Kill My Darling (23 page)

Slider thought about it. ‘And the Chinese takeaway?'

Connolly frowned. ‘Well, to be honest with you, that has me a bit confounded. But I suppose he might have said, I'm just coming from praccer and I've not eaten, could y'ever get me a takeaway on your way home?'

‘But he could have got his own takeaway, if he was going over there by car.'

‘I know. I haven't quite worked that one out. But the fact is –' she stared at him earnestly, like someone trying to persuade through Pelmanism – ‘he said he didn't speak to her and he did, and she got upset and left early. That's got to be worth something, hasn't it?'

‘Yes,' said Slider. Besides which, Wiseman was good for villain. Quite apart from his being her stepfather – most murders were done by someone close to the victim – there was his disposition, his disapproval of Melanie; the fact that he had rowed with her in the recent past,
and
hit her; his daughter Bethany's evidence that he spoke contemptuously of Melanie's mother (though of course what children said always had to be taken with a pinch of salt).

And his conflicting testimony about his alibi. ‘He told me he got home in time to watch television with his wife before going to bed, but Mrs Wiseman told you he got home late, after she was in bed,' he said.

‘But if he went to see Melanie after footer, and ended up killing her . . .'

‘That would account for it,' Slider finished for her. He thought for a moment. ‘All right, this is how we'll do it. You find out what you can, discreetly, about the football practice – where, how long, when it finished. See if you can get hold of some of the kids to ask. I'd sooner not go to the school authorities yet – they'd be bound to refer it to him and I don't want to spook him if he is guilty, or have a lawsuit brought down on us if he isn't. And try and find out if he was accustomed to go for a drink anywhere after school or after practice. You can find out a lot more about a person in a pub than anywhere else.'

‘Right, boss,' Connolly said. ‘Leave it to me.'

‘If he does frequent a pub, let me know. I might send in Mackay – sometimes a man's better in that environment than a woman.'

‘Depends on the boozer,' Connolly said, and she wasn't wrong.

The ANPR did not take long in picking up Hibbert's car on the same route down to Bournemouth that it had traced on the Friday. They remained on alert for any further movement, but as long as he was thought to be in the Bournemouth area, the actual searching for him on the ground had to be handed over to the local police, leaving Slider's hands tied.

Fathom meanwhile had interviewed the staff at Hatter and Ruck and learned that Hibbert had indeed been going to Hendon that morning, to look at a large house that was going on the market. He was then supposed to call in at the Hampstead branch on internal business, but had phoned them to say he had been delayed and was running late and would not be coming in after all. He was supposed to be working at home in the afternoon. They had not seen or heard from him since Friday, but of course they had not expected to once the murder became known. They had sent him a text of condolence, saying he should take leave of absence for as long as necessary. He hadn't responded to that. It had been quite awkward because he had some papers with him which they needed, and they'd had to do a lot of the work again, but you couldn't go bothering someone at a time like that, asking them for documents, could you?

As far as they knew he had no business down in Bournemouth, and had certainly not told anyone that he was going there. They had a branch in Dorchester that dealt with Bournemouth and all places west, in any case: it would not go through Knightsbridge, unless it were something very big, like a major development, which would require the services of their specialist commercial section. Scott Hibbert was not involved in commercial property. He was purely residential. They had no complaints about his work. He had so far proved reliable. And he was
quite
well thought of.

‘They didn't rave about him, guv,' Fathom reported. ‘They're a right nobby lot in there – real Eton-and-Oxford types, with posh accents – and I kind of got the impression they thought he was all right for a chav, know what I mean? This bird Belinda something said something about him I didn't catch, and the others kind of smirked behind their hands.' He looked indignant. ‘And him just widowed and everything! Though I s'pose,' he added, in fairness, ‘that they probably don't reckon he deserves so much sympathy, now he's scarpered.'

Connolly was reliving some of her worst nightmares. Though she had been a moderately sporty child, and had enjoyed gymnastics, tennis and some athletics, she had hated outdoor team games, especially muddy ones. The agonies of school hockey were burnt into her memory. The mist of a chilly winter afternoon with the sky going pink behind the bare trees, the pitch frozen harder than iron, the grass frosted to cutting sharpness; the encroaching numbness of feet, the blue and crimson knees and knuckles, the breath smoking, the way the voices bounced on the winter-hard air, echoing like a swimming pool; the agonizing, bone-deep pain of a whack on the shin, the way cuts wouldn't even bleed until you got back in the pav and started to thaw out; the maddening, burning itch of reviving skin . . .

This wasn't hockey, but soccer, but all the other elements were there. Still, it was a job to be done. She hunched deep into her coat, woolly hat on head, muffler wound round her neck and chin, and watched the poor eejits running up and down with blue noses, steaming like horses into the icy air. There were two matches going on on two pitches, one big guys and one medium. A lot of kids and a handful of adults were scattered around the touchlines watching. She didn't feel she stuck out too much. The referee in one match was a short, bandy-legged older guy, scurrying about with a whistle in his mouth. In the other, supervising the bigger guys' game, a young man, tall, hunky and fit, in shorts and a dark-blue rugby shirt, was a bit of a ride.

She idled along towards where a group of girls was sitting on a couple of benches watching the senior game. She strolled casually behind them and paused, listening to their chatter. Two of them on the farther bench had their heads together and were texting and giggling in tight, breathless bursts. The other three, on the nearer bench, their hands in their pockets, their jaws moving ruminatively like cows round their chewing gum, were having a ‘she said, and then I said, so she said' kind of conversation. She took them to be about fourteen.

She moved slightly, coming forward at the end of the bench so that she was in their sight line. They all looked at her and then away without interest, which was good. One of the boys on the pitch went down to a tackle, to a combined groan from the onlookers, the whistle was blown, and the ridey feller ran over to adjudicate, disappearing into a small knot of vehemence as both teams protested.

‘You're rubbish, Jackson!' one of the girls shouted, and they all giggled. ‘Sanchez never even touched him.'

‘God, I wouldn't be them,' Connolly commented. ‘That ground's hard. And why do they make 'em wear shorts on a day like this?'

The one who had shouted, who had so many freckles it looked like a skin disease, said, ‘Where there's no sense, there's no feeling,' and they exchanged sly grins.

‘D'you go to this school?' Connolly asked.

‘Yeah,' said Freckles, and rolled her eyes at the others. Read the uniform, dork, said the gesture.

‘We wouldn't be sitting here if we didn't,' said the smaller, darker one with curls.

‘Oh, I dunno,' said the third, podgy and fair, with the sort of pink face that always looks sticky, and shiny lips as if she'd been eating boiled sweets. She threw a glance at the boys playing, and they all giggled. ‘The view's not bad.'

‘Yeah, some of 'em are well fit,' said Curly.

‘Except for Jackson,' said Freckles. ‘Remember that time his shorts come off and he wasn't wearing any underpants?'

‘I bet you all laughed like drains,' Connolly said. ‘Poor guy.'

‘What are you, his mother?' Freckles said, with routine rudeness. It was not a question.

They all watched for a moment, then Connolly asked, ‘Did you see the game last Friday?'

‘What game?' Podgy asked, blowing out and snapping her gum like a professional.

‘Here, after school.'

‘Oh, I thought you meant on telly,' she said, losing interest.

‘Thursday, you mean,' said Curly. ‘Thursday nights after school.'

‘Oh, I thought it was Fridays.'

‘Nah,' Freckles said scornfully. ‘The teachers wouldn't stay late on a Friday night. They all bugger off home as fast as they can, soon as ha'pass three comes.'

‘Don't blame 'em,' said Podgy. ‘Get enough of this dump the rest of the time.'

‘Oh, look, there's Freya,' said Curly, looking along the line at another group of girls.

‘Lets go and see if she's got any fags,' said Freckles, and they all got up and hurried away, hunching together like a many-legged single entity, whispering and giggling. Apart from the fag remark, which Connolly guessed was a show-off for her benefit, they had shown her so little interest she was sure she and her questions would be forgotten within seconds. That was the beauty of that age. And grown-ups asked stupid questions all the time, so you got used to it.

Connolly moved to a different part of the touchline, watching the good-looking teacher so intently that at one point, when he ran near her, he glanced over and met her eyes. She smiled, and he gave a brief half smile in response, earning Connolly a bitter look from two sixth-form girls huddled together and presumably on the same mission.

When the games finished, the older man headed straight to the changing block with his team, while the younger teacher gathered his boys round him for a debriefing talk that went on until it seemed he suddenly noticed it was getting even colder (can't
believe
it's April!) and they were hopping on the spot and rubbing their own arms. He went off with them without a glance around, so Connolly had no chance to talk to him. Well, you just have to
make
a chance, she told herself. There was a small parking area beside the changing block which she assumed was for the teachers. Beyond that was a small flight of shops, and she went and bought a newspaper and then sat on a bench on the far side of the parking area and watched.

She was in luck. In ones and twos and groups the boys came out and hurried off; some adults retrieved their cars and left; the little bandy man got in a Fiesta rust bucket and disappeared; but the ridey teacher was still inside. She got up, stuck her paper under her arm, and began to wander towards the remaining cars, pretending to rummage in her handbag while watching the door under her eyebrows.

It took a degree of skill to extend the rummaging the required length of time and still make it look natural; it took skill and a certain gymnastic agility, when the man came out (alone, thank God, in a cosy-looking padded jacket with a large Adidas bag on his shoulder) to wander into his path at just the right moment and allow him to knock her over.

‘Oh, God, I'm so sorry!' he cried, swinging his bag to the ground to offer both hands for her assistance.

‘My fault, I wasn't looking,' she said. She had managed to spill a few things from her handbag, and when he had pulled her to her feet he crouched and gathered them up, while she brushed down the back of her coat. ‘Thanks,' she said, as he restored the items to her cupped hands.

‘Are you all right?' he asked. ‘Not hurt?'

‘No, no, I'm fine. Only me dignity's smarting.'

‘I'm so sorry. Clumsy of me.'

‘T'wasn't your fault. I wasn't looking where I was going.' She looked up and directly into his eyes. Good, he was interested. ‘I saw you taking the game with the boys. You wouldn't be Mr Wiseman, would you?'

‘No, I'm afraid he's not here.'

‘But he'll be here later, will he? For the late practice. Don't you have practice after school on Fridays?'

‘No, Thursdays,' he said. ‘Never on Fridays.'

‘Oh – I thought there was something last Friday, after school.'

‘No, we've never had after school games on a Friday.' He gave a rueful smile. ‘Too many of the parents want to get away for long weekends.'

‘Oh, so I've missed Mr Wiseman, then.'

‘Is it anything I can help you with? My name's Rofant. Simon Rofant. I'm the other games teacher at the school. Um . . .' He hesitated. ‘I'm afraid Mr Wiseman probably won't be in for a while. Something rather awful happened. His daughter got killed.'

‘That's terrible! The poor guy. What happened?'

He hesitated again, and said, ‘Look, it's too cold to stand here. Do you fancy a cup of tea? There's a café just along there.' He gestured along the line of shops.

‘That'd be nice, but don't you have to be somewhere?'

He raised his hands, almost in a ‘guilty' gesture. ‘Nope. Footloose and fancy free. But what about you?'

‘Same here,' she said, and smiled. He smiled back. Bingo, she thought.

In the café – very small and functional, six Formica tables with tubular chairs and counter service of tea and coffee, cakes, sandwiches, and an all-day vat of soup that smelled like unwashed bodies – there was a diminishing knot of schoolchildren, buying sweets and snacks with agonizing indecision. But they were gathered at the counter, and left with their purchases without sitting down, though not without giving Rofant and his companion a long, interested look followed by head-together sniggering. One table was occupied by schoolgirls, but they were all texting away, heads down, and nothing, Connolly thought, short of the Last Trump would draw their attention away from their little screens.

Rofant ignored them all magnificently, insisted on buying her a tea (‘It's the least I can do after knocking you down'), and when they were seated, told her all about the Melanie Hunter murder – from the point of view of the general punter, which was interesting. Connolly explained her ignorance of the matter by saying she'd only just come over from Ireland and had been so busy with the moving the last few days she hadn't had time to read the papers or watch the news.