Salton Killings (9 page)

Wilson took up a position behind his wife's chair, one hand resting on each of her frail shoulders. It was almost as if he were standing in a pulpit.

“I am a God-fearing man,” he began. “The Lord blessed me with one child and I tried to raise her in His ways. Yet she became a fornicator, the paramour of a Godless foreigner. And Satan kept it hidden from me. Nightly she committed the hot sin of lust, and I knew nothing.” He raised an arm in the air. “But the Lord saw. She could not hide it from Him. He is merciful, but He is just, and he caused her to be smitten, yea, even unto death.”

His voice had been rising as his anger increased, but now it broke. He looked directly at Woodend, and the Chief Inspector could see the tears in his eyes.

“It was not the child's fault,” he said. “I – I was the cause of her death at so young, so tender, an age. The Lord entrusted her to me, and I failed. She strayed from the path because I could never make her see the glory, the majesty of that path. I wish that God, in His infinite mercy would cause me to be smitten too – yea, even unto death.”

He buried his head in his hands and was convulsed with sobs. Mrs Wilson rose to her feet and though her head barely reached his shoulder, though she was so thin and fragile, she now seemed the stronger of the two. She shepherded her husband into the chair she had vacated and spoke in a soft cooing tone, so low, that Woodend could not distinguish the words.

“Please wait,” she said in a voice liked cracked paper, as Woodend made a move to leave.

She stroked her husband's head, back and forth, with her thin, translucent hand, then led Woodend and Black out through the door. Once in the garden, Woodend took a deep gulp of air. The woman looked up at him, and at the back of the pale, washed-out eyes, Woodend could detect a little of the power that had once enabled her to defy her iron-willed husband and hold ladies' tea parties.

“Forgive him,” she said. “He has a great cross to bear.”

They gave Rutter the run-around, as Woodend had said they would, and it was not until late afternoon that he was shown into the Superintendent's office. Giles was hunched over his desk, a Senior Service held between nicotine-stained fingers. Behind him, the trees in Corporation Park swayed gently in the breeze. Giles scrutinised him through hooded eyes and did not smile.

He looks as if he's coasting into retirement, Rutter thought, but sharp enough for all that.

“Take a seat, Constable,” Giles said.

Not a mistake, Rutter thought, a deliberate attempt to knock him off his stroke.

“Sergeant, sir,” he said smoothly, lowering himself into the easy chair opposite the Superintendent's desk. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sergeant.” Giles pondered. “You don't look old enough.”

Rutter smiled, amiably.

“I hear you've been keepin' my lads busy this afternoon. You might even say . . . gettin' in their way.”

“I am engaged in a murder inquiry, sir.”

“Yes,” Giles said, stubbing one cigarette and immediately lighting another, “but Diane Thorburn's, not Mary Wilson's.”

“We think they might be connected.”

Giles shook his head.

“We know who killed Mary Wilson, a Yank airman. We just couldn't prove it.”

“There's no PM report,” Rutter said.

“There was a war goin' on,” Giles replied. “Things got lost.”

“There was no PM report,” Rutter said evenly, “because there was no PM.”

Giles scowled.

“Know that for a fact, do you?” he demanded.

Rutter nodded.

“There were only two doctors in Maltham who could have done it. I rang both of them. Neither of them did.”

“I think you exceeded your authority,” Giles said, his voice grating. “Inquiries of that nature should go through this office.”

“Nevertheless, there was no PM.”

“I think you're being impertinent,” Giles said. “I could report you to your superiors.”

“I realise that, sir.”

Giles sighed.

“You're not goin' to drop this one, are you, lad?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose it's for the best to have it out in the open,” Giles admitted. “Every copper bends the rules now an' again, and thinks no more about it, but I must say that over the years the Mary Wilson case has pricked my conscience a bit.” He reached for another cigarette, and this time offered one to Rutter. “There was no PM because her father didn't want one. He was a county councillor then, still is for all I know. An' he was a great friend of the last Chief Constable – both of 'em strict C of E. I could have pushed it if I'd really wanted to, but I was still new at the job, findin' my feet. Besides, what with most of the younger men away in the war, I was over-stretched, an' it didn't seem worth the effort of wastin' any more resources – the girl had obviously been strangled.”

“What reason did Wilson give for opposing the PM?” Rutter asked.

“He said it was unnatural, a defilement of the dead, a crime against God. An' lookin' back on it, I think that's why, after sixteen years, it's still botherin' me.”

“You mean because
you
don't believe that.”

“No,” Giles said. “I mean because I don't think he believed it himself. He was tryin' to hide somethin' he thought the PM would uncover. An' I wish to Christ I knew what it was.”

“I've faced artillery, Messerschmitts and naked bayonets,” Woodend said, “an' let me tell you, there's no more terrifyin' sight than a bolted pub door.”

“No sir, I don't suppose there is,” Black replied uncertainly.

Woodend chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder.

“You don't know how to take me, do you, lad? Listen, there are only two golden rules for gettin' on with superior officers: do your job well – an' laugh at their jokes.”

Black grinned.

Woodend rang the bell. It had come as a surprise to him to learn that Liz Poole, the gorgeous landlady of the
George
was also the mother of fifteen-year-old Margie Poole, the murder victim's best friend. He supposed it shouldn't have, really. Liz was certainly old enough to have a child of that age. It was just that he associated motherhood with a gentle slide into dowdiness.

He thought of his own wife. He still loved her, and as the years had passed he had got to like her more, too, so that now they felt a cosy companionablity in each other's presence. But she no longer excited him as she once had – the days when he would rush home from work and drag her into the bedroom, baking powder still clinging to her hands, were long gone.

The letter box opened, and a sullen, whining voice oozed through it.

“We're closed.”

“Police,” Woodend said. “Open up please.”

Bolts were drawn, and Poole appeared. He had put on a collar and tie since the last time Woodend had seen him, but it had done little to smarten him up. The man would look scruffy coming out of Moss Bros.

Woodend flashed his warrant card.

“We're investigatin' the death of Diane Thorburn, Mr Poole,” he said. “We understand that your daughter Margie was her best friend, an' we'd like to talk to her.”

Poole's thin lips tightened and his eyes flashed with sudden anger.

“You can't. I'm not standin' for it.”

The second time today, Woodend thought. This never happens in the Edgar Wallace films.

Aloud, he said, “I'm sorry sir, but I must insist. You or your wife can be present, you may even call your solicitor if you wish, but I simply must talk to her.”

“No!”

“Who's there, Harry?” asked a deep husky voice from the recesses of the pub.

“Somebody from the police,” Poole called over his shoulder.

There were clicking footsteps in the corridor. Most women in high heels made a noise like a stick being dragged along railings, Woodend thought, but Liz Poole just sounded slinky.

Her head appeared behind her husband. In heels, she was taller than he was.

“Chief Inspector Woodend,” she said, and Woodend felt a childish pride that she had remembered his name. “What's this all about?”

Woodend rapidly outlined the situation.

“Well you have to do it sooner or later,” Liz Poole said, “so we might as well get it over with.”

Her husband opened his mouth to speak.

“You can carry on with the stocktakin', Harry,” Liz Poole said firmly. “I'll deal with this.”

Poole hesitated, then disappeared down the passageway, grumbling under his breath as he went. Mrs Poole led the two policemen into the private quarters at the back of the pub.

The wallpaper in the living room was a cheerful flowery pattern, the carpet a deep claret. The sideboard was in the new white-wood style, almost box-like with thin legs. It was a room Woodend felt he could be comfortable in.

“Sit yourselves down,” Liz Poole said. “I'll just go an' get our Margie. She's up in her room.” She caught Woodend's questioning glance. “Homework. I never let her do anythin' else until she's finished that.”

Margie Poole was not doing her homework. She was crouched by her open bedroom door, listening to the noise drifting up the stairwell. She had been listening constantly, ever since the murder, waiting for the sound she dreaded, but which she knew must come.

If only she could be sure that if she told the truth it would help to catch the murderer, then she would do it – even though it would get her into trouble. But she knew so little; Diane had only hinted – teased her really. She heard a footfall on the stairs and jumped up, so that by the time her mother knocked on the door she was sitting at her desk, poring over a text book.

“A policeman to see you – about Diane,” Liz Poole said, smiling encouragingly. “Don't worry, he's very nice.”

Margie stood up, and Liz kissed her lightly on the cheek. Together, mother and daughter descended the stairs to the living room.

There were two of them, Phil Black, who was older than her but didn't look it, and another one who was much much scarier. It wasn't that he looked fierce or nasty. If he had been, it wouldn't have bothered her, because then Mum would have protected her. It was his eyes that were frightening. They were kind, but they were deep and understanding, too, and she felt that they would look right into her and read her secret thoughts.

“Chief Inspector Woodend, this is my daughter.”

Ideas, a lot of them silly ones, flashed through Margie's head like ping-pong balls. She heard the pride in her mum's voice and thought; Yes, I am pretty, but not as pretty as she is. If only I had her hair instead of Dad's. She looked at the policeman from London and thought; Mum fancies him, I can always tell. That was what made it so difficult to talk to her dad: she kept Mum's secrets from him – and she was not sure that she should. She saw Phil Black smiling at her and felt very grateful.

The policeman – Mr Woodend – slapped the cushion of the chair opposite him with the palm of his hand.

“Come and sit here, Margie,” he said, “and we'll have a little talk.”

She sat nervously on the edge of the chair, her thumbs hooked into the tops of her woollen school stockings.

“Tell me about Diane,” Woodend said. “She was your best friend, wasn't she?”

Margie frowned.

“Well, not really, but I was her best friend.”

“You mean you had lots of friends, but Diane only had you.”

She nodded. He understood. She had known he would. Oh God, she prayed, don't let him find out about the rest.

“The poor kid never had a chance,” Liz Poole said. “I've nothin' against Catholics but there's them in the village as has, and didn't like their children playin' with her. And her parents didn't help either. That mother of hers acted as if they were superior, and her husband only workin' at Brierley's like everybody else.”

“So you were her only friend,” Woodend said to Margie. “How've you been gettin' on recently?”

Margie frowned again.

“She's been a bit difficult,” she said. “A bit catty. I think it's because . . .” she hesitated, and glanced across at her mother for guidance.

Liz smiled back at her.

“Don't fret,” she said. “I'll not tell your dad.”

This was the easy part, the part where she didn't have to lie.

“Well, I've got this boyfriend, you see,” she said. “An' I think Diane was jealous. She was always sayin' things about him – not nice things. We had a couple of rows about it, but she always came back, asking if we could make up again, an' I couldn't really say no.” She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “She needed me.”

“Now, we know that she went on the bus with you the day she was killed,” Woodend said. “What did you talk about on the way to school?”

Margie felt hot, and her heart was beating furiously. It must show on my face, she thought. She could only hope to cover one lie by confessing to another.

“We didn't talk at all,” she said. “I was doin' me homework. I told mum I'd finished it the night before – but I hadn't. I just wanted to watch
I Love Lucy
.”

She heard her mother's tongue click disapprovingly.

“And did you speak when you got to school?” Woodend asked. “Did you notice Diane slip away?”

Margie shook her head.

“I still hadn't finished my homework, so as soon as the bus stopped I got off an' went lookin' for Cathy Carter. She's a swot, she always finishes.”

Phil Black looked disappointed. If he'd been asking the questions, he'd have left it there. If only Phil had come on his own.

“So you paid no attention to Diane at all?” Woodend asked.

“That's right.”

“And you hadn't had a row or anythin', you were just busy with your homework.”