Salton Killings (17 page)

“You're doin' fine, lads,” he said. “Just take it slow an' steady, slow an' steady.”

After the interview with McLeash, after the salt which seemed to stick in his throat, Woodend needed a drink. He pushed open the bar door of the George. The place was heaving with Saturday dinnertime drinkers. Harry Poole, pulling a pint, gave him a brief, hostile glance. Liz, frantically washing up glasses, didn't even notice him. He couldn't take the noise and the cheerfulness, not at the moment. He retreated back out into the street.

Down Maltham Road he went, past Harper Street with the Wilson villa standing imperiously at its corner, past Stubbs Street, past the Police House. At the church he stopped, hesitated for a second, then clicked up the latch on the lich-gate.

It was the morbid side of his nature that drew him to churchyards, he thought. Yet he found them peaceful places, gardens for both the quick and the dead. It was reassuring to look at the gravestones and see names occurring again and again, generations who had led simple, straightforward lives in the same village, who had known with a certainty where their final resting place would be.

But all that was changing. Rural communities were breaking up. Children, no longer content to settle near their parents, were moving to other parts of the country. He recognised he was part of the disease himself. He had left his native village for ever, and would probably end up buried in some foreign southern field.

He wandered aimlessly through the graveyard, stopping occasionally to look at the stones – some, pointed upright slabs, green with age; others modern, square, black marble. The inscriptions: ‘Went to Sleep', ‘Gone to God', ‘Passed on', ‘Left this world', were both familiar and comforting.

He could not say later exactly what it was that had made him walk over to the two graves in the far corner. Perhaps it was because they were side by side and looked comparatively new. Or it could have been that they seemed better cared for than most of the others, with their fresh flowers and neatly trimmed grass. Whatever the reason, his interest was no more than casual when he glanced at the first one:

A pained expression came to his face. Still a child. Mr Wilson had been right – too many young deaths. He shivered and turned to the second stone.

Woodend's head pounded and his body shook with rage. Too many young deaths – too many. He marched back towards the gate, arms swinging angrily. He hadn't been told – and somebody was going to pay for it.

“Have you seen the size of this village?” Woodend demanded, pacing the small police office like a raging bull. “I mean, have you actually looked?”

Rutter, Black and Davenport, sitting around the desk, said nothing.

“At any one time there can't be more than – what – thirty, thirty-five teenagers in it. Right?”

“About that, sir,” Davenport said.

“About that!” Woodend's voice was thick with contempt. “You're the village bobby, you're supposed to
know
. And do any of you three thick-heads realise how statistically unlikely it is that even two girls should have died in the last sixteen years – let alone four?” He was facing the window but now he whirled round and pointed at Rutter. “You did the investigatin' in Maltham Central. Why wasn't I told about the other two girls?”

Rutter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I only looked through the criminal files,” he said, adding defensively, “I did find out about Mary Wilson.”

“Yes, you did,” Woodend said. “Congratulations. Only you can't go to the top of the class, because you only did half the job.”

He knew he was being unfair, but just at that moment he didn't give a damn.

“You must have been the Salton bobby when Kathleen Walmsley was drowned,” he accused Davenport.

The portly constable bent his head.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir!” Woodend rested his hands, palms down, on the desk, and glared at Black. “An' you. You're not here as a soft option, lad. The only reason you've got anythin' to do with this case is because you're supposed to know the village. Why didn't you tell me?”

Black's eyes were puffy, and his lip was trembling.

“I thought they were accidents, sir, so I didn't bring 'em up.”

“Bring 'em up now!” Woodend roared.

“They were b – both drowned in the canal, sir, one near the woods, the other halfway b – between here and Claxon.”

Near the woods. The Chief Inspector remembered the jam jar glinting in the sunlight, with it's freshly cut flowers.

“Go on,” he said.

“They were on their bikes, sir. They lost their b-balance an' fell in. They c-couldn't swim, neither of 'em.”

A tear rolled down his cheek and plopped onto the desk blotter. It had hardly begun to spread when a second one followed it. This was more than distress at being bollocked by a superior officer. Woodend suddenly realised what the problem was.

Well done, Charlie, he thought to himself, you're a real bloody champion.

“This Jessica Black,” he said, his voice suddenly softer, more gentle, “was she a relative?”

“Y-yes sir,” Black sobbed. “She was my b-big sister.”

“Get some fresh air, Blackie,” Woodend said. “Walk around a bit. Don't come back till you're feelin' better.”

The cadet nodded and walked numbly to the door.

Woodend dropped himself heavily into the vacated chair.

“Davenport, Sergeant Rutter, I owe you both an apology,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I had no right to blow my top like that.”

“It doesn't matter, sir,” Rutter said.

And the sergeant meant it. He had learned a lot since he got off the train at Maltham. Murder wasn't just an intellectual puzzle that fitted together to reveal the killer, it involved people – and their suffering. And you suffered with them.

It wasn't just Black who had affected him, either. His sympathy had also gone out to Fred Foley, one of life's minor tragedies. He wondered if he would become immune in time. The Chief Inspector never had – and that was why he had been so angry.

“So what have we got, Sergeant?” Woodend asked, cutting into his thoughts. “Two murders or four?”

“The two drowned girls, taken on their own, could have been accidents,” Rutter said, “although it's quite a coincidence. But if we consider Mary Wilson and Diane Thorburn as well, two definite murders, then I think it's stretching coincidence too far.”

“An' two murderers?”

“You mean a strangler and a drowner?”

Woodend nodded.

“I don't think so, sir. Not in a village this size.”

“So why did he change his method after the first killin' an' go back to it after the third?”

“The man's a psychopath, but he's got it under some kind of control. After Mary Wilson, he didn't kill again for nine years. Maybe he never intended to commit the second one. He just came across Jessica Black and it was too strong a temptation. Then he went looking for another chance and found Kathleen Walmsley.”

“You still haven't answered my question,” Woodend said. “Why go back to strangulation?”

Rutter shrugged.

“Maybe girls don't ride along the canal bank any more. Maybe he's decided he gets more pleasure out of throttling them.”

“All right,” Woodend said, “we'll treat all four as murders because we daren't overlook the possibility – an' because I've got a gut feelin' about them. But I'll tell you somethin' else, Sergeant. If you're right an' we are dealin' with just one controlled psychopath, then his control isn't what it was. There's nine years between Mary's and Jessica's deaths, four between Jessica's and Kathleen's, an' only three between Kathleen's and Diane's. He's findin' it harder and harder to resist. How long will it be to the next one?”

Black returned. He was pale, but seemed to be in control of himself.

“Think you can face talkin' this through?” Woodend asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We may have to discuss your sister.”

“I know. I'll be all right now.”

Woodend motioned the cadet to sit down and handed round the Capstan Full Strength.

“Assumin' Jessie Black was murdered,” he said to Rutter, “I'm still not happy with your theory that it was the result of a chance meetin' on the canal bank. You'll agree that Diane Thorburn's death was carefully planned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we've no reason for assumin' that the others weren't as well. An' the killer, if there is only one killer, is very selective – just young girls.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “But why these particular girls? Is there a pattern – anythin' to connect them?”

“Age,” Davenport suggested.

“The last three were around the same age, but Mary Wilson was nineteen. An' it isn't religion, either. Diane was a Roman Catholic, Mary was brought up very Low Church.” He turned to Black. “What about the other two?” he asked.

“My sis – Jessie Black – we're C of E, but not very strict. The same's true of the Walmsleys.”

“Any family links between the four girls?”

Black thought hard, flicking through the card index of his mind, tracing all the weddings that had taken place over the last fifty years.

“Well, sir,” he said finally, “strictly speakin', we're all related in the village. Except the Thorburns, of course. But there's not what you might call a close connection. My mum and Mrs Walmsley are cousins; Mr Wilson is Dad's half-cousin. Mum knows Mrs Walmsley quite well, but Dad an' Mr Wilson aren't even on first name terms.”

“Was there some other connexion between the families?” Rutter asked. “Did the fathers belong to the same organisation? The Conservative Association, for example?”

“Mr Wilson's a Tory councillor,” Black said, “an' before he had his stroke my dad used to belong to the Conservative Club – but that was only because they had the best snooker table in Maltham. Mr Walmsley's definitely a Socialist.”

Rutter tapped his cigarette ash thoughtfully into the ashtray.

“What about some sort of social club?” he asked. “Bowls or pigeons?”

“My dad used to keep pigeons before Jessie . . . died, but afterwards he lost all interest, an' in the end I gave 'em away. Mr Walmsley still races 'em. Mr Wilson doesn't approve of anythin' like that.”

Woodend struck his forehead in frustration.

“It's tryin' to fit them all into one pattern that makes it so difficult,” he said. “Take three of them, any three, and we can find things they had in common, but it's bloody impossible with four.” He lit another cigarette, even though the room was already blue with fug. “Talk to me about the dead girls, Blackie.”

“What do you want me to say, sir?”

“Anythin' that comes into your head. If we can't get anywhere by logic, maybe we can hit on somethin' by accident.”

“I didn't know Mary Wilson, sir. I was only a baby when she was killed.”

“The other three then.”

“I used to feel really sorry for Diane,” Black began. “She seemed a nice enough kid, but she never fitted in. I think it was her mum and dad's fault.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, they live here, but they've never really been a part of the village. Take the coronation. There was a big party in Stubbs Street. All the houses were decked with the Union Jack and we had tables an' tables of food in the middle of the road. It was great – like we were all one big family. Everybody turned up. Fred Foley, Harry Poole – even Mr Wilson, though he left when the dancin' started. An' didn't us kids have a whale of a time. But Diane wasn't there, her parents took her off to some Catholic do in Maltham. I mean . . . that's just one example.”

“I understand,” Woodend said.

“I used to see her playin' with the other kids in the street. You could tell they didn't care whether she was there or not. An' she always looked awkward an' unhappy, as if the game didn't really matter to her. It's difficult to explain . . .”

“You mean the other kids were playin' a game, and she was playin' at bein' their friend?”

“That's it, sir.”

“What about Kathleen Walmsley?” Woodend asked.

“Oh, Diane an' Katie were as different as chalk an' cheese. They––”

Woodend raised a hand to cut him off.
As different as chalk and cheese
. Someone else had used exactly the same words to him earlier in the week. But it hadn't been a reference to Katie. They hadn't even known about her then. Now who . . .? He looked up from his musings and saw that the others were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, Blackie,” he said. “Carry on.”

“Katie wasn't all that pretty, but she was very popular. She had freckles an' a turned-up nose. Her hair was like a pixie's an' she had an impish little smile. When you saw that smile, you knew you were in for some fun. I was in love with her when we were little kids, all the boys were. But the girls liked her too. She was that sort of person.”

“Were her parents strict with her?” Woodend asked, looking for a link.

“You mean like Mr Wilson an' Mr Thorburn? No, sir. By the time she was twelve or thirteen she was goin' out with lads who were already workin'. Her mum an' dad didn't mind. I don't mean they didn't care, they just trusted her. She wasn't the sort of lass who'd . . . come to any harm.”