Salton Killings

by Sally Spencer

  McLeash smiled again.

  “I seem to have underestimated you, Chief Inspector.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it, lad,” Woodend said, scratching his nose, “it’s a common enough mistake. Now tell me about yourself.”

  McLeash twisted round to the cupboard and brought out a fresh bottle of whisky.

  “Hair of the dog,” he said, ruefully. “Care to join me?”

  Woodend held out his mug and McLeash tipped some of the pale brown liquid into it.

  “My father was a barrister,” McLeash began. “A prosecuting counsel, and I always assumed, without ever really thinking about it, that I would follow in his footsteps. And then I went up to Oxford. What an eye-opener that was. I met people who were free, really free, people who were doing what they wanted to do. And for the first time, it occurred to me that I had a choice too.”

  “An’ you chose to become a narrow boat man,” Woodend said.

  McLeash shook his head.

  “It wasn’t as simple as that. Before I could know what I wanted, I needed to discover what I didn’t want. It took me three years to come up with the answer – I didn’t want debts.”

  “Debts?” Woodend asked.

  “Man is born free, but everywhere he is in debt.”

  McLeash’s eyes blazed. In many ways, Woodend thought, he’s as much a fanatic as Mr Wilson.

  “Have you a wife, Chief Inspector?” McLeash asked. “Children?”

  “Yes,” Woodend said, beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. “I’m married and I have one daughter.”

  “Then you are in debt. If you fell in love with a stunningly beautiful woman, would you leave your wife for her? No, because you owe her loyalty for the years she has sacrificed to you, for the pain she went through in bearing your child. Could you throw up your job if it turned sour on you? No again, because you owe it to your daughter to ensure her future. And the further you progress, the more you become ensnared in a web of debts. Now you owe it to the village to catch Diane Thorburn’s killer.”

  “Damn it, man,” Woodend said, “all you’re talkin’ about is normal adult responsibilities.”

  “Debts,” McLeash said firmly. “And the worst debt of all, the most crushing, soul-destroying burden we must carry through our lives is the debt we feel we owe to our parents. More misery has been caused, more harm inflicted, by that simple biological link than by anything else. If I had become a lawyer, I would have spent my life persecuting poor wretches and constantly looking over my shoulder to see if I had my father’s approval. And if I had gone into some other profession I would have had to dedicate myself to proving to my father that I had made a wise choice in not pursuing the law.”

  McLeash poured a fresh shot of whisky into his mug, then offered the bottle to Woodend. The Chief Inspector shook his head.

  “I informed my father of my decision,” McLeash continued, “and asked for the cash to buy the boat in lieu of my inheritance. It was a very modest sum. He was angry at first, then merely bitter. I had written off my debt to him, you see, before I had even really begun to pay it. He gave me the money and told me never to darken his door again.”

  “An’ then you assumed the persona of Jackie the Gypsy,” Woodend said, “because an Oxford man would never have been accepted on the canal.”

  But McLeash was not listening. There was a far-away look in his eyes and when he spoke again, it was to himself.

  “I wasn’t just cocking a snook at the old college calling my boat after it. ‘A room projecting onto the street and having a window in it.’ That’s what The Oriel is. It projects out onto the street of life, but is not part of it. From its window I can watch the world go by and yet be untouched.” He frowned. “No,” he said, “not untouched. The web of debt has many strands, and not even my boat has been able to protect me from them all.”

  “Why are you still here?” Woodend asked.

  The dreamy look disappeared from McLeash’s eyes and they became hard, alert.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “There’s no salt to load, and there must be work further down the canal. I can see no reason for your staying.”

  McLeash favoured him with a thin, superior smile.

  “I see no reason to justify my movements to a policeman,” he said, “not even one who can recognise a first edition.”

  “Life’s a game to you,” Woodend said, suddenly angry, “but we can’t all afford that luxury. Two girls have been killed in this village. You were around for the second murder, and probably the first. That’s quite enough reason for me to pull you in for questionin’ if I have to.”

  “So it is,” McLeash said calmly, “but it wouldn’t get you an answer to your question. You couldn’t hold me long, and when I was released I’d come straight back here. Don’t try to intimidate me with the law, Chief Inspector. I’ve got a degree in it. Remember?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Highton dug in his shovel, carried the salt across to where Sowerbury was standing and dumped it into his sieve. Sowerbury shook his arms until all the salt had fallen through. The pile by his side was at waist height, proof that the two constables had been hard at it, but it was as nothing compared to the mountain still to be shifted.

  “It’s goin’ to take a long time, sir,” Sowerbury said when he saw Woodend standing at the door.

  The back of the Chief Inspector’s neck tingled, as it always did in the store. There was something there, somewhere in that vast mound of glittering mineral. He knew it. He was tempted to ring up Maltham Central and commandeer two, five, ten extra men, the whole Force if necessary, just to get the answer now. But would they find it? There was the rub. Weren’t they more likely to get in each other’s way, re-sift piles that had already been checked, miss other mounds completely? Whatever they were looking for was small, he agreed with Black on that. He dared not take the chance that it would be overlooked.

  “You’re doin’ fine, lads,” he said. “Just take it slow an’ steady, slow an’ steady.”

  After the interview with McLeash, after the salt which seemed to stick in his throat, Woodend needed a drink. He pushed open the bar door of the George. The place was heaving with Saturday dinnertime drinkers. Harry Poole, pulling a pint, gave him a brief, hostile glance. Liz, frantically washing up glasses, didn’t even notice him. He couldn’t take the noise and the cheerfulness, not at the moment. He retreated back out into the street.

  Down Maltham Road he went, past Harper Street with the Wilson villa standing imperiously at its corner, past Stubbs Street, past the Police House. At the church he stopped, hesitated for a second, then clicked up the latch on the lich-gate.

  It was the morbid side of his nature that drew him to churchyards, he thought. Yet he found them peaceful places, gardens for both the quick and the dead. It was reassuring to look at the gravestones and see names occurring again and again, generations who had led simple, straightforward lives in the same village, who had known with a certainty where their final resting place would be.

  But all that was changing. Rural communities were breaking up. Children, no longer content to settle near their parents, were moving to other parts of the country. He recognised he was part of the disease himself. He had left his native village for ever, and would probably end up buried in some foreign southern field.

  He wandered aimlessly through the graveyard, stopping occasionally to look at the stones – some, pointed upright slabs, green with age; others modern, square, black marble. The inscriptions: ‘Went to Sleep’, ‘Gone to God’, ‘Passed on’, ‘Left this world’, were both familiar and comforting.

  He could not say later exactly what it was that had made him walk over to the two graves in the far corner. Perhaps it was because they were side by side and looked comparatively new. Or it could have been that they seemed better cared for than most of the others, with their fresh flowers and neatly trimmed grass. Whatever the reason, his interest was no more than casual when he glanced at the first on
e:

  KATHLEEN WALMSLEY 1940–55

  Beloved Daughter of James and Mary

  Dear Sister to Joan, Mary and Elizabeth.

  Drowned, 3rd April 1955.

  ‘You will live forever in our hearts.’

  A pained expression came to his face. Still a child. Mr Wilson had been right – too many young deaths. He shivered and turned to the second stone.

  JESSICA BLACK 1936–51

  ‘A Sweet and Loving Daughter.’

  Drowned, 2nd October 1951

  Woodend’s head pounded and his body shook with rage. Too many young deaths – too many. He marched back towards the gate, arms swinging angrily. He hadn’t been told – and somebody was going to pay for it.

  “Have you seen the size of this village?” Woodend demanded, pacing the small police office like a raging bull. “I mean, have you actually looked?”

  Rutter, Black and Davenport, sitting around the desk, said nothing.

  “At any one time there can’t be more than – what – thirty, thirty-five teenagers in it. Right?”

  “About that, sir,” Davenport said.

  “About that!” Woodend’s voice was thick with contempt. “You’re the village bobby, you’re supposed to know. And do any of you three thick-heads realise how statistically unlikely it is that even two girls should have died in the last sixteen years – let alone four?” He was facing the window but now he whirled round and pointed at Rutter. “You did the investigatin’ in Maltham Central. Why wasn’t I told about the other two girls?”

  Rutter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I only looked through the criminal files,” he said, adding defensively, “I did find out about Mary Wilson.”

  “Yes, you did,” Woodend said. “Congratulations. Only you can’t go to the top of the class, because you only did half the job.”

  He knew he was being unfair, but just at that moment he didn’t give a damn.

  “You must have been the Salton bobby when Kathleen Walmsley was drowned,” he accused Davenport.

  The portly constable bent his head.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir!” Woodend rested his hands, palms down, on the desk, and glared at Black. “An’ you. You’re not here as a soft option, lad. The only reason you’ve got anythin’ to do with this case is because you’re supposed to know the village. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Black’s eyes were puffy, and his lip was trembling.

  “I thought they were accidents, sir, so I didn’t bring ’em up.”

  “Bring ’em up now!” Woodend roared.

  “They were b – both drowned in the canal, sir, one near the woods, the other halfway b – between here and Claxon.”

  Near the woods. The Chief Inspector remembered the jam jar glinting in the sunlight, with it’s freshly cut flowers.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “They were on their bikes, sir. They lost their b-balance an’ fell in. They c-couldn’t swim, neither of ’em.”

  A tear rolled down his cheek and plopped onto the desk blotter. It had hardly begun to spread when a second one followed it. This was more than distress at being bollocked by a superior officer. Woodend suddenly realised what the problem was.

  Well done, Charlie, he thought to himself, you’re a real bloody champion.

  “This Jessica Black,” he said, his voice suddenly softer, more gentle, “was she a relative?”

  “Y-yes sir,” Black sobbed. “She was my b-big sister.”

  “Get some fresh air, Blackie,” Woodend said. “Walk around a bit. Don’t come back till you’re feelin’ better.”

  The cadet nodded and walked numbly to the door.

  Woodend dropped himself heavily into the vacated chair.

  “Davenport, Sergeant Rutter, I owe you both an apology,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I had no right to blow my top like that.”

  “It doesn’t matter, sir,” Rutter said.

  And the sergeant meant it. He had learned a lot since he got off the train at Maltham. Murder wasn’t just an intellectual puzzle that fitted together to reveal the killer, it involved people – and their suffering. And you suffered with them.

  It wasn’t just Black who had affected him, either. His sympathy had also gone out to Fred Foley, one of life’s minor tragedies. He wondered if he would become immune in time. The Chief Inspector never had – and that was why he had been so angry.

  “So what have we got, Sergeant?” Woodend asked, cutting into his thoughts. “Two murders or four?”

  “The two drowned girls, taken on their own, could have been accidents,” Rutter said, “although it’s quite a coincidence. But if we consider Mary Wilson and Diane Thorburn as well, two definite murders, then I think it’s stretching coincidence too far.”

  “An’ two murderers?”

  “You mean a strangler and a drowner?”

  Woodend nodded.

  “I don’t think so, sir. Not in a village this size.”

  “So why did he change his method after the first killin’ an’ go back to it after the third?”

  “The man’s a psychopath, but he’s got it under some kind of control. After Mary Wilson, he didn’t kill again for nine years. Maybe he never intended to commit the second one. He just came across Jessica Black and it was too strong a temptation. Then he went looking for another chance and found Kathleen Walmsley.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Woodend said. “Why go back to strangulation?”

  Rutter shrugged.

  “Maybe girls don’t ride along the canal bank any more. Maybe he’s decided he gets more pleasure out of throttling them.”

  “All right,” Woodend said, “we’ll treat all four as murders because we daren’t overlook the possibility – an’ because I’ve got a gut feelin’ about them. But I’ll tell you somethin’ else, Sergeant. If you’re right an’ we are dealin’ with just one controlled psychopath, then his control isn’t what it was. There’s nine years between Mary’s and Jessica’s deaths, four between Jessica’s and Kathleen’s, an’ only three between Kathleen’s and Diane’s. He’s findin’ it harder and harder to resist. How long will it be to the next one?”

  Black returned. He was pale, but seemed to be in control of himself.

  “Think you can face talkin’ this through?” Woodend asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We may have to discuss your sister.”

  “I know. I’ll be all right now.”

  Woodend motioned the cadet to sit down and handed round the Capstan Full Strength.

  “Assumin’ Jessie Black was murdered,” he said to Rutter, “I’m still not happy with your theory that it was the result of a chance meetin’ on the canal bank. You’ll agree that Diane Thorburn’s death was carefully planned?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we’ve no reason for assumin’ that the others weren’t as well. An’ the killer, if there is only one killer, is very selective – just young girls.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “But why these particular girls? Is there a pattern – anythin’ to connect them?”

  “Age,” Davenport suggested.

  “The last three were around the same age, but Mary Wilson was nineteen. An’ it isn’t religion, either. Diane was a Roman Catholic, Mary was brought up very Low Church.” He turned to Black. “What about the other two?” he asked.

  “My sis – Jessie Black – we’re C of E, but not very strict. The same’s true of the Walmsleys.”

  “Any family links between the four girls?”

  Black thought hard, flicking through the card index of his mind, tracing all the weddings that had taken place over the last fifty years.

  “Well, sir,” he said finally, “strictly speakin’, we’re all related in the village. Except the Thorburns, of course. But there’s not what you might call a close connection. My mum and Mrs Walmsley are cousins; Mr Wilson is Dad’s half-cousin. Mum knows Mrs Walmsley quite well, but Dad an’ Mr Wi
lson aren’t even on first name terms.”

  “Was there some other connexion between the families?” Rutter asked. “Did the fathers belong to the same organisation? The Conservative Association, for example?”

  “Mr Wilson’s a Tory councillor,” Black said, “an’ before he had his stroke my dad used to belong to the Conservative Club – but that was only because they had the best snooker table in Maltham. Mr Walmsley’s definitely a Socialist.”

  Rutter tapped his cigarette ash thoughtfully into the ashtray.

  “What about some sort of social club?” he asked. “Bowls or pigeons?”

  “My dad used to keep pigeons before Jessie . . . died, but afterwards he lost all interest, an’ in the end I gave ’em away. Mr Walmsley still races ’em. Mr Wilson doesn’t approve of anythin’ like that.”

  Woodend struck his forehead in frustration.

  “It’s tryin’ to fit them all into one pattern that makes it so difficult,” he said. “Take three of them, any three, and we can find things they had in common, but it’s bloody impossible with four.” He lit another cigarette, even though the room was already blue with fug. “Talk to me about the dead girls, Blackie.”

  “What do you want me to say, sir?”

  “Anythin’ that comes into your head. If we can’t get anywhere by logic, maybe we can hit on somethin’ by accident.”

  “I didn’t know Mary Wilson, sir. I was only a baby when she was killed.”

  “The other three then.”

  “I used to feel really sorry for Diane,” Black began. “She seemed a nice enough kid, but she never fitted in. I think it was her mum and dad’s fault.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, they live here, but they’ve never really been a part of the village. Take the coronation. There was a big party in Stubbs Street. All the houses were decked with the Union Jack and we had tables an’ tables of food in the middle of the road. It was great – like we were all one big family. Everybody turned up. Fred Foley, Harry Poole – even Mr Wilson, though he left when the dancin’ started. An’ didn’t us kids have a whale of a time. But Diane wasn’t there, her parents took her off to some Catholic do in Maltham. I mean . . . that’s just one example.”