The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer Page A

Seven
    Jackie McLeash, better known as Jackie the Gypsy, stood at the tiller of
The Oriel
, one broad, tanned arm resting on the roof of the cabin. The boat bobbed slightly as the sluices let in water and the level of the lock rose. The process seemed incredibly slow that day, although he knew well enough that the lock was filling at its usual rate and it was only his own impatience that was expanding time.
    He needed to get back to Salton, and everything, human and natural, seemed to be conspiring to prevent it. The clerk at Wolverhampton had taken an age to process the acquisition forms, the lorries which collected the salt had not been on time, then his engine had failed. He had spent an hour, up to his elbows in grease, fixing it.
    The boat had risen high enough for McLeash’s head to be above the level of the lock. He could see the lock-keeper’s Wellington boots. Only another three feet to go. Shouldn’t be long now.
    McLeash didn’t own a watch – he didn’t need one. He glanced up at the sun and judged that it was roughly half past five. The pubs would just be opening. A mile up the canal was the Oddfellows’ Arms. He could moor by the side of it and sit in the garden, sipping cool pints of bitter. It would be a welcome relief after such a hot day.
    But if he did that, he would not reach Salton until late – maybe too late. He licked his parched lips regretfully. He would have to press on.
    The heavy wooden gates slowly swung open, and
The Oriel
floated out of the lock.
    â€œSee you tomorrow, Jackie,” the lock-keeper called. “Or will it be the day after?”
    â€œDunno,” McLeash answered, noncommittally. “Depends how things work out.”
    Mrs Davenport produced toad-in-the-hole for supper. It was a culinary masterpiece, Woodend thought, the best he had tasted for years. But then, he added in his wife’s defence, you simply couldn’t get decent sausages in the south.
    Yet despite the delicious aroma and the batter that melted in the mouth, Woodend found that after only a few bites he had had enough. The case disturbed him. It was not just because one, possibly two, young girls had been robbed of their lives before they had ever really had a chance to live them, it was also the nature of the investigation itself. This was his first full day in Salton and already there seemed to be too many balls in the air, with new questions appearing faster than old answers. What could possibly have made Diane Thorburn, a girl who been strictly brought up, risk playing hooky from school to come back to the village? What was Margie Poole keeping from him? Why had Wilson blocked the PM on his daughter? Was there one murderer, or were there two?
    He put the last question to Rutter, once the plates had been cleared away.
    â€œI don’t know, sir,” Rutter said. “Ripley looked a good bet on the first one, but from what Mrs Poole said, he doesn’t sound like a strangler. And the local police were over-worked at the time. They could have missed an obvious lead.”
    â€œSo what do you suggest we do now?”
    â€œFirst of all, we should try and find out where exactly in the States friend Ripley is living.”
    â€œIf he’s still alive,” Woodend said. “A lot of American airmen bought it in the war.”
    â€œIf he
is
still alive,” Rutter continued, “we could ask the American police to question him. Maybe they can come up with something that will eliminate him from our inquiry.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” Woodend agreed. “And then what do we do?”
    Rutter looked down at the table, an abashed expression on his face. If it had been Black sitting there, Woodend would have sworn he was blushing.
    â€œIf it’s not him,” the sergeant said, “the answer lies in the village and the more we get to know the place – and the people – the more chance we have of coming up with