by Vera Morris
‘I know what Frank means,’ Laurel said, ‘we needed Hinney to stand trial, to give satisfaction to the girls’ families.’
‘At least they’ve got some bones to bury; I think that’s the only positive thing I can think of,’ Dorothy said.
Frank studied her. Tough cookie.
‘I don’t understand why Hinney killed those girls. What was his motivation? Obviously, something to do with Salter. Was he trying to pin their murders onto him? In that case why kill two; one would have done if he’d managed to incriminate Salter,’ Stuart ruminated.
Mabel passed the eats round again. They started nibbling.
‘You could have been blown to smithereens, Frank. Your eyes still don’t look right. Have you remembered to put those eye drops in?’ Mabel nagged.
Frank sighed and drained his glass. ‘Top up, anyone?’
Laurel and Stuart drained their glasses and passed them to him.
‘Bring the gin bottle and there’s another tonic and one of Babycham in the fridge,’ Dorothy said.
As he set up the drinks on a tray in the kitchen he decided to tell them his suspicions and what he thought they should do. He could be wrong, but as there was little time left, if he didn’t do it he would spend the rest of his life wondering if he’d been right or wrong.
Birds were signalling the end of the day and the light off-shore breeze carried with it scents of heather and bracken. For once he didn’t find this soothing. What would they think? That he was mad? He hoped not. He studied their faces as he carried the tray towards the table. Everyone looked subdued, wrapped in their own thoughts.
Once they were sipping their drinks he said, ‘I don’t think this case is finished.’
Laurel stiffened. ‘Not finished? There’s nothing more to be done, not by us. Hinney is dead, he murdered the girls, Bert and Belinda Tweedie. End of that story and Salter confessed to the murder of Audrey and John Coltman. Are you thinking of a pardon for Adrian Hovell?That isn’t in our power to grant. I can’t think of anything else.’
The others remained silent, but leant towards him, looking intrigued, waiting for him to speak.
‘We need to talk to Sam Salter, before he dies.’
‘Why?’ Dorothy asked. ‘I shouldn’t think you’ll get much out of him, he’ll be drugged to the eyeballs. Will the doctors let you do that?’
‘I spoke to Revie. He said he’s semi-conscious and might be able to speak if the medics cooperate. I think we need to try, and we need to do it soon.’
He told them what he thought had happened.
‘It could be true, it’s a possibility. Yes, we must try,’ Laurel said.
Frank reached out and took her hand. ‘I think you’re the best person to talk to Salter. Will you do it?’
She inhaled deeply. ‘Yes.’
Chapter 28
Monday, July 5, 1971
Laurel remained silent as Frank talked to the doctor. It was seven in the morning, the hospital quiet, apart from the chinking of crockery as a tea-trolley was pushed past them. They were outside Sam Salter’s room, along with Inspector Revie and Detective Constable Johnny Cottam.
‘Are you sure, this is necessary, Mr Diamond? I can’t see what more you can hope to achieve by interviewing Mr Salter. I know he committed dreadful crimes, but we must show humanity, even to a murderer. Let him die in peace.’
‘It’s essential we talk to him,’ butted in Revie. ‘If we don’t, vital information will be lost forever.’
‘You do realise the extent of his injuries?’ the doctor asked.
Revie shrugged. ‘We know he’s badly burnt; we saw it happen.’
The doctor sniffed and twiddled with his stethoscope. ‘His hypermetabolic state is—’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ snarled Revie. ‘We’re wasting time.’
The doctor reddened. ‘I think you should understand the condition of the patient.’
Frank shook his head at Revie. ‘If you could explain briefly, Doctor, then I think we need to talk to Mr Salter. Miss Bowman will conduct the interview. She has an excellent bedside manner.’ His tone implied hers might be better than the doctor’s.
‘I’m sure I could leam by watching you, Doctor, but unfortunately there isn’t time,’ she said, giving him her best smile.
Revie grimaced and made a I’m going to be sick face behind the doctor’s back.
‘What we mean by a hypermetabolic response is the patient with severe burns will have an increased metabolic rate, multi-organ dysfunction, muscle protein degradation and increased risk of infection.’
‘Does all this matter? He’s going to die, anyway, isn’t he?’ Revie asked.
The doctor looked offended. ‘That may be so, but we are doing everything we can to save his life. Would you expect anything else?’
‘No, of course not,’ Frank said, ‘but can we go in now?’
The doctor nodded. ‘The nurse knows of your request and will stay with you. If she’s at all concerned she will immediately send for me.’ He indicated a middle-aged, plump woman, who looked sensible and not in awe of the doctor.
‘Please follow me,’ she said opening the door of Salter’s room.
It was cool and dark, the blinds drawn, but the smell of disinfectant couldn’t disguise the stink coming from Salter’s bed. Laurel swallowed hard and tried to control the urge to cough. Salter lay unmoving on his bed, liquid from several drip bottles feeding into his veins. There was an oxygen cylinder to the right of the bed, a mask hanging nearby.
One chair was close to the bed, and others to the side, probably out of Salter’s view, presuming he could still see; the doctor hadn’t given them much useful information about his actual state.
The nurse ushered them into a comer. ‘He should be able to talk to you, presuming he cooperates. I lowered the morphine dose as soon as I heard you were coming to talk to him; he won’t be too drowsy, but you won’t have long before I need to give him another dose. Phosphorus burns are awful, very deep and painful. One area of his left leg was burnt to the bone. I doubt if he’ll last another night, whatever the doctor says; phosphorus has been absorbed into the body through the burned areas, it will have damaged his heart, liver and kidneys.’ She pointed to the seat by the bed. ‘Who’s going to talk to him?”
Laurel moved towards Salter, and the others, including the nurse, sat on the group of seats. Cottam took out a notebook and biro from his jacket pocket, flicked back the cover, and stared at the bed.
Laurel sat down and looked at Salter. His face was haggard, but unmarked, although there was redness round his eyes and nostrils. His body was protected by a wire cage, keeping the sheet from touching his skin. His cheeks seemed to have collapsed, the skin hanging down in folds, his lips shiny, covered in some sort of cream.
‘Mr Salter, can you hear me? It’s Laurel Bowman, one of the detectives you hired to find the missing girls.’
His eyelids flickered.
‘Mr Salter, I need you to talk to me. It’s really important. I need to know what really happened the day you saw Audrey Coltman in the field. The day you say you murdered her.’
His eyes half-opened and he turned his head slightly so he was looking at her. His eyeballs were blood-shot, the edge of the eyelids rimed with sores. He blinked, grimacing.
‘Mr Salter can you remember what happened that day?’The figure by his bedside came in and out of focus. He squinted, trying to see her clearly. Laurel Bowman. The tall one. Not his type. Blonde hair, shoulders too wide. Not like Audrey. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Whenever he saw her in the village, the baby in a pushchair, or in the little shop near the church, she was more beautiful than before, and each time his desire grew. He even started to go to church on a Sunday so he could see her; she sang in the choir along with her mother-inlaw. She was all he thought about.
He day-dreamed they’d become lovers; her husband would die abroad and he’d get a divorce from Patsy. They’d marry. He’d change for her. If he
had her he’d never want any other woman. He imagined kissing her; she would be shy at first, but as she was aroused she’d kiss him back, opening her mouth so their tongues would join. Whenever he got to this point, his cock would harden and the blood would surge through his body. He wanted her so much his breathing was raw and every muscle screamed for release.
At night, as he lay on his bed in the barracks, he imagined making love to her. She would lie naked on a feather bed covered in a satin sheet, her hair spread out on the white pillow like the darkest silk. She opened her arms to him and they would melt together, his blond head above hers, her face full of love for him. Sometimes he would groan out load when he climaxed.
‘Dreaming of your wife again, Sam,’ some wag would shout.
His wife: Patsy. He’d see her this weekend, he’d furlough for three days. She wasn’t happy. Missed all her old friends from the East End. Said she didn’t know anyone where they’d moved to. Little blonde Patsy. He’s fancied her rotten, so much he’d married her when she wouldn’t come across until she had a ring on her finger. What would happen to her, if Audrey fell for him? He didn’t care, but he’d make sure she was alright; she could go back to the East End. He’d give Audrey a splendid home, and the boy as well. He’d planned what he would do after the war, supposing it went the Allies’ way. If it didn’t, well, there was always a way to make money. He’d quit his ties with the East End mob; he’d enjoyed it, frightening people, making them cough up protection money. He’d a tidy sum in the bank. Got a nice car for a good price, only a few years old; they were leaning on the car dealer, so he had to play ball. He hated the thought he might have to leave it at home soon: rumour had it there’d be no more petrol coupons for private use. The price for black market ‘motor spirit’ coupons, as the old fogies in the government called them, was rocketing. Would they ever win this war with that lot in charge?
He liked the envy in the other airmen’s eyes when he offered to take them to Ipswich in his SS Jag. He had a better car than any of the officers. He might only be a mechanic but one day he’d be a millionaire. He wanted a wife to match his ambitions. He wanted Audrey.
The morning he drove off from the barracks on his three days’ leave he couldn’t get Audrey out of his mind. He had to see her. He parked the car near her house and waited. She came out, the baby in a pushchair, and headed down Doctor’s Drift; he’d seen her there before and chatted to her. She was polite, smiled nicely, but usually turned back home saying John needed his bottle, or changing. When she talked to her son, her voice was warm, full of love. He wanted that voice -for himself.
He waited so she’d be well away from the village when he met her, then drove the car a short way down the lane. He needed to make her realise he wasn’t just any Tom,Dick or Harry. If she saw the car she’d realise he was someone; perhaps she’d come with him for a drive. Wish she didn’t have the baby; he took up too much of her attention.
As he walked down the lane he saw Hovell, the Nancy boy, on the skyline, looking through his binoculars. What a pansy! He smoothed down his jacket and tightened his tie; he wished he was wearing his new suit, tailored by the Jew with the big nose and a good sense of selfpreservation. Thirty bob he’d paid him, the material must have cost all of ten quid. He’d miss some of the perks of being part of a gang, but soon he’d be able to go to Savile Row and get as many suits as he liked, and all legit.
She was sitting in a field. She’d laid out a rug, probably for the baby. He was in his pram, asleep. He hoped he didn’t wake up. Good-sized rug. Make a nice place for a bit of loving. Her hair was loose, blown by the sea breeze, wafting across her face. She was wearing a blue cotton dress with a white collar. Its high neck and modest skirt made her look like a teenager, an innocent girl. He wished she was. He didn’t like to think she’d had someone else’s cock inside her. He wanted to be the first, the only one.
‘Hello, Audrey.’
She looked up, pushing hair out of her eyes, frowning, as if she’d never seen him before.
‘Don’t you know me? Sam Salter. We’ve spoken before.’
She glanced towards her son and then back to him. ‘Oh, yes. I didn’t recognise you. The sun’s in my eyes.’
He moved nearer. ‘I’m going on leave for a few days, thought I’d try and see you before I go. My car’s up the lane, Jag SS1, 1939, nice little runner.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Goodness, more than a little runner, I think. Tommy would be envious if he were here;he’s always going on about Jaguars. Doesn’t SS stand for Swallow Sidecar and Coach building company? He’d be proud of me remembering that.’
He didn’t want to talk about Tommy, and he didn’t like being told things about his car he didn’t know. ‘Well it’s Jaguar now. Perhaps you’d like to have a drive in it? I could take you into Ipswich if you like. We could have a bite to eat. Bring the kid, or perhaps your ma-in-law would look after him for a few hours.’ He imagined driving with her by his side, all the envious glances as people saw the beautiful woman sitting beside the tall, handsome man in the expensive car.
Her face hardened and she started to get up. ‘Thank you for the offer, Mr Salter, but I’m a married woman, and I wouldn’t dream of going out with you, now or in the future. Please don’t talk to me like that again. Good— ‘ Before she could finish her sentence, or get to her feet, he grabbed her and threw her on the rug. He’d have one kiss; she’d soon lose her hoighty-toighty manner when his arms were round her and his lips against hers.
He held both her arms against the ground and lay on top of her, revelling in the feel of her breasts against his chest and her wriggling body as she tried to free herself. He kissed her with all the passion he’d stored up over the last few months, drinking in the smell of her perfume and body. My God, he’d never wanted anyone so much. His cock was as hard as steel and he ground it into her belly. Had Tommy ever wanted her like this?
He released his hold, rolled off her, sure she’d want him now. He’d never been refused before, except by Patsy, holding out for a walk down the aisle.
‘Like to go for that ride now? Or shall we stay here and continue what we’ve started?’
She pushed on his chest and then brought her arm back and slapped him so hard his head snapped back. ‘You disgusting, cheap little man. I’ll report you to your senior officer. How dare you treat me like that? Don’t you ever come near me or my son again. I hope they throw the book at you.’ Her voice was as sharp as glass, full of contempt and anger. Her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes deepening until he felt he would drown in them. She tried to get up.
He felt his face paling, blood sinking down, anger swirling up. Cheap. Little. She’d report him, would she? He bared his teeth and clamped his hands round her throat.
The contemptuous look disappeared; she was scared, her eyes bulging, mouth open, fighting for breath. He put his full weight on her body, pulled her arms above her head so he could hold both wrists with one hand, and continued to press her throat with the other, until she started to lose consciousness. When her struggles stopped he tore off her clothes and gathered her body to him
‘Audrey, my love. My one true love.’
‘Sam, Mr Salter, can you hear me?’ His eyes had remained open, moving from side to side, eyelids flickering, and his lips quivered, as though he was speaking to himself. She bent her head closer to his. ‘Sam, it’s important you tell us what happened the day you saw Audrey Coltman and her son John.’ She decided to risk it. ‘The doctors are doing all they can for you, but you may not have much time left.’
There was an intake of breath, probably from the nurse, but she didn’t butt in.
‘This is your chance to make reparation. Please, I want you to try and talk to me.’
‘Audrey, my love. My one true love.’ His cracked voice full of deep emotion, made her back rigid.
‘Will you tell us what happened?’
His eyes stared at her. ‘Get Stephen. Bring him to me.’ Stephen was in a nearby room, being treate
d not only for the cuts on his chest, but for severe shock and also the trauma of discovering his father was a murderer and rapist. No one had suggested he should visit his dying father, but he’d been told of his condition. She turned and looked at the nurse. ‘Is he fit enough to see his father?’
‘Possibly, but he may refuse. We could bring him in in a wheelchair. Shall I see if he is willing?’
She looked at Frank. ‘Could you ask him? Explain it’s important.’
Frank approached the bed. ‘Why do you want to see him, Sam?’
Salter’s twisted mouth almost resembled a smile. ‘Diamond, you here. I love him, want to say sorry.’
‘I’ll see if he’ll come.’
He and the nurse left the room.
Laurel sat down by Revie. ‘I hope to God Frank is right.’
‘Do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know.’ She went back to the bed. Salter’s eyes were closed, his face pulled in a grimace of pain. ‘Sam, if Stephen comes, what will you tell him?’
His eyelids flicked open; all she saw was pain.
‘I love him. He was my salvation.’
He laid her body on the rug, covering her nakedness with her torn clothes. He couldn’t believe she was dead. He hadn’t meant to do this. What should he do? He wiped away the cold sweat covering his face. They’d hang him. His mind went into a panic. No, that mustn’t happen. Think. Think. He looked around. No one in sight. He must have been mad to do it here, in the open. Someone could have seen him. Someone did see him before he talked to
Audrey. That wimp Hovell. He’d finger him for it. Think. Think.
If he got in first, could he pin it on him? He was a weirdo, a loner. Wandered about the shore and fields by himself. Evidence. Could he plant evidence? Her torn knickers. He’d tossed them onto her body with the rest of the clothes. Grimacing, he found them under her dress. He wiped them between her legs. He’d put them in Hovell’s locker, his work locker. Easy enough to open, wouldn’t be the first lock he’d picked. Hide them so Hovell wouldn’t see them, then when her body was found, he’d make a telephone call, say Hovell was sweet on her and kept bothering her. Then they’d find the knickers. That would be it.