Kill My Darling

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  He sniffed, finished his tea in one gulp, wiped his nose on the cuff of his overall, decorating it with another hydrocarbon smear, and said, ‘That your Astra? VXR, innit? What is it, two litre? What’s it drive like?’

  Thus the two chaps were able to wade safely back before the incoming tide of psychoanalysis and – aargh! – ‘relationships’ to the safe, dry shore of car ownership, and parted in good humour with each other. Atherton even shook his hand, and nobly waited until he was out of sight before getting out a handkerchief to wipe it.

  Bob Bailey, the SOC manager, tracked Slider down in the canteen where he was having a very late lunch – so late he had had to have a leftover portion of macaroni cheese heated up for him in the microwave, and he only got that because the canteen staff liked him, and it was a crusty bit from the corner of the dish that no one else fancied. He had quarantined himself in a far corner with a heap of reports to reread. On the other side of the room, nearer the windows and a watery bit of sunshine that was attempting to creep in through the soot of ages on the panes, various uniforms were having their afternoon tea break, with a buzz of chatter and the occasional burst of laughter.

  Bailey eyed the congealing remains on the plate – Slider wasn’t getting on with it very well – and thought the bad news he was delivering might usefully serve as a counter-irritant.

  ‘I was passing,’ he said, ‘so I thought I’d come and report to you in person.’

  Slider pushed his plate away with every appearance of relief, and said, ‘Judging by your face, it isn’t good news.’

  ‘Depends on your point of view. I should think Scott Hibbert’s dear old white-haired mother would be very pleased.’ He sat down. ‘We’ve gone over every inch of the flat, the stairs and the common parts, and there’s nothing to suggest Melanie Hunter was killed there. We’ve also looked at her car, and though she was obviously in there alive, there’s no reason to think she was restrained there or transported dead. In fact, the back seats are so pristine I wouldn’t think anyone’s ever ridden in them. I think you can take it as read that she left her own premises alive.’

  ‘I don’t know that I’m surprised,’ Slider said. ‘It was always a possibility that she was killed elsewhere, and there were always problems about her being killed in the flat – the dog being the main one.’

  ‘Yes, most dogs would go nuts in a scenario like that.’

  ‘But if she left the flat alive, why would she leave her handbag and take the door keys? Leaving the handbag looks like coercion, but taking the keys looks like a voluntary action.’ None of the evidence made a lot of sense. ‘Never mind.’ He pulled himself together, and managed a polite smile. ‘Not your problem.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Bailey.

  NINE

  Lynch, Anyone?

  ‘So,’ Atherton said to his assembled colleagues, ‘wherever Hibbert was on Friday night and Saturday morning, it wasn’t where he said he was. And I checked the hotel he was supposed to have been staying in, and guess what, folks?’

  ‘Why wasn’t he staying with his parents?’ Connolly asked.

  ‘So as not to disturb them when arriving home drunk in the small hours from the stag do,’ Atherton said.

  ‘It doesn’t follow that he didn’t change his mind,’ Norma said.

  ‘I know,’ said Atherton, ‘and we’ll have to check that.’

  ‘Or he could have gone to a different hotel,’ said Hollis.

  ‘Rather than check them all,’ Atherton said with irony, ‘why don’t we ask him? But it’s my bet that, if he wasn’t at the stag, and hardly at the wedding, he probably wasn’t in the area at all. He was off doing something nefarious, and the wedding was just his alibi.’

  ‘Not much of an alibi,’ Connolly said derisively, ‘when ya could bust it that easy.’

  ‘He probably thought no one would check,’ Atherton said. ‘Swaggering overconfidence doesn’t usually go with painstaking analysis.’

  ‘But he’d told her well before the date that he was going to this wedding. Told Andy Bolton, too,’ said Mackay.

  ‘The wedding was fact, not fiction,’ Atherton said. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Well, are you saying he planned to kill her as soon as he got the invitation?’ Mackay asked. ‘Or was it just lucky chance, he killed her spurathemoment and happened to have this alibi set up?’

  ‘Lucky?’ Connolly protested.

  ‘For him, not for her.’

  ‘There must have been a degree of planning,’ Atherton said, ‘because we know she was killed that evening, so he must have come back from wherever he was to do it. I can’t see him plotting far ahead, but maybe it gradually grew on him he could make use of the occasion, if he was getting fed up with her for some reason.’

  ‘Yeah, but what reason?’ Mackay said.

  ‘Never mind that for the moment. From our point of view, he’s good because he’s got all the time in the world to take the body out to Ruislip, do any cleaning up that’s needed in the flat, and get back to Salisbury for an eleven o’clock wedding. He wouldn’t be likely to interfere with her sexually. And he knows the dog, and it knows him. Did you notice how he didn’t seem to want anything to do with it afterwards?’ he added, looking round them.

  ‘What does that prove?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘Well, I’m just thinking, if he had a bit of trouble with it at the time – and why wouldn’t he? – he might have been very glad someone had taken it away when he got back. He might well be scared of seeing it again, in case it attacked him.’

  Connolly said, ‘But if it was him – and fair play to ya, he’s a big enough thick to think no one would check the stagger alibi – why would he leave the wedding early? Why not stay on for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t want to be around his mates answering questions about why he’d missed the stag,’ Atherton said. ‘Maybe he was too shaken up by the murder to be around people at all. It takes a cool head to behave as if nothing’s happened when you’ve just killed someone.’

  Connolly nodded. ‘And didn’t we think it was queer he didn’t know she was missing – that he hadn’t rung her all Saturday? Well, why would he, if he knew she was dead?’

  But why,’ said Norma, ‘if it was Hibbert who killed her, would he take her door keys? He had keys of his own.’

  Atherton declined to be dampened. ‘To make it look as if she’d gone out on her own two feet.’

  ‘But then wouldn’t he have taken her whole handbag?’ Norma said.

  ‘That would just make more things to get rid of. Keys are easy to drop down a drain, but a handbag the size of Belgium, like you women all carry these days . . .’

  It was at this point that Slider came in, just in time to save Atherton from being lynched for the ‘you women’. Atherton told him about the busted alibi; Slider told them about the clean flat. ‘So whoever killed her, it wasn’t at home.’

  Atherton was not downcast. ‘Never mind, it still makes it Hibbert for my money. Who else could so easily lure her into his car and drive off without her putting up a fight? He only has to pretend it’s something romantic – let’s look at the lido by moonlight, something like that.’

  ‘At that time of night?’ Swilley objected.

  ‘Best time for romance. Get Tony to explain it to you. Anyway, we know for a fact that he’s lied about his alibi, and there must be a reason for that.’

  ‘I agree that Hibbert’s got some explaining to do about where he spent the night,’ Slider began.

  ‘If he was killing her and dumping the body,’ Hollis said, ‘he’d have been too late to drive to Salisbury and check into an hotel. More likely he just got changed at the flat and went to the wedding from there.’

  ‘He’d have had to leave early, anyway, not to be seen,’ Mackay said. ‘Maybe slept in his car in a lay-by or something.’

  ‘At least it gives us something to check,’ Slider said. ‘Whatever he was doing, there must have been some car movements. Fathom
, put his reg number into the ANPR and see if you can find out where he was at any point between Friday morning and Sunday morning. I’d sooner have something concrete to face him with than just asking him blind where he was and having a whole lot of new lies to disprove.’

  ‘You’ll get them anyway,’ Atherton said.

  ‘At least we can narrow the field if we know whether he was in Maidstone, Maidenhead or Middlesborough.’

  ‘I’ve got something else, boss,’ Swilley said. ‘This Hibbert talk’s all very well.’ She gave Atherton a look so cool you could have kept a side of beef on it for a week. ‘But everybody agrees he’s a prime plonker and about as subtle as a hand grenade. Plotting cunning murders and carrying them out—’

  ‘Not that cunning,’ Atherton protested.

  ‘Not that obvious, either, or we’d know all about it.’

  ‘A person can pretend to be more gormless than they are.’

  ‘Oh, is that your excuse?’

  ‘What’s your point, Norma?’ Slider intervened hastily.

  She turned to him. ‘I’ve been going through Melanie’s papers, and I started off with her bank statements and so on. Well, she was doing all right, just about breaking even, like most of us with a mortgage. She and Scott bought the flat between them and they were paying half each, and I suppose the same went for the bills – I haven’t got that far yet, but it’s fair to assume. But the thing is, a couple of years ago she had a decent amount in savings, but it’s been going down steadily. She’s been drawing out sums of money in cash – five hundred, a thousand, two hundred – at irregular intervals for the last two years. Ever since she moved into that house. And Simone Ridware said that for about the same length of time she’s felt Melanie had something on her mind, was worried and anxious about something. She thought it was to do with Scott, because she reckoned Melanie knew subconsciously that he wasn’t good enough for her.’

  ‘Makes sense to me,’ said Atherton. ‘The man’s a tool.’

  Swilley shook her head. ‘That’s crap. She’d only just met him – they’d only been going out for three months when they got the flat together, so they must have decided to live together almost from day one. Which means she was head over heels in love with him. That doesn’t wear off in an instant. Two years ago she’d have been happy as Larry setting up home with her new bloke. But from the time she moves into that house, she’s anxious, and lumps of cash start disappearing from her savings.’ She looked at Slider. ‘What does that add up to, boss?’

  ‘I don’t know that it adds up to anything more than her salary not quite being enough, but you’re thinking blackmail?’ he obliged.

  ‘Right. And who in the house made mysterious hints about her having secrets no one knew? And went out to the pub with her but never saw fit to tell us? And has a criminal record?’

  ‘Not for blackmail,’ Atherton objected.

  ‘No, for murder,’ Norma said triumphantly.

  ‘Why would he blackmail her?’ Hollis asked, after a short silence paid tribute to the idea.

  ‘For money, of course,’ Swilley said, witheringly. ‘He can’t get a job, he’s living on benefits – why not?’

  ‘He owns that flat,’ Connolly added, with a shade of reluctance. ‘He doesn’t rent it. How’d he afford it, on the broo?’

  ‘No, I mean, what’d he blackmail her with,’ Hollis said.

  ‘I dunno. Maybe that abortion thing – maybe she didn’t want Scott to know about it. Or maybe she’d done something else. We don’t know – her mum said she got into bad company at one time, so she may have been hiding some other secret.’

  ‘But then why would he kill her?’ Hollis persisted. ‘You don’t kill the person you’re blackmailing – that cuts off the supply. It’s the other way round. The victim kills the blackmailer out o’ desperation.’

  ‘Well,’ Swilley said, thinking, ‘maybe she did get desperate – she was near the end of her savings. Maybe she finally stood up to him and threatened to go to the police. Fitton couldn’t allow that. He’d be finished – he’s out on licence, he’d have gone straight back inside so fast his head would swim. No, in the end he had more to lose than she did, and maybe she finally realized it. So then he realized she’d have a hold on him for the rest of his life, and decided to get rid of her.’

  ‘If she knew about his past,’ Atherton said. ‘No one else seems to have.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know, do we?’ she snapped. ‘We can’t ask her.’ She appealed to Slider. ‘It’s just that it looks like a coincidence, boss, the timing. As soon as she comes into contact with Fitton, she starts shelling out cash, and goes round being anxious.’

  Slider nodded reluctantly. ‘There may be something in it. And I know Mr Porson would like to get Fitton in and sweat him a bit. There are unanswered questions.’

  ‘And he has the mark o’ Cain on his brow,’ Connolly concluded disgustedly. ‘Sure, give a dog a bad name . . .’

  Slider looked at her kindly. ‘We’re just going to ask him some questions. He might even find it a relief – it can’t be nice for him cooped up in that flat with the media howling for his blood. He might like a nice, quiet cell for a change. Get a good night’s sleep.’ Connolly looked at him reproachfully, but he wasn’t joking. ‘And a square meal,’ he added. ‘He probably hasn’t eaten in days – can’t get out to the shops, can he?’

  ‘But guv,’ Atherton said, ‘what about Hibbert? Alibi blown, lies all round, absent without leave for the very time we’re interested in?’

  ‘Fathom can look for his car on the ANPR, and then we’ll see. Don’t look at me like that. We can always do him later. He’s not going anywhere.’

  As Slider predicted, Porson was thrilled with the new evidence, if that’s what it was, against Fitton. ‘That’s more like it. A nice juicy blackmail to get our teeth into.’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion, sir. We haven’t got anything concrete to go on.’

  ‘Except that he never told us about going out for drinkies with the girl, did he? That’s enough concrete for a dam. Besides,’ he added, his brows converging like animals round a waterhole, ‘it’s getting a bit ugly out there. Bloody lunch mob it’s turning into. We don’t want some bright spark chucking a rock through his window or pouring petrol through his letterbox. Better get him in. Poor bastard might even be grateful,’ he added, echoing Slider. ‘Get it over with. He must know we’re going to have to tug him sooner or later.’

  ‘It will give us a chance to go over his flat,’ Slider said.

  ‘Right. If he did kill her, it’d make more sense to do it in his flat, out of the way of the dog. Ask her to come down for a minute, boom. Then straight into her car and away.’

  ‘Her car was clean.’

  ‘He could have wrapped her in something.’

  ‘And apparently, he can’t drive,’ Slider mentioned. ‘He’s certainly never had a licence.’

  ‘Easy to pretend you can’t drive when you can,’ Porson dismissed the quibble. ‘If it was the other way round . . . Anyway, bring him in. But not right now. Don’t want to start a riot. Make it a dawn raid – snatch him in the early hours when there’s nobody about. Try and get him out without any photos. Did you see this morning’s effort? Photo of Melanie Hunter right next to that old one of Fitton’s wife they used at the time. Talk about conflagatory! Might as well put “He Done It” in big letters right across the headline.’

  Inflammatory and confrontational enough to create a conflagration, Slider thought as he went away to set things in train. There was economy in Porson’s madness.

  McLaren appeared in Slider’s doorway. Slider was on the phone, and held up his hand while he finished the call, which gave him a moment and an excuse to study his detective constable’s amazingly changed appearance. McLaren had had his hair cut, which was unusual enough – it was habitually on the shaggy and collar-brushing side – but it looked as if it had also been styled, which was weird in the extreme. As against that, he had definitely lost weig
ht – his cheeks looked quite sunken – and today there was none of that sappy air of dreamy satisfaction. He was leaning against the door frame with a disconsolate look about him.

  ‘Right,’ Slider said into the phone. ‘Thank you.’ And put it down.

  McLaren eased himself upright. ‘Guv, I got something.’

  Slider almost said, I hope it’s not catching. But baiting this new McLaren wasn’t so much fun. ‘Let’s have it, then.’

  ‘I found out where she was, that missing ten minutes on her way home. I been doing all the shops up and down Uxbridge Road. First of all she parks up and goes to the ATM, takes some money out. I checked – it was two hundred quid. I got her on the ATM camera. And then, a couple of doors down, there’s this Chinese place, the Golden Dragon Pavilion. It’s a takeaway.’