“You’re only doin’ your job, Chief Inspector,” Liz Poole replied, and although there was concern in her voice for her daughter, there was an understanding in it for him too.
She showed them to the door.
“I’ll be seein’ you again shortly,” Woodend said, “as soon as you’re open to retail ales and stouts.”
It was the expression on Margie Poole’s face when she had looked at Black that gave Woodend the idea.
“Fancy doin’ a spot of work on your own, Blackie?” he asked as they walked down Maltham Road.
Black blushed. About a three, Woodend estimated.
“What kind of work, sir?” “Nothin’ too difficult. I want you to travel in on the school bus in the mornin’. Talk to all the kids – especially the girls.”
They would be far less intimidated by the cadet than they would be by any other member of the team and, as a result, much more likely to be open with him.
“See what they say about the way Diane Thorburn was acting and, more important, what she did when she got off the bus. How she slipped away, an’ if there was anybody with her. Think you can handle it?”
Black blushed again. Almost a four this time.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”
The killer was a worried man. This Time he had planned it all so well – Diane had not suspected a thing until his hands had begun to close around her throat. Yet despite all the care and preparation, he had made a mistake. If he had known at the time, he would have risked spending precious minutes searching through the salt – but he had not realised until later. Then, he had looked everywhere, but had really known, even as he was doing so, where he had left it. If it was found, it would lead the Chief Inspector to him quicker than anything Margie could say.
He frowned at the thought of Margie. He had always appreciated that she would be the weak link, but it hadn’t mattered because . . .
He forced his mind back onto the other thing. There was no running away from the problem. He had left a clue to his identity in the vast wooden shed, buried somewhere amongst those tons of salt. And though the thought terrified him, he knew that he had no choice but to return – to try and get it back.
In ten minutes, Brierley’s hooter would go and the George would be full of men anxious to wash away the taste of salt from their throats. But at the moment Woodend had the pub – and Liz Poole – all to himself. And a grand pub it was, with the cracked leather settles running round the walls, the table tops worn away by generations of domino shufflers and the highly polished brass rail for customers at the bar to put a foot on. Down south, the breweries had started tarting up the pubs, painting them garish colours and laying carpets. Some of them even had piped music. Woodend hoped such dangerous ideas never reached Salton.
“A pint of bitter, Mrs Poole,” he said to the lovely woman behind the bar.
“Call me Liz, Chief Inspector. Everybody else does.”
“Aye, I will, as long you’ll drop this Chief Inspector rubbish and call me Charlie.”
He was flirting with her and they both knew it.
“Your husband doesn’t seem to be in the pub much,” Woodend said.
“Oh, he does his share,” Liz replied. “He’s a worker, I’ll say that much for him. It’s just that we split up the work to suit us. I take the early shift, gives me a bit of time with Margie before she goes to bed. An’ I’m up first in the mornin’, cleanin’. There’s some landladies who get their husbands to help ’em with that – but I don’t believe in men pokin’ their noses in women’s work.”
“Tell me about Margie’s boyfriend,” Woodend said casually.
“Anythin’ to do with your investigation?” Liz asked sharply.
“No,” Woodend lied. “Just interested.”
“His name’s Pete Calloway. He’s a really nice lad, apprentice at Maltham Engineering. He’s steady – you know – reliable. But he’s got a bit of a spark about him, not like some I could mention.”
She pointed her thumb backwards to the living quarters.
“And Margie’s father doesn’t know about it?”
“He’d put a stop to it if he did.” She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, even though they were alone. “I may as well tell you now, because if I don’t there’s plenty of others’ll be glad to. I was a bit of a rum bugger when I was a girl. Well, there was a war goin’ on. We could hear the German bombers passin’ overhead every night on their way to Liverpool an’ Manchester, and sometimes they’d drop the odd one on us. You never knew whether you were goin’ to wake up dead, so I thought to myself, ‘Have a good time while you can, Liz’.”
“I don’t imagine you were unique in that,” Woodend said.
“I had a lot of boyfriends. Yanks, soldiers home on leave. Then I started goin’ out with Harry. He’d just taken over the pub – missed out on the war because of flat feet. I don’t suppose it would have lasted long, but then we slipped and to do him credit, he offered to marry me. But he knows what I was like before, you see, and he’s afraid Margie will go the same way.”
A sudden thought occurred to Woodend.
“Did you know Mary Wilson?” he asked.
Liz picked up a glass and began to polish it.
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling at the memory. “She was my best friend. People used to say we looked like sisters, an’ we did look a bit alike – same colourin’, same height,” she gave him a saucy grin, “an’ we both had good legs. But as far as character went, we were miles apart. I’d go for anythin’ in trousers and she only ever had one boyfriend. He was goin’ to take her back to America when the war was over. I know a lot of people in the village think he killed her, but I nev––”
She stopped abruptly. Her face turned ashen, and her body began to shake. There was a shattering sound and Woodend, horrified, saw that she had squeezed the pint glass so hard it had broken in her hand. The shards fell to the floor. For a second, they both gazed at her hand, then Mrs Poole, the practical landlady, ran it under the tap.
“Let me look at that,” Woodend said solicitously.
“It’s not a deep cut,” Liz said, shrugging it off.
She disappeared into the back room and came back with a plaster clearly displayed on her palm. She swept up the broken glass and was soon back at her post, as if nothing had happened. But the strain of whatever shock she had had was still on her face.
“What’s the matter?” Woodend asked.
“I – I haven’t thought about Mary for years,” Liz said, “but now that I have, somethin’s occurred to me. Mary was my best friend, Diane was Margie’s – an’ they were both strangled.”
“It’s just a coincidence,” Woodend said soothingly.
But he was not entirely convinced himself. As he had told Rutter, he had uncovered some bizarre motives for murder, yet none of the killers had ever believed that his reason for taking human life was anything but rational. Perhaps a connexion with the Poole women was enough – certainly it was a lead he could not afford to neglect.
He wondered if he should ask his next question, and decided it would be all right. Liz Poole was still in a state, but she was a strong, independent woman.
“So you don’t think Lieutenant Ripley killed Mary?” he asked.
“No,” Liz said, “not for a minute. You should have seen ’em together, walkin’ hand in hand into the sunset. You could almost hear the violins playin’.” The memory seemed to have a calming effect on her, and she smiled. “My Yanks gave me nylons, Gary gave Mary wild flowers. She’d press ’em and keep ’em in a book by her bed.” The landlady was almost back to normal. She picked up a fresh glass and began to polish it. “I used to wish I could have a boyfriend like that, but it would never have worked out. I wasn’t romantic like Mary. As I said, we were as different as chalk an’ cheese.” She put down the glass and reached for another one. “Mind you, there was one thing we had in comm . . . Did you say you wanted another pint, Chief Inspector?”
&nb
sp; The abrupt change in tone startled Woodend, but glancing across the room, he could see the reason for it. Harry Poole was standing in the corridor, by the side entrance to the bar. Woodend had no idea how long he had been listening. The counter came up to Poole’s waist, no higher or lower than it had ever done, but without that guidance, Woodend would have sworn the man had grown five inches. And he seemed broader, too – infinitely more powerful.
A towering rage, Woodend thought. Bloody hell fire!
Chapter Seven
Jackie McLeash, better known as Jackie the Gypsy, stood at the tiller of The Oriel, one broad, tanned arm resting on the roof of the cabin. The boat bobbed slightly as the sluices let in water and the level of the lock rose. The process seemed incredibly slow that day, although he knew well enough that the lock was filling at its usual rate and it was only his own impatience that was expanding time.
He needed to get back to Salton, and everything, human and natural, seemed to be conspiring to prevent it. The clerk at Wolverhampton had taken an age to process the acquisition forms, the lorries which collected the salt had not been on time, then his engine had failed. He had spent an hour, up to his elbows in grease, fixing it.
The boat had risen high enough for McLeash’s head to be above the level of the lock. He could see the lock-keeper’s Wellington boots. Only another three feet to go. Shouldn’t be long now.
McLeash didn’t own a watch – he didn’t need one. He glanced up at the sun and judged that it was roughly half past five. The pubs would just be opening. A mile up the canal was the Oddfellows’ Arms. He could moor by the side of it and sit in the garden, sipping cool pints of bitter. It would be a welcome relief after such a hot day.
But if he did that, he would not reach Salton until late – maybe too late. He licked his parched lips regretfully. He would have to press on.
The heavy wooden gates slowly swung open, and The Oriel floated out of the lock.
“See you tomorrow, Jackie,” the lock-keeper called. “Or will it be the day after?”
“Dunno,” McLeash answered, noncommittally. “Depends how things work out.”
Mrs Davenport produced toad-in-the-hole for supper. It was a culinary masterpiece, Woodend thought, the best he had tasted for years. But then, he added in his wife’s defence, you simply couldn’t get decent sausages in the south.
Yet despite the delicious aroma and the batter that melted in the mouth, Woodend found that after only a few bites he had had enough. The case disturbed him. It was not just because one, possibly two, young girls had been robbed of their lives before they had ever really had a chance to live them, it was also the nature of the investigation itself. This was his first full day in Salton and already there seemed to be too many balls in the air, with new questions appearing faster than old answers. What could possibly have made Diane Thorburn, a girl who been strictly brought up, risk playing hooky from school to come back to the village? What was Margie Poole keeping from him? Why had Wilson blocked the PM on his daughter? Was there one murderer, or were there two?
He put the last question to Rutter, once the plates had been cleared away.
“I don’t know, sir,” Rutter said. “Ripley looked a good bet on the first one, but from what Mrs Poole said, he doesn’t sound like a strangler. And the local police were over-worked at the time. They could have missed an obvious lead.”
“So what do you suggest we do now?”
“First of all, we should try and find out where exactly in the States friend Ripley is living.”
“If he’s still alive,” Woodend said. “A lot of American airmen bought it in the war.”
“If he is still alive,” Rutter continued, “we could ask the American police to question him. Maybe they can come up with something that will eliminate him from our inquiry.”
“It’s possible,” Woodend agreed. “And then what do we do?”
Rutter looked down at the table, an abashed expression on his face. If it had been Black sitting there, Woodend would have sworn he was blushing.
“If it’s not him,” the sergeant said, “the answer lies in the village and the more we get to know the place – and the people – the more chance we have of coming up with it.”
“What a very Dickensian view of police work,” Woodend said, beaming.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Rutter responded, smiling back.
The George was full of salt workers who’d scrubbed off the day’s grime and put on their second-best caps. There was a lively domino school in progress and the sound of a noisy crowd round the dartboard in the back room. Then someone noticed Woodend, whispered messages shot across the room, and there was a wall of silence as thirty pairs of eyes focused on him.
The reaction was not a new one to the Chief Inspector. Over the years he had got used to being the outsider, the policeman whose help was welcomed but whose presence was shunned. They regarded him, he thought, as a sort of knight errant with leprosy.
“Evenin’,” he said, easily.
One or two isolated voices responded, and then there was a whole chorus of greetings. The men returned to talking to each other, louder this time, as if to compensate for their earlier rudeness. But as he made his way to the bar, he was aware that he was still being watched, and he heard the name “Mary Wilson” being uttered from at least one table. It hadn’t taken long for word to get around: he had never imagined that it would.
Woodend was surprised to see Liz Poole still behind the counter.
“I thought your husband would be runnin’ the shop by now,” he said.
“Oh, that one!” She narrowed her lips into a wingeing expression. “He’s got a headache – had to go and lie down.” Her mouth broadened into a good-natured smile. “What will it be, Charlie?”
He had only come up for cigarettes, but he’d been expecting to be served by the dour Harry.
“A pint of bitter, please,” he said.
Once under the humpbacked bridge, McLeash cut the engines and let The Oriel glide into the side. The moment it bumped against the bank, he jumped onto the towpath, mooring rope in hand. The salt store stood before him, hiding the moon, casting its oppressive black shadow over the lapping water. The lack of visibility didn’t bother him; this was familiar territory and McLeash could have done the job blindfold.
With strong, expert hands, he formed the knots, pulling tightly to make sure they were secure. The engine was still not running right, and he was even later than he had anticipated, but still he went back onto the boat and lit the oil lamps fore and aft.
He was almost on the point of stepping ashore again, when he changed his mind. He opened the cabin door, lowered his head, and walked down the narrow steps. It was pitch black in there. McLeash struck a match and let it burn just long enough for him to locate the whisky bottle. In the darkness, he unscrewed the cap and took a generous pull.
It had been Woodend’s intention when he left the pub to go straight back to the police house, but he felt the salt store drawing him like a magnet. Caught in the pale moonlight, it seemed to stir, a sleeping giant wracked by its own dreams.
Woodend saw the figure walking along the side of the store, and stepped back into the shadows. The man was no stranger to this route, he veered to the left and the right, avoiding obstacles in the scrub that were invisible to the Chief Inspector. Woodend felt the familiar tingle at the back of his neck. The man’s movements were not just careful, they were – Woodend’s instincts told him – furtive as well.
The man reached the front of the store and went directly to the small inset door. He moved his hand up to the bolt as if to draw it back, and encountered the padlock. He rattled it and the sound carried through the clear night air back to the watching detective.
Woodend stepped out of his hiding place and walked towards the store. His feet crunched on the gravel but the man, absorbed with the lock, was deaf to his approach. He stopped five feet from the door.
“Good evenin’, sir,” he said. “Chief Inspector Wood
end. Could I ask you what you think you’re doing?”
The man jumped, then swung round to face him. He was tall and broad. His dark curly hair hung unfashionably over the edge of his collar. He wore no tie, but had a knotted kerchief round his neck.
“Name’s McLeash,” he said.
Was he nervous, or merely temporarily knocked off balance? Woodend said nothing.
“I’m a narra-boat man,” McLeash continued. “Ma boat’s moored just under the bridge. I was just on ma way for a pint. Noticed the lock on the door. There’s never been one before.”
Could he really have noticed it as he was passing? Woodend moved to where, as nearly as he could judge, McLeash had been standing when he turned. Both bolt and lock merged into the blackness of the creosoted boards and were invisible.
“Perhaps you wanted to have a look at the scene of the crime,” Woodend suggested, offering him a way out.
“Crime?”
“The murder. Diane Thorburn.”
“I didna know nothin’ aboot that,” McLeash said.
He sounded genuinely surprised, perhaps even shocked, but the voice is always the easiest thing to disguise. Woodend wished it was light enough to look into the man’s eyes.
“Are you trying to tell me you didn’t read about it in the newspapers?” he asked.
“I’ve no time for newspapers,” McLeash said. “By the way,” he added, as if the thought had just entered his head, “ha ye got a warrant card or summat?”
Woodend pulled out his card and McLeash examined it in the light of a match. He grunted, apparently satisfied.
“I’d like to talk to you in the mornin’, sir,” Woodend said.
McLeash shrugged.
“I’ll be aroond, loadin’ the boat.”
“I’m afraid you won’t. No more salt will be moved until I give the word.”
“You canna . . .”
“And if you want a pint, you’d better be quick,” Woodend interrupted. “They close in ten minutes an’ they’ll be very strict about it tonight – there’s a lot of bobbies around.”
Salton Killings Page 8