The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer

taken over the pub – missed out on the war because of flat feet. I don’t suppose it would have lasted long, but then we slipped and to do him credit, he offered to marry me. But he knows what I was like before, you see, and he’s afraid Margie will go the same way.”
    A sudden thought occurred to Woodend.
    â€œDid you know Mary Wilson?” he asked.
    Liz picked up a glass and began to polish it.
    â€œOh, yes,” she said, smiling at the memory. “She was my best friend. People used to say we looked like sisters, an’ we did look a bit alike – same colourin’, same height,” she gave him a saucy grin, “an’ we both had good legs. But as far as character went, we were miles apart. I’d go for anythin’ in trousers and she only ever had one boyfriend. He was goin’ to take her back to America when the war was over. I know a lot of people in the village think he killed her, but I nev––”
    She stopped abruptly. Her face turned ashen, and her body began to shake. There was a shattering sound and Woodend, horrified, saw that she had squeezed the pint glass so hard it had broken in her hand. The shards fell to the floor. For a second, they both gazed at her hand, then Mrs Poole, the practical landlady, ran it under the tap.
    â€œLet me look at that,” Woodend said solicitously.
    â€œIt’s not a deep cut,” Liz said, shrugging it off.
    She disappeared into the back room and came back with a plaster clearly displayed on her palm. She swept up the broken glass and was soon back at her post, as if nothing had happened. But the strain of whatever shock she had had was still on her face.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Woodend asked.
    â€œI – I haven’t thought about Mary for years,” Liz said, “but now that I have, somethin’s occurred to me. Mary was my best friend, Diane was Margie’s – an’ they were both strangled.”
    â€œIt’s just a coincidence,” Woodend said soothingly.
    But he was not entirely convinced himself. As he had told Rutter, he had uncovered some bizarre motives for murder, yet none of the killers had ever believed that his reason for taking human life was anything but rational. Perhaps a connexion with the Poole women
was
enough – certainly it was a lead he could not afford to neglect.
    He wondered if he should ask his next question, and decided it would be all right. Liz Poole was still in a state, but she was a strong, independent woman.
    â€œSo you don’t think Lieutenant Ripley killed Mary?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” Liz said, “not for a minute. You should have seen ’em together, walkin’ hand in hand into the sunset. You could almost hear the violins playin’.” The memory seemed to have a calming effect on her, and she smiled. “My Yanks gave me nylons, Gary gave Mary wild flowers. She’d press ’em and keep ’em in a book by her bed.” The landlady was almost back to normal. She picked up a fresh glass and began to polish it. “I used to wish I could have a boyfriend like that, but it would never have worked out. I wasn’t romantic like Mary. As I said, we were as different as chalk an’ cheese.” She put down the glass and reached for another one. “Mind you, there was one thing we had in comm . . . Did you say you wanted another pint, Chief Inspector?”
    The abrupt change in tone startled Woodend, but glancing across the room, he could see the reason for it. Harry Poole was standing in the corridor, by the side entrance to the bar. Woodend had no idea how long he had been listening. The counter came up to Poole’s waist, no higher or lower than it had ever done, but without that guidance, Woodend would have sworn the man had grown five inches. And he seemed broader, too – infinitely more powerful.
    A towering rage, Woodend thought. Bloody hell fire!

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