Salton Killings by Sally Spencer

of polished wood. The fireplace was of top quality polished granite, the woodwork had been fitted by a master craftsman. Yet the room was soulless. The expensive wallpaper was plain, the skirting boards painted a depressing dark brown. The curtains were dark and heavy enough to have served in the blackout. There were no ornaments, no pictures, not even a mirror. The leather three piece suite looked as if it were there to fill space rather than to be comfortable in – neither Black nor Woodend had made a move to sit down.
    Mrs Wilson was a shock. It was not that she was old, Woodend could have taken that in his stride; nor even that she was wasted, he had watched his own mother die of cancer when he was a child. But never, never, in his entire life, had he seen such world-weariness as this small, grey-haired woman displayed. He watched with horror as Wilson ushered her protectively into the room and eased her into an armchair. Once seated, she seemed engulfed.
    â€œNow, sir . . .” Woodend began, but Wilson cut him off.
    â€œYou have forced me to speak,” he said, “and speak I will. But I will not be questioned.”
    There had been a time when Woodend would have objected, but since then he had learned from experience. It might be necessary, at some later date, to take Wilson down to the police station and conduct a full interrogation, but at the moment he would learn more by letting him tell things his own way.
    Wilson took up a position behind his wife’s chair, one hand resting on each of her frail shoulders. It was almost as if he were standing in a pulpit.
    â€œI am a God-fearing man,” he began. “The Lord blessed me with one child and I tried to raise her in His ways. Yet she became a fornicator, the paramour of a Godless foreigner. And Satan kept it hidden from me. Nightly she committed the hot sin of lust, and I knew nothing.” He raised an arm in the air. “But the Lord saw. She could not hide it from Him. He is merciful, but He is just, and he caused her to be smitten, yea, even unto death.”
    His voice had been rising as his anger increased, but now it broke. He looked directly at Woodend, and the Chief Inspector could see the tears in his eyes.
    â€œIt was not the child’s fault,” he said. “I – I was the cause of her death at so young, so tender, an age. The Lord entrusted her to me, and I failed. She strayed from the path because I could never make her see the glory, the majesty of that path. I wish that God, in His infinite mercy would cause me to be smitten too – yea, even unto death.”
    He buried his head in his hands and was convulsed with sobs. Mrs Wilson rose to her feet and though her head barely reached his shoulder, though she was so thin and fragile, she now seemed the stronger of the two. She shepherded her husband into the chair she had vacated and spoke in a soft cooing tone, so low, that Woodend could not distinguish the words.
    â€œPlease wait,” she said in a voice liked cracked paper, as Woodend made a move to leave.
    She stroked her husband’s head, back and forth, with her thin, translucent hand, then led Woodend and Black out through the door. Once in the garden, Woodend took a deep gulp of air. The woman looked up at him, and at the back of the pale, washed-out eyes, Woodend could detect a little of the power that had once enabled her to defy her iron-willed husband and hold ladies’ tea parties.
    â€œForgive him,” she said. “He has a great cross to bear.”
    They gave Rutter the run-around, as Woodend had said they would, and it was not until late afternoon that he was shown into the Superintendent’s office. Giles was hunched over his desk, a Senior Service held between nicotine-stained fingers. Behind him, the trees in Corporation Park swayed gently in the breeze. Giles scrutinised him through hooded eyes and did not smile.
    He looks as if he’s coasting into retirement, Rutter