Dead End E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A DI Geraldine Steel Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 485

Beschreibung

The third in the detective series featuring DI Geraldine Steel Headmistress Abigail Kirby is dead. A potential witness has been murdered. And for DI Geraldine Steel, the stakes have been raised yet higher. Abigail's teenage daughter, Lucy, is missing, believed to have run away with a girl she met online. Time is quickly running out for Geraldine before her naivety costs Lucy her life. But with a serial killer on the loose, Geraldine's own life is in danger, and though her Sergeant Ian Peterson makes a shocking discovery, could it be too late to save her from a dreadful fate?

Leseprobe

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Part 1

1: Abigail

2: Waiting

3: Discovery

4: Team

5: Scene of Crime

6: Surfing

7: Morgue

8: Family

9: Shock

10: Briefing

11: Interviews

12: Waste

13: Mistress

14: Zoe

Part 2

15: Vernon

16: Matthew

17: Arrangements

18: Ben

19: Witness

20: Hannah

21: Agency

22: Charlotte

23: Whitewash

24: Drink

25: Evie

26: Stalker

Part 3

27: Marriage

28: Trust

29: Alarm

30: Date

31: Hallowe'en

32: Missing

33: School

34: Neighbours

35: Carol

36: Release

37: Talk

38: Agreement

39: Interest

40: Visitor

41: Clean UP

Part 4

42: Guy

43: Grief

44: Corpse

45: Store

46: Impatience

47: Identification

48: Argument

49: Secrets

50: Dissatisfaction

51: Leaving

Part 5

52: Daughter

53: Panic

54: Name

55: Concealment

56: Justice

57: Escape

58: Whitstable

59: School

60: Cafe

61: Arrest

62: Regret

63: Proposal

64: Journey

65: The Truth

66: Cellar

67: Moving on

68: Change

Questions and Answers

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

'taut and compelling' - Peter James

'Leigh Russell is one to watch' - Lee Child

'Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural' - Marcel Berlins, Times

'A brilliant talent in the thriller field.' - Jeffery Deaver

DEAD END

LEIGH RUSSELL

www.noexit.co.uk

NO EXIT PRESS

Dedicated to

Michael, Jo & Phill

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his medical advice, all my contacts on the police force for their help my editor for her guidance, David Marshall for his support, and Annette Crossland with all the team at No Exit Press.

‘When you kill somebody you change the universe.’

Dr Gwen Adshead, Consultant Forensic Psychotherapist, Broadmoor Hospital

Glossary of acronyms used in Dead End

DCI-Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)DI-Detective InspectorDS-Detective SergeantDC-Detective ConstableSOCO-Scene of Crime Officers (collect forensic evidence at scene)PM-Post-Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)GCSE-General Certificate of Secondary Education (high school examinations)CCTV-Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

PART 1

‘When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.’

Khalil Gibran

1

Abigail

Abigail's head hurt. She was afraid something was wrong with her eyes. She couldn't see anything. A heavy weight was pressing down on her chest. She fought against a feeling of nausea, and tried to turn her head but couldn't.

‘Hello,’ she croaked. No answer. She was alone in the darkness.

It had been raining when she left the shopping centre. Her son, Ben, had been trying out for an under-fourteen football team at his new school and Abigail had promised to be there when he came home. She remembered hurrying along the street, away from the shops. Now she was lying in darkness, unable to move.

‘Hello,’ she called again. Her throat hurt and there was a strange smell. By now Abigail had realised she was in hospital, coming round from an operation. Nurses of all people should have known better than to leave her lying on her back. There was a risk she might choke to death if she were sick. She seemed to lie there for hours, drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘Hello,’ she called again. ‘Is anyone there? Please?’

The light dazzled her.

‘Am I in hospital?’ she asked. Her voice sounded far away. ‘Are you a doctor?’

‘Hello, Mrs Kirby. Mrs Abigail Kirby.’ The man smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’ He held up a syringe. Clear liquid glistened on the tip of the needle. The man leaned forward, his head framed by an aura of white light.

Abigail closed her eyes and drifted back into dreams. She woke up in darkness. ‘Doctor?’ she called. ‘Hello? Are you there? Is anyone there?’

Silence.

2

Waiting

Matthew Kirby glanced irritably at the clock. It was half term but Abigail had gone out early as usual. She was obsessed with her work. Since her promotion to headmistress she barely seemed to spare a thought for her family. Matthew had long since forgiven her for neglecting him. He was making a life for himself, a life that didn't include his wife, but Lucy and Ben were another matter. That betrayal was unforgivable. Ben was doing well at his new school. He had settled in straight away. Lucy was a worry.

‘It's her age,’ Matthew's girlfriend, Charlotte, told him. He wasn't convinced. The upheaval of moving to the South of England when her mother changed job wasn't ideal for a socially awkward fourteen-year-old girl.

Matthew frowned and checked the sausages before shouting from the foot of the stairs. ‘Lunch is ready!’

A moment later he heard Ben charging down the stairs. Ben's grin faded as he caught sight of his father turning from the hob with a frying pan of sausages. ‘Where's mum? I want to tell her –’ He stopped, registering the expression on his father's face. ‘She's not here, is she? She promised –’

Matthew put down the frying pan. ‘Where's Lucy?’

Ben shrugged. ‘In her room. Where else?’ He flung himself on a chair, long limbs awry. ‘I'm starving.’

‘We're waiting for Lucy.’

‘If I heard you, she did. She'd be here if she was hungry.’

Matthew strode out into the hall. ‘Lucy! Get down here now. Lunch is on the table!’ He swept back into the kitchen and shuffled sausages and beans onto three plates. Behind him, toast popped up.

Lucy appeared, sullen, in the doorway. ‘Aren't we going to wait for mum?’

‘Your mother's not here.’

‘I can see that.’ Lucy made no move to join her father and brother at the table.

‘Come and sit down,’ Matthew said. ‘Mummy's working today.’

‘She's always bloody working,’ Ben complained. ‘It's Saturday.’ His chair scraped on the floor as he pulled himself closer to the table. ‘I wanted to tell her about football training.’

‘You'll have to tell her tonight.’

‘She doesn't want to come home. It's his fault.’ Lucy glared at Matthew. ‘Him and his friend.’

‘Come and sit down,’ Matthew repeated in an even tone.

‘I'm not hungry.’

‘Lucy –’ he began but her feet were already pounding up the stairs.

‘All the more for us, dad,’ Ben grinned.

Matthew sat down and picked at his food while Ben shovelled beans into his mouth. After a few minutes, Matthew put down his fork. Ben listened to his father's footsteps on the landing above. He heard knocking at Lucy's door. Silence, followed by the muted buzz of voices. Ben stood up and helped himself to more sausages, picking out the ones that weren't charred. By the time his father came down, Ben was seated at the table again, wiping his plate clean.

‘She never eats,’ he told his father cheerfully. ‘Any chance of seconds?’ He jumped up and began scraping the last of the beans from the pan.

‘Use a wooden spoon,’ Matthew protested. ‘You're scratching the saucepan.’

‘I'm done.’ Ben turned round. ‘What did she mean, dad?’

‘What?’

‘About you and your friend. What was she talking about?’

‘Nothing. You know your sister.’ Matthew sighed. ‘What does she do up there on her own in her room all the time?’

‘She's on the internet.’ Ben left the kitchen and raced up the stairs, two at a time. Matthew watched him go. Slim and lithe, Ben reminded Matthew of himself as a youngster. They had the same straight nose and blue eyes, an unexpected combination with their black hair. Matthew cleared the plates off the table and dumped them in the sink. Abigail could clear up when she came home or, more likely, leave it for the cleaning lady to do in the morning.

Matthew closed the kitchen door before phoning Charlotte. ‘It's me. I'll be over later on this afternoon. You weren't planning on going out, were you?’

‘What time will you be round?’

‘Soon.’

‘The sooner the better.’

Matthew grinned and rang off. He threw a glance at the dirty plates in the sink then went upstairs and tapped on Ben's door. No answer. He knocked more loudly.

‘Come in.’

Matthew looked at the clutter of clothes and school books that littered the floor of Ben's bedroom. ‘I'm going out.’

‘OK.’ Ben turned back to his computer game.

‘I have to see someone from work.’

‘OK.’

‘I won't be back late but don't wait up,’ Matthew added. Ben wasn't listening.

‘Go away!’ Lucy shouted out as soon as Matthew knocked on her door.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Are you deaf? I said, go away!’

Gingerly, Matthew pushed the door open. Lucy was sitting at her computer, typing.

‘Lucy –’ he began.

Lucy minimised the screen and spun round, her face twisted in fury. ‘Get out of my room! You've got no right to come in here without permission.’

‘I just wanted to tell you I'm going out.’

‘Good. Don't bother to come back.’ She turned her back on him and sat waiting for him to leave.

Matthew closed the door softly. His daughter's resentment was just part of being adolescent, he told himself. He wasn't sure how Lucy had discovered he was seeing Charlotte. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing; his children had to find out sooner or later. In the long term he knew it wouldn't be a problem, because once they met Charlotte they were bound to like her. It would all work itself out in the end. Right now he was on his way to see her and life was good. He drove away from the house, whistling.

Abigail had moved South, taking the children with her, which meant Matthew had to go too. He had tried to explain to Charlotte that he couldn't split his family apart so soon. He felt responsible for the children whose mother was absent even though she came home every night. The only possible solution had been for Charlotte to follow him South. She had found a job in Faversham, on the understanding that Abigail would agree to a divorce as soon as she was established in her new post.

‘Once she's busy with her new school, she won't worry about getting divorced. She'll be glad to be rid of me,’ he assured Charlotte.

Only things hadn't worked out as Matthew had planned. When Abigail had been appointed headmistress of Harchester School in Kent, Matthew had been working for a partnership of surveyors in York. Several local firms had already folded with the collapse of the building trade, and he had the impression his colleagues were relieved when he resigned after nearly twenty years with the firm. Their reaction hardly made him feel valued. It didn't help when he had to settle for a tedious job in Faversham, where he spent most of the day biting his tongue, bored and depressed, taking instructions from a woman half his age. He wasn't the only one who had sacrificed a career. Charlotte had given up nursing to follow him. Matthew had suggested she apply for a transfer, but she seemed happy to leave nursing.

‘I'm sick of working with blood and guts,’ she had assured him. ‘And I can earn more if I quit.’

But after all that, Abigail obstinately refused to agree to a divorce.

‘I can't do it without her,’ he told Charlotte miserably. ‘She's threatened to turn the children against me. She'd do it, too. You don't know my wife.’

Charlotte was growing impatient. ‘Tell her you insist. Just do it, Matthew. Go to a lawyer and get the papers drawn up. She can't force you to stay with her.’

Charlotte wondered whether to tell Matthew she'd received another letter from Ted, the third that week. After moving to Kent she'd thought she would finally be rid of him, but he still hadn't given up.

‘You can't leave,’ he had protested when she'd told him she was going. ‘You belong here with me.’

‘Ted, we went out once when we were still at school. That was years ago. There's nothing between us. There never was and there never will be. Get over it.’ Seeing his stricken expression she had softened. ‘We can still be friends. We don't have to fall out over this.’

‘You're going away with him, aren't you?’

‘He's got nothing to do with it,’ she'd lied, annoyed again. ‘Leave me alone, Ted. My life is none of your business.’ They hadn't spoken since that argument, but a week later the letters had begun. They would have made her uneasy if she hadn't known Ted so well, poor stupid Ted, too soft to harm a fly. She couldn't believe she'd ever agreed to go out with him but he'd worn her down with his persistence, and at fifteen she'd been foolishly flattered.

‘He must really like you,’ one of her school friends had said.

‘He's a dork,’ someone else added. It hadn't lasted long, was never a real relationship, just a few wet kisses and a hurried fumble on a park bench. Ted had been distraught when Charlotte finished it. The break up had been the source of much chatter at school. Charlotte's girlfriends had been unanimous in advising her to stand firm.

‘It'll only get more difficult if you let it go on.’

‘Just tell him plain and simple you don't want to go out with him.’

‘He'll get over it.’

But Ted hadn't got over it. ‘I'll wait for you,’ he'd told her.

‘You'll have a long wait.’ She'd laughed at his intensity then relented and tried to be kind. ‘You'll find someone else.’

‘I don't want anyone else.’

Charlotte checked her appearance in the hall mirror as she passed it. With blonde curls and a snub nose, she looked younger than thirty-three. Twelve years older than her, with children of his own, Matthew didn't appreciate how urgently she needed a commitment from him. Several of her friends were already mothers.

‘Just get yourself pregnant. That'll force his hand,’ one of her friends had suggested.

‘Or you'll end up a single mother,’ another friend pointed out.

Charlotte carried on doing what she could to persuade Matthew to leave his wife. ‘You're miserable with her. I'll make you happy. You deserve that much after all she's put you through.’ She wisely avoided the subject of children. Matthew had already told her he didn't want a second family, but Charlotte was confident everything would be fine once they were married. Only first he had to leave Abigail. She was ruining everything.

Charlotte opened the door. Matthew burst into the flat and swept her off her feet in a whirling embrace. She laughed out loud, Ted and his plaintive letters forgotten in her excitement at seeing Matthew again.

‘Has Abigail agreed?’ She saw the answer in his face, the droop of his shoulders.

‘Don't worry,’ Matthew replied. His smile was forced. ‘We'll be rid of her for good before too long. I promise.’ Charlotte had been listening to his promises for years. Matthew was kissing her, pressing her up against the wall. ‘It's cold out there,’ he muttered. ‘What are you going to do to warm me up?’

I can make you a nice cup of tea?’ she suggested, laughing, as he took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom.

3

Discovery

The kite was one of Dave Whittaker's earliest memories. His dad had bought it for him when Dave was about eight. They must have been on holiday because Dave remembered flying it over the beach. He had never seen his dad looking so happy.

He felt a flutter of excitement now, watching his own son tearing the plastic cover off a new kite. The so-called recreation ground wasn't an ideal location, surrounded by woods, but it was the nearest open space to their home and they were both impatient to try it out.

Zac held it up in the air as high as he could while Dave backed away, playing out the flying line. ‘Now!’ Dave called out. ‘Let go!’ Zac threw the red diamond up in the air and groaned as it dived to the ground.

‘What's wrong, dad? Why won't it fly?’

On their third attempt the breeze caught it. Zac squealed as the kite rose fluttering in the air.

‘Don't go too near the trees,’ Dave warned him, when he handed over the line.

‘It's OK, dad. I'm not stupid.’

A gust of wind seized the kite. It flew up, scudding frantically while Zac chased after it, shrieking.

‘Stand still and loosen the string,’ Dave called to him. ‘Give it some slack.’

Zac lost his footing and the line slipped from his grasp. The kite rose, a diminishing splash of scarlet against the grey sky. They watched it soar for a moment before it swooped gracefully downwards, heading for the branches.

‘Dad! Do something.’ Dave began to run towards the falling kite. It disappeared in the trees. ‘Dad!’ Zac wailed.

‘You wait here,’ Dave shouted. ‘I'll get it.’ Cursing, he thrust his way into the woods. The undergrowth scratched at his legs and he stumbled on the uneven ground. There seemed to be a sort of rough track. Someone had been there before him, snapping off protruding twigs on either side of a narrow pathway. He reached a small clearing and stopped abruptly. A woman lay flat on her back at the foot of a tree.

Dave hesitated. ‘Are you all right?’ He took a step closer and froze. Her eyes stared blankly. Below her nose was an oozing mess of black where her mouth and chin should have been. Dave stared at her unblinking eyes, unable to move. A light breeze rustled past, agitating a few dry leaves that hadn't yet fallen. Apart from that, the woods were silent. Dave held his breath and stared at the dead woman. There were bits of leaf mould in her dishevelled hair. It looked damp. Her jacket was stained black with dried blood. He wondered how long she had lain there, abandoned to the elements, as he stared in disgust at her face. At first he assumed her chin had been chewed off by a wild animal; a closer look revealed that her face was intact, but bloody.

Tearing his eyes away, he fumbled for his phone. ‘Police, police, I've found a body. A dead body.’ The phone shook in his grasp. His teeth were chattering so violently he could barely speak. He thought he might be sick and swallowed hard, concentrating.

‘Can I have your name, caller?’ The calm voice helped Dave to think. He spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I'm in the woods beside the recreation ground. I'll go back and wait at the edge of the trees, to show you where she – it – she – is.’

He had a horrible feeling he wasn't alone, as if he were being watched. In a panic, he hurried back through the trees, calling Zac's name. He felt dizzy with relief when he heard an answering call as he emerged into the open.

Zac started forward. ‘Dad! Dad! Did you find it, dad?’

Dave frowned, blinking in the sunlight. For a few seconds he didn't know what Zac was talking about. Then he remembered the kite and shook his head.

‘Oh my God, Zac,’ he said. ‘My God.’

‘Dad –’ Zac began to whine. He looked up at his father and his expression changed. ‘Don't worry, dad. It's not that important. We can get another kite. It doesn't matter, dad.’

Dave put his hand on Zac's shoulder. ‘You need to be very grown up, now, Zac, and very sensible. Listen, I want you to go and sit in the car. There's – something's happened, son. The police are going to be here soon. Maybe an ambulance…’ He paused.

‘The police?’ Zac burst out. His eyes were shining. ‘Coming here? How do you know, dad?’

‘I know because I called them. They need to see – something I found in the woods. Now let's go and open the car and you can wait for me. I need to show the police – something – and then we'll go home.’

Zac was jumping up and down. ‘What is it? What's happened? Why are the police coming? Why, dad?’

Dave gazed at his son for an instant and made up his mind. He crouched down and stared into Zac's eyes. ‘You remember grandad –’ he began. A worried frown creased his brow. He didn't want to frighten his son.

Zac interrupted him. ‘Is it a dead person, dad? Have you found a dead person in the woods?’

Dave nodded solemnly. ‘The police will be here soon,’ he said. ‘And then we can go home and forget.

‘This is so cool,’ Zac burst out. ‘Who is it, dad? Can I see it, dad, can I? This is wicked, dad. Wait till I tell them at school. Did you get a picture? Please tell me you've got a picture!’

4

Team

Celia smiled. ‘It's so nice to see you looking relaxed for once. I worry about you a lot, you know.’ Geraldine didn't answer; she knew perfectly well what her sister meant. For nearly a year Celia had been struggling to come to terms with the unexpected death of their mother. Unlike Geraldine, Celia had been very close to their mother. Now she wanted Geraldine to fill the gap left by their mother's loss but, as a detective inspector on a Murder Investigation Team, Geraldine's free time was limited.

‘I really don't understand why you have to work such long hours,’ Celia went on. ‘It's almost as though you don't want to see us. I sometimes feel I don't really know much about you at all. You know you're not an easy person to get close to, you keep yourself to yourself so much. Chloe's growing up so fast and I know she'd like to see more of you. She misses mum, you know. It won't be long until she's a teenager and then it'll be too late. She won't want to know any more.’

Geraldine felt a surge of relief when her work phone rang and interrupted her sister's recriminations. She was on her feet before the call ended. ‘Sorry, Celia, I've got to go.’

‘You've only just arrived! At least finish your tea before you go –’ Celia remonstrated. ‘Can't you even wait and say hello to Chloe? She'll be back soon and I know she'll be disappointed if she misses you.’

Geraldine gave an apologetic smile. ‘I really can't wait. Tell her I'm sorry.’

‘The busy life of a detective inspector on the Murder Investigation Team.’ Celia smiled but her voice was bitter. ‘It's always the same with you, isn't it? Never mind your family. Never mind what we want. Work always has to take priority doesn't it, because without you we'd all be in danger of being murdered in our beds. Now what am I supposed to tell Chloe?’

‘I'll make it up to her, I promise.’

‘Well, you'd better. You're letting her down, you know. She was expecting to see you. But don't worry. We're used to it.’

Geraldine turned to Celia with a flash of impatience. ‘I'll see you as soon as I can,’ she promised as she took a hurried leave.

It would take Geraldine about half an hour to reach the station in Barton Chislet where the investigation headquarters was being set up. The first few hours in any investigation were crucial, before evidence could be contaminated. This was especially true when death occurred outdoors. She didn't yet know how long the body had been exposed to the elements before protective covering was erected. She drove fast through a steady drizzle, and arrived with ten minutes to spare before the initial briefing. Finding her way to the toilets, she did her best to smooth down the tangle of short dark hair sticking up on top of her head. Her eyes glowed with health above the slightly crooked nose that spoilt her looks.

‘I'm afraid there's no room to give you a separate office. We're only a small station,’ the duty sergeant apologised.

‘No problem.’ Geraldine actually preferred working in the hub of activity to the relative quiet of her own office space.

‘That's your work station,’ the duty sergeant added, nodding to a desk in the far corner. Geraldine thanked her and went to sit down. Looking round the room, she was pleased to catch sight of Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson. She turned to her computer screen and had just logged on when he interrupted her. She liked and trusted Ian Peterson who was clearly pleased to be working with her again. Having worked closely together on their last two investigations, they occasionally met for a drink between cases.

‘Morning, gov.’

‘Hello Ian. How've you been?’

He nodded complacently. ‘Can't complain. So, what's to know?’

Geraldine looked up. ‘Difficult to say –’ Before she could continue, Detective Chief Inspector Kathryn Gordon strode into the room. The buzz of conversation faded as everyone turned to face the incident board where she stood, waiting for silence. Geraldine exchanged a quick glance with Ian Peterson. They had worked with Kathryn Gordon on a previous case. To begin with Geraldine had found her intimidating but gradually she had come to appreciate her strict work ethic.

With Kathryn Gordon in charge this was not going to be a relaxed investigation and she launched in without any preamble. ‘I'm your Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Kathryn Gordon. The body of a forty-eight-year-old woman, Abigail Kirby, was discovered at ten-thirty this morning beside the recreation ground known as The Meadows, two miles North of the town centre.’ She turned to a photograph pinned on the board. Hazel eyes smiled at them from a square jawed face. It looked like a professional shot of a reasonably attractive, immaculately presented woman who had just stepped out of the hairdresser's. Geraldine unconsciously raised her hand to smooth down her own unruly hair.

Kathryn Gordon pointed at the photo with a hand that trembled, although she spoke calmly. She turned away from the incident board and glanced down at her notes. ‘The body was discovered by a local resident, David Whittaker, when he was out flying a kite with his young son. The kite flew off into the trees and when Mr Whittaker tried to retrieve it, he found Abigail Kirby instead.’ She pointed to a map of the recreation ground. To one side of the open land, an area had been circled in red ink. ‘The medical examiner should be arriving any time so we'll know more soon. The victim looks robust, and there's no sign of a struggle. Did she know her attacker or was she taken by surprise? And what was she doing there? The remote location suggests she was meeting someone.’

‘Do we know she was killed there? Or could it she have been killed somewhere else and the body dumped there?’ someone asked.

‘How did she die?’ another officer wanted to know.

‘We don't have any details yet. We need to get down there and find out. We're waiting for a medical examination. A forensic medical examiner should be on the scene soon.’

‘The woods around the recreation ground aren't used much, especially at this time of year,’ a local sergeant chipped in, ‘so we're hardly likely to find a witness.’

‘It's possible someone saw her,’ Kathryn Gordon replied. ‘It depends what time she arrived – and if she was still alive when she got there. The more people there were around, the greater the chance someone saw her, and whoever was with her, but it may be she was taken there during the night. It might be that she was killed somewhere else and dumped there under cover of darkness. Now,’ she went on, suddenly brisk, ‘that's enough speculation. Let's see what the scene of crime officers can tell us, and then find out what we can about Abigail Kirby.’

‘Oh my God, it's Mrs Kirby!’ a female constable called out suddenly.

‘What do you know about Abigail Kirby?’ Kathryn Gordon asked.

‘My son goes to Harchester School. Mrs Kirby is – was – the headmistress there.’

‘Not any more,’ someone muttered.

‘What do you know about her?’ the detective chief inspector repeated.

‘Not much, ma'am. I've never met her myself. I just heard her address the parents as a group. My boy's only been going to Harchester High since September.’

‘Right. Was she popular? What sort of reputation did she have?’

The constable gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I couldn't really say, ma'am. Like I said, my boy's new.’

‘See what you can find out. What's the talk in the playground, at the school gates?’

‘I've not heard anything, ma'am, except – ‘

‘Yes?’

‘She had a reputation as a strict disciplinarian. My boy was terrified of her.’ She laughed apologetically.

‘She was the head,’ Kathryn Gordon pointed out, as though she approved of figures in authority being intimidating. ‘If you can find out names of any gossips among the parents, and the staff, that would help. I'll have someone else interview them, keep you out of it as much as possible.’

‘Thank you, ma'am.’

The detective chief inspector turned back to the Incident Board and tapped the picture of the victim with one finger. ‘The post-mortem report should be ready later today. We know the victim's name, Abigail Kirby, we now know she was headmistress of Harchester School. Until we know more, let's not jump to conclusions. In the meantime, we need to start gathering information. Check your schedules with the duty sergeant and get started. Let's get cracking and wrap this one up quickly.’

5

Scene of Crime

Geraldine and Ian chatted effortlessly as they drove past a modern shopping centre away from the centre of town.

‘How's Bev?’

‘She's great.’

Geraldine sighed. Somehow her own relationships never lasted. She envied the sergeant who seemed settled with his long term girlfriend. ‘How long have you been together now?’

Peterson shrugged. ‘Feels like a lifetime.’

They parked by the edge of the recreation ground, passed the police cordon and collected their protective suits and shoes from the forensic van in silence. Treading carefully to avoid disturbing anything, they walked in single file along a rough track through the trees, bending low to avoid overhanging branches. A protective tent had been erected at one edge of a small clearing in the trees. White suited scene of crime officers were busy photographing and measuring foot prints, scuffed earth, and disturbance in the bracken and grass under the trees around it in a painstaking process, scrutinising every centimetre of the area surrounding the body for microscopic shreds of evidence; even careless killers wore gloves these days.

A smart two-tone brown leather shoe lay on its side just outside the tent. It would have been more at home in the window of an expensive store. Brilliantly lit, the scene inside the forensic tent resembled a film set. Even the body on the ground looked like a prop. She lay beside a tree trunk, her legs outstretched, her chin a mess of congealed blood under the dazzling lights. Framed by short light-brown curls streaked with grey, her head was flung back. Hazel eyes stared blankly up at them, inches from a swirl of animal excrement. She was wearing a brown skirt dotted with tiny orange flecks, and a matching jacket heavily splattered with blood. Even damp, crumpled and soiled, the outfit looked expensive.

Gazing down, Geraldine felt a rush of adrenaline. There would be photographs, reports, statements, but only this one chance to view the victim at the scene of her death. She crouched down, bringing her face close to the dead woman's bloody head.

‘She was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here,’ a scene of crime officer said. ‘It's a miserable place to end up, isn't it?’

‘Was she carrying a bag?’ Geraldine asked. The scene of crime officer shook his head. Geraldine straightened up. ‘What did you find in her pockets?’

‘A set of keys, a receipt for coffee bought at ten-twenty in a café in the shopping centre, a photo of two children, and fifteen pence in change.’ He handed her an evidence bag.

‘So that gives us an exact location and time for her in the morning,’ Geraldine said, picking out a picture of a boy and girl, presumably the victim's children. The boy looked about twelve, the girl possibly a few years older. She had her mother's hazel eyes and light brown hair, while the boy was dark-haired, with blue eyes.

Geraldine replaced the photograph carefully in the bag and looked around.

The SOCO saw the direction of Geraldine's gaze. ‘There's no indication of any struggle elsewhere.’

‘You don't think she died here?’ Geraldine nodded at the body.

‘There's no disturbance on the ground. My guess is she was already dead when she was brought here.’

‘So we don't know where she was killed,’ Peterson said.

‘It's difficult to be sure,’ the SOCO concurred. ‘There's no sign of a struggle, but the evidence has been contaminated. It looks as if she was dragged along the ground either unconscious or dead, masking any footprints from the killer.’ He indicated scuff marks and shallow tracks in the mud. ‘We haven't found much blood on the ground, so she was probably killed before she was brought here, but it rained overnight, so the blood might have been washed away. We're checking every inch of the path but the man who reported the body made a mess of the place, trampling around. It looks as though he walked around while he was on the phone. It's a pity he arrived on the scene before we had a chance to examine it, although I suppose we should be thankful he found her when he did. She'd already been here overnight –’ He shrugged. ‘The ground here's full of droppings.’

‘Are there any defence injuries?’

The white coated figure shook his head. ‘There's nothing obvious but the medical examiner should be here soon to have a look. Looks like him now.’

A man entered the tent and straightened up, tall and slender. He approached the body with an air of authority and knelt down, shielding it from view.

Geraldine watched his swift movements. ‘I don't think we've met.’

The kneeling figure swivelled his head round and looked up at her. Striking blue eyes stared at her from a lean face. ‘Dr Paul Hilliard.’ He had a bold, frank expression and spoke in a low, cultured voice. ‘Are you the senior officer here?’

‘Yes. I'm Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel. And this is Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson.’

Paul Hilliard nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you. Shame about the circumstances.’ He turned back to the body.

Geraldine stepped forward. ‘What can you tell us?’

‘Give me a minute.’ Geraldine studied his back. There was a stillness about him as he worked. His hair was dark, almost black, but under the bright lights narrow streaks of grey were visible. After a few moments he looked round. ‘I can of course confirm she's dead. It rained during the night but the ground beneath her is fairly dry which suggests the body's been lying here overnight. The uncertain weather conditions make it impossible to pinpoint an exact time of death but it must have been sometime yesterday afternoon.’

‘How did she die?’

The pathologist looked at Geraldine again. ‘I'll be able to tell you more after I've done the autopsy, but the apparent cause of death,’ he paused, ‘is blood loss.’

‘Blood loss from a head injury?’

The kneeling figure held her gaze. ‘Yes…’ He shrugged. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘So that accounts for the blood on her clothes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Presumably it's not possible to be certain at this stage, but do you think we could be looking at murder? Until we have a full PM report I take it we won't know for certain this wasn't an accident?’

‘She could have tripped over and hit her head,’ Peterson suggested.

Paul Hilliard shook his head. ‘There's no question of this being an accident. For a start, the body's been moved. She wasn't killed here.’

‘Are you sure?’ Peterson asked.

‘Yes. There would be a lot more blood on the undergrowth because before she died her tongue was cut out, leaving only a stump. It would have bled profusely.’

‘What?’

‘The victim has no tongue, Inspector.’

6

Surfing

Lucy slammed her door. She wished she could lock it. It made her sick the way her parents thought they had the right to walk into her bedroom, unannounced, whenever they felt like it.

‘Don't be ridiculous. You're up there by yourself,’ her father replied when Lucy pointed out she might be having a private chat.

‘Why don't you ask one of the girls from your new school over?’ her mother had suggested. She was trying to be helpful, but she only made things worse. Lucy didn't answer. Her parents totally missed the point. They didn't understand anything. She couldn't just randomly invite some girl to her house and even if she did, no one would want to come. The other girls had all been friends for years and it was clear right from the very first day Lucy walked into the classroom in Harchester School that she wasn't going to be welcome in any of their groups. They spent all their time gossiping about the boys, and bitching about the other girls. Lucy didn't know any of them, and didn't want to either. She was pleased they treated her like an outcast. She hated her new school and didn't want to fit in with those stupid bitches. The boys were worse. While the girls ignored Lucy, the boys were openly rude. They called her ‘four eyes’ and ‘skinny’, and far worse names that hurt, and mocked her Northern accent. Lucy didn't like any of them, and wouldn't want to be friends with any of them even if they begged her.

Lucy had never exactly been popular, but she'd had her own group of friends in York. They weren't cool, or clever, but they were her friends. She'd even had a best friend, Nina, who sometimes came to her house after school. Lucy's parents had accepted they should knock before they entered her bedroom when Nina was there.

‘Everyone else's parents knock,’ she had told them and, for once, they had listened to her.

Lucy was horrified when she learned they would be moving away from the area. Ben, who had lots of friends, didn't seem to mind so much. All he had to do was join some stupid football team and boys would be calling him up every day to go out and kick a ball around. It was harder for Lucy who was going to have to start all over again, making an effort to talk to strangers, pretending to be interested in their pathetic self-obsessed teenage lives. At first she had flatly refused to go to Kent with her family, but it was useless. Her mother had accepted the position as headmistress, her father was job hunting, their house was on the market and the date for the move was set. Lucy's parents were ruining her life and they didn't care.

‘We've discussed this,’ her mother said.

‘I never agreed to go!’ Lucy yelled. ‘But I don't get a say in this, do I? It's only my life being ruined, that's all. You decide whatever you want to do, and we all have to go along with it, like so much baggage.’

‘Don't be ridiculous,’ her father interrupted. It was all he ever seemed to say to Lucy. ‘Your mother has her career to think of.’ He spoke sourly.

Lucy's mother turned on him. ‘Matthew, don't you start. We've been over it so many times.’ Lucy left them to it.

It was some comfort to Lucy when Nina burst into tears. ‘You can't leave me,’ she wailed. They promised to keep in touch, it was easy on Facebook. But everything changed when Lucy moved and, after a few weeks, Nina stopped answering her messages.

‘You have to make an effort to find new friends,’ her mother told her. ‘These things take time, and they don't just happen by themselves. You'll soon get the hang of it. The first one's the hardest.’

‘I've got friends,’ Lucy answered. ‘Leave me alone with your bloody clichés!’

Lucy couldn't sleep. Her mum would have been on at her by now to stop chatting online and ‘do something useful,’ but her mum wasn't home and her dad knew better than to interfere. He left her alone and that suited Lucy fine. She liked it best when he went out. She was fourteen, old enough to be left at home with her twelve-year-old brother. She didn't need her parents interfering in her life. They were always telling her what to do. Like they had a clue what was good for her. At least her mother listened to what Lucy said. Her father might as well have been a stranger. Lucy would have preferred it if he was.

She logged onto a Twilight chat room and stared at her screen for a few moments before typing furiously. ‘My parents drive me nuts.’

Bunny answered straight away. ‘Parents suck.’ Several others joined in, complaining about their parents, insulting them and cracking pathetic jokes.

‘LOL. Can't be as bad as mine,’ Lucy typed. It passed the time.

The chat moved on to school. ‘Everyone hates school. Why do we have to go?’ Bunny asked.

‘Waste of time,’ Lucy agreed.

‘Torture!’

‘Crap!’ someone else commented.

‘Shit!’

They carried on chatting for a while.

‘Are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?’ Bunny asked.

‘Team Edward!’ Lucy wrote. She added a red heart.

Shortly after moving South, Lucy had met Zoe in the chat room. They soon discovered they had a lot in common and it wasn't long before they were exchanging private messages online.

‘What about you, Zoe?’ Bunny asked.

Zoe left without answering.

Next time she logged on, Lucy saw that Zoe had left her a private message. ‘I love Edward Cullen!!’ and three red hearts.

‘Zoe, you there?’

‘’

‘You got a boyf?’

‘No. Wish I had!’

‘Who?’

‘Can't say.’

‘I won't tell.’

‘Someone in my class.’

‘Does he know you fancy him?’

‘NO WAY!!!’

‘!!!’

‘You?’

‘?’

‘You got a boyf?’

‘No. Not right now.’ Lucy didn't add that she had never had a boyfriend. They chatted some more about boys and their past boyfriends. ‘I loved him but he dumped me L,’ Lucy lied. No one would ever know it wasn't true and she wanted to sound interesting. Zoe was the only real friend she had now.

‘How old are you?’ she asked Zoe.

‘You say first.’

‘I asked first.’

‘You want to know.’

‘Fourteen. You?’

‘I'm nearly fourteen!!’

‘What's going on, Zoe?’

‘I hate school!!’

‘Me too!!’

Lucy suggested they chat on instant messenger. ‘More private. You can tell me about the boyf.’

‘He's not my boyf!’

‘Hate school, LOVE Edward Cullen!!’ Lucy wrote.

Zoe sent her a red heart on instant messenger. ‘Friends!’

‘Friends!’ Lucy agreed.

‘Best friends!!’

‘Forever friends!’

7

Morgue

Abigail Kirby lay on the table like a waxwork model, her face cleaned-up to reveal her square chin. Geraldine approached and forced herself to look at the victim's open mouth: between even teeth the stump of her tongue looked surprisingly neat. Abigail Kirby stared back as though in silent protest at this scrutiny.

The pathologist looked up and Geraldine recognised the tall dark-haired medical examiner who had examined the body in the wood. ‘Hello again Inspector. You'll forgive me if I don't shake hands.’

Geraldine glanced at his bloody gloves. ‘Good morning, Dr Hilliard.’

‘Please, call me Paul.’ Geraldine smiled. The pathologist was about to speak to her again when Peterson entered.

‘Shall we begin?’ Geraldine said.

Paul Hilliard nodded. ‘Abigail Kirby looked after herself. She was fit for her age, well nourished, with excellent muscle tone. She probably worked out, or at least took regular exercise. She'd recently had a manicure, and a pedicure as well I suspect, and her hair's well cut. She looks as though she lived in the public eye, or else she was a narcissist.’

Geraldine couldn't help laughing. ‘You know she was a headmistress.’

Paul Hilliard smiled at her. ‘That fits with a controlling profile. At any rate, she certainly took care of herself.’ Geraldine squinted at her own nails, short and functional, and wondered if Abigail Kirby had been right to be so aware of the dignity of her position. Either way, it didn't matter now. ‘The victim has several injuries. She was struck on the back of her head with a blunt instrument. The killer used considerable force, so her attacker was probably an adult male. The blow fractured the skull resulting in cerebral bleeding.’

‘And the tongue?’

‘That was removed subsequent to the blow on the back of the head.’ He indicated bruising on the victim's upper arms. ‘Whoever hit her on the back of the head grabbed her and lowered her onto her back, after which she was secured by her arms and legs.’ He pointed to marks on her wrists and ankles.

‘So he could get to her face easily,’ Peterson said.

‘The tongue was removed after the head trauma was sustained. The blood loss was considerable so she was still alive at the time it was removed. The stump bled quite profusely. She must have been unconscious, the gag reflex inoperative, and she was lying on her back. Blood flowed into the back of her mouth causing her to choke.’ Paul Hilliard placed a hand gently on the victim's head. ‘Abigail Kirby drowned in her own blood.’

There was silence for a few seconds.

The pathologist glanced at Geraldine before he continued. ‘Head wounds are always serious. There's a very real danger of brain damage. In this case severe head trauma would probably have killed her, without immediate medical attention, possibly even with it. She would most likely have died from the knock on the head if she hadn't choked first.’

‘He must have used a very sharp blade to cut her tongue out,’ Geraldine said. ‘It can't have been easy, can it?’ Now that the victim's face had been cleaned, the stump of the victim's tongue was clearly visible. ‘That cut really must have been tricky,’ she repeated. ‘I wouldn't have thought many people could have done that, not without taking their time. And I don't suppose the killer wanted to hang about.’

‘This was carefully planned,’ Paul agreed.

‘By someone intelligent,’ Peterson added.

‘I hope not for your sake,’ Paul replied.

‘Why?’

‘Because if this was a highly intelligent killer, he – or she – is unlikely to make any mistakes and is going to be more difficult to find.’ There was a pause. ‘What about the witness who found the body? Did he see anything?’

‘We haven't interviewed him yet. The constable at the scene took a brief statement but the witness was in shock and he had his young son with him. We're going to speak to him later on and get a full statement. Have you got anything else for us? Any defence injuries?’

The pathologist shook his head. ‘She was wearing gloves which have been sent off for examination, but I can't find any evidence of a struggle.’

‘Where was she going?’ Geraldine was talking to herself. ‘Was she meeting someone she knew? Was she being followed? Or was her attacker a complete stranger?’

‘In which case we could be looking at someone who kills for the sake of killing,’ the sergeant added.

‘A psychopath?’ Paul Hilliard asked. ‘Someone who's mentally disturbed?’

‘Well whoever it was, they were certainly disturbed, even as the average murderer goes,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Not that any murderer is exactly sane, but most of them don't remove their victims’ tongues while they're killing them.’

The pathologist gave a faint smile.

‘We need to keep an open mind,’ Geraldine said, returning Paul Hilliard's smile.

‘Yes, we need to keep an open mind,’ the pathologist agreed.

‘So, anything else you can tell us?’

‘She was about forty years old.’

‘Forty-eight,’ Peterson corrected him.

‘Can you be precise about exactly how long was she dead before she was found?’ Geraldine asked, turning back to the body.

‘She was found at ten-thirty yesterday morning. I attended the scene at eleven-thirty and reported death had occurred some time on Saturday afternoon. It's difficult to be absolutely accurate as she was lying out in the rain overnight. When I carried out a preliminary examination I estimated she'd been dead for around nineteen to twenty-two hours, and you have to remember that's only an estimate.’

‘She died between one pm and four pm on Saturday then,’ Peterson said.

‘Most likely, but there's no absolute certainty. Any number of factors can increase or delay the process of deterioration in a corpse, especially one that's left out in the open.’

‘Do you think she was killed in the wood where she was found?’ Geraldine asked.

‘No. There was mud and leaves in her hair, all consistent with her lying on the ground but there's no sign of any disturbance there.’

‘Well if that's all –’

‘For now. You'll have my full report this afternoon.’

The sergeant couldn't leave the room quickly enough. Geraldine sympathised with his aversion for dead bodies, but she was fascinated by autopsies. As long as she could detach herself from the subjects as previously living people, they intrigued her. She thought Paul Hilliard must feel the same, and wondered what else she had in common with the slim blue-eyed doctor.

When Paul removed his gloves, Geraldine noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. She glanced up from Abigail Kirby and saw he was watching her.

‘I don't remember seeing you here before,’ she ventured.

‘I moved to the area quite recently. Have you lived here long?’ Paul responded with a smile. She registered his friendly response to her tentative overture.

‘I bought a flat near here recently. Just at the height of the market.’

Paul gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘If you like –’ he hesitated. Geraldine waited. ‘I thought we might discuss the case. It's – an interesting challenge, isn't it? With the tongue being removed, I mean.’ Something in his manner suggested that his interest might lie in her, rather than the case. ‘If you have time, that is,’ he added.

Geraldine scribbled down her private number before handing Paul her card. ‘That would be nice.’

Paul smiled and pocketed the card.

‘Is it me, or was there something a bit strange about that Hilliard bloke?’ Peterson asked Geraldine as they left the morgue.

‘Strange in what way?’

‘It's just that he didn't flinch when he was talking about the victim's tongue. He looked like he was admiring the killer's handiwork.’

Geraldine shrugged. ‘He cuts up corpses for a living. What's the odd tongue when you're carving up body parts all day long?’

‘I suppose so,’ Peterson agreed. ‘God, I hate going to the morgue and seeing it all. I don't know how anyone can do that job.’ He shuddered.

‘Just as well not everyone's a big wuss like you,’ Geraldine laughed.

8

Family

There was no sign of Abigail when Matthew came home on Sunday morning, and when he knocked on her study door she didn't respond.

‘Abi, are you there?’ He tried the door but it was locked, which meant she wasn't working at home. He went upstairs and checked her bedroom. That was empty too. He peeped in on Ben and Lucy who were both still asleep. Matthew went downstairs, put the kettle on and ferreted in the cupboard for a packet of his favourite cereal before going outside to spend the morning in the garden. It was a bright day, and he was whistling as he went about his chores.

Abigail still hadn't come home by tea time. Ben was despondent, Lucy fractious, but there was nothing Matthew could do about it. He knew better than to try and contact his wife at work. That was for emergencies only.

‘When will she be back, dad? I want to tell her about football,’ Ben said.

‘Shut up,’ Lucy snapped. ‘No one wants to know about your stupid football.’

When the doorbell rang, Matthew thought it must be Abigail. ‘It's not like your mum to forget her key,’ he said. He opened the door and was surprised to see a man and a woman standing in the porch.

‘Matthew Kirby?’ She held up an identity card and Matthew leaned forward to read it.

‘Detective Inspector Steel,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Peterson.’

Matthew nodded. ‘My wife's not here,’ he told them as he straightened up. ‘I know it's Sunday, and half term, but she's been out at work all day. She's a headmistress.’ He tried to suppress the bitterness out of his voice. ‘I assume you want to see her about one of her pupils? You'll find her at Harchester School.’ He began to close the door. ‘I'm afraid I can't tell you anything.’

‘It's you we want to speak to, Mr Kirby. Can we come in?’

‘I'm just about to make tea,’ he began. The two officers didn't budge and Matthew couldn't very well refuse to let them in.

Matthew Kirby led them into a kitchen where a boy of about twelve was leaning back in his chair, hands resting comfortably over his flat stomach, long legs stretched out under the table. With wavy dark hair and blue eyes like his father, he lounged in his chair in a crumpled t-shirt and faded jeans.

‘I helped myself –’ the youngster grinned holding up a huge slab of chocolate cake. ‘Hello,’ he added, catching sight of the two detectives.

‘Hello, Ben,’ Geraldine replied. She didn't return his smile. ‘We'd like to have a word with your father. Where's Lucy?’

Ben sat up, his smile fading at her solemn tone. ‘Dad, who's she?’

His father shook his head. ‘I'll tell you in a minute, son. Just go to your room now.’

‘But I want to know –’ Ben faltered.

Matthew ignored him. ‘My daughter's in her room. She spends most of her time up there on her own. She's a teenager,’ he added, forcing a smile. ‘Teenage girls, you know.’

‘Dad, what's going on?’

‘I've no idea.’

Geraldine glanced at Ben, before turning back to Matthew.

‘Can we can have a few words with you alone please.’ Matthew nodded at Ben who looked at his father with a puzzled shrug before sloping out of the room muttering inaudibly.

‘Gov –’ the sergeant began but Geraldine shook her head. A moment later they heard raised voices, followed by feet thumping along the landing.

‘I have some very bad news for you. Would you like to sit down, Mr Kirby?

Matthew shook his head. ‘Go on. Say what you've come here to say.’

Geraldine watched him as she spoke. ‘I'm afraid your wife's been killed.’

Matthew Kirby spoke quietly. ‘Abigail? Are you sure?’ Geraldine nodded. ‘I don't understand. She was always such a careful driver. What happened?’

‘This wasn't a car accident, Mr Kirby. Your wife wasn't driving. Your wife was assaulted yesterday.’

‘Assaulted? Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?’

‘Yes.’ Geraldine paused to allow him to take in the information. ‘We don't know who's responsible, but we are doing all we can to find out.’ She looked straight at Matthew Kirby.

‘You're saying someone killed Abigail?’ he repeated. ‘You're telling me she was murdered?’ He didn't sound upset, more disbelieving. ‘That's impossible. No, not Abigail. There must be some mistake.’ He looked from Geraldine to Peterson and back again, dazed.

‘Mr Kirby, for the purposes of elimination, can you tell me where you were between about one and four yesterday afternoon?’

Matthew Kirby looked flustered. ‘Yesterday, between one and four? Is that when it happened?’ There was a very long pause. ‘I – I'm not sure. Saturday afternoon…’ he tailed off, at a loss. ‘Oh yes, I gave the kids lunch. And after that I was out visiting a – friend. I came home – late.’

The door opened and a skinny pasty-faced girl burst in, followed by Ben. She looked about twelve and was wearing grey tracksuit trousers and a dull green jumper. Her dead mother's hazel eyes blinked short-sightedly at them from a sullen face half hidden by unwashed hair. Geraldine registered the girl's slovenly appearance, a stark contrast to her mother's expensive grooming. She was barely recognisable as the girl in the photograph Abigail Kirby had been carrying.

‘Is this her then?’ Lucy cried out when she saw Geraldine. ‘What's she doing here? Get out!’ Her voice rose in a sudden shriek. ‘Get out of our house!’ She took a step forward, caught sight of Peterson and stopped in surprise. ‘Who's he then?’

When Geraldine introduced herself and the sergeant, Lucy subsided into a chair making no attempt to apologise for her outburst.

‘What's going on, dad?’ Ben asked. He looked worried.

‘Kids,’ Matthew said. His voice broke and he turned to Geraldine. ‘Tell them. You tell them. I can't. I can't…’

‘I'm afraid your mother's dead.’

Lucy yelped once, like an injured dog. Ben started forward, eyes wide with shock.

‘Mr Kirby, we'll come back.’

‘No.’ He sounded very tired. ‘I don't want you coming back here. Do what you have to do and let's get it over with.’

‘Can anyone confirm your movements yesterday afternoon?’ Geraldine asked.

‘I just said – I was with a friend. Then I came home and the children were both here.’

‘We'll need the name of this friend, and where we can contact him.’

‘Her,’ Lucy said.

‘Geoff. He was playing bridge with his friend Geoff,’ Ben blurted out.