“Fine by me, sir,” he said.
“Right,” the Chief Constable continued, “this is the way you play it. The MO can go ahead, but I don’t want your men doing anything that leaves them open to charges of incompetence later. So, seal off the place where the girl was found, make any inquiries you need to about her movements before her death, but don’t start interrogating important witnesses.”
Giles balanced the telephone in the crook of his neck, and reached for a packet of Senior Service. He lit one and inhaled deeply.
“Are you still there, Superintendent?”
“Just writin’ it all down, sir.”
“Good. Make sure all your men understand it clearly. And for God’s sake don’t arrest anyone – even if they confess. When the Yard men do get here, give them all the manpower they want, even if it means cutting back on other duties.”
Let’s have the warnin’, Giles thought. Let’s get it over with.
“And Superintendent, if I were you, I’d personally stay as far away from them as possible. If there’s a disaster this time, let’s try to ensure that it’s not your disaster.”
It was the closest pub to the Yard, and half its customers seemed to be off-duty officers. Detective Sergeant Rutter paid for the drinks and then turned to DS Crowe.
“What can you tell me about Chief Inspector Woodend?” he asked.
“Cloggin’-it Charlie? Why do you want to know?”
“He’s my new governor.”
Crowe unwrapped a twist of blue wax paper and scattered salt liberally over his crisps.
“And you’ve not met him yet?”
Rutter shook his head.
“I know him by sight, that’s all.”
The other man chuckled.
“Well, there’s nothing like being dropped in at the deep end, is there?”
“What do you mean?” Rutter asked – alarmed.
“He’s a northerner, our Charlie,” Crowe said, “a bit of a rough diamond, if you know what I mean.” He took a reflective sip of his beer. “He’s not exactly strong on tact, and as for following regulations – well, he thinks the only people who need to bother about ‘proper channels’ are tugboat captains.”
Rutter frowned. It was not good, politically, to be associated with a maverick. Not when your ambition was to be the youngest ever Commissioner of Police.
“So he’s not popular with the top brass?” he asked.
The other man chuckled again.
“The Commander can’t stand his guts. I did hear that he’s only waiting for Woodend to make a balls-up and he’ll have him back on foot patrol.”
And his assistant along with him, Rutter thought worriedly.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing you should know about him,” Crowe continued. “He wears out sergeants faster than you get through shoe leather.”
Her tormentors danced around her like tiny devils, their faces bloated with fascinated horror. The circle widened and she looked desperately for a gap through which she might escape. Then the children moved in closer again, pressing in on her like the hands must have done on Diane’s throat. A dozen pairs of greedy eyes were fixed on her, a dozen mouths demanded answers.
“Who killed her, Margie?”
“Did they use a rope or what?”
She stuck her fingers tightly in her ears and a noise like the roar of the sea filled her head – but the questions sliced through the waves and stabbed insistently at her brain.
“Was she interfered with?”
“Yeah! Did he take her knickers off?”
“I don’t know!” Margie screamed. “I’ve been here all day!”
“You should know,” a voice accused her. “You were Diane’s best friend.”
“I wasn’t, I wasn’t, I wasn’t!”
She sank to the ground and felt the asphalt scraping her knees. She was sobbing uncontrollably and her slim body swayed first one way and then the other. And still they would not leave her alone.
“You were! You were her best friend!”
Then, suddenly, they stopped, and all she could hear was running feet. She looked up and through her tears she saw a pair of trousered legs. She raised her head higher. The face looking down at her was handsome, and its lips were parted in a sympathetic smile.
“Pete,” she said.
The young man helped her to her feet, produced a handkerchief, and dried her eyes.
“Why aren’t you at work?” she asked.
“I’d got some time owin’, an’ I took the day off. When I heard about the murder I thought you might have a bit of trouble, so I came up here.” He sniffed contemptuously. “Kids! Nothin’ but a bloody nuisance!”
She felt the thrill she always did when he talked about her class mates as children, yet seemed blind to the fact that she was no older than them.
He put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins.
“Come on,” he said, “I’ll treat you to a cup of tea.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to meet me mum outside Woolie’s in ten minutes.”
Pete kissed her, lightly, on the forehead.
“You can’t see your mum the state you’re in now. She’d have a fit.”
He took her arm and led her gently but firmly through the school gates towards The Copper Kettle.
They sat at a corner table. Margie sipped at the hot sweet tea, then told Pete all about her day – the questions, the sideways glances, the pointing fingers. When she had finished, he took her small delicate hand into his big strong ones.
“I think you’ve been very brave,” he said.
Margie felt better. Pete always made everything all right. She stood up.
“Where you goin’?”
Margie glanced around to see if any of the other customers were listening.
“Toilet,” she whispered. “I won’t be a minute.”
She turned quickly so that he would not see she was blushing.
Once in the toilet, she unfastened her satchel and peered inside. There was her pencil case, a maths book, three or four exercise books and a copy of Girl Weekly. And there, right in the corner, was what she was looking for – her make-up. She moved in front of the mirror. She would have to wash it off again, all of it, before she saw her dad, but she wanted to look nice now – for Pete.
She could not understand what he saw in her, she thought, as she applied her lipstick. The oval face that looked back at her from the mirror was pretty enough – fair hair, blue eyes, nose that just escaped being a button. Her newly reddened lips were nice too, not too thick, not too thin. But how could that be enough to hold a strong, handsome man like Pete? She began inexpertly brushing on her mascara. She could understand Pete going out with her if she was beautiful, like her mother – but she wasn’t. She wasn’t even as pretty as Diane had been.
Diane! There’d been so many questions since the news of the murder had reached school that she hadn’t had time to think about what had happened that morning.
She’d known that what Diane was planning was wrong. Even the idea of it had frightened her. At first, she’d refused to play any part in it, but Diane had been so insistent – had even cried. She’d felt so sorry for the other girl that she’d finally agreed. And now the police would want to know why Diane was in Salton when she should have been in school.
She should tell them, she knew she should. But what if they blamed her? What if they said that if she hadn’t helped, Diane would still be alive? She was crying again, and big tears, black with mascara, rolled down her cheeks.
“I can’t tell them,” she said to the face in the mirror. “I just can’t.”
Chapter Two
Rutter glanced up at the big clock on Euston Station and then double-checked it with his watch. The train was due to depart in seven minutes. Where the hell was Woodend? He scanned the station, reading that Bovril puts beef in you, pausing briefly over the picture of the girl lying on the grass who had just had Spring Fever in her Maidenform bra. The station was
bustling with commuter businessmen rushing to work and office cleaners making their way home. A couple of Teddy boys, dressed in long coats and drainpipe trousers, lounged nonchalantly against the departure board.
Rutter finally caught sight of the DCI, a man in his middle forties, wearing a baggy check sports coat over a zipped knitted cardigan. Woodend was strolling casually, as if he had all the time in the world, even stopping now and again when someone or something caught his attention. Most Chief Inspectors of Rutter’s acquaintance wore dark formal suits and marched with a purpose.
Woodend ambled up to the platform, put down his battered suitcase, and looked around him with mild curiosity. Rutter walked briskly up to him.
“Chief Inspector Woodend,” he said in a confident tone he had been carefully cultivating. “Bob Rutter, DS.”
They shook hands, then Woodend stood back. He ran his eyes up and down Rutter’s body in an ostentatious inspection.
Rutter carried out a surreptitious examination of his own on his new boss. Hair – light brown, no Brylcreem, unruly. Nose – nearly, but not quite, hooked. Mouth – wide. Jaw – square without being brutish. All in all, a pleasant but unremarkable face. Except for the eyes. They were dark, almost black, and the lids were like camera shutters, constantly clicking and registering.
“Six foot, twelve stone three pounds,” Woodend said eventually.
“Twelve stone five pounds, sir,” Rutter answered.
Woodend shrugged, as if he had been close enough.
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
The Chief Inspector looked pained.
“Dear God,” he said, almost to himself, “they’re gettin’ younger every day. Ever worked on a murder case before?”
“No, sir. I’ve only just been made up to sergeant.”
Woodend shook his head.
“They’ve given me another virgin. Typical, absolutely bloody typical. They tell me you’re a grammar school boy an’ all.”
Time was passing. Rutter suppressed his urge to look up at the clock again.
“That’s right, sir.”
“An’ that you could have gone to university.”
“I was offered a place, yes.”
“So why didn’t you take it?”
Because seven years as a greengrocer’s son in a posh grammar had convinced him, even though he ended up as head of school, that the Old Boy Network would work against him in the professions. Whereas the police . . .
“I thought the Force offered good career prospects, sir.”
“You mean you thought we were all so bloody thick that a smart lad like you could leapfrog his way to the top.”
It was too close for comfort, but before Rutter had time to reply the Chief Inspector was moving.
“Come on lad,” he shouted over his shoulder. “If we don’t make tracks, we’ll miss this bugger.”
They walked past the engine, black and fierce, hissing steam.
“They’re plannin’ to do away with these, you know,” Woodend said. “Replacin’ ’em with diesel an’ electric.”
Rutter laughed lightly.
“Well, that’s progress, sir.”
“Progress.” Woodend mouthed the word with disdain. “Electric trains are all right for kids to play with, but they’ll never be suitable for transportin’ grown men around.”
It was going wrong, Rutter thought, they had got off to a bad start. It worried him. If there was one thing worse than having to work with Woodend, it would be working with him and not getting on. He didn’t want his career ruined by this northern throwback.
“This is the carriage, sir,” he said. “I’ve reserved us a whole compartment so we can work undisturbed on the journey.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” Woodend asked, climbing up the step. “An’ what makes you think at this stage of the investigation we’ve got anythin’ to work on?”
Rutter smiled confidently at the retreating back. Their relationship could be turning a corner.
Once in the right compartment, Woodend heaved his case onto the rack, sat down, and kicked his shoes off. Rutter placed his own case beside him.
“I’ve had the details telephoned down from Maltham, sir,” he said, “and I’ve managed to construct a preliminary report.”
He tapped his case to show where it was.
Woodend didn’t look pleased. The pained expression came over his face again.
“Oh, you’re one of them buggers, are you?” he asked. “Armchair detective? Think a murder’s like a chess puzzle that can be solved from the comfort of your own home?”
Rutter wouldn’t have put it as crudely as that, but yes, as a matter of fact, that was what he did think. There was no reason why detection couldn’t be treated as a science. The days of the bull-headed, strong-arm copper – the jackboot school of investigation – were passing. He thought it wiser to say nothing to his new chief.
“There’s only one way to crack a murder,” Woodend continued, “cloggin’ it round the houses, gettin’ the feel of the place first.” He gave Rutter a penetrating stare. “I do hope I’m not goin’ to find it tiresome workin’ with you, Sergeant.”
“I hope so too, sir,” Rutter said flatly.
Woodend put his hand in his pocket and extracted a package wrapped in greaseproof paper. “All right lad, we’ll have a look at your preliminary report just as soon as I’ve finished eatin’ a preliminary corned-beef butty.”
Each killing got harder. Last Time, with Kathleen, all he had had to do was kneel on the canal bank, holding her head under. He could still remember how cold the water had felt on his wrists. She had struggled. God, she had struggled. The green canal had been white with foam, the waves like the wash of a narrow boat. It had done her no good. There had been fewer and fewer bubbles, and then none at all. He had felt better almost immediately.
Last Time, they had said it was a tragic accident. He had known they would, they had said that about Jessie, too.
This Time, with Diane, it had all been more complicated. He had had to swear her to secrecy, but he could not be sure she had not talked, had not told Margie more than he had instructed her to. Killing her in the village, rather than on a lonely canal bank, had been a risk. Someone could have seen him and might remember. But he had had no choice, that was the way it had had to be done.
This Time, they knew it was not an accident. This Time, they would investigate. And it would not be in the hands of the Maltham Constabulary either. He knew how the police worked. They would call in some smart boys from London, if they hadn’t done so already. They would be all over the village, asking questions, checking on movements.
They would make things very difficult, because the control, the timetabling for the killings, was not in his hands. He could vary it a little, postpone it for a week or two. He hadn’t needed to kill Diane just then. But still, there was a limitation, a framework in which he was forced to operate. He did not choose the victims and the Finger was already pointed again. There would be a next time – and it would have to be soon.
Woodend was not a believer in this new-fangled sliced bread. His corned beef was trapped between two thick doorsteps of cob. As he munched his way manfully into it, he flicked through the papers he’d bought at WH Smith’s station stall.
“They all mention it,” he mumbled, “but only the Daily Herald gives it space on the front page. Well,” he added sourly, “it’s not as if it happened somewhere important – like Islington.”
“I expect you’re glad to be going back home for a while, sir,” Rutter said.
“Back home?” Woodend sounded exasperated. “We’re goin’ to Cheshire, lad, I’m a Lancashire man!”
Rutter looked mystified.
“You bloody southerners just lump it all together. ‘Up North’ you say, in a funny accent. An’ by that you mean anywhere north of Watford. Lancashire an’ Cheshire are as different as . . .” he groped for an example, “England and France. Well,” he added honest
ly, “America and Canada anyway.”
Still, he was pleased to be going. It wouldn’t be like home, but it was a bloody sight better than Kent.
He finished eating, crumpled the greaseproof paper into a ball and placed it in the bin. When he had brushed the last remaining crumbs off his knees, he favoured Rutter with a look of rapt attention, like a dog waiting for its ball to be thrown.
“Right, Sergeant,” he said, “let’s have it.”
Rutter already had a pristine new green cardboard file on his knee. If he noticed he was being mocked, he gave no indication.
“What have you already found out from the papers, sir?” he asked.
“Never mind that,” Woodend said. “You’ve done the work, you’ve earned the right to show off. Give me the lot.”
“The dead girl was fifteen, sir,” Rutter began crisply. “She was in her last year at the local secondary mod., had only a few weeks to go.”
He leaned across and handed Woodend a photograph. It was the same one that had been in the Sketch, except that in the newspaper they had shown only her face, cutting out the rest of her body and the people standing next to her.
Diane was standing on the beach at Blackpool – he could see the Tower behind her and a donkey just to her left – with one parent on either side. She was wearing a swimsuit that seemed to Woodend to be rather too old-fashioned, too all-enveloping, for such a young girl. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. She looked pretty, he thought, but then most of them did at that age.
She wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t looking at the camera. Instead, her attention was concentrated on her father. What did her expression remind him of? Woodend closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the image.
That was it! He’d been with the allied army on the push into Germany, a sergeant by that time. His section had been one of the first to reach Belsen. The emaciated faces of the prisoners had been distressing, but it had been the eyes that had really got him – haunted and hunted. Diane Thorburn had eyes like that.
Her father’s hand was resting on her shoulder. Woodend knew he couldn’t possibly see it in a black and white photograph, yet he felt that the hand was not really resting at all. Instead, it was restraining, squeezing the life out of the poor kid.
Salton Killings Page 2