Salton Killings (2 page)

The face belonged in a nightmare. The skin was purple, the mouth hinged open in a hideous gape. But it was the eyes that were the worst. They were wide with fear, almost popping out of their sockets. The foreman turned his head to one side and vomited, then watched dully as the green slime slid down the slope, mingling with the white salt.

As he approached the church, Police Cadet Phil Black was pondering on the cases he had seen in Maltham Magistrates' Court. One woman had particularly affected him as she stood there in the dock, thin, nervous, head bowed in shame. She had had a hard life, the solicitor provided by legal aid had argued without much conviction. Her father deserted the family, her mother had been a prostitute. Her husband drank to excess and was rarely in work. She had only stolen because she was behind with the rent and in danger of eviction.

The magistrates were not impressed. Theft was theft whichever way you looked at it. Property must be protected. It was not her first offence, and they were sending her to prison for six months.

Yet to Black, that was not the answer. The woman couldn't cope with life; she need help, not punishment. Soon, he would be a full policeman, arresting women just like her. He wondered how he would feel about it. He wondered if he was cut out to be a policeman at all.

“There's been a murder,” a voice said, breaking into his thoughts. “Do somethin'!”

He looked up and saw old Mrs Hawkins, her mad eyes gleaming.

“Diane Thorburn. In the salt store. Had her throat cut from ear to ear.”

Black stared at her blankly.

“Had her legs cut off,” the old woman went on, crazily. “Her eyes have been poked out. They can't even find her nose.”

Black looked up Maltham Road and could just make out the police car parked in the dip by the salt store.

“You're a policeman. Do somethin'.”

“Do what, Mrs Hawkins?”

The old woman seemed at a loss for several seconds.

“Blow your whistle,” she said finally. “That's what it's for.”

Black patted his pocket automatically.

“Well?” Mrs Hawkins demanded.

“If you'll excuse me, Mrs Hawkins, I'd better go and have a look,” Black said, starting off up the street.

The madwoman's voice followed him like the screams of a banshee, “Do somethin'! Do somethin'!”

He passed women standing in groups – arms folded over their pinnies, eyes fixed on the salt store, loud voices reduced to thin-lipped whispers. Wives, for whom it was almost a religious rite to get the tea on the table at the stroke of five, were oblivious to the passing of time. Neighbours who had not spoken for years stood shoulder to shoulder.

The men, too, had been drawn together by what had happened. On any normal day they would have been home long ago, scrubbing off the day's filth in an old tin bath. Today they collected in front of the George and Dragon, a bunch of cloth-capped figures as closely packed together as sardines in a tin.

Fred Foley was at the corner of Stubbs Street, his greasy cap held in dirty, twitching hands; as Black drew level with him, he lowered his head and stared down at his boots. Even at times like this, there were still loners, Black thought, men who, for one reason or another, were not part of the village and who, if they had grief, must shoulder it alone.

A little further on was Councillor Wilson, his eyes sternly fixed on the large, dark shed by the humpbacked bridge, his sombre suit – for once – in keeping with the scene. Another outcast, though a voluntary one this time.

And outside the pub, yet apart from the main gathering, stood Harry Poole, the landlord, his face fixed in its customary sulky expression.

As Black passed the George, several of the men made vague gestures of greeting, but there were none of the usual cries, the good-natured ribbing that he had come to expect and accept. He reached the salt store just as the two ambulance men appeared, the lifeless body of Diane Thorburn laid on a stretcher between them.

Superintendent Giles looked out of his office window at the Corporation Park. The new leaves on the trees had that sheen which is peculiar to a wet English spring. A soothing sight usually, but not today, not with his boss on the end of the telephone line.

“This murder,” the Chief Constable barked. “What can you tell me about it?”

“Local girl, fifteen, strangled as far as we can tell. The MO's looking at her now.”

“Oh, there's going to be a post-mortem,” the Chief Constable said acidly. “That'll make a pleasant change, won't it?”

“There's always a post-mortem in the case of violent death, sir,” Giles said flatly, although he knew full well what was coming next. Would the bastard never let him forget it?

“Except in the case of a murder,” the Chief Constable said.

“It was a long time ago, sir, and there were special circumstances, as you are well––”

“Not a very creditable record, is it? One murder, no post-mortem, no arrest.”

Giles said nothing.

“Well?” the Chief Constable demanded.

“No, sir.”

“If I'd been in charge then, it wouldn't have happened. And it's not going to happen this time. I'm calling in the Yard right away.”

He sounds like he's expecting me to object, Giles thought. I'm one year, three months and four days away from retirement. Does he really think I want this murder for myself?

“Fine by me, sir,” he said.

“Right,” the Chief Constable continued, “this is the way you play it. The MO can go ahead, but I don't want your men doing anything that leaves them open to charges of incompetence later. So, seal off the place where the girl was found, make any inquiries you need to about her movements before her death, but don't start interrogating important witnesses.”

Giles balanced the telephone in the crook of his neck, and reached for a packet of Senior Service. He lit one and inhaled deeply.

“Are you still there, Superintendent?”

“Just writin' it all down, sir.”

“Good. Make sure all your men understand it clearly. And for God's sake don't arrest anyone – even if they confess. When the Yard men do get here, give them all the manpower they want, even if it means cutting back on other duties.”

Let's have the warnin', Giles thought. Let's get it over with.

“And Superintendent, if I were you, I'd personally stay as far away from them as possible. If there's a disaster this time, let's try to ensure that it's not
your
disaster.”

It was the closest pub to the Yard, and half its customers seemed to be off-duty officers. Detective Sergeant Rutter paid for the drinks and then turned to DS Crowe.

“What can you tell me about Chief Inspector Woodend?” he asked.

“Cloggin'-it Charlie? Why do you want to know?”

“He's my new governor.”

Crowe unwrapped a twist of blue wax paper and scattered salt liberally over his crisps.

“And you've not met him yet?”

Rutter shook his head.

“I know him by sight, that's all.”

The other man chuckled.

“Well, there's nothing like being dropped in at the deep end, is there?”

“What do you mean?” Rutter asked – alarmed.

“He's a northerner, our Charlie,” Crowe said, “a bit of a rough diamond, if you know what I mean.” He took a reflective sip of his beer. “He's not exactly strong on tact, and as for following regulations – well, he thinks the only people who need to bother about ‘proper channels' are tugboat captains.”

Rutter frowned. It was not good, politically, to be associated with a maverick. Not when your ambition was to be the youngest ever Commissioner of Police.

“So he's not popular with the top brass?” he asked.

The other man chuckled again.

“The Commander can't stand his guts. I did hear that he's only waiting for Woodend to make a balls-up and he'll have him back on foot patrol.”

And his assistant along with him, Rutter thought worriedly.

“Oh, and there's one more thing you should know about him,” Crowe continued. “He wears out sergeants faster than you get through shoe leather.”

Her tormentors danced around her like tiny devils, their faces bloated with fascinated horror. The circle widened and she looked desperately for a gap through which she might escape. Then the children moved in closer again, pressing in on her like the hands must have done on Diane's throat. A dozen pairs of greedy eyes were fixed on her, a dozen mouths demanded answers.

“Who killed her, Margie?”

“Did they use a rope or what?”

She stuck her fingers tightly in her ears and a noise like the roar of the sea filled her head – but the questions sliced through the waves and stabbed insistently at her brain.

“Was she interfered with?”

“Yeah! Did he take her knickers off?”

“I don't know!” Margie screamed. “I've been here all day!”

“You
should
know,” a voice accused her. “You were Diane's best friend.”

“I wasn't, I wasn't, I wasn't!”

She sank to the ground and felt the asphalt scraping her knees. She was sobbing uncontrollably and her slim body swayed first one way and then the other. And still they would not leave her alone.

“You were! You were her best friend!”

Then, suddenly, they stopped, and all she could hear was running feet. She looked up and through her tears she saw a pair of trousered legs. She raised her head higher. The face looking down at her was handsome, and its lips were parted in a sympathetic smile.

“Pete,” she said.

The young man helped her to her feet, produced a handkerchief, and dried her eyes.

“Why aren't you at work?” she asked.

“I'd got some time owin', an' I took the day off. When I heard about the murder I thought you might have a bit of trouble, so I came up here.” He sniffed contemptuously. “Kids! Nothin' but a bloody nuisance!”

She felt the thrill she always did when he talked about her class mates as children, yet seemed blind to the fact that she was no older than them.

He put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins.

“Come on,” he said, “I'll treat you to a cup of tea.”

“I can't. I've got to meet me mum outside Woolie's in ten minutes.”

Pete kissed her, lightly, on the forehead.

“You can't see your mum the state you're in now. She'd have a fit.”

He took her arm and led her gently but firmly through the school gates towards The Copper Kettle.

They sat at a corner table. Margie sipped at the hot sweet tea, then told Pete all about her day – the questions, the sideways glances, the pointing fingers. When she had finished, he took her small delicate hand into his big strong ones.

“I think you've been very brave,” he said.

Margie felt better. Pete always made everything all right. She stood up.

“Where you goin'?”

Margie glanced around to see if any of the other customers were listening.

“Toilet,” she whispered. “I won't be a minute.”

She turned quickly so that he would not see she was blushing.

Once in the toilet, she unfastened her satchel and peered inside. There was her pencil case, a maths book, three or four exercise books and a copy of
Girl Weekly
. And there, right in the corner, was what she was looking for – her make-up. She moved in front of the mirror. She would have to wash it off again, all of it, before she saw her dad, but she wanted to look nice now – for Pete.

She could not understand what he saw in her, she thought, as she applied her lipstick. The oval face that looked back at her from the mirror was pretty enough – fair hair, blue eyes, nose that just escaped being a button. Her newly reddened lips were nice too, not too thick, not too thin. But how could that be enough to hold a strong, handsome man like Pete? She began inexpertly brushing on her mascara. She could understand Pete going out with her if she was beautiful, like her mother – but she wasn't. She wasn't even as pretty as Diane had been.

Diane! There'd been so many questions since the news of the murder had reached school that she hadn't had time to think about what had happened that morning.

She'd known that what Diane was planning was wrong. Even the idea of it had frightened her. At first, she'd refused to play any part in it, but Diane had been so insistent – had even cried. She'd felt so sorry for the other girl that she'd finally agreed. And now the police would want to know why Diane was in Salton when she should have been in school.

She should tell them, she knew she should. But what if they blamed her? What if they said that if she hadn't helped, Diane would still be alive? She was crying again, and big tears, black with mascara, rolled down her cheeks.

“I can't tell them,” she said to the face in the mirror. “I just can't.”

Rutter glanced up at the big clock on Euston Station and then double-checked it with his watch. The train was due to depart in seven minutes. Where the hell was Woodend? He scanned the station, reading that Bovril puts beef in you, pausing briefly over the picture of the girl lying on the grass who had just had Spring Fever in her Maidenform bra. The station was bustling with commuter businessmen rushing to work and office cleaners making their way home. A couple of Teddy boys, dressed in long coats and drainpipe trousers, lounged nonchalantly against the departure board.

Rutter finally caught sight of the DCI, a man in his middle forties, wearing a baggy check sports coat over a zipped knitted cardigan. Woodend was strolling casually, as if he had all the time in the world, even stopping now and again when someone or something caught his attention. Most Chief Inspectors of Rutter's acquaintance wore dark formal suits and marched with a purpose.

Woodend ambled up to the platform, put down his battered suitcase, and looked around him with mild curiosity. Rutter walked briskly up to him.