Kill My Darling (25 page)

A female uniformed officer, Hewlitt, drove Atherton to the house and would sit in with him at the interview. ‘You don't want to take chances with this one,' Bone had said.

‘You think she'll jump me?' Atherton had asked. ‘I know I'm generally considered irresistible, but . . .'

Bone, of course, did not know Atherton, and his way of talking was evidently unfamiliar down in Dorset. He had given him a very odd look, cleared his throat, and said carefully, ‘She's the sort who might make an accusation against you, so you'd better have a woman PC with you, for safety's sake.'

‘Thanks,' Atherton had said, chastened. No more jokes for you, my boy, he had ordered his overactive brain.

But in the car, Hewlitt, who was evidently a brighter spark, wafted her hand about in the air after driving for a few minutes and said, ‘Phew! Are you planning to gas her and get her to confess while she's under the influence? Cos I have to tell you, that's against the rules.'

‘Ripe, is it?' Atherton said with a grin.

‘Eight hundred on a Geiger counter, at least,' she said. ‘Evacuate the reactor building without delay.'

‘Sorry.'

‘I don't mind. I love curry. But she might claim it was cruel and unusual. There's some Trebors in the glove in front of you. Better suck a couple.'

Mrs Proctor lived in Winton, which Hewlitt explained was a bit of a mixed area, on the edge of the classier Talbot Woods, and with some nice houses, but some not so nice.

‘And what's she like?'

Hewlitt flung him a sidelong look. ‘I don't want to sound bitchy.'

‘Oh go on – treat yourself.'

‘You're funny, you are,' she said, almost in wonder. ‘Well, she's not Talbot Woods, I'll say that. And if I hadn't sworn never to be mean about other women, I'd say she was mutton dressed as lamb.'

‘Good job you did swear, then,' said Atherton. ‘Nobody likes catty females.'

The house, when they came to it, was a meanly proportioned, yellow-brick modern one in a small estate of identical raw new buildings, each functionally square, with the sort of porch tacked on that was a flat concrete canopy supported at the front by two metal poles from which the paint was already peeling. Each house stood at the back of a small unfenced front garden which was half unsuccessful grass and half hardstanding for a car. Each house owed its upward-mobility credentials to having a garage, and a three-foot-wide strip of separation on either side between it and its neighbours. Atherton couldn't help thinking that an extra six feet of room inside would have been a better use of the space, but for reasons no one could explain the word ‘detached' had mysterious magical powers over the asking price of a house.

There was a car on the hardstanding in front of the garage, a sporty-looking red Zetec S-Max.

‘Menopause car,' said Hewlitt, who seemed to have forgotten her pledge.

Atherton made a note of the number and made a quick call to Hollis, to have it ANPR'd. Then they went in.

Atherton's first thought was that if Mrs Proctor hadn't turned Hibbert in, he probably would have surrendered himself in a short time. The inside of the house was decorated with so much exuberant bad taste he thought for a minute he had wandered into a traveller wedding. Mirrors, chandeliers, ornaments, pelmets; gilt, onyx, Dralon; huge vases of artificial peonies and roses; reproductions of classic paintings in gaudy gold-coloured frames crammed together in the spaces between the tassel-shaded wall-lights; a life-size china greyhound sitting in the hearth of the modern gas fire which, on this chilly day, was alight behind its glass panel and showed realistic flames licking up, inexplicably, from a heap of pebbles. There was so much bling and so many conflicting patterns, within seconds he was getting an ice-cream headache.

Atherton's second thought, which arrived on seeing Valerie Proctor, was almost as unallowable as Hewlitt's. Though nowhere near menopausal, she was obviously quite a bit older than Hibbert, at least in her late-thirties, more likely early forties. She was trim and well corseted, and had evidently redone her make-up and hair as a priority when she got back from the station, for both were impeccable. She must have changed, too, for she was wearing a smart suit. Though more subdued than her decor, it was still bright yellow trimmed with black and rather shorter in the skirt than was strictly necessary; and she was wearing very high heels, and a great deal of costume jewellery. But despite the effort she must have put in, she looked worn underneath the maquillage and somehow – to Atherton almost touchingly – even mumsy.

His momentary softness passed as she tottered towards him like an infuriated giraffe. ‘I want to make a complaint, a serious complaint, about the way I've been treated,' she snapped, skewering him with a look you could have barbecued king prawns on. ‘I went to the police voluntarily, doing my civic duty, and I've been held at a police station all night answering questions and now I've got you bursting in to harass me all over again. It's no wonder everyone hates the police when you treat honest citizens the way you do. You ought to try getting out and catching a few criminals for a change, instead of persecuting people who are trying to help, hanging about motorways stopping people who just accidentally creep a couple of miles over the speed limit, when the road was practically empty, there was no one else about, it wasn't doing the slightest bit of harm to a soul. It's a disgrace the way you persecute motorists, just because you can, and particularly women because you know they won't cause trouble. It's all about the money, just like the cameras. You're not really interested in road safety, you just want the fines.'

From the seamless segue from the general to the particular and back, Atherton surmised she had recently been stopped for speeding in her sporty red car and hadn't managed to talk her way out of it. He dialled the charm up to blatant, smiled at her admiringly, and said, ‘I think it's wonderful the way you've come forward to help us, at considerable inconvenience to yourself, and I'm sorry I have to ask you to go through it all again for me, but from my own point of view I can only say it's a privilege to have the chance to visit you in your lovely home. If you wouldn't mind me just asking a
few
more questions, I can take myself out of your hair as soon as possible. Where
did
you get those beautiful flowers at this time of year?'

The needle was quivering on the edge of the red zone, and he could sense Hewlitt staring at him with her mental mouth hanging open like a door. For a breathless moment of silence he thought he had gone too far; but then Mrs Proctor almost visibly dismounted from her high horse and said with something close to a dimple, ‘They're artificial. You can't get peonies like that in April, silly. But they're very good, aren't they?' A little laugh. ‘I sometimes think they're real myself, for a moment, when I catch sight of them out of the corner of my eye.'

And so it was all right. Tea and ‘something stronger' were offered and refused, and in short order Atherton found himself sitting on the sofa, with please-call-me-Valerie in the armchair almost knee to knee with him and ready to tell him whatever he wanted. He was glad of the presence of Hewlitt, who sensibly removed herself out of Valerie's line of sight, but remained on hand in case of trouble. He had a feeling he was in for the long haul, and was only glad, from the way Valerie leaned forward as she spoke, that either she had no sense of smell or was particularly fond of curry and peppermint.

Wiseman knew about his rights and insisted on them, refusing to answer any questions until he had seen his solicitor, and since the one he requested couldn't at first be contacted and then took some time to arrive, a good part of the morning had worn away before Slider actually faced him over the table in the tape-room.

The solicitor, Drobcek, a small and swarthy man with an amazing crop of black curly hair, turned out to be one who had advised some pupils at Wiseman's school who had got into trouble with the law. He had a substantial criminal practice in Hayes and Southall, but he specialized in juvenile, and seemed a little puzzled that Wiseman had called on him. But he was prepared to do his best and got the first punch in, complaining that there had been no call to drag Wiseman in in the middle of the night.

‘My client had made no attempt to abscond, and he is a pillar of his local community. You could just as easily have
asked
him to come in voluntarily to answer questions, which he would have agreed to do. Or if you
had
to arrest him, you could have done it at a more reasonable time, not dragged him from his bed in that ridiculous, melodramatic way, upsetting his wife and child.'

‘Your objection has been noted,' Slider said, studying Wiseman's face. He looked more drawn than he had on Tuesday, as if he had not had much sleep between then and now; but the suppressed rage in him seemed to have been turned down a notch, as though some of it had been replaced with some other emotion. Apprehension, perhaps? But he still had enough anger for two normal people, and his fists – which looked very hard, on the end of extremely whippy arms – kept clenching and unclenching, as though he'd really like to smack his way out of the trouble he had found himself in.

‘But as you are here now,' he went on to Wiseman, ‘perhaps we should get the questions over with as quickly as possible, for everyone's sake.'

‘I've nothing to say to you,' he snapped. ‘You came to my house, I talked to you then, openly and freely, and nothing has changed. Don't you realize the effect arresting me is going to have on my career? There are always people who say things like “there's no smoke without fire”. Isn't it bad enough that we've lost our beloved daughter, without you ruining my livelihood as well?'

‘She was your stepdaughter, not your daughter,' Slider said, the better to goad him.

He was goaded. ‘Oh, is that what this is about? You've been reading too many fairy stories about wicked stepmothers. I always looked upon Melanie as being as much my own daughter as Bethany.'

‘Even if that were true,' Slider said, ‘she didn't look upon you as her father, did she? She resented your marrying her mother, and wouldn't accept your authority. You had a hard struggle with her from the very beginning.'

‘All I ever tried to do was my best, to bring her up properly,' Wiseman said, his face tight with emotion. ‘But it seems these days people who try to do the right thing are mocked and abused. There's no reward or admiration for virtue any more.'

‘Did Melanie mock and abuse you?'

He was about to reply, but caught himself up. ‘I don't have to answer your questions. I'm not saying anything to you.'

‘I don't want you asking my client any leading questions,' said Drobcek.

‘We're not in court,' Slider said. ‘I can ask him what I want. You're right,' he addressed Wiseman, ‘you
don't
have to answer my questions. But you must think of the impression it gives if you won't. It's true, isn't it, that Melanie refused from the beginning to accept your discipline? A young girl, who'd recently lost the father she adored – it wasn't surprising if you had difficulty in taking his place.'

‘I never tried to take his place,' Wiseman said, provoked. ‘He was a lazy, shiftless, work-fshy, spendthrift waster and the world was better off without him.'

‘Rachel Hunter in particular was better off without him. You were a much more satisfactory husband – one who knew his duty towards his wife and family.'

Wiseman looked put out, as if he couldn't be sure praise really was praise and suspected a trap. ‘The facts speak for themselves,' he said stiffly. ‘I've supported my wife and the girls properly through my own efforts right from the beginning.'

‘So it must have been extra frustrating when you found you couldn't guide Melanie along the right paths for her own good.'

Wiseman glanced uncertainly at Drobcek, who gave a small shrug, indicating that there was nothing wrong with the question. ‘I – did my best,' was all he said.

‘And when she defied all your attempts to guide her, she got into trouble, and
you
were the one who had to bail her out of it.'

‘I don't want to talk about that,' he said through rigid lips. ‘It's all in the past.'

‘Unfortunately, all of Melanie's life is now in the past,' Slider said, and saw the words give Wiseman a jolt. ‘Isn't it true that you have something of a hasty temper?'

The fists clenched. ‘I do
not
—' he began angrily, and then controlled himself with an effort. ‘I won't answer any more questions.'

‘And that you have hit both Bethany and Melanie on more than one occasion?'

‘My client is not to be asked to incriminate himself,' said Drobcek.

Slider ignored him. ‘And that in fact you hit Melanie on the last occasion you saw her before the night of her death? When she came to Sunday lunch a fortnight before, you had a blazing row with her and hit her across the face.'

Wiseman went white. ‘Who told you that?' he asked furiously; and then: ‘It's a lie! Who told you such a monstrous lie?'

‘Your house doesn't have very thick walls. Several other people were in the next room,' Slider said, and added conversationally: ‘It's curious how far the sound of a slap travels – I suppose it's the pitch.'

‘I tell you it's a lie!' Wiseman said vehemently. He leaned forward, fists on the table. ‘People are out to blacken me. You tell me who told such a lie about me, and I'll—'

‘You'll kill them?' Slider finished for him unemphatically.

Wiseman blenched and fell back.

‘Lies
have
been told,' Slider went on, ‘but not about that. Not about you, but
by
you.'

‘I think this has gone far enough,' Drobcek said, and Wiseman threw him a glance of relief. ‘If you have evidence against my client, you had better produce it, and stop all the innuendo.'