The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer Page B

strength to say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’”
    Woodend briefly toyed with the idea of a theological exchange, then dismissed it. So what if Christ drank wine himself, even lavished a miracle on producing some when regular stocks ran out. People like the man before him had a knack of being able to blot out anything that did not fit in with their own rigid beliefs. Besides, it was a pint he wanted, not an argument.
    â€œI think you’d better go home, sir,” he said in his best village bobby voice. “Strictly speakin’, you’re causin’ a public nuisance.”
    â€œYou are hard of heart,” the man said, “but fear not. The Lord in His infinite mercy has the power to melt even stones.”
    To Woodend’s relief, there was the sound of bolts being drawn. The pub door swung open, revealing a short, dour man of about forty, with thinning, pale, sandy hair. He was wearing a collarless shirt and a cardigan. He glared at the man in black, gave Woodend an only slightly more welcoming look, and retreated into the bowels of the pub.
    Woodend followed him. The man in black stepped forward and then stopped, as if the threshold of the pub presented an impenetrable barrier which even in his zeal he could not cross.
    In the public bar, Woodend found not the morose man who had admitted him, but a stunning woman in her early thirties. She had black shoulder-length hair and coal black eyes, set off by delicate pale skin. Her mouth was warm and generous, her lips inviting and seductive.
    â€œWhat’s your pleasure, luv?” she asked.
    You know already, Woodend thought, but I’ll settle for a drink.
    â€œA pint of bitter, please,” he said.
    The woman stretched up to reach for a pot, then placed it under the tap. She wrapped her long fingers around the pump and persuasively but firmly pulled it towards her. She slid the pint across the bar, and Woodend placed half a crown in her hand. She walked over to the till and rung it up.
    She was wearing a straight fawn skirt, its hem just above knee level, and an emerald green blouse that some might have considered a size too small but Woodend thought was just fine. Her legs were slim without being skinny, and if the rest of her body had put on a little weight over the last few years, that was all to the good.
    She placed his change on the counter, and favoured him with a friendly smile.
    â€œYou’ll be that Chief Inspector – up from London.”
    â€œYou’re remarkably well informed,” Woodend said. “You even got my rank right.”
    Most women would have looked guilty or blushed. This one just laughed.
    â€œThere’s not much I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not that I’m nosey, but you can’t miss it. If you think women are gossips, you should listen to the fellers in here after they’ve had a few pints. So, what do I call you? Chief Inspector?”
    â€œWoodend. Charlie Woodend. And you’d be . . .?”
    â€œLiz Poole, the landlady. You’ll already have met my husband.” She glanced over her shoulder towards the corridor. “The miserable old bugger.”
    She spoke the words without rancour, as if she was merely stating something that should be obvious to everybody.
    â€œAye,” Woodend said drily, “I have.”
    â€œAre you gettin’ anywhere with your investigation?” Liz Poole asked.
    There was an intensity in her voice that was more than just idle curiosity. Her face was transformed too: it was strained, almost haggard, as if a black cloud had blocked out her sun. There could only be one reason for that.
    â€œIt’s early days yet,” he said, gently. “I’ve only just arrived.”
    She forced a rueful smile to her lips.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve not even had time to look around yet, and here I am mitherin’ you. Only . . .” concern crossed her brow once more,