Golden Mile to Murder (28 page)

‘You can scarcely blame me for that. I was the victim.'

‘True,' Woodend agreed. ‘So let's put that aside for the moment, shall we? What really bothers me is that you seem to have been acquainted with both the murder victims.'

‘Hardly acquainted,' the comedian said.

‘Sergeant?' Woodend said.

‘You were seen leaving Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's booth – by several witnesses,' Paniatowski lied.

‘Does the fact that I'm a big star mean I can't visit a fortune-teller if I want to?'

‘Again, accordin' to the witnesses, you didn't look very happy,' Woodend said. ‘What were the exact words one of them used, Sergeant?'

‘The witness said that he looked as if he wanted to kill somebody, sir.'

‘So I was in a bad mood,' Bolton conceded. ‘There's no law against that, is there?'

‘Depends,' Woodend said. ‘
Why
were you in a bad mood?'

‘Somebody had told me that this particular gypsy really could look into the future, but all she did was trot out the standard clichés about a long happy life and good health. I was furious with myself for having wasted so much time on her.'

‘That's plausible, isn't it, Sergeant?' Woodend asked.

‘It would be if that had been the first time he'd been to see her,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But there's a photograph of the two of them posing together on the outside of the booth which was taken on another occasion. In the picture, they look like the best of friends.'

‘It's very unnerving when you talk about me as though I wasn't here,' Bolton said. ‘I wish you'd stop it.'

‘So what about the first time you visited her?' Woodend asked, ignoring Bolton's protest. ‘Did she tell you anythin' interestin' then?'

‘I didn't go for a consultation. I just posed for the picture. It's something that big stars do to help out the little people along the Golden Mile.'

‘I'm sure that was very kind of you,' Woodend said dryly. ‘And what about Inspector Davies' visit?'

‘He . . . he came to ask me a favour.'

‘What kind of favour?'

‘He asked me to put on a show at his daughter's school. It's something else big stars are expected to do. It's called giving something back to the local community. Not that we haven't given enough back already. Do you really think so many people would come to Blackpool if big names like me weren't appearing here?'

‘An' did you?' Woodend asked.

‘Did I what?'

‘Did you agree to put on a show at his daughter's school?'

‘No. I . . . I've got rather a busy schedule this year.'

‘Aye,' Woodend agreed. ‘What with tellin' mother-in-law jokes twice a night an' comperin' mucky shows for a bunch of local bigwigs, you must be rushed off your feet.'

‘I'm not sure I like your attitude,' Bolton said.

‘I'm bloody sure I don't like yours,' Woodend told him. He climbed to his feet. ‘It's time were off, Sergeant. Tell Mr Bolton we've finished with him for the moment, but we'll probably be back.'

‘We've finished with you for the moment, but we'll probably be back,' Paniatowski said, deadpan.

Woodend grinned. ‘Not a bad stooge, is she?' he asked Bolton. ‘An' I bet she comes a bloody sight cheaper than yours.'

Maudsley Tower – the weather vane in the Whitebridge joke – stood on the crown of a hill overlooking the town. The monument was reached by a steep dog-legged path which began where the tarmac road finally petered out, and as dusk fell it was being climbed by a young man with a lot of things on his mind.

Bob Rutter reached the top of the hill and turned to face the valley which now lay below him. It was good to get out of town, he thought – good to be somewhere you could be completely alone with your thoughts.

The abandoned mills and other signs of industrial decay were slowly being blacked out by the falling night, and lights were coming on all over Whitebridge. It wasn't a bad place to live, Rutter decided. It couldn't, of course, be compared with London, but there were compensations. For instance, he'd seen a couple of new housing estates where he was sure he and Maria could be very comfortable. And from what he'd heard around the station, he'd have the choice of several good primary schools to send the baby to once it had turned five.

But five years was a long time. Would he still be in Whitebridge when his child was old enough to carry a satchel full of pencils and colouring books? On present indications, the answer would probably be no. He wasn't getting anywhere with this case he'd been assigned – which was probably why DCS Ainsworth had given it to him. Two cars had been stolen in the previous three days and – to all intents and purposes – they had vanished into thin air. There were no new leads. And though he'd scrupulously revisited the ground covered by the officer who'd previously been on the case – including calling in at every garage within a fifteen-mile radius of Whitebridge – he'd seen nothing in the least suspicious. Which left him precisely nowhere – the smart ex-Scotland Yard whiz kid who couldn't even crack a simple car-theft ring in the unsophisticated North.

He lit up one of the cork-tipped cigarettes which Woodend never missed an opportunity to mock as unmanly, and wished he was back working with Cloggin'-it Charlie on a nice juicy murder.

The darkness had now covered the town, and he could see at least five or six illuminated petrol station signs. Did the answer to his problems lie in one of them? he wondered. It didn't seem likely.

He turned to walk back down to where he'd left his car. In the gloom, he was going to have to tread the path carefully, he thought, then he laughed out loud as he realised his whole career with the Central Lancs police was probably going to be a matter of treading carefully.

Paniatowski was experiencing a warm glow which had very little to do with the glass of vodka sitting in front of her. What a day it had been! She had learned that Woodend trusted her and decided to trust him in return. And it was all working out! They had been a real team in there with Tommy Bolton – understanding each other and taking cues without even needing to be signalled.

‘So what do you make of our Mr Bolton?' Woodend asked.

‘What do
you
think, sir?'

Woodend shook his head. ‘Nay, lass, it doesn't work like that. I'm the boss, so I get to speak last. That way, if you say somethin' bright an' I agree with it, that just shows how good I am. Whereas if you say somethin'
stupid
an' I agree with it, you get the blame later for leadin' me astray.'

A couple of days earlier Paniatowski might have taken the statement at face value. Now, she merely grinned.

‘I don't believe his story about going to Elizabeth Rose for a consultation,' she said. ‘He's far too self-centred to be really spiritual.'

‘Aye,' Woodend agreed. ‘If he ever gets to heaven, his first question to Saint Peter will be why it's God who's got the star billin' instead of him. What about the visit from Mr Davies?'

‘I don't believe him, but I'm not quite sure why,' Paniatowski confessed.

‘Then let me explain it to you,' Woodend said. ‘I've seen Susan Davies, an' I've been to her school. Not all the kids are quite as slow as she is, but I'm willin' to bet there's not one of them that could follow Tommy Bolton's act. No, if Davies had been lookin' for entertainment for her, he'd have gone an' asked one of the clowns at the Tower Circus to put on a performance.'

‘Maybe Bolton got it wrong,' Paniatowski suggested. ‘Perhaps Davies wanted him to put on a show at his
son's
school.'

‘Same difference,' Woodend said. ‘There were quite a lot of kids in the theatre tonight, but how many of them did you notice laughin' at his jokes?'

‘I didn't notice the audience at all, sir.'

‘Then you've broken Rule Number One in the
Workin' for Charlie Woodend Manual
, which clearly states that his sergeant will notice
everythin
'.'

‘I'm sorry, sir,' Paniatowski said.

‘Forget it. You're new an' you're only just startin' to learn the rules,' Woodend said generously. ‘But if you're still makin' the same mistakes in six months, I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks.' He paused to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘Anyway, since you didn't notice the kids yourself, I'll tell you about them,' he continued. ‘There wasn't one of them who was the least bit amused by his patter. An' why should they have been? They don't have wives who make their lives a misery – they've got parents for that. An' they don't have mother-in-laws, either – only grannies who spoil them rotten. You'd have to be an idiot to think Tommy Bolton could keep a group of children amused, an' whatever else Punch Davies was, it doesn't strike me that he was thick.'

Paniatowski glanced down at her watch.

‘It's the third time you've done that in ten minutes,' Woodend said. ‘Have you got an appointment or somethin'?'

‘I've arranged to meet somebody for drinks.'

‘Oh aye? Sergeant Hanson, is it?'

‘How did you know that?'

‘I obey Rule One of my own manual,' Woodend said. ‘I notice everythin'.' He took a sip of his pint. ‘So tell me, do you think this thing between you an' Hanson will turn out to be serious?'

‘I'd rather not discuss my private affairs, sir,' Paniatowski said, as a sliver of her old self pricked the surface.

‘You can please yourself, lass,' Woodend said. ‘But you'll end up tellin' me your whole life story. My sergeants always do.'

Yes, Paniatowski thought. I can believe that.

I
t was half-past nine the following morning when Edna Davies heard the knock on her front door, and opening it found herself looking at a cheery young man in a smart suit who she'd never seen before.

‘Yes?' she said.

The young man smiled, displaying a set of brilliant white teeth. ‘Mrs Davies?' he asked.

‘Yes, that's me.'

‘I was wondering if
Mr
Davies was at home. I've got something to give him. He's been expecting it.'

‘Mr husband is dead,' Edna said flatly.

The young man's face fell. ‘Oh my God! That's terrible. Was it a sudden illness?'

‘He was murdered.'

The young man shook his head from side to side. ‘Terrible, terrible,' he said, sounding genuinely upset. ‘I'm not used to this.'

‘Neither am I!'

The young man made an effort to pull himself together. ‘You don't understand,' he told her. ‘People are usually so pleased to see me. It's the part of my job I like most – the expression on their faces when they realise who I am. Of course, the best of all is when I can bring the photographers with me, but even when they've put an “X” in the box because they wish to remain anonymous, as your husband did—'

‘Who sent you?' Edna Davies demanded. ‘Are you from some sort of evangelical church organisation, because if you are you can just—'

‘It's nothing like that,' the young man interrupted hastily. ‘Didn't your husband tell you?'

‘Tell me what?'

‘Oh dear,' the young man worried. ‘Perhaps if he
didn't
tell you, I shouldn't say anything myself.' He turned the matter over in his mind. ‘You are Mr Davies' widow, aren't you?' he said finally.

‘I've already told you I am.'

‘And the heir to his estate?'

‘He left everything to me in his will, yes.'

‘Well, in that case, I suppose it rightfully belongs to you.'

‘
What
rightfully belongs to me?'

‘Your husband scooped a first dividend on Littlewood's Football Pools a week last Saturday. I have the cheque in my pocket – made out to him – to the value of twenty-five thousand six hundred and eleven pounds, five shillings and ninepence.'

Bob Rutter sat as his desk, flicking through his case notes. The sign on the outside of his door said ‘Detective Inspector R. Rutter', and the first few times he'd seen it, he'd felt a thrill run through his entire body. But that sensation had soon passed. He was starting to realise what it was like to be working on his own – getting precisely nowhere – and he didn't feel much like a detective inspector any more.

The phone by his elbow rang shrilly. He picked it up. ‘Inspector Rutter?' the switchboard operator asked. ‘I've got a call for you from the Manchester police.'

‘Inspector Sam Platt here,' said a new voice. ‘I thought Jed Rowe was in charge of this stolen car business.'

‘He was,' Rutter replied, ‘but now it's been handed on to me.'

Dumped on me
would be closer to the mark, he thought.

‘So you're the man I have to talk to now, are you?' Platt asked.

‘That's correct.'

‘Righto. Well, it looks as if we might have got a break at last. We raided a used-car lot this morning, and found several vehicles which had been reported stolen, including two – I might say – from Whitebridge. They'd been done up, of course, resprayed a different colour, and so forth, but we've checked the chassis numbers and they've been nicked, all right.'

So we get a couple of cars back, Rutter thought. Put that on the scales at the opposite end to three or four we lose every week, and my track record still doesn't look good.

‘Now we come on to the good bit – at least as far as you're concerned,' Platt said. ‘The dealer we've arrested was eager to make a clean breast of it as long as we were prepared to let the judge know how co-operative he'd been. And one of the first things he's told us is that this car-theft ring offers a customised service.'