell us what you know about Abigail Kirby. Was she a popular head?’

  ‘Well, how can I put this? I can't say she won't be a loss to the school, Inspector, but –’

  ‘You didn't like her?’

  Mr Maloney deliberated. When he finally spoke, it sounded as though he was rehearsing a speech. ‘I had the utmost respect for Abigail Kirby both as a colleague and as a head…’ He broke off and looked at Geraldine, stricken. ‘She's wasn't a likeable woman, Inspector. She didn't go out of her way to make friends, but she was highly efficient and an excellent manager. The pupils regarded her with great respect, and discipline in the school improved enormously under her leadership. Her predecessor was hugely popular, but discipline had become somewhat lax with him at the helm.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘A school needs to be tough on discipline or things can rapidly get out of hand. Abigail had her faults, as anyone will tell you. Not everyone will be sorry she's gone. But our whole school community will be united in deploring the circumstance of her departure.’

  ‘What about the rest of the staff?’ Geraldine asked. Mr Maloney didn't answer. ‘Was she popular with the teachers?’

  ‘You'd have to ask them,’ he replied shortly. ‘I can't speak for anyone else. But in my opinion her loss will prove to be a terrible blow for the school. A terrible blow.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Maloney. Please contact us if you remember anything that might assist us in our enquiries. And finally, can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Abigail Kirby?’

  ‘A grudge?’ he repeated in surprise, looking directly at her so the light played off his lenses, hiding his eyes. ‘It would have to be some grudge for someone to kill her. You honestly think it might have been one of the staff who did that?’ The deputy head sounded shocked. ‘We're teachers, Inspector, not hitmen. We may not always see eye to eye with one another but we conduct ourselves in a civilised manner at all times, conscious that we are role models for the youngsters in our care.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Geraldine interrupted as he seemed to be straying into another speech, ‘but someone's responsible for Abigail Kirby's death. We have to consider every possibility, however remote. Presumably you will be taking over now?’

  ‘Yes, I'll be acting head until the governors can appoint a replacement.’ Mr Maloney inclined his head. ‘There won't be an internal appointment. They always appoint from outside. Always.’

  On their way out, Geraldine and the sergeant spoke to the school secretary, a woman of about fifty who smiled glassily up at them from behind her desk. ‘George told me.’ She ran heavily ringed fingers across her greying hair. ‘So it's true. Mrs Kirby – Abigail – she's really dead?’

  ‘I'm afraid so.’

  ‘What happened? She always looked so well.’

  ‘We're investigating the circumstances,’ Peterson told her.

  ‘Investigating? Does that mean she was murdered?’ Her eyes grew wide, fascinated rather than appalled.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Geraldine asked.

  The secretary shook her head. ‘I don't know. You're here, aren't you. You wouldn't be here if –’ Without warning she burst into noisy sobs. Spluttering an apology, she rummaged in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose noisily. ‘I'm sorry. It must be the shock. It's not as if I even liked her, not really. I'm afraid she wasn't a very nice woman, Inspector. She wasn't well liked.’ She blew her nose again.

  Geraldine pulled over a chair and sat down. The sergeant closed the door to the secretary's office and took out his notebook.

  ‘Why was she unpopular?’

  The secretary frowned nervously. ‘She had an unfortunate manner. She liked you to know who was boss. I mean, she wouldn't ask if you minded doing something for her, not like Mr Hollins, the old head. He was a real gentleman. He acted like you were doing him a favour, whenever he asked you to do something, however small. But not Mrs Kirby. Do you know, in a whole year, I don't think she once thanked me for anything I did. Bad manners, if you
ask me. Not that I'd wish any trouble on her. She just wasn't a warm person. She was always working. She never had time to stop for a chat. Mr Hollins always had time.’

  ‘Mrs Collins,’ Geraldine spoke slowly. ‘I want you to think carefully before you answer. I don't need to tell you how important this is.’ The secretary nodded solemnly. ‘We have reason to believe Mrs Kirby was murdered. Can you think of anyone who might have done this to her? Anyone with a grudge –’

  The secretary interrupted her. ‘Inspector, this is a school, not an institution for delinquents. If Mrs Kirby was murdered, I'm sure no one from Harchester School was involved.’

  Geraldine sighed. She wished she could feel sure of anything. ‘Would you say anyone on the staff has a temper?’

  The secretary looked surprised. ‘I expect they all do, but not so that I would see it.’

  ‘Does anyone on the staff drink?’

  The secretary laughed unexpectedly. ‘They all do. All the young ones, that is. And most of the older ones too, I daresay. They're teachers.’

  ‘We understand you wish to remain loyal to your colleagues, but if you know of anyone who might have had a grudge against Mrs Kirby, you have to let us know.’

  ‘It's not a question of loyalty, Inspector. I'd help you if I could. Only if you want to know the names of staff who fell out with Mrs Kirby, well, it could be just about anyone. She had a knack of upsetting people, as I said. She was obsessed with bringing in new policies, and not everyone wants to change, do they? But I'm sure no one would have wished her to come to any harm.’

  ‘Someone did,’ Geraldine heard Peterson mutter under his breath.

  12

  Waste

  It perplexed him that people made such a disproportionate fuss about killing, because that was the easy part. Disposing of the body was trickier, but he managed it without a hitch. With meticulous preparation he couldn't go wrong, as long as no one saw him. If there had been a war on he would have been feted as a hero; as it was, he had to be discreet.

  There had been no need to move the girl. After heaving her off the balcony it had been easy to slip away and establish his alibi. The headmistress had been more of a challenge because he had taken her home with him and needed to dump her somewhere away from his house. After scouting around he had chosen a clearing in the woods beside waste ground. It was suitably isolated, so perfect for the purpose that he half expected to stumble across another body while he was looking around.

  But there were no dead bodies in sight as he skulked among the trees, only discarded beer bottles, cigarette packets and a few condoms. In the summer he might have come across youngsters shagging in the bushes, but at this time of year the woods were deserted. It was ideal. A wasteland for a wasted life.

  No one had seen him return there late one night and find his way in the moonlight, lugging the headmistress through the trees to the long grass in the clearing. Afterwards he wasn't even sure exactly where he'd left her. It wasn't important. She meant nothing to him any more, even though he knew they were connected as irreversibly as if they had been parent and child, except they were joined by death not life.

  He poured himself a glass of brandy. So far, so good. Everything had gone exactly as planned and there was nothing to stop him finishing the job. Most crimes were solved as a result of stupidity. Murderers were even known to disclose the whereabouts of their dead victims. He swilled the brandy in his glass and wondered why anyone would remember where they had disposed of a body. It puzzled him that people took the trouble to hide their victims. For his part, he really didn't care if the headmistress was found or left to rot among the trees beside the wasteland. No one could implicate him in her death, so whatever happened to her from now on was of no consequence to him. He had to focus on what did matter to him – covering his tracks – because he couldn't allow anyone to stop him before he'd finished.

  Two down, two to go. He had dealt with the girl and the headmistress. Now, only the doctor remained and then he would be free to put an end to it all.

  He knew where the doctor worked. It wouldn't be long now. He smiled. It was almost too easy.

  13

  Mistress

  ‘Let's start with the obvious and ask Matthew for Charlotte's details,’ Geraldine said. ‘She's his alibi, so he should be keen to tell us where to find her, as long as we ask him when his children aren't around.’ ‘And if his alibi's a complete fabrication, he's had plenty of time to brief her on exactly what he wants her to say.’ Peterson sounded irritated. ‘That can't be helped and remember, he's not a suspect yet.’

  At first Matthew Kirby was reluctant to give them his girlfriend's details. Peterson advised him that wasting police time was treated very seriously.

  ‘It's not that I don't want to tell you where she lives,’ Matthew Kirby rubbed the top of his head with the palm of one hand, ruffling his dark hair until it stood on end. ‘The thing is, I don't want to drag Charlotte into all this. She had nothing to do with my wife. They never even met.’

  ‘By naming Charlotte as your alibi, you've already dragged her into the enquiry,’ Geraldine pointed out.

  Charlotte Fox lived in a converted block of flats on the outskirts of town, off the main road.

  ‘Fidelis Lodge,’ Geraldine read the sign aloud. ‘Ironic.’

  There was an entry phone. ‘Charlotte Fox? This is the police. We'd like to have a word with you about Matthew Kirby.’

  ‘Has something happened to Matthew?’

  ‘No. But I expect you know his wife's dead.’

  ‘Yes. Matthew told me. But that's nothing to do with me.’

  ‘May we come in, Miss Fox?’

  ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’

  ‘You can check our ID, or you can phone the local station. We'll wait.’

  There was a pause. ‘You'd better come on up. It's the second floor. Number twenty-two.’

  Charlotte Fox opened her front door on the chain and studied Geraldine's warrant card. ‘Alright,’ she nodded, making no move to take the chain off the door. ‘What's this about?’

  ‘May we come in?’

  Charlotte frowned. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions and it'll be more comfortable for all of us if we don't conduct the interview in the hallway. I don't suppose your neighbours want to hear this.’

  Charlotte led them into a neatly furnished living room with a sloping ceiling, original attic accommodation for servants converted into a bijou flat. Geraldine studied Charlotte as they all sat down. She was slim, aged between twenty-five and thirty, with brittle blonde curls that moved when she turned as though her whole head had been carved in stone.

  ‘Miss Fox,’ Geraldine began. The other woman's eyes flitted nervously from Geraldine to Peterson and back again. ‘How well do you know Matthew Kirby?’

  Charlotte Fox hesitated. ‘We're friends,’ she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘We met in York.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Nearly five years.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘Matthew was a partner at a firm of surveyors in York. One of my friends worked there as a receptionist. I met her for a drink after work and Matthew was there and – well, that's how we met.’

  ‘And you moved to Kent at about the same time as Mr Kirby and his family?’

  ‘Yes. They moved here and I followed soon after.’

  ‘Because of your relationship with Matthew Kirby?’ Charlotte Fox nodded. ‘Charlotte, we're interested in Matthew Kirby's movements on Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Was that when it – when she – when it happened?’ She paused. ‘When his wife died? How did it happen?’ Geraldine and Peterson exchanged a glance before Geraldine answered.

  ‘That's exactly what we're going to find out. Now, can you tell us what time you saw Matthew on Saturday afternoon?’ Charlotte Fox looked worried. ‘I don't know,’ she whispered. ‘I was here. On my own. I w
as waiting for a call from Matthew.’ She hesitated, crossed her slim legs and wrapped her arms around her body, staring at the carpet.

  Geraldine prompted her. ‘Did Matthew Kirby come here to see you on Saturday?’

  Beneath her golden curls, Charlotte's blue eyes gazed at Geraldine, troubled and defiant. ‘Yes, he came over – it's not a crime –’ She sounded close to tears.

  ‘Charlotte, your relationship with Matthew Kirby isn't our concern.’ Geraldine allowed a hint of impatience to creep into her voice and Charlotte Fox responded to her brisk tone.

  ‘Yes, we're seeing each other. He's good to me.’ She fiddled with a gold chain at her neck. ‘He wants to marry me.’

  ‘Did you know his wife?’

  ‘I've never met her. Or his children. Matthew didn't want his children to know about me. He told his wife because he wanted a divorce but she refused to give him one. That was typical of her. She didn't want him herself, but she wouldn't let him go.’ She stopped suddenly and looked down, afraid she had been indiscreet.

  ‘Charlotte, where were you on Saturday afternoon between one and four?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don't know. I was here.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘Matthew came round.’

  ‘Did anyone else know you were here?’

  Charlotte hesitated. ‘I phoned my mother –’ she said at last.

  ‘Did you make the call from a landline?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘No. I've got free minutes on my mobile.’

  ‘Did you leave your flat at all on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes. I went to Tescos in the morning. I must have been gone for a couple of hours. After that I came home and did some chores, ironing and stuff. Matthew came round after lunch. We talked about him getting a divorce. We talk about it all the time. I'm worried about his daughter – she's only fourteen – but he says she'll come round. He says his daughter's sure to like me, and we'll get married as soon as his divorce goes through. I mean, we still will, only there won't be a divorce now.’ She frowned and bit her lip. ‘He's a widower, isn't he? I mean, we're free now, aren't we? Everything will be all right now, won't it?’