Dead End (36 page)

Mrs Melbury didn't reply straightaway. Instead, she picked up her phone. ‘Can you bring me the file for Emma Hilliard?’ She listened for a moment. ‘Yes, that Emma… Yes, the secure cabinet… Thank you.’ She turned to Ian. ‘It's all history now. I do hope this isn't going to be raked over in public again. Once the press start up – we barely rode out the storm when it all happened. The school almost didn't survive.’ She looked very old and tired suddenly.

‘Of course you can rely on our discretion,’ Ian reassured her.

A moment later the door opened and a woman scurried in carrying a buff folder which she handed to the headmistress, who nodded her thanks and waited for the secretary to leave the room. She glanced down at the file and spoke slowly. ‘Emma Hilliard was fifteen when she fell pregnant. Abigail Kirby supported her.’

‘How did she support her, exactly?’

‘She helped to arrange an abortion.’

‘An abortion?’

‘It was what Emma wanted. We advised against it and she had counselling naturally – we insisted as a matter of course – but she was a determined girl who knew her own mind. An intelligent girl. She didn't want her parents to find out.’

‘They didn't know?’

‘Not at first.’

‘Shouldn't you have told them?’

‘Her mother was told but not her father. Abigail made the arrangements with the mother's consent. It was the best we could do, and Emma was very insistent that was what she wanted. Her mother supported her wishes – so she went ahead and had the abortion.’

‘Why did she kill herself?’

The headmistress shrugged helplessly. ‘Who knows exactly why these things happen? After the abortion she became depressed. She was having help and we thought she was making a good recovery, but one day –’ She broke off. After a few seconds she regained her self-control. ‘Her father took it very hard. He'd known nothing about the pregnancy, but of course it all came out after her suicide. He was understandably shocked when he learned that his daughter had refused to confide in him and, as he saw it, his wife had colluded in excluding him from supporting his daughter. He seemed to think he could have made a difference, if he had known. And who knows? Maybe he would. Anyway, the marriage broke up after the girl's suicide. They had no other children, only Emma, you see. Her father idolised her. She was a lovely girl, very intelligent, talented, and quite beautiful. I think her father blamed us, but we were only supporting Emma's wishes and her mother knew all about it, so I really don't believe the school can be held responsible for what happened. If we hadn't helped Emma, her mother would have taken her elsewhere and we thought she was better off with people who knew her. Or at least we thought we knew her. It was a terrible tragedy.’

Ian considered. ‘How did she actually commit suicide?’

‘She hung herself.’

‘At school?’

‘No. There was that at least. Not that it made any difference to the poor girl. And it was her father who found her… in her bedroom…’ She rubbed her bottom lip with the back of a hand that was shaking slightly. ‘And then there was another one…’

Ian had to strain to hear her. ‘Another one?’

‘Another girl – Emma's best friend – she killed herself two weeks later. She threw herself out of Emma's bedroom window. Emma's father said she asked to visit her friend's room to say goodbye, and when he went upstairs, I'm afraid the poor man found her too. It was horrible. She lost an ear –’

Ian started forward in his chair. ‘Lost an ear? What do you mean?’

‘There was a glass conservatory below the window and she went right through it, shattering the glass and slashing off her ear as she fell.’ Mrs Melbury shuddered.

Ian leapt to his feet. ‘I need to see the post-mortem report as soon as possible. What was her name?’ The headmistress looked surprised at his sudden excitement. ‘Her name?’ he repeated impatiently.

‘Her name was Mary Shelton. She was a sweet girl. You have no idea what an effect all this had on our community here. We're still reeling from it.’

Ian put his notebook away. He didn't have much time before his train back. ‘Thank you very much. That's been very helpful.’

She too stood up. ‘And all this will be treated in strict confidence?’

‘Need to know basis.’

‘Thank you. I realise you may not be able to tell me, but do you think this will help your enquiries into Abigail's death?’

‘Yes. I think it will.’

‘But does that mean Abigail's death was in some way related to Emma Hilliard's suicide?’

‘Mrs Melbury, you've been very co-operative. I can't stop you speculating, but please, it's very important you don't mention this to anyone. Don't even mention that I was here. It's vitally important no one knows we've been asking about Emma Hilliard.’

‘I can be discreet too, Sergeant.’ She held out her hand.

Worried he'd said too much, Ian tried to backtrack. ‘We're just making general enquiries into Abigail Kirby's past, trying to find out what sort of person she was. It just happened that Emma Hilliard was the only name we'd come across – that's all –’

She knew he wasn't being strictly truthful. ‘There's more to this than you are able to tell me, but don't worry. I won't mention this discussion to anyone. I just hope it helps you to find out who murdered poor Abigail. She helped so many pupils. But a few – like Emma –’ She shrugged. ‘You can't help everyone, Sergeant.’

‘No, you can't.’

Ian reached York station with minutes to spare before his train left, a copy of the post-mortem report on Mary Shelton in his inside pocket. Soon after Paul Hilliard's daughter committed suicide her best friend had fallen from Emma's bedroom window to land on glass which broke, neatly slicing off one of her ears. At the time there had been no reason to suspect that this had been anything other than a terrible accident. That Paul Hilliard had been in the house at the time had been regarded as his misfortune.

Paul Hilliard had subsequently moved to Kent where his daughter's former tutor had been murdered, and her tongue cut out. The only potential witness had been murdered, and his eyes removed.

Ian's elation at the success of his journey faded as the train began to move. He dreaded telling Geraldine, but it had to be done. Reluctantly he reached for his mobile. It seemed to ring interminably before he heard Geraldine's voice, brisk and reassuring. ‘…I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message…’

Ian swore under his breath as he waited. ‘Gov, it's Ian. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to speak to you about Paul Hilliard. I've been to York and –’ He faltered. He knew he'd have to tell her but decided it was best dealt with face to face. ‘Call me. It's urgent. Don't contact him until we've spoken.’ He hung up. There was nothing more he could do. The train hurtled smoothly on its way south.

He waited but the DI didn't return his call.

65

THE TRUTH

A
s she was washing her hands, Geraldine thought she heard her phone ring. She paused to check her make–up and smooth down her hair, before returning to the living room where Paul was waiting for her.

‘Was that my phone?’

Paul looked faintly puzzled. ‘Phone?’

‘I thought I heard my phone.’

‘I didn't hear anything. I was in the kitchen.’

Geraldine checked. ‘I thought so. There's a missed call from my sergeant.’

A petulant frown crossed Paul's face. ‘You're not on duty now. Ignore it.’

‘But –’

‘The sergeant would've left a message if it was important.’

‘True. But –’

‘Come here.’ He came very close to her, rested his arms on her shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. His lips felt dry and warm, his tongue probed gently between her teeth. ‘Forget about work,’ he murmured, kissing her neck. ‘It's easier than you think.’ Geraldine relaxed into his embrace as he kissed her again. After a few seconds he pulled back slightly, still keeping his arms around her. ‘Geraldine, come with me. I want to show you something.’

Smiling, he led her into the hall. She hoped he was taking her up to his bedroom but he took her straight to a bookcase at the foot of the stairs. Geraldine was surprised to see him slide the bookcase sideways across the wall to reveal a small door. He took a key from his pocket. As it turned in the lock, they heard the faint sound of a phone ringing in the living room. She turned.

‘Leave it.’ Paul looked at her, his face alive with excitement. Geraldine smiled and stepped forward. The door swung open and she followed him across the threshold into darkness. The door clicked shut behind her and she heard the faint scratching of a key turning. There was a brief pause then a sudden light dazzled her. When she opened her eyes, Paul was looking up at her from half way down a narrow staircase.

‘Come on.’ She had never seen Paul looking so energised, his eyes sparkling in the bright light. He led her down, holding her hand, and Geraldine was astonished to see a white room, bare apart from a large white table and a white cupboard that reached to the ceiling. She wondered how it had been brought down the stairs or if it had been put together down there. The strangeness of the room suddenly made her skin crawl with fear.

‘Everything's white,’ she said, watching Paul as he unlocked the cupboard. He was smiling to himself. ‘Why is everything white?’ she asked.

‘Beautiful, isn't it?’ He had his back to her while he rummaged in the cupboard. She couldn't see what he was doing. Over his shoulder she saw narrow wooden drawers but she couldn't see their contents.

‘Why is everything white?’ she asked again. Her voice trembled slightly. The whole situation was uncomfortably odd, and she had no idea where it was leading.

A sudden jolt of alarm struck her, a visceral sensation that something was very wrong about this sepulchral cellar, very wrong indeed. On an impulse she turned and darted up the stairs. There was no door handle, only an empty keyhole. She kicked the door. It didn't even quiver.

‘Come back down.’ Paul spoke quietly.

Geraldine turned on the top step, her shoulders pressed against the unyielding door. ‘What did you want to show me?’

‘This.’ He gestured around the cellar, smiling.

‘It's lovely Paul, if you like secret basements,’ she answered, keeping her voice under control. ‘Now I've seen it, let's go back upstairs.’ He didn't answer. ‘Why is the door locked?’

He laughed out loud. ‘Because I locked it.’

Geraldine smiled back at him. ‘I'd like to go back upstairs, Paul. Open the door please.’

‘Not yet.’

‘But –’

‘I want to show you something. Come down here, Geraldine.’

She hesitated but she had no choice. ‘I don't want to. It's cold down there.’ Paul ignored her and moved across the cellar out of her line of vision. She could only see the top of his head, bowed forward. ‘What are you doing, Paul?’ Slowly she descended the stairs.

Paul was standing motionless on the other side of the room, the table between them like a barrier. He took a step towards her and as he moved something glinted in his right hand. He was holding a syringe.

‘What's in your hand?’

‘Don't worry, I don't want to punish you, Geraldine. This will be very quick. I promise you won't feel anything.’ Paul met her gaze with an apologetic smile. ‘This wasn't part of the plan, Geraldine, it really wasn't. I never wanted to punish you, believe me. If there was another way…’ He took a step towards her.

Geraldine stared at him in horror, realising that the man she had been falling in love with was a fantasy; Paul Hilliard was insane. ‘No. Wait. I don't understand any of this.’

‘I can't let you stop me. Not now.’

‘And I won't. Let me go and – we can forget all about this.’ He must know she was lying, but she couldn't think what else to say.

‘The problem is your young sergeant has been calling, leaving you messages. I can't let you stop me now. You know too much.’

Geraldine shook her head. ‘I don't know anything, Paul. No one's told me anything about you.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I can help you, Paul. Don't you see? If the sergeant knows something – about you – you're going to need my help.’

He raised the syringe. ‘I haven't got a choice. The sergeant's next. It's his own fault. He shouldn't have interfered. But you – I'm sorry Geraldine, I never wanted things to end like this.’ He raised his right arm and the liquid glistened in the syringe.

‘I want to help you. I want to understand. What's going on? Tell me. What's this about?’

‘Emma.’ He sounded impatient, as though it was obvious. ‘This is for Emma.’

‘Your daughter?’ He nodded. ‘She was a beautiful girl.’

‘You didn't know her.’

‘I saw her photograph. But I still don't understand. What has this,’ she looked around the cellar, ‘got to do with your daughter?’

‘Those responsible had to be punished,’ he replied. He sounded so matter-of-fact Geraldine struggled to believe he was really threatening her.

‘Responsible for what?’

‘For Emma's death. They let her down. All of them.’

‘Who?’

‘Her friend who never listened, her teacher who gave her terrible advice, and the doctor who killed her.’

Geraldine gulped for air. She felt as though she was suffocating. ‘Teacher? Abigail Kirby was your daughter's teacher? She gave your daughter the wrong advice so you cut out her tongue.’ She felt sick. The room was spinning as though she was drunk. Paul raised his hand and a tiny spurt of clear liquid shot into the air catching the light. Geraldine struggled to make sense of it. ‘Who else did you kill, Paul? What girl? Why did you kill –’

‘That girl was supposed to be Emma's best friend, but she didn't listen when Emma needed help. What kind of a person betrays a friend like that? How could I leave her to carry on, living out her evil life, while Emma…’ He shook his head. ‘Only the doctor is left now, and he'll be next.’

‘What doctor? I don't understand. Why would you want to kill a doctor?’

‘The doctor who terminated my daughter's pregnancy, murdered her unborn child –’

‘Emma had an abortion?’

‘The doctor who killed my unborn grandchild. The doctor who drove my daughter, Emma…’ His voice broke.