Kill My Darling (10 page)

His tea arrived, with Connolly on the other end of it.

‘I've had Mr Fitton on the phone, guv, complaining that we ratted him out to the press,' she said. ‘He says they're all round the house. I told him it wasn't us – it wasn't, was it?'

‘Not officially. And I'm very down on leaks. But there must be a hundred people here and in Hillingdon who know about him being her neighbour. Any one of them could have spilled the beans, and there's no way to find out who.' He eyed her curiously. ‘Are you feeling sorry for him?'

‘Not him,' she denied hastily. ‘The dog. He says to me, how can he take the dog out for its walks with them surrounding him every step, and he daren't shove 'em aside for fear they'll put a charge on him.'

‘So he still has the dog?'

‘Yeah, boss – he says your man Hibbert's never asked about it. Too heartbroken, maybe.' She hesitated.

‘Yes? Out with it?'

‘Well, guv, apparently the parents used to look after the dog when she went on holiday. So I thought, maybe if one of us was to go over to fetch it and take it to them . . .?'

‘You're not a dog warden.'

‘But it'd be a chance to have another go at Mr Fitton.'

‘If I want to talk to Fitton I can have him brought in.'

‘At least that'd give him a bit of peace and quiet,' Connolly grumbled. ‘But, guv, if I did the dog thing first, it'd look friendly, not so official, and he might tell me things he wouldn't say in an interview room.'

Slider considered. ‘I think you may be underestimating Fitton. Someone who's done fifteen years inside knows how to guard his tongue.'

‘Then you'd never scare anything out of him, either,' she said reasonably. ‘Might as well let me try charming it out, guv. What harm?'

Slider considered. ‘D'you want to take someone with you?'

‘Sure God, he'd never open up to me if I'd a minder with me. And he'd have to be a mentaller to take a crack at me with all them peelers and the world's press outside.'

‘Well, you can have a go,' Slider said, ‘but don't get your hopes up too much.'

‘OK, guv. At least it'll be a kindness for Marty.'

‘Marty?'

‘The dog.'

‘Oh, yes.' Probably not for Fitton, though. As things stood, the dog was likely the only friend he had in the world. ‘It'll be a good opportunity for talking to the parents, as well,' he said. ‘I'd like to see them for myself. Pick me up when you've got the dog and we can go together.'

‘Yes, guv,' she said, leaving Slider to wonder why she looked so pleased about it.

FIVE

All Mad Cons

W
hen Ronnie Fitton let her into his flat, Connolly appreciated what Slider meant about him giving nothing away: there was no sign in his face or manner that the murder of the girl upstairs or his hounding by the pack outside had affected him at all. He did not look haggard or sleep deprived or worried or indignant. The only thing about him that was not blankness was that same glint of fire in his eyes that had made her nervous before. But he had let her in readily, and she did not believe he meant her harm.

She had telephoned ahead and explained the plan, and he had agreed, and he opened the door just enough for her to sidle in as soon as she knocked, while behind her the shutters shut and the questions snapped like mosquitoes, trying to get in before the door closed.

‘Sorry about all that,' she said, gesturing over her shoulder. ‘Mad bunch a gougers! It wasn't us, I swear.'

He shrugged. ‘Bound to happen. Cup o' tea?'

It wasn't offered with any more enthusiasm than before, but this time she accepted, the better to get chatting to him. ‘Ah, thanks. Me mouth's rough as a badger's arse.'

He went to put the kettle on. ‘You're right about Marty though. It's no life for him here.'

The dog was lying on the floor between the bed and the bathroom door, where she had seen him last time, though now he had a folded blanket under him for comfort. ‘He looks down in the mouth,' she said. He was chin-on-paws again, but this time did not look at her. He was staring at nothing, and when she crouched beside him and stroked his head, he did not even move his tail in token acknowledgement. ‘Poor owl feller. Aren't you the heart-scald?'

‘I think he knows she's gone,' Fitton said – surprising her, because it was a bit of a girl thing to say, really, for a man who'd survived fifteen years in the Scrubs. ‘It'll be better for him out of here, at her mum's.'

‘You'll miss him, though.'

He shrugged. ‘Never had him more than a night at a time. He's not my dog.'

‘I wonder you don't get one of your own, you like 'em so much,' Connolly said.

‘Haven't got the time for one.' The kettle clicked and he poured water into mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?'

‘Milk, no sugar. Thanks.'

He brought her the cup and sat down on the bed, looking at her. She had a feeling he knew exactly why she was here.

‘Thanks,' she said again, gesturing with the cup.

‘All mod cons,' he said. ‘Don't know how long they'll last, if I can't get out to the shops. Another reason old Marty ought to go.'

‘What about your job? Are they all right with you not coming in?'

He shrugged.

‘What was it you did, again?'

‘I don't have a job,' he said. Again he made the finger-and-thumb gesture, like a beak pecking at his forehead. The vulture of retribution. ‘I'm branded, remember? Criminal record. Nobody would take me on.'

‘That's terrible,' she said.

He gave a cynical smile. ‘Well, would you? Mad wife-murderer, me – or didn't they tell you?'

She refused to be baited. ‘Have you never had a job, so, since you came out?'

‘Not what you'd call a job.'

‘And that's – what? – ten years? How'd you pass the time? Doesn't it have you driven mad with boredom?'

He shook his head a little, wonderingly, as if asking himself what she would say next. ‘I know all about boredom,' he said. ‘Expert on it.'

‘Sorry. What was I thinking? Pay no mind to me – me tongue runs like a roller towel, so me mammy says.'

He sipped his tea and said, ‘Why don't you ask me what you want to ask me? You've come here full of questions, and you're not going to sucker me by pretending to be a thick Mick, which I know you're not, or pretending to be interested in my welfare, which I know you're not either. I knew you lot'd come after me sooner or later. I'm just glad they sent you instead of some sweaty plod with big feet.'

‘They didn't send me. It was me own idea to come.'

‘And they let you? Visit a woman-murderer alone in his flat? Don't they like you?'

He was playing a game with her, and she wasn't going to blink first. ‘Ah, sure God, you wouldn't harm me, with all them people outside. They'd break the door down the minute I screamed.'

‘Maybe. But it'd be too late for you by then, wouldn't it? You'd be dead. And prison doesn't scare me any more.'

‘But you wouldn't want to go back,' she said shrewdly.

Something changed in his eyes. He wasn't baiting her now. ‘Ask your questions,' he said, and she had to stop herself shivering.

She searched around for the best way in. She was sure she wouldn't get to ask many questions, so she needed to ask the right ones. ‘What did you think of Melanie and Scott Hibbert?'

She had surprised him – it wasn't the question he expected. That was good.

‘She was mad about him. But she knew he wasn't good enough for her. She was talking herself into it.'

‘Why would she do that?'

‘There's a lot you don't know about her. She wasn't a happy person. She had things in her past.'

‘D'you mean her father getting killed?' she asked when it was clear he wasn't going to say any more.

He neither assented nor dissented.

‘Wasn't that a long time ago, though? I mean, what, ten years or more? Surely she'd got over it?'

Still nothing.

‘You must have known her well to know how she felt about her dad's death.'

‘We talked sometimes,' he said.

‘Here? Or in her flat?'

‘Just in passing. Tuesday mornings, putting out the bins. She told me more than she thought she did. She hadn't got anyone to talk to, that was her trouble.'

‘I thought she had loads of friends. And her mum, and Scott . . .'

‘You ever see someone, always the life and soul of the party, and everybody's feeding off 'em? It's like they've got to perform, put on the show, and everybody goes away satisfied except them. They have to act. Nobody cares what they want, what they really feel. And everyone says what a great person they are, but inside they're just—'

He stopped, as if hearing that he had said too much. But Connolly thought, this is a controlled man, who knows just what he's saying. He
wants
me to think he's just blurted something out. But what?

‘Boy, you really did know her well,' she said in an awed murmur. ‘I'd no idea.'

‘I know people, that's all,' he said. ‘Plenty of time to observe 'em.'

‘So, d'you know who killed her?' She hadn't known she was going to ask that, but she was glad she had, though for a moment she went cold and thought,
what if he says he did?
What in the name a God do I do then?

But he said, ‘No. But your bosses will think I did, and I don't blame them. I'd probably think it was me if I was you. I'm on the spot. And I've got no alibi.'

Connolly thought of the secure home over the back. ‘Were you here all the time on Friday?'

‘Why?'

‘I was wondering if you saw anyone hanging around.'

‘I was out all afternoon.'

‘Where?'

‘My business.'

‘Was someone with you?'

‘My business. I was here to see Mel come home at half past ten. That's all you need to know.'

‘You didn't hear anything else that night? Anyone else arriving? Melanie going out?'

‘I slept soundly. Always do. I got a clear conscience.'

She knew that wasn't an answer. ‘But you'd have heard if she – or anyone else – drove her car away later that night?'

‘Maybe. But I didn't.'

‘Or if there was any kind of a row upstairs? A fight, furniture turned over, a body hitting the floor?'

‘I didn't hear anything.'

She shook her head in frustration. ‘Where d'you keep your car?' she tried. ‘I mean, you rent out these spaces—'

‘Haven't got one,' he said. ‘I can't drive.' His eyes gleamed as though he was enjoying watching her flounder.

‘Really? That surprises me. I mean, most men—'

‘Never saw the need. Lived in London all my life.' He put his mug down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, to look at her more closely. ‘You're just a kid,' he said. ‘Look, I didn't kill her, and you'll never prove I did, but you'll waste a lot of time trying because I am who I am. Tell your boss that.'

‘Mr Slider?'

‘Yeah. I know a bit about him. Tell him to leave me alone.'

‘Is that a threat?' she said doubtfully.

His expression changed. He stood up, and she got quickly to her feet, not liking having him tower over her. ‘And that's enough questions,' he said coldly. ‘You take Marty to her mum and dad's. I hope they're not too out of it to look after him. But anywhere's better than here.'

He went to the kitchen, found two plastic carriers and put the dog's bowls into one and the opened pack of dog biscuit into the other. Then he got the lead and went over, knelt down by the dog and stroked it for a long time, and the dog looked up at him and wagged its tail, and after a bit rolled over on its side like a good dog. Finally Fitton snapped on the lead and, without turning, held it out behind him to Connolly. ‘Go on, then,' he said. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and she wondered whether he was crying, or if it was just the old leakiness.

When he turned, his face was set again. ‘I hope you can get out all right.' He urged the dog to its feet and Connolly led it over to the door. Fitton put his hand to the latch. ‘Ready? You'll have to be quick.'

‘I'm ready,' she said, though, loaded with bags and the reluctant dog, she didn't think she'd be able to manoeuvre too nimbly.

Fitton looked at her as though he wanted to say something, and she paused, raising her eyebrows receptively. But all he said was, ‘There's things you don't know about Mel. Things no one knew.'

‘Not even you?' she asked.

‘Me least of all,' he said, and opened the door.

In the top floor flat lived Andy and Sharon Bolton. Mr Bolton was at work, and Mrs Bolton was heavily pregnant, bored, and ready to take full advantage of any thrill that was going to wile away the time.

‘It's my first,' she told Swilley, making instant coffee in the tiny slope-roofed kitchen. ‘Of course, it's not suitable, having a baby up here – all those stairs for one thing, and only one bedroom – but rents round here are terrible and we can't afford anything bigger. We've been on the list for a council flat for years and I thought we'd get moved up with the baby coming, but my mum says all the flats go to unmarried mothers and asylum seekers. My dad says Andy and me shouldn't ought to've got married, then we'd be set up, but he's only kidding. They both love Andy – well, everybody does. He's a gas fitter – it's a really good job, he's got City and Guilds and he's Corgi registered and everything – but in the evening he's an Elvis impersonator. You should see him – he's wonderful! He really looks like Elvis. He's got the hair and he can do that thing with his mouth going up one side. And he's got a lovely singing voice. He does weddings and parties and bar mitzvahs and everything – ever so much in demand. Makes a lot of money at it.' The glow faded a little and she sighed. ‘But it's still not enough, with the baby coming and me giving up work.' She brought the coffee over to the table and sat down. ‘And now with this awful stuff happening downstairs, we've
got
to move. We're going to have to go further out, but all Andy's work's round here and it'll mean driving a lot more. But my mum says if we go out somewhere like Greenford or Hayes we can get a bigger place for the same money, only it'll mean coming off the council flat list. But Andy says they're never going to give us a flat anyway. We're better off going private. I forgot, do you want sugar?'