‘Yes, guv,’ she said, leaving Slider to wonder why she looked so pleased about it.
FIVE
All Mad Cons
When 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?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Swilley.
She heaved herself to her feet again and went for the tin and a spoon. ‘I’ve stopped having it,’ she said. ‘I was putting on too much weight. It’s surprising how you don’t miss it, after a bit. I tried to get Andy off it, but he burns it off, he’s on the go so much. We’re saving for a place of our own with his Elvis money, but you’ve got to have such a big deposit these days. But we’ve got to move now. It gives me the willies, thinking about that poor Melanie – such a nice girl she was. Of course, I only knew her just to say hello to, but she was always friendly and nice – not like that lot underneath, the Beales, always complaining if we so much as scrape a chair, and making a fuss about Andy practising. And is that right, him in the basement turns out to be a murderer? I read in the paper he killed his wife. Why haven’t you arrested him?’
‘There’s no evidence to suggest he had anything to do with it,’ Swilley said, trying to be patient.
‘Well, it must have been him. Stands to reason. If he’s killed once, he’s bound to kill again. None of us are safe as long as he’s around. There was this woman on a phone-fin this morning when I was getting Andy his breakfast, who said it was a disgrace he was on the loose, any of us could be killed in our beds for all anyone cared. I always thought he had funny eyes – not that I’ve ever spoken to him, he keeps himself to himself, but they always do, don’t they? My mum says—’
‘So you didn’t know Melanie very well?’ Swilley broke in before the flood could carry her away again.
‘No, like I said, just to say hello to. But Andy’s friends with Scott. They go drinking together sometimes, when Melanie works late or she’s out with her friends. I don’t go, I don’t like pubs. But Andy brings him back here for coffee and a chat. And Scott goes to Andy’s gigs sometimes, helps out with the sound equipment, that sort of thing. He wants to be an impersonator himself, Scott does, but he hasn’t got the voice. I mean, you can’t just wiggle about for half an hour – people expect the songs as well. Andy does “Heartbreak Hotel” so’s you couldn’t tell it wasn’t Elvis, he’s that good,’ she said proudly.
‘Do you like Scott?’ Swilley got in while she took a breath.
‘Oh yes, he’s lovely. Oh –’ her face changed to tragedy-mode – ‘he must be heartbroken about Melanie. He was mad about her. They were such a lovely couple. Besotted. He must be kicking himself that he went away for the weekend. If he’d been here, it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘Do you know where he was?’
‘Oh yes, he told Andy. It was a friend’s wedding, and he was doing his Elvis thing at the stag night.’ She made a face. ‘He doesn’t even have the right hair – he has to wear a wig. He isn’t a patch on my Andy. But Andy watched him rehearse and gave him some tips. He wasn’t going to get paid for doing the stag night, so I suppose it didn’t matter so much, and I expect they’d all be too drunk to notice anyway. You know what stag nights are like.’
‘So were you and Andy home on Friday night?’
‘Yes, and it makes me feel faint to think about it. To think we were up here watching Graham Norton while that horrible man was killing poor Melanie, and we never heard a thing.’
‘You didn’t hear any sounds of disturbance from downstairs? Anyone come in or go out? Any cars arriving or leaving, during the evening or night?’
‘No, Andy came home, oh, about half past seven, quarter to eight, and we had our meal, and then we settled in to watch the telly. We went to bed about eleven, just after, and that was that. Andy sleeps really heavily, he’s that tired at the end of the day. And even if I’m awake, I can’t hear anything for him snoring. Mind you, we wouldn’t hear anything from up here anyway. We never do. The Beales, they’re the ones who are always complaining about noise,’ she concluded bitterly. ‘You can’t move up he
re without them moaning. You should ask them.’
‘I will,’ said Swilley.
But the Beales – whom she had to track down at work – could not help. They were extremely indignant that their lives had been disrupted by the press, and asked, like Sharon Bolton, why Fitton had not been arrested, and how a convicted murderer could be allowed to roam around unsupervised, putting everyone’s lives at risk. But they had been out at a friend’s for dinner on Friday evening, going straight from work, and had not arrived home until after midnight. They had not seen anyone else around, nor heard any sounds during the night. They had gone out at about half past ten the following morning, to shop and then to lunch, and had not heard or seen anything untoward before leaving. They had not heard the dog barking, though they had heard that creature upstairs moving furniture about, and playing the radio far too loudly. You’d think she was roller-skating on the bare boards, sometimes, the noise she managed to make.
They had known Melanie Hunter only to say hello to, and had thought her nice, friendly, pleasant. They had spoken to Scott Hibbert once or twice. He seemed a very nice man, too. He worked for an estate agent, but it was an upmarket one – was it Jackson Stops? No, Hatter and Ruck, that was it – which of course made a difference. He had a plan for turning the house into two maisonettes by getting rid of the undesirable top floor and basement people. The Beales could have a really nice maisonette if they could incorporate the top floor into their flat. Hibbert had thought the freeholder would be willing, and the top floor were only renting, and he said there were always ways of getting renters out, but that man Fitton actually owned his flat, so he had to be persuaded to sell. Scott Hibbert had raised the matter with him but so far without success. Mr Beale wanted to know what the position would be when Fitton went to prison for murdering Melanie Hunter. Would his flat be seized, and would it go on the open market? He wondered whether the notoriety would raise the price or suppress it. He seemed hopeful it would be the latter. Mrs Beale had doubts about remaining there at all, now this had happened, but Mr Beale thought property was hard enough to come by in this area, and one shouldn’t be foolishly squeamish, especially when turning the flats into two maisonettes would considerably more than double the value of each. When would they be arresting Fitton?
Kill My Darling Page 8
