platform high in the salt store. They had been locked, just as he had instructed. The back of his neck tingled again. There was something about the place â he knew there was. He took the dog-legged path that led from the salt store down to the canal bank.
Davenport knocked respectfully on the Thorburnâs back door. He had never been in the house before. Few villagers ever had, because the Thorburnâs were outsiders â Catholics. Not, he told himself, that they were actively disliked, but most folks in Salton considered papists just a little bit odd.
The door opened, and a pale, haggard May Thorburn stood facing him. Davenport removed his helmet.
âMy condolences, Mrs Thorburn,â he said. âCould I come in for a minute?â
The woman backed away without speaking, and Davenport stepped inside.
âEven Catholic
houses
are funny,â Davenport thought. âThey smell different.â
He looked up at the large, garishly coloured picture of Jesus on the wall, his feet bare, a halo glowing around his head, his heart, blood red, clearly visible through his brown robe. He couldnât imagine that hanging in his own kitchen.
Sid Thorburn was in an armchair, miserably hunched up. When he saw who had arrived, he rose shakily to his feet.
Jesus Christ, Davenport thought, heâs aged twenty years!
He rebuked himself for blaspheming in the presence of the picture, then said aloud, âItâs a sad day, Sid.â
âWe always did our best for her,â Thorburn said, âalways looked after her. Anâ now this has to happen. Would you like to see her?â
âAye,â Davenport said. âAye, I would.â
Thorburn led him into the front room, smarter than the rest of the house, used only for christenings, marriages â and deaths.
The coffin was laid between two dining chairs. Candles burnt beside it. Davenport gazed down at the dead girl. They had done a good job on her at the undertakers. You couldnât tell, looking at the body, that it had been ripped open and the vital organs removed. The hair had been arranged in such a way that youâd never guess that the top of the head had been sawn off, the brains taken out and the space filled with newspaper.
The eyes were closed, and that changed the whole face. When theyâd been open, theyâd always made her seem . . . well, miserable was the only word for it.
âShe looks very peaceful,â he said.
âAye, sheâll be in heaven now,â Thorburn said, sighing heavily. Tears came to his eyes. âI know Godâll look after her, but couldnât He have let us have her with us just a little while longer?â
Davenport put his arm around the grieving manâs shoulders and led him back into the kitchen.
âThereâs a few questions I have to ask,â he said gently.
âWeâve already talked to that Inspector of yours.â
âThese are different,â Davenport explained. âIâve been sent by a
Chief
Inspector â from London.â
Thorburn shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
âWhat dâyou want to know?â he asked.
âDianeâs friends. Who she used to knock about with. What she did in her spare time.â
Sid Thorburnâs eyes suddenly gleamed, and Davenport realised that despite his grief, he was about to deliver a lecture.
âWeâre Catholics,â he said. âNow Iâm not sayinâ owt against the Church of England, thereâs good anâ bad in all religions. But we do have certain standards. Our Diane is â was â only fifteen, and we didnât allow her to go gallivantinâ round like some parents I could mention.â He waved his hands in a gesture of self-justification. âWe werenât over-strict, like; we did let her go out as long as we knew which girls she was goinâ with anâ as long as she was back home by eight oâclock.â
Most girls of her
Emma Daniels, Ethan Somerville