Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  ‘We can't expect this to make sense as we know it,’ Geraldine said, ‘but we have to try and understand what's going on here, because there is a kind of logic to it. What is he thinking as he carries out this mutilation? And why is he doing it?’ She didn't add the question uppermost in all their minds: what did the killer have in mind for his next victim?

  ‘We haven't found the tongue, or the eyes,’ Kathryn Gordon pointed out. ‘Is he keeping them as trophies?’

  ‘Jesus,’ the sergeant turned away again.

  ‘Perhaps we're looking for a modern Frankenstein, collecting body parts for a new creature,’ Paul suggested lightly.

  ‘Victor Frankenstein robbed graves, and gathered human material from corpses. He didn't go around killing people for their body parts.’ Geraldine said sharply.

  ‘Let's stick to the point, shall we?’ Kathryn Gordon said. ‘This isn't a seminar on Gothic literature.’ She turned to Paul. ‘What was the time of death?’

  ‘Sometime around midnight on Thursday night, between eleven and one. I can't be more specific than that.’

  ‘Which makes it around seven hours before he was found,’ the DCI said.

  ‘And almost a week after the party at Gary's where he was last seen alive,’ Geraldine added.

  The DCI turned to Paul, suddenly brisk. ‘You'll let us have a full report as soon as you can.’ She was ready to leave.

  He inclined his head. ‘And the tox report when it comes through.’

  ‘So there's no sign of a struggle?’ Peterson asked. ‘Seems odd, doesn't it, with a young male victim.’

  The pathologist shook his head. ‘He was tied up,’ he pointed out.

  ‘But before that?’

  ‘He could have been knocked out before he had a chance to fight back. He'd certainly consumed a lot of alcohol and, unless he was a hardened drinker, he would have been virtually incapable of walking, let alone placing a punch.’

  ‘Is it possible he was sedated?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘With something like chloroform, you mean?’ Geraldine said.

  Paul considered. ‘It's possible, but any trace would have evaporated by the time he was found. Remember, he was found hours later, in the open air.’

  ‘Enough speculation,’ Kathryn Gordon said. ‘We'll discuss the possibilities again when we have the report.’

  As soon as they arrived back at the police station, Kathryn Gordon held a meeting to bring the rest of the team up to speed.

  ‘Is it a coincidence that Vernon Mitchell was killed – possibly by the same person that killed Abigail Kirby – shortly after he gave evidence pertaining to Abigail Kirby's murder? Evidence that, so far, hasn't given us any useful leads. It's too much of a stretch to think his death was a coincidence. All of this suggests the murderer knew that Vernon had been to the police.’

  ‘He was killed to stop him from identifying the murderer. It all points to the figure we can't identify on the CCTV tape,’ Peterson said excitedly. ‘We have to track that figure down.’ A couple of constables exchanged a glance. They had been painstakingly checking all the CCTV footage from the shopping centre, while a team had been out on foot, questioning shoppers and staff. No one had been able to recognise the shadowy figure in grey.

  ‘His eyes were removed because of what he'd seen,’ Geraldine was thinking aloud. ‘Was Abigail Kirby's tongue cut out because of something she'd said?’

  ‘That's stupid,’ someone replied.

  ‘Insane, yes, but not stupid. It's perfectly logical. Don't forget we're dealing with someone insane enough not only to kill but to mutilate his – or her – victims. A killer who cuts out a woman's tongue, or a boy's eyes, while they're dying, isn't following any normal rules.’

  ‘Are we saying that whoever killed Vernon Mitchell knew he'd been here to talk to us?’ Kathryn Gordon asked. There was a change in the atmosphere now they had something positive to work on. Everyone Vernon might have spoken to would be interviewed again. Geraldine and Peterson discussed the possibilities over a coffee as they waited for the duty sergeant to post a schedule for the day.

  Peterson was worried. ‘Vernon might have talked to any number of people, gov. And he could have been overheard talking about it to his mates or his colleagues at work.’

  ‘Yes, he might've told anyone.’

  Neither of them raised the only other possibility, that the killer hadn't found out about Vernon's visits to the police station through anything Vernon had said. If that was the case it meant they were looking for someone who was working alongside them on the murder team.

  45

  STORE

  The shopping centre was deserted as Geraldine and Peterson walked through it early on Saturday morning.

  ‘It must be so boring, working here,’ the sergeant muttered.

  ‘I suppose it's better later on, when it gets busier. It's only nine o'clock.’

  ‘Yes, the great unwashed are all at home sleeping off their hangovers. Lucky sods.’

  A balding man in a WH Smith's uniform came up to them and introduced himself as Tim Morris, the store manager. ‘You must be the police inspector who phoned. Thank you for coming in so early. It can get a bit manic here later on.’ He glanced around the shop floor. ‘You can never tell. A lot depends on the weather. Who wants to be stuck indoors on a lovely sunny day? But when it rains they all troop in.’

  ‘I expect it helps to pass the time, when you're busy,’ Peterson said.

  The manager gave him a quick, nervous smile. ‘I've managed to get cover for today. One of my regular staff is coming in and taking a weekday off in lieu. I can't be short staffed on a Saturday, not if I can help it anyway. We're already understaffed as it is.’

  Geraldine cut in. ‘We'd like to speak to everyone who worked with Vernon, individually.’

  The manager's face fell. ‘Poor Vernon. What a terrible thing to happen. It was murder, you said?’

  ‘I'm afraid there's little doubt about that, but we don't have any details as yet.’

  ‘He was such a nice, unassuming, young man. Of course we're all happy to talk to you, if you think there's any chance we could say something that might help your investigation. I've put my little office at your disposal. It's not very grand, I'm afraid, but it's private. If you'd like to come this way.’

  He led them up two narrow flights of stairs to a small whitewashed room with several slightly battered office chairs and a desk with a computer humming on it.

  ‘Were any of your staff particularly close to Vernon?’ Geraldine asked as she sat down. ‘Did he have any particular friends here?’

  The manager considered before shaking his head. ‘I've got to say we all genuinely work well together, that's our ethos here. We're a strong team.’

  ‘Were you aware of any concerns he had recently? We're particularly interested in the two weeks before he died. Did he mention anything that was worrying him?’

  ‘No. He seemed perfectly fine.’

  ‘And you're sure there's no one here he might have confided in?’

  ‘Well, everyone here gets on pretty well, by and large. Most of my staff have been here for several years. Of course Vernon was relatively new, and not on the permanent staff.’

  ‘He had no particular friends then?’

  ‘No. But I'm sure if he'd been worried about anything he'd have spoken to me. I'm the manager.’

  To begin with, talking to the other members of staff proved heavy going. They started by interviewing Bobby, the other young male shop assistant who seemed the most likely to have struck up a friendship with Vernon. The only other male shop assistant, Simon, was in his forties, like the manager. Bobby didn't appear particularly upset by his colleague's death and was almost too intimidated to answer when Geraldine asked him about Vernon.

  ‘He was all right.’

  ‘Were you friendly with him?’

  ‘He was all right,’ he repeated.

  ‘Were you mates?’ Peterson pressed the point.

  ‘W
hat, me and Vernon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bobby deliberated for a moment. ‘No.’

  The next interviewee, Jill, was more forthcoming. ‘Vernon fancied Susie,’ she told them before they had even posed their first question.

  ‘Susie?’

  ‘Susie Downes. She works here. Vernon was mad about her. If anyone knows anything about Vernon, it's Susie. I mean, there was nothing going on between them, not like that, he's hardly her type. Or he wasn't, I should say. But they used to chat a lot. Wherever she was, he'd pop up sooner or later. Poor Vernon. He wasn't a bad sort, a bit quiet, not very confident, but decent enough. He wasn't the sort you'd expect to be caught up in anything like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Tim said Vernon was murdered.’ She gazed at them, wide-eyed. ‘Do you think – I mean, it could have been any of us, couldn't it? Do you think someone's out to get us?’

  ‘No. This was personal, Jill.’ Geraldine paused. ‘Did you know that Vernon had been to see us?’

  ‘No. What's going on?’

  ‘I'm afraid we can't give you that information as yet. It's still a live investigation.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘I'm sorry?’

  ‘I'll go and get Susie, shall I?’

  ‘Thank you. And if you do think of anything about Vernon that might help us in our enquiries, please call this number. Ask for me, Detective Inspector Steel.’

  Susie was a platinum blonde girl with knowing eyes. She must have been waiting just outside because she came in straightaway. She sized the sergeant up as soon as she walked in and directed most of her answers his way, regardless of which of the two police officers had asked the question.

  ‘Susie, we understand you were friendly with Vernon Mitchell?’

  ‘Poor Vernon. Jill told me. It was murder, wasn't it? Who would want to kill Vernon? He was harmless.’ She sat down, crossed her legs and glanced up at Peterson under her long eyelashes. ‘He had a bit of a thing for me – a lot of boys do for some reason – but he was a really sweet boy. He didn't deserve to be killed.’

  ‘No one does,’ Geraldine replied bluntly. Susie continued to stare at Peterson who looked at the floor. ‘Susie, did Vernon talk about anything that was worrying him recently? Only he came to see us –’

  ‘About that bloke he saw in the queue, having a bit of a barney with his old headmistress, was it? Good. I told him to tell you lot, because I could see he was worried –’ She broke off suddenly and slapped her palms against her cheeks. ‘Oh my God, he was killed because of that, wasn't he? And it's all my fault!’

  ‘Your fault?’

  ‘Yes, don't you get it? He only came to see you because I told him to. He never would have told you about that man otherwise. And that's why he was killed. It's all my fault.’ She dabbed at her eyes, checking the black smudges on her tissue. ‘It's my fault, isn't it? What shall I do?’ The sergeant didn't answer.

  Geraldine handed Susie a card. ‘If you can think of anything else that might help us please talk to one of our constables.’

  Susie nodded her thanks. She was crying in earnest now, genuinely upset, as if the truth of the death was only now finally striking her. ‘He was a nice guy – just a nice guy.’

  It didn't take long to interview the rest of the staff. None of them had spent much time with Vernon, but they all agreed he was a decent lad, sweet on Susie.

  ‘You can't blame him for that, mind,’ Tim added. ‘If I was twenty-one I'd have a go at her myself. She's a good-looking girl.’

  ‘You know, gov, when Susie asked me what she should do, it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to grow up,’ Peterson said as they left the store.

  Geraldine laughed. ‘She wasn't that bad, just young and enjoying the effect of her good looks. And she was the only one who seemed actually upset about Vernon's death. Shame she's an unreliable witness. I'm not sure we can take what she says at face value.’

  46

  IMPATIENCE

  Lucy opened her eyes and strained to see her watch in the darkness. It was nearly half past one in the morning but she had distinctly heard footsteps on the stairs. She lay on her back, rigid, listening. A door was opening very slowly. Someone was walking around, and they were trying to be quiet. That could only mean one thing. There was a burglar in the house. Suddenly she couldn't stand it any longer, waiting in ignorance in pitch black. If the intruder saw her light was on he would probably leave her alone and, if she was going to be attacked, at least her assailant wouldn't have the benefit of surprise. With the light on she felt less vulnerable but she glanced repeatedly at the door as she rummaged in her bag for her phone. It wasn't there. She remembered she had received a call earlier on, some idiot from school calling her names, and she had switched it off and flung it across the room.

  As she stared at the door she thought the handle moved. She waited, holding her breath, but nothing happened. A memory of her mother flashed into her mind. She wouldn't have crouched by the bed, trembling with fear. She would have been more likely to go out there and give the burglar what for. Lucy took a step forward, and looked around for a weapon. Seizing her hockey stick she crossed the room and opened the door as quietly as she could. The landing was empty. She took a few steps along the landing, brandishing the hockey stick in front of her face. Her eyes fell on her watch and she realised she'd misread the time in her panic. It wasn't half past one but nearly ten past six. She paused. It seemed a funny time for a burglar to break into the house, when the residents might be waking up. Some people were early risers. From behind her father's door came the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing in his en suite. Lucy scowled, vexed that he had been out all night with his woman friend, but relieved at the same time. Before she turned to go back to her own room his door flew open and her father peered out. He was in his pyjamas. Behind him she could see the duvet lying smooth on his bed.

  ‘Lucy!’ He whispered. He was smiling but she could tell he was surprised. ‘What are you doing up?’

  ‘I was just going to the toilet.’

  ‘With your hockey stick?’

  ‘Oh, I have to do exercises, to strengthen my arms…’ The worst of it was that he didn't even stop to consider how weird that was. He just nodded and went back in his room.

  Lucy went back to her room and leant her stupid hockey stick against the wall. She hated hockey but the school made them play so her mother had bought her a stick of her own. She climbed back into bed but couldn't sleep. She had been awake since six, which was really annoying because the weekend was the only time she didn't have to get up early. It was all her stupid father's fault.

  She couldn't sleep so she got up at seven and logged on but Zoe wasn't online. She hesitated before checking her Facebook page but it was only more mean comments from girls at school. ‘Sorry about your accident’ when she hadn't had one, and some really horrible anonymous messages. She had thought of going to the police at one point, or at least telling her mother, but while she had been worrying about what to do Zoe had come along and advised her to just ignore it.

  ‘They'll soon lose interest,’ her friend had told her. ‘If you don't take any notice they'll stop bothering you, but the more you react, the more they'll pester you. Close your account and forget about it. No one looks at other people's Facebook pages anyway.’ It was sound advice. She had told those idiots at school that she'd closed her account but that wasn't true. She couldn't resist reading the comments, like picking at a scab. At least she and Zoe had arranged to meet up on instant messenger. Having just one good friend made everything bearable.

  Lucy's week at school had been horrible again. She had done her best to keep away from the worst of the bullies but she couldn't avoid them in all her lessons where they tripped her up, moved her bag, jacketed her pens and books and flicked hard little balls of chewed up paper at her face.

  ‘Who threw that?’ the teacher would snap but no one ever owned up. Occasionally someone called out Lucy's name and L
ucy would deny having thrown anything. As the teacher continued the lesson a low chant would break out at the back of the class, ‘Lucy, Lucy, teacher's pet.’ Break times were the worst, when they surrounded her with jeers and insults.

  They had laid off her for a few days.

  ‘Leave the freak alone, can't you? She lost her mother.’

  ‘Yeah, her mother's dead. Lay off.’

  It was only two weeks since her mother's death and Lucy had only been back at school for a week but they had already resumed their teasing. By the end of the week even the school nurse was less sympathetic.

  ‘You need to try and settle back into your lessons, Lucy. I know it sounds harsh, but it's for your own good. Now, let's see you making an effort to get back to normal next week. I know it's going to take time, and of course you can come up here if you need to, but it's really best if you try to carry on with your lessons if you possibly can. Otherwise you're going to have work to catch up with on top of everything else, and the last thing you want now is more stress in your life.’

  ‘Yes, sister,’ Lucy agreed. As if she gave a toss about her school work, with her mother murdered and her father shagging some stranger.

  She had nothing else to do, so she unpacked and repacked her rucksack again. It was still only half past seven. She went downstairs, made herself some breakfast, and took it up to her room and stuffed herself until Zoe came online.

  ‘At last!’ she typed.

  ‘Been waiting?’

  ‘Yes. I have to get away.’

  ‘You can come this weekend!’

  ‘Yay!’

  Someone banged on her door. ‘Go away!’ she yelled. The door flew open and Ben entered. ‘I told you not to come in here.’

  ‘You told me not to come in without knocking. I knocked.’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘Aunty Evie wants to know if you're coming down for breakfast. I only came in to ask.’

  ‘Well I'm not. So now you know you can get out! And don't come back!’ she shouted at his retreating back.