Salton Killings Read online

  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

  By Sally Spencer

  The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

  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 Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  THE RING OF DEATH

  ECHOES OF THE DEAD

  BACKLASH

  LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

  THE SALTON KILLINGS

  A Charlie Woodend Mystery

  Sally Spencer

  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.

  Dedication

  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.

  Author’s Note

  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.

  Acknowledgements

  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.

  Prologue

  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 breat
h, 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.

  Chapter One

  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.

  The face belonged in a nightmare. The skin was purple, the mouth hinged open in a hideous gape. But it was the eyes that were the worst. They were wide with fear, almost popping out of their sockets. The foreman turned his head to one side and vomited, then watched dully as the green slime slid down the slope, mingling with the white salt.

  As he approached the church, Police Cadet Phil Black was pondering on the cases he had seen in Maltham Magistrates’ Court. One woman had particularly affected him as she stood there in the dock, thin, nervous, head bowed in shame. She had had a hard life, the solicitor provided by legal aid had argued without much conviction. Her father deserted the family, her mother had been a prostitute. Her husband drank to excess and was rarely in work. She had only stolen because she was behind with the rent and in danger of eviction.

  The magistrates were not impressed. Theft was theft whichever way you looked at it. Property must be protected. It was not her first offence, and they were sending her to prison for six months.

  Yet to Black, that was not the answer. The woman couldn’t cope with life; she need help, not punishment. Soon, he would be a full policeman, arresting women just like her. He wondered how he would feel about it. He wondered if he was cut out to be a policeman at all.

  “There’s been a murder,” a voice said, breaking into his thoughts. “Do somethin’!”

  He looked up and saw old Mrs Hawkins, her mad eyes gleaming.

  “Diane Thorburn. In the salt store. Had her throat cut from ear to ear.”

  Black stared at her blankly.

  “Had her legs cut off,” the old woman went on, crazily. “Her eyes have been poked out. They can’t even find her nose.”

  Black looked up Maltham Road and could just make out the police car parked in the dip by the salt store.

  “You’re a policeman. Do somethin’.”

  “Do what, Mrs Hawkins?”

  The old woman seemed at a loss for several seconds.

  “Blow your whistle,” she said finally. “That’s what it’s for.”

  Black patted his pocket automatically.

  “Well?” Mrs Hawkins demanded.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Hawkins, I’d better go and have a look,” Black said, starting off up the street.

  The madwoman’s voice followed him like the screams of a banshee, “Do somethin’! Do somethin’!”

  He passed women standing in groups – arms folded over their pinnies, eyes fixed on the salt store, loud voices reduced to thin-lipped whispers. Wives, for whom it was almost a religious rite to get the tea on the table at the stroke of five, were oblivious to the passing of time. Neighbours who had not spoken for years stood shoulder to shoulder.

  The men, too, had been drawn together by what had happened. On any normal day they would have been home long ago, scrubbing off the day’s filth in an old tin bath. Today they collected in front of the George and Dragon, a bunch of cloth-capped figures as closely packed together as sardines in a tin.

  Fred Foley was at the corner of Stubbs Street, his greasy cap held in dirty, twitching hands; as Black drew level with him, he lowered his head and stared down at his boots. Even at times like this, there were still loners, Black thought, men who, for one reason or another, were not part of the village and who, if they had grief, must shoulder it alone.

  A little further on was Councillor Wilson, his eyes sternly fixed on
the large, dark shed by the humpbacked bridge, his sombre suit – for once – in keeping with the scene. Another outcast, though a voluntary one this time.

  And outside the pub, yet apart from the main gathering, stood Harry Poole, the landlord, his face fixed in its customary sulky expression.

  As Black passed the George, several of the men made vague gestures of greeting, but there were none of the usual cries, the good-natured ribbing that he had come to expect and accept. He reached the salt store just as the two ambulance men appeared, the lifeless body of Diane Thorburn laid on a stretcher between them.

  Superintendent Giles looked out of his office window at the Corporation Park. The new leaves on the trees had that sheen which is peculiar to a wet English spring. A soothing sight usually, but not today, not with his boss on the end of the telephone line.

  “This murder,” the Chief Constable barked. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “Local girl, fifteen, strangled as far as we can tell. The MO’s looking at her now.”

  “Oh, there’s going to be a post-mortem,” the Chief Constable said acidly. “That’ll make a pleasant change, won’t it?”

  “There’s always a post-mortem in the case of violent death, sir,” Giles said flatly, although he knew full well what was coming next. Would the bastard never let him forget it?

  “Except in the case of a murder,” the Chief Constable said.

  “It was a long time ago, sir, and there were special circumstances, as you are well––”

  “Not a very creditable record, is it? One murder, no post-mortem, no arrest.”

  Giles said nothing.

  “Well?” the Chief Constable demanded.

  “No, sir.”

  “If I’d been in charge then, it wouldn’t have happened. And it’s not going to happen this time. I’m calling in the Yard right away.”

  He sounds like he’s expecting me to object, Giles thought. I’m one year, three months and four days away from retirement. Does he really think I want this murder for myself?