Salton Killings (21 page)

“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 meant 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.

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 kept 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?”

“N . . . no, sir. Well, nothin' important.”

“Nothin' important!” Woodend bellowed. “It's not your job, Chief Superintendent Sowerbury, to decide what's important.
What did you find
?”

“A used john – fren – Durex, sir. We threw it away.”

A contraceptive and a suspender clip. Between them, they answered a lot of questions. But they left one big one unanswered – why had it been necessary for him to find out this way?

Liz Poole was on her hands and knees scrubbing the front step. She had an apron on, but under it she was wearing a smart frock and nylon stockings. She stretched to reach into the corner, and the dress rode up, giving Woodend a momentary glimpse of her stocking tops.

Nice legs, he thought, and coughed discreetly.

Liz turned round.

“Hello, Charlie,” she said. “What can I do for you? Questions? An illegal drink?” She smiled saucily. “Or are you just admirin' the view?”

“Questions unfortunately,” Woodend said. “Can we go inside please?”

They sat opposite each other in the snug. It was strange to see Liz this side of the bar.

“I've only got one question really,” he said. “The other day you told me that you and Mary were as different as chalk and cheese, but you had one thing in common. What was that?”

Liz smiled.

“Why, luv, we were both pregnant.”

Woodend had been lounging with his elbows on the table. Now he sat bolt upright.

“Who knew about this?”

“Only me, her best friend.”

“She didn't tell Lieutenant Ripley?”

“No. She knew he was due to be posted somewhere else, an' she was hopin' he'd propose before he went. But she said she wasn't goin' to trap him into anythin'. If he married her, it had to be because he wanted to, not because she was in the club.”

“You're sure she never told him?”

Liz shrugged.

“Well, she could have changed her mind, I suppose, but she certainly hadn't before the night she . . . was strangled.”

The walls were painted in what looked to be army-surplus khaki. The only light came from a single overhead bulb and a small window at the top of the wall. The wooden table was scarred with the marks of innumerable cigarettes and the chairs squeaked whenever they moved. Interview Room A of Maltham Central was a box of a place where the sweat of countless interrogations floated in the air and was never really dispersed.

The Reverend Gary Ripley's six foot seven body dominated the table at which he was sitting. Woodend noticed that the blister on his finger had still not healed.

“They brought me here the first time,” Ripley said, “just after Mary was killed.”

Woodend had no time for such reminiscences. It had taken the Manchester Police over three hours to find Ripley and another to get him to Maltham Central.

“Did you know Mary Wilson was pregnant when she was killed?” he demanded.

A nail driven straight through his hand could not have had a more devastating effect on the American.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, “it can't be true.”

“Meanin' you never slept with her?”

“We loved each other,” Ripley said slowly, “and we
made love
to each other. But if she'd been expecting a baby, she'd have told me.”