Dead End (17 page)

‘Was your wife in the habit of staying out all night?’

‘No.’

‘But you didn't report her missing when she didn't come home on Saturday night, did you? You didn't even telephone the school to find out if she was there. Because you knew where she was, didn't you?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘I must have got home around midnight, at a guess. Late, anyway. I assumed Abigail was in bed. When I got up on Sunday morning, there was no sign of her and I thought she'd gone out. She was always working, even in the school holidays.’

‘Let's be clear on this. When you came home, you thought your wife was in bed. You didn't notice –’

Matthew interrupted the sergeant. ‘We've had separate bedrooms since – since she found out about Charlotte.’

‘Whose idea was it to sleep separately?’

‘It was kind of mutual.’ He gave a sheepish smile. ‘We told the children it was because Abigail was sometimes phoned at night, and they knew she kept odd hours, often working till late … and there were my business meetings that kept me out late…’

The DCI was frustrated, but seemed hardly surprised, at the outcome of the interview with Matthew Kirby. ‘He's got his story together,’ Peterson concluded.

‘I still don't think he did it, ma'am,’ Geraldine added. ‘Apart from anything else, his story's too vague. If he'd planned to kill his wife, surely he would have thought up a better alibi.’

‘Perhaps it wasn't planned,’ Peterson said. ‘I don't trust him.’

Kathryn Gordon waved her hands in the air dismissively. ‘What any of us think of the man is beside the point. As a husband with a clear motive, he remains a likely suspect. What we need now is hard evidence.’

28

TRUST

M
atthew wasn't comfortable about lying to his sister but, as a single woman, Evie had no idea what a trial his marriage to Abigail had been and she tended to take the moral high ground, devoted as she was to the church and its teachings. So Matthew was in no hurry to tell her about Charlotte. Nearly ten years older than him, Evie had always stood by him when he was in trouble, but he knew she would lecture him interminably once she learned about his infidelity although he knew that, even if he kept quiet, Lucy was bound to blurt it out sooner or later.

‘Adultery is a sin, Matthew,’ Evie would tell him in hushed tones, adopting an expression of anger, or, more likely, sorrow. ‘I will pray for your soul.’

He couldn't deal with her disappointment just yet, not with everything else that was going on, so he took the easy way out. ‘I'm worried about work,’ he told her. That much was true, anyway. ‘I've hardly been in the office all week. I know it's Saturday, but I really should go in and check on a few things.’

‘Of course you must go if you need to.’ Evie turned to Ben. ‘Your father has a very responsible job, and he's a conscientious man. I hope you follow his example.’

Over her shoulder, Matthew pulled a face at Ben who grinned. It was a relief to see the boy smiling again. Evie was good for him, feeding him and fussing over him like she did. It was a pity Lucy remained so hostile, rejecting all Evie's approaches and barely speaking to Matthew.

‘I'll see you later then,’ he said, relieved and ashamed to be leaving the house.

There wasn't much traffic and he was soon ringing Charlotte's bell, his guilt swept away in the anticipation of seeing her again. Nothing would ever convince him he was wrong to have fallen for her. How could it be a sin, when he had no choice, no control over his feelings?

Charlotte fell into his arms but didn't respond to his kiss. Matthew could feel her trembling and when he pulled away he saw she was in tears.

‘What is it? What's up?’ She shook her head, sobbing and hiccupping like a child. Matthew held her close and whispered soothing nonsense. ‘Don't cry. It'll be all right. I'll take care of everything. No one's going to hurt you.’ He didn't know what else to say. Her distress made him feel helpless. Even when Abigail had refused him a divorce, Charlotte had only been coldly angry. She had never given way like this.

At last she pulled herself together sufficiently to stop crying and drew back from his embrace. ‘I'm sorry,’ she snuffled. ‘It's just all so awful. I can't bear it.’ She began to cry again.

‘What is it?’ he asked, a touch of impatience in his voice. He softened it with an effort. He was the one who had lost his wife of sixteen years, after all. If anything, Charlotte should be offering to comfort him, if not discreetly rejoicing that they could finally be together. He had no idea what this emotional outburst was all about. ‘What's wrong, my love?’

‘I can't bear this waiting,’ she wailed.

‘Waiting?’

‘Until they find out who did it – who killed her.’

‘Does it matter?’ She raised her eyes to meet his and frowned, at the same time withdrawing from his embrace. ‘I mean, it doesn't make any difference to us, does it?’ Matthew added. He could sense he had put his foot in it, but wasn't sure how. ‘We love each other and now there's nothing to stop us being together. That's all that matters. We'll wait a few weeks – a few months – and then I'll introduce you to the children.’ The thought of Lucy made him pause.

‘Don't you want to know who killed your wife? Don't you want the police to find out who did it?’

‘Of course, but I want to be with you more.’ He took a step towards her but she stood rigid, staring at him.

‘What if they don't find out who did it? What if they get the wrong person? It happens, Matthew. Miscarriages of justice. You read about it in the papers all the time. What if they think it was you? Don't they always suspect the husband? What if they arrest you – for murder?’

‘Now you're being silly, Charlotte. You're overreacting and you know it. It's all been a terrible shock, but that's no reason to start panicking. Of course they won't suspect me. Why would they? I was with the children and then I came straight here on Saturday. When was I supposed to have – done it – done that?’ Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to speak of Abigail's murder. ‘In any case, they've already given me a grilling and they let me go.’

‘The police were here again yesterday, questioning me. They asked me what time you arrived here last Saturday and I said – I said – I said I couldn't remember. I said I didn't know.’

Matthew gazed at her lovely face, now pale with terror, and understood why she was frightened. He took an involuntary step away from her. There was a certain irony in the way the woman he loved had destroyed his alibi. He could almost hear Evie's voice: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery… Whoever does so destroys himself.’ And as if that wasn't bad enough, his own daughter had accused him of murdering Abigail. ‘The sins of the fathers’ and all that. He couldn't remember the rest of it although it had been drummed down his throat often enough when he was a child.

They had agreed to chat at ten that night and Zoe was already online when Lucy logged on at five to ten.

‘Hi Zoe. You waiting for me?’ Lucy waited a moment but Zoe didn't reply. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah.’

There was another pause. ‘What's going on? Are you OK?’ Zoe asked at last.

‘No. Not OK.’ Tears began streaming down Lucy's face as she typed. ‘I'm stuck in this bloody house. Have to get away. It's not safe for me here!!!’

‘What's happened?’

‘Can't tell you.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Lucy glanced at her wardrobe. Her rucksack was packed. ‘I'm leaving. Maybe tonight!!’

‘OMG! Where are you going?’

‘Don't care. I have to get away.’

‘Come and stay at mine.’

Lucy stared at the screen for a second then she wiped her eyes and carried on typing. ‘Are you sure? What about your parents?’

‘They won't mind. They're cool.’ Lucy thought about it. ‘Are you still there, Lucy?’

‘Yeah. I'm here. I have to think about it.’

‘What's to think about?’ Lucy didn't answer. ‘Well, what do you say?’

‘Dunno.’

‘It'll be fun. I've got a huge room. It's the attic. No one comes up here! I'll put a mattress on the floor. Or you can have my bed.’ Lucy's fingers were poised on the keys but she hesitated and Zoe sent another message. ‘We can have a midnight feast!! and I'll get in some magazines and stuff. Bring your make-up!’

Lucy grinned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't say it otherwise. Where do you live? Maybe me and my dad can come and get you.’

‘I'm near Faversham. How do I find you?’

‘No worries. Faversham's not that far. I'll get my dad to bring me over. We'll pick you up.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No worries.’

‘Hadn't you better ask him first?’

‘I'll ask him. It'll be fine.’

‘Don't tell him I'm running away from home!’

‘As if!’

Lucy didn't want to give Zoe her address. ‘You can't pick me up from here. Your dad mustn't know where I live! What if he finds out I've done a runner and tells my dad!!’

‘Where shall we meet you then?’

‘Can you pick me up at the station?’

‘No. Someone might see! And there's cameras. If your dad tells the police you've run away, the police might hunt you down!!!’

‘Good thinking. How about the corner of Belvedere Road and Western Lane?’

‘OK.’

‘Memorise it and delete the names.’

There was a pause. ‘Got it.’

‘Don't write it down whatever you do.’

‘Don't worry. No one comes in here. Ever. Trust me.’

‘I do.’

‘We'll need a password so we know it's you.’

‘How about fugitive!’

‘What's that?’

‘I think it means someone who's run away.’

‘Nice one.’

‘Ask your dad soon!’

‘No worries.’

‘And let me know!’

‘Chat soon.’ Zoe logged off.

Zoe was the only person who was genuinely interested in Lucy now, and when they met Lucy was going to tell her all about how her mother had died. It would be a relief to talk to someone she could trust. She sat at her desk thinking about her new friend who had offered her a lifeline and crossed her fingers, hoping Zoe wouldn't let her down. Since her mother's death, Lucy had grown to depend on Zoe more and more.

‘I'm lucky to have a friend like you!’ she typed before logging off. The message would be waiting for Zoe next time she went online.

29

ALARM

T
he investigation seemed to be grinding to a halt. Kathryn Gordon gazed round, waiting for silence. Once, the officers present would all have stopped talking the moment the DCI entered the room, but she seemed somehow to have lost her authority. Two of the young constables continued whispering together for a few minutes after the briefing began. Geraldine threw them an irritated glance, catching the eye of one of them, and they fell silent.

Kathryn Gordon didn't seem to notice the disruption. She sighed and looked around the room as though casting around for inspiration. ‘Well? Has anyone come up with anything new? Any new evidence? Any theories?’

A number of officers chipped in with ideas but apart from a lot of talk, nothing useful transpired.

Geraldine wanted to discuss the possibility that Matthew Kirby and Charlotte Fox could have conspired to murder Abigail Kirby together. ‘Or,’ she concluded, ‘if they hadn't planned the whole thing together, one of them might be covering for the other, ma'am. What if Matthew Kirby killed his wife, either in a premeditated murder or on the spur of the moment, in a sudden rage. Maybe he just snapped, couldn't put up with his wife's refusal to agree to a divorce any longer. Whatever the reason, the outcome's the same. After he killed her, he drove round to Charlotte's in a panic – probably speeding all the way – and told her what he'd done. Charlotte agreed to give him an alibi. Maybe it was her idea. Perhaps she felt he'd killed his wife as an act of love for her.’

‘A crime of passion,’ someone said.

‘It would certainly put Matthew Kirby back in the frame,’ the DCI agreed. ‘But I thought you didn't believe he killed her?’

Geraldine shrugged. ‘I'm not sure I do believe it, ma'am, but someone killed her. It's just a theory.’

‘Could it have been the girlfriend, Charlotte?’ Peterson asked.

‘And where was he supposed to have done it? And how did he move the body?’ someone asked. SOCOs had searched the Kirby household, and Matthew Kirby's car. There wasn't a shred of evidence that anyone had been killed, or a body stored or transported, anywhere.

‘Back to square one,’ Kathryn Gordon said sourly, as though the team were to blame. Everyone looked glum as they dispersed.

‘We've hardly got going and the DCI already looks like she's had enough,’ Peterson said to Geraldine as they walked across the room to her desk.

Geraldine tried to make light of it. ‘I expect she's just disappointed. We were all just waiting for Matthew Kirby to confess. We all thought we had him.’

‘You didn't.’

‘I wasn't sure,’ she admitted. ‘But the wrong suspect is better than no suspect.’

The sergeant paused in his stride and looked at her in surprise. ‘Hardly! You really think it doesn't matter if we get the wrong man as long as we nail someone?’

‘No, that's not what I meant at all. It's just that when we were running round in circles chasing after Matthew Kirby, at least we had something to do as opposed to sitting around uselessly.’

Geraldine was about to go for lunch when a constable came over to tell her that Vernon Mitchell was in an interview room wanting to speak to her. Swallowing back a sudden rush of hope, Geraldine hurried along the corridor.

‘Hello, Vernon,’ she greeted him when they were both sitting down. ‘Have you remembered something else about the man you saw talking to Abigail Kirby last Saturday?’

‘No, it's not that.’ He stared at the floor in silence.

‘What is it, then, Vernon?’ she prompted him after a moment.

‘It's going to sound silly –’ he broke off, red-faced. ‘I don't know – I shouldn't be wasting your time – I wasn't sure whether to say anything only it's my day off so I thought as I was in town I might as well come and tell you about it.’