Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  She returned to her screen. ‘Sorry, my stupid brother came in.’

  ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘I just spoke to my dad. He's cool to drive me over tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It's not that far.’

  ‘Great! I'm packed. What time?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘It'll be dark.’

  ‘That's OK.’

  ‘I'll be at the corner of Belvedere Road and Western Lane at six. How will I know it's you?’

  ‘We'll be in a battered old black van – and don't forget the password!’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Can't wait!’ Lucy logged off instant messenger, closed her account, and shut down her computer. This had to work.

  47

  IDENTIFICATION

  Vernon's aunt bustled into the entry hall, red faced and strident.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ she hailed Geraldine, as though she had just spent hours searching for her. ‘Come on, then, let's get this over with. I'm sure it's all some dreadful mistake. There's no way Vernon would have got himself involved in anything – anything like this.’

  ‘Mrs Middleton, you need to prepare yourself. I'm afraid you're about to view your nephew's body –’

  ‘Now let's not start jumping to conclusions,’ the stout woman's voice boomed across the hallway. ‘Whoever it is you have in here hasn't been identified yet. You can't possibly be sure it's Vernon.’

  ‘I met your nephew twice, and I'm afraid there's no doubt. It's him.’

  ‘Hmmph. Well, come on then, show me.’ She glared as though challenging Geraldine to do her worst.

  ‘I have to warn you, this was not an accidental death and it wasn't a simple murder. He's been damaged.’

  Carol Middleton stared, her eyes wide, her voice suddenly low. ‘You mean – someone interfered with him?’

  ‘Not sexually. But his face has been altered.’

  ‘What?’ Carol frowned, uncomprehending. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The killer mutilated his body. He removed his eyes. Vernon wouldn't have felt anything,’ Geraldine added quickly, regardless of the truth, ‘but you need to be prepared for what you're about to see. And you'll have to decide if you want the body returned to you in its present state for burial – if your sister should see him as he is. His eyelids can be reconstructed, of course, but if the papers get hold of this… ’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Carol's face had lost its ruddy glow. ‘Can we get this over with, please?’ She followed Geraldine submissively into the viewing room and gazed at Vernon's eyeless face, her countenance almost as pale as his.

  ‘Mrs Middleton, can you confirm this is your nephew, Vernon Mitchell?’

  Carol whimpered and her bulky frame shook. ‘It's him, oh God, it's him. What am I going to say to Janice?’ She buried her face in her hands and her voice came out muffled. ‘Take it away, please, take it away.’

  Geraldine covered Vernon's face and steered the crying woman back into the hall. ‘I'm so sorry, Mrs Middleton. We're doing everything we can to find out who committed this terrible crime.’

  ‘Why?’ Carol dropped her hands and stared at Geraldine in bewilderment. ‘Why would anyone do that? Why kill him? And – Why? He was a nice boy. He was so good with my sister. God knows she hasn't got much in her life. What's going to happen to her now? Oh God.’ She broke down in tears.

  Geraldine led her to a chair. ‘Sit down, Mrs Middleton and take your time. You're in shock. It's only natural.’

  ‘How was it?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘Carol Middleton identified him. She took it badly, but that's understandable. He's not a pretty sight.’

  ‘I thought they did a good job on him, considering.’

  ‘But he was her nephew, and he was only a kid.’

  ‘How about you, gov?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Geraldine shrugged. ‘Some seem worse than others, that's all. But it's the same job to be done, so what's next?’

  Vernon's colleague Susie was in the station waiting to be interviewed again. There was a possibility she might be able to give them more information.

  ‘That's one for you, gov,’ the sergeant said, his expression uneasy.

  Geraldine smiled. ‘I would have thought you'd be up for this one. She's an attractive girl. And more to the point, she seemed to like you. Don't you think she might open up to you?’

  ‘Spin me a line, more like. No gov, take it from me, if a girl like that is going to talk sense – which I doubt – it's going to be to another woman.’

  Susie was looking at the door, her lips arranged in a pout, when Geraldine entered the interview room.

  Her face fell but she recovered quickly and greeted Geraldine brightly. ‘Hello. Is the sergeant coming too?’

  ‘No, it's just me, I'm afraid.’

  ‘That's OK.’ Geraldine was relieved that Susie didn't seem put out. She leaned forward. ‘Just girls together, eh?’

  Geraldine smiled thinly. ‘Yes. I want you to think very carefully, Susie. What you have to tell us could make a crucial difference to our investigation into Vernon's murder.’

  ‘It was definitely murder then?’

  ‘Yes. There's no question about it.’

  ‘How horrible. He was a really sweet boy, you know, and he had this thing about me.’ Tears sparkled at the corner of her eyes.

  Geraldine handed her a tissue. ‘You know Vernon came to see us.’ Susie nodded and blew her nose loudly. ‘You know he was worried. He confided in you, didn't he?’ Susie nodded again, with slightly less certainty. ‘Did Vernon ever mention anyone, or say anything about anyone he thought might be threatening him?’ She waited. ‘Was he scared of anyone in particular?’

  ‘Yes. He said he saw a man arguing with that woman who was murdered and then he said someone followed him home. He was scared, proper scared, so I told him to go to the police. I mean, I didn't know who was following him. I told him to see you lot. You're the ones who should've helped him. What was I supposed to do about it?’

  ‘Susie, listen to me. No one's accusing you of not doing everything you could to help Vernon. You were a good friend to him – probably his only friend. As far as we knew, you were the only person he talked to about this.’

  ‘I told you, he had a thing about me. I would've helped him if I could. He was a sweet boy. But what could I do?’

  ‘Susie, this is important. Did Vernon tell you who was frightening him? Did he say anything about the man he saw in the queue? Was that the man he thought followed him home?’

  Susie thought for a moment, chewing her thumb. ‘I don't know.’

  ‘Are you sure there's nothing else Vernon told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is very important now, Susie.’

  ‘Everything's bloody important to you,’ Susie grumbled.

  ‘Just one more question. Did you tell anyone about your conversations with Vernon? About what was worrying him?’ Susie shook her head at once. ‘Are you sure, Susie? You didn't tell anyone?’

  ‘Only Jill at work. It's not as if it was a big secret. We even had a laugh about it,’ she added wretchedly, ‘about Vernon and his stupid ideas. Honestly, we just thought he was being daft. I mean, who'd want to stalk him?’

  ‘Someone did.’

  48

  ARGUMENT

  Ian sometimes felt he was in the wrong job. Far from objecting to viewing bodies at a crime scene, he found that aspect of the job intriguing and wildly exciting because there was always the possibility he might spot a vital clue that would lead to an arrest. Preoccupied with scanning the ground for clues about what had happened, the presence of death almost passed him by, although that was the reason he was there.

  Visits to the morgue, on the other hand, made him physically nauseous. After so many cases, he didn't think he would ever become immune to
the horror of witnessing an autopsy against a brightly lit backdrop, everything focused on cadavers and body parts, as gloved hands deliberately lacerated human flesh while his senses reeled from the stench of antiseptic and death. More experienced officers had reassured him that he would grow accustomed to it, and the horror of his first visit would fade to a dim recollection. Ian never admitted to reliving that horror every time he entered the morgue. As he left, he struggled to shake off the image of Vernon Mitchell's empty eye sockets which had seemed to be staring straight at him, a physical symbol of the sightless dead. With sickening certainty, Ian knew he would have nightmares about it but he couldn't tell anyone. He knew what Bev's response would be.

  He felt a huge sense of relief as he drove away from the station to spend a quiet evening with his girl. Hopefully he could forget all about Vernon Mitchell for a few hours.

  ‘Come on,’ Bev burst out, as soon as he stepped into the hall.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don't want to be late. It's embarrassing. Everyone's going to be there.’

  Ian groaned as he remembered their plans to meet up with friends that evening. He stared at her in dismay, registering her neatly brushed short cropped blonde hair, and carefully made up face. ‘Just give me a moment to get changed –’

  ‘Ian, there's no time. I've been waiting for half an hour. Where have you been?’

  ‘I'll only be a second.’ He ran past her up the stairs, barely trusting himself not to break out in a rage. While she'd been at home seeing to her hair, painting her nails and deciding which blouse to wear, he'd been investigating the murder of a boy whose eyes had been cut out. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell he was doing, with Bev, with his job, with his life. By the time he'd showered and changed he had come to the conclusion that it was a very good thing they were going out. It would help to take his mind off Vernon Mitchell. He hurried downstairs, kissed Bev lightly on the lips, and followed her out of the house. She was still grumbling about being late, but he could tell she didn't really mind.

  ‘We're always late.’

  ‘Can I help it if your boyfriend has such an important job?’ he teased her and she turned away, smiling. It occurred to Ian that she was proud of what he did and an unexpected burst of happiness swept through him. Suddenly he no longer cared about the sightless boy, he felt so full of life and joy.

  The row on their way home came from nowhere. By the time they reached the bedroom, Bev was refusing to speak to him but he knew an outburst wasn't far off. He saw her lower lip trembling. With cold determination he suppressed any impulse to be sympathetic. He was damned if he was going to allow her to manipulate him with her tears this time and besides, it wasn't his fault.

  ‘Why don't you run off back to your precious inspector?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Geraldine.’

  ‘Oh, it's Geraldine now, is it?’

  ‘So you're throwing a tantrum because my boss has a name?’ He knew she'd seize on the word but he was reckless in his misery.

  ‘Tantrum? I'm not a bloody child!’

  ‘Stop behaving like one then.’

  She turned to him, her face contorted in rage. ‘Me? You've got the gall to stand there and accuse me of being childish?’

  ‘It was your word.’ His calmness provoked her, as he knew it would.

  ‘Take a look at yourself! You're nothing but a spoilt brat. Everything always has to go your way, doesn't it? It's always about you and what you want. I ask you one little favour, to be home on time, and do you do it?’ Ian shrugged and made for the door. ‘Don't you walk out on me!’ she shrieked, beside herself with fury.

  It struck Ian that he could do just that, walk out and never come back to her mood swings and her unreasonable demands. He spun round to face her. ‘You think I wouldn't do just that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Walk out!’

  ‘Don't be ridiculous.’ Ian slammed the door on his way out. ‘And don't slam the door,’ she yelled after him.

  As he went downstairs, Ian ignored the sound of her crying. She was putting it on for his benefit. Why else would her tears be audible through the closed door? ‘Not interested,’ he said aloud. ‘Cry all you want. At least you've got eyes left to cry with.’ In a sudden rage he shouted out loud. ‘It's over, you sad bitch. I'm leaving and I won't be back!’

  He drove aimlessly for a while, then parked the car and walked, fast. It began to rain but he kept walking as though to put some distance between himself and Bev, and the blinded boy lying in a drawer in the morgue.

  It was late when Ian returned home. If she was asleep, he vowed he'd leave her for good but Bev was waiting up for him. He barely had time to take in her eyes, swollen with tears, her face blotchy from crying, before she launched herself at him, shuddering in his arms in a paroxysm of sobbing. ‘I'm sorry,’ she mumbled and hiccuped, over and over again. ‘I'm sorry for everything.’

  ‘You don't know the half of it,’ he thought as he held her close and kissed her hair, breathing in the comfort of her familiar scent. ‘I'll never leave you, you know that,’ he whispered.

  ‘And I'll never leave you,’ she replied.

  Ian shivered as he gently kissed her inflamed eyelids.

  49

  SECRETS

  There was a time when they had kept secrets together: the wooden chest hidden away in the garden shed, the hole in the trunk of the old willow tree at the bottom of the garden… Now he had a new secret. It was her secret too, even though she was no longer there to share it. People made a fuss about death but what difference would it make if he added three more bodies to the legions of the dead?

  Everything was approaching its logical conclusion: his own death. Life held no hope of happiness, only the bleak satisfaction of knowing he had settled the score. After the girl had been punished, it had been the turn of the teacher. Only the doctor remained, the doctor who should be using his skill to save life, not waste it. Then it would all be over; the avenger could find peace.

  He'd made sure the deaths couldn't be traced back to him and if his identity was ever discovered it wouldn't matter because he would already be dead. Nevertheless he wouldn't cut corners. Most killers gave themselves away with foolish oversights, avoidable lapses in concentration, but he was too clever for that. He'd always been superior to everyone around him when it came to intelligence, and that was what counted because you could work out how to achieve anything if you were smart enough. Tracking down his quarry had taken time but he had been patient. First the girl, then the teacher. Now only the doctor was left. But not for long.

  After sitting motionless for a moment in his white cellar, lost in memories, he sprang over to the tall white cupboard,

  unlocked it, pulled open a drawer and selected a photograph. The eyes of the dead stared back at him, heedless. She looked so young it made his eyes water.

  ‘It won't be long now,’ he whispered. ‘They'll all be punished for what they did. All of them.’ She would have been pleased. The young had a strong sense of justice. With a sigh he replaced the photograph gently in the drawer of the white cupboard.

  White for a bride. White for a shroud.

  50

  DISSATISFACTION

  ‘So if Susie told her colleague, Jill, who seems to be a bit of a gossip, we can assume the staff all knew about Vernon's suspicions,’ Geraldine told Peterson when they met for a quick lunch in the police station canteen on Sunday.

  ‘Either Susie or Jill were bound to have told them. You know how rumours spread at work.’

  ‘Vernon saw Abigail Kirby in the queue at WH Smith's on Saturday the twenty-fourth of October. Anyone could have spoken to any of the staff between then and the fifth November when he was killed, and found out Vernon had seen her talking to someone just before she was killed. If her killer knew that, and thought Vernon could identify him –’

  ‘And found out Vernon had talked to us –’

  ‘That's nearly two weeks for the staff to
have chattered among themselves and we don't know who else they might have talked to.’ Geraldine took a gulp of coffee. ‘Let's assume for a moment the killer was the man Vernon saw in the queue. He could have talked to staff in the shop and found out he'd been seen talking to his victim shortly before he killed her.’

  Peterson nodded. ‘It's such a pity we can't get a better image from the CCTV. It's useless really.’

  ‘Useless,’ Geraldine agreed. ‘A tall figure in a dark jacket. And of course the security guard didn't see anything.’

  The sergeant nodded and shovelled a mouthful of beans into his mouth. ‘And there's still the other possibility,’ he added after washing his beans down with a swig of tea. He glanced around before meeting Geraldine's gaze and lowering his voice. ‘Hasn't it occurred to you that one of our colleagues could be the killer?’

  ‘You don't really believe that?’

  ‘No, of course I don't. But you always say we have to keep an open mind, and consider every possibility, and all I'm saying is it's possible.’

  They returned to the incident room and Geraldine made her way to her desk to sort through her paperwork before leaving for the afternoon. In some ways she wasn't sorry to be going out. Everyone was irritable. The investigation had been going on for two weeks, but it felt more like two months; not only were they no closer to making an arrest, with their main suspect cleared, but now a witness had been killed. The case couldn't be going much worse and all they had to go on was a shadowy figure on a CCTV film who might have nothing to do with Abigail Kirby's murder at all. He could have been a stranger standing next to her in a queue, cross at being jostled. In any case, their only eye witness was now dead. It seemed hopeless.

  Geraldine had arranged to take her niece out that afternoon but being involved in a case wasn't a good time. She phoned her sister and tried to convince her it might be best to postpone the visit.

  ‘It'll probably be fine,’ she capitulated under pressure from her sister, ‘but if I get called, I'll have to go.’