Golden Mile to Murder Page 2

‘Some of your recent investigations have been conducted from, among other places, a country hotel, a public house and – I still find this hard to believe – the social club office in which a victim actually met his end.’

  ‘I like to be close to the scene of the crime,’ Woodend explained. ‘You learn a lot more cloggin’ it round the area the victim lived in than you ever would sittin’ on your backside in some crime centre.’

  Ainsworth frowned again. ‘There is no longer room for amateurism in the police force, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘We must run the business of investigating crime like any other business – with the senior management making the executive decisions and the lower ranks carrying out the work on the ground.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could operate in that way,’ Woodend said.

  ‘You don’t have any choice in the matter,’ Ainsworth told him harshly. ‘Not as long as you’re serving under me.’ He lit a cigarette, but did not offer Woodend the packet. ‘Where are you living, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’ve got a room at the Saracen’s Arms. It’s only temporary, of course. My wife’s comin’ up in a couple of days, and then we’ll start lookin’ for a hou—’

  ‘I asked where you are living at the moment, not for an account of your domestic arrangements,’ Ainsworth said. ‘Not that that really matters, anyway, because you’ll be going out of town.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Last night, a body was discovered under the Central Pier at Blackpool – a man, with his face badly battered. He has since been identified as Detective Inspector William Davies.’

  Woodend whistled softly.

  ‘Exactly!’ Ainsworth agreed. ‘The chief constable feels – and I agree with him – that, given the nature of the case, it would be best to take the investigation out of the hands of the local force. You are the only one of my senior men not currently involved in any investigation, so you’ve drawn the short straw.’

  ‘But I’ve only just arrived,’ Woodend protested. ‘I haven’t got my bearings yet. My sergeant isn’t even here.’

  Ainsworth raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Your sergeant?’ he repeated.

  ‘I mean, Inspector Rutter,’ Woodend corrected himself.

  He was still having trouble thinking of Bob Rutter as an inspector, even though he had been the one responsible for getting Rutter the promotion.

  ‘You have already been assigned a new sergeant,’ Ainsworth told him. ‘You will be working with Sergeant Paniatowski.’

  ‘Polish, is he?’ Woodend asked.

  A thin smile came to the Chief Superintendent’s lips – Woodend wondered what had caused it.

  ‘With a name like that, I would assume the sergeant is Polish, yes,’ Ainsworth said, still enjoying his private joke. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately emptied it into the bin. ‘That’s all, Chief Inspector. The Blackpool police will have a briefing file ready for you when you get there.’

  Woodend was almost at the door when Ainsworth said, ‘There is one more thing, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I told you earlier I don’t like the way you seem to work, but even without that there’d already have been a black spot against your name.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Woodend asked. ‘An’ why would that be, sir?’

  ‘Because I don’t like having some burnt-out Scotland Yard bobby dumped on me whether I want him or not. So take warning, Mr Woodend. I’ll be watching you carefully, and if you step out of line by so much as a fraction of an inch, I’ll have you back pounding the beat before you can say “disciplinary board”.’

  Woodend forced a grin to his face. ‘Thank you for your confidence, sir,’ he said.

  The police canteen was a long thin room – badly in need of a fresh coat of paint – and was located at the back of the station. The counter stood close to the door. Behind it were two thick-legged, middle-aged women wearing hairnets, one lethargically buttering bread, the other filling the tea urn from a brown enamel kettle. Between the counter and the far wall were perhaps a dozen Formica-topped tables. Most of the officers in the canteen were in uniform, but there was one young man in street clothes sitting alone at a table and reading the Daily Herald.

  Woodend gave him the once-over. Age around twenty-five. Thick black hair. Strong jaw. The same sort of determined aura around him as Bob Rutter had. He’d do very well once he’d been properly trained, the Chief Inspector decided.

  Woodend walked over to the young man’s table. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski?’ he asked.

  A puzzled expression came to the other man’s face. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski?’ he repeated. Then he laughed. ‘Me – Paniatowski? You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick, mate.’ He pointed with his right index finger. ‘That’s Sergeant Panties sitting over by the window.’

  Woodend’s gaze followed the pointing finger, and suddenly he realised what Chief Superintendent Ainsworth’s private joke had been all about.

  Polish, is he? Woodend had asked.

  Well, the sergeant might or might not be Polish, but the blonde with the firm bosom who was sitting next to the window was definitely not a he.

  Three

  It was a pleasantly warm morning and the holidaymakers were out in droves. Groups of mill girls, their curlered hair covered with cowboy hats bearing the legend ‘Kiss Me Quick’, made their way along the promenade, laughing and screaming at the tops of their voices. Gangs of young men sprawling on benches watched the girls appreciatively as they passed, then turned their attention to the new tattoos which had seemed such a good idea after five or six pints of bitter, but had now begun to itch. There were mothers pushing baby trolleys, and older children struggling to eat sticky candyfloss. The air was filled with the smell of brine, frying fish and cheap scent. The cream and green trams rattled hurriedly and importantly by. Paper Union Jacks were already being stuck in sand castles on the beach. This was Blackpool in the summer – and as far as the people out on the street were concerned, they were in the entertainment capital of the world.

  The two men in dark suits sitting at a wooden table outside Dutton’s ‘Oh Be Joyful’ Tavern did not seem to be sharing in the holiday spirit. The older of the pair was about forty-five and had a large nose and bushy eyebrows which were already turning grey. He was staring across the promenade and out to sea – as if he were expecting the answer to all his problems to appear suddenly on the horizon. The second man had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday, but had the sort of youthful features which ensured that most people took him for much younger. He did not seem to share his superior’s fascination with the water, and instead occupied himself with studying the half-empty pint glass in front of him – and wondering just exactly what this meeting was to be all about.

  Apparently giving up hope that his ship would ever come in, the older man – Chief Inspector Turner of the Blackpool police – turned to the younger man, Detective Sergeant Hanson, and said, ‘I don’t like it, Frank.’

  ‘Don’t like what, sir?’ Hanson replied.

  ‘I don’t like the fact that “Punch” Davies’ murder is being investigated by somebody from outside.’

  Hanson frowned. ‘Why’s that, sir? Murder’s not exactly our speciality, and from what I’ve heard of this Chief Inspector Woodend, he’s a very experienced officer.’

  ‘I was on the team Woodend put together to investigate that fishmonger’s murder in Clitheroe a few years back,’ Turner told him. ‘You don’t really know the meaning of the term “bloody-minded” until you’ve worked with Cloggin’-it Charlie. He’s stubborn, unreasonable, relentless – and possibly the best policeman it’s ever been my privilege to work with.’

  ‘Well, then, what’s the problem?’ Hanson asked. ‘Billy was a bloody good governor to me. I miss him already, and what I want most in the world is to catch whoever topped him. That’s what we all want, isn’t it? So why should we object when they send us a top-flight bobby to handle the case?’

  Turn
er sighed. ‘The problem is, Cloggin’-it Charlie may just be a bit too good,’ he explained. ‘He could uncover things that a lesser man wouldn’t even notice.’

  ‘I might be being thick, but I think you’ll have to spell it out for me a bit more clearly, I’m afraid, sir,’ Hanson said.

  ‘I went round to see Billy’s widow, Edna, this morning,’ Turner told him.

  ‘How is she, sir?’

  ‘She’s putting on a brave front, though I imagine she’s absolutely devastated. But she has at least got one consolation. And do you know what that is?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘That her husband was a first-class officer, and died as much a hero as any soldier who was killed in the last war.’

  ‘And so he did,’ Hanson said, sounding indignant even at the possibility that anyone could even consider thinking otherwise. ‘I don’t know what case he was working on when he died, but it’s obvious to me that whatever it was, he was getting so close to cracking it that the villains had him killed.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Turner agreed.

  ‘And what’s the other way?’

  Turner hesitated for a second. ‘There have been rumours buzzing around the station,’ he said. ‘No, not even that. There’ve been the merest hints of rumours. Have you heard any of them?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Turner sighed again. ‘There’s just the two of us here, son, and this conversation is strictly off the record. So stop pissing about and open up for me.’

  Hanson shrugged awkwardly. ‘I may have got a little bit of the buzz,’ he admitted, ‘but I didn’t pay attention to it.’

  ‘What if those rumours are true?’ Turner demanded. ‘What if Punch really was up to what they say he was up to? If that comes to light, it’ll leave the Blackpool force with its reputation tarnished, and Edna Davies will be forced to face the fact that she never really knew the man she’d been married to all those years.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that before,’ Hanson admitted. ‘But you’re right – there’s no question about that. So what do we do about it? Try and get Mr Woodend off the case?’

  Turner shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t work,’ he said. ‘Dick Ainsworth’s the head of CID for this county, and once that bastard’s made his mind up about something, there’s no changing it.’

  ‘Well, then . . .’

  ‘So we’re going to have to content ourselves with just minimising the damage.’

  ‘And what would that entail, sir?’ Hanson asked, sounding as if he were not entirely happy with the way the conversation was going.

  Turner placed an avuncular hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Charlie Woodend’s not a man for tackling any investigation mob-handed,’ he said, ‘but he will need at least one man on his team with some local knowledge. I’m going to suggest that that man is you. It will be your job to give the chief inspector all the help he needs in solving the murder – you’re quite right about everybody on the force wanting the bugger who killed Punch caught – but you’ll also be there to steer him away from any of the grey areas we’d much rather he didn’t go into. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sergeant Hanson? Am I making myself completely clear?’

  The younger detective thought about it for a few moments. ‘Yes, I think so, sir,’ he said finally.

  ‘And you’ll do it?’

  Hanson nodded. ‘Whatever else may or may not have been true about Mr Davies, he was a bloody good feller to work for, and I’d like to see him buried with honour.’

  Turner turned his gaze back towards the sea again. A breeze had blown up and the fluffy blue-grey waves were considerably higher than they’d been a few minutes earlier.

  Everything changes, he thought. The weather. The seasons. The way people look – and what they expect out of life. If the rumours were true, then Punch Davies had certainly changed from the earnest young bobby he’d been a few years earlier into a different kind of man entirely. But then wasn’t what he’d been through with his kid enough to change anybody? Well, whatever had happened had happened, and Punch was dead. Sergeant Hanson wanted to see him buried with honour, and so did everybody else. So what would be the point in raking up the muck now?

  Four

  Woodend sat at a corner table in the saloon bar of the Rising Sun, his gaze fixed vaguely on the women’s toilet into which Monika Paniatowski had vanished as soon as they’d reached the pub. He took a reflective sip of his pint of Thwaites’ Best Bitter. Being back in a place where they served decent ale should have put him in seventh heaven, he thought. Yet he was feeling far from happy. He’d expected his new boss – if Ainsworth was at like all the other bosses he’d ever worked for – to become antagonistic towards him over the course of time. But from the very beginning of their relationship? That was not good. And he didn’t like being sent out on a case before he’d got his bearings – especially a case which was made all the more delicate by the fact that it involved another bobby.

  Then there was his new sergeant to consider. He’d never had a female as his bagman – maybe he should call her bagwoman – before, and he was still not sure what complications that might lead to. The fact that she was a woman had already started to modify his behaviour – if Bob Rutter had been with him, he’d have been sitting in the public bar now; with Paniatowski by his side he had felt obliged to plump for the lounge.

  The toilet door swung open, and Paniatowski came out. Woodend took a closer look at the woman he would be spending much of his time with. Her blonde hair was short – almost severe. She had deep blue eyes which looked as if they could be quick to show her anger and a jaw which was firm, without being masculine. Overall, he decided, she could be said to be a pretty woman, though her nose was a little too large and her lips a little too thick to make her quite ‘English pretty’.

  She noticed him watching her, and he instinctively turned away. Another difference between the sexes, he thought. A man would have assumed – quite rightly – that his new boss was assessing his character, whereas, from the look on her face, it was obvious that Paniatowski already had him marked down as a lecher.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so long, sir,’ the sergeant said, sitting down as far as was possible from him, given the limitations of a small, circular table.

  Woodend bit back the comment that she had been a long time – but then women usually were – and said, ‘That’s all right. I never feel lonely when I’m in the company of a pint of Thwaites Best Bitter. What are you havin’?’

  ‘I’d like a vodka, please.’

  ‘You think they’ll have an exotic drink like that in an ordinary pub like this one?’

  ‘I know they will. I’m a regular. They stock it ’specially for me.’

  Woodend nodded. He should have expected that, he thought – Monika Paniatowski looked like the kind of woman who knew what she wanted and made sure she got it.

  As the Chief Inspector stood up and walked over to the bar, Monika found herself going over her first impressions of him. He was a big feller, she thought – broad as well as tall. His hair was light brown, but unlike most of the men in Whitebridge, he didn’t use Brylcreem, so it looked quite unruly. His mouth was wide, and his jaw square without being brutish. He looked like a nice man. But then Arthur Jones – who she never had been able to bring herself to call ‘Dad’ – had looked like a nice man, too. And so had most of the officers down at the cop shop.

  Woodend returned with a double vodka and a fresh pint for himself. ‘You must be a bloody good detective,’ he said disarmingly, as he sat down.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Just before we left the station, I was lookin’ over your record.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘An’ the number of people you’ve managed to rub up the wrong way is quite impressive – even by my high standard of bloody-mindedness.’

  Not that every one of her superior officers who’d filed a report on her had been critical, Woodend reminded h
imself. There’d been one in particular who, before his transfer from the area, had consistently presented her in a positive light – had seemed, in fact, to go out of his way to protect her. The Chief Inspector wondered what the man’s motives had been – and whether that was going to be just one complication he’d have to deal with when they reached Blackpool.

  ‘So the way I see it is this,’ he continued. ‘If you have a natural talent for gettin’ up your bosses’ noses an’ still managed to get promotion, you have to be bloody good.’

  ‘I am good,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’m the best detective sergeant in Lancashire.’

  ‘The best detective sergeant? Or the best woman detective sergeant?’

  ‘There is only one woman detective sergeant.’

  Woodend grinned. ‘I rather thought that might be the case,’ he admitted. He took a generous sip of his pint. ‘Since we’re goin’ to be workin’ together, I think it’s about time I started layin’ down some ground rules. Don’t you agree, lass?’

  Lass! Paniatowski thought angrily. The first step to sweetheart, bird, judy and totty!

  ‘You can cut that out for a start,’ Woodend said firmly.

  ‘Cut what out, sir?’

  ‘Lookin’ so disapprovin’. Doin’ an impression of a hen’s backside with your lips. If you’d been a feller, I’d have called you “lad”. Since you’re a woman, I called you “lass”. Don’t go readin’ anythin’ into it.’

  ‘I’d much prefer it if you’d call me “Sergeant”, sir.’

  Woodend shook his head wonderingly. ‘All right, have it your way, Sergeant. First off, I expect the men on my team – the people on my team – to work bloody hard. Round the clock, if that’s what’s called for. Secondly, I expect them to use their own initiative an’ not come runnin’ to me to get their noses wiped every five minutes. An’ thirdly, I expect them to put up with my bad moods – just as I’ve had to put up with the bad moods of my bosses on the way up. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Paniatowski, woodenly.

  ‘Now the other side of the coin is that I’m more interested in catchin’ criminals than I am in impressin’ men with pips on the shoulders of their uniforms,’ Woodend continued. ‘Which means that if you make a breakthrough in an investigation, I won’t start pretendin’ it was my idea all along – unlike some buggers I could mention. My last sergeant got promoted up to inspector in record time. Did you know that?’