The Salton Killings Read Online Free PDF Page A

Comes’?”
    â€œWell, not exactly, sir, but I did think . . .”
    â€œThe local brass’ll probably steer well clear of us,” Woodend predicted. “They’ll be glad enough we’re here – they’ve got a problem they can’t solve on their own. But they’ll be worried, too, in case we find out they’ve been incompetent.” He started to walk towards the waiting constable. “An’ of course, if we make a cockup, they’ll want to be as distant from us as possible.”
    The constable had clearly decided that despite the shabby jacket, Woodend was the man he had been sent to meet. He saluted.
    â€œPC Davenport, sir. I’m the policeman in Salton . . . where it happened. I’ve been assigned to you for drivin’ and general duties. The Superintendent sends his apologies for not bein’ here to meet you, he’s tied up with somethin’ else.”
    Woodend grunted at hearing his suspicions confirmed and pointed to Rutter.
    â€œSergeant Rutter,” he said. “My right-hand man. Where’s your vehicle?”
    The Yard men and the porter followed the constable through the booking hall into the yard where the car was parked. Woodend whistled appreciatively.
    â€œA new Wolseley,” he said. “What’s the Chief Constable goin’ to be doin’ while I’m here? Ridin’ round on his bike?”
    Davenport opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. For a second he stood there like a podgy goldfish then tried to cover his confusion and embarrassment by unlocking the car boot. Rutter grinned, despite himself. The porter deposited the cases, Rutter gave him a shilling, and the three policemen were left alone, standing next to the expensive police car.
    â€œI’ve booked you into the Ring o’ Bells, sir,” Davenport said, formally and politely. “I’m afraid it’s not much, but it’s the best Maltham can––”
    Woodend slapped his hand down on the car roof with a heavy thud.
    â€œLet’s get a couple of things straight from the start,” he said. “One: I was brought up in a weaver’s cottage – you’ll not have seen one, but you’ll know places like it – so I don’t mind roughin’ it a bit. Besides, I’m a workin’ bobby, not a visitin’ VIP.” He opened the car door, but did not step in. “Two: I’m a bad bugger to work
for
. I expect results yesterday, an’ I won’t stand for anybody swingin’ the lead.”
    Davenport’s mouth flopped open to protest, but Woodend hadn’t finished yet.
    â€œI’m not sayin’
you’re
an idle sod, Constable, I’m just layin’ down the ground rules. I expect effort an’ initiative from all my men, whatever their rank. But I’m no glory grabber. If you deserve credit, I’ll see you get it.”
    Rutter remembered the Dickens, now hidden in the Chief Inspector’s jacket again, and wondered just how much of this was Woodend merely
acting
the blunt northern policeman. Real or not, it was having its effect. Davenport looked dropped on, but at the same time more comfortable than he had earlier.
    They understand each other, Rutter thought. They share something I’m missing. I joined the police to avoid the Old Boy Network, and here I am, caught up right in the middle of it.
    â€œRight,” Woodend said. “Now we’ve got that clear, we can get down to business.”
    â€œThe hotel, sir?” Davenport asked, and while the respect was still there, the caution had gone.
    â€œBugger that for a game of soldiers,” Woodend said, easing his solid bulk into the car. “The first thing I want is a pint. It’s thirsty work, travellin’. After that, we’ll get in a bit of cloggin’ round the scene of the crime.”
    The road from Maltham to Salton was straight as a die.
    â€œIt’s