Salton Killings by Sally Spencer Page B

victim’s best friend. He supposed it shouldn’t have, really. Liz was certainly old enough to have a child of that age. It was just that he associated motherhood with a gentle slide into dowdiness.
    He thought of his own wife. He still loved her, and as the years had passed he had got to like her more, too, so that now they felt a cosy companionablity in each other’s presence. But she no longer excited him as she once had – the days when he would rush home from work and drag her into the bedroom, baking powder still clinging to her hands, were long gone.
    The letter box opened, and a sullen, whining voice oozed through it.
    â€œWe’re closed.”
    â€œPolice,” Woodend said. “Open up please.”
    Bolts were drawn, and Poole appeared. He had put on a collar and tie since the last time Woodend had seen him, but it had done little to smarten him up. The man would look scruffy coming out of Moss Bros.
    Woodend flashed his warrant card.
    â€œWe’re investigatin’ the death of Diane Thorburn, Mr Poole,” he said. “We understand that your daughter Margie was her best friend, an’ we’d like to talk to her.”
    Poole’s thin lips tightened and his eyes flashed with sudden anger.
    â€œYou can’t. I’m not standin’ for it.”
    The second time today, Woodend thought. This never happens in the Edgar Wallace films.
    Aloud, he said, “I’m sorry sir, but I must insist. You or your wife can be present, you may even call your solicitor if you wish, but I simply must talk to her.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œWho’s there, Harry?” asked a deep husky voice from the recesses of the pub.
    â€œSomebody from the police,” Poole called over his shoulder.
    There were clicking footsteps in the corridor. Most women in high heels made a noise like a stick being dragged along railings, Woodend thought, but Liz Poole just sounded slinky.
    Her head appeared behind her husband. In heels, she was taller than he was.
    â€œChief Inspector Woodend,” she said, and Woodend felt a childish pride that she had remembered his name. “What’s this all about?”
    Woodend rapidly outlined the situation.
    â€œWell you have to do it sooner or later,” Liz Poole said, “so we might as well get it over with.”
    Her husband opened his mouth to speak.
    â€œYou can carry on with the stocktakin’, Harry,” Liz Poole said firmly. “I’ll deal with this.”
    Poole hesitated, then disappeared down the passageway, grumbling under his breath as he went. Mrs Poole led the two policemen into the private quarters at the back of the pub.
    The wallpaper in the living room was a cheerful flowery pattern, the carpet a deep claret. The sideboard was in the new white-wood style, almost box-like with thin legs. It was a room Woodend felt he could be comfortable in.
    â€œSit yourselves down,” Liz Poole said. “I’ll just go an’ get our Margie. She’s up in her room.” She caught Woodend’s questioning glance. “Homework. I never let her do anythin’ else until she’s finished that.”
    Margie Poole was not doing her homework. She was crouched by her open bedroom door, listening to the noise drifting up the stairwell. She had been listening constantly, ever since the murder, waiting for the sound she dreaded, but which she knew must come.
    If only she could be sure that if she told the truth it would help to catch the murderer, then she would do it – even though it would get her into trouble. But she knew so little; Diane had only hinted – teased her really. She heard a footfall on the stairs and jumped up, so that by the time her mother knocked on the door she was sitting at her desk, poring over a text book.
    â€œA policeman to see you – about Diane,” Liz Poole said, smiling encouragingly. “Don’t worry, he’s very nice.”
    Margie stood up,