Kill My Darling by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Read Free Book Online

going to get married?’ Swilley asked.
    â€˜Well, eventually, of course, but they haven’t any plans just at present. But I hope it will be soon. She doesn’t want to leave it too long to have children. And Scott will make a lovely father. It was him insisted she give this picture to me – he knew I’d like it. Always so thoughtful – such a nice boy. I think he ’d get married tomorrow but Melanie’s hesitating – you know what girls are like these days. Don’t want to give up their freedom. But Scott was hinting about next year the last time I saw him. He doesn’t want them to have kids without being married, which is just the way it should be.’
    She was smiling now, and Swilley mentally shook her head at this degree of self-hypnosis. Far be it from her to shatter the protective bubble. Maybe Melanie would turn up before she need look her fears in the face.
    At the door she asked, ‘By the way, what does your husband do?’
    â€˜Ian? He’s a teacher at Elthorne Manor – PE and sports. He’s out at the moment – Sunday League down the Rec.’
    But the new subject had done it. The smileyness drained from her face and the dread was back in the eyes.
    â€˜You’ll find her, won’t you?’ she asked in a husk of a voice. ‘She’ll be all right? Only, it’s not like her just to go out like that, and not say anything.’
    â€˜I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,’ Swilley said hearteningly, and made her escape. She was sure there was a logical explanation, but that didn’t necessarily mean it would be good news.
    As she was getting into her car, a silver Ford Galaxy pulled up on to the Wiseman hardstanding and a man in a tracksuit got out, pulling a sports bag after him. He was of medium height, well built about the shoulders, with very dark hair and a tanned, hard face that missed being handsome by some small, inexplicable degree. He stood for a moment staring at Swilley, scowling, his head up as if ready to take affront. She wondered if he had seen her coming out of his house as he drove up. She hastened to get into her car, not wanting to talk to him, especially as he did not seem in a good mood. Let Mrs W explain all – she had had enough for one day.
    When a young woman is murdered, there is always one photograph the press latches on to. It is splashed over every paper and news bulletin all through the investigation, at the arrest, during the trial, and on sentencing. It defines the case, and sometimes even the age, so that forever after that person, who would have lived out her life in obscurity, is as instantly, iconically recognized by millions as Marilyn Monroe with her skirt blowing up, or Princess Di looking up from under her fringe. It was as if, Slider thought, their fate had been decided at the instant the photographer’s finger had pressed the button. From that moment, they moved as inevitably towards their doom as a package on a conveyor belt.
    Slider had always found old photographs unsettling, and he’d had a bad feeling from the moment Swilley returned with the studio portrait of Melanie Hunter. He knew they would use it, because it was clearer than the snapshot Hibbert had given them from his wallet; and he knew the media would love it, because she looked pretty and smiley and good, a nice girl with a good school record and a fine career ahead of her. How much more saleable of newspapers than a grim-looking, shaven-headed kid with a string of ASBOs.
    He was afraid that from now on that studio portrait, taken with pleasure in mind, would go together with the words ‘The Melanie Hunter Murder’ like gammon and spinach – or, nowadays, like hamburger and fries. He felt horribly, guiltily, as though they had sealed her fate by taking over that photograph. He had no hope now that she would wander back home or they would find her alive, and he felt ashamed of his