Salton Killings (15 page)

“Be careful, sir,” Davenport cautioned, “the murderer may still be around.”

“I don't give a shit,” Woodend said angrily, brushing him aside. “There's a wounded officer in there.”

“We don't know for certain that he's––” Davenport began, but the torch beam had already picked out the fallen man.

Downes was lying face down. Woodend bent over him and placed a finger on the pulse in his throat.

“Bugger me,” Downes muttered throatily.

Woodend stripped off his jacket, bundled it up, and gently eased it under Downes's forehead. He became aware of the other three policemen standing just behind him.

“Is he goin' to be all right, sir?” Black asked anxiously.

“He's got a bump on his head the size of a duck egg,” Woodend said, “but as far as I can tell he's not sufferin' from anythin' worse than concussion.” He stood up. “Has anybody thought to call an ambulance?”

“I told my wife to,” Davenport said.

“Right. There's nothin' more we can do for him until the ambulance arrives, and there's other things that won't wait. Black, stay with him. Cover him with your jacket and don't move him. Sergeant Rutter, you check that your friend Foley is at home. Davenport, I want to know where Harry Poole is. I'm off to see McLeash.”

There were no other craft moored under the bridge. Word travels quickly on the canal – the narrow boat people knew that there was no point in visiting Salton. So why was McLeash still there?

Woodend could see a light burning through the tiny window of the cabin. He knocked loudly on the door.

“Whosh that?” McLeash asked.

“Police! Open up!”

McLeash swung the door open, and stared out, bleary-eyed.

“Chief Inspector! Come on in,” he said, the sarcastic reserve of the morning now replaced by a sort of drunken bonhomie.

He took a couple of stumbling steps back into the cabin and collapsed onto the padded bench at one side of the folding table. Woodend sat down on opposite him on a second bench which, presumably, turned into a bed at night.

On the table were a glass and a good single malt whisky. The bottle was three-quarters empty. McLeash himself stank of alcohol – but then it would only take a whisky gargle to create that effect.

“I'm havin' a wee drink,” McLeash said, topping up his glass. “Would you care for one yourself?”

“I don't mind if I do.”

McLeash rose shakily to his feet, twisted awkwardly to the cupboard behind his head and took out a second glass. He handed it to Woodend, who poured himself a generous shot.

“Where have you been all evenin', Mr McLeash?” he asked.

“Jusht sittin' here, drinkin'.”

Woodend noticed a book on the floor. McLeash must have knocked it there when he got up to answer the door.

“Readin' too, by the looks of it,” the Chief Inspector said.

He bent forward and picked the book up.
Pride and Prejudice
. An old copy. He opened it an examined the flyleaf.

“I wouldn't have thought this was your sort of book at all,” he said.

“Och, it's no bad,” McLeash replied. “It's written a bit posh, but undernea' it all the folks in that book are no different from anybody you'll meet on the canal.”

“Where did you get it?” Woodend asked.

“I didna pinch it, if that's what you're implyin',” McLeash said aggressively. “I bought it in a junk shop.”

“I don't know what you paid for it,” Woodend said, ignoring the hostility, “but whatever it was, you got yourself a bargain. This is a first edition.”

“Is that right?”

McLeash did not seem very interested.

Woodend looked at the three-quarters empty bottle again.

“So what's the celebration, then?” he asked.

“It's no a celebration,” McLeash said. “It's the opposite, more in the way of a disappointment.”

Woodend finished his drink.

“I'll wish you good night,” he said.

He was quite sure now that the other man had not been putting on an act, because if he had been, he would never have given so much away. McLeash sober could pass for a Scotsman long out of his own country; McLeash drunk tried to act like a drunken Scotsman and only succeeded in sounding like a comic playing one. He would have to be questioned again, but in the morning, when he was in a better condition.

“Now why the bloody hell would anybody
pretend
to be a Scottish gipsy?” Woodend asked himself as he walked back along the towpath.

An ambulance was parked next to the damaged police car. Its light was flashing, coating the watching villagers in a ghostly blue glow one second, banishing them to the darkness the next. Black was doing his best to keep the crowd back, but was meeting with very little success.

It's not the lad's fault, Woodend thought. They've known him all his life. To them, he's just little Phil, dressed up in a uniform.

The ambulance men emerged from the store, Downes between them, supine, on a stretcher. The spectators edged forward.

“Clear a space!” Woodend roared. “Give 'em room to work!”

The villagers shuffled reluctantly backwards.

The stretcher was loaded, the ambulance turned round and was gone. The crowd drifted away, leaving the Chief Inspector and the Cadet alone.

“You found the other one, did you, Blackie?” Woodend asked, remembering the blood on his uniform.

“Yes, sir.” Black sounded distressed. “He was at the corner of Harper Street. There was blood . . . all over him . . . an' . . .”

“Save it till the mornin',” Woodend said. “Think you're up to standin' guard here until I can send for somebody from Maltham?”

“Yes, sir,” Black said determinedly.

“Good lad. When they arrive, you get yourself off home. Have a cup of Horlicks or somethin' an' go straight to bed.” He patted the cadet on the shoulder. “An' don't dwell on it, son. The first time you see blood's always the worst.”

“Foley?” Woodend said, sipping at the strong hot tea that Mrs Davenport had brewed.

“He was at home, sir,” Rutter said, “but he took a long time to answer the door. He was either asleep or in a drunken stupor.”

“Was he really pissed,” Woodend asked, “or just actin'?”

“If he was, he's a bloody good actor.”

“Everybody who lives in a village is a bloody good actor,” Woodend said. “It's not like the city, you know, where you can just blend into the background. In a village you're constantly on the stage, an' if you want to keep any part of yourself
to
yourself, you've got to learn how to put on a show.”

“Shall I go and question him again?” Rutter offered.

“No. If he wasn't drunk then, he will be by now.” Woodend turned to Davenport. “What about Poole?”

“He wasn't in the bar, sir. His wife said he had a headache an' had gone to bed. So I went round to the side door. Had to knock three or four times before he answered. Real nowty he was, wanted to know what right I had to disturb him at that time of night.”

“What was he wearing?” Woodend asked. “Pyjamas an' a dressin' gown?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Davenport replied. “He was fully dressed.”

If Constable Sowerbury hadn't met Constable Highton on the steps of Maltham Central, he might have had a considerably easier day. As it was, they were together when the old desk sergeant noticed them.

“Take your helmet off, Highton,” he ordered.

Highton did, to reveal his quiffed hair style.

“I've told you before about that,” the sergeant growled. “Get it cut.”

“It is cut, Sarge – Elvis Presley style.”

He was a cocky bugger, the sergeant thought. Young coppers had had to be much more respectful when he'd joined the Force.

“Elvis Presley style, is it?” he asked. “Well, the last time I saw a picture of Elvis Presley, he had a short back an' sides.”

“That's because he's in the army now.”

“Aye, an' if you were still in the army, you'd have to look halfway decent too.”

Highton grinned.

“You're a square, Sarge. You want to get with it.”

If Sowerbury hadn't sniggered then, he might have got away with it. But he did, and was instantly tarred with the same brush as his friend. The sergeant had been wondering who to give this unpleasant assignment to, and they had provided him with the answer.

“I want to get with it, do I? Well, I've got somethin' for you to ‘get with'. Report to Chief Inspector Woodend in Salton. He's a nice little job for you.”

“So what
exactly
happened last night?” Woodend asked.

“We worked for quite a while after you'd gone, sir,” Rutter said, “then we decided to pack it in. Black was the first to leave, then a little while later Davenport went out to––” he stopped, realising that he did not know why Davenport had gone out.

“To shave, sir,” Davenport said. “If I don't shave last thing at night, my missus won't let me ne–– I mean, she likes me to shave before I go to bed.”

Woodend thought of chubby Davenport and his roly-poly wife frolicking about in bed like young hippos. It was hard to suppress a smile.

“I just stayed here, sir,” Rutter continued. “Waiting for you.”

“And how did you come across Constable – Yarwood, is it?” Woodend asked Black.

“I saw him at the corner of Harper Street, sir. He was staggerin'. I thought he was drunk at first. It wasn't till I got close that I saw that he was badly hurt.”

“Did you see anyone else either on Maltham Road or in Harper Street?”

“No, sir.”

No, Woodend thought. In his condition, it would have taken Yarwood at least five minutes to get that far. Plenty of time for the killer to get back to his house – or his boat.

“I brought Yarwood straight back here,” Black said.

“He was nearly delirious,” Rutter added, “babbling on about his eyes and being blind. We left him with Mrs Davenport, I sent Black to the George to get you – you know the rest.”

The killer had been in the salt store, a few hundred yards from where he'd been having his pint, and had slipped through his fingers. Woodend cursed inwardly, then told himself that there was no point in crying over spilt milk.

“I'm goin' to brief the men at the salt store, then I'm off to the hospital,” he said crisply. “Sergeant Rutter, get on to the Yard. Find out if they've come up with anythin' new on McLeash or the Reverend Gary Ripley. Davenport, I want you on house to house. Check up on where everybody was last night. Black . . .”

“Could I come with you, sir?” the cadet asked. “I'd like to see how Constable Yarwood's gettin' on.”

“Aye,” Woodend said. “Why not?”

Highton and Sowerbury stood talking to the constable on guard outside the salt store.

“An' you've been here all night?” Sowerbury asked.

“Since midnight anyway. Apparently, that Chief Inspector from London wants it guardin' twenty-four hours a day.”

“So why does it need two of us?” Highton wondered.

The answer was provided by the arrival of the Chief Inspector from London.

“I want you to borrow some overalls from Brierley's men – an' a couple of them big sieves,” Woodend said. “Then you're goin' to sift through that salt.”

Sowerbury gazed at the endless white vista.

“All of it, sir?” he asked, incredulously.

“All of it,” Woodend repeated.

“But what exactly are we lookin' for, sir?”

“If I knew that,” Woodend replied, “I wouldn't need you to look for it in the first bloody place.”

Maltham Infirmary was a converted workhouse and looked it. However much they spent on it, Woodend thought as he walked down the long, tiled ward, they would never quite be able to eradicate the age-old smell of desperation and poverty.

Downes's bed was in the middle of the ward. He was sitting up, pale but cheerful. A white bandage was wrapped in tight layers around his head, so that it looked like a topless turban.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said, “but there's not much I can tell you. I noticed the store had been broken into, went inside, an' blacked out.”

“Any ideas about the feller who hit you?”

“Couldn't even say for sure it was a man. Could've been a woman, a kid even. Young, old, tall, small, I've no idea.”

No, and the assailant wouldn't even have to have been physically strong, not when armed with wire cutters.

Yarwood's bed was at the far end. His face and hands were swathed in bandages, and he was far less perky than his partner.

“I saw Downes go into the shed, an' when he didn't come out again I decided to follow him. Next thing I knew, the windscreen broke an' there was glass everywhere.”

“What happened then?”

“I was terrified some of it had got in me eyes. I'm . . . I'm a pistol shooter, had a decent crack at the regional championship this year.” If his hands had not been bandaged, Woodend was sure he would have clenched his fists. “There can't be anythin' worse than bein' blind. Nothin'. I tried to get the glass out, but there was so much of it. My eyes . . . my eyes were full of blood. I knew I needed help, so I got out of the car an' started making my way to the Police House. I suppose I could have gone to the pub – it was closer – but I didn't think, you see. I was feelin' dizzy.”

“You were losin' a lot of blood,” Woodend said.

“Anyway, somebody found me an' took me down to the police house. He was bloody marvellous, he was.”

Woodend glanced at Black and saw that he was looking out of the window.

“And you didn't see anythin' of your attacker?”

“My eyes were full of blood. I thought I'd gone blind.”