Kill My Darling by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page B

floor?’
    â€˜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—’
    â€˜Haven’t got one,’ he said. ‘I can’t drive.’ His eyes gleamed as though he was enjoying watching her flounder.
    â€˜Really? That surprises me. I mean, most men—’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Mr Slider?’
    â€˜Yeah. I know a bit about him. Tell him to leave me alone.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Not even you?’ she asked.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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