Kill My Darling by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜You’ll miss him, though.’
    He shrugged. ‘Never had him more than a night at a time. He’s not my dog.’
    â€˜I wonder you don’t get one of your own, you like ’em so much,’ Connolly said.
    â€˜Haven’t got the time for one.’ The kettle clicked and he poured water into mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Thanks,’ she said again, gesturing with the cup.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What about your job? Are they all right with you not coming in?’
    He shrugged.
    â€˜What was it you did, again?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Not what you’d call a job.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜They didn’t send me. It was me own idea to come.’
    â€˜And they let you? Visit a woman-murderer