Salton Killings (12 page)

“What's it all about?” Foley demanded.

“You know as well as I do,” Rutter said.

“Diane Thorburn?”

Rutter nodded.

“You make one mistake,” Foley said bitterly, “an' they never let you forget it. I suppose you'd better come in.”

The dog, a mangy mongrel, cringed when Foley entered the kitchen, then crawled on its belly under the table. Rutter looked around the room. The table had no cloth and its bare boards were caked with congealed food. The walls and windows were filthy. The whole place stank of urine, cheap cider and vomit. Rutter decided not to touch anything if he could help it. Foley, having no such scruples, plopped himself down in a battered armchair, oblivious to the clouds of dust that swirled around him.

“What d'you want to know?” he demanded.

There was no point in being subtle, not with a man like this. Brutality was the only thing he would understand.

“Let's start with the girl you pushed in the canal,” Rutter said. “Jean Parkinson.”

Foley shook his head.

“You have to go further back than Jean Parkinson, right back to the bloody Yanks.”

“The Yanks?”

“I was happily married before the war,” Foley said. “Then the Americans came across with their dollars an' their nylon stockin's. My missis started carryin' on with them before they'd even unpacked their kitbags. Only I didn't know.”

It's always the people most closely concerned who are the last to know, Rutter thought. Look at Mr Wilson.

“When did you find out?” he asked.

Foley hesitated.

“I had me suspicions before I went overseas,” he said, “but I didn't know for sure till I came back. Three years of fightin' for me country, and when I got home, she'd buggered off to America. They're rotten, women – all of 'em.”

He buried his face in his hands and began to sob. Rutter had to restrain himself from stepping forward and patting the man's heaving shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Foley said, sniffing. “Anyway, I started drinkin' an' I lost me job on the pans. I lost me mates, too. I just used to sit here on me own. I got talkin' to the kids in the street. It was boys
an
' girls at first and then . . . it was just girls. They used to come round to see if I'd got any little jobs, shoppin' or owt. I'd always give 'em a few coppers for their trouble.”

Rutter could see it all: the loneliness, the misery. He could understand how a man no longer able to cope with the adult world might turn instinctively to the simplicity of children.

“Some of 'em were little minxes,” Foley continued. “They looked innocent enough, but they had knowin' eyes. That Jean Parkinson, she didn't have to go under the bridge with me. She knew what I wanted, all right, even before I did. She led me on, an' then she said no. But I never threw her in the canal, I just pushed her away from me an' she fell.”

“The judge didn't believe that,” Rutter said, though not harshly.

“I can't say I blamed him. I served me time, an' that's fair enough. But I swear, as God is my witness, I never meant her no harm. An' I had nothin' to do with what happened to Diane Thorburn either.”

Rutter felt another wave of sympathy. You're a policeman, he told himself angrily. Act like one.

“Where were you the morning Diane met her death?” he asked, in a cold, official tone.

“How would I know?” Foley asked. “The only day that matters to me is Thursday, when I draw me dole. All the rest of 'em just run together. I sit in here, I walk about without havin' anywhere to go. They won't even serve me in the pub now.”

“Is it likely that any neighbours saw you?”

“I haven't got any neighbours,” Foley said, “just people who live near to me. They meet me on the street, they turn the other way. I'm invisible to them, do you know that?”

Black stood in the playground of Maltham Secondary Mod. with Miss Paddock, Diane's form teacher. All around them, children were running and playing games, laughing and arguing. Miss Paddock hadn't been in the school when Black was a pupil there, and she seemed younger and prettier than the teachers he'd had. But she
was
still a teacher and he felt uncomfortable in her presence, expecting her, at any moment, to accuse him of smoking in the toilets or copying his homework.

“I pride myself on knowing all about the children in my form,” Miss Paddock explained. “Their little problems and worries, their family background. Beresford,” she shouted at a boy standing to the left of Black, “if you can't use that bat properly, I'll take it off you. In fact,” she said, returning to the cadet, “I'm famous for never having to look anything up in the records. But Diane Thorburn, well, there's really very little I can tell you about her. Now if it had been one of my other girls who'd been murdered . . .” She put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, what a terrible thing to say.”

Black was still marvelling at his discovery that teachers could be real people.

“She was a quiet girl, withdrawn. Maybe it was because she was Roman Catholic. Most of them go to Ashburton RC High, but I expect living in Salton, with the buses and everything . . . dear me, I do go on, don't I?”

“Any information is useful in a murder inquiry,” Black said in a serious, official voice, then spoiled the effect by adding, “Miss.”

The teacher stretched out her arm and pointed to a girl who was passing.

“Maureen, I want to see you straight after assembly,” she said sternly. “It wasn't just her religion, though,” she said, addressing Black again. “I think her parents were a little over-protective. She never really had the chance to get to know other girls outside school, at dances or on trips to the pictures. And that's where friendships are really cemented. I think it must have been especially hard for her this year, now a lot of them are starting to go out with boys and . . .”

“The mornin' she died,” Black reminded her.

“Oh, yes. I really can't tell you anything about that,” the teacher admitted, a little shamefacedly. “As far as I'm concerned, she just never arrived at school.”

“Thank you anyway, Miss . . . Paddock,” Black said.

But he was not dismissed yet.

“You're from Salton yourself, aren't you?” she asked. “Do you know Margie Poole?”

“Not well,” Black conceded.

“Between ourselves,” Miss Paddock dropped her voice, “I'm a bit worried about her. The last few days, she's been so pale and quiet. Oh, I know she was Diane's best friend, and it was bound to cause some distress – but it's more than that. She even fainted outside the school gates on Tuesday – or was it Wednesday? – morning. I've been meaning to contact her parents about it, but everything's such a rush at this time of year that I simply haven't had the time.”

“I think you're underestimatin' the shock that comes with murder,” said Black, one day on the inquiry and already an expert on the subject. “It's always terrible when one of your family or friends dies suddenly, a road accident or a drownin'. But it's a sight worse to know somebody's actually killed 'em.”

Miss Paddock looked relieved.

“You're probably right,” she said. “Thank you, Constable.”

Constable
. Black had been brought low by the bus conductor's attitude to him – now he felt like a real policeman again.

The Daffodil
and
The Iris
had just arrived and were moored close to
The Oriel
. The Walters and the McQueens, both couples in late middle age, seemed to bear Woodend no grudge for sealing off the salt store. As far as they were concerned, he was only doing his job. Their stories tallied perfectly: they had arrived in Salton early on Monday morning and their boats had been fully loaded by the time Brierley's men knocked off work. They had set off for Wolverhampton early on Tuesday. When had McLeash arrived? Some time in the afternoon. They were decent, respectable folk, Woodend thought. If it turned out they'd had anything to do with the murder, he'd give up policing and open a paper shop.

Unlike the others, McLeash did not invite Woodend into his small cosy cabin and offer him a cup of tea. Instead, the interview was conducted on the canal bank, with the wind whipping around their trouser legs.

Woodend had noted, the night before, that McLeash was tall and muscular, but it was only now that he was really able to get a proper look at him. McLeash's curly hair was jet black, his eyes deep and intelligent. His nose hooked slightly. A gold earring hung from one ear. He was not conventionally handsome, but he had a romantic air about him that was probably attractive to women – and young girls.

“Tell me what happened on Monday and Tuesday,” Woodend said.

“They were here when I arrived,” McLeash answered, flicking his thumb towards the two other craft. “So Brierley's men loaded them first. Ma boat was only three-quarters full when the hooter blew an' they all pissed off.”

So far, McLeash was only confirming what the McQueens and Walters had said.

“I wanted to be away, so I got up early on Tuesday an' bagged the rest of the salt maself. The salt store wasna locked then.”

He grinned, but it was not a joke he was inviting Woodend to share.

“Have you bagged up yourself before?” the Chief Inspector asked.

McLeash shrugged.

“Now an' again.”

“What time did you finish?”

“Half nine, ten.” He stretched his arm, then pulled back the sleeve of his jacket to show Woodend his bare, brown wrist. “I dinna have a watch. I'm no governed by other people's time – I make ma own.”

“What did you do then?”

“Hung aroond till the George opened, had a pint and then got one of Brierley's men to check ma load.”

Which meant, Woodend thought, that the man from Brierley's wouldn't have inspected the boat until at least half-past eleven. So there was no way of establishing when McLeash left the salt store.

“You were in such a hurry to leave that you bagged up yourself,” he said slowly, “an' then you waited for at least an hour for the pub to open. Doesn't seem like you were in much of a rush to me.”

“I thought the baggin' up would take longer,” McLeash said easily. “Anyway, I'm a Scot – there's always time for a drink.”

“And while you were workin' in the salt store, until half-past nine or ten – or possibly even ten thirty, Mr McLeash – you didn't notice anythin' out of the ordinary?”

“Tha's right,” McLeash agreed.

“So you didn't even know the girl was dead until you arrived back last night?”

McLeash grinned at another private joke.

“D'you think I'da gone anywhere near the scene of the crime if I had – knowin' what suspicious bastards the police are?”

Woodend let it pass.

“How long have you been coming to Salton?”

McLeash scratched his head.

“Must be since 1939, when I first bought the boat.”

“You weren't in the war?”

“Good God, no,” McLeash replied, giving a fair imitation of a crusty Home Counties Major. “Can't rely on gypsies, not when the Gatling's jammed and the Colonel's dead. Not the sort of chaps we want in our army at all – totally unsuitable.”

“So you've been coming here regularly for the last nineteen years?”

“Must be.”

“Do you do other runs as well?”

“I've been everywhere,” McLeash said, “carried everythin'. I go where the mood takes me.”

The sun was making a valiant effort to break through the clouds, but the wind continued unabated.

“Tell me about the time you went to jail,” Woodend said.

“What's the point?”

“Because I want to know.”

His tone would have terrified most of the people he'd questioned, had them babbling out an answer, desperate to please. McLeash was not in the least intimidated. He stood for a second looking down the canal towards the woods, as if considering whether or not to tell Woodend to go to hell.

“I was in Wolverhampton when this cigarette warehouse was turned over,” he said. “They had a real keen Sergeant down there, buckin' for Inspector. He went over ma boat with a fine-tooth comb, an' when he couldna fond nothin' he planted a couple of cartons of cigarettes that he'd had hidden unda his raincoat.”

“And, of course, you were totally innocent.”

For the first time, McLeash seemed riled.

“Yes, I bloody was,” he said.

Woodend changed tack while he still had McLeash rattled.

“Did you know the murdered girl, Diane Thorburn?” he asked.

“Might ha' done. I get a lot of young girls playin' roond the boat. At least one of 'em was called Diane.”

“And Mary Wilson?”

McLeash hesitated for no more than a split second.

“Get a lot of Marys. Very popular name. Couldn't say for sure if I know the kid or not.”

“This one wasn't a kid,” Woodend said. “She must have been sixteen or seventeen when you first started comin' here – a pretty girl, with long brown hair. She was strangled – just like Diane Thorburn.”

“Now you mention it, I remember the case, but I never met the girl.”

His eyes flickered, ever so slightly, as he spoke, and Woodend knew that he was lying. But now was not the time to push it. He would wait until he had more information on McLeash.

“That's all for the moment,” he said. “You're free to leave Salton, but keep us informed of your whereabouts. Check in with your nearest police station every night.”

McLeash nodded, stepped back onto
The Oriel
, and opened his cabin door.

“By the way,” Woodend said, “the name of your boat. I looked it up in the dictionary,” he took his notebook out of his pocket, “an' it said ‘part of a room projecting from an upper storey, supported from the ground and having a window in it.' Doesn't seem to have a lot to do with boats. What made you choose the name in the first place?”