Salton Killings

by Sally Spencer

  Nobody looks beyond the uniform, he thought, not even other coppers.

  “If we suspect policemen of anything,” he said aloud, “it’s bribery an’ corruption. It never enters anybody’s head that a bobby could be a cat burglar or a pickpocket – let alone a killer. Remember when I asked Black where he was on the day of the murder, Davenport? I only did it to put him at his ease, there was no question of checkin’ up on him.”

  “But it was no wonder he looked flustered,” the constable said.

  “I thought he was embarrassed at meetin’ a big cheese from London,” Woodend continued, “an’ knowin’ Blackie he probably was. But there was more to it than that. He must have been workin’ out whether or not to tell me it was his day off, an’ in the end he decided to lie an’ say it was Tuesday, not Monday, when he went to the Magistrates’ Court.”

  Woodend looked down at his pint pot. It was empty.

  “I’ll get another round in, sir,” Rutter said.

  The Chief Inspector rose to his feet.

  “No, you won’t. My treat tonight.”

  He moved to the bar and was served immediately; no one’s conscience is so clear that he can afford to keep the Law waiting.

  “So why did he admit this morning that Monday was his day in court?” Rutter said when Woodend returned.

  “I’d have asked him that myself, only I don’t think he’d have been able to give me an answer. It might just have been a slip. After all, he’s been under a lot of pressure, he could simply have forgotten what he’d told me before.”

  “Then again,” Rutter suggested, “he may have reasoned that if we didn’t find the whistle, the investigation could drag on for weeks, and he would eventually be reassigned to normal duties. In which case, the sooner he covered up the discrepancy, the better.”

  Woodend nodded.

  “That’s possible too, but I think the most likely explanation was that he knew the game was up an’ he needed one last session in court – even more than he needed to strangle Margie Poole. He killed for his parents, but he went to court for the good of his own soul.”

  A hawker came in, carrying a big wicker basket full of tubs of Fleetwood Bay shrimps. Davenport looked as if he was about to ask for the man’s license, but checked himself as Woodend pulled out a crisp pound note and bought three tubs.

  “It was a dangerous game he was playin’,” the Chief Inspector said, tucking into his shrimps with gusto. “He was my expert on the village, an’ he had to assess each piece of information before he fed it to me, to see whether it would point to him. Mind you, he was dead clever about it. He told us some things that would lead us off on a wild goose chase, and he kept back others that would help to clarify the situation. That’s why he mentioned Mary Wilson’s murder, which happened when he was a baby, but said nothin’ about Katie Walmsley’s death. An’ all the time I was wonderin’ about McLeash, Black could have answered all my questions if he’d wanted to.”

  “McLeash?” Davenport asked.

  “Aye – an’ Liz Poole. They’ve been havin’ it off for years, probably since McLeash first started comin’ here. It’s common knowledge in the village.”

  Davenport looked uncomfortable. He hadn’t known.

  “Young Peggy Bryce nearly told us about it, didn’t she, Bob?”

  Rutter pondered for a moment.

  “Of course,” he said. “You asked her how she knew that McLeash didn’t fancy little girls and she said it was because . . .”

  “. . . because he fancied big girls instead. Only at that point, she realised we didn’t know, an’ she clammed up on us.”

  “Why didn’t Black tell you about it, sir?” Davenport asked. “What did he get out of keepin’ it quiet?”

  “It helped to confuse things. I saw McLeash lookin’ at the bolt on the salt store – he knew nothin’ about the murder, he was just gettin’ ready to meet Liz there – an’ I was suspicious.”

  “That would explain a lot about Poole’s behaviour too,” Rutter said.

  “Oh aye. Husbands are always the last to find out, but finally Harry was beginnin’ to suspect the truth. That’s why he faked the headaches. It kept Liz firmly behind the bar, an’ it left him free to go an’ see if McLeash was waitin’ for her.” He finished his shrimps, screwed up the tub and threw it at the bin. It just missed. “There were a couple of other things about McLeash that puzzled me because I didn’t know about the affair. I was sure he was lyin’ when he said he didn’t know Mary Wilson, but I didn’t know why. Of course he knew her, she was Liz’s best friend, but he couldn’t admit it without also explainin’ how he came to know her. Then there was the fact that he was hangin’ around Salton even though there was nothin’ to load.”

  “He wanted to see Mrs Poole,” Rutter said.

  “Yes, partly he was hopin’ to get his oats – in fact when Liz didn’t turn up the second night, he went back to his boat and got drunk. But he was also genuinely concerned about the secret comin’ out. They’d been usin’ the salt store for years – God knows what they’d left behind. An’ while he’s free as a bird himself, he didn’t want to see Liz gettin’ into trouble.”

  “An’ that’s why he followed Margie into the wood,” Davenport said, “because she was Liz’s daughter.”

  “Aye . . . an’ possibly his.”

  “She can’t be,” Rutter protested. “She looks like her father.”

  “No she doesn’t, she takes after her mother. The only thing she has in common with Poole is hair colouring”, and that proves nowt. I’m just a secondary modern lad, I’m ignorant on Mendelian genetics,” he grinned at Rutter’s obvious perplexity, “but I do notice people an’ I know that colourin’ can skip a generation. In fact, it often does. I wonder what McLeash’s mother’s hair is like.” He drained the dregs of his beer. “But back to Black,” he said. “Apart from the matter of timin’, he made a couple of other mistakes, didn’t he?”

  Rutter and Davenport assumed the expressions of men who have already had the answer, but who wouldn’t mind someone else spelling it out for them.

  Woodend’s grin widened.

  “I’ll just get the next round in,” he said.

  As he stood at the bar waiting for the pints to be pulled, he thought, with regret, of how much pleasanter it would have been to spend his last night in the George, being waited on by the delectable Liz.

  Poor old Harry, he said to himself as he counted his change. He’s not had a lot of luck with his choice of wives.

  “There was Katie Walmsley’s hair for a start,” he continued, back at the table. “Blackie said it was cut like a pixie’s. What does that mean to you, Davenport?”

  “Close-cropped, sir. Short. Bits curlin’ round the ears.”

  “But?” Woodend said, looking at Rutter.

  “But her hair wasn’t like that. It was long and wavy. She copied Marilyn Monroe.”

  “It was long an’ wavy until an hour before she died, then Peggy Bryce cut it off. Peggy lives right near the cartroad and Katie went straight home. The chances of Black seein’ her in the village were minimal. He didn’t. The reason he has such a vivid memory of her hair is because that’s how it looked when she was drownin’, when he was forcin’ her head under the water.”

  The lights flashed and the landlord called out, “Time, gentlemen, please,” in a loud voice.

  “The other mistake he made was on the night he broke into the salt store, though I suppose that was natural enough in the heat of the moment.”

  Rutter and Davenport had given up any pretence of knowing what was going on. Woodend was pleased. The old dog might not be able to learn any new tricks, but he could still perform the old ones well.

  “How long was it between Black leavin’ you an’ comin’ back with Constable Yarwood?”

  “It’s difficult to say, sir,” Rutter answered. “We were pretty much involved in the case. Could have been ten minutes, could have been an hour.”

  “It must have been at least
half an hour,” Woodend said. “Anyway, the exact timin’s not important, but two other things are. One: given that Black lives on Stubbs Street, which is close to the Police House, what was he doin’ at the corner of Maltham Road and Harper Street even five minutes after he left you?”

  “He could just have gone for a walk,” Rutter suggested.

  “Maybe. But how did he know Downes had been attacked?”

  The other two men looked at him blankly.

  “Even Yarwood didn’t know that,” Woodend explained. “He only knew that his partner had disappeared into the salt store. Besides, you said yourself that Yarwood was half out of his mind and all he could think about was his eyes. Black didn’t need the information from Yarwood, because he was the one who’d attacked Downes.”

  Rutter handed round his packet of Tareyton and then held a match under the Chief Inspector’s. Woodend inhaled deeply. They weren’t so bad once you got used to them. Maybe cork-tipped would catch on after all.

  “So why, havin’ made his escape, did Black take the risk an’ go back?” Woodend asked.

  “Black never wanted to hurt the constables,” Rutter said. “He only did it because he couldn’t let himself get caught – not before he’d killed Margie. But he couldn’t leave them either, knowing they’d been injured, so he went back.”

  Woodend nodded.

  “Black never wanted to hurt them,” he agreed. “Young Phil never wanted to hurt anybody.”

  The landlord was moving around the bar, whispering discreetly to the customers. Woodend read the words on his lips.

  “The bobbies are in tonight – so for Christ’s sake sup up on time!”

  The Chief Inspector beckoned him over.

  “I’m not here to cause any trouble, lad,” he said. “So if you want to serve a few drinks under the towels, I won’t notice. Provided, of course, three of them end up on this table.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Woodend walked slowly up Maltham Road. Apart from two groups of children playing hopscotch – children who would never again have their game interrupted by Mr Wilson – the street was deserted. The Chief Inspector glanced down Stubbs Street, and could just see the ornamental windmill outside the Blacks’ house, its sails hanging listlessly. Now that Phil had gone, the windmill would decay and the neat flower beds would be overrun with weeds, until the dahlias and chrysanthemums, lupins and sweet peas, had all been strangled. There would be no flowers in jam jars on the towpath, either.

  Ahead of him was Brierley’s, its chimney puffing out clouds of thick smoke. On the right was the salt store, its doors open, the sun glittering on the white crystals that no longer held any secrets.

  He paused opposite the George and watched Liz Poole scrubbing the front step, her firm behind rotating with each movement of the brush. He crossed the road – never taking his eyes off her. She sensed that he was there and turned round to greet him. He looked anxiously at her face, worried lest the events of the previous day had wreaked permanent damage. But she was as lovely as ever, and the smile she favoured him with was warm and promising.

  “Hello, Charlie,” she said. “Off today, are you?”

  “Aye,” Woodend said. “How’s Margie?”

  Liz stood up and wiped her hands on a cloth.

  “She’s shaken up a bit, and the doctor says she should stay off school for a few days. But I’m not really worried, they soon get over things at that age. Harry’s moanin’ he’s still got a headache, but then,” she shrugged, “he’s always moanin’ about somethin’.”

  Woodend put his hand into the pocket of his sports jacket and extracted the evidence envelope containing the suspender clip.

  “This is for you,” he said, handing it over. “Be more careful where you leave them in future.”

  She took it without expression.

  “You should get yourself sorted out, lass,” he said.

  Liz smiled fatalistically.

  “What can I do, Charlie?” she asked. “The man I have, I don’t want, an’ the man I do want doesn’t want me – at least, not full-time. There’s only one feller could make me give up Jackie.” She put her hands on her hips and looked him squarely in the eyes. “So how about it, Charlie? Are you goin’ to take me back to London with you?”

  Woodend remembered his dream – Liz in stockings and a garter belt, her jet-black hair cascading over her full breasts, beckoning to him. He would never tire of her. Even when her looks had begun to fade, she would still be exciting, because she breathed sex through every pore. He thought about his comfortable home, and his comfortable wife, and his daughter.

  “Sorry, lass,” he said

  Liz laughed.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She glanced quickly up and down the street, then kissed him full on the lips. He felt her quick tongue darting around his mouth, giving him one taste of ecstasies that were never to be his. When she broke away, he looked into her eyes and saw that they were deep and sorrowful.

  “Bugger off now,” she said.

  And he did.

  By nightfall, Black would be in Manchester’s Strangeways Prison, but for the moment he was in a holding cell at Maltham Central. Woodend waited in Interview Room B for the cadet to be brought to him. He knew the meeting would be painful, just as it had hurt him to see Liz for the last time, but he had forced himself to come.

  The door opened and Black appeared, flanked by two large coppers.

  “You can go,” Woodend said to the escort.

  “There’s regulations in cases like this, sir.”

  “Bugger the regulations,” Woodend said fiercely.

  The constables exchanged worried glances, then backed out of the room, closing the door behind them. Black was left standing awkwardly in front of him, looking no less like an earnest police cadet than he had done the day before. Woodend tried to hate him and found that he couldn’t.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, sit down, Phil,” he said.

  As the young man slid into the seat opposite him, Woodend took out his packet of Capstan Full Strength. Black hesitated and then spoke.

  “Could I . . . do you mind if . . . would you please give me a cigarette, sir?”

  “I thought you weren’t goin’ to start,” Woodend said, but he offered the packet anyway.

  Black lit his cigarette, inhaled inexpertly and coughed.

  “It’s a bad habit, sir, but not a serious one, not like killin’ people. An’ it doesn’t matter anyway, now that they’re goin’ to top me.”

  “You’ll not hang,” Woodend said angrily. “You’re not evil – just sick.”

  Black took another puff of his cigarette and this time he had more control.

  “I’m glad I was caught, sir,” he said, “an’ I’m glad you’re the one that did it. You’re the kind of policeman I’d have liked to become.”

  “You could have been a good bobby,” Woodend said sincerely.

  They sat in silence for a while, smoking their cigarettes, the ash falling onto the scarred table, then Black said, “Funny thing – life – isn’t it, sir?”

  “Oh aye,” Woodend replied. “It’s bloody hilarious.”

  It seemed to Woodend that a little more red enamel had been chipped off the Maltham sign by bored passengers waiting for their trains to arrive, but apart from that the station had not changed since he first set foot on it a week earlier. Even the same people were present.

  “Part of your job to see us off?” he asked Davenport.

  “Well, no, sir,” the constable said, looking down at his boots, “not exactly. I just thought that somebody should.”

  And there was no one else, not the Chief Constable, not the Superintendent, not even Inspector Holland. Woodend had had a brief meeting with the town’s senior policeman and it had been made clear that though he was very grateful to them, he wanted the Scotland Yard men out of the place as soon as possible.

  Nobody feels comfortable around the people who’ve cleaned up their shit for ’em, Wooden
d thought.

  The train pulled into the station, a great iron beast, its chimney belching smoke, sparks flying from its wheels. Woodend opened the closest carriage door, signalled Rutter to get inside, then followed him.

  “You did well, Davenport,” he said, as the constable handed him his luggage. “Might earn you your sergeant’s stripes, this case.”

  Davenport looked far from delighted.

  “When you write your report, sir,” he said, “I’d rather you didn’t make too much of my part in the case.”

  “A sudden attack of modesty?”

  “I’m a good village bobby,” the constable said uncomfortably. “Well, not bad anyway. I don’t think I’d like workin’ in Maltham an’ ordering people about, sir.”

  Maybe he’s right, Woodend thought. Maybe we’d all be happier as village bobbies.

  He became aware of Rutter picking up the cases and heaving them onto the luggage rack.

  No, he corrected himself, not that one. He’s goin’ places, is our young sergeant.

  The whistle blew, Woodend closed the door, and the train began to move out of the station.

  “Goodbye, Davenport,” he said through the open window.

  “Goodbye, sir,” the constable called back. “It’s been a pleasure – and an education.”

  The train picked up speed, leaving the town behind it and ploughing through open countryside. Rutter settled back in his seat. His eyes looked as alert as ever, but it was not the villages and fields that flashed through his consciousness, it was the people he had encountered in the last week: Mrs Walmsley, so alive even after the death of her beloved daughter – and the Blacks, whose lives had ended with an accidental plunge into the canal; Mr Wilson and the Reverend Ripley, both seeking, through their religion, to fill the gap that Mary had left; Fred Foley, a burnt-out shell mourning for his runaway wife; Jackie McLeash, who had erected a barrier between himself and the possibility of such hurt; Liz Poole, who had made her bed but preferred to lie on others.

  Names, he thought, that’s all they’ll be to the Commander, just names in a file.