Stop Dead (38 page)

G
eraldine had only taken a few days off work when she had moved to London. Her holiday entitlement had been accumulating for a while. Nevertheless, she experienced a twinge of guilt when she locked her front door and set off for the airport. It was a long time since she had left work behind her for more than a few hours. A hire car was waiting for her at the end of her short flight. She set off to the small town where her father had settled, about fifty miles from Shannon airport. She drove along a well maintained motorway, bypassing the city of Limerick, and turned North towards her destination. Reaching her father’s small town, she gazed appreciatively at the picturesque scene that spread out in front of her.

The town had grown up on two banks of a river beside a large lake. The square tower of a church appeared above the trees behind her. In front of her a row of boats bobbed gently up and down in a marina on the lake. Before going to her hotel, she parked the car and explored the streets on foot. It didn’t take long to do a circuit of the main roads on her side of the river. Traffic lights on either side of a narrow bridge allowed cars to cross singly, in one direction at a time. Even with little traffic on the roads, there were a few cars waiting to cross. She dreaded to think what the queues must be like at busy times. But gazing around, she wondered if the place was ever busy, it appeared so sleepy and quiet. A few people sauntered in and out of the shops, occasionally stopping to greet one another on the pavement. No one seemed to be in a hurry.

There were several pubs offering accommodation in the town, but only one hotel. Studying the choices online, she had plumped for the most expensive option. Catching sight of the hotel from the bridge, she was pleased with her choice. With landscaped gardens leading down to a marina, and windows facing out over the lake, the setting couldn’t be more beautiful. Her pleasure was complete when she checked in and was shown to a spacious room with large windows overlooking the lake. No wonder her father had chosen to spend the rest of his life here.

Although he had been married to Molly for longer than he had been with Geraldine’s mother, she had never met her father’s second wife. Soon after they met, Molly had taken him back to the town where she had lived as a child, and they never left. Celia and Geraldine had ignored his letters, begging them to visit him. Without mentioning his name, it was clear their mother would regard any contact with him as a betrayal. Even now, Geraldine had been reluctant to tell Celia when she decided to visit Ireland. In the end, she had merely told her sister she was going away for a few days. She hoped Celia wouldn’t realise her trip coincided with their father’s birthday celebration.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. I’m due some time off –’

‘You can say that again!’

‘And if I don’t take it soon there’ll be another investigation and then I’ll never get away.’

‘It sounds like a good idea. You could do with a break from all those dead bodies! Tell you what, do you fancy going somewhere together? Just for a few days. One of my friends knows this fabulous retreat …’

It sounded wonderful, but Geraldine had her own plans.

‘Not this time.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re going with someone else?’ Celia wanted to know. ‘You dark horse. There’s a man involved, isn’t there?’

Geraldine sighed. In a way, Celia was right. But she didn’t suspect the man was their father.

‘No, I’m not going with anyone else. I really need some time to myself right now. It’s a great idea to do something together, just not right now. Let’s do something together soon.’

The woman at the door had grey hair and sad blue eyes. She smiled nervously when she saw Geraldine on the doorstep, and greeted her by name as though they weren’t strangers.

‘You must be Molly,’ Geraldine responded.

She tried to inject as much warmth into her voice as she could. She hadn’t travelled all this way to be hostile to the woman her father had fallen in love with over twenty years ago.

‘I brought you these.’

‘Thank you, they’re beautiful.’

The flowers between them resolved any awkwardness about whether they should shake hands or attempt an embrace.

Geraldine’s overriding feeling on seeing her father was sadness; he looked so old. She could have passed him in the street without recognising him. It was odd to think that he hadn’t been much older than she was now when he had left her mother for Molly nearly a quarter of a century ago. She looked for the father she remembered in the old man rising stiffly from his chair to greet her. Everything about his features had been clearly defined. Now it was as though he had been drawn in soft charcoal and someone had come along and smudged the edges of his portrait; his chin lost in sagging jowls, eyes peering from wrinkled folds of skin, the mop of fair hair she recalled all but vanished, leaving a shiny pate bordered by a few wisps of white. But when he smiled and held his hands out shyly, the years slipped away.

‘How are you, Dad?’

He nodded and they embraced wordlessly. When she pulled away he covered his face, but not before she had seen tears in his eyes. All at once she was struggling to keep her own emotions under control.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Molly said. ‘The others will be here soon.’

Geraldine was glad she had arrived early, to meet her father without his neighbours and friends there to gawp.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of introductions. Molly seemed to be related to half of Ireland. Her three sons and seven grandchildren all turned up. Geraldine hoped her father wasn’t grieved that not one of the guests at his birthday party was his blood relation. Even Geraldine was a stranger who had shared his home for ten years. She wondered if her parents’ inability to have more children after Celia’s birth had contributed to the breakdown of their marriage. But that was all in the past. Her adoptive mother was dead, and he had a new life.

Seeing him surrounded by Molly’s family, it felt inappropriate to raise the issue of her search for her birth mother. She would ask him another time. In any case, it was unlikely her father would be able to help her. After all her anticipation, she decided against mentioning it, even though searching for her birth mother had been the main factor influencing her decision to travel to Ireland. Her father didn’t ask about his own daughter until Geraldine was leaving, speaking quickly, as though the words pained him.

‘Celia’s fine.’

‘And the child?’

‘Chloe? She’s fine too.’

She didn’t know what else to say.

‘Still just the one?’

Geraldine nodded.

‘And you?’

‘No-one, Dad. Just my work.’

He smiled sadly at her, not knowing what to say. He had forfeited the right to pass judgement on her adult life before it had begun.

Geraldine was relieved when it was time for her to leave. She suspected her father felt the same way. It would have been nice to have spent more time with him, and get to know him better. As it was, their parting was oddly formal.

‘It’s been great seeing you again.’

‘Yes, we must keep in touch.’

Geraldine agreed, and this time she really meant what she said. She turned to wave as she drove away, but her father had already closed his door.

I
t was glorious to oversleep and spoil herself with a late breakfast. At her favourite café along Upper Street she lingered over freshly squeezed orange juice, brown toast, and fluffy scrambled egg and bacon, with a cafetiere. England was enjoying an unexpected spell of beautiful autumn sunshine. After breakfast she strolled along the busy main road and back down the quiet side street to her flat. Picking up her car she drove into work to start on the paperwork which had to be completed before the case could finally be closed. However cut and dried the result, everything had to be in order for the prosecution, to ensure the case was watertight. Even after a confession, facts could be twisted. With a decent lawyer even those who were blatantly guilty could evade conviction on a technicality.

It was hard to focus on her report. So many people had been involved in the case: widows and witnesses, victims and families, suspects and passersby, those who had been touched for an instant, and those whose lives had been transformed forever. Just twenty-four hours earlier, Geraldine could have recited chunks from key statements in the investigation. She had known names and relationships, and could have stated where suspects had been at the time of any one of the four murders, without recourse to her notes. This morning, she had to double-check the name of Patrick’s former mistress. The investigation over, she was already losing her grasp of names and dates, actions and injuries, that had occupied her thoughts over the past few weeks to the exclusion of everything else. Now she was exhausted, and her head felt empty.

She didn’t stay late at work, wanting to reach Kent in time for the start of her former mentor’s leaving party. Out of all her ex-colleagues, she had only been in close contact with her previous sergeant, Ian Peterson, and wasn’t sure how it would feel to return to her old work place and meet her former colleagues on the Kent constabulary. As it turned out, they all seemed pleased to see her and teased her about deserting them for the bright lights of the capital. Ted Carter seemed delighted that she had made the effort to turn up.

‘I really appreciate your coming,’ he said, beaming at her over the rim of his glass. ‘I know how busy you must be in London.’

‘As it happens, we’ve just wrapped up a case,’ she told him, ‘but I wouldn’t have missed this anyway.’

She waved her hand around to indicate the gathering. ‘Timing is everything,’ he told her and she smiled.

They both knew she wouldn’t have made it if she had been tied up on a case.

‘It’s good to see you, Geraldine.’

‘Very good,’ a familiar voice chimed in.

Geraldine turned to see her former sergeant, Ian, towering over her.

‘You saved me a stamp,’ he grinned, reaching into his pocket.

He pulled out an envelope, only slightly crumpled.

‘What’s this?’

‘An invitation.’

‘Another do?’

‘Ian’s not leaving, more’s the pity,’ someone called out.

‘No life of freedom for him,’ Ted laughed.

‘He can kiss that goodbye,’ another voice added.

Geraldine smiled, understanding that she had been handed an invitation to Ian’s wedding.

‘You’re really doing it then?’

‘Finally. The wedding’s in December. I hope you can make it.’

‘Work permitting.’

‘Such commitment,’ he said, shaking his head at her as though her dedication was something shameful.

‘That’s why she’s a DI on the Met,’ Ted told him.

‘And there I was putting it all down to your brilliant mentoring,’ Ian replied.

Ian put the invitation in her hand. She was pleased to see him looking so happy. Last time they had spoken he had been stressed over his wedding plans. Ignoring an unexpected stab of dismay, she smiled at him.

‘I hope it’s all going smoothly now?’

He shrugged.

‘I’m leaving everything to Bev.’

‘I’m sure that’s the best thing to do.’

‘Yes, except that now she’s complaining I’m not involved. Seems I can’t win.’

‘It’ll be fine once you’re married,’ she reassured him.

She was surprised to see how her words cheered him up. What did she know about marriage?

Although she was pleased for him, as she slipped the envelope in her bag she felt strangely abandoned. They had worked so closely together in the past, it was almost like losing a friend. Of course she knew his marriage wouldn’t make any difference to the way he behaved towards colleagues, and in any case she hardly saw him any more since her move to London. She shrugged the feeling off as several other officers joined them. They all quizzed her about the capital, as though they couldn’t possibly imagine what it would be like to live there.

Geraldine mumbled something about having been too busy to explore London life, which was no exaggeration.

‘What with the move, and then I’ve been involved in a couple of tricky cases –’

‘Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure,’ someone said.

Geraldine paused, remembering Ingrid’s frenzied attack, Linda’s despair, and the horrific injuries sustained by Patrick Henshaw, George Corless, Maurice Bradshaw and John Birch.

‘I bet they aren’t as friendly on the Met as we are,’ a constable chipped in.

Geraldine recollected Sam’s spat with Nick after his outrageous comment about a rape victim.
“She
probably asked for it.”
No one spoke like that about Ingrid’s victims, although there was no way of knowing what appalling behaviour on their part had provoked her attacks.

‘They’re friendly in a different way,’ she said, shrugging off her troubling memories.

It was strange to return to the camaraderie of her former work colleagues. Looking back on her time in Kent, she realised they had been a close-knit team. Although they hadn’t all been on first name terms, as was the norm in London, they had all known one another. Looked at from outside, the familiar form of address adopted by her colleagues in London seemed superficial. She experienced a fleeting regret at having moved away from Kent.

‘So you’re OK in London?’

Ian was at her side. He always seemed to sense when she was feeling despondent.

‘It’s different –’

She hesitated, tempted to confide her reservations. But now was not the time. She hoped Ian’s future wife appreciated his sensitivity and consideration, and realised how lucky she was to be marrying him.

It was late when Geraldine arrived home at the end of a tiring day, with one last task to carry out before she went to bed. Sitting at her desk she sent an email to her father, telling him how much she had enjoyed seeing him again, and giving him her new address. Then she went to bed, without setting her alarm for the morning.

First published in 2013

by No Exit Press

an imprint of Oldcastle Books

P O Box 394,