Kill My Darling

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘But we’ve no evidence against him.’

  ‘I know that!’ Porson snapped. ‘Blimey, I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to boast about your incomptitude at a time like this! Your job is to get the evidence. The press is going to be all over this by Monday.’ He stamped about a bit, and Slider understood that his anger was not against him, but the perversity of fate and, most importantly, the pressure put on them all by their bosses’ fealty to the press. He turned to Slider, steam now vented, and said quite kindly, ‘You look all in. Go home. There’s nothing more you can do today. They’re going on with the fingertip search tomorrow, and maybe something’ll come up. Take tomorrow off, do some thinking, come back fresh on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Slider.

  ‘Don’t look so blue, laddie,’ Porson said. ‘We’ve come back from the brink before now. I had one case in Finchley where we didn’t even have a single suspect until nearly three weeks in. Keep plugging away. Slow and steady wins the race.’

  Likewise, Slider thought as he trudged away, if at first you don’t succeed, don’t try skydiving.

  FIFTEEN

  Tough On Crumbs, Tough On the Causes of Crumbs

  ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ Joanna said, meeting him in the hall. His heart rose for a fraction of a second before she went on, ‘You did remember your dad’s out tonight, then.’

  ‘Tonight?’ he said, bleary-minded.

  ‘It’s Saturday, honey. Scrabble club, Wednesday and Saturday.’

  ‘And you’ve got a concert.’

  ‘You know I have. Festival Hall tonight and repeat in Croydon tomorrow. Paris Symphony and Mendelssohn Italian. More dots between ’em than a Seurat mural. Oh my achin’ fingers.’ She eyed him warily. ‘You didn’t remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I’m here now. Dumb luck.’

  ‘Just as well. I’ve got to get going.’ She patted his arm. ‘Don’t look like that. I had a back-up plan. If you didn’t arrive, I’d arranged with your dad that I’d ring him on his mobile and he’d come back.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a mobile.’

  ‘Fat lot you know about your own household! He bought himself a pay-as-you-go last week for this very reason. He said with two of us on impossible schedules, he had to make sure he was reachable at all times.’

  ‘That man’s a marvel. A giant of conscience.’

  ‘He’s a lot like you,’ Joanna said, leading him towards the kitchen. ‘Or you’re a lot like him.’

  ‘And you’re a giant of understanding,’ he said. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ she said easily. ‘Because I’m going to leave you to finish Georgie while I get ready.’

  ‘We’re not going to be calling him “Georgie” are we?’ he asked anxiously. ‘It sounds like the fat spoiled boy in a William story.’

  ‘Oh, get on with you! He’s just a little lad. He’ll have a dozen names before he settles into one.’

  George lifted a beaming face to his father, a smile that washed away all the day’s miseries and the sins of the Hibberts and Wisemans of Slider’s world. ‘Daddy!’ he said, as if it was the best thing that had happened to him all week.

  ‘How’s my boy?’ Slider replied. He was sufficiently devoted to family life not to blench at the quantity of mashed food spread around George’s face and the immediate vicinity. The only good thing you could say about it was it gave purpose to the sea of crumbs underneath it.

  ‘Can you finish giving him his supper, and then he’ll need a bath before bed. You needn’t wash his hair, though. I’ve got to hustle now. There’s roadworks in Earl’s Court and on the Embankment, so it doesn’t matter which way I go.’

  ‘Fine, hurry along. I’ll hold the fort.’ He drew up a chair beside his son and peered into the plastic bowl. ‘What is that you’re eating?’

  ‘Cabbot, Daddy,’ George said, digging his spoon into the orange gloop. Mashed carrot, one of his favourite things. And the other stuff was avocado. ‘Green!’ George called it, digging in his rusk with the other hand. And chopped chicken, Slider recognized.

  ‘Yum yum,’ he said encouragingly.

  ‘Yum,’ George agreed. ‘More now.’ He was pretty efficient with the spoon, as long as he concentrated; though he had to be supervised or he often reverted to his hands; and if he grew bored he had learned a lot of interesting things you can do with purée, a spoon, and human bodily cavities – not necessarily his own.

  ‘Let’s see some action, then, son. Lock and load,’ Slider urged.

  George obliged, glad to show off his prowess before the other half of his parent, but he wasn’t really eating. It was the mechanical process that interested him, and after watching for a bit Slider took the spoon from him and despatched the rest in a few swift scrapes.

  Having wiped the slurry from his son’s face and hands, he said, ‘What’s next? Is there pudding, boy?’

  ‘Puddie! Yogog!’ George said. And, as his father approached with it, ‘New spoon.’

  ‘You’re getting very dainty in your old age,’ Slider remarked. ‘Speaking of which do you know how old you are?’

  ‘Two o’clock,’ George answered.

  Slider was impressed that he knew a numerical answer was required. ‘Not yet you’re not,’ he said, and spooned yoghurt into him. Usually George was determined to feed himself, but he was tired now, and allowed himself to relax and be serviced by the Big Stoker.

  Joanna came back in, looking gorgeous, as always, in her Long Black. She didn’t like changing at the Hall, and travelling in her black meant she could make a quicker getaway at the end. Slider gave her a wolf whistle and she smirked self-consciously. ‘You watch it, or I’ll make you put your money where your mouth is,’ she threatened.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Slider sneered back. ‘My dad can beat your dad.’

  ‘I haven’t a doubt. I’m going to leave a bit early, if you’re OK, because of those road works. Has he eaten everything? You are good! You and your dad are much better with him than I am.’

  ‘But he only has one mother.’

  She stooped to kiss him. ‘Bless your heart, I’m not jealous. Listen, I can see you’ve had a hard day and I want to ask you about your case, but I just haven’t got time now. If you can stay awake, shall we talk when I get home?’

  It was only after he heard the front door slam behind her that he realized he hadn’t asked what was for supper. Never mind, he’d find out sooner or later. He went through the pleasant, laundry-scented, life-affirming rituals of bathing his son, putting him to bed and reading his story with his mind idling in neutral; kissed the rose-petal cheek, and went downstairs to the kitchen to feed the inner beast. He was hungry now.

  But for once the system had broken down: nothing had been prepared for him. Nothing in the slow oven, nothing in the fridge, no little billy-doo anywhere explaining what had been planned. Homer, i.e. his perfect wife, had nodded. Probably she had thought Dad was doing something and Dad had thought she was. Well, it just showed how lucky he was to be catered for every other evening, like someone out of a 1950’s Electrolux advert. Anyway, the fridge wasn’t bare. There were eggs, there was cheese, there were tomatoes and – treasure trove – some cold potatoes. With a few herbs and a dash of Tabasco he knocked up a handsome big omelette – well, big, anyway – and ate it at the kitchen table with the newspaper open and unread beside him. His eyes might focus on the Middle East or the latest MP sex scandal, but his mind wouldn’t. It wanted the evening off.

  Joanna rang during the interval. He could hear the thunderous murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses behind her. ‘I forgot to get you any supper!’ she wailed.

  ‘I managed. I’m not helpless, you know.’

  ‘That’s my seven stone weakling! George go off all right?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep his eyes open. How’s the concert?’

  ‘I can’t tell you here – far too public.’

  ‘Oh, like that it is? Conductor woes? Or too much scrubbing
?’

  ‘Both. In spades. How well you know me.’

  ‘I’m a fully paid-up orchestra husband. Good audience?’

  ‘Is this you chatting to me on the phone, like you used to before we were married?’

  ‘Romantic, isn’t it? Reminds me of those heady days when—’

  ‘Be careful how you end that sentence. If you were going to say “when we were in love” . . .’

  ‘No, when we couldn’t see each other whenever we wanted.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them heady, then. Anyway, we still can’t see each other whenever we want. Little thing called work, remember that? Listen, gotta go. The Leader wants to use the phone. Jawohl, mein fuhrer. Zu befehl,’ she said aside, and then to Slider: ‘He loves all that kind of thing. You should see him puff up . . . Ow! Ow! Not the hair!’ And she was gone.

  She got back tired, but not terribly late, and not yet ‘down’ from the performance, so he easily persuaded her into a large g-and-t on the sofa with him before the fire.

  ‘Dad in?’ she asked.

  ‘About ten minutes ago, but he went straight to his own rooms.’

  ‘Did he say anything about his Scrabble-fest?’

  ‘Like what? I don’t think winning is the primary reason for going.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. I think he’s got a girlfriend.’

  ‘What? No. Not Dad.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said with vicarious indignation. ‘He’s a very attractive man. You’re not one of those people who think your parents can never love again once they’re widowed?’

  Despite himself, Slider thought of Melanie. He said mildly, ‘He never has, all these years.’

  ‘Well, he probably didn’t have much chance,’ Joanna said, ‘stuck out there in carrot country, a hundred square miles of mud in every direction. Doesn’t mean he’s not a man all the same.’

  ‘Well, what makes you think there is someone?’

  ‘Woman’s instinct,’ she said mischievously.

  ‘Don’t give me that baloney.’

  ‘You don’t really think he’s developed a craze for little plastic tiles in his old age? And what about the new trousers and jumper he bought? And the aftershave he wears when he goes to “Scrabble night”?’ She did the inverted commas with her fingers, ludicrously exaggerated.

  ‘All circumstantial,’ Slider said. ‘Give me one piece of firm evidence.’

  ‘Well, oh mighty detective, it so happens I saw him outside that mini-mart on the High Road when I went past in the car on Thursday, talking to a very nice-looking lady of mature but well-preserved aspect.’

  ‘I dare say he talks to a lot of people. He’s a friendly person.’

  ‘Believe me when I tell you, they weren’t just discussing the weather. There was body language going on. Possibly hand-touching, couldn’t swear to that, but definite, incontrovertible body-language.’

  ‘And you saw all that while whizzing past in the car?’

  ‘Who said anything about whizzing? The lights were red and I was slowing down for them.’ She looked at him over her tumbler. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

  He rearranged his face. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You sounded cross. And looked it.’

  ‘Oh, not about Dad. I’d be delighted if he had a new—’ He couldn’t think of the word.

  ‘Amour?’ she supplied facetiously. Then, ‘It’s the case, is it?’

  ‘Yes. All our suspects have turned out not to be, and after a week of grind we’ve got nothing at all.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  He looked at her for a long moment, his brows furrowed in weariness and trouble. But he said at last, ‘Not really. Not now. Or I’ll never sleep. Tomorrow morning, if you’re up to it, I’d love to dump all my problems on to your shoulders. You haven’t got a rehearsal, have you? It’s a repeat?’

  ‘Just a seating rehearsal in the afternoon, so I’m all yours for the morning. We’ll get your dad to take George out somewhere for an hour, and have a nice heart-to-heart.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  But he was still furrowing, so she said, ‘Would you like to hear my troubles? Like a nice go of toothache to take your mind off your dicky tummy?’

  He roused himself. ‘Have you got troubles, my love?’

  ‘Boy, howdy! This cold weather is terrible for us fiddle players. Makes it impossible to tune. You’re up and down like the Assyrian empire. And I’m terrified the old girl will crack with it, and then what’ll I do? Even if the insurance is enough to replace her, I’d have a whole new fiddle to get used to. And coming in from the cold and having to start playing right away is the worst thing for the old tendons. And my neck’s been killing me for weeks now – I think it’s partly because the boy’s getting so heavy, but it’s probably mostly from playing. It gets us all in the end, you know – the unnatural position, sitting for long hours, the tension of performance.’

  ‘Have you—’ he began, but she was off and running.

  ‘Patsy’s left and I’ve got a new desk partner. Kid called Ravi Shukla – nice lad, but still wet behind the ears, good technique but he hasn’t learned yet to be a section player. And he comes in late every single entry. It’s driving me mad. And he keeps forgetting to turn – seems to think that because I’m a woman, it’s my job. I’ve told him the inside player turns, and he just smiles with those perfect bloody white teeth and says sorry and lets it drop clean out of his mind. Next time I’m going to kick him, hard, and he’ll probably put in a formal complaint and get me sacked.’

  ‘Couldn’t you—’

  ‘And to crown it all, we’ve got Daniel Kluger conducting us for a whole season. Kluger! With his curly bloody hair and his perky little bum and his teenage groupies hanging round him, and his press conferences, and the media think the sun shines out of every orifice, but he can’t conduct for toffee, and we’re the poor schmucks who have to pick up the pieces when he carves up – which he does with monotonous regularity. But he’s got recording contracts so we have to have him, and we have to suck up to him, and say sorry maestro when he tries to bring us in a bar early and we ignore him for the sake of the bloody music.’

  She stopped, drew a breath, smiled, and said, ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it. Just about. For now.’

  He leaned across and kissed her. ‘Thank you,’ he said humbly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For reminding me that I’m not the only person on this planet with problems. I tend to get immersed to a state of blinkeredness. I’m sorry if I’ve been selfish. As soon as I can get out of the other side of this case, I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  ‘Think about something I can do for you, to make you happy. When the case is closed.’

  ‘Oh, there is something. And it doesn’t have to wait until then.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Finish your drink and I’ll show you.’

  Slider lay awake, the darkness pressing on him soft and unpleasant, like a fat person sitting on his face. The wind had gone round and the iron grip of the cold had loosened at last – the temperature must have gone up ten degrees since they went to bed. He had to slip his feet surreptitiously out from under the duvet to cool off.

  Beside him Joanna was full fathom five, down deep where the busy and good go by night; but he had known as soon as they turned out the light that he would not sleep. Somewhere in the darkness, untouchable and near, Melanie Hunter waited, creeping towards him in encroaching tendrils like grave-damp. She was dead; nothing for her now but decay and oblivion; nothing of her but the faint whimperings of her ghost.

  But what had she been? She had lost her father when she was hardly more than a child; had lost her own child soon afterwards. She had gone to the bad, then had tried to make good. Her child taken from her – she had always been more sinned against than sinning. She had done her best to be what she had been ex
pected to be, worked hard, succeeded, got a career, helped others, tried to love Scott Hibbert – tried so hard, because you have to love someone, don’t you? And good boyfriends are hard to come by. But she had not wanted to marry him, not dared risk a child. How far had she really consented to the abortion? How deep did the guilt run in her?

  He heard her in the darkness, but could not hear her words. Tell me who did it, he begged her. He felt around restlessly in his mind for the end of a thread to catch on to. He had spent the evening, before Joanna came home, reading through his copy of the notes, which he had brought home; but they refused to fall into any pattern, just whirled about like leaves blown by a gusty wind.

  She had tried to be good, make something of herself, had succeeded pretty much. But something was wrong somewhere. Ronnie Fitton had said there were things no one knew about her. She had a secret. Was it the secret that killed her?

  Fitton said she wasn’t a happy person; that everyone fed off her and no one cared how she felt. Life and soul of the party – the smiling clown, sad under the paint, that old cliché. But clichés became clichés because they were true. She was loved by many – but not enough. And then, perhaps, someone had loved her too much?

  Wiseman and Hibbert, both so tempting, but both out of the frame. So unless it was Fitton after all . . . Say, for the sake of argument, it wasn’t Fitton. We’re back where we started; clean slate. Begin again, forgetting surmises. Begin again with what we know.

  She went home, stopped off for a Chinese takeaway – but it wasn’t for her. She’d just had a big meal; and she didn’t, in fact, eat it. She must have bought it for someone else. But who would you buy a late-night takeaway for? A flatmate, your boyfriend, a housebound neighbour just possibly. Someone close.

  She parked the car and went into the flat, but came out again with only her door keys. And, presumably, the takeaway. So it must have been almost immediately or the takeaway would have gone cold. Came out with only her keys, so she had expected to go back, and soon. Just pop out and back again. To deliver the food? Where? A neighbour? But then why hadn’t they come forward?