‘His name's Andrew Crozier,’ a uniformed constable told them, holding up a driving licence.
Geraldine looked at the man who had been arrested: tall and gaunt, his face flushed and sweaty, an unattractive middle-aged man she might have passed on the street a thousand times without registering his presence. In himself unremarkable, she found him repulsive on account of what she knew about him. Medical examination had confirmed Lucy's statement that she had not been sexually assaulted, but Andrew Crozier could only have abducted her and kept her prisoner for one reason. Overcome with disgust, Geraldine turned away. The garage door was open. She walked around the dirty black van to approach the garage and baulked at the foul stench inside, a combination of vomit, stale sweat and faeces, as though some animal had been incarcerated there.
Behind her a faint commotion kicked off as Andrew Crozier burst out in tearful protest at his arrest. Geraldine smiled grimly as she listened to him incriminate himself.
‘I wasn't going to hurt her. Ask Lucy. She'll tell you. I'm her friend.’ He was weeping noisily. ‘This is all a misunderstanding. I was helping her.’ He sniffed loudly and shook his head. When he continued, his voice was stronger. ‘Listen, you've got this all wrong. You don't know what happened. She wasn't safe with her father – ask her – and I was looking after her. I was keeping her safe, making sure no one could harm her. I didn't want to hurt her. I wanted to protect her. I'm her friend. Ask her.’
‘That's why you locked her up in a garage, is it?’ one of the arresting officers said.
‘I – I thought she'd be safe here. No one would ever find her.’ He gazed around the assembled officers in desperation. ‘She asked me to help her. She wanted to come with me. I invited her to – I offered to help but only after she'd told me why she had to leave home. This was all her idea. I've done nothing wrong. I only did what she wanted. I've done nothing wrong and there's nothing you can do to prove otherwise, so just take these off and let me go. I won't speak to her again if that's what you want, only let me go. This isn't fair, I was only trying to help.’
The local sergeant had heard enough and stepped forward. ‘Come on, Zoe,’ he said briskly. ‘It's your turn to be locked up. But don't worry. We'll make sure you have a bucket.’ He grinned and a few officers laughed. ‘I only hope for your sake your fellow inmates where you're going don't find out about Zoe.’
Andrew Crozier looked terrified. ‘Zoe?’ he stuttered. ‘Who's Zoe?’
‘Come on, in the car,’ a constable answered. The last Geraldine saw of Andrew Crozier was his face, pale and streaked with tears, staring in despair through the police car window.
‘That's the face of a man who's been nicked and is going down for a long time,’ Peterson gloated and Geraldine grinned at him, sharing his exultation.
‘We've got him, at least.’
‘We'll find our killer,’ the sergeant told her, buoyed up by the arrest. ‘It's only a matter of time.’
Geraldine hoped he was right.
62
REGRET
After the euphoria of finding Lucy, the mood on the team changed when the DCI announced the news about Charlotte Fox's letter writer.
‘Ted Burton is out of the frame,’ the DCI announced sourly. ‘York police traced him and confirmed he was in York the night Abigail Kirby was killed. He works in a camping shop and has never missed a day. He's obsessional, arrives at exactly eight thirty every morning and leaves on the dot of five. The shop manager said they can set their clocks by him. They'd all notice if he was off work for five minutes, let alone a day.’
‘Abigail was killed on a Sunday,’ someone pointed out.
‘Ted Burton was working that weekend. So we're back to square one.’
Geraldine was glad she was meeting her friend, Hannah, after work that evening. Before long she was telling her all about Paul.
‘Slow down.’
‘Sorry. It's just that I think I like him.’ Geraldine took a sip of wine. ‘Oh well, it's not exactly important –’ She broke off in mid-lie as Hannah raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘I suppose it must be nice to focus on something other than dead bodies for a change.’
‘Or my mother's betrayal,’ Geraldine thought. She still hadn't told Hannah about her painful visit to the adoption agency, hadn't mentioned it to anyone but Paul… Paul…
‘So?’ Hannah prompted her. ‘He's a doctor…’
‘A pathologist. He only works with dead bodies.’
‘A marriage made in heaven then.’ Hannah smiled, then put her glass down and stared at Geraldine, suddenly serious. ‘But is he single?’
Geraldine fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. ‘I'm not sure. I mean I know he was married, and he said he doesn't see his wife any more, but he hasn't said if he's actually divorced.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What's that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. But you need to find out exactly what you're letting yourself in for before you get involved with him.’
‘I don't see it makes any difference. At least he's separated. What matters is whether he likes me.’ Their food arrived and the conversation petered out as they sorted out their respective dishes. ‘It's difficult,’ Geraldine resumed after a few minutes. ‘He seemed really interested. He kept asking to see me, and he sent me flowers, and bought champagne, and it all seemed to be going so well. And then I blew it.’
‘What happened? It can't be that bad if he sent you flowers.’
Geraldine sighed and poured more wine. ‘What makes it worse is that I've got no one to blame but myself. No, actually, that's not true. This is all my bloody sergeant's fault.’
‘What is?’
In a low voice, Geraldine explained Peterson's idea about Paul. Hannah was visibly shocked. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous – it is ridiculous – but my sergeant went on about it – oh, I don't know why I listened to him.’
Hannah looked worried. ‘But did the sergeant have any reason to suspect Paul might have killed someone?’
‘No, he was just casting about in desperation, clutching at straws. We all were. A murder case and no leads –’
‘You didn't believe it then?’
‘Of course not. There's no way Paul could have been implicated. But then I thought I couldn't just ignore what my sergeant had said.’
‘So what did you do?’
Geraldine looked down at her plate. ‘I asked him.’
‘Paul?’
‘Yes.’
‘What? You asked him outright if he was a murderer?’
Geraldine nodded miserably. ‘Oh, not in so many words but, yes. And he knew exactly what I was asking him and why.’
‘What did he say?’
Geraldine sighed. ‘He didn't exactly take it very well.’
‘I'm not surprised. Honestly, Geraldine, didn't it cross your mind he might have been jealous?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The sergeant. Maybe he fancies you and subconsciously he wanted to put you off Paul.’
Geraldine couldn't help smiling. ‘This isn't a Mills and Boon story, Hannah. No, my sergeant didn't have any ulterior motives. He's a good officer – or at least I thought he was, until this. No, that's not fair. He simply got it wrong, and I was stupid enough to let him persuade me to question Paul, against my better judgement. Oh, why did I listen to him?’ Hannah frowned and Geraldine fidgeted with her fork. The waitress hovered nearby for a couple of seconds and withdrew. ‘I knew it was too good to be true. I really thought he was interested in me. And I could talk to him about work and he understood, which made a change.’
Hannah looked surprised. ‘You discussed the case with him? I thought it was all so hush hush. You always said –’
‘Yes, the investigations are confidential, but Paul did the autopsies. He's part of the investigating team. He knows more about how the victims died than anyone.’
‘True. So you questioned him and he didn't take it very well?’
‘
It's such an insult, isn't it? I can't believe I could have been so stupid. That bloody sergeant.’
‘You were only doing your job. Surely Paul understands that.’
‘He was really annoyed. I mean, he didn't say much but I could tell.’
Hannah scraped the last crumbs of pizza from her plate. ‘I don't blame him.’
‘Hannah, you're not helping. I don't know what I can do to put it right. What can I do? I really like Paul. He's different. I haven't felt like this about anyone since Mark and I split up. Craig was just a fling, I never honestly thought that was going anywhere. But I really thought there might possibly be something serious between me and Paul. And I was sure he liked me.’
‘He'll understand you were only doing your job. You have to talk to him. That's all you can do now, talk to him and it'll all blow over. After all, what you did wasn't so very terrible, was it?’
‘Oh, I don't know. I hope you're right. Anyway, I do have some other news which is potentially even more exciting.’
‘What's that?’
‘I've applied for a transfer. It was kind of an impulse, although I've been thinking about it for a while. But now I've gone ahead I'm not sure if I want to go –’
‘Where?’
Geraldine picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘I haven't mentioned it to anyone yet – I haven't even told my sister. She won't like it. I see little enough of them as it is.’
‘Where are you thinking of going?’ Hannah repeated.
‘I put in for a transfer to London.’
‘London?’
‘Yes, to the Met. It's a good career move, and I need a change. I thought – well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I don't know if I want to leave the area.’
‘It's not as if London's on the other side of the world. It's only an hour away.’
‘I could be in North London.’
‘Well, over an hour then, but even so, it's not that far. We'll just have to meet half way.’
‘Anyway, nothing's decided yet. Now, enough about me. What's your news?’
Hannah shrugged but she was smiling. ‘Same old, same old. Nothing changes. Only the kids are growing older and more expensive by the minute.’
‘And Jeremy?’
‘Jeremy's fine.’ The waitress brought the bill and they chatted about Hannah's family as they sorted it out.
‘Call him,’ Hannah said as they were putting on their coats. ‘If he likes you, he'll understand.’
‘I guess so.’
‘And let me know what happens. Call me soon.’
‘I will do and – thank you.’
Hannah's lips brushed Geraldine lightly on the cheek and she was gone.
Back in her car, Geraldine checked the time. It was barely nine o'clock. ‘Go for it,’ she whispered as she dialled Paul's number. There was no answer. Disappointed, she drove home. Sitting on her bed, she tried one last time but Paul still wasn't answering. She opened her bedside drawer, pulled out a small photo and gazed at it trembling in her hand. The colour had faded but the features were clearly recognisable, familiar. As in family. It was almost like looking in a mirror, looking at herself twenty years ago, a young Geraldine, staring at the camera in wide-eyed apprehension. Only she wasn't Geraldine, she was Erin. Erin Blake. And this was her mother, Milly Blake.
Her anger had softened into curiosity. She didn't know that her mother had discarded her easily. Sometimes women never recovered from losing their babies. For all she knew, Milly Blake had regretted her sacrifice every day for nearly forty years. Perhaps she still felt a tremor of hope every time the phone rang, or there was a knock on the door, a desperate hope that her abandoned child had found her.
The social worker had done her best to quash that hope. ‘Milly Blake never contacted us again,’ she had explained sadly, as though she cared. It was true that if Geraldine's mother had wanted to be traced she could have written to that effect but there was no letter, not so much as a note, nothing. But a letter could have been lost. Even social workers might misfile documents, or throw them away by accident. Or Milly Blake could be dead. That would be less of a rejection.
Lying in bed, unable to sleep, Geraldine played out various scenes in her head. She imagined knocking on a door which was opened by her mother, bowed, grey haired, but instantly recognisable.
‘Geraldine,’ she would say, only it wouldn't be Geraldine, it would be Erin. Geraldine smiled. She quite liked her original name. She thought it suited her. She had never liked the name Geraldine, which sounded somehow strident. Erin was much gentler. She wondered, irrationally, if her life might have panned out differently if her name had been Erin.
‘Erin,’ the woman who bore a striking resemblance to Geraldine would say. ‘Erin, I knew you'd find me.’ Then she would fling her arms around Geraldine's shoulders…
She switched to a different scenario in her head. ‘Erin,’ the old woman scolded, ‘what are you doing here? Go away!’ The door slammed in Geraldine's face. She knocked again and after a moment her mother opened it and peered out. ‘I thought I told you to go away.’
‘But mother –’
‘I'm not your mother. I don't know you. Go away!’
Geraldine woke from an uneasy doze and found her eyes wet with tears. ‘I don't care,’ she muttered to herself.
She tried to imagine what it must have been like to be pregnant at fifteen in the early 1960s, at the beginning of the sexual revolution, when the pill had only just become available to married women and attitudes were still very conservative. Fifteen was very young, too young. She thought of Lucy Kirby, fourteen years old and still a child, and a wave of pity shook her. Perhaps her mother had withdrawn in shame. Who was Geraldine to judge her? At any rate, she couldn't live with this uncertainty indefinitely.
63
PROPOSAL
On a high after the arrest of Andrew Crozier, the team worked late sorting out reports, checking statements and preparing to interview the suspect. It didn't take them long to identify Crozier as a man who had been questioned less than a year earlier about the abduction and rape of a thirteen-year-old girl he had befriended. They had met in her local park where, according to witness statements, he had used a small dog to lure her into conversation. In the absence of any substantive proof there had been no prosecution when the girl had refused to talk about her experience, or to confirm the identity of her attacker. There was a good chance that apprehending Lucy Kirby's abductor was going to lead to the conviction of a serial paedophile once the DNA test results were completed. The mood in the Incident Room was buoyant.
‘Do I really have to remind you all that this is a murder investigation. Let's celebrate when we get a result, and not before,’ Kathryn Gordon said, but they had rescued Lucy and even the detective chief inspector's reproach couldn't dampen Geraldine's high spirits.
‘The tide's turned,’ a constable replied.
‘Yes, now we've found Lucy, it's only a matter of time before we solve the Abigail Kirby murder,’ Peterson agreed.
‘There's no room for complacency on a murder investigation,’ Kathryn Gordon reminded them. ‘Some of you seem to have forgotten that it was an alert member of the public who heard Lucy Kirby calling for help. Finding her had nothing to do with good police work, so let's not get ahead of ourselves. Now let's sharpen up and concentrate on discovering what happened to Abigail Kirby.’
They all knew they had to return to the main focus of the investigation, but it was a welcome relief to enjoy the respite of a brief feeling of success. Caught up in the general euphoria Geraldine called Paul Hilliard to share the good news about Lucy Kirby, and when he asked to see her the following evening she thought her day couldn't possibly get any better.
Ian Peterson had returned home late on Wednesday evening, after Crozier had been interviewed. His girlfriend, Bev, was already asleep so there was no chance to tell her about the arrest and he left for work the next morning before she was awake. He arrived home on Thursday n
ight in high spirits after finishing his evening in the pub across the road from the police station. He stepped into the living room pumped up and eager to tell Bev what had happened. As soon as he saw her expression he understood that his uplifting day wasn't going to end well.
‘What time do you call this?’
Ian glanced at his watch. ‘It's nearly ten, but –’
‘You're late.’
Ian wanted to throw himself down beside her and fling his arms round her, but hesitated. ‘I was kept –’
‘And you didn't think to phone? You know we were supposed to be going out with Kirsty this evening. It's her birthday. You promised to be home in time.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘It's her birthday. You could have called. And why didn't you answer your phone? I could have gone on without you but no, I had to sit here, waiting, in case you deigned to come home.’ Bev's voice rose in a childish wail but her eyes remained cold.
Ian shrugged apologetically and launched into an awkward account of Lucy Kirby's disappearance and the subsequent arrest of Crozier. ‘We got him straightaway. It had to be wrapped up quickly before anything could alert him to our presence, and it wasn't easy having so much activity in a dead end without being visible, I can tell you. It was brilliantly managed, and we got him.’
‘Well, now it's over perhaps you can stop obsessing about your bloody work.’
Ian held out his hands in mute pleading. ‘He abducted a thirteen-year-old girl last year but managed to wriggle out of being prosecuted. God knows how many other children he's kidnapped and abused. We've caught a paedophile who goes around abusing young girls. It's a great result, Bev. It's…’ He sighed. He would have thought she'd be proud of the work he'd put in, helping to stop this animal. ‘He's dangerous, Bev, a monster preying on vulnerable young girls. He had to be stopped. You do see that, don't you? That my work is important.’
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