Golden Mile to Murder Page 8

  The seat was cramped, and creaked when he moved. It had probably been bought cheap from one of the cinemas forced to close down when television had become so popular, he thought.

  He lit up a Capstan Full Strength and wondered if Inspector Davies had ever sat where he was sitting now. Could that be the explanation for Davies’ apparent obsession with the Golden Mile? Could he have been no more than a lonely man – denied access to his wife’s bed – who drew what vague comfort he could from watching semi-naked women?

  The lights went down even lower – though not low enough to prevent Woodend from seeing the weedy middle-aged man who was sitting three seats up from him and was coughing nervously.

  ‘Welcome to the show,’ boomed the voice of the barker/magician who had enticed the audience in. ‘Our first tableau this evening depicts the meeting between Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, and Mark Antony, the mighty Roman general.’

  So there was to be no drug-crazed Helga committing depraved acts, Woodend thought with a grin, as he sensed some of the other customers’ disappointment.

  The curtains rolled back noisily to reveal the scene. Mark Antony, ‘the mighty Roman general’, was dressed in a plastic helmet and cardboard breastplate which his ample stomach threatened to burst out of any second. His sandals, though not Roman, at least looked leather, but Woodend couldn’t help but think he’d have seemed a little more authentic if he’d bothered to take off his socks.

  The general was standing next to a couch, on which lounged Cleopatra – the brassy blonde from outside – dressed only in her knickers, a plastic girdle and a blue, see-through top which was probably bri-nylon. Behind her stood two female attendants, both holding large feather fans and both naked to the waist. Any movement the assembled company made was purely involuntary – they knew the law. Except it was not quite true that there was no movement at all. Though the Queen of the Nile kept her body perfectly still, she let her eyes rove over the first two rows of the audience until they finally settled on Woodend. Then, just before the curtain was drawn again, her fixed expression melted into a broad smile which – there could be do doubt about it – had been intended solely for him.

  There were six more tableaux – Queen Boadicea meeting the Romans; Christopher Columbus discovering native girls (who already seemed to have discovered Marks & Spencer’s ready-wear for themselves); Dick Turpin (cardboard hat and cardboard mask) with his half-naked doxies. And during each of the scenes the star seemed to smile ever more broadly – and knowingly – at Woodend.

  Then it was all over. The curtain was closed for the last time, the lights were raised and the punters climbed to their feet, feeling vaguely discontented.

  Woodend squeezed his own large frame out of his flimsy seat, but made no move towards the exit. The barker, who was shooing the other customers through the door, noticed he seemed to have no intention of leaving, and walked over to where he was standing.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go now, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Are you the manager?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, but that’s got nothing to do with—’

  Woodend produced his warrant card. ‘Central Lancashire CID,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see the manager.’

  ‘The show was within the bounds of what’s permitted by law,’ the barker protested. ‘Well within the bounds.’

  ‘Maybe it was,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But I’d still like to see the manager.’

  For a moment it looked as if the barker were about to argue further, then he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘You’d better follow me.’

  He led Woodend to a door at the edge of the stage, knocked and then turned the handle without waiting for a reply.

  ‘There’s a bobby here to see you, Mr Gutteridge,’ he said.

  Over his shoulder, Woodend got a clear view of the office and the man the barker had been addressing. Gutteridge was in his early fifties, and had a mane of grey hair swept dramatically back, almost touching his shoulders. His office – in contrast to his own distinguished appearance – was little more than a cubbyhole. Most of the space was taken up by an old metal desk and two chairs. The rest was occupied by props from the various tableaux which, under the harsh light of a single naked bulb, looked even tattier than they had on stage.

  ‘A bobby?’ the manager repeated. ‘A guardian of the law? But I was under the impression that all our little difficulties in that direction had been satisfactorily resolved.’

  ‘He’s not from the local force,’ the barker said hastily. ‘He’s come from Central Lancs Headquarters.’

  The manager ran the fingers of his left hand through his mane. ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And he would be –?’

  ‘I would be Chief Inspector Woodend,’ Woodend said, answering for himself. ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr Gutteridge?’

  ‘Not at all, my dear man,’ the manager assured him. He turned his attention to the barker. ‘Your public awaits you, Clive. Fly to them! Tread the boards like a colossus. Do all that is in your power to make them part with their five bobs.’

  The barker shook his head as if he’d just been addressed in a foreign language – but had somehow managed to understand anyway – and departed. Woodend stepped into the office, closed the door behind him and manoeuvred his way around the props to the vacant chair.

  ‘So how can I be of assistance you, Chief Inspector?’ the manager asked.

  ‘When your lad Clive told you I was from the police, you said you thought that – what were your exact words? – that the matter had been “satisfactorily resolved”. What exactly did you mean by that?’

  ‘That the difficulties we strolling players all so often have to face had been dealt with.’

  ‘Would you care to be specific?’

  Gutteridge laughed. ‘I have toured the length and breadth of this great country of ours with my troop,’ he said. ‘I have given my audiences Hamlet and Antigone, Doctor Faustus and Lady Windermere. My company has brought tears to eyes of the many, but there are always the few – the groundling element – who have attempted to cause disruption. And if that is true of presentations of the classics, think how much more common it must be in a show which has less merit than the crudest Elizabethan burlesque.’

  ‘You’re sayin’ you’ve had a bit of trouble with your punters,’ Woodend translated.

  ‘Precisely!’ Gutteridge agreed enthusiastically. ‘They come not to hear the immortal words of the Bard, but to gaze at naked flesh. Many of them arrive already fired up with alcoholic beverages –’

  ‘Drunk,’ Woodend supplied. ‘Pissed. Legless.’

  ‘As you say,’ Gutteridge confirmed. ‘And sometimes this human offal which poses as an audience wants more from a performance than my actors are allowed by the constabulary to provide.’

  ‘Do you always take this long to get to the point?’ Woodend asked.

  Gutteridge smiled ruefully. ‘Forgive me, my dear man. It is sometimes difficult to break the habits of a lifetime on the stage. These particular groundlings I was about to refer to infested us with their presence about two weeks ago. There were half a dozen of them, and they were – as you would say – pissed out of their tiny minds. Not happy with the spectacular we had presented, they refused to leave the auditorium until the girls had divested themselves of their few remaining garments. That was not possible, and so we called in the police.’

  ‘An’ what happened then?’

  ‘Faced with the majesty of the law, the groundlings withdrew from the theatre without further resistance.’

  An obvious question came to the forefront of Woodend’s mind, but instead of asking it then – when it might be expected – he decided to file it for later.

  ‘I’m surprised to find a man with a legitimate theatre background like your own in a place like this,’ he said instead.

  Gutteridge sighed. ‘What can I tell you, my dear man?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘For years I dedicated myself to my art, with very little to s
how for it in material terms. Here, I may not earn golden opinions, but at least I can now look forward to the twilight of my years with a little less financial trepidation.’

  ‘Aye, an’ you’re probably makin’ more money an’ all,’ Woodend said, and before the manager had time to explain that was what he had meant, the chief inspector was on his feet and holding out his hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gutteridge,’ he continued.

  ‘The pleasure has all been mine, Chief Inspector.’

  Woodend manoeuvred around the desk to the door, and was halfway out of the office when he turned and said, ‘Oh, there is one more thing, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When you called in the police, was the officer who answered the call Mr Davies, by any chance?’

  The manager only blinked once – but Woodend did not miss it.

  ‘Who?’ Gutteridge asked.

  ‘Detective Inspector Davies,’ Woodend repeated.

  ‘The name sounds familiar. He wasn’t the man who met an unfortunate end under the Central Pier, was he?’

  ‘That’s the feller.’

  ‘Then no, it certainly wasn’t him. The two officers in question were both in uniform – a sergeant and a constable, I believe. Now if that’s all –’

  ‘It isn’t, actually,’ Woodend told him. ‘If I can quote you a second time, you said, “our little difficulties in that direction had been satisfactorily resolved”.’

  ‘I still fail to see—’

  ‘I don’t have your way with words, but that sounds to me as if you were talkin’ about a long-term problem rather than an isolated incident involvin’ a few yobs.’

  For a moment, a confused expression filled Gutteridge’s face. Then it cleared to be replaced by the look of a man who has realised that there might have been an honest misunderstanding.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘The problem was not the incident itself, but whether it would have longer-term consequences. I was concerned that as a result of it, the constabulary might decide to take a less-than-favourable view of my establishment.’

  ‘But they haven’t?’

  ‘No, the sergeant rang me a few days later to say that from his standpoint there was no more to be said on that matter. I expect he realised that we operate as a safety valve, and that if the Gay Paree was closed, something much more sordid would spring up to take its place.’

  ‘Aye, that probably is what he thought,’ Woodend said. ‘Well, goodbye again, Mr Gutteridge.’

  As he stepped through the office door, Woodend noticed the brassy blonde again. She was standing a few feet away from him and wearing the same towelling robe she had worn when she’d been on the platform. Now, however, it was so loosely belted that there was no longer a question of whether or not she was wearing a bra.

  With a smile playing on her lips, she ran her eyes appraisingly up and down Woodend’s body. ‘Well, fancy running into you again so soon, Handsome,’ she said.

  Before there was a chance for the policeman to respond to her, Gutteridge emerged from the office and quickly inserted himself into the space between them.

  ‘Where are my manners, allowing you to leave unescorted?’ the theatre manager said. ‘Let me show you the exit, Chief Inspector.’

  Woodend allowed himself to be led away, but not before he had noted the look of shock which had appeared on the girl’s face.

  Gutteridge steered Woodend to the door. ‘Come again, Mr Woodend,’ he said. ‘And next time do not feel obliged to part with any of your coins of the realm. For we humble players, the honour of your presence is payment enough.’

  ‘That sounds a bit like bribery and corruption to me,’ Woodend said.

  The manager laughed – rather too loudly, the chief inspector thought.

  ‘What a wit you are,’ he said. ‘What a loss to the stage was your decision to follow the path of law enforcement.’ But even as he spoke, his hand – resting in the small of Woodend’s back – was easing the chief inspector through the exit.

  Woodend stepped out into the side street and saw that directly opposite was not only a row of boarding houses as he had expected, but also a brightly lit fish and chip shop.

  ‘Now if that’s not fate pointin’ my way, what is?’ he asked himself.

  He crossed the road and entered the chip shop. There were no other customers at that moment, and the cook, a jolly-looking fat man, was standing behind the counter reading the evening paper. When he heard the bell over the door ring, he laid the paper on the counter and smiled at his new customer.

  ‘What can I do for you, mate?’ he asked.

  ‘A fried cod an’ a double ration of chips,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘Good choice. The cod’s so fresh it hasn’t stopped swimmin’ yet.’

  Woodend watched the fryer scoop the chips out of the bubbling fat in the range and place them, with the fish, into a neat newspaper parcel.

  ‘Does the name Inspector Davies mean anythin’ to you?’ the chief inspector asked, as he handed over the money.

  ‘I should say it does. He got himself topped last night – under yon Central Pier.’

  ‘Did you know him personally?’

  ‘Can’t say that I did.’

  ‘But you had no difficulty in recognising the name?’

  ‘Well, of course not. We don’t get many murders in Blackpool, an’ as far as I can remember, we’ve never had a bobby killed before. So when one does get done in, it’s bound to stick in your mind, isn’t it?’

  Exactly, Woodend thought as he picked up his parcel of fish and chips. It’s bound to stick in your mind. But it hadn’t stuck in Gutteridge’s mind. When the name of the dead policeman had first come up, he hadn’t recognised it at all. Or perhaps he’d only pretended not to recognise it.

  The last end-of-the-pier show of the day was long over, the amusements had been closed for the night, and the Central Pier was in darkness. But it was not quite deserted. The glowing red end of a cigarette, moving through the night like a demented firefly, would have told any observer that at least one person had stayed behind.

  Tommy ‘Now Where Was I?’ Bolton tramped relentlessly from one end of the pier to other, his mind wrestling with his problems.

  Should he go to the police and tell them all he knew?

  Could he dare to hope that because he would be helping them with a murder inquiry, they might, in turn, overlook what he would be forced to reveal about himself?

  He shook his head angrily, cursing his own stupidity. How could they ignore what he’d done? It wasn’t like a parking ticket or a littering offence. It was altogether more . . . more . . . significant.

  So what was he to do? What choice did he have? None at all! He would have to keep quiet, and hope that the whole dreadful situation resolved itself of its own accord.

  He had reached the very end of the pier, and slowly descended the steps to the fishermen’s jetty. The waves below him – whooshing back and forth – could be so soothing on occasions. But they were not soothing now. Instead, they seemed to be roaring angry, urgent orders: Jump in! Jump in!

  He was tempted to obey. One small step was all it would take – and his troubles would be over. But though his legs were shaking, they were unwilling to move an inch further forward. Acknowledging his failure to find the courage even to take the coward’s way out, he turned and climbed the steps again.

  He came to a stop near the entrance to the pier, and gazed loathingly across the promenade at the dim shape which he knew to be Gypsy Rose Elizabeth’s fortune-telling booth. In the past he had often held strong grudges, and had been delighted to see those he resented eventually forced to face a painful humiliation. Sometimes, indeed, he had even engineered those humiliations himself. But he had never really hated before – never felt the vehemence he did towards the gypsy, a vehemence which was poisoning his whole life.

  She did not deserve to live! The world would be better off without her. And in killing her, he would not just be settling
his own scores – he was sure of that. He would be acting for others – dozens of people whose names he would never even know. And looked at that way, the murder would be almost an act of altruism.

  But how to go about it – that was the question he must ask himself. How to eliminate this vile piece of human trash and not get caught.

  It took an intelligent man to play the buffoon well, and he was a very good buffoon – as his income clearly demonstrated. Surely if he put his mind to it, he could come up with a plan which would not only guarantee her death but also ensure that he got away scot-free.

  Twelve

  The first thing Monika Paniatowski noticed when the shrill alarm clock forced her into consciousness was the vodka bottle sitting on her bedside table. The clear liquid had almost reached the screw cap when she’d bought the bottle the night before, but now the level had dropped to well below the top of the label – and she was fairly sure that was not due to evaporation!

  She swung her legs out of bed, and inspected her room. It was a little cramped for her usual exercise programme, but she’d manage, she supposed. She began with a series of warming-up exercises, then got down on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe, and started doing her press-ups.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  She was drinking too much, she told herself. Worse, she was drinking alone. But what was the alternative? To go out on the piss with the lads? To have to endure their sexual innuendoes, which would only get more and more explicit as the evening wore on? To listen to their taunts that she was a bad sport when she repulsed their drunken embraces at the end of the session? To hear then sniggering together in the morning – because even if she didn’t give them what they wanted, there would always be one or two of them who would claim that she had.

  Four . . . five . . . six . . .

  She must reduce her alcoholic intake. But it wouldn’t be easy, because booze made the night easier to get through. She half-wished that her body would come to the assistance of her will power – that she could wake up in the mornings with a dreadful hangover. But she never did.