Kill My Darling (21 page)

‘You're sure?' Slider said.

Now Fitton looked at him – and the level eyes were not calm, like the rest of him, but hard, with a spark in them like a glimpse of fire deep down in a fissure in the earth. There was a volcanic eruption somewhere being suppressed; molten magma was flowing along secret channels far below the surface. He said, ‘I don't need one because I'm not answering your questions.'

‘Why is that?' Slider asked.

‘Don't try and make friends with me,' Fitton said. ‘I didn't kill her and you can't prove I did. You're wasting your time.'

‘If you didn't kill her, you must want to help us find out who did.'

‘I don't care if you do or you don't. It won't bring her back. Time to help her was when she was alive.'

‘Did you try to help her?'

‘Not my business,' he said briskly. Then he paused, seeming, curiously, not to like the sound of that answer when he heard it out loud. He added, ‘She knew where I was.'

Not the same, Slider thought. Not the same at all. He said, ‘Well, then, you must at least want to see justice done?'

The spark flickered brighter for an instant. ‘Justice? You talk about justice? You're all in hock to the press, the lot of you. You only arrested me because the newspapers kept demanding why you didn't, and your PR department told your bosses they had to do something about it. Bad press is the only thing that matters to you bloody lot these days. The press could get the Home Secretary and the Commissioner the sack if they put up a campaign against 'em, so the shove goes in, all the way down the line until it ends up with you. And you just have to do as you're told, whether you like it or not. So you pull me in because I've got a record. You call that justice?'

‘You've obviously thought about it a lot,' Slider said evenly.

‘Had a lot of time for thinking, didn't I?' He turned his head away again, drawing on his cigarette.

‘Do you think justice was not done in your own case? Do you feel aggrieved about that?'

‘Not much good at this psychological bollocks, are you?' he enquired of the air. ‘I killed my wife. I never denied it. I was punished. I never complained about that. But justice had nothing to do with it. It was retribution.' He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the tinfoil ashtray on the table.

‘In what way was justice not done, then?'

He looked at Slider with a sad shake of the head like a teacher dealing with a very thick pupil. ‘It's
called
the Justice System. That's just its
name
. Don't get sucked in by fancy language. Crime and punishment, that's all it is. I killed my wife. That's against the law. I was punished. End of.'

‘Very well, then, don't you want the person who killed Melanie to be punished?'

‘Not interested. I'll have that cup of tea, now. Two sugars.'

Slider sighed inwardly, and nodded to Atherton. Depriving him of tea or cigarettes was not going to make any difference to a tough nut like this. But he had proved he liked to talk. The only chance was to build an atmosphere where he would sound off on his pet themes and perhaps let something slip.

While Atherton was at the door, talking to the constable outside, Fitton looked at Slider with a marked drop in attitude and asked, ‘How's Marty?'

‘We took him to Melanie's parents.'

‘Who took him? That girl you sent round? The Irish one?'

‘Yes. She said he seemed happy to be there.'

‘I hope they treat him right.'

‘Why wouldn't they?'

He looked at Slider thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, ‘You know as much as I do. You work it out.'

Slider tried, ‘You're fond of him? Marty?'

‘I like all dogs. They don't mess you around. They can't lie to you. I'm glad that pillock Scott didn't take him back. He doesn't deserve a nice dog like Marty.'

‘Did you have a dog when you were a kid?'

Fitton eyed him sidelong. ‘I said, don't try to make friends with me. I don't like lies, and pretending is lying. You're not interested in me. You just want to get enough on me to charge me so you can get your pat on the back from the bosses. It's all political with you coppers nowadays.'

‘I'm not like that,' Slider said, mildly but with truth. ‘I saw her body. You say you hate lies – well, I hate waste. And no one had the right to take her life away from her.'

‘People take other people's lives away all the time – not by killing 'em, but by crushing their spirit, brutalizing 'em, denying 'em education, chances, bottling 'em up in a ghetto of ignorance and hopelessness. They're as good as dead. A life like that is worse than death.'

Slider couldn't decide whether this was a deeply felt socio-political view or simply smoke being blown in his eyes to keep him from asking any more pertinent questions. Long winded discourse was a funny way of not answering, he thought, and he was glad other arrestees didn't resort to it. Policing was exhausting enough as it was without being lectured into the bargain.

The tea came. Fitton blew on it, sipped it, put it down, asked for another cigarette. He was the king of the custody suite, his attitude said.
I've done time for murder – this is kiddy league stuff in comparison
.

Slider decided to go for specifics. ‘You gave us the impression that you knew Melanie only casually. But in fact you knew her quite well. You went out for drinks with her quite often. Why didn't you tell us about that?'

‘That's my business.'

‘No, it's ours now. Everything about everyone who knew her is our business.'

‘That's your bad luck, then. I'm not answering your questions.'

‘If you're innocent, why not?'

‘Because I don't have to tell my business to anyone.'

Crap, Slider thought. ‘You know, don't you, that murder always leaves forensic traces, which we will find. Sooner or later, the truth will come out. Why don't you make it easier on yourself? You chose the hard line the first time round, and where did that get you? There may be mitigating circumstances that can be taken into account. There may —'

‘Don't make me laugh,' Fitton interrupted, with no laughter anywhere in sight. ‘Mitigating circumstances! If you charge me I'm back inside for the rest of my kip. They'll throw away the key. I don't fancy that, thank you very much. My flat's not much, but it's mine, and I don't have to share it with some farting, snoring, nose-picking Neanderthal with stinking feet.'

‘Then help us.'

‘Help yourselves. I had a reasonable life, until you lot sold me out to the papers. All I wanted was to be left alone. Fat chance of that, now.'

There was a knock, and Atherton went to the door, conducted a whispered conversation, then said to Slider, ‘Mr Porson wants you.'

Slider got up. ‘I'll be back,' he told Fitton.

‘Take your time,' Fitton replied.

Porson was looking worried, which was so unusual it gave Slider a qualm. Fierce or impatient were Porson's normal expressions, along with any degree of either in-between. The old man didn't do worried. He flung himself headlong at problems, sword in hand, slashing away – less in Zorro than in anger, Slider always said.

‘Getting anywhere?' was Porson's first question.

‘Like Bank Holiday Monday on the A303.'

Porson grunted. ‘Being abstrapalous, is he?'

‘Refusing to answer questions. He's too calm and a lot too cocky for my liking – but there's a lot of anger there, underneath. I can see him doing it. On the other hand, I don't get the feeling he's a bad man, basically.'

‘You can be a good man right up to the moment you're not,' Porson said. ‘But I had a phone call this morning that complicates matters.'

Oh joy, Slider thought. My life was too simple. There was just no challenge.

‘In fact, it's chucked a bit of a spaniel in the works,' Porson went on. ‘It was from the director of Stamford House.'

Stamford House, the secure home for violent young offenders. They had forgotten about that, Slider thought. Or had put it to one side, rather. ‘Don't tell me they had someone over the wall on Friday?' Slider asked. ‘We didn't think this looked like something one of them would have done – hiding the body and so on. They'd have had to have a car to—'

‘No, no, it's nothing like that,' Porson interrupted. ‘No, it was about Fitton.' He picked up a rubber band from his desk and stretched it round his fingers. ‘He knows him, you see.'

‘Personally? Or in a professional capacity?' Slider asked.

Porson began stretching and easing the rubber band. Slider took a surreptitious half step backwards. He could see it flying off Porson's fingers.

‘Both. You see, it turns out he's been helping over there, with the kids.'

‘
Fitton
has?'

Porson nodded unhappily. ‘Started off with coming in to give 'em a talk about what it was really like in prison – explode the myth, show there was nothing glamorous about it, put 'em off it for life.'

‘How did that come about? How did the director know about him?'

‘He didn't. It was the other way round. Fitton volunteered. Said he wanted to help. Couldn't stand seeing those young kids going to the bad, like the ones he met inside. If he could save a single one, his suffering wouldn't be in vain, sort of effort.' Porson's eyebrows went up like a pair of herons taking off from a pond. ‘Apparently he was very eloquent. Anyway, the director bought it. They've got a hell of a tough ask in there; anything and anyone that might help is welcome. After all due checks and percautions, they let him come in and do his talk, and a Q and A afterwards. The kids were well impressed. The staff even more so. He handled their questions with tact, didn't let them get purulent about the murder or make him some kind of hero, and they obviously related to him, gathered round when it was over, started talking about themselves, asking his advice.'

The rubber band flew across the room, just missing Slider's ear. Porson didn't even notice it was gone. ‘Thing is, it's hard to reach these kids. Most of 'em view all grown-ups as the enemy. They desperately need guidance but won't let 'emselves take it. So someone who could talk to 'em, who they'd talk to, is worth his weight.' He shrugged. ‘He's been going in a couple of times a week, taking groups sometimes, talking to individuals other times. Advice, information, sometimes just a shoulder to cry on. Doing good work, apparently – good results. Some real little nut jobs have calmed down a lot. So when it said in the papers we'd arrested him – well, the director was agog, the staff were up in arms. As far as they're concerned he was from the planet Krypton. Couldn't do wrong.' Porson raised sorrowful eyes to Slider's. ‘He was in there Friday. All afternoon.'

‘Ah,' said Slider. ‘He told us he was out, but wouldn't say where. Said it was his business.'

So,' said Porson. It wasn't much, but his expression was eloquent. They were silent a moment.

‘It doesn't necessarily follow—' Slider began.

‘No, but it's a hell of a good indicator,' said Porson. ‘It'd look good in court. Stand up on its own like a pair of soldier's socks.'

‘He had good character the last time,' Slider pointed out.

‘Last time he never denied it. Put his hand up right off. I think we got to tread careful. Don't want the press saying we're hounding a man who's doing his best to pay his debt to society.'

‘They're the ones doing the hounding. They've been shouting his guilt ever since they discovered his record.'

‘Well, you don't expect them to be rationable. No, it's our nuts on the block here. We'll keep him until the forensic comes back on his flat, and then if there's nothing there, let him go. I still think he's tasty, but without evidence . . . He won't be able to go anywhere. Everyone in the country knows his face now.'

And Slider experienced a pang of sympathy for Fitton, which really, really annoyed him. He went back to the interview room feeling distinctly narked.

‘Why didn't you tell us about your work at Stamford House?' he asked trying not to show it.

Fitton gave him that same darkly calm look. ‘How many times do I have to say it? It's my business.' Slider took a breath to reply and he went on in a different tone, more conciliatory. ‘Anyway, I don't want you bothering those kids. They've got enough on their plates, without the Vogons clumping all over 'em, asking 'em questions. You leave 'em alone. You could knock 'em back months, just when they're making some progress.'

‘I'm not going to ask them anything. There's no need. The director told us about your involvement with them.'

‘Oh, did he?' Fitton commented, and did a bit of a brood.

Slider tried to capitalize on the new mood. ‘So what was the nature of your interest in Melanie Hunter?'

‘Who said I had any interest in her?'

‘Was it because she'd been in trouble at one time?'

He looked up at that. ‘Criminal trouble?'

‘No, not that. But she'd been a bad girl, and pulled herself round. That must have taken courage. Was that why you admired her?'

‘I didn't know she had,' he said slowly, staring at some inner landscape. ‘But I guessed there was something. There's a sort of look about girls who've been through the mill . . . She never said anything to me,' he added sharply. ‘And I wouldn't ask. But I told your girl – the Irish one – there was more to Mel than met the eye. She was in some kind of trouble, but she never told me.'

‘So why did you go for drinks with her? To try to help her? Did she see you as some kind of father figure?' He was seeing the edge of a scenario he really didn't want to contemplate, in which Fitton, driven to megalomania by his success with disturbed children, felt obliged to put the girl out of her misery – another crime which was no crime in his eyes, like the justice delivered to his erring wife. No one came out of prison after fifteen years entirely sane.