Golden Mile to Murder

by Sally Spencer

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t.’

  ‘An’ you could follow in his footsteps – if you play your cards right.’

  He sounded decent, Paniatowski thought. He sounded fair. They all did in the beginning. But the night would come when he’d had too much to drink and he’d let his hand rest on her shoulder, then begin an artful journey down towards her breasts.

  And if she resisted – as she would – he’d just repeat all the taunts she’d heard a thousand times before.

  Come on, Monika, it’s only a bit of fun!

  What’s the matter? Don’t you like men?

  You could do yourself a bit of good by being nice to me.

  Either that or – for all he’d just said – the jobs he’d give her would be ones which were considered suitable for women police officers rather than real ones. Oh, she’d seen it all before.

  ‘You’ve still got your doubts about me, haven’t you, Sergeant?’ Woodend asked.

  Paniatowski looked straight into her new boss’s eyes, and noticed for the first time how dark – almost black – they were.

  ‘If I do have reservations, sir, can you really blame me?’ she asked.

  Woodend shook his head. ‘No, I suppose not. It can’t be easy bein’ the only female detective sergeant in Lancashire.’ He drained the remains of his pint. ‘Would you like to know why I think Chief Superintendent Ainsworth has put the two of us together?’

  Paniatowski thought about it for a second, and then nodded.

  ‘It’s because I’m my own man, an’ you’re your own woman,’ Woodend told her. ‘It’s not an easy path to follow – it means we’ve got to be twice as good as anybody else just to stay even – but it’s the path we’ve both chosen.’

  ‘Are you saying that Mr Ainsworth assigned me to you because he thinks we’ll make an excellent team?’ Paniatowski asked.

  Woodend shook his head. ‘No, sergeant. I’m sayin’ he put us together because no other bugger really wants to work with either of us.’

  Five

  The black police Humber made its way along the A59, skirting old mill towns and passing through lushly green countryside which never failed to surprise visitors from the South with their preconceptions of what the black industrial North looked like.

  Had he been on his own, Woodend would have automatically sat next to the driver, but since he had WDS Paniatowski with him, the chief inspector had chosen to travel in the back. Even before the car left Whitebridge, Woodend realised this was a mistake. There was plenty of room in the rear seat of the Humber, but Paniatowski pressed her body firmly against her door, leaving a large – uncomfortably obvious – gap between them.

  What was going through her mind? Woodend wondered. Did she really imagine he’d make a pass at her under the watchful eye of the driver? In fact, why should she imagine he’d make a pass at her at all? Oh, he’d had his chances in his time – Liz Poole, the mature and gorgeous landlady of the George and Dragon, whose daughter had been involved in the Salton case, came immediately to mind – but he’d always resisted them. And having turned down Liz, he certainly wasn’t to chance his arm with a slip of a girl like Paniatowski.

  He lit up a Capstan Full Strength and took a thoughtful drag. The trouble with Paniatowski was that she was an unknown quantity – and he wasn’t sure yet whether this was because she was a woman, or because she was a Pole, or due to something else entirely. All of which was going to add extra difficulties to the investigation – which was exactly why that bastard Detective Chief Superintendent Ainsworth had assigned her to him!

  ‘I always used to come to Blackpool for me holidays when I was a lad,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Is that right, sir?’ Paniatowski asked – neutrally, disinterestedly.

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend said, already slipping into the golden glow which was the memories of his childhood. ‘An’ it wasn’t just the Woodend family. All the mills were closed down for Wakes Week, an’ the whole town ended up in Blackpool.’

  He remembered it clearly as if it were only yesterday. There’d been no Saturday lie-in on the first day of the holidays. The family had got up early, so that Mam could cook them a decent breakfast before they’d started out. And almost before they’d finished eating it, they’d hear the noise of an engine purring outside. The sound of a taxi – the only one they’d ever consider taking between one summer holiday and the next. Pure magic!

  That was when the holiday really started – when they climbed into that big cab and he felt the leather seat pressing against the backs of his bare knees. The excitement had mounted by the time they’d reached the bus station, and he saw all the hundreds of other voyagers waiting to get on the charabancs – fathers in their best suits, mothers in floral-print dresses, children with small cardboard suitcases of their own.

  It hadn’t been a long trip – no more than fifty miles – but in those days it had seemed like an epic journey. There’d even been a stop at a pub called The Half-Way House, which couldn’t really have been halfway for everyone who travelled to Blackpool, where the men would have their first pint of the day and the women and kids would order cups of tea and cakes.

  It was after the stop that things really reached fever pitch. All the children – and many of the adults – would gaze into the distance, hoping to be the first one to spot Blackpool Tower.

  The tower! A tapering cast-iron structure pointing to the sky, which served no purpose other than to announce that Blackpool existed. It had been built a few years later than the Eiffel Tower, was only half the size and, instead of spreading its legs majestically across the Champ de Mars, it rose – beanpole-like – out of the Woolworths Building. A poor relation to the French model, in fact. But that it was inferior to the other tower didn’t matter to the kids on the bus – even if they’d heard of Paris. They spent fifty-one weeks a year in dark towns of huddled stone terraced houses, and they knew – with an absolute conviction – that Blackpool was the greatest place in the world. The enchanted kingdom. Fairyland.

  A great cheer always rose up when the Tower was sighted, and from then on, until the charabanc finally came to a halt in the coach park, the children would be nervously twisting and turning in their seats.

  A taxi had been the only way to get to the coach station in their home towns, but it was not the way that visitors journeyed from the bus to their boarding houses in Blackpool. As they stepped down from the bus, they were mobbed by dozens of local kids pushing wheeled vehicles which had once formed parts of prams and delivery bicycles. The family luggage would be loaded up on to one of these unlikely contraptions, then the Woodends – or the Ramsbottoms or the Battersbys – would follow behind the truck, savouring the sea air and relishing the thought of a whole week of freedom.

  ‘Of course, it was different in them days,’ Woodend said. ‘For instance, now, you all eat the same meal at the same time, but when I was a kid, the mams did the shoppin’, an’ the landlady cooked a different meal for every family. There was one coal miner from Sunderland, I remember, who used to polish off six or seven pork chops at a sittin’. Nobody seems to have the appetite for that kind of eatin’ now. I expect it was the war – live on rations for a few years an’ your stomach’s bound to shrink.’

  ‘The British have no idea what it’s like to be really hungry,’ Paniatowski said, so softly she could almost have been speaking to herself.

  ‘What was that, lass?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘So I was imaginin’ it, was I? Come on, I hate it when people won’t say what’s on their minds.’

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘The British have no idea what it’s like to be really hungry,’ she repeated.

  ‘But you do?’

  ‘For five years – under Hitler – we were slowly starving to death in Warsaw. And after that, when my mother and I fled the city to escape the Russians, it was even worse. If I ever did have a decent meal before I came to England, then I certainly don’t remember it.’ Monika Paniatowski paused – as if embarrasse
d at having been forced to reveal something of herself to the big chief inspector – then glanced out of the window. ‘There is your tower, sir,’ she continued.

  So it was. And despite all the years which had passed since he’d last seen it – despite the changes he’d gone through in that time – Woodend felt just a twinge of that unbridled joy he’d experienced as a child.

  There were chief inspectors who would have sat in their offices and had their visitors shown in to them, but Turner was waiting in the corridor to welcome the two arrivals from headquarters. A nice touch, Woodend thought, as they shook hands. A very nice touch indeed.

  Having greeted his fellow chief inspector, Turner immediately shifted his attention to Paniatowski. ‘Hello, Monika,’ he said warmly. ‘How are you keeping?’

  ‘I’m fine, sir,’ the sergeant replied.

  And Woodend noticed that, for once, Paniatowski seemed to have given up playing the Ice Maiden.

  Turner led them into his office, and gestured to them to sit down.

  ‘I was wonderin’ if you were the feller I thought you were,’ Woodend said, as he lowered himself into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘An’ now I see that you are.’

  Turner looked puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon, si— I mean, Charlie.’

  Woodend grinned. ‘Aye, you’re right, there’s no need to “sir” me now,’ he said. ‘While I’ve been standin’ still halfway up the promotion ladder, just lookin’ at the view, you’ve been climbin’ it like a mountain goat. An’ good luck to you.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,’ Turner said.

  ‘What? Not remember the sergeant who found the adjustable spanner which finally led us to the plumber?’ Woodend shook his head. ‘No, when a man’s sweated blood for me, I don’t forget. I knew you were him the second I saw you, but until you spoke to my assistant here I wasn’t sure whether you were the Inspector Turner who’d written such nice things in her records while he was based in Whitebridge.’

  ‘I . . . yes, that’s me,’ Turner said, noticing that Paniatowski, who was now sitting in other visitors’ chair, was starting to blush.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to start with an “in”, even if it is only through the good offices of my sergeant,’ Woodend said pleasantly.

  ‘You’ll want briefing about the murder,’ Turner suggested.

  ‘Indeed I will,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But before we get on to that, why don’t you paint me a bit of a picture of what it’s like bein’ a bobby in this place?’

  ‘All right,’ Turner agreed. ‘We get a lot of visitors, s— Charlie, but in most respects Blackpool is essentially a small town with typically small-town crime.’

  ‘A fair number of pickpockets, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Yes, plenty of them. And there’s some prostitution, though not a lot. We have our share of drunken holidaymakers – especially when they’ve just arrived or are about to leave; and a fair amount of vandalism.’

  ‘But no murders?’

  ‘We get the odd heat-of-the-moment killing, but none of the really deep mysteries like the ones you’ll be used to working on.’

  ‘Until now,’ Woodend pointed out. ‘Tell me about the dead man – this Inspector Davies.’

  ‘Pu— Billy put his heart and soul into his work. Everybody thought very highly of him.’

  ‘You weren’t goin’ to call him Billy, were you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You were goin’ to call him “Pug” or somethin’ like that.’

  ‘Punch,’ Turner admitted. ‘That was his nickname. Though nobody called it him to his face.’

  ‘Punch,’ Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘Why’d he get that name? Handy with his fists, was he? Not averse to havin’ the prisoners he was interrogatin’ accidentally fall down a couple of flights of stairs?’

  ‘It was nothing like that,’ Turner assured him. ‘The lads called him Punch after the puppet, and his wife – Edna – has always been Judy to them.’

  ‘Now why is that?’ Woodend wondered.

  Turner shrugged uncomfortably. ‘It’s only three years since I was transferred here from Whitebridge. When I arrived at the station he was already saddled with the nickname. You know how it is – nobody can remember where the names come from, but once they’re there, they tend to stick.’

  ‘So you’ve no complaints about Davies?’

  ‘None at all. He was never going to be what you might call a “great” bobby, but you couldn’t fault his commitment to the job. You’ve only to look at his arrest record.’

  The words had come out far too pat, Woodend thought, almost as if they’d been rehearsed. Now why would that be?

  ‘So what was his problem?’ he asked.

  ‘His problem?’ Turner repeated, as if he had no idea what the other man was talking about.

  ‘Bit too fond of the sauce, was he?’

  ‘He didn’t drink at all.’

  ‘What? Never?’ Woodend exclaimed, as if the idea were inconceivable to him.

  ‘Not as long as I’ve been here.’

  ‘Gamblin’, then?’

  ‘The odd flutter on big races like the Grand National, but always well within his means. If he’d been in debt, I’m sure that Edna would have told me about it when I went round to see her.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Billy would never have so much as looked at another woman. He was devoted to Edna.’

  ‘Punch always says how much he loves Judy – but it doesn’t stop him beatin’ her to death,’ Woodend pointed out dryly.

  ‘There’s no evidence that Billy ever mistreated his wife,’ Turner said, and though he was obviously trying to avoid it, he couldn’t stop himself glancing concernedly at Monika Paniatowski.

  ‘There very rarely is any evidence of maltreatment,’ Woodend told him. ‘Not the least because the wife in the case often proves the most reluctant of witnesses. Still, you don’t see it as a strong possibility, an’ I’m prepared to take your word – for the moment.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Paniatowski’s hands were gripping the arms of her chair very tightly – so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. He wondered why that might be – but knew that now was not the time to go into it.

  Woodend lit up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘Let’s get down to practical details, shall we? Where are me an’ my sergeant stayin’?’

  ‘We’ve booked you rooms at a boarding house,’ Turner said, almost apologetically. ‘I’m afraid it’s nothing like as grand as one of the better hotels like the Metropol, but at this time of year—’

  ‘Where is it?’ Woodend interrupted.

  ‘Just south of the Central Pier.’

  ‘Then it’ll do fine.’

  ‘We’ve also assigned you a murder room. Actually, it’s the police basement, but we’ve cleaned out all the rubbish, and the Post Office assure us they’ll have installed at least four telephone lines by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I can’t talk on four phones at once,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘No, but your team will need them.’

  ‘Team? What team?’

  ‘I’ve assigned you a detective sergeant – Frank Hanson’s his name, he’s an excellent man – and three detective constables. When you want to use the uniformed branch, you’ve only to put in a request.’

  ‘Bloody hell, why would I need any detectives?’ Woodend asked. ‘I’ve only just arrived here. Until I’ve clogged it around a bit, I’ll have no idea what kind of help I’m goin’ to need. Why don’t you put your lads on some other job? Don’t tell me you couldn’t use them somewhere else. There’s not a police force in the whole country that isn’t short-handed.’

  Turner looked at Paniatowski again, but this time there was awkwardness, rather than concern, on his face. ‘I . . . er . . .’ he said.

  ‘Would you excuse us for a few minutes, Sergeant?’ Woodend said.

  Paniatowski nodded, rose to her feet and left the room. When she’d closed the door behind
her, Woodend said, ‘Let’s cut through the crap, shall we? Tell me what’s goin’ on here.’

  Turner shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I’d love to have my lads working through our own backlog,’ he confessed, ‘but, unfortunately, I didn’t have any choice but to assign them to you.’

  ‘Come again?’ Woodend said.

  ‘Orders from HQ. I’ve been told to give you a room and put at least four men at your disposal.’

  ‘That order would come directly from DCS Ainsworth, would it?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘It’s got his dabs all over it,’ Turner acknowledged.

  Woodend’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me the rest.’

  Turner coughed. ‘As far as I remember the wording of the order, it said I was to submit periodic reports on how well you were using the resources that I’d allocated to you,’ he said.

  ‘In other words, if I’m solvin’ this murder on my own, as far as Ainsworth’s concerned I’ll be buggerin’ things up,’ Woodend said. ‘Whereas, if I’m runnin’ the men under me around like blue-arsed flies – but gettin’ nowhere – I’ll be judged to be doin’ a good job.’

  ‘Reading between the lines, I’d say that’s a pretty fair assessment,’ Turner admitted.

  ‘An’ how do you stand on all this?’ Woodend demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m quite following you, si— Charlie.’

  ‘Are you for me? Or are you against me?’

  ‘I learned a lot from working with you over in Clitheroe,’ Turner said. ‘Your methods might not come out of the standard police manuals, exactly, but there’s no doubt that they work. I admire you as a policeman. We could do with more like you, in my opinion.’

  Very nice – but not unqualified. ‘On the other hand –’ Woodend said, giving Turner an opening.