‘Did she tell you anything about her plans for the weekend?’
‘She said she was going out for a drink with friends on Friday evening. It was her best friend Kiera’s birthday, and they were meeting some others at the Princess Vic.’
‘And what about the rest of the weekend?’
‘She said she hadn’t any plans. Scott – her boyfriend?’
Swilley nodded.
‘He was going away for the weekend, so she said she was just going to relax. I asked her to come for Sunday lunch but she said she had some work to catch up on. She’s a palaeontologist, you know,’ she added with a huge pride that carried the touch of bewilderment of any parent whose child surpasses them by such a length. ‘She works at the Natural History Museum. They think the world of her there. I don’t know where she gets her brains from,’ she added with a little affected laugh. ‘It can’t be me. I was never even in the sixth form.’
‘From her father, perhaps?’ Swilley suggested, wanting to keep her talking.
A shadow passed over Mrs Wiseman’s face: it looked to Swilley almost like wariness. ‘Her father’s dead,’ she said abruptly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘He was killed in the Greenford rail crash,’ she said, as though that ended the topic for good and all. That had been – Swilley counted – eleven years ago: it had been in all the papers, of course. Rail crashes were so thankfully rare, they were all remembered, catalogued in the public mind for ever by their location: Potters Bar, Hatfield, Southall . . . Greenford had had an unusually high number of fatalities. ‘Ian’s my second husband,’ Mrs Wiseman concluded.
‘Of course,’ Swilley said. ‘That accounts for why Melanie has a different surname. And Bethany is . . .?’
‘She’s Ian’s, from his first wife. He was a widower too.’
‘So has Melanie any brothers or sisters?’
‘No, I just had the one. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m wondering if there was anyone she might have gone to visit, that’s all. Any aunts, cousins?’
‘Not that she’d go and visit. I’ve got a sister, but we’re not close, and Melanie never cared that much for her cousins.’
‘What about your husband’s family?’
‘You mean Ian’s? Oh, she would never go to them,’ she said firmly.
‘Does she not get on with her stepfather?’
‘They’re all right, they get on OK, but they’re not what I’d call close. She doesn’t think of him as her stepfather, anyway, just my husband. No reason why she should. She was practically grown up by the time I married, and I told her from the beginning, I’m not marrying him for you, I’m marrying him for me.’
Some history there, Swilley thought, making a mental note. Smoothly she went on, ‘What about her boyfriend, Scott? Is everything all right between them?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘He’s a lovely boy – just the sort of man I always wanted for her. Steady, nice manners, a good job. Very polite to me and Ian. And they’re mad about each other, no doubt about that.’
‘But he went away for the weekend without her,’ Swilley suggested. ‘Did she mind that?’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘You mustn’t think that. You see, Scott’s got this friend from school, they go way back, but he’s not Melanie’s sort at all. Loud, and – well, what I’d call vulgar. Tells dirty jokes; and the way he is with women . . .! Always leering, and making coarse remarks, you know. Melanie can’t stand him, but of course Scott’s fond of him, knowing him all his life – in and out of each other’s houses when they were kids. Well, Dave, this friend, was getting married so of course Scott had to go, but there was no need for Melanie to put herself through that. Scott understands. It was all quite amicable. She told me on Friday she was quite happy to stay home, and Scott would enjoy himself more if he went on his own. But . . .’ She faltered, remembering what she had happily forgotten for a few moments. ‘You’re saying he doesn’t know where she is?’
‘She wasn’t there when he got home this morning, and she hadn’t left him a note, so he was worried.’ She didn’t mention the dog or the handbag: no point in upsetting the woman yet. ‘I just thought, if they’d had a row, she might have walked out on him – to teach him a lesson, sort of thing . . .’
‘Well, she was all right with him when I spoke to her on Friday,’ Mrs Wiseman said, frowning, ‘but of course they might have quarrelled since then. I wouldn’t know. But if they’d quarrelled that bad, why wouldn’t she ring me, and come over here?’
‘Could be many reasons,’ Swilley said inventively. ‘If she knows how much you like him, she might not want to admit to you they’d had a row. So, can you think of anyone else she’d go to? This friend Kiera, for instance – can you give me a contact number or address for her?’
‘Yes, I’ve got that somewhere. She might go to Kiera – they’re very close. And she’s got lots of other friends. I don’t know who they are, really, but Kiera could tell you. There’s one she works with, Simone, at the museum – she talks about her sometimes. She gets things from me for her – for Simone. Cosmetics and perfume. I sell cosmetics from home,’ she added, casting a glance at the paperwork. ‘I’ve always been in Product Demonstration, you see, ever since I left school. Started off at the Ideal Home. I’ve done all the big shows. I used to sell Tupperware, when I was married the first time, but cosmetics and fashion jewellery pay better – and you meet a nicer class of person.’ She looked at Swilley with professional interest. ‘I see you take care of your skin. I could let you have some nice things, if you’re interested. It’s a good discount. And they’re all quality products, top names.’
It was odd, Swilley thought, given the dread she had exhibited at first, how difficult she seemed to find it to keep that at the front of her mind. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism – think about anything except that something might have happened to Melanie. Or perhaps there was something even worse she was trying to keep at bay – something she didn’t want Swilley to discover.
She let her yatter on about her products for a bit while she thought about it, and then went about taking her leave. She got the address and phone number of Kiera, and of Scott’s parents in Salisbury because she really seemed to want to give them; and she asked for and received a very good photograph of Melanie, taken the year before, which she had been looking at, sandwiched between heavy glass with a silver foot on a chiffonier across the room. It was quite a formal picture, of a very pretty young woman sitting on a stool with her hands in her lap, smiling at the camera. She had thick tawny-blonde hair, artfully highlighted, hanging in a bob to her shoulders, regular features and very nice teeth. Swilley could see the resemblance to her mother, but she had better cheekbones and a more interesting nose.
‘It was a studio portrait,’ Mrs Wiseman said proudly. ‘She had a whole session last year – Scott paid. It was her birthday present. He’s got a friend who’s a photographer so he got a discount. He says when they get married they’ll get a really good deal.’
‘Are they going to get married?’ Swilley asked.
‘Well, eventually, of course, but they haven’t any plans just at present. But I hope it will be soon. She doesn’t want to leave it too long to have children. And Scott will make a lovely father. It was him insisted she give this picture to me – he knew I’d like it. Always so thoughtful – such a nice boy. I think he’d get married tomorrow but Melanie’s hesitating – you know what girls are like these days. Don’t want to give up their freedom. But Scott was hinting about next year the last time I saw him. He doesn’t want them to have kids without being married, which is just the way it should be.’
She was smiling now, and Swilley mentally shook her head at this degree of self-hypnosis. Far be it from her to shatter the protective bubble. Maybe Melanie would turn up before she need look her fears in the face.
At the door she asked, ‘By the way, what does your husband do?’
‘Ian? He’s a teacher at Eltho
rne Manor – PE and sports. He’s out at the moment – Sunday League down the Rec.’
But the new subject had done it. The smileyness drained from her face and the dread was back in the eyes.
‘You’ll find her, won’t you?’ she asked in a husk of a voice. ‘She’ll be all right? Only, it’s not like her just to go out like that, and not say anything.’
‘I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,’ Swilley said hearteningly, and made her escape. She was sure there was a logical explanation, but that didn’t necessarily mean it would be good news.
As she was getting into her car, a silver Ford Galaxy pulled up on to the Wiseman hardstanding and a man in a tracksuit got out, pulling a sports bag after him. He was of medium height, well built about the shoulders, with very dark hair and a tanned, hard face that missed being handsome by some small, inexplicable degree. He stood for a moment staring at Swilley, scowling, his head up as if ready to take affront. She wondered if he had seen her coming out of his house as he drove up. She hastened to get into her car, not wanting to talk to him, especially as he did not seem in a good mood. Let Mrs W explain all – she had had enough for one day.
When a young woman is murdered, there is always one photograph the press latches on to. It is splashed over every paper and news bulletin all through the investigation, at the arrest, during the trial, and on sentencing. It defines the case, and sometimes even the age, so that forever after that person, who would have lived out her life in obscurity, is as instantly, iconically recognized by millions as Marilyn Monroe with her skirt blowing up, or Princess Di looking up from under her fringe. It was as if, Slider thought, their fate had been decided at the instant the photographer’s finger had pressed the button. From that moment, they moved as inevitably towards their doom as a package on a conveyor belt.
Slider had always found old photographs unsettling, and he’d had a bad feeling from the moment Swilley returned with the studio portrait of Melanie Hunter. He knew they would use it, because it was clearer than the snapshot Hibbert had given them from his wallet; and he knew the media would love it, because she looked pretty and smiley and good, a nice girl with a good school record and a fine career ahead of her. How much more saleable of newspapers than a grim-looking, shaven-headed kid with a string of ASBOs.
He was afraid that from now on that studio portrait, taken with pleasure in mind, would go together with the words ‘The Melanie Hunter Murder’ like gammon and spinach – or, nowadays, like hamburger and fries. He felt horribly, guiltily, as though they had sealed her fate by taking over that photograph. He had no hope now that she would wander back home or they would find her alive, and he felt ashamed of his defeatism.
An urgent phone call to Swilley from Atherton had diverted her on her way back from Ealing and she had arrived with a stack of pizza boxes, so they had all had lunch after all – rather belated but better than nothing. Connolly had made Slider a proper cup of tea to go with his, but he had eaten absently, looking at Melanie Hunter’s picture in-between reading the reports from Connolly, Atherton and Swilley and trying not to fear the worst.
They had done all they could by way of circulating the picture and description to police and hospitals and the usual agencies, and ringing anyone she might have visited or telephoned, while outside the thin sun had dipped out of contention through a red sky, and the icy cold had returned like a marauder, as if it had been hanging around in the shadows all day just waiting for its chance.
There was no news of Melanie Hunter, either good or bad, by the time Slider called it a day and went home to a cold beef supper, which he could not taste through the dust and ashes of his certainty that she was a goner. And too many people now knew she was missing for it not to get to the press, and there would be all the parade and palaver that the media so loved, the questions and appeals and endlessly repeated factlets about her last known movements, all presided over by the photo – the photo – the photo; until eventually the sad, crumpled, discarded body would be found, and they’d have a murder investigation on their hands. Sometimes he hated his job.
THREE
Babe in the Woods
Probably it was the pizza, but he had a restless night, not falling asleep properly until half past five; and then the telephone roused him at seven from such a depth it was almost an agony to open his eyes. But his brain clicked back into position an instant later, and he knew as he reached for the bedside phone what it would be.
It was Atherton. ‘Found her.’
‘Where?’
‘By Ruislip Lido. In the woods.’
‘Oh God.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
Slider had lived a large part of his first marriage, to Irene, in Ruislip, so he knew it well. He had taken the kids to the Lido on sunny Sundays. It was the poor man’s seaside – in his case, time-poor as much as anything. The north part of Ruislip ran up into the foothills of the Chilterns, so it was both hilly and much wooded – surprisingly country-like, considering it was still part of London. The Lido itself had started life as a man-made reservoir intended as a feeder for the Grand Union Canal, before becoming a swimming-and-boating day resort in the thirties. It had declined since its heyday, but still had a sandy beach, children’s playground, pub/restaurant and miniature railway. The woods came down to it for three quarters of its circumference. They were popular with ramblers, dog walkers and horse riders, so they were not exactly unfrequented, but they covered several hundred acres, so could still be reckoned a good place to abandon a body if you got off the main paths. Slider anticipated a long trek from the car park. Still, it had been freezing cold for so long – he’d lost count now how long, but weeks, anyway – the ground at least would not be muddy.
There had been a frost in the night, such a stiff one it was lying along the branches like snow, half an inch deep; roofs were white with it, and in the fields every stem of grass was outlined and rigid like the blade of a Zulu spear. The woods looked beautiful as the sun reluctantly rose for its low-slung hibernal trajectory across the sky, sparkling and tinged with pink.
The hard winter had taken its toll on the road surfaces, and in Reservoir Road, the approach to the Lido, there were potholes you could find lost tribes in. Slider bumped and manoeuvred his way carefully down to the car park. Despite the early hour, there was quite a crowd there already. Some, all, or more of the people they had spoken to yesterday must have contacted the press, because they were out in force; and the residents of surrounding streets had followed the flashing blue lights for a good morning gawp. It was only lucky it was Monday and a school day, or there’d have been no getting through them.
Barriers were in place and the car park was being kept clear for the police and associated vehicles. Two local bobbies were manning the access, and Slider had to tell them who he was. Ruislip fell within Hillingdon, a different part of the Met altogether.
But Porson was there – good grief, did the man never sleep? – gaunt as the first Duke of Lancaster, swathed in his Douglas Hurd-style greenish greatcoat, the folds of which were so voluminous a Bedouin could have kept his entire family in there, and several of his favourite horses as well. He was talking to his Hillingdon counterpart, Det Sup Fox, known down the ranks as Duggie. Slider had thought for a long time his name must be Douglas, but in fact it was Clifford. But Fox was a very large man in all respects and had, apparently, noteworthy man-breasts.
He also had the coldest eyes Slider had ever encountered. Slider could feel the frost creeping across his skin as the chilly grey orbs took him in, analysed him and filed him, probably under No Action Required. The Syrup swung round to see who was being freeze-dried, and his eyebrows went up in a greeting that was effusive by comparison.
‘Ah, there you are. I’ve just been telling Mr Fox that you know this area like the back of your onions.’
Fox looked pained. Not everyone could cope with Porson on an empty stomach.
‘He’s very kind
ly going to hand the case over to us.’
‘Very kind, sir,’ Slider said with an irony so deep Beebe couldn’t have reached it.
‘We’ve got more than enough on our hands as it is,’ Fox said – though, given that Heathrow Airport was in his ground, that was probably no more than the truth. And then, perhaps feeling he had been ungracious, he said, ‘After all, you’ve done the preliminary work, and the investigation will mostly fall in your ground – tracing the last movements and so on. Makes sense for you to handle it. We’ll hand over as soon as you’ve got enough men here. Of course, Fred,’ he added to Porson, ‘we’ll give you any help we can. Can’t promise you any warm bodies, I’m sorry to say.’ He looked about as sorry as a lottery winner. ‘But smoothing the path, local knowledge and suchlike. Just ask. But as you say, your man here knows the ground . . .’
‘We’ll manage. Thanks, Cliff. Appreciate your corroporation,’ Porson said with dignity.
Slider left the mighty to confer at their exalted level, and went to find someone lowly to talk to. He spotted one of his own, DC McLaren, on the far side, nearest the woods, conferring with a Hillingdon detective, Pete Remington. He headed that way. There was something odd about McLaren that he couldn’t put his finger on. Also he would have wondered how McLaren had got here first, given that he didn’t live out this way, but he had other things on his mind.
In response to his terse question, McLaren filled him in. ‘She’s in there, guv.’ He nodded towards the woods behind him. ‘Not far in, but off the path. Fully dressed, shoes and all.’ Shoes often went missing when a body was moved. ‘Looks like she was whacked on the head and strangled.’
‘Who found her?’
‘Local man, sir,’ Remington answered. ‘Name of William McGuire. Walking his dog early this morning – dog led him to her.’ It was funny – or perhaps not – how often this was the case. Without dog walkers, Slider wondered, how many bodies would remain undiscovered? ‘He lives in Lakeside Close,’ Remington went on. This was one of the little cul-de-sacs off Reservoir Road. ‘He was very shaken up. As it was close by, we sent him home with one of our uniforms – Patsy Raymond. No sense keeping him standing here in the cold.’
Kill My Darling Page 4