Dead End (20 page)

‘Of course I know what it means. I'm not an idiot, and I can sit here if I want.’

‘No you can't. Get off my bed.’

‘Stop telling me what to do. Just because you're older than me doesn't give you the right to boss me around all the time.’ He lay back and stretched out on the bed.

‘Get your filthy shoes off my bed!’ Lucy shrieked. She leapt forward, seized him by the legs and pulled him as hard as she could. Ben grasped the duvet which slid across the bed beneath him. He was laughing so hard that he let go and landed on the floor with a thump, clutching his stomach. They heard Aunty Evie calling from downstairs. Ben clambered to his feet, still laughing, and left the room. Swearing furiously under her breath, Lucy replaced the duvet and brushed it down, although she couldn't see any mud from Ben's shoes on it. ‘Filthy little shit, thinks he can come in here and do what he bloody well likes.’

She realised she was muttering to herself as she sat in the cubicle at school, clutching her knees to her chest, and fell silent, thinking, but as she tried to focus on making plans for the future, she heard Miss Abingdon calling her name.

‘Lucy, are you in here?’

With a sigh, Lucy stood up and opened the door. ‘Yes, Miss. I've got a headache.’

Miss Abingdon looked relieved to see her. ‘As long as you're alright,’ she said.

Lucy frowned. She had just told her teacher she had a headache. How was that alright? And her mother was dead. She'd been murdered. Was that alright? ‘Yes, Miss.’ There was no point talking to idiot teachers. They didn't understand anything.

‘Shouldn't you be in geography now? Or do you want to go the medical centre and have a rest?’ Miss Abingdon put on an air of fake concern, as though she cared about Lucy when the truth was she simply didn't want any bother. If Lucy had killed herself, there in the school toilets, it would have caused her tutor no end of trouble. Lucy lowered her gaze and stared at the grubby floor tiles wishing she'd done it, cut her wrists so Miss Abingdon would have walked in and seen the floor of the toilets swimming in blood. It would've served her right.

‘Yes, Miss,’ she said.

‘What do you want to do, Lucy? Do you want to go and lie down? You look –’ Miss Abingdon was keen to pass the responsibility for Lucy on to the school nurse. ‘You don't look very well.’ She didn't say Lucy looked as though she'd been crying and it might be best not to return to her class looking like shit.

‘Yes, Miss. I'll go to the medical centre,’ Lucy answered.

She glanced back over her shoulder before she turned a corner in the corridor. Miss Abingdon was watching her, a worried frown on her face. Lucy walked past the entrance to the medical centre and out through the side door into the school yard.

34

NEIGHBOURS

G
eraldine and her sergeant went to interview the Kirbys’ neighbours to see if they could add to the picture the police were building up about Matthew. The Kirbys lived in a detached house towards one end of a wide avenue lined with silver birch, a mixture of detached and semi-detached properties. To one side of the Kirbys was a semi-detached house and they tried there first.

The door rattled and a grey haired woman opened it slightly. ‘Yes?’ She peered suspiciously up at them, and they saw she had the chain on.

Geraldine held out her warrant card and the woman removed the chain and opened the door fully. She was short and very thin, her shoulders bowed with age. Geraldine thought she would probably scare children, with her sharp eyes, pointed nose and chin.

‘How can I help you, officer?’ Briefly, Geraldine explained the reason for their call. ‘I thought it would be about the woman next door. Shocking business, isn't it? Although I suppose it's all in a day's work for you. Well, if you're hoping I can help, I'm sorry to disappoint you but I can't really say I knew them at all. To be honest, I hardly spoke to them. Not that there was any bad feeling, but they were busy people and I don't go out much these days. My daughter comes when she can –’

‘What about the children?’ Geraldine interrupted her.

The old woman frowned. ‘My grandchildren? Oh, they're both away. Jessica's travelling. That's all she seems to want to do. And Mark lives in Scotland –’

‘I'm talking about the girl and boy who live next door. Did you see them very often?’ Geraldine interrupted gently. The old woman shook her head. ‘And Mr and Mrs Kirby – were you aware of any difficulties in the marriage? Did you ever hear them arguing?’

The woman's eyes lit up with sudden animation. ‘Oh, do you think he did it? Was it him killed her then?’ Unconsciously, she opened the door wider and leaned forward. ‘Are you going to arrest him?’

‘We've no idea yet who was responsible for her death –’

‘It was terrible, wasn't it? A teacher.’ The woman tutted loudly. ‘Well, I hope you're going to lock him up soon. I don't want to live next door to a murderer.’ She dropped her voice, as though afraid she might be overheard. ‘Now, you'll come in for a cup of tea, won't you? And I've got some nice chocolate bourbons.’

Geraldine and the sergeant exchanged a regretful glance. ‘That's very kind of you, but we need to get on. Here's a card. Please give me a call if you think of anything else.’

The Kirbys’ neighbours on the other side were keen to help, but similarly short on information. A middle-aged man came to the door and looked enquiringly at them without speaking. Once again, Geraldine introduced herself and Detective Sergeant Peterson and outlined the reason for their call.

‘Hmmm,’ the man replied. ‘They weren't exactly unfriendly –’ He broke off as a plump, bright-eyed woman joined him on the doorstep.

‘What's this, Brian?’ she asked fussily. ‘We're not –’

‘It's the police, Maisie.’ Her eyes opened wide in alarm. ‘It's about the Kirby woman next door. You know, the one –’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ she dismissed him and turned to Geraldine. ‘Have you found out who killed her?’

‘We're pursuing our investigation, but I'm afraid we can't say any more than that at this point.’

‘They want to know what they were like next door,’ Brian explained to his wife. ‘I was telling them they're not exactly friendly,’ he went on.

Maisie turned to Geraldine. ‘If you ask me, there's something not right about that family. I mean, she never seems to be there. He seems nice enough, doesn't he, Brian, but she's always off, out and about, till all hours, isn't she?’ She appealed to her husband then continued without waiting for him to respond. ‘Remember when they first moved in? We're not exactly demanding as neighbours. I mean, we don't like to intrude. But there's nothing wrong with being neighbourly, is there?’

‘What happened?’ Geraldine asked.

‘We went to see if there was anything they needed and she came to the door and – well, she gave us our marching orders, as if we were making a nuisance of ourselves. He never said a word, just shrugged at us before she shut the door. Now that's not very friendly, is it?’

‘I think she might just have been busy,’ her husband interrupted. ‘They had just moved in.’

‘That was no reason to talk down to us like that, as though we were naughty children.’

‘She spends all day talking to children –’

‘Well, we're not children. She was hardly ever there, as far as we could tell. And as for him, I haven't spoken to him since that first night. Not that there's any bad feeling, we just don't see them.’

Her husband shook his head. ‘Not everyone wants to chat over the garden fence. There's nothing wrong with keeping yourself to yourself.’

Maisie swivelled round to face him. ‘There's friendly and there's neighbourly. Everyone has to make time for other people. It's only manners. We were only being good neighbours.’ She turned back to Geraldine. ‘Now I come to think of it, she was pretty rude, if you ask me. But I'm sorry about what happened to her. It's a terrible business.’

‘And you say Mrs Kirby was hardly ever at home?’

‘Yes, that's right,’ Maisie replied. ‘Like I said, he seems pleasant enough, but she's always off out somewhere – or she was, I should say. Those children are left to drag themselves up – and she's a head teacher. You wouldn't believe it, would you? That girl looks as though she could do with a good wash.’

‘Yes, the girl's odd,’ Brian agreed, ‘but she's a teenager.’ As though that explained it.

‘I mean, you never hear any noise from them,’ Maisie went on. ‘Not that we're complaining, but that's not normal for teenagers, is it?’

Geraldine took a step back and handed Brian a card. ‘Thank you both very much. If you think of anything else that might help us in our enquiries, please call this number.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Maisie asked.

‘Of course we will, Inspector,’ her husband replied at the same time. ‘I told you, they want to know about Mr Kirby next door, to find out if he killed his wife,’ he explained.

‘Well, don't you go getting any ideas, Brian Fuller,’ they heard her say as the door closed.

35

CAROL

‘C
arol Middleton's here and she's asking to speak to someone, gov.’

Geraldine looked up with a frown. ‘Carol Middleton? Am I supposed to know who she is?’

‘She's Vernon Mitchell's aunt.’

Geraldine slapped the file she was reading down on her desk. ‘Has he turned up then?’

‘I don't know, gov, but his aunt doesn't look very happy.’ The constable pulled a face and Geraldine's spirits sank. Vernon was a healthy seventeen-year-old who had been missing for less than two days. Under normal circumstances the police wouldn't be concerned. If Vernon hadn't been to the station with his hazy account of a man talking to Abigail Kirby shortly before she was killed, the police wouldn't have paid much attention to his mother's anxieties. But Vernon Mitchell had disappeared soon after he had come forward with his statement, just one day after he had reported that he thought he was being followed. Something about his disappearance didn't feel right.

‘OK, I'll see her now.’

A large red-faced woman was waiting in an interview room, a robust version of Mrs Mitchell. She had to be the invalid's sister. ‘Mrs Carol Middleton?’

‘I'd like you to tell me exactly what's going on,’ Carol Middleton said before Geraldine had a chance to introduce herself. ‘My sister reported her son missing twenty-four hours ago and she's not heard a word from you since then.’

‘I'm sorry –’

‘I don't think you have any idea what my poor sister is going through.’ Carol went on without waiting for an answer. ‘My sister is not a well woman, Inspector. She can't cope with the sort of stress you're subjecting her to.’

‘I'm sorry about your sister, Mrs Middleton, but I'm not sure what more you expect us to do –’

‘Find him, of course. Wherever Vernon is, you have to find him. My sister can't take much more of this. It's making her ill. Look, I'm not sure you quite understand the seriousness of the situation. I'd like to speak to a senior officer.’ Geraldine introduced herself and Carol Middleton nodded when Geraldine said she was an inspector. ‘Right. An inspector. Good. Now tell me exactly what you've done so far to try and find Vernon. I want to know exactly what's been happening.’

Geraldine began to explain that as much time as possible was being devoted to Vernon's disappearance but Carol Middleton interrupted her again.

‘That's frankly not good enough, Inspector. You have to understand, this is not just any teenage boy who's run off. Vernon's mother is a very sick woman. He knows how much she depends on him and would never disappear like that, without a word.’

Geraldine looked directly at the other woman and kept her voice even. ‘Mrs Middleton, has it occurred to you that Vernon might simply be taking some time off, taking some time for himself? Acting as a carer is difficult and demanding and Vernon's only seventeen –’

‘He's nearly eighteen, and he isn't my sister's carer. She has carers who come in and look after her needs every day. But Vernon's her son, he's the only family she's got –’

‘She's got you,’ Geraldine pointed out.

Carol Middleton's naturally florid face turned a slightly darker shade of red with a flush that spread under her chin and down her throat. ‘That's not the same thing. Vernon's her son. He lives with her.’

As Geraldine watched Vernon's aunt talking at her she tried to feel sympathy for the stout red-faced woman but she couldn't help thinking Carol Middleton's complaints were unfair. The police were doing their best. It was hardly their fault the boy had gone missing. Uniform had questioned people living on Vernon's route back home from the party. No one remembered seeing him and he hadn't been spotted on any CCTV on buses travelling the route that night. Everyone they interviewed who had attended Gary's party told them Vernon had spent the evening with a girl called Jennifer.

All they learned was that Vernon had left the party ‘quite early’ and alone. A lot of alcohol had been consumed at the party, but there had allegedly been no drugs. As much man power as could be spared had been diverted to the search but the DCI hadn't been able to draft in more personnel. The Superintendant thought it unlikely there would prove to be anything amiss in Vernon's disappearance but Geraldine couldn't shake off an uneasy feeling that she had been wrong to dismiss Vernon's request for protection so quickly. Although her response had been appropriate with the information available to her at the time, and was all detailed in her decision log where she had to record reasons for all her actions, her disquiet made it difficult for her to insist with any degree of confidence that the police were doing everything they could to find Vernon Mitchell.

‘He's a young boy,’ she told Carol Middleton. ‘One day he's going to want to move out and live his own life. It's inevitable. He's going to want his own space and probably felt unable to demand it. It's not unusual for teenagers in his situation to run away from home like that and they almost always turn up, safe and sound. The chances of anything having happened to him are slight.’ She realised her attempt to reassure Vernon's aunt had backfired as soon as Carol Middleton spoke.