The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer

ended her life.
    â€œI’ll get you, you bastard,” Woodend said angrily.
    They had got off on completely the wrong foot, Rutter thought. Partly, he admitted, it had been his fault. He was fully aware that his apparent air of confidence and direction sometimes offended people. He had developed it in his early days at the grammar school, when it was all he had going for him, and now he found it difficult to give it up. He would try, he promised himself, really try to be quieter, more deferential, less crisp.
    But Woodend was also part of the problem. He had been antagonistic from the start. True, he’d been rough with Davenport when they first met too, but their relationship had soon settled down. Because they were both sec. mod. boys, because they were both northerners. It was just like the grammar school; inverted snobbery this time, but snobbery neverthless. If he was ever going to convince Woodend that he was good, he would have to be the best. Very well, he had done it before and he could do it again. He squared his shoulders and marched up to the mock-Tudor building that served as Maltham Police Headquarters.
    Inspector Holland was in the canteen, a cosy oak-panelled room, enjoying his mid-morning cup of tea and bun. Rutter sat down opposite him and passed across the list of boats moored outside Brierley’s the previous Tuesday.
    â€œ
The Daffodil
,
The Bluebells of Scotland
,
The Iris
and
The Oriel
,” Holland read, between mouthfuls of pastry. “Keen on flowers, these lot, aren’t they? What does
Oriel
mean?”
    â€œSearch me, sir,” Rutter said, although the name did sound vaguely familiar. Wasn’t it something to do with applying for university?
    Holland dunked his bun in his tea.
    â€œI’ll put out an APB on ’em,” he said, “but they’ll be a bugger to track down. They’re like Romanies – go where they want, when they want.” He lowered his voice as people do when they are going to say something heretical. “Between you and me, I’d be happier if we ran things like they do on the continent – files on everybody. It was the worst thing we ever did, scrappin’ identity cards after the war.”
    â€œSo you don’t know when you’ll be able to get your hands on them, sir?”
    Holland took a slurp of his tea.
    â€œYou may be in luck,” he said. “Wolverhampton Council’s stockin’ up on salt at the moment. That’s probably where these narrow boat people took it. They may just unload and come straight back.”
    â€œAnd how long should that take?”
    Holland pursed his brow and began to do calculations on his fingers. His lips moved as he counted.
    â€œSometime tomorrow, I should say.” He looked at the bare place in front of Rutter. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. Where’s me manners. Would you like a cup of tea?”
    Rutter was on the point of saying no, he didn’t have time, he was investigating a murder. Then a warning voice in his head whispered, “Slow down. Get in training for Woodend.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” he said, smiling at Holland. “Very kind of you, I’m sure.”
    From the wood, the path took the Chief Inspector through the scrub he had observed from the canal. It was a twisting, turning track, much less direct than the route along the towpath. The chimney at Brierley’s, now operating at full pelt, came into sight first, and then the rest of the works – stark, square, black with industrial grime. As he got closer still, he could distinguish the houses, the backs of those on Maltham Road, the ends of the terrace that made up Harper Street.
    He couldn’t see over the brick walls that enclosed the back yards, but he knew what they would contain. There would be a wash house with the dwelling’s only tap, a brick boiler that would be fired up every Monday, washing day, and a tub into which steaming water would be