Salton Killings

by Sally Spencer

  The roses were red, and though they had stems on them, the artist had not included any cruel, spiky thorns. Each flower was identical to the rest, and Margie had counted a hundred and thirty of them, getting two-thirds of the way down her bedroom wall, before her concentration wavered. She felt like a prisoner in a flowery cell. She had to get out, whatever her mum said. She just couldn’t breathe in the pub.

  The door bell rang. She went to the window and looked down on the tops of two heads. The policemen! They hadn’t believed her!

  She tiptoed to the bedroom door and opened it as quietly as she could. Her hands felt cold and she was trembling.

  “. . . just a few questions, Mr Poole,” drifted up the stairs.

  “Dad, dad,” she prayed, “please don’t let them. Please!”

  “Why do you want to question me?” she heard her father ask.

  Him! Him! It wasn’t her they wanted to see.

  “Just routine, sir. Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  She closed the door again. She had escaped, but for how long? Part of her wanted to rush downstairs and confess, get it all over with, but she knew she was not brave enough. If only she could talk to Pete – he would know what to do.

  The walls seemed to be pressing in on her. She had to get out. She would wait till the pub closed for the afternoon, then sneak out of the back door.

  “Are you accusin’ me?” Poole demanded.

  He was angry, but it was a very different sort of anger to the type he had displayed when he had caught Liz talking to Woodend. Then, he had seemed huge and powerful, an erupting volcano. Now, he was just an insignificant little man being petulant.

  “All I’m asking you, sir,” Woodend said, “is to tell me where you were between ten and eleven on Tuesday.”

  “Here,” Poole said, “same as I always am.”

  “And your wife can support you in that, sir?”

  “No,” Poole admitted. “She’d gone shoppin’ for clothes in town. She didn’t come back until after she’d met Margie from school.”

  Yes, Woodend thought, you could see she took a lot of care over choosing her clothes.

  “So you can’t really prove that you never left the pub,” he said.

  “No,” Poole sneered. “But you can’t prove I did, can you?”

  Highton and Sowerbury stuck to their original method – one with the shovel, one with the sieve. Black was working on his own, putting the sieve on the ground, filling it, then picking it up to shake the salt through. Even so, his pile was nearly as big as theirs.

  “He’s right keen, yon bugger,” Highton said. “Does he think we’re gettin’ paid piece rate or what?”

  “They say the feller that killed Diane also did for his sister,” Sowerbury whispered.

  Highton shook his head sympathetically. His quiff bobbed.

  “Hey up,” Sowerbury said, “I think I’ve found somethin’ else!”

  “Another bloody French letter?” Highton asked in disgust.

  “No, this is metal.”

  Black stopped work and went over to look.

  The object was a piece of bent wire a little over an inch long, rounded at the top, broader and longer at the bottom. A strip of flesh-coloured elastic hung from it.

  “What is it?” Black asked.

  The two constables grinned. Sowerbury took the rounded end between his fingers and swung it back and to.

  “It’s a trapeze,” he said.

  “A trapeze?”

  “Aye – for a flea circus.”

  The older men fell about laughing. Black’s look of perplexity increased.

  “Honestly,” Highton finally managed to splutter out, “you can tell you don’t have much fun on a Saturday night. It’s a suspender clip.” He became more serious. “Couldn’t be the dead girl’s, could it? You were at school more recent than us, Blackie. What kind of stockin’s do they wear?”

  “Wool, I think,” Black said, blushing furiously, “grey knee socks.”

  “Not the girl’s then,” Sowerbury said, dropping the clip into his pocket. “Must belong to whoever had the johnnie inside her.”

  But Black had already lost interest and had returned to his sieve.

  Peggy Bryce, Katie Walmsley’s best friend, lived on Maltham Road, right next to the pub. She was a bright attractive eighteen-year-old, her dark brown hair set in an elaborate perm. Unlike Margie Poole, she showed no reluctance to speak.

  “Tell us about the day Katie died,” Woodend said.

  If he couldn’t find a pattern in what the girls were, maybe there was one in what they’d done.

  “We both had a Saturday job in Maison Enid – that’s a big hairdressin’ salon in Maltham,” Peggy said. “Enid only let us sweep up at first, but then she started trainin’ us in cuttin’ and permin’. She was dead pleased with us an’ she said we could both have jobs when we left school. I still work there, I’ll have come out of my time soon, but Katie . . .” Her face clouded over. “Anyway,” she continued, forcing a smile, “after the shop closed we went to the pictures. We’d been tryin’ to look like Marilyn Monroe till then, but Audrey Hepburn was in this particular picture, and we thought she looked great – you know, big eyes, dead good make-up, short hair. When we got home my mum an’ dad were out, so I said why didn’t we go into the house an’ try the Audrey Hepburn look.” She blushed. “To tell you the truth, we’d sneaked into a pub in town for a couple of Babychams, an’ we were both feelin’ a bit tiddly. So I sat her down an’ cut her hair for her, an’ she did the same for me.”

  No pattern, Woodend thought, no pattern at all. Jessie had died on her way home from school, Katie after an evening with her friend. God alone knew what Diane Thorburn had been doing. No, he corrected himself, the murderer knew too, because he had planned it, every step of the way.

  “Then we tried the make-up on,” Peggy continued. “That was a real disaster, I don’t think we had the faces for it. All that eye-liner made Katie look just like a corpse.” She shuddered as she realised what she’d said. “But the hair looked good,” she added hurriedly. “Of course, it would be dead old-fashioned now, but that was then.” She patted her curls self-consciously, while examining Woodend with a professional eye. She grimaced. “You really could do with a bit of a tidy-up. Do you want me to do it for you?”

  “No, thank you,” the Chief Inspector said, aware, even without looking at him, that Rutter was grinning.

  “It won’t take a minute. I’ve got the brushes and scissors . . .”

  “What did you do next?” Woodend asked.

  “What? Oh sorry. Katie said she should probably be gettin’ off home, so I walked her as far as the canal path. Then she rode off an’ . . . I never saw her again.”

  “Were there any narrow boats moored under the bridge that night?”

  Peggy pursed her brow.

  “There could have been. There usually are.”

  “Do you know Jackie McLeash?” Rutter asked.

  “Come again?”

  “Jackie the Gypsy,” Woodend elucidated.

  “Oh yeah,” Peggy smiled. “We used to play around his boat when we were kids. He’s a really nice feller.”

  Woodend cleared his throat.

  “Did he ever touch you – interfere with you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Peggy said. “He used to help us on an’ off his boat, but he never put his hand where he shouldn’t. Anyway, he’s not interested in little girls, he’s . . .”

  “He’s what, Peggy?” Woodend asked.

  “He’s – not that sort of person.”

  “How do you know he isn’t?” Woodend persisted.

  All her previous willingness to co-operate had vanished. She was guarded and hostile.

  “He just isn’t,” she said. “You can tell.”

  There had been no chance to get out that afternoon, and now it was nearly dark. Margie was desperate. She heard the side door click and looking out of the window she saw her father walk away. That mea
nt that Mum was left alone behind the bar. If she could sneak out, she’d have time to cycle to Maltham, see Pete and be back again before her mum had finally closed up.

  She gave her father time to get clear of the pub, then stepped out into the yard. She went to the shed where her bicycle was stored and pushed it, as quietly as she could, up the alleyway by the side of the building. She was nearly level with the front door when she saw the figure.

  It was standing in the shadow of Brierley’s. It was so indistinct that she could not tell whether it was large or small, thin or fat. Yet she knew that it was a man, and that he was watching her.

  She was almost tempted to turn back, but she needed to talk to Pete – she really did. And what harm could come to her? In a second she could be down the road on her bike – and even if the man ran as fast as he could, he would never catch her. She sat on the saddle and lifted one foot off the ground – never taking her eyes off the still figure across the street.

  “Does your mother know you’re out, Margie?” said a voice right next to her.

  She felt her heart leap into her throat. She looked up and saw that policeman from London, the one Mum fancied – the one she was afraid of.

  “I . . . she . . . I mean . . .”

  Margie looked across at Brierley’s again. The figure had disappeared.

  “I think it’s better if you go back into the house,” the policeman said.

  Head bent low, Margie did as she was told.

  Woodend made sure that Margie had closed the door firmly behind her before he walked up to the salt store. The constable on duty noticed him in the distance and took a cautious stance, his truncheon at the ready. When he recognised the Chief Inspector, he saluted.

  Woodend looked up at the building.

  Maybe tomorrow you’ll give up your secret, he thought. Maybe tomorrow.

  On his way back past the pub, he was tempted to call in for a pint, but resisted. Liz Poole would welcome him, but the other drinkers wouldn’t. And how could he blame them? He was there to catch the killer and he wasn’t any closer than he had been on the first day he arrived. Besides, he sensed that the atmosphere in the George was frigid even without his presence. It was hard to have a good time when there was a murderer on the loose.

  By Tuesday morning the village would be swarming with Fleet Street reporters, making his job next to impossible. Both the Commander and the reading public would be screaming for results, and if he couldn’t provide them, he could say goodbye to his chances of promotion. He’d be shunted off into some backwater, and given only brutally simple ‘domestics’ to handle. He could never take that – he would resign first. But what could a forty-four-year-old man, with no training to be anything but a copper, do? Security Work? Bugger that for a game of soldiers!

  He knew that it was not his own future that was really bothering him – it was the futures that would never be. Mary – her hair as black as Liz Poole’s, but her romantic soul a very different colour to that of the earthy landlady’s; Jessie – intelligent, serious, working hard to become a doctor, but always with enough time for her little brother; Katie – impish, always fun to be with, drinking in life; and Diane – who had never been like the other kids but who might have found her own way eventually. Too many young deaths – too many.

  He trudged down to the churchyard and went directly to the section where Katie and Jessie were buried. It was too dark to read the inscriptions, but he didn’t need to. He stood, arms outstretched, one hand resting on each cold marble headstone, and listened to the silence of night. The killer was out there, probably less than half a mile away.

  He went back to the Police House and picked up Rutter. Neither of them spoke on their journey back to Maltham.

  Woodend found it difficult to sleep. There were so many loose ends, so many disconnected pieces of information which he was sure would fit together if only he could ask the right questions, examine them from the correct angle. Why these girls? What had they got in common?

  He drifted off into slumber and dreamed of Liz Poole. She was naked except for a garter-belt and stockings. Her breasts were as full and voluptuous as he had expected them to be. She was beckoning with her little finger, offering herself to him. He was surprised to find that he didn’t want her, that instead he only wished to ask her a question. He couldn’t remember what the question was, but he knew it was important.

  The scene shifted to a young girl running in the wood, running frantically but still glancing over her shoulder. She looked a lot like Liz. Maybe it was her friend Mary, who people thought was her sister, but who was as different from her as chalk from cheese. Perhaps that was the question – why was Mary running in the woods?

  Out of nowhere, a black figure loomed up. His hands were huge, far too big for his arms. They locked around the girl’s throat and pulled her to the ground. Woodend could see her struggling, hear her retching, but he couldn’t help her. The arms flailed violently at first, then became weaker and weaker, until there was a final twitch and it was all over.

  Woodend woke with a start. His head was pounding and he was breathing as if he had been running himself. He felt bloody awful – but he knew the question he had to ask Liz Poole.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Monday morning queue at the bus stop was swollen far beyond its normal size. Big strapping lads stood reluctantly under the protection of smaller, watchful mothers. Some of the children had both their parents with them. The bus pulled in, the kids climbed aboard, and only when it was out of sight did the parents head back for home. As they passed the Police House, many of them glanced in through the window. Even at a distance, Woodend could feel their hostility, smell their fear.

  The national newspapers had phoned him already. He had stalled, successfully he thought, but they would not be fobbed off for long. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty-five. He would give it an hour, and then go and see Liz Poole.

  Sowerbury reached into his pocket for his first cigarette of the morning and found something else instead.

  “Christ!” he said, “the suspender clip.”

  “What about it?” Highton asked.

  “I forgot to hand it in. Mr Woodend’ll have my balls for breakfast.”

  “Don’t panic,” Highton said. “For a start, it can’t have anythin’ to do with the murder, can it? An’ secondly, who’s to say when we found it? Young Black’ll keep quiet about it if I ask him to.”

  Sowerbury nodded. His partner was right. He turned towards the door.

  “Where you goin’ now?” Highton asked.

  “To give it in.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. That’ll look dead suspicious just after we’ve started work. Leave it for a few minutes.”

  Davenport was shaved and immaculately turned out, but there were lines of weariness under his eyes. Woodend had seen similar lines in his own reflection that morning. It was not surprising. Ever since the investigation had begun in earnest, they’d been starting work before eight and rarely giving up for the day until after midnight.

  “I told you to take the day off, Constable,” Woodend said.

  “I know, sir, but I thought I’d come in anyway an’ see . . .”

  “I don’t need you,” the Chief Inspector said, “and you’ll be in better shape to help me tomorrow if you get some relaxation now.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, sir,” Davenport said, “I wouldn’t mind spendin’ a couple of hours with Flash Harry.”

  “Flash Harry?” For a moment Woodend thought he meant Poole.

  “He’s me pigeon, sir. Well, I mean I’ve got a lot of ’em, but he’s my favourite. He frets when he doesn’t see me for a while, an’ there’s a big race next week.” He opened the door, then hesitated. “But if you need me later in the day, sir . . .”

  “Get yourself off,” Woodend chuckled. “We can’t deprive the pigeon world of a future champion, can we?”

  Davenport grinned back and left.

  It was exchanges like that which kep
t you going, Woodend thought. Any joke would do as long as it lightened, for a moment, the heavy strain of a murder investigation.

  Black looked even tireder than Davenport. Woodend repeated his offer of time off.

  “I’d rather carry on workin’ in the salt store, sir,” Black said.

  “There are hundreds of coppers who could shift salt,” Woodend replied, “but only you can help me with other aspects of the case.”

  Black seemed to be torn between pride and disappointment. Pride won.

  “Thank you, sir. In that case, I’d like your permission to go to Maltham.”

  “Is that where you keep your pigeons?”

  “Pigeons? No, sir. It’s my day on observation at the Magistrate’s Court.”

  “Ah yes,” Woodend said, remembering Davenport’s explanation for the scheme. “The day when you go to learn how to field the defense lawyer’s questions when the evidence is a little bit iffy.”

  “That’s not why I like goin’, sir,” Black replied, and there was a hint of reproach in his voice, as if his hero had somehow let him down.

  Woodend felt a little ashamed of himself.

  “Why do you like to go?” he asked.

  “You see people brought into the station, an’ think of them just as criminals,” Black replied. “Then you go to court and learn that most of them aren’t really bad, they’ve just got problems they don’t know how to handle. I think we need to remind ourselves of . . .” he stopped, suddenly looking confused. “Sorry, sir. That’s just my personal opinion.”

  Oh, to be young again, Woodend thought.

  “Never be ashamed of your humanity, lad,” he said aloud. “You’d be a worse copper without it.”

  Black had only just left when there was another knock on the door. The place was getting like Paddington-bloody station.

  “Come in,” Woodend growled.

  It was Sowerbury. He stood in the doorway like a small boy seeing his headmaster for the first time.

  “Please, sir,” he said, holding out the suspender clip, “we’ve found this.”

  He was nervous. Woodend wondered why.

  “Anythin’ else?”