Kill My Darling (15 page)

Porson stared, and then translated his restlessness into pacing back and forth behind his desk. ‘I know, I know,' he said more evenly. ‘And I said all that to Mr Wetherspoon. But they've got different priorities from us up there in the stratosphere, God help us. And the Police Service isn't a democracy.'

Slider was reminded of a joke of Atherton's: in a democracy, it's your vote that counts; in feudalism it's your count that votes. Definitely feudal, the Job. ‘I know, sir. But if we do Fitton we've got to do it right.'

‘I know, laddie, I know.' Porson paced a couple of times more, and said, ‘I'll hold 'em off you as long as I can. But if it comes to it, we may have to sacrifice the sheep for the goats. Fitton's a big boy. He won't call for his mum if we do give him a tug. But we'll leave him where he is for now. Only for God's sake get yourself in gear and get me something. I can't keep Mr Wetherspoon happy by showing him my legs.'

On this horrifying thought, Slider left.

When he was crossing the squad room on his way back to his own, Swilley called him, waving a couple of forensic reports. Slider eyed the pile of papers on his desk, visible through his open door – frankly, it would have been visible from space – and said, ‘Precis them for me.'

‘This one's the stomach contents,' she obliged. ‘Food was still present in the stomach, suggesting the victim died less than three hours after her last meal. Recognizable elements in the partially digested contents were some kind of fish, vegetables and sponge pudding.' She looked up. ‘That accords with the meal she had at the Vic, according to her mates – pan-fried sea-bass with roasted vegetables and sticky-toffee pudding.' She rolled her eyes slightly. ‘And if they were eating between, say, eight o'clock and nine, allowing for having drinks first and waiting for service, that means she was probably killed about half ten, eleven o'clock time.'

‘So that rules out imprisonment and a later murder,' Slider said. ‘Well, it's a relief to get that out of the way. She went home and was killed soon afterwards.'

‘Which makes it more likely she was killed at the flat, doesn't it?' Swilley said. ‘And that brings us back to Fitton.'

‘Or anyone who had a key or she might let in. What's the other one?' he asked, of the paper in her hand.

‘Examination of the clothes. Nothing much there: on the back of her coat and her skirt, some traces of earth and partially composted vegetable matter – I think they mean leaves, boss. They match the earth and leaves of the site – big surprise. And some hairs that turned out to be dog hair – no surprises there either.'

Slider nodded. ‘Shove 'em on my desk, then. I'll look at them later.'

Before either of them could move, Atherton came in, waving a large paper bag. ‘Another day, another doughnut,' he said. ‘I stopped on the way. Thought I'd do my bit for the common weal.'

It was amazing. Instantly he disappeared in a passionate press of bodies that had been quietly at their desks the instant before. From inside, his voice emerged. ‘What can I say? It's something I've always had.'

When the scrum evaporated, he brushed himself smooth and said, ‘So, what's up?'

‘The pound, and Mr Porson's blood pressure,' Slider said. ‘But not our tails.'

Hollis drifted over. ‘What are we on today, guv?' he asked. ‘We've still got canvassing to complete – Mackay was supervising that yesterday?' He made it a question and Slider nodded agreement. ‘Fathom's on cars – local stolen, parked, and ANPR'd in the area. And McLaren's still trying to trace her route home.'

‘Forensic's in the flat and the public areas of the house,' Atherton added. ‘And the garden, such as it is. What else?'

‘There's Hibbert's alibi to check. That means going down to Salisbury.'

‘I'll do that,' Swilley offered.

‘No, I want you and Connolly to keep interviewing her girl friends. And go over her papers. I want to know more about her life. You've read Connolly's report?'

‘About her little bit of trouble?' Swilley said. ‘Yeah, boss. You think she wasn't as white as she was painted?'

‘I'm not making any judgements,' Slider said. ‘But she had a secret in her past, and that makes her interesting. Did anyone else know it? And did she have any others?'

Atherton shook his head. ‘Three perfectly good suspects and you want more?'

‘Three?'

‘What about Wiseman? I like him even better than Hibbert.'

‘That's because you're an iconoclast. I suppose we'll have to check his alibi, just to be on the safe side. Soccer practice is as good as they get, but he was rather late home.'

‘I'll do it,' Atherton said.

‘No, I think I'll put Connolly on to it when she's done with the girl friends. It might involve talking to teenagers, and she's got the most street cred amongst us.'

Atherton and Swilley exchanged a rare look of sympathy. ‘He's just comprehensively trashed the two of us, you understand?' he said.

‘You're always telling me I'm really mumsy now,' said Swilley, who looked like Barbie made flesh, and was mumsy in the same way that the middle of the Atlantic was really dry.

‘But what does that make me?' Atherton enquired querulously.

‘It makes you on your way to Salisbury,' Slider said.

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you. Why not?'

‘He was at a stag do with an entire football team's worth of witnesses. What's to find out? Can't I just do it on the phone?'

‘There may be things that people will tell you face to face. Hibbert may have the most solid alibi outside tea with the governor in Pentonville, but he might have said something to his friends in a drink-induced open moment that will give us a lead.'

‘A lead where?'

‘If I knew that I wouldn't need to send you. I need someone with subtlety, perseverance and an enquiring mind.'

Atherton was not beguiled by the compliments. Too little, too late. ‘You need me at your side,' he said. ‘I don't want to leave you high and dry.'

‘I've never been lower or wetter,' Slider assured him. ‘Go!'

So when Andy Bolton came in, Slider went down to talk to him himself. He was a short young man, very muscular and fit, good-looking in an obvious sort of way and sporting a tan which, given the time of year, might well have been sprayed on. He had no obvious resemblance to The King other than blue eyes and a thick head of black hair styled in the manner, with quiff, duck's arse and sideburns all present and correct. Perhaps the tan was part of the act, Slider thought. It certainly made his teeth look very white.

‘The wife said you wanted to talk to me,' he said amiably, ‘but I haven't had a minute to spare before now to get over here. It's a busy time of year, especially with this extra-cold weather. I'm a gas-ffitter, you know? And I wouldn't've had a minute now, only I had to take the morning off to move our stuff out to Hayes, to the wife's mum and dad's. Well, she's got it into her head Mr Fitton downstairs is a murderer and there's no talking to women when they get like that. But I'm glad to have her out the way, anyway. It's like a madhouse back there, in Cathnor Road, with all the media and everything, and in her condition it's not good to put a strain like that on her. We're a bit cramped at her mum and dad's, and it's going to take me longer every day getting in and back, but it eases my mind to know someone's keeping an eye on her while I'm out. So what did you want to see me about? Only, I don't know as I can tell you anything more than Sharon – the wife.'

He obviously liked to talk as much as his other half did, but his voice was light and easy on the ear – Slider could tell he was a singer – so it was no great hardship. The rather round blue eyes regarded Slider with friendly openness, and that in itself was a pleasant change from the usual hostility and suspicion. ‘It's always good to get another perspective on things,' Slider said.

It was enough to set him off again. ‘Oh, I know, you people have got your way of doing things. I'm just the same. When I do a job I have to have my tools set out a certain way, I do things in a certain order, I'm very methodical. Some people make fun of me for it, but that's the way I am. I can't abide messiness or carelessness – well, you can't take chances with gas. Other people's lives depend on it. So, poor old Ronnie Fitton down in the basement – he's having a rough old time of it, isn't he? Is that right, he murdered his wife?'

‘Haven't you read the papers?' Slider asked.

‘Not to say
read
. I've seen the headlines. It gave me a shock, seeing my own house right there on the front page. Some of the others were talking about it, though, at this job I was on yesterday – fitting out a new block of flats. The chippies and plasterers were joshing me rotten about living in “the murder house”. But I haven't got time for reading that sort of rubbish. Sharon – the wife – was glued to the telly all evening waiting for the news but I made her turn it off. I said it wasn't fair on the baby to dwell on that sort of thing. I took her down the pub in the end, just to get her out – not that she's a drinker, especially not with the baby coming. She just had a lemon and lime. But it was a change of scene for her. She kept going on about Mr Fitton – he's not really a murderer, is he? He seems like such a nice old boy. Reminds me of my dad, a bit.'

‘It's true he killed his wife, a long time ago,' Slider said. ‘Nothing is known against him since then.'

‘Well, I can't believe he'd kill Mel. Just 'cause he killed his wife? Why would he? They were really friendly.'

‘Were they?'

‘Oh, yes. Always standing nattering – every time I went in or out of the house, it seemed like. And they used to go down the pub together.'

‘
Did
they?' This was interesting news to Slider.

‘Yeah, every once in a while. They used to go down the Wellington, down Paddenswick Road. Well, that's the nearest. Me, I like the Anglesea Arms – down Wingate Road?' Slider nodded. ‘It's quieter, a bit classier. But maybe that's why Mr Fitton liked the Wellington – you wouldn't stand out in there, being's it's so noisy and crowded.'

‘More anonymous?' Slider offered.

‘That's it.' He shook his head sadly. ‘I don't suppose he'll be going for a drink anywhere now, after having his face plastered all over the paper like that. It doesn't seem fair. I feel sorry for him – everyone's got it in for him now.' He thought a moment. ‘Unless he
did
kill Mel. Do you think he did?'

‘We don't know yet,' Slider said. ‘How do you know he and Melanie went for drinks together?'

‘Oh, she told me, when I saw her come in with him once. And I've seen them going into the Wellington when I've been passing on me way home.
She
liked him, so he must have been all right, mustn't he?'

‘What did her boyfriend think about her going to the pub with him?'

‘Scott? Well, I don't know if he knew,' Bolton said. ‘It was of a Thursday evening, usually, and that was the night Scott always worked late. So she may have told him or she may not have. I mean, there was no reason he shouldn't know. No reason he should object. It wasn't like she was seeing another man or anything. I mean, Ronnie Fitton – well, he's old. He's not – you know, someone she'd have an affair with. And none of us knew about him being – about him killing his wife and that. But he's never said anything to me about Mel and Ronnie Fitton being friends, Scott hasn't, so I've never said anything to him. You don't go stirring things up, do you?'

‘Why do you think it would stir things up? You think Scott
would
object if he knew?'

Andy frowned with puzzlement. ‘No, like I say – well, not like that. But he's a funny old geezer, and I know if my wife struck up a friendship with him, to actually going to the pub with him, I'd think it was a bit funny.'

‘Did Melanie ever tell you
why
she was friends with Mr Fitton? What the connection between them was?'

‘No. I never asked,' Bolton said easily, with his frank, blue look. ‘Not my business. D'you think I
should've
said something, then? To Scott?'

Do I look like an agony aunt?
Slider retorted silently. ‘Tell me about Scott Hibbert,' he said. ‘Your wife said you and he were friends.'

‘Oh, he's all right,' Bolton said, but without great enthusiasm. ‘I dunno about friends. We pass the time of day, that sort of thing. And we've gone for drinks now and then. To the Anglesea mostly. He likes the Conningham and I've been there once or twice with him, but it's a Hoops pub and I'm Shed.'

The Hoops were Queens Park Rangers football team; the Shed was Chelsea. No further explanation was necessary.

‘Do you like him?' Slider asked.

Andy Bolton seemed to struggle with this idea. ‘He's all right,' he said again. ‘He can be good company. But I mean – well, he strikes me as a bit . . .' He stared blankly as he thought. ‘I can't say I know anything against him for a fact, but sometimes the way he talks, I get the impression he's a bit of a wide boy. A bit of a wheeler-dealer, you know?'

‘You think he's not honest?'

He looked alarmed. ‘Oh, like I said, I don't know anything against him. But if someone was to tell me he was up to something a bit shady, I wouldn't be surprised. He's a bit mouthy, you know? Always going on about the important people he knows and the big money he's gonna make. If you've been anywhere or done anything, he's always got to go one better – like if you've had a trip on a hot-air balloon, he's gone skydiving with the Pope.'

‘He's a fantasist?' Slider suggested.

‘Yeah, like that,' Bolton agreed. ‘Not that there's any harm in that. I mean, it's quite entertaining to listen to him sometimes. But I tell you one thing.' It seemed to burst through his natural unwillingness to speak ill. ‘I don't like the way he is around women. He's always looking at them, and making remarks. I don't like that sort of thing. You may think it's funny, but I think women should be treated with respect. And while he was living with Mel, he shouldn't have flirted with other women, and talked dirty to them. Any chance he got,' he went on, thoroughly roused now, ‘he'd have his arm round their waist and be whispering and sniggering. One time we went to the Conningham, there was this female, he'd been chatting her up, like I say, and she went off to the loo, and he went straight after, and he was away a long time. When he came back he sort of gave me a wink and smacked his lips. I reckon they'd gone out the back and . . .' He let the sentence die, and sat for a moment frowning down at his hands.