Salton Killings Read Online Free

Rutter a penetrating stare. “I do hope I’m not goin’ to find it tiresome workin’ with you, Sergeant.”
    â€œI hope so too, sir,” Rutter said flatly.
    Woodend put his hand in his pocket and extracted a package wrapped in greaseproof paper. “All right lad, we’ll have a look at your preliminary report just as soon as I’ve finished eatin’ a preliminary corned-beef butty.”
    Each killing got harder. Last Time, with Kathleen, all he had had to do was kneel on the canal bank, holding her head under. He could still remember how cold the water had felt on his wrists. She had struggled. God, she had struggled. The green canal had been white with foam, the waves like the wash of a narrow boat. It had done her no good. There had been fewer and fewer bubbles, and then none at all. He had felt better almost immediately.
    Last Time, they had said it was a tragic accident. He had known they would, they had said that about Jessie, too.
    This Time, with Diane, it had all been more complicated. He had had to swear her to secrecy, but he could not be sure she had not talked, had not told Margie more than he had instructed her to. Killing her in the village, rather than on a lonely canal bank, had been a risk. Someone could have seen him and might remember. But he had had no choice, that was the way it had had to be done.
    This Time, they knew it was not an accident. This Time, they would investigate. And it would not be in the hands of the Maltham Constabulary either. He knew how the police worked. They would call in some smart boys from London, if they hadn’t done so already. They would be all over the village, asking questions, checking on movements.
    They would make things very difficult, because the control, the timetabling for the killings, was not in his hands. He could vary it a little, postpone it for a week or two. He hadn’t needed to kill Diane just then. But still, there was a limitation, a framework in which he was forced to operate. He did not choose the victims and the Finger was already pointed again. There would be a next time – and it would have to be soon.
    Woodend was not a believer in this new-fangled sliced bread. His corned beef was trapped between two thick doorsteps of cob. As he munched his way manfully into it, he flicked through the papers he’d bought at WH Smith’s station stall.
    â€œThey all mention it,” he mumbled, “but only the
Daily Herald
gives it space on the front page. Well,” he added sourly, “it’s not as if it happened somewhere important – like Islington.”
    â€œI expect you’re glad to be going back home for a while, sir,” Rutter said.
    â€œBack home?” Woodend sounded exasperated. “We’re goin’ to Cheshire, lad, I’m a Lancashire man!”
    Rutter looked mystified.
    â€œYou bloody southerners just lump it all together. ‘Up North’ you say, in a funny accent. An’ by that you mean anywhere north of Watford. Lancashire an’ Cheshire are as different as . . .” he groped for an example, “England and France. Well,” he added honestly, “America and Canada anyway.”
    Still, he
was
pleased to be going. It wouldn’t be like home, but it was a bloody sight better than Kent.
    He finished eating, crumpled the greaseproof paper into a ball and placed it in the bin. When he had brushed the last remaining crumbs off his knees, he favoured Rutter with a look of rapt attention, like a dog waiting for its ball to be thrown.
    â€œRight, Sergeant,” he said, “let’s have it.”
    Rutter already had a pristine new green cardboard file on his knee. If he noticed he was being mocked, he gave no indication.
    â€œWhat have you already found out from the papers, sir?” he asked.
    â€œNever mind that,” Woodend said. “You’ve done the work, you’ve earned the right to show off. Give me the