Salton Killings

Table of Contents

By Sally Spencer

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

THE SALTON KILLINGS

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

THE DARK LADY

THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

DEAD ON CUE

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

THE RED HERRING

THE ENEMY WITHIN

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

THE WITCH MAKER

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DYING IN THE DARK

STONE KILLER

A LONG TIME DEAD

SINS OF THE FATHERS

DANGEROUS GAMES

DEATH WATCH

A DYING FALL

FATAL QUEST

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

THE RING OF DEATH

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

BACKLASH

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain and the USA 1998 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 1998 by Sally Spencer

The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0048-8 (epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5344-8

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

This book is dedicated to the memories of my grandmother, Hannah, who taught me so much about the village in which we were both brought up, and to my grandfather, Allen, who was always so inordinately proud of me.

Readers of my previous books will probably soon realize that, in many ways, the hamlet of Salton bears a remarkable similarity to the real life village of Marston. That fact, however, should not lead them to believe that any of the events described actually took place. Though the setting
is
authentic, the murders, and the villagers affected by them, are purely products of my imagination.

I owe a great debt to the staff of the Brunner Library, Northwich. Without all their willing help and co-operation, I would have been floundering when trying to produce the authentic background for my Cheshire books. Thank you, one and all.

The rain, driven on by a relentless wind, clawed mercilessly at her face. Her cheeks were almost numb; her legs, pumping hard at the bicycle pedals, felt soaked to the bone.

“Won't be long now,” she told herself. “Soon be home.”

The front wheel thumped heavily over the smooth, shiny stones of the towpath, then landed with a plop on the sodden clay that separated them. She almost lost her balance, but she knew she was in no real danger. She was a good four feet from the canal. The worst that could happen would be a grazed knee.

“Not like poor Jessie Black!”

She shuddered at the images which suddenly flooded her mind. Herself standing on the bridge, looking down at the towpath and seeing the two coppers pulling the body out of the canal. Jessie, limp, like a rag doll, her legs trailing along the ground. The policemen laying her on the stretcher, carefully – as if that made any difference. And worst of all, the white sheet pulled right up over her head, a sign that it really was all over, that the impossible had happened and she would never again see Jessie walking around the village.

To give herself courage, she began to hum the latest pop song,
Hernando's Hideaway
. She hadn't learned all the words yet – though she knew they went on about a dark and secluded place. She wondered what ‘secluded' meant, and as she hummed she matched the strokes of her pedalling to the rhythm of the tune.

The rain had discovered a gap between neck and blouse and was cutting icy channels down her back. She was tempted to stop and pull her collar up higher, but didn't. What she wanted most was to get home as soon as possible, to sit in front of a nice warm fire.

At first, she mistook the black shape ahead for a tree, projecting out onto the towpath. Then, as she got closer, she could make out legs, arms disappearing into the duffel-coat pockets. A head completely shrouded by the hood.

The figure was not going anywhere, it wasn't even sheltering. It was just standing – waiting. She wondered uneasily how long it had been watching her. She rang the bell, but the hooded form did not move. There were still three feet between it and the canal; plenty of space. She steered slightly to the right.

It was when she was almost level with it that the shape moved, stepping out into the middle of the path. There was no time to brake. She swerved, then straightened, now only six inches from the canal. Suddenly, the hands were out of the duffel-coat pockets, pushing at her. The fingers pressed hard against her arms and shoulders. The bike wobbled crazily, and she was off it. She felt her ankle hit something, then she was flying – but only for a second. The freezing water exploded against her and sucked her down – down.

Three times, she told herself, three times. You always come up three times before you drown!

Her head was above the surface again and she could see the bank, four feet away. She didn't know how to swim, but she kicked as hard as she could and found that she was moving. One hand cleared the water and she felt her nails digging into the soft clay of the bank. In her panic, she had not thought at all about the duffel-coated figure, but now she saw him, kneeling down in front of her.

With surprising gentleness, he took her arm and lifted it into the air. She struggled, trying to break free, trying to regain her precious hold on solid earth. It was no good. He placed his other hand on her head and she was submerged again, blind and helpless.

I'm going to die, a voice sobbed in her head. I'm going to die.

Her legs were still kicking, but she knew it was a waste of effort. She wanted to scream, yet held her breath, putting off the moment when the cold, greenish liquid would gush down her throat and fill her lungs.

I'm going to die!

She didn't see her whole life flash before her. Instead, she thought about her parents, watching the police fish her body out of the canal – limp, a rag doll. Just like Jessie.

She didn't ask why she was being murdered – she had seen her killer's face and that was an answer in itself.

Though it was late May, the thick mist had clung tenaciously until well after eleven, and even after its departure left a chill in the air to remind the villagers of its all-enveloping shroud.

The men around Number One Pan were unaware of the cold outside; their working environment – hot and sticky – never varied, whatever games the weather chose to play. Stripped down to their vests, they plunged their scoops into the bubbling brine, drained off the water and then dumped the sizzling salt into the handcarts jammed up against the wall.

The foreman took off his cap and wiped his neck with it. Consulting his pocket watch, he saw that it was only twelve fifteen. Another three-quarters of an hour to go. He couldn't last that long without a break. He glanced at the nearest cart, the first one they had filled. The salt had been mushy when they pulled it out and hot enough to take the skin off his hand. Now it was crystalline and glistening and he could tell, even without touching it, that it was ready to tip.

“Right, lads,” he shouted, “let's get this one out of the way.”

The wide double doors let onto the road halfway up the hump backed bridge. The foreman stood in the middle of it and looked down to the village. Nothing moving. He turned to face the crown of the bridge and listened. He could hear the chug-chugging of a narrow boat on the canal. Jackie the Gypsy must have decided not to wait for help and finished the loading himself. He was a funny bugger that Jackie, not soft in the head . . . but definitely odd.

The foreman strained his ears for the sound of a car engine labouring up the blind side of the bridge, and when he was satisfied there was none, he nodded to his waiting men.

“Right. Let's be havin' you.”

Two to each handle, the workers started to push the clumsy cart across the road to the salt store. The doors were open and as the foreman entered, striding along the platform, he heard the sound of children's voices, shouting excitedly. He peered over the edge, and fifteen feet below him saw three ten-year-olds rolling about in the mountain of salt. They were always doing this – sneaking in through the side door and jumping off the platform. The kids became aware of him, looked up and grinned.

“You've no business in here,” the foreman said. “Sod off, the lot of you.”

But he smiled as he spoke. They were only having a bit of fun.

“Go on, get off home to your dinners,” he added a little more harshly when they failed to respond. He pointed at one of them, a curly-headed boy with a runny nose. “I know you, Tommy Roberts. Just wait till I tell your dad about this. You won't half get a beltin'.”

The children laughed. They knew he was not seriously angry, not like their parents sometimes were, but still they began gingerly to descend the steep slope of salt.

The cart was beside him now, and the wheezing men were beginning to tip it forward.

“Hang on,” the foreman said. “They're a bloody nuisance, but we don't want to bury 'em!”

One of the kids had already reached the floor, and was opening the small door at the front. A second tripped and went head over heels down the salt, giggling and screaming as he fell. Tommy Roberts – well, it would be, wouldn't it? The child picked himself up at the bottom, dusted the salt out of his clothes, waved, and was gone. Nippers! They were bloody indestructible.

“Can we tip it
now
?” one of the workers asked.

“Aye, you might as well,” the foreman said. “No! Wait a minute.”

There was something sticking up out of the salt where the boy had rolled. It looked like a . . . No, it couldn't be. Tommy must have bought it in a joke shop and planted it there. But he had to make sure. The foreman jumped off the platform just as the kids had done, and scrambled across the salt.

He grabbed the object and tugged, but it would not come away. It was no trick. This wasn't rubber, it was real. A real, cold human hand. He scooped the salt away at a frantic rate, uncovering a blue-cardiganed arm and a shoulder. He dug his hand deep into the salt and found the back of the neck. He pulled and strained as hard as he could. Nothing happened at first, then suddenly the head was there, springing from the salt like a demented jack-in-the-box.