Kill My Darling (7 page)

It was the policewoman, Raymond, who opened the door to them, with a look of hope that quickly faded to disappointment. ‘I hoped you were my replacement,' she said. ‘I think they've forgotten all about me, sir.'

Slider thought it likely. Most of the Hillingdon contingent had gone by now. ‘I'll get one of my own people in as soon as I've done here,' Slider reassured her.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘He's in the kitchen. He hasn't been talking at all. I think he's really upset about it.'

The tiny cramped rooms were depressingly decorated in woodchip paper covered in historical layers of beige paint so they resembled congealed porridge, or a skin disease. There was cheap beige carpet on the floor, with stains that would have been of interest to an archaeologist, and the cheapest, nastiest furniture, the sort that shows the chipboard underneath when the veneer gets knocked off. The curtain over the front window was hanging by the last few hooks from a broken curtain rail, and the place smelled of dog, alcohol and feet in about equal proportions. It was, however, tidy, and the bathroom, as they passed it, looked clean, though shabby.

Slider had heard the dog barking ever since Raymond opened the door, and when he reached the kitchen door, it came bustling importantly towards him, stood its ground a foot away and barked officiously, woofing so hard it lifted its small body slightly off the ground at each explosion. It was a stout, short-legged Jack Russell type, mostly white, but with a few black patches, including one over one eye that gave it an unreliably jolly look.

The kitchen had cheap units painted yellow, a melamine table with two plastic chairs, lino on the floor, and a half-glazed door on to the garden. There were two empty mugs on the table, and McGuire was sitting in front of one of them, his elbow on the table and his head propped in his hand in an attitude almost of despair. The smell of booze was stronger still in here, easily beating feet and dog into second and third places: it was coming from McGuire, reeking from his pores so you could almost see it. He had evidently tied one on last night.

‘Mr McGuire?' Slider said politely, when he was sure the dog was not going to do more than mouth off. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Slider and this is Detective Sergeant Atherton.'

The man finally looked up, tilting red and doleful eyes that wouldn't have been out of place on a basset hound in his direction. His nose and cheeks were rife with the broken veins of the boozer, and he looked haggard with emotion at the moment, but otherwise it was not an unhealthy face. He was brown with the settled tan of someone who works out of doors; his hair was thick and light brown, going grey; his body was sturdy and his hands looked strong, though seamed with manual work. The most surprising thing about him was the beard. There were not so many men these days who wore beards; and this was not one of those little dabs here and there such as young men sometimes affected, but the full Captain Haddock, thick and bushy and a darker shade of brown than his hair. While trying not to be pognophobic, Slider instinctively distrusted beards, on the basis that a man could change his appearance so completely by growing one or shaving it off, he might become unrecognizable. In his business, you needed to know who you were dealing with.

‘I'd just like to ask you a few questions, if that's all right,' he went on, when it seemed that McGuire was not going to volunteer anything. ‘About what happened this morning.'

At once, large tears formed in the basset brown eyes and rolled over, but McGuire roused himself enough to wipe at them almost angrily with the back of his hand, and to say sharply, ‘Toby,
shut up
!'

An astonishing silence fell. The little dog looked at him, and then almost with a shrug turned and pottered away, hopping through the dog door into the garden with a familiar flip-flap sound.

McGuire got out a large handkerchief, blew his nose and wiped his eyes. There was something about the weariness of the action that suggested he had been blowing and wiping for some time. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?' Slider suggested in sympathy.

‘Yeah – thanks,' he said. He made no move to get up, though, and Slider looked at Raymond and jerked his head towards the kettle.

‘I'll make it,' she said obediently. ‘What about you, sir?'

‘Yes, thanks, No sugar.'

Atherton declined. Slider took the other seat at the table, so Atherton lounged gracefully in the doorway, trying not to look threatening – there simply wasn't any other place he could be. As it was, Raymond had to ooze past him to get to the kettle. The dog came flip-flapping back in, stared at them all a moment in case there was any more barking that needed doing, then went to his basket in the corner, turned round three times and flopped down, chin on paws.

When Raymond put the mugs on the table, McGuire roused himself to say, ‘Thanks,' and felt in his jacket pocket and brought out a pill bottle. ‘Aspirin,' he said, seeing Slider's look. ‘Got a rotten headache.' He unscrewed the bottle one-handed and slid two into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, re-lidded the bottle and holstered it like a fancy gunslinger displaying his dexterity. Again, seeing Slider watching, he said, ‘Had a bit to drink last night.' He shrugged. ‘I suppose you guessed that.' Slider nodded, and it seemed to touch some pride in him. He straightened a little in the chair and said, ‘I only drink at the weekends. That's my prerogative, right? I don't let it interfere with work.' And almost immediately the expression of despair returned to his face and he slumped again by the inches he had pulled back.

‘What job do you do?' Slider asked him.

‘I work for the council. Parks and Gardens department. Mowing, cutting, pruning, planting – you name it. You can ask them – I've got a good employment record. Two years with never a day off.'

‘I'm sure you have,' Slider said. ‘You look well on it.' He could imagine the lonely-man regime, working off by physical exertion through the week the booze taken on board at weekends. Though if he didn't let it interfere with work, how come he was boozing on a Sunday night? Friday and Saturday ought to be his drinking nights.

‘I keep all right,' McGuire admitted.

‘And I expect Toby gives you plenty of exercise,' Slider suggested pleasantly, edging him back closer to the point. ‘I expect you try to give him a walk every morning before work?'

‘He comes to work with me,' McGuire said. ‘That's one of the good things about the job. But it isn't the same as a walk. A dog needs a couple of good walks a day, never mind what else he's doing.'

‘Well, you're living in the right place for it,' Slider said. ‘Lots of good walks round here. Tell me about this morning. Was it your usual routine?'

The brown eyes moved away and he frowned, remembering. ‘Yeah. I was up at six, same as usual. Got ready for work.' He was dressed in a battered tweed jacket, tough-looking cords and work boots scarred and stained with ancient mud – his work clothes, presumably. ‘Took Toby out. Went through the car park into the woods.'

‘Do you always go the same way?'

‘Nah, different every day. Just as the fancy takes us.'

‘And that would be – what time?'

‘About half past, give or take. Time I'd washed and had a cup of tea and a bit of toast.'

‘Go on.'

He shrugged. ‘Not much to tell. Just walking through the woods when suddenly Toby goes stiff all over, like he's seen something. I thought it was a squirrel – he likes to chase 'em. Then he goes off to one side, growling, his whiskers sticking out and his hair all on end. It wasn't like him, usually, so I followed. And there—' He swallowed. ‘There she was.' The tears welled up again effortlessly. ‘That poor girl,' he said in broken tones. ‘Who would do such a thing? That poor—' His face was quivering. He dragged out the handkerchief, blew and wiped and regained control. ‘Have you found out who she is?' he asked from behind it.

‘Yes, we know who she is,' Slider said.

‘Her parents – they must be going mad, wondering. If she was my kid . . . Have you told them?'

‘Someone will be with them now,' Slider said. It was usual to send a uniform round with the news – more official and reassuring than plain clothes, so was the thinking.

McGuire shook his head. ‘I'll never get over seeing her there like that. I'm just – I can't get my head round it.'

‘I know,' Slider said. ‘Just tell me what you did. Did you touch her or move her in any way?'

‘No, of course not,' he said quite sharply. ‘I know better than that.'

‘Not even to check if she was dead?'

‘Didn't need to. I could see she was. I just grabbed Toby and came back here to phone the police.'

‘Did Toby touch the body?'

‘No, he wouldn't go near it, just stood growling and whining. He was upset. See him now, sleeping – that's not like him, this time of day. Normally he'd be raring to go. I suppose dogs can feel shock, same as us.'

‘So you didn't recognize the girl?' Slider pursued.

‘Course not. Why should I?' he said sharply.

‘No reason. I just thought you might have seen her walking round here before. A lot of people come here for walks, don't they?'

He seemed disconcerted by the question. ‘She wasn't dressed for walking,' he said in the end.

‘So you've never seen her before?'

‘I said so, didn't I?'

‘And have you seen or heard anything suspicious, the last two or three nights? Cars coming down here late at night, for instance, or anyone acting strangely.'

‘There's people coming down here all the time,' he said. ‘I wouldn't notice anyone, particularly.'

‘But movement or noises in the middle of the night?'

He shook his head.

‘Were you at home Friday and Saturday nights, and last night?'

‘I was out Friday night,' he said. ‘I went down the pub.'

‘Which pub?'

‘The Bells.'

That was the Six Bells on Duck's Hill Road, the nearest – in fact, only just round the corner.

‘And Saturday night and last night?'

‘I stayed in,' he said, and added, as if as an afterthought: ‘It's cheaper.'

Atherton made a restless movement behind him, and Slider agreed – there was nothing for them here. Most people didn't notice cars going past, whatever the hour, and would probably only notice someone shifting a dead body if they attempted to bring it into their own front room. He drank off his tea, and stood up. ‘Well, thank you, Mr McGuire. If you do remember anything that might help us, anything at all, please give us a ring.'

McGuire stood up too, looking at Slider with a desperate sort of appeal in his eyes, as if begging not to be left alone with his memories. ‘She – that girl—?' Slider paused receptively, but all he said was, ‘Do you think she suffered?'

Of course she suffered – she was murdered
, Slider's brain shouted impatiently.
What do you think?
But outwardly he showed nothing, and seeing the man's haunted eyes, he did the best he could for him. ‘We believe death was almost instantaneous,' he said. Between the ‘almost' and the ‘instantaneous' lay the cavern full of horror, but there was nothing he could do about that. And perhaps McGuire, hung-over as he was, wouldn't notice.

At the street door, Atherton said, ‘Well, that was fun.'

‘You have to go through the motions. But the chances of him knowing anything, given that she'd probably been there two days, were slim.'

‘It amazes me that no one found her before. Unless she was hidden somewhere else and then moved last night.'

‘Thanks, we don't need any more intriguing possibilities.'

‘So – what now?'

‘Back to the factory, start tracing her last movements,' Slider said. ‘Until and unless Freddie comes up with anything different, we'll assume she was killed on Friday night and taken straight to the woods. You have to start somewhere.'

Raymond had followed them to the door and, blinking in the sunlight, said, ‘What about me, sir?'

‘As far as I'm concerned, you can leave him now. I don't think he has anything more to tell us. Why don't you radio in and ask your skipper?'

‘Right, sir, thanks.' She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Maybe I should check if he's got someone he can call to come over. He's really upset.'

‘That's a kind thought,' Slider said, and left her to it with a faint and guilty feeling of relief that it was someone else's problem. McGuire didn't strike him as the sort of person who had either friends or relations. ‘But he's got Toby,' he said aloud as they headed back towards the car park. ‘Man's best friend.'

FOUR

I Only Have Pies For You

K
iera Williams, the Best Friend – these days the title tended to come with capitals – was a tall, eager-looking young woman with thick, curly brown hair and a wide mouth made for smiles. She reminded Slider – and he meant nothing insulting by it – of a nice, big dog. She was at the moment, however, more bewildered than smiling. He had noticed before that in the early period after learning about a death, people often did not know what they ought to be feeling, and were puzzled by their apparent failure to conform to any predigested norm.

‘I just can't take it in,' she confessed. ‘It doesn't seem real.'

Slider nodded. ‘The realization comes later.'

‘Does it? I suppose you'd know. You must have gone through this so many times. But I've never known anyone who got murdered before. And Melanie, of all people! I mean, who would want to hurt her?'

‘That's what we hope to find out,' he said.

She frowned and recrossed her legs. She was wearing a very smart dark-green calf-length skirt over long boots, and a chunky dark-brown crew-neck sweater. Her creamy, lightly-freckled face was carefully made up, but she still did not manage to look entirely like a grown-up. It was the wideness of her eyes and the unstudied expressions of her face, he decided, that made her seem younger than her years. She had not adopted that unlovely cynicism and world-weariness that was currently fashionable.