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lit, and Woodend opened the business.
    â€œNo evidence of sexual assault. How do you interpret that, Sergeant Rutter?”
    â€œA straight psychopath rather than one with sexually deviant tendencies?” Rutter asked.
    Woodend winced at the terminology.
    â€œAye, he could have been an ordinary nutter,” he said. “Do you get many strangers in the village, Constable?”
    â€œNot really, sir. It’s like I was sayin’ earlier about the bridge. Buses can’t go over it, and that seems to cut us off. Course, people do come if they’ve got business with Brierley’s.”
    â€œAnd they are . . .?”
    â€œWell, there’s the salt wagons, but they only usually come in the autumn. An’ then there’s the railwaymen.”
    â€œA lot of them?”
    â€œOnly the fireman, driver and guard. Brierley’s do their own loadin’. Oh, an’ of course there’s the narrow boats.”
    â€œWere there any here yesterday?”
    â€œI don’t know for definite, sir, but there are some here most days.”
    Woodend turned to Rutter and saw that the sergeant already had a fresh, white notebook in front of him and was holding a new, sharp pencil in his hand.
    â€œFirst thing tomorrow mornin’,” the Chief Inspector said, “I want you up at Brierley’s, checkin’ which boats were there on Tuesday. Then take yourself off to Maltham Central and find out where they are now. Get in touch with other Forces if you need to.”
    â€œHe probably will, sir,” Davenport chipped in. “The Trent and Mersey runs all the way from . . .” he realised his mistake, but could find no way out of it, “the . . . er . . . Trent to the Mersey.”
    â€œThank you, Constable,” Woodend said. “I’d just about managed to work that out for myself. When you’ve done that, Sergeant, run a check on all known child molestors in the Maltham area.” He turned his attention back to Davenport. “I want you to talk to the dead girls’s parents. I know your inspector’s already done that, but he’s been mainly concerned with movements. I want to know about her interests and her friends. Especially her friends. Lassies of that age tell their mates everything.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “That’s about it for today.”
    As they stood up, a questioning look flickered across Rutter’s face. It was only there for a second, but Woodend caught it, and read it correctly.
    â€œAs to what I shall be doin’, Sergeant, I shall be walking round the village and gettin’ the – what’s that posh word they’ll have taught you in grammar school? – the ambience of the place.” He paused. “Would you excuse us for a second, Constable?”
    Davenport made his way awkwardly to the door, and closed it behind him. Woodend, resting one hand on the wall, looked Rutter straight in the eye.
    â€œListen lad,” he said, “you may not like the way I work, but you’re stuck with it. An’ make no mistake about it, I want to catch this killer just as much as you do. Because if he is a nutter, he may strike again, an’ I don’t want
anybody’s
death on my conscience.”

Chapter Four
    The banshee wail of Brierley’s hooter echoed around the village, shattering the early morning peace. Slowly, the men began to drift into work. They were small, square and dark – born of Celtic mining stock. They wore flat caps, pulled down hard over their eyes, and most had Woodbines protruding from the corners of their mouths.
    Woodend, stationed just opposite the salt works, followed their progress with interest. They reminded him of the folk back home, not so much in their appearance as in their attitude, their approach to life – conservative, unambitious, plodding. They had been born in this village, and they would die here, he thought to himself. The