Free The Salton Killings by Sally Spencer Page B

They’ll put every obstacle they possibly can in the way.”
    â€œI can handle it, sir,” Rutter said firmly.
    Woodend thought for a second. He had admired the way Rutter had conducted himself that morning, holding back the second murder until the end. Showed a bit of spirit – and he had nothing against cockiness as long as it was combined with competence.
    â€œAll right, Sergeant,” he said, “you’ve got it. Now, movin’ on to the narrow boat people,” he handed Rutter’s list to the cadet, “what can you tell me about them?”
    Black eagerly scanned the piece of paper.
    â€œThe Walkers, I know, sir,” he said. “Nice couple, they had two kids a bit older than me. I used to play with ’em. An’ the Craigs – no children, but very friendly, they are. They used to keep a supply of sweets to give us if we were passin’– even when rationin’ was on.” He chuckled. “We made sure we passed quite a lot. The McQueens, I don’t know. Must be new – or at least have started comin’ since I grew up.”
    The cadet coloured again.
    About a Number Three on the Black scale of blushes, Woodend thought with amusement. As if he’s expectin’ me to challenge the fact that he
is
grown up.
    â€œI don’t know this Mr McLeash, either,” Black confessed. “Wait a minute – that wouldn’t be Jackie the Gypsy, would it?”
    Rutter nodded.
    â€œHe’s the one with form, isn’t he?” Woodend asked.
    Rutter nodded again.
    â€œOh, I know him,” Black said. “He was the favourite of the lot. He was always lettin’ us kids play around his boat, or taking us for rides up the canal.”
    â€œBoys or girls?” Woodend asked.
    â€œI never really thought about it, sir, but now you come to mention it, it was girls more often than not.”
    The big house on the corner of Harper Street had a solid oak door.
    â€œWhat do visitors usually do?” Woodend asked. “Knock on this, or go round the back like they do in the rest of the village?”
    â€œI don’t think the Wilsons have any visitors, sir,” Black said.
    Ignoring the heavy brass knocker, Woodend rapped on the door with his knuckles. There was a sound of footsteps in the passageway, and the door swung open to reveal the tall, gaunt man in black.
    â€œI know you,” he said accusingly. “You are the sinner who lurks in the portal of the den of Satan.”
    â€œThat’s right, sir,” Woodend said pleasantly, producing his warrant card. “I’m also a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, and I’d like to ask you some questions. May we come in?”
    Wilson did not move.
    â€œWhat questions could you wish to ask me?” he demanded.
    â€œAbout the death of your daughter, Mary. And we’d like to speak to your wife as well.”
    Wilson’s face went red, not with a blush, as Black’s was wont to do, but with rage. On his forehead, a prominent vein began to throb.
    â€œI will not have it!” he said. “My daughter has been dead and buried these many years, and I will not have it.”
    He made a move to slam the door, only to discover that Woodend’s size nine boot was preventing him.
    â€œThis is an outrage,” he said. “I am a county councillor.”
    â€œAnd I am a police officer,” Woodend replied quietly, “carrying out an investigation. I must talk to you – either here or in Maltham Police Station.”
    Reluctantly, Wilson opened the door again, and gestured that they should go into one of the front parlours.
    â€œMy wife,” he said, “is not very strong. I would wish to spare her this.”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” Woodend said, and sounded it.
    While Wilson was away, Woodend examined the room. No expense had been spared. In a village where every other house had flagged floors, this one’s were made