Kill My Darling

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  She came out with just her keys but she didn’t go back in. She wasn’t killed in the flat or anywhere in the house. She left the area – but not in her car. So: someone else’s car. She got into someone else’s car and drove away with them, despite having only her keys with her. If she wasn’t coerced, it must have been someone she knew and trusted – like Hibbert. But it wasn’t Hibbert.

  And the takeaway – she must have taken the takeaway out with her. So could it be that she had bought it for the person in the car? But why, then, drive off with them? And if they had a car, why couldn’t they get their own takeaway?

  Because they had no money? There was the missing two hundred quid. Hibbert could have taken it, of course. But maybe it was the takeaway person. But they had a car. Yes, but you can have a car and be strapped for cash on a short term basis. But who would she do such a thing for? And even if she gave them money and food, why did she get into the car?

  Hibbert worked because he was the person closest to her; Wiseman worked because of his temper and because he had spoken to her on the phone just before she left the Vic and bought the takeaway. Why had he denied that, by the way? But it wasn’t either of them.

  Something happened in his mind, a click and thunk, of things shifting and falling into place. It was like the bit in an Indiana Jones film when a lever is pulled and massive blocks of stone rearrange themselves to reveal a secret door. It couldn’t be, could it? He felt the blood running under his skin as the excitement of ideas increased his heart rate. It seemed unlikely; there were large problems in the way; and yet it answered many other questions.

  At all events, they had nothing else to go on; it was worth a shot. And he knew that now he had thought of it, he would never rest until he had made the enquiries. He oozed carefully out of bed, gathered his clothes and took them to the bathroom to dress, went downstairs and put the kettle on. He couldn’t go yet, not at this time of night. He would spend the rest of the time, until it was a civilized enough hour to leave, reading the file again.

  If it were true, would she have told Fitton? No – and Fitton said he didn’t know. But might he have guessed? Possibly. Possibly. He was a man who had had more to do with sudden death than your average punter. And he had loved Melanie.

  Joanna came downstairs with George who – Slider realized belatedly – had been bouncing and chuntering up there in his cot for some time, possessed by the urgency of his usual early morning hunger.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Joanna asked. She put George in his chair and located and delivered a rusk to his grasp almost without opening her eyes. She yawned mightily and George stared at her with huge eyes, David Attenborough encountering a new species.

  ‘Sorry if I disturbed you,’ Slider said.

  ‘You didn’t, this time. I was out to the wide.’ She rubbed her eyes, and only then registered what he was wearing. ‘You’re going out? she said, and didn’t manage to disguise her disappointment. Well, she was only human. And she’d planned a lovely leg of lamb.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abjectly.

  ‘It’s because it was a girl, isn’t it? You’re never like this when the victim’s a man.’

  ‘Not true. I always feel responsible.’

  ‘All right, but it’s worse when it’s a female. Especially a young one.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he said unhappily. ‘Men are supposed to protect women and children. That’s what we’re for.’

  She softened. ‘You’re a dear old-fashioned thing.’

  ‘Don’t mock me. Not you.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. You’re right. So, can you tell me about it?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘OK, I know.’ He never would articulate when his thoughts were only half formed, in case speaking drove essential links away. ‘But you’re going out,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  She shrugged. It was only what she had come to expect. Unlike Irene, his first wife, she didn’t resent him for it. But then she had a job that took her away at unreasonable hours, too. Perspective made all the difference to a marriage. ‘Just tell me this – you’re not going to do anything dangerous, are you? There won’t be guns? Or knives?’ she added. Knives were almost worse. For while a bullet might go anywhere, a knife was almost sure to go somewhere.

  His face cleared and he smiled; like one of those April days when the clouds suddenly part and for an instant the sun belts down as if it had been doing summer up there all the time. ‘I’m just going to look at some records,’ he assured her.

  It was definitely milder. The wind, he discovered as he stepped from the house, had backed westerly, bringing with it an unbroken grey cover of cloud, too high for real rain, but dispensing the sort of fine mizzle you don’t even realize is there until you turn your face upwards and feel it prickling your skin like tiny insect feet. Haar, his mother had used to call it. She said it always came when you’d just put your washing out. The absolute disproof of the adage it never rains but it pours.

  Greenford came under Ealing police, and he went first to their headquarters in the hope that they had kept copies of everything, because otherwise it was the Home Office or the Department of Transport, neither of which was likely to be welcoming, let alone accessible on a Sunday. The previous boss of the Ealing CID, Slider’s old nemesis Gordon Arundel – a serial womanizer known behind his back as Gorgeous Gordon, who had also been notoriously unhelpful to coppers outside his own borough – was no longer there, having been promoted suddenly up and sideways like a lamb snatched by an eagle. Rumour had it that he had been doinking the borough commander’s wife and daughter at the same time, unknown to any of the three of them, or his own wife, until one exquisitely embarrassing Christmas party when a social collision took place that would have seen the Hadron physicists drooling with envy.

  On the other hand, DC Phil Hunt, the rhyming policeman, who had once been one of Slider’s firm, was still there, and as luck would have it was on duty that day. Hunt was easy to manipulate: chit-chat a few minutes, reminisce a few minutes, hint that they could do with his unique qualities back at Shepherd’s Bush (with fingers crossed behind his back that he didn’t take him at his word and put in for a transfer) and Hunt was ready to move heaven and earth to prove to Slider that he could move heaven and earth. The crash records? Yes, no problem at all. Yes, they had everything, except the papers from the subsequent public enquiry – all the original records from the time of the crash and the immediate aftermath, certainly. He would take Slider down to the records room personally and make sure he had everything he wanted.

  The records clerk was a young female uniform who looked at Hunt as though she had just found him on her shoe. Hunt, however, had always been as perceptive as a box of rocks when it came to women, and said in a proprietorial manner, ‘This is Mo Kennet, the wizard of the records room. My old boss, DI Slider, Mo, all the way from Shepherd’s Bush on an important mission. The lovely Mo will see you get everything you want, guv. Just leave it to her.’

  Hunt loitered as though he intended to stay and officiate, and Kennet and Slider stood locked in a bubble of embarrassment, until she roused herself to say, ‘Thanks, Phil. I’ll take care of it. Hadn’t you better get back and man the phones?’

  He beamed nauseatingly. ‘Always looking after my welfare, is Mo. Famous for her kind heart – isn’t that right, love? When are you going to come for a ride in my car? I know you like motors.’ His voice changed from crass suggestiveness to pure love when he went on, ‘I’ve just had this new exhaust kit put in – cost over a hundred quid just for the parts, but it was worth it. You should hear her now – purrs like a big kitty till you put your foot down, and then—’

  Hunt always had been able to bore for England about his cars, which Slider had believed had taken the place of a sexual partner in his life. He intervened while he and Kennet still had the use of their faculties. ‘Thanks a lot, Hunt. I appreciate it. I can manage from here.’

  Kennet made an eloquent
face at Hunt’s departing back, but became completely sensible when she turned to Slider to ask him what he wanted. In ten minutes he was sitting at a reading desk with the first of the files, while she brought in more and dumped them on the neighbouring desk to leave him room.

  ‘That’s the lot, sir,’ she said finally, brushing her hands off. She looked at him curiously. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . .? I mean, it was before my time, of course, and I only know what I remember from the news, but I’d be happy to trawl for you if there was anything in particular you were looking for?’

  ‘Thanks, that’s very kind. I’m on a bit of a fishing expedition, but I’ll give you a yell if I need help.’

  ‘Okey-doke. I’ll just be through there.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Nothing much on today, so I’d be glad of something to do. Get you a coffee or anything?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine. Thanks a lot.’ He smiled at her kindly and she obediently removed herself, though curiosity was sticking out all over her like boils. A good girl, that, he thought. She could go far.

  He began to read.

  SIXTEEN

  Sleight of Hand

  It had been a terrible incident, with a hundred and eight killed and two hundred and twenty-four injured: the second worst rail accident ever in England, surpassed only by the Harrow crash of 1952 which involved three trains, two of them expresses. The Greenford incident was a head-on crash between a passenger express out of Paddington, diverted from the fast rail because of engineering works, and an eastbound local train that had just left Greenford Station. The subsequent long and costly public enquiry had finally blamed driver error, which was easy to do since both drivers had been killed; but badly placed signals and lack of sufficient training had also been cited, management of both the train and track companies had been obliged eventually to resign, and compensation claims had dragged through the courts for years.

  Slider read the general reports from police and fire brigade to get the overall picture, and then went on to the medical records. Yes, here it was at last: Hunter, Graham Dennis Ormonde, aged forty-two. Dead at scene on arrival of medical personnel.

  His head had been crushed by falling debris, which had also almost decapitated him, severing the neck almost to the cervical spine. Death would have been instantaneous. A very quick glance at the photographs were enough for Slider. Hunter had been identified on the scene by paramedics going through his pockets, who had discovered a wallet in his inside jacket pocket containing business cards and credit cards, and in another pocket a letter addressed to him from an individual in Bristol, and several bills.

  His wife had also subsequently identified him at the temporary morgue from these documents and from his clothes, wrist watch and signet ring. She had had to be given medical treatment for shock and distress and had been referred to her own GP for ongoing sedative prescriptions.

  There was no doubt about it.

  He read through it again, the back of his mind imagining the scene, the smoke, the fires, the vast mangled engines flipped outrageously on to their sides like dying dinosaurs, the debris, the bodies, the wounded moaning, the trapped crying out for help, the stunned survivors wandering in shocked silence until they bumped into the helpers scrambling down the embankment from nearby houses, almost as shocked themselves. And then the emergency services arriving . . .

  He had been at one or two major incidents in his time – what copper hadn’t? None as bad as this, thank God. The newspapers always talked of screaming, chaos and panic – well, they had to sell copies. But in his experience there was never panic, just empathy and selflessness. The walking wounded always went immediately to the aid of the worse hurt, and the latter waited with a bitter patience and courage for the ‘authorities’ to arrive. As for screaming – the overall impression was always one of an eerie quiet, murmuring voices usually accompanied by background hissing and metallic ticking from whatever machines had been involved. The ‘chaos’ lay in the physical appearance of wrecked artefacts: the human element were always stunningly calm.

  The official reports were equally lacking in hysteria. They didn’t need any more drama – they had enough of their own to last a lifetime. He read on, through all the deaths, impelled by a terrible pity to absorb them all: each one a cataclysm for its own small universe. Then, in a groove, he went on through the injuries. Some were horrific, and subsequently added to the final death toll; others were lifelong crippling. And at the end were the minor injuries treated at the scene by medics. Not all such were, of course. Some people would have just tied a handkerchief round the cut and carried on, or were patched up with an Elastoplast by the locals coming down to help.

  Near the end, a name caught his eye. Bad gash across the left palm. Paramedic had found him trying to bandage it with a handkerchief and had taken him to the aid station, where the doctor had put three stitches in it and given him a tetanus injection. William McGuire, age 55, hospital porter, Flat 2, Brunel House, Cleveland Estate, W2. He knew the Cleveland Estate – they were 1930s council flats, very like the White City ones on his own ground; a smallish estate within a short walk of Paddington Station. You could see them from the elevated section of the motorway as you headed westwards, facing the multiplicity of railway lines disgorged from the terminus.

  So McGuire had been in the Greenford crash as well. Of course the medical reports did not say which train any of the victims had been travelling on, let alone why. And it could be nothing but a coincidence. But Hunter and McGuire were both injured in the same train wreck, one of them fatally, and ten years later Hunter’s adored little girl was murdered and her body was discovered by McGuire. It made you uneasy, to say the least.

  It made you think.

  He went to Walpole Park and walked there for a long time, thinking things through. The haar had stopped and the park was quiet, nobody around but pigeons and squirrels, going about their daily business, bothering nobody. The humans were not up yet: enjoying the Sunday lie-in; the early dog-walkers would have come and gone already. There had not been enough water in the haar even to drip from the trees, but the grass was wet underfoot, and smelled green and damp and springlike. That was the worst of prolonged cold spells that extended winter – no smells.

  He had a new theory, now the old one had been dismissed, but there was one big problem with it, one thing that made it impossible in execution, so impossible that it would never get past the planning stage. The planner would look at the problem and say, ‘Oh, forget that, then.’ But the maddening thing was that it felt right to him.

  Back at his car he rang Mrs Wiseman. The child answered, and when he identified himself, she volunteered the information that her dad was out, watching the Sunday league down at the Rec. He felt a surge of relief, and said it was her mother he wanted to talk to, and could he come round right away. He heard her shrug, even over the phone. ‘If you ask me, she’s going a bit dippy. But you can try.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ Slider said.

  Mrs Wiseman was sitting in the same armchair where Connolly had last interviewed her. In fact, she might not have moved since then, for she looked definitely mal-soigné, and there was a selection of untouched drinks and snacks on plates and in mugs on the various surfaces around her. The child, Bethany, greeted Slider with a mixture of aggression and relief that told him she had been left to cope more completely than she ought, or than she was capable of. And the dog, coming straight to Slider and putting its head into his hands, tail wagging pleadingly, told him most clearly of all that the ship had become rudderless.

  ‘She’s hardly eaten anything,’ Bethany told him almost in the first breath. ‘I keep bringing her stuff, but I can only do sandwiches and cornflakes really, and Dad keeps going out all the time so he’s not cooking. I think Mum’s going a bit la-la with all this stuff going on, but I don’t know what to do for her. She slept in the chair last night. Wouldn’t go up to bed. And when Dad tried to talk to her she just screamed at him to leave her alone.�
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  ‘Well, let me have a talk with her, and I’ll see if I can help.’

  She looked anxious. ‘You won’t hurt her, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m a police officer.’

  ‘But I’ve heard some policemen are bad.’

  ‘Well, I’m not one of those. Look, see how your dog likes me? They always know.’

  She looked at the dog, which was leaning against Slider’s legs with its eyes shut in bliss while he massaged its scalp, and said moodily, ‘He’s not my dog, he’s Mel’s. Wish he was mine.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Slider said judiciously, ‘that he is yours now. Your mum and dad won’t want to be bothered doing things for him, will they?’

  She brightened. ‘No. They’re too old. They don’t even remember to feed him.’

  ‘And dogs need a lot of attention. He’ll need someone to play with him and take him for walks. Dogs have to go for walks every day. Tell you what, why don’t you take him out for a walk now, while I talk to your mum? He’ll need about twenty minutes. Have you got a watch?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You just want me out of the house so you can talk to her without me hearing.’

  Slider didn’t try to deny it. ‘That too. Grown-ups sometimes have to talk privately. You know that. But the dog does need a walk.’

  Suddenly she was close to tears. ‘Marty. Don’t call him “the dog” like he wasn’t a person. His name’s Marty.’

  He hunkered, and she was in his arms, straining her rigid little body against him while he folded his arms round her, and the dog licked whatever portions of her bare arms it could reach. How long was it, Slider wondered, since anyone had held the poor child? He didn’t imagine Wiseman was a huggy sort of dad at the best of times, and Mrs W had been out of it since Melanie died.

  It only lasted a moment. She pulled herself free and dashed away with her sleeve the few tears that had managed to squeeze out. ‘All right, I’ll take him out. But don’t upset my mum,’ she said, roughly, to prove she was not a soft touch.