Kill My Darling

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Right, boss,’ Connolly said. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘If he does frequent a pub, let me know. I might send in Mackay – sometimes a man’s better in that environment than a woman.’

  ‘Depends on the boozer,’ Connolly said, and she wasn’t wrong.

  The ANPR did not take long in picking up Hibbert’s car on the same route down to Bournemouth that it had traced on the Friday. They remained on alert for any further movement, but as long as he was thought to be in the Bournemouth area, the actual searching for him on the ground had to be handed over to the local police, leaving Slider’s hands tied.

  Fathom meanwhile had interviewed the staff at Hatter and Ruck and learned that Hibbert had indeed been going to Hendon that morning, to look at a large house that was going on the market. He was then supposed to call in at the Hampstead branch on internal business, but had phoned them to say he had been delayed and was running late and would not be coming in after all. He was supposed to be working at home in the afternoon. They had not seen or heard from him since Friday, but of course they had not expected to once the murder became known. They had sent him a text of condolence, saying he should take leave of absence for as long as necessary. He hadn’t responded to that. It had been quite awkward because he had some papers with him which they needed, and they’d had to do a lot of the work again, but you couldn’t go bothering someone at a time like that, asking them for documents, could you?

  As far as they knew he had no business down in Bournemouth, and had certainly not told anyone that he was going there. They had a branch in Dorchester that dealt with Bournemouth and all places west, in any case: it would not go through Knightsbridge, unless it were something very big, like a major development, which would require the services of their specialist commercial section. Scott Hibbert was not involved in commercial property. He was purely residential. They had no complaints about his work. He had so far proved reliable. And he was quite well thought of.

  ‘They didn’t rave about him, guv,’ Fathom reported. ‘They’re a right nobby lot in there – real Eton-and-Oxford types, with posh accents – and I kind of got the impression they thought he was all right for a chav, know what I mean? This bird Belinda something said something about him I didn’t catch, and the others kind of smirked behind their hands.’ He looked indignant. ‘And him just widowed and everything! Though I s’pose,’ he added, in fairness, ‘that they probably don’t reckon he deserves so much sympathy, now he’s scarpered.’

  Connolly was reliving some of her worst nightmares. Though she had been a moderately sporty child, and had enjoyed gymnastics, tennis and some athletics, she had hated outdoor team games, especially muddy ones. The agonies of school hockey were burnt into her memory. The mist of a chilly winter afternoon with the sky going pink behind the bare trees, the pitch frozen harder than iron, the grass frosted to cutting sharpness; the encroaching numbness of feet, the blue and crimson knees and knuckles, the breath smoking, the way the voices bounced on the winter-hard air, echoing like a swimming pool; the agonizing, bone-deep pain of a whack on the shin, the way cuts wouldn’t even bleed until you got back in the pav and started to thaw out; the maddening, burning itch of reviving skin . . .

  This wasn’t hockey, but soccer, but all the other elements were there. Still, it was a job to be done. She hunched deep into her coat, woolly hat on head, muffler wound round her neck and chin, and watched the poor eejits running up and down with blue noses, steaming like horses into the icy air. There were two matches going on on two pitches, one big guys and one medium. A lot of kids and a handful of adults were scattered around the touchlines watching. She didn’t feel she stuck out too much. The referee in one match was a short, bandy-legged older guy, scurrying about with a whistle in his mouth. In the other, supervising the bigger guys’ game, a young man, tall, hunky and fit, in shorts and a dark-blue rugby shirt, was a bit of a ride.

  She idled along towards where a group of girls was sitting on a couple of benches watching the senior game. She strolled casually behind them and paused, listening to their chatter. Two of them on the farther bench had their heads together and were texting and giggling in tight, breathless bursts. The other three, on the nearer bench, their hands in their pockets, their jaws moving ruminatively like cows round their chewing gum, were having a ‘she said, and then I said, so she said’ kind of conversation. She took them to be about fourteen.

  She moved slightly, coming forward at the end of the bench so that she was in their sight line. They all looked at her and then away without interest, which was good. One of the boys on the pitch went down to a tackle, to a combined groan from the onlookers, the whistle was blown, and the ridey feller ran over to adjudicate, disappearing into a small knot of vehemence as both teams protested.

  ‘You’re rubbish, Jackson!’ one of the girls shouted, and they all giggled. ‘Sanchez never even touched him.’

  ‘God, I wouldn’t be them,’ Connolly commented. ‘That ground’s hard. And why do they make ’em wear shorts on a day like this?’

  The one who had shouted, who had so many freckles it looked like a skin disease, said, ‘Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,’ and they exchanged sly grins.

  ‘D’you go to this school?’ Connolly asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Freckles, and rolled her eyes at the others. Read the uniform, dork, said the gesture.

  ‘We wouldn’t be sitting here if we didn’t,’ said the smaller, darker one with curls.

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ said the third, podgy and fair, with the sort of pink face that always looks sticky, and shiny lips as if she’d been eating boiled sweets. She threw a glance at the boys playing, and they all giggled. ‘The view’s not bad.’

  ‘Yeah, some of ’em are well fit,’ said Curly.

  ‘Except for Jackson,’ said Freckles. ‘Remember that time his shorts come off and he wasn’t wearing any underpants?’

  ‘I bet you all laughed like drains,’ Connolly said. ‘Poor guy.’

  ‘What are you, his mother?’ Freckles said, with routine rudeness. It was not a question.

  They all watched for a moment, then Connolly asked, ‘Did you see the game last Friday?’

  ‘What game?’ Podgy asked, blowing out and snapping her gum like a professional.

  ‘Here, after school.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you meant on telly,’ she said, losing interest.

  ‘Thursday, you mean,’ said Curly. ‘Thursday nights after school.’

  ‘Oh, I thought it was Fridays.’

  ‘Nah,’ Freckles said scornfully. ‘The teachers wouldn’t stay late on a Friday night. They all bugger off home as fast as they can, soon as ha’pass three comes.’

  ‘Don’t blame ’em,’ said Podgy. ‘Get enough of this dump the rest of the time.’

  ‘Oh, look, there’s Freya,’ said Curly, looking along the line at another group of girls.

  ‘Lets go and see if she’s got any fags,’ said Freckles, and they all got up and hurried away, hunching together like a many-legged single entity, whispering and giggling. Apart from the fag remark, which Connolly guessed was a show-off for her benefit, they had shown her so little interest she was sure she and her questions would be forgotten within seconds. That was the beauty of that age. And grown-ups asked stupid questions all the time, so you got used to it.

  Connolly moved to a different part of the touchline, watching the good-looking teacher so intently that at one point, when he ran near her, he glanced over and met her eyes. She smiled, and he gave a brief half smile in response, earning Connolly a bitter look from two sixth-form girls huddled together and presumably on the same mission.

  When the games finished, the older man headed straight to the changing block with his team, while the younger teacher gathered his boys round him for a debriefing talk that went on until it seemed he suddenly noticed it was getting even colder (can’t believe it’s April!) and they were hopping on the spot and rubbing their own arms. He went off with them withou
t a glance around, so Connolly had no chance to talk to him. Well, you just have to make a chance, she told herself. There was a small parking area beside the changing block which she assumed was for the teachers. Beyond that was a small flight of shops, and she went and bought a newspaper and then sat on a bench on the far side of the parking area and watched.

  She was in luck. In ones and twos and groups the boys came out and hurried off; some adults retrieved their cars and left; the little bandy man got in a Fiesta rust bucket and disappeared; but the ridey teacher was still inside. She got up, stuck her paper under her arm, and began to wander towards the remaining cars, pretending to rummage in her handbag while watching the door under her eyebrows.

  It took a degree of skill to extend the rummaging the required length of time and still make it look natural; it took skill and a certain gymnastic agility, when the man came out (alone, thank God, in a cosy-looking padded jacket with a large Adidas bag on his shoulder) to wander into his path at just the right moment and allow him to knock her over.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry!’ he cried, swinging his bag to the ground to offer both hands for her assistance.

  ‘My fault, I wasn’t looking,’ she said. She had managed to spill a few things from her handbag, and when he had pulled her to her feet he crouched and gathered them up, while she brushed down the back of her coat. ‘Thanks,’ she said, as he restored the items to her cupped hands.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Not hurt?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Only me dignity’s smarting.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Clumsy of me.’

  ‘T’wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ She looked up and directly into his eyes. Good, he was interested. ‘I saw you taking the game with the boys. You wouldn’t be Mr Wiseman, would you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s not here.’

  ‘But he’ll be here later, will he? For the late practice. Don’t you have practice after school on Fridays?’

  ‘No, Thursdays,’ he said. ‘Never on Fridays.’

  ‘Oh – I thought there was something last Friday, after school.’

  ‘No, we’ve never had after school games on a Friday.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Too many of the parents want to get away for long weekends.’

  ‘Oh, so I’ve missed Mr Wiseman, then.’

  ‘Is it anything I can help you with? My name’s Rofant. Simon Rofant. I’m the other games teacher at the school. Um . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’m afraid Mr Wiseman probably won’t be in for a while. Something rather awful happened. His daughter got killed.’

  ‘That’s terrible! The poor guy. What happened?’

  He hesitated again, and said, ‘Look, it’s too cold to stand here. Do you fancy a cup of tea? There’s a café just along there.’ He gestured along the line of shops.

  ‘That’d be nice, but don’t you have to be somewhere?’

  He raised his hands, almost in a ‘guilty’ gesture. ‘Nope. Footloose and fancy free. But what about you?’

  ‘Same here,’ she said, and smiled. He smiled back. Bingo, she thought.

  In the café – very small and functional, six Formica tables with tubular chairs and counter service of tea and coffee, cakes, sandwiches, and an all-day vat of soup that smelled like unwashed bodies – there was a diminishing knot of schoolchildren, buying sweets and snacks with agonizing indecision. But they were gathered at the counter, and left with their purchases without sitting down, though not without giving Rofant and his companion a long, interested look followed by head-together sniggering. One table was occupied by schoolgirls, but they were all texting away, heads down, and nothing, Connolly thought, short of the Last Trump would draw their attention away from their little screens.

  Rofant ignored them all magnificently, insisted on buying her a tea (‘It’s the least I can do after knocking you down’), and when they were seated, told her all about the Melanie Hunter murder – from the point of view of the general punter, which was interesting. Connolly explained her ignorance of the matter by saying she’d only just come over from Ireland and had been so busy with the moving the last few days she hadn’t had time to read the papers or watch the news.

  ‘Poor guy,’ she said. ‘What a terrible thing to happen. He must be really cut up.’

  ‘Yes. The head told him right away to take the week off. I must say our head’s decent like that. But I don’t suppose he’ll be back next week either. I mean, apart from what he must be feeling, and his wife, you don’t want to expose yourself to the kids at a time like that. Staring eyes and prying questions. Curiosity always overcomes tact.’

  ‘Not just with kids, either,’ Connolly said. ‘It must be really hard to get away from it, even for a minute. I suppose he can’t even go down to his usual pub for a bit of relief.’

  ‘No, especially not in his case. He’s famously teetotal,’ Rofant said. ‘Disapproves of pubs and the demon alcohol.’ He said it lightly, seeming to think, even as he said it, that it was a bit disloyal. He looked uncomfortable for an instant and then said, ‘What was it you wanted to see him for, anyway? Perhaps I can help.’

  This was always going to be the danger moment. ‘I heard he did private coaching – out of school hours, I mean.’

  ‘I think he does. Who told you that?’

  ‘A neighbour of mine knows someone who knows someone he’s coaching. I think she’s in the sixth form,’ Connolly said vaguely. The coaching would have to be for herself – she didn’t want to have to invent a child.

  ‘Oh. That must be Stephanie, I suppose. Stephanie Bentham. Small, fair girl – lives in Boston Manor somewhere?’

  ‘I’ve never seen her. But I think that was the name. Well, I suppose he won’t be doing any coaching for a long time now – if ever, poor guy.’ She finished her tea, and made leaving movements, eager to get away now. ‘Well, thanks a heap for the tea. That’s warmed me up. I can’t believe it’s so cold – you’d never think it was spring.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, standing too, his eyes on her. ‘It’s been nice meeting you. Would you – I wonder, would you like to go for a drink sometime?’

  She would, she definitely would, but that was the trouble with what she did. You couldn’t start a relationship with a subterfuge; now she had fooled him, she could never get to know him. Besides, it was near impossible to go out with any man who wasn’t in the Job. They just didn’t understand. While men in the Job understood too well, and were all neurotic bastards anyway. She’d had two bad relationships with coppers that ended in heartbreak and that was enough for one lifetime. As long as she remained a copper, she would have to remain alone.

  ‘I’d really like to,’ she said, putting sincerity into her eyes, ‘but I’m kind of half seeing someone else. I came over here to see if we can make a go of it. Well –’ she shrugged – ‘you know. But thanks for asking.’

  ‘That’s me all over, wrong place at the wrong time,’ he said self-deprecatingly. ‘Well, if it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ she said with a smile, and they parted on a handshake.

  Isn’t that just like bloody life, she thought, heading for her car. You meet a total ride, who’s interested in you, who’s also available – and how often does that happen? – and you can’t do anything about it. Not because you’ve already got someone, oh no, that’d be too easy, but because you’ve been forced to make up someone in order to get out of going out with a bloke you want to go out with. God was just a big, bloody tease, so he was, and it wasn’t fair.

  TWELVE

  Crowd Cuckoo Land

  ‘But if there was no soccer practice on Fridays, why wouldn’t Mrs Wiseman know that?’ Atherton asked. ‘She’s been married to him long enough.’

  Connolly counted on her fingers. ‘She’s confused, she’s not that interested, he’s told her and she’s forgotten, or he’s just not told her. You don’t get the feeling there’s much communication in that marriage. “I’m off
out, dear.” “All right, dear.” And she sees he’s got his bag with him, so she thinks, oh, he’s off to football. Sure, she’s not going to say “Where the hell have you been?” when he comes in, not her, not to a man like him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said McLaren, who had been just waiting for her to finish this, which, to him, was the uninteresting part of the problem. ‘But then where was he Friday evening? Even if it was him phoned Hunter at ten o’clock and arranged a meet, he wasn’t with her from after school till then.’

  ‘He wasn’t where he said he was,’ Atherton replied, ‘and that’s enough for us. Maybe he was driving about, working himself up into a rage, or planning how he was going to do it.’

  ‘Maybe he was doing private coaching,’ Connolly felt obliged to offer.

  ‘But then why would he lie to his wife about it?’

  ‘We don’t know he lied. She’s not that bright or on the ball. She maybe just got the wrong end of the stick. Or like I said, he never told her and she just assumed.’

  ‘Well,’ said Slider, ‘we’ll have to ask.’ He shook his head. ‘Two suspects with stupid, easy-to-bust alibis.’

  ‘They weren’t stupid alibis as long as no one checked,’ Atherton said. ‘They were very good, solid as the Bank of England alibis. A stag night and a soccer match – dozens of witnesses to prove you were there. Much better than Fitton’s “I was alone at home all evening”.’

  ‘Right up to the point when it wasn’t. What’s the world coming to, when villains can’t even be bothered to construct a decently professional lie?’ Slider complained.

  ‘What about Fitton, guv?’ Hollis asked. The forensic report had come back negative – no traces of blood or tissue in the flat, on any of the objects confiscated, or down the plugholes or in the drains. Nothing to say Melanie Hunter had been murdered on the premises. There had been no large sums of cash knocking about, and Fitton’s bank account showed nothing but his benefits going in each month and coming out week by week, so nothing to suggest blackmail. That was not to say he could not have killed her outside the house, or indeed have hidden money elsewhere, but you could only go on what you had evidence for.