Dead End (35 page)

‘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 Perhaps her mother had withdrawn in shame.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

O
n 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 night 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.’

Bev turned her face away from him without speaking and Ian gazed down at her short white blonde hair, her narrow shoulders and slim legs, taking in her clothes. Always beautiful, she had made an effort to dress up smartly for her friend's birthday drink.

He sighed, trying to understand where she was coming from, but it was outrageous that she would expect him to prioritise having a birthday drink with a friend over stopping an evil monster like Crozier. ‘I'm sorry, Bev,’ he lied. ‘I was so wrapped up in the case, I completely forgot about the arrangement with Kirsty. But even if I'd remembered, it wouldn't have made any difference. You do understand that, don't you?’ She didn't answer. ‘And there's still the ongoing investigation into who murdered the teacher. But that's not so pressing. I mean, it was vital we found the girl quickly. He could have killed her – or worse.’

Bev turned to face him and he was surprised to see tears glittering on her cheeks. ‘It's all right, love, I get it,’ she said gently. ‘I'm sorry. Of course finding that poor child and catching the paedophile had to take precedence over Kirsty's drinks. I'm sorry. Come here.’ She patted the cushion next to her and Ian dropped down onto the sofa and put his arm round her, pulling her close. Bev rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

‘I had something.’ He didn't add that he'd eaten in the pub. ‘So, what have you been up to?’

Bev began to talk but he couldn't focus on what she was saying. After a few minutes she tapped him on the knee. ‘Are you listening?’

‘Sorry. I was just thinking about the DL.’ Talking to Bev often helped Ian to formulate his thoughts and he really needed to work through his suspicions of Paul Hilliard and his concern that Geraldine's judgement had been clouded by her relationship with the pathologist.

Bev pulled away abruptly from his embrace and folded her arms. ‘Oh great. Thank you very much. You think so much of your precious DI, why don't you go and live with her? You practically do already. You spend more time with her than you do with me –’

‘You know it's not a nine to five job, Bev.’ He paused but she didn't answer. ‘I don't see how you can be married to a police officer if you can't understand something as basic as that.’

Bev rose to her feet and stood directly in front of him, gazing at him, her eyes wide. ‘Married to a police officer?’ she repeated. ‘Did you say married?’

Ian stared back at her, bowled over. For years he had been planning to marry Bev one day, if she'd have him, but he hadn't intended to propose like this, sweaty and exhausted from a long day at work, with Bev in tears. He'd thought vaguely of a romantic weekend in Paris, a ring passed across the table in an open jewellery box, sparkling on a small velvet cushion, a real corker, like the ring one of his mates had bought for his girlfriend. Bev would love that.

He hesitated, aware that she was waiting for an answer. ‘Well, I want to, if you do,’ he stammered. ‘Of course I do. Don't you?’

‘Is this a proposal?’

‘Look, I haven't got a ring yet, I mean, I wanted to take you away somewhere romantic… Oh what the hell?’ He dropped down on one knee. ‘Marry me, Bev. Marry me or I'll be miserable for the rest of my life.’

She laughed, crying again. ‘How can I refuse an offer like that?’ Ian stood up and wrapped her in his arms, holding her so close that she complained. ‘Let go, Ian, I can't breathe.’

‘I'll never let you go,’ he answered. As he relaxed his grip on her, he was surprised to realise his eyes were watering. ‘I should have asked you a long time ago,’ he said.

‘Why didn't you?’

‘I was afraid.’

‘Afraid of commitment?’

‘Afraid you'd say no.’

‘That's the daftest thing I've ever heard.’

He pressed Bev's head against his neck to stop her seeing his tears. He had never felt so happy.

64

JOURNEY

‘F
ancy an early night?’ Ian suggested. ‘I've got to be up at six in the morning.’

‘I thought you had the day off tomorrow.’

‘No such luck. All hands to the pumps I'm afraid.’

Bev groaned and ruffled his hair. ‘Oh Ian. And you're so tired.’

‘I'm fine.’

‘No, you're not. You look absolutely exhausted. Can't they let you have a day off?’

He shook his head, smiling. ‘It'll soon be over. Now, how about that early night?’

‘Why do you have to be up so early?’

‘I need to go in and work,’ he replied vaguely. He didn't want to risk anyone finding out what he was planning to do the next day.

The train to York took two hours from Kings Cross. Ian spent the time checking through Paul Hilliard's history once again. His fifteen-year-old daughter had died but Peterson could find no report on the cause of death, which was strange. The records seemed to have vanished. He spent an hour on the telephone to the registrar of births and deaths in York, but they were unable to help him.

‘I'm sorry, Sergeant.’ The woman on the line, flustered at first, became increasingly belligerent. ‘It looks as though someone's taken the file away and not returned it.’

‘Don't you keep a copy?’

‘We don't have duplicates as a matter of course.’ In the end she promised to look into it and Peterson had to be satisfied with that.

Six months after Abigail Kirby had moved to Harchester, Paul Hilliard had been appointed Home Office pathologist for the area. It could have been a coincidence. Abigail Kirby and Paul Hilliard had both been promoted. There was no reason why they shouldn't have moved to the same area, but given the connection through Paul Hilliard's daughter Ian was convinced he was right to investigate, sure too that there was at least a possibility the DI's judgement had been influenced by her friendship with the pathologist. How else could he explain her vehement rejection of his ideas, before she'd even considered what he was saying, and why had she flatly refused to tell the DCI about his suspicions?

Ian stepped off the train at York, crossed the busy station footbridge and made his way out onto the street. He took a taxi into town, choosing not to contact the local police station for transport. He wanted to keep his visit under wraps, at least until he had something concrete to show the DI. If his journey turned out to be a waste of time, she need never find out. He would have spent a long day travelling for nothing, but he had been ferreting around, asking about Paul Hilliard, and he had a feeling something wasn't right. If his suspicions proved to be well founded he would have to face the DI, but at least he'd have some hard facts to show her.

The headmistress of York Girls Grammar School was an austere, grey-haired woman. Ian could imagine her intimidating the pupils in her charge, but she greeted him pleasantly enough.

‘Detective Sergeant Peterson, I'm June Melbury. How can I help you?’ While her words were urbane, her eyes were guarded. ‘May I ask what this is about?’

‘I want to ask about a former member of your staff who was here until the end of the last academic year. It's a routine enquiry. Nothing serious. Just a little background information about Abigail Kirby.’

‘Oh Abigail.’ Mrs Melbury sat down heavily. ‘Yes, of course we heard. How terrible.’ She shook her head. ‘Do you know what happened?’

‘We're investigating.’

‘And how can I help you?’

‘We're not sure yet.’

‘You mean, you're here to ask the questions,’ she smiled. ‘Well, of course, anything I can do to help –’

‘Was Abigail Kirby popular with the pupils? Was she good at her job?’

‘She was very good with the pupils, especially when they had problems.’

‘What sort of problems?’

Mrs Melbury sighed. ‘There are so many problems with young girls these days, Sergeant, but it's always best when they come forward so we can help them. It's the ones who don't talk who turn out to be the real worry.’ Ian thought of Lucy Kirby, and wondered if she was receiving similar consideration at her school. She was probably one of the girls who kept her problems to herself, although obviously the school knew about her mother's murder. Everyone knew about it.

He realised the headmistress was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. ‘Did she ever help a pupil called Emma Hilliard?’

‘Emma Hilliard, the suicide? She tried.’

‘We know she committed suicide,’ Ian lied, looking down to hide his surprise, ‘but we need to be clear about the circumstances. Please can you tell me in your own words what happened.’

Mrs Melbury hesitated. ‘What has this to do with Abigail Kirby?’

‘I'm afraid I can't say. All I can tell you is that we're investigating the death of Abigail Kirby and we need to know about her history with Emma Hilliard. It may just possibly have some bearing on what happened to her. That's what I've been sent here to look into.’ He hoped the headmistress wouldn't realise he was winging it. She looked like a shrewd woman, used to penetrating her pupils’ fibs.