Salton Killings (10 page)

He doesn't believe me, Margie thought. He doesn't believe me, he doesn't believe me!

“We hadn't had a row,” she said, as calmly as she could manage.

“So who was Diane sittin' next to on the bus?”

“B – by herself, I think. There's always a lot of spare seats and she doesn't – she didn't – really talk to anybody but me.”

Woodend sighed.

“What about the day before? Did you see her then?”

“I saw her at school an' on the bus, but I didn't see her after we got home.”

“An' did she talk about her plans? Did she tell you she was comin' back to Salton or give you any reason why she should?”

Margie shook her head.

“We didn't talk about anythin' like that, just what we were doin' in domestic science.”

Why, oh why, wouldn't he stop?

Woodend leant forward and looked into her eyes. He spoke almost in a whisper, and his voice was soothing, coaxing.

“Did Diane have a secret, Margie?” he asked.

If she told him about that, her whole story would collapse, like the houses of dominoes she built in the bar when the pub was closed. She couldn't tell him, but she knew she couldn't lie either. There was only one defence left – she burst into tears.

“I don't know anythin' about a secret,” she sobbed. “I was Diane's friend an' now she's dead, an' I don't want to talk about it any more.”

She jumped to her feet, her knees knocking into Woodend's as she did so, and ran from the room.

Liz Poole made a move to follow her daughter, but Woodend placed a restraining hand on her arm.

“Leave her, Mrs Poole,” he said. “Believe me – I've a lot of experience in this kind of thing – she'll be better on her own.”

Margie's flight had not fooled him. She had run away because she was hiding something. What he didn't know, was whether it had any relevance to the case. And even if it had, he couldn't see, at the moment, how to get it out of her. Try to question her again and her father, possibly her mother too, would insist on their solicitor being present. He would learn nothing and he would lose Liz Poole's co-operation. Better, far better, to approach the problem indirectly.

“I'm sorry I upset Margie,” he said.

“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?”

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!

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.”