Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  ‘We have a warrant to search the Kirby property,’ the DCI announced. ‘Let's see if that throws up anything new. But first, what else have we found out?’ She looked at Peterson who had been researching Matthew Kirby's affairs.

  ‘Well, he's run up some debts since moving. He's been taking money out of the joint account he had with his wife, about thirty thousand pounds since he left York, plus he owes on two credit cards in his own name, that's another fifteen thousand pounds.’

  ‘Did his wife know?’ someone asked.

  Kathryn Gordon thought for a moment. ‘Funding Charlotte Fox's move?’ she suggested.

  ‘None of this gives him a motive for killing his wife, deliberately mutilating her body, and then disposing of her where she was only found by chance,’ Geraldine pointed out, irritated that they were focusing all their attention on Matthew Kirby when she was impatient to explore other possibilities. ‘Surely we're looking for someone more resolute and single-minded than a man who was too weak to leave his wife?’

  The meeting broke up shortly afterwards and Geraldine and Peterson set off to question Matthew Kirby again.

  ‘Charlotte Fox is a good looking woman,’ Peterson commented as they drove.

  ‘So assuming Matthew Kirby wanted to leave his wife for her, why didn't he just walk out?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘There could be any number of reasons. For a start he was worried about the effect on his children. I don't think he wanted to feel responsible for breaking up his family. Lucy's at a vulnerable age and Ben's very close to Matthew.’

  ‘So you're saying he killed his wife to keep his family together? Well I'm afraid I'm still missing something here, because that makes no sense to me at all.’

  ‘Of course it doesn't make sense. Only a maniac would mutilate a corpse. You can't expect to make sense of it.’

  ‘If he couldn't even bring himself to leave her, how could he have killed her?’

  ‘You really don't believe he's our man, do you?’

  ‘I've already said I don't think he did it.’

  ‘Lucy Kirby's convinced it was him.’

  ‘Lucy Kirby's a confused teenager.’

  ‘What's your take on it all then, gov?’

  ‘Let's start with what we actually know. Abigail Kirby was killed some time on Saturday afternoon, and her body was left by the recreation ground, hidden in the trees, presumably during the night. So far there's nothing to indicate the identity of the killer.’

  ‘We know she wasn't killed at the recreation ground. Her body was just dumped there. If Mr Whittaker hadn't been out flying his kite on Sunday morning the body might not have been discovered for days, maybe even weeks.’

  ‘But the killer had made no attempt to conceal the body. Sooner or later it was going to be found. Didn't he care?’ Geraldine frowned. ‘We don't really know anything about the circumstances of her death at all, do we? We don't even know where she was killed. What about motive?’

  ‘She seems to have made enemies at school.’

  ‘Some of the staff have been there for years. Some hostility to the changes she introduced were inevitable. But is a school teacher – or anyone else for that matter – going to kill and mutilate their new boss for making changes? We're agreed that our killer is insane, but isn't that pushing it a bit?’

  ‘What sort of changes?’

  ‘Does it matter? She was bound to be making changes that the staff resented, it goes with the territory, but how many people hate their boss? And how many people end up killing them? They go home and forget about it until the next day. They grumble and gossip, or look for other jobs, but it's hardly the sort of resentment that erupts in grisly murder. If everyone who didn't get on with their boss killed them, there'd be no one left! And this was hardly a straightforward killing, even as violent murders go.’

  ‘We're looking for a monster then, not a man,’ Peterson agreed.

  ‘A monster walking the streets, looking as normal as anyone else.’

  ‘A monster disguised as a man. We could be writing the front page for the tabloids!’

  They drew up outside Matthew Kirby's house. ‘Back to the motive,’ Peterson said as he switched off the engine. ‘A husband forced to choose between his career and his children. He must have resented his wife for that, perhaps even hated her. And he was desperate for a divorce. Charlotte Fox must be getting on for thirty. How long was she going to wait for him?’

  They fell silent as they approached the house.

  Matthew Kirby looked surprised to see them when he opened the door, but soon recovered his composure. ‘Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ His blue eyes peered down at her from beneath enviably long lashes and she understood how Charlotte Fox might find him attractive. At the same time she was surprised by this relaxed and courteous greeting from a recently and violently bereaved husband.

  ‘Mr Kirby we'd like to come in and take a look around here.’ She held out the warrant. Matthew Kirby was no longer smiling but he stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Of course, Inspector. Feel free. It's not as if I can stop you, even if I wanted to. My wife has – had – her own office in the back,’ he went on. ‘I expect you'll want to look in there, but I'm afraid I don't have a key. She liked to keep her work private, even from me.’

  Geraldine easily selected the key to Abigail Kirby's office from the bunch that had been found in the victim's jacket pocket. She stepped inside, followed by the sergeant who held up a hand when Matthew Kirby attempted to follow them in.

  ‘We'll do this alone, Sir, if you don't mind,’ Peterson said before he closed the door.

  The room was tidy, the furniture and décor new and expensive: one wall was covered in polished wooden shelving protected by glass doors, a solid mahogany desk ran almost the entire width of the room in front of floor-length dark red velvet curtains, and a faint scent of polish hung in the air. Every file was labelled, alphabetically arranged and colour-coded. Geraldine pictured Abigail Kirby scanning documents, signing letters and making decisions in the hushed sanctity of her personal space. The atmosphere was different from her public office at the school with its thin carpet and metal filing cabinets. This space belonged to Abigail Kirby; yet it remained impersonal.

  Geraldine checked through the drawers of Abigail Kirby's desk. None were locked. A desk diary contained meetings and appointments all relating to her school, all neatly recorded in legible longhand. There were no coded messages, no inexplicable asterisks or isolated letters or symbols, no unidentified telephone numbers or email addresses. It appeared Abigail Kirby kept her room locked so that she could work uninterrupted, not to hide any dark secrets that might lead them to her killer. Geraldine felt a fleeting sympathy for the dead woman. She might have been unpopular, but she was undeniably dedicated to her work. Glancing up, Geraldine caught a glimpse of her face reflected in gleaming glass and wondered what her own work colleagues would say about her if she died unexpectedly and they went rummaging through her flat.

  Peterson pulled a set of photo albums down from the book shelves and rifled through them.

  ‘Found anything?’ Geraldine asked, looking up.

  ‘Some old school photos.’ He gazed at picture after picture of Abigail Kirby seated in front of a whole school, or posing with different groups of pupils. At one stage in her career she had worked with girls and had been photographed standing with a group who looked like sixth formers, although it was impossible to tell these days. Several of them looked as though they were wearing make-up and gazed at the camera with knowing expressions, perhaps flirting with the photographer. A girl stood next to Abigail Kirby, her hair arranged in a long fringe. She would have been exceptionally pretty if it wasn't for a large angry birth mark disfiguring her left cheek.

  ‘Nothing here,’ Geraldine said, straightening up.

  ‘Nor here.’ Peterson replaced the albums on the shelf.

  There was no sign of a sharp blade in the house, apart from the usual kitchen knives, all too blunt to
have been used in Abigail Kirby's mutilation, and no wooden knife block with one blade missing. A cursory search of wardrobes, laundry baskets, washroom and rubbish bins, revealed no bloodstained clothes or discarded gloves. Matthew Kirby watched Geraldine with a puzzled frown as she rifled through the shirts in his bedroom.

  ‘What are you looking for, exactly?’ he asked. She didn't answer.

  Ben Kirby was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, his eyes bloodshot, as though he had been crying. He didn't notice them at first.

  ‘Hello, Ben.’

  ‘Have you found out what happened to mum? Who did it?’ He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve.

  ‘We're still looking into it, Ben.’

  ‘You will find out what happened, won't you?’

  ‘Yes, Ben. We'll find out.’

  ‘And you'll tell us, won't you? We want to know who…’ He turned his face to the wall.

  ‘We'll tell you anything we can as soon as we know it, I promise you.’ Geraldine left her sergeant to question the boy gently, while Matthew Kirby stood nervously watching.

  They found Lucy, glued to her computer. ‘Go away!’ she yelled. She minimised her screen view without looking round.

  ‘Lucy, it's the police,’ Matthew said gently.

  She spun around then. ‘Have you come to arrest him?’

  ‘We're pursuing our enquiries,’ Geraldine told her.

  ‘Pursue them with him then, because he's the one who did it, not me. I can't help you. If I'd seen him in a blood stained shirt, clutching a knife, I'd tell you, but he's too clever for that.’ The girl folded her arms and glared at them, waiting for them to leave. As Matthew sighed and closed the door, Geraldine caught a glimpse of Lucy turning back to her computer.

  That evening Geraldine thought about Lucy, isolated in her bedroom. Motherless. On a sudden impulse she knocked back the rest of her glass of wine and went to her bedroom. Fine dust made her sneeze as she lifted the buff folder out of its box. Slowly she slid an envelope from the folder, opened it and pulled out a yellowing birth certificate.

  Place of Birth – Wexford Nursing Home Ashford Kent

  Name and Surname – Erin Blake

  Sex – Female

  Name and Surname of Father – blank

  Name Surname and Maiden Name of Mother – Millicent Blake

  Occupation – Shop Assistant

  Occupation of Father – blank

  Where Registered – Ashford District

  Geraldine stared at the document for a few seconds before she registered that the piece of paper in her hand was her own birth certificate.

  Her name was Erin Blake.

  ‘Why did you hide it from me all that time?’ Geraldine asked out loud, knowing she would never hear the answer. But she had opened the box. There was no going back.

  Her name was Erin Blake.

  The box file contained a few faded baby photographs and a small brown envelope. She shook the envelope and a tiny discoloured baby tooth fell into her lap. Geraldine stared at it in surprise, touched that her adoptive mother had kept her first tooth. She realised that tears were slithering down her face, dripping into the box.

  There were no papers about her adoption but she thought she would be able to trace the adoption agency that held her records. She had a name and an address: Wexford Nursing Home in Ashford. She ran into the living room and turned on her laptop. A quick search revealed a database of homes for mothers and babies. Wexford had closed down in 1984. That avenue was closed, but she would find another way to discover the truth. It was what she had trained to do. She located the agency that had arranged adoptions for Wexford Nursing Home and applied for access to her adoption file. Her finger poised over the key before she tapped it once. Send. There was nothing more she could do now at one o'clock in the morning.

  ‘My name is Erin Blake,’ she whispered to herself. ‘My name is Erin Blake.’ It didn't make her feel any better.

  17

  Arrangements

  Half way through the morning Geraldine received a response to the email she had sent to the adoption agency. She picked up the phone and paused before replacing it firmly on the cradle. She was crazy to even consider making the call from her desk in the Incident Room.

  ‘I'm nipping out,’ she told the duty sergeant who nodded and returned to the duty roster he was working on.

  A chill breeze made Geraldine shiver as she wandered outside, unlocked her car and drove away from the centre of town in the direction of the recreation ground. She parked in a quiet side road and fumbled with her phone where she had saved the number of the adoption agency.

  ‘Hello? I'd like – I'm calling to enquire about –’ It hadn't occurred to her beforehand that a simple request for information might be so difficult to make. She took a deep breath. ‘I was adopted and I want to find out about – it.’ The words were out. With an overwhelming sense of relief Geraldine allowed the voice at the other end of the line to take control. The woman asking questions was kind but dispassionate. This was clearly a routine enquiry. Geraldine was suddenly aware of how cold she felt and was surprised to see her free hand trembling against the steering wheel.

  She forced herself to speak slowly and calmly. ‘Are you able to access my file now, or shall I call back?’

  ‘I'm afraid we can't disclose any details over the phone.’

  ‘What can I do then? I must know, whatever you have. I'm entitled to know what's on my file.’

  ‘Of course you're entitled to that information, but you need to make an appointment to discuss your case with a social worker. I can book an appointment now.’

  ‘I can't possibly come to the agency. I don't have time.’ Geraldine knew she was being ridiculous. The woman was only doing her job. But having psyched herself up to make the call, Geraldine was swept up in a raging tide of impatience. She did her best to persuade the woman to fetch her file then and there, explaining that she was a detective inspector involved in a murder enquiry who couldn't be spared from the investigation. ‘I just want to know why I was adopted,’ she insisted, but the woman remained adamant. Adoption files were only discussed face to face.

  ‘I'm sorry, Geraldine, but it's for your own protection. These situations can be very emotional so it's best to have appropriate support on-hand, just in case you feel you want to talk to someone. Many adoptees – most – are happy to discover their history, but sometimes the situation can be difficult or even upsetting.’

  Rigid with disappointment, Geraldine made an appointment to discover her birth history, face to face with a stranger.

  Ian Peterson glanced up as Geraldine returned to the Incident Room and she felt a sudden longing to escape to a new location where no one knew her, a busy city where she could be consumed by work and no one would know or care anything about her. She thought of the private office in Abigail Kirby's home and sighed.

  ‘We off to see what we can find out then, gov?’

  Geraldine nodded, thinking that she hadn't found out anything about why she had been adopted. Only a social worker in an adoption agency was privy to that information. A social worker and Geraldine's birth mother. If her birth mother was still alive.

  ‘Come on, then, Ian. Let's see if David Whittaker can tell us anything we don't already know.’ Neither of them expected the witness who had discovered Abigail Kirby's body to have any new information for them, but he had been too shocked to give a detailed statement at the scene and they had to go through the motions and question him. There was always a possibility he might remember something that would help them in their enquiries.

  David Whittaker worked in a garage near the station. He thanked them for interviewing him at work. ‘I don't want my wife to find out what happened. This way, no one needs to know. I know it's daft but the wife gets so nervous about, well, everything really. I suppose it's bound to come out. I've sworn Zac to secrecy,’ he shrugged, ‘but you know what kids are. She's going to find out sooner or later isn't she? On
ce she knows what happened, she'll give me hell. She thinks I let the kid take unnecessary risks, but it doesn't do any good, mollycoddling him like she does. And it wasn't my fault I happened on that dead woman, is it?’

  ‘I can't see that you let your son take any unnecessary risk –’

  ‘I didn't, but you try telling her that. She'll never let me take him to the rec ground again, and I've bought him a new kite. Where the hell else are we going to fly it? I mean, I'm taking him there and that's that, but there's no point stirring up a hornet's nest if I can possibly avoid it. I know she's only trying to protect the boy, but he can't stay in the house all the time, stuck in front of the telly. It's not healthy for a young kid. And it's not as if he saw anything. He was waiting on the grass when I went into the trees looking for the kite and that's when I found it. Her, I should say. It gave me quite a turn. I mean, you don't expect to find dead bodies lying around like that, do you?’

  Shocked into taciturnity when he had stumbled on Abigail Kirby's corpse, David Whittaker had recovered from his alarm and was eager to talk. But for all his chatter, he had nothing new to tell them. ‘All I wanted to do was get my boy home. I couldn't think about anything else.’

  ‘We know the body had been lying there overnight when you found her,’ Peterson said. ‘But killers often wait around to watch what happens so it's possible you may have seen him. Can you remember anyone hanging around the area?’

  ‘No. As far as I can remember, it was deserted, apart from me and Zac.’

  ‘Did you notice any cars parked along the road when you arrived?’ The mechanic shook his head. ‘No cars at all?’

  ‘There might've been, but I don't remember. I usually notice cars,’ he waved his dirty rag at the one he was working on. ‘But to be honest, I was more concerned about my boy. I'm sorry I can't be more help.’

  They thanked David Whittaker and left, disappointed but not surprised.

  ‘That was a waste of time,’ Peterson blew out his cheeks and crossed his arms as he sat back irritably in his seat. Geraldine stared out of the window, thinking about David Whittaker and his son, excited about flying a kite together. She wondered who her own father was, and whether he was still alive. Perhaps even her birth mother didn't know his identity.