Salton Killings Read Online Free Page B

“Oh, you’d understand Miss Haversham, all right, sittin’ in a dark room in her faded, tattered weddin’ dress, hatin’ the man who never turned up to marry her. But most of us aren’t like that, wearin’ our troubles for all the world to see.”
    A ticket collector with steel-rimmed glasses was standing in the corridor. Rutter waved the travel warrant at him and he walked on.
    â€œ
That’s
why Sherlock Holmes isn’t enough,” Woodend continued. “You have to dig deep into their past to find out what makes people tick. An’ it’s people that matter. You find out about crime from studyin’
them
– not the other way around.”
    Rutter nodded his head as if in agreement, but the slightly nervous smile on his lips told a different story.
    â€˜He thinks I’m barmy,’ Woodend thought.
    â€œOK, Sergeant,” he said wearily. “Give me the rest of your report.”
    â€œThe local police have done very little so far,” Rutter continued. “All we’ve got in concrete terms is, one: yesterday, Tuesday, she got the school bus from Salton – that’s the village where she lived – and arrived at Maltham Secondary Mod. at 8.55.”
    â€œShe couldn’t have got off the bus between the two places?” Woodend asked.
    Rutter shook his head.
    â€œIt’s a special service. It doesn’t stop at all between the village and the school.”
    â€œGo on,” the Chief Inspector said.
    â€œTwo, she never actually entered the school. When she was found to be absent at registration, her form teacher just assumed she was sick. Three, her body was discovered at about twelve twenty under a pile of salt – back in the village.”
    â€œIt doesn’t make sense,” Woodend mused. “If she had a reason to be in the village, why bother going to school at all? All she had to do was not get on the bus. And if she was killed near the school, why would the murderer run the risk of taking her body back to the village?”
    Woodend looked out the window. The train was speeding through flat, green countryside.
    â€œGot any details of the place yet?” he asked.
    â€œIt used to be a salt-mining village, but they don’t mine any more, they use brine extraction. There are about three hundred houses, though there were more when the pits were working. The whole thing seems a bit primitive from the description I’ve got, terraced houses, outside lavatories – you know the sort of thing.”
    â€œOh aye,” Woodend said quietly, “I do.”
    Rutter laughed.
    â€œWhat’s amusin’ you?” Woodend asked.
    â€œI was just thinking – a salt mining village called Salton. They’ve not got much imagination ‘Up Nor––’”
    He realised his mistake, and stopped dead. Too late. Woodend gave one of the wide humourless grins his subordinates in the past had come to know and dread.
    â€œIt’s not that we lack imagination, lad,” he said. “It’s just that we’re not afraid to call a spade a bloody shovel.”

Chapter Three
    They were the only two passengers to alight, and as the porter placed his smart new luggage next to Woodend’s battered suitcase, Rutter looked around him. The station had crenellated wooden awnings supported by solid cast-iron pillars. Long-obsolete gas lights still clung precariously to the walls. There was a ladies’ waiting room with a frosted-glass window, and a buffet which looked as if it had been shut for years. The red enamel around the Maltham sign was chipped away in places. The only other person on the platform was a plump middle-aged police constable looking uncertainly in their direction.
    â€œExpectin’ a bigger reception committee, were you?” Woodend asked, reading his thoughts. “Buntin’, the police band playin’ ‘Hail, the Conquerin’ Hero