The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer Page A

poured so the clothes could be dollied. At the end of the yard would be the outside lavvy, so sneeringly referred to by Rutter, which people ran to on cold winter evenings and sat on, shivering, until they had done what they had to. He himself lived in a suburban semi with an inside toilet, his wife had a washing machine with an electric wringer. If promotion to superintendent ever came through and he found himself earning the dizzy sum of £1,315 a year, they might even think of buying a detached house. But he hadn’t forgotten what it was to live like the people of Salton.
    The walk had given him a thirst and at five to eleven he was stationed outside the George and Dragon, listening in anticipation for the sound of the bolts being drawn back. Across the road, a group of pre-school children were playing hopscotch on the pavement. Woodend watched with pleasure as a small girl leant forward, licking her lips with concentration, and threw her piece of slate at a chalked square several feet away from her.
    â€œIn!” she shouted gleefully, and set off on one foot to retrieve it.
    It was not unusual to see children in the road only two days after a murder, but Woodend would not have been surprised, either, if the street had been deserted. You never knew how a community would react to the killing of a child. In some, there was almost instant hysteria, with parents virtually barricading themselves and their offspring in the house. In others, people acted as if nothing had happened and, though they did not know it, they were in a state of shock. But sooner or later a woman would snap out of it, and rush from her home screaming her child’s name, and the waves of her terror would awaken the other mothers. The Chief Inspector hoped to God that he could solve the killing before that happened in Salton.
    A tall man, dressed in black, suddenly appeared at the crown of the humpbacked bridge. The sun, shining behind him, seemed almost to give him an aura. He stopped and glanced into the canal, then began to stride down the bridge towards the village. As he got closer, Woodend could see him in more detail. Not only were his suit and trilby black, but so were his tie and thick waistcoat. Woodend wondered how he could stand to be so heavily dressed on such a warm day.
    The man was tall and lean, and though the white hair which flowed from under his hat suggested age, he held himself ramrod stiff. He came to a halt in front of the children. His shadow fell over them and they stopped their game and gazed silently up at him.
    â€œLittle children,” he said, “you know not what you do.”
    He was trying to speak softly and gently, Woodend thought, but there was an intensity behind his words that turned them into the wrath of God.
    â€œDo not play the Devil’s games,” the man boomed. He stretched out his arm. “Go seek out your mothers, that they might lead you to Jesus.”
    Still mute, the children turned and began to walk slowly down Maltham Road. By the time they had crossed Harper Street, they were skipping.
    An’ as soon as they’re out of sight, down Stubbs Street, Woodend thought, out’ll come the chalk again.
    The man watched the children for a while, then swung round to look at the pub.
    â€œThat’s all I bloody needed,” Woodend said, under his breath.
    He turned and read the sign over the door: ‘Harry Poole, licensed to retail ales and stouts . . .’
    â€œDeny the Devil and all his works,” said a voice just behind his left shoulder.
    Sighing heavily, Woodend turned again. The speaker had an impressive face: a broad forehead, a large nose, and blazing blue eyes. But there were also lines, deeply etched into his brow and around his mouth, that made him look as old as God himself. He seemed like a man who had chosen to carry the whole weight of the sinful world on his shoulders.
    â€œDo not enter this evil place,” the man said. “Have the