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finally have realised that she was dying, that nothing could save her now.
    Woodend prodded the mound and found his hand sank in quite easily. He withdrew it again: grains of salt clung to his skin and rolled down his shirt sleeve. The Chief Inspector knelt down, cupped his hands and began to shovel salt from one spot to another. How long would it all take, killing the girl and then covering her up? Five, ten minutes at the most. But even in that short time, there would have been the risk that workmen would appear on the platform with the salt truck. Unless . . . unless the killer had been sure he would not be disturbed at that time of day. It all pointed to a local crime, but Woodend had suspected that right from the start. The killer had known that Diane Thorburn would be there. It had all been planned well in advance.
    â€œHow deep was she buried?” he asked.
    â€œNot very,” Holland replied, “but that didn’t really matter. If the kids hadn’t uncovered the body, more salt would have been tipped on her. By the end of the day, she’d have been under a foot of it. By the end of the week . . .” he gestured vaguely.
    She was dead, she wouldn’t have felt a thing, but the thought of it still made Woodend shudder. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Capstan Full Strength. He offered one to Holland, and to Davenport and Rutter who had joined them. Only Rutter refused. Davenport produced a box of England’s Glory, struck a match, and held it in front of Woodend. When the Chief Inspector took his first drag, he could taste the salt almost as strongly as the acrid smoke.
    â€œDon’t they ever take salt
out
of this place?” he asked.
    â€œYou get the occasional narrow boat taking some away in bags,” Holland said, “but mostly it’s left where it is until late autumn, when the lorries come for it to salt the roads.”
    â€œShe could have been here for months,” Woodend said thoughtfully. “The killer would have known that, too. Let’s get out of here.”
    After the gloom of the store, the light was blinding, but he was glad to be out breathing the fresh air, away from the smell of salt and death.
    â€œWhat else did the PM find?”
    â€œCause of death – strangulation. Time of death – between one and two hours before the body was discovered.”
    â€œIn other words, between ten fifteen and eleven fifteen.”
    â€œYes, sir. No evidence of bruising or injury not consistent with the struggle. No evidence of sexual assault.”
    â€œWas she a virgin?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    Woodend scratched the back of his neck pensively.
    â€œI’ll need some extra help,” he said.
    Holland coughed.
    â€œI’ve been instructed by Superintendent Giles to tell you that we will offer you any assistance within our means,” he said.
    Sounds like he’s reelin’ off a set speech, Woodend thought.
    â€œHowever, sir,” Holland continued, “he asks you to bear in mind that we’re not a big force and that the manpower shortage . . .”
    â€œI don’t want a lot of men,” Woodend cut in. “No point in a village this size. But I do need a local lad, somebody who knows the village.”
    â€œYou’ve got Davenport, sir.” Holland said confidently. “Knows the place like the back of his hand. Been here four years.”
    â€œYou weren’t brought up in a village yourself, were you, Inspector?” Woodend asked.
    â€œNo sir,” Holland answered – in tones which implied ‘certainly not’. “I’m a Manchester man.”
    â€œWell I was,” Woodend said, “an’ I understand what makes ’em tick. You can’t know a village just by livin’ in it for four years – or even forty. To really know it, your grandparents have to have lived there. You have to have been brought up breathin’ in the past. I need