The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer Page B

it.”
    â€œWhat a very Dickensian view of police work,” Woodend said, beaming.
    â€œYes, isn’t it?” Rutter responded, smiling back.
    The George was full of salt workers who’d scrubbed off the day’s grime and put on their second-best caps. There was a lively domino school in progress and the sound of a noisy crowd round the dartboard in the back room. Then someone noticed Woodend, whispered messages shot across the room, and there was a wall of silence as thirty pairs of eyes focused on him.
    The reaction was not a new one to the Chief Inspector. Over the years he had got used to being the outsider, the policeman whose help was welcomed but whose presence was shunned. They regarded him, he thought, as a sort of knight errant with leprosy.
    â€œEvenin’,” he said, easily.
    One or two isolated voices responded, and then there was a whole chorus of greetings. The men returned to talking to each other, louder this time, as if to compensate for their earlier rudeness. But as he made his way to the bar, he was aware that he was still being watched, and he heard the name “Mary Wilson” being uttered from at least one table. It hadn’t taken long for word to get around: he had never imagined that it would.
    Woodend was surprised to see Liz Poole still behind the counter.
    â€œI thought your husband would be runnin’ the shop by now,” he said.
    â€œOh, that one!” She narrowed her lips into a wingeing expression. “He’s got a headache – had to go and lie down.” Her mouth broadened into a good-natured smile. “What will it be, Charlie?”
    He had only come up for cigarettes, but he’d been expecting to be served by the dour Harry.
    â€œA pint of bitter, please,” he said.
    Once under the humpbacked bridge, McLeash cut the engines and let
The Oriel
glide into the side. The moment it bumped against the bank, he jumped onto the towpath, mooring rope in hand. The salt store stood before him, hiding the moon, casting its oppressive black shadow over the lapping water. The lack of visibility didn’t bother him; this was familiar territory and McLeash could have done the job blindfold.
    With strong, expert hands, he formed the knots, pulling tightly to make sure they were secure. The engine was still not running right, and he was even later than he had anticipated, but still he went back onto the boat and lit the oil lamps fore and aft.
    He was almost on the point of stepping ashore again, when he changed his mind. He opened the cabin door, lowered his head, and walked down the narrow steps. It was pitch black in there. McLeash struck a match and let it burn just long enough for him to locate the whisky bottle. In the darkness, he unscrewed the cap and took a generous pull.
    It had been Woodend’s intention when he left the pub to go straight back to the police house, but he felt the salt store drawing him like a magnet. Caught in the pale moonlight, it seemed to stir, a sleeping giant wracked by its own dreams.
    Woodend saw the figure walking along the side of the store, and stepped back into the shadows. The man was no stranger to this route, he veered to the left and the right, avoiding obstacles in the scrub that were invisible to the Chief Inspector. Woodend felt the familiar tingle at the back of his neck. The man’s movements were not just careful, they were – Woodend’s instincts told him – furtive as well.
    The man reached the front of the store and went directly to the small inset door. He moved his hand up to the bolt as if to draw it back, and encountered the padlock. He rattled it and the sound carried through the clear night air back to the watching detective.
    Woodend stepped out of his hiding place and walked towards the store. His feet crunched on the gravel but the man, absorbed with the lock, was deaf to his approach. He stopped five feet from the door.
    â€œGood evenin’, sir,” he