Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  ‘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

  The 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.’

  He smiled and poured two glasses of Champagne. ‘Do you know, I never even asked if you like Champagne. You might prefer a nice bottle of red. I assumed you'd like Champagne, I don't know why. Was that very remiss of me?’

  ‘No, not at all, this is fine.’ She took a sip. Flowers and Champagne. It could only mean one thing. ‘It's perfect.’

  ‘I owe you an apology –’ Paul began.

  ‘No, really, it's lovely.’

  ‘I wasn't talking about the Champagne, Geraldine. I behaved very badly on Saturday –’

  ‘Oh please, forget about it. I have. And I quite understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, I'm not sure I do entirely, but it doesn't matter. You'll tell me if you want to. I really don't want to interfere. I shouldn't have let my curiosity run away with me like that.’

  Paul gazed at her over the rim of his glass. ‘You're very considerate.’ Geraldine felt an unexpected rush of happiness. ‘I wish I could tell you…’

  ‘Please. There's no hurry.’ Eager not to repeat her earlier faux pas, Geraldine changed the subject and began talking about the case. ‘Sorry, I'm talking about work again. You must be bored of hearing about it.’

  ‘Not at all. If I was you, I probably wouldn't be able to think about anything else right now. After all, a woman has died. You can't just put it out of your mind. So, the husband, Matthew Kirby, is genuinely out of the frame?’

  ‘Yes. We're trying to think of other possibilities.’

  ‘Have you come up with any new leads yet?’

  ‘We've been investigating the garage mechanic who found the body.’

  ‘You wouldn't think he'd want to be associated with finding the body if he'd killed her, but they say murderers always return to the scene of the crime. I don't know if that's true.’

  ‘The witness claimed he'd never seen the dead woman before but it turns out Abigail Kirby took her car to the garage where he works,’ Geraldine went on.

  ‘Aha. So they had met and he lied about it!’ Paul sat forward in his chair, interested.

  ‘Well no, it turned out he was out of the country when she went to the garage so there's nothing to link them and no reason to suspect he's lying about anything. We're going over everything again, but so far we've not found anything.’

  ‘Here's a question for you then. Do you think a woman could have murdered Abigail Kirby? Only if it wasn't the husband, maybe it was his girlfriend who killed her?’

  Geraldine considered the suggestion. ‘She was certainly desperate to marry him so I suppose that's a motive because Abigail Kirby had refused to agree to a divorce.’

  ‘She couldn't stop him divorcing her.’

  ‘No, but according to Matthew Kirby she'd threatened to take his children away, turn them against him, if he went ahead and left her. She saw it as breaking up the family.’ Paul's fingers tightened around his glass and his face grew distant, inward looking. Geraldine held her breath. It was too late to recall her words. ‘What do you think?’ She threw the question back at him. ‘You examined the body. Could those injuries have been inflicted by a woman?’

  He nodded slowly, his attention returning to their discussion. ‘It's possible of course.’

  ‘But we're up against the same problem, because if Matthew Kirby didn't leave Charlotte alone, and they were together all the time on Saturday afternoon, she couldn't have done it either.’

  ‘Unless they were in it together,’ Paul suggested. Their eyes met across the table. It was possible.

  ‘She was a theatre nurse before she moved to Kent, so she might have had access to surgical equipment,’ Geraldine said.

  ‘In that case she'd have known how to use it.’

  ‘He could have arrived at Charlotte's flat –’

  ‘At one twenty.’

  ‘He picked her up and they drove back to Harchester together –’

  ‘Keeping to side streets to avoid being spotted. Perhaps he even deliberately exceeded the limit as he drove past the speed camera on his way there, knowing his vehicle would be picked up –’

  ‘To back up his alibi.’

  ‘And they killed Abigail together. But where?’ Paul shook his head and she went on. ‘They concealed the body – we don't know where that was either – and that night before he went home, Matthew took her to the recreation ground.’

  ‘Maybe the body was hidden in the boot of his car,’ Paul said. ‘He could have driven straight to the recreation ground when he left Charlotte.’

  Geraldine shook her head. ‘I don't think so. SOCOs have been over his car, and there would have been a lot of blood. No, we still don't know where she was killed or how she was moved. Or why her tongue was removed in that macabre way. In fact we don't really know anything.’

  Paul still seemed genuinely interested in the idea. ‘But the two of them could have been in it together. What about her car?’

  ‘She doesn't have one.’

  ‘She could have hired one?’

  ‘It's possible, I suppose. We could check.’ Geraldine finished her glass of wine. ‘I can't tell you how much I appreciate being able to talk to you like this, but do stop me if you're bored. I mean, I have to work on the case, but you're not responsible for finding out who killed Abigail Kirby –’

  ‘No, but I do feel a responsibility towards the people I examine. I know they're just dead bodies now, but they were living people o
nce, and someone has to care about what happened to them.’

  ‘Yes,’ Geraldine agreed. ‘Someone has to care.’ Their eyes met again across the table and he held her gaze for a few seconds. Paul looked away first. He raised the bottle and poured the last few drops. As he put it down on the table Geraldine noticed him glancing at his watch.

  ‘I think I'd better be off soon,’ she said quickly. ‘I've got an early start tomorrow as usual.’

  ‘We should do this again,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes. That would be nice.’ They had suddenly become very formal. They said goodnight there at the table, and Geraldine left. When she looked back Paul was still sitting there, staring forlornly into his glass.

  40

  VISITOR

  In the end Evie laid the table herself, grumbling all the while. ‘Talk about spoilt.’ Lucy and Ben ignored her and carried on watching the television. Now their father was home, they all knew there was no longer any pressing need for Evie to stay and her threat to tell their father had lost its clout; Matthew always sided with his children.

  ‘Why are we eating in the dining room anyway?’ Ben asked. ‘Why can't we eat in the kitchen?’

  ‘Mum used to let us eat in front of the telly,’ Lucy added.

  ‘Your father's bringing a friend home for supper.’ Evie spoke sharply. ‘Don't let him down.’

  ‘What friend?’ Lucy asked.

  Evie shrugged. ‘Someone from work, he said.’

  ‘I bet it's her.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Ben kicked his sister.

  ‘None of your squabbling in front of your father. I won't have you showing yourselves up in front of his work colleague.’

  ‘Work colleague,’ Lucy echoed sourly. Brother and sister glared at one another and Evie went to clatter around in the dining room, laying the table.

  ‘Lucy, come and give me a hand,’ they heard her call. Lucy turned up the volume on the television. After a while Evie came back in and sat with them.

  None of them heard Matthew come in. ‘Lucy, Ben, Evie!’ Only Evie looked up. Lucy and Ben sat glued to the television. ‘Lucy, Ben,’ Matthew repeated, more loudly this time. ‘I want you to meet Charlotte.’ Matthew pushed the woman at his side further into the room so that she was standing slightly in front of him.

  Ben heard Lucy's intake of breath and looked up. ‘Hi dad –’ He broke off and stared at the blonde woman hesitating in the doorway. She was pretty, he decided, but Lucy's words rattled around in his head. ‘He's seeing someone else. A woman called Charlotte. That's why he wants a divorce. So he can marry Charlotte, whoever she is…’ He glanced at Lucy who was sitting pressed against the back of her chair, her knees clutched to her chest, staring at the floor. Ben looked past the blonde woman to his dad who was gazing at him, eyes pleading. Ben felt his face flush with anger. His father had no right to look at him like that. What was he thinking of, bringing that woman into the house?

  ‘Good evening.’ Evie stood up with a smile and held out her hand. ‘It's very nice to meet you, Charlotte.’ Lucy coughed loudly and Ben stared at his feet. ‘Supper's ready,’ Evie went on brightly. ‘This way. Come along, children.’

  ‘We're not children,’ Lucy muttered as she and Ben clambered to their feet and followed the adults into the dining room.

  Evie had folded pink paper serviettes in five wine glasses beside five tumblers for water, and a small vase of pink flowers stood in the middle of the table.

  ‘Why is it so posh?’ Lucy asked loudly as they all sat down. ‘What's all the fuss about?’ No one answered. Ben squirmed uncomfortably on his seat. He wished Lucy would drop it, at least until their father's friend had gone.

  ‘I've made fish,’ Evie said. ‘Salmon. I hope that's all right with you, Charlotte.’

  ‘I hate fish,’ Lucy said.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ Charlotte said at the same time. Evie disappeared into the kitchen and no one spoke for a few seconds.

  Matthew poured some wine for Charlotte. Lucy pushed her glass forward but her father ignored it.

  ‘So, Charlotte,’ Evie said when they were all settled with their food, ‘you work with my brother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlotte smiled anxiously at Matthew.

  ‘What is it you do exactly?’

  ‘I'm –’ Charlotte hesitated.

  ‘Charlotte's a receptionist,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Can't she speak for herself?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Lucy.’ Evie frowned.

  ‘I've known Charlotte for five years,’ Matthew said. ‘We met in York and –’ His voice tailed off and he glanced at Charlotte who smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Since your mother died –’

  ‘Two weeks ago,’ Lucy interrupted.

  ‘Charlotte's been a good friend to me. At a time like this we all need support –’ He stopped and put down his knife and fork. ‘Lucy, Ben, I'd like you to get to know Charlotte. I know when you know her better –’ Ben glared at him and Lucy scowled at her plate.

  Evie stared at Matthew then she turned to Charlotte with a bright smile. ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘Thank you. The salmon's lovely, Evie.’

  The evening seemed to drag on interminably but at last Matthew offered to take Charlotte home.

  ‘Will you be coming home tonight, dad?’ Lucy asked loudly. Ben bit his lip and Evie glared at her niece. Matthew didn't answer but followed Charlotte who had hurried from the room.

  As they drove off, Charlotte burst into tears.

  ‘Oh lord, what's the matter now?’ Matthew demanded. ‘You've been nagging me to introduce you. What did you expect? I could hardly come straight out with it and tell them we're getting married, could I? February, that's what we agreed. Let's leave it until after Christmas to tell them. That gives them two months to get used to you. Then –’

  ‘They hated me,’ Charlotte burst out. ‘They'll never accept me.’ She blew her nose noisily. ‘Did you see the way Lucy looked at me? She knows, doesn't she?’ Matthew drove in silence, his face rigid. ‘She knows about us.’

  ‘They'll have to find out sooner or later. It'll all be all right, you'll see. Just give them some time.’

  ‘It's never going to be all right, Matthew. They're never going to accept me.’

  ‘They'll have to accept you when we're married,’ Matthew replied grimly.

  ‘You didn't have to be so mean,’ Ben told Lucy after their father and Charlotte had made their awkward goodbyes and left. Auntie Evie was in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher.

  ‘Now do you believe me? You saw the way she was looking at him,’ Lucy hissed.

  ‘Oh my God, don't you ever shut up?’

  ‘If it wasn't for that bitch, mum might still be here.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Auntie Evie came in. ‘That's everything,’ she said, sitting down with a sigh. Without a word Lucy stood up and left the room.

  ‘Goodnight, Auntie Evie,’ Ben said and scurried after his sister. He followed her into her room. Lucy was sitting on her bed, her legs stretched out in front of her, a bulging rucksack on her thighs.

  ‘Get out,’ she said amiably to Ben. He took her mild manner as an invitation to go in and slumped down on the floor leaning against the door.

  ‘What's the rucksack for?’

  ‘I'm leaving.’

  ‘What do you mean, leaving?’

  ‘Leaving. I'm leaving home.’

  ‘Don't be silly. Where will you go?’

  ‘I've got a friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Just a friend. My best friend actually.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I can't say. I can't trust anyone else.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Ben stood up. ‘You're such a cow, Lucy.’ He went out, slamming the door behind him.

  41

  CLEAN UP

  He gazed around, a bloodied corpse beneath an oil cloth the only blot on the pure white world he had created. It was a shame about the dark str
eaks of blood staining the walls and floor, but it couldn't be helped. He remembered how he had scrubbed Abigail Kirby's blood from the walls until he had exposed the bare brick beneath the paint. Now he would have to do it all over again, but he didn't really mind; he was glad of the distraction. It was hard work, but he was nearing his goal and soon it would all be over.

  The boy hadn't been part of the scheme but his death had been necessary. He had seen too much and had become a threat. If the boy had seen him around and recognised him, the plan could have been ruined. That was unthinkable. He had enough on his plate without wasting energy worrying about someone who got in the way. The boy had brought it on himself.

  Cold anger began to swell in his chest because there was no getting away from the fact that it was a nuisance. It should have been the doctor on the table. Now he had another corpse, a boy who had nothing to do with him at all but had just interfered in something that was none of his business. Once he'd moved the body, he would fold the white oil cloth and put it back in the cupboard, and clean the walls and floor again. Only then would he be able to relax. It wasn't important where he left the body. It made no difference to anything. The room was perfect apart from the boy and the splashes of blood on the walls and floor making curious patterns like clumsy grafitti. Soon it would be clean again.

  The basement was a large area. When he had finished laying the lino on the floor, there were the walls down the narrow stairs and the ceiling to paint as well as the walls of the cellar space itself, and after that the banisters down the stairs and the tall metal cupboard. It had looked beautiful when he'd finished, but it needed maintenance. Abigail Kirby had made a ghastly mess, and now the boy had blundered in with unfortunate consequences for them both: the boy had to die and as for him, he had to go to the trouble of cleaning up the cellar all over again.

  This time he bought the paint in a different location. It was easy enough to find the right paint – white paint was white paint and he'd had the foresight to keep an empty tin in the cupboard so he could find a perfect match, and he knew its name: Brilliant White. He drove out of town to avoid being recognised in the store. As long as he was careful, there would be no problem.