Dead End by Leigh Russell Read Free Book Online Page B

reserve judgement before gathering evidence, but Geraldine found it hard not to form an impression of Matthew Kirby. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her head as she drove home. It wasn't November yet, cold for the time of year. The sky had loomed white all day. The weather forecast was warning of snow in Scotland and there was a feeling that winter was on its way.
    They had no idea whether the murder had been the result of careful planning or a chance encounter. If her killer was a random stranger, it might be impossible to trace him without any forensic evidence at the scene and apart from the bizarre removal of her tongue, Abigail Kirby's body hadn't been violated. Geraldine sighed. Every moron knew better now than to leave fingerprints behind at a murder scene and so far they didn't even know where Abigail Kirby had been killed. Sherlock Holmes might have lacked sophisticated forensic techniques, but at least his villains had left clues. Abigail Kirby's corpse had revealed nothing about her killer, although her mutilation posed many questions.
    Arriving home, Geraldine kicked off her shoes and shuffled into the slippers waiting for her on the mat. She hung her jacket in the cupboard and gazed around her neat living room. In the kitchen she hesitated by the kettle. After the bustle of the police station, her flat felt silent and empty and she was lonely. There was no one she could call at such a late hour, just to hear the sound of another human voice. Too wound up to sleep, she flicked the radio on and poured herself a large glass of wine before opening the file on Abigail Kirby. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep with so many questions buzzing in her mind.
    Abigail Kirby was born in Yorkshire. Her first teaching appointment was at a school in one of the outlying villages. She stayed in the area and moved to a different school in York when she married Matthew, a local surveyor. They had a daughter, Lucy, followed two years later by a son, Ben. With no career break to raise her children, she had rapidly been promoted to deputy head of a local grammar school. A year before her death she had taken up an appointment as headmistress of Harchester School and moved with her family to Kent. Her husband, who had been a partner in a firm of surveyors, went with her.
    Geraldine put down the file and tried to block out the memory of Lucy Kirby which was threatening to distract her from Abigail Kirby's history. The question remained. Who would have committed such a terrible atrocity against the mother of those two children, Lucy and her young brother? Perhaps she had been murdered by an ex-pupil who considered his own life blighted by some perceived injustice. It was hard enough to imagine hating someone enough to kill them, but to inflict such excruciating pain on another human being was incomprehensible. Maybe it was no coincidence that Abigail Kirby's death had occurred so soon after her promotion to headmistress, her killer an disgruntled or jealous colleague.
    Geraldine's mouth was dry so she put the kettle on and made a mug of cocoa, still thinking about the dead headmistress. Everything about Abigail Kirby followed a logical progression in relation to her career but, after studying the file closely, Geraldine was no closer to understanding Abigail Kirby as a woman. Successful in her career, married with a son and a daughter, from the outside her life appeared ideal. Despite her premature and horrific death, Geraldine felt an irrational stab of envy as she got ready for bed. Alone.
    Tired and sweaty she showered and ran dripping into the bedroom. As she pulled a towel from the top shelf of her wardrobe, a pile of them toppled down. She wrapped herself in a bathsheet and bent to pick up an armful of towels from the floor. Turning, she looked up at the shelf, empty apart from a battered old shoe box she had kept hidden there ever since her sister, Celia, had given it to her. They had been clearing out their mother's