Dead End (18 page)

‘Go on.’

‘I think someone followed me home from work.’

‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday. Just after we closed up at five thirty. I decided to walk home because – well, it was a nice evening so I thought I might as well save on the bus fare. It's not even two miles. I can walk it in under half an hour and the bus often takes longer, if I've just missed one.’

‘Who was it?’

He shrugged miserably, and his eyes flitted round the room. ‘That's just it, I don't know. I'm not even a hundred per cent sure anyone was following me. I just had this feeling, you know. I mean, at the time I was sure, but now, looking back on it, I don't know if I can be sure about it. I just thought someone was following me.’

‘Do you have any idea who it might have been?’

He shook his head. ‘I only saw someone vaguely, in the shadows. But it was someone tall so it could've been the geezer I saw in the shop, the one who was talking to Mrs Kirby, just before she was killed. I think he could've been following me all this time. Do you think he has been? Following me and waiting.’

Geraldine looked down at her notebook, tempted to smile. ‘Following you and waiting for what, Vernon?’

‘I don't know. I mean, if he knew – if he'd seen me watching him talk to Mrs Kirby, he might think I could be a witness. I mean, I am a witness, aren't I? I told you about him. And he could be the killer.’ He looked straight at her, and Geraldine saw fear in his eyes, heard his voice tremble.

‘I don't think that's very likely, do you, really? He would have been focused on Mrs Kirby in the queue. The chances are she stepped backwards into him – he was behind her in the line, wasn't he?’ Vernon nodded. ‘In any case, even if the man you saw really did go on to kill her, how would he know you'd noticed him talking to her, there in the busy store?’

‘He saw me watching,’ Vernon replied. ‘I could see it in his face. He gave me this horrible glare and I looked away. He was scary!’ Geraldine smiled sympathetically. There was no doubt the boy was frightened. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘I'd like you to be extra careful for the next week or so, and if you see anything else that strikes you as unusual or threatening, come straight back here and tell me.’ She stood up.

‘Is that it? I mean, I could be in danger. Aren't you going to protect me?’

Geraldine sighed gently. ‘I'm afraid our resources don't stretch that far.’ He had come to her with a fanciful notion, born of stress. He must have been disturbed by the murder of someone he had known, a woman in a position of authority, her life snuffed out in a moment. ‘Call me straightaway if you see this person following you again, Vernon.’ She handed him a card. ‘Here's my direct line. Call me at once if you see him, all right?’

‘So do you think I'm in danger?’

‘No, I really don't believe you're in any danger as a result of seeing Mrs Kirby in the queue in Smith's on Saturday.

There's no way the man she spoke to, if he is the murderer, could have known about your suspicions, even if he did notice you watching him for a few seconds. Why would he remember, or even notice? So I don't think he's following you as a result of that. But I'd like you to keep your phone with you, all the same, in case you recognise him out somewhere. If you do, I'd like you to call me straightaway so we can pick him up and ask him a few questions. I daresay he had nothing to do with Abigail Kirby's death, but he spoke to her shortly before she died, and we need to talk to him.’

Geraldine thanked Vernon for coming forward. It was a lead, of sorts, and right now anything was better than nothing.

30

DATE

G
eraldine wore a clingy knee-length purple dress which she had bought specially for the occasion and Paul picked her up from her flat, held the car door open for her and drove them to the restaurant. As he handed his long black coat to the waiter Geraldine saw he was wearing dark trousers and matching jacket with a stylish open-necked shirt but it was impossible to be sure he had made an effort for the occasion because he was always well turned out.

Paul deftly peeled off a flake of salmon. ‘I think I read something about the Kirby case in the paper.’ He put down his knife and fork and raised his glass. ‘It didn't say much, of course. How are you getting on? Any leads?’ He listened intently and nodded as she told him how the case was progressing, or rather wasn't.

‘I shouldn't go on about it,’ she concluded, ‘you must be bored, hearing all the details. It's just so frustrating. We seem to be getting nowhere, but the DCI thinks,’ she lowered her voice, ‘she's convinced it's him.’

‘Really? Well, I suppose the husband's bound to be the most likely suspect from what you say, isn't he?’

‘That doesn't mean he did it.’

‘No, but the most likely suspect is probably the right one.’ Paul smiled at her and filled up her glass. ‘No point beating yourself up if you've got a result.’ Geraldine slowly took a sip of her wine. ‘So he'll be arrested?’

‘It's not that simple.’

‘It never is.’

‘We've got no real evidence that points to him – or anyone else for that matter. We don't even know where she was killed.’

‘You've presumably searched his house?’

‘We've had a good look of course, but there's nothing there.’

‘No hidden stash of bloodstained knives,’ Paul grinned at her and she couldn't help smiling back, even though she felt slightly irritated by his light-hearted approach. But perhaps he was right and she was allowing her doubts about Matthew Kirby's guilt to get in the way.

‘I suppose he may crack sooner or later,’ she agreed. ‘We just have to keep on at him.’ The conversation drifted on and Geraldine found herself talking about her niece. A distant look appeared in Paul's eyes as though a shutter had come between them.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes. Sorry. It's nothing.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Now, what about you? Tell me to butt out if I'm prying, but have you managed to find out anything about your mother yet?’ Geraldine told him about the devastating news she had received at the adoption agency. ‘I expect your mother wanted to protect you,’ Paul said.

‘Which mother?’

‘You only have one mother. Your real mother. The one who raised you. That other woman is nothing to you, really. She doesn't know you.’ Geraldine nodded uncertainly. ‘You never met her. You don't know her name –’

‘I do know her name. I told you, I've got my original birth certificate. And the adoption agency gave me a photo of her – a photo of her at sixteen, anyway – and I read her letter.’ A wave of emotion threatened her self-possession. ‘I must be getting drunk,’ she thought, putting her wine glass down. She took a deep breath.

‘This is upsetting you,’ Paul insisted. ‘I can see how much it means to you and yet, apart from an accident of birth, she's nothing to you. She hasn't been a mother to you. It's easy for me to say, but why not do yourself a favour and forget all about the sorry circumstances of your birth. It hasn't been significant in your life, has it? You're a successful woman, probably far more successful than you would have been if you'd been brought up by a sixteen-year-old mother. She did you a favour, really, offering you the chance of a better life than she could give you herself.’

‘That's what she said in her letter!’

‘There you are then, she did care about you after all. She knew it would be better for you if she gave you up. That was a kind thing to do. Of course, it's not my place – or anyone else's come to that – to tell you what you should or shouldn't do, but I'd leave it at that, if I were you. Try and put it out of your mind.’

‘You're right,’ Geraldine said meekly. She resolved to forget about the picture of her mother, taken when she was not much older than Lucy Kirby. ‘I think I've had enough to drink for one evening, but you're welcome to come back to mine for a coffee?’ she said, on impulse, as they finished the bottle of wine.

‘Why not come to my place?’ he replied. ‘It's only five minutes away.’

‘Great.’

Paul drove to a detached house on a pleasant tree-lined residential avenue about three miles from the centre of town. Geraldine followed him through a large square kitchen into a small sitting room, sparsely but tastefully furnished. While Paul brewed coffee in the kitchen she studied the living room which was neat and orderly, suggesting he lived alone, but glancing over her shoulder she was dismayed to notice what appeared to be a recent family photograph. Paul had his arm around a striking woman. Between them a girl of about fifteen smiled at the camera. With her mother's blonde hair and wide mouth, and Paul's intense eyes, she could only be their daughter. If it hadn't been for a sizeable birthmark on her left cheek, she would have been stunning.

Paul came in with a cafetiere and a bottle of brandy, and put the tray down on the table. He sat opposite Geraldine and she wished she was sitting beside him on the sofa. He held up the bottle with a smile.

‘I shouldn't really.’

‘You can't let me drink alone, and I'll call you a cab to get home. I'm not driving myself after this. Was probably pushing it a bit when we left the restaurant. I guess I was relying on you to deflect the attentions of the local plod if we were stopped.’

Geraldine laughed. ‘Go on then, just a small one.’

As she drained her glass, Geraldine made up her mind to tackle him about the photograph on the shelf behind her. ‘Who is she? Who are they?’

Paul stiffened and she sensed his voice lose its warmth. ‘My wife and… my wife and daughter.’

‘You're married?’

‘Not any more. We no longer see each other.’

‘And your daughter?’ He didn't answer. ‘Do you want to talk about it, Paul?’

‘No, I don't.’ He stood up abruptly and remained on his feet, face averted, so after a few seconds Geraldine stood up too.

‘Paul –’ she ventured.

‘I'll call that cab. They're only just around the corner, so they'll be here in a minute.’ She trailed miserably after him into the hall desperately sorry she had mentioned the photograph, but at a loss how to retrieve the situation.

‘I've had a lovely evening,’ she thanked him lamely as they waited for the cab.

‘Look, Geraldine…’

‘Yes?’

‘I don't mean to be…’

‘It's all right.’ She was reassured by his concern. ‘I'm sure you'll tell me when you're ready. These things can't be rushed.’

He heaved a loud sigh. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’ He didn't look at her and she couldn't think of anything else to say.

‘Call me,’ she muttered as he closed the door and she hurried to the waiting taxi, cursing herself for her thoughtless curiosity.

31

HALLOWE'EN

O
ne of his mates from school texted Vernon on Saturday afternoon.

‘Party at Gary's tonight. Bring beer.’

‘Who's going?’ He knew he'd go along, he had nothing else to do, and if it sounded like a decent party he might even text Susie to ask if she wanted to go although she was bound to be busy.

‘The old crowd. Jenny's going!’ Vernon smiled. He'd got over Jenny a long time ago.

‘What time?’

‘Nine.’

He texted Susie and invited her. ‘It's going to be brilliant,’ he lied. ‘Loads of booze. It's Hallowe'en.’ He half hoped she would turn him down because the chances were it would just be his old mates getting wasted and mucking about while a few girls squealed and tottered about sloshed. He didn't want to be embarrassed in front of Susie, but he'd asked her now and it was too late. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when she didn't reply.

On the bus to Gary's, Vernon felt in his pocket for his phone in case Susie called and realised he'd left it at home but he couldn't be bothered to go back for it. Susie wasn't going to get in touch with him tonight, and his mother would be alright. She could call him at Gary's if she needed him and it wasn't as if he was going to stay out late. He was glad he'd thought to leave her Gary's number before he left.

‘Here you are, mum. In case I don't hear my mobile.’

‘Oh don't you fret about me. You just go out and have a good time with your friends.’

‘But what if – if you need me?’

‘If I need someone, I'll call Carol or Moira next door. For goodness sake, go out and enjoy yourself, son. God knows you deserve to have a bit of fun once in a while. You worry too much and it's not necessary. I'll be fine here for a few hours. What can happen? It's not as though I'm not used to sitting by myself, and I'll have plenty to look at this evening, with all the fireworks going off outside.’

Vernon rarely went out in the evenings. His mother would never say so, but she liked him to sit with her and he felt guilty leaving her on her own. Sometimes a neighbour would pop in, or his aunt Carol would come round, but on the whole they left her alone in the evenings, knowing they could rely on Vernon to be there. It didn't do much for his social life but he fiercely suppressed any feeling of resentment. It wasn't his mother's fault she was confined to a wheelchair and he hardly had much of a social life to sacrifice, just a few drinks with his mates once in a while. It was worse for his mother, and she was certainly appreciative of his support.

‘I don't know what I'd do without you,’ she often told him.

He hadn't planned on telling anyone he thought he was being followed, wasn't even sure if he'd imagined the whole thing, but he had passed the police station that afternoon and had gone in on an impulse. He hadn't felt any better after telling the inspector about his misgivings. Leaving the police station he had noticed a black car parked across the street and had hurried round the corner, determined not to look round. The inspector was right. He was being ridiculous suspecting everyone he saw of stalking him. The car was nothing to do with him.

As it turned out, the party wasn't too bad. A few people were wearing masks, which was a laugh, and his old mates seemed pleased to see him. He drank loads of beer and felt on top of the world. Jenny arrived, her face plastered in make–up. They chatted for a while and he thought she still fancied him, but her giggling was irritating.