‘Almost impossible,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it’s what’s expected of us – that’s why we get such fat wage packets at the end of the week.’
The crazy-paving path was weed-free, the borders each side of it neatly trimmed. Woodend walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.
The woman who answered the ring was wearing an old floral dress. ‘Mrs Davies?’ the chief inspector asked.
‘That’s right.’
Detective Inspector William Davies had been thirty-five when he’d met his end, and Woodend had been expecting his wife would look roughly the same age. She didn’t – and the Chief Inspector tried to work out why. It wasn’t just that her blonde hair had begun to fade, or that her upper arms – clearly visible in her short-sleeved frock – had begun to put on weight. There were deep lines around her blue eyes and small mouth – lines which, if she really was thirty-five, she should not have earned for at least another ten years.
She wasn’t wearing make-up, either. That – to most people – would have been perfectly understandable. After all, you couldn’t expect someone in mourning to make that kind of effort. But Woodend had talked to dozens of recent widows in his time on the force, and knew that the majority of them – either from habit or to have something to hold on to – usually made at least a token effort to be presentable.
A discreet cough from Paniatowski reminded him it was his turn to speak again.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Woodend and this is Sergeant—’ he began.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Follow me.’
She led the two police officers down a carpeted hallway into a lounge which contained two modern easy chairs with skeletal wooden arms, a sofa in the same style, a radiogram, a cocktail cabinet and a television. Thoroughly conventional, Woodend thought. Exactly what he would have expected.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ Mrs Davies said.
Woodend lowered himself into one of the easy chairs. Paniatowski took the sofa.
‘You have a very nice house,’ Paniatowski said.
Mrs Davies crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders tightly. ‘Billy was a good provider,’ she said. ‘It was only right that he should come home to a bit of comfort.’
‘Was he often at home?’ Woodend asked.
The widow shook her head. ‘He worked very hard. He gave his job almost everything he had. But he always called to tell me when he was going to be late.’
‘What about the night he was killed?’ Woodend asked. ‘Was he workin’?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’
‘He officially came off duty at six. But he rang me at about four o’clock – before I’d started to get his tea ready – to say he was going to be late.’
‘Did he give any reason for it?’
‘He said he had some paperwork to catch up on.’
‘That would mean he intended to stay on at the station?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So how did he come to end up under the Central Pier?’ Woodend asked. He paused. ‘I’m sorry to have to put things so bluntly. I know it must be painful.’
‘I’m . . . I was . . . a policeman’s wife,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘I know what has to be done. In answer to your question, Mr Woodend, I’ve no idea what Billy was doing anywhere near the Central Pier.’
‘As far as you know, was he havin’ any problems at work?’
Mrs Davies hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Not generally. But I think something’s been preying on his mind for the last few weeks.’
‘Did he mention anythin’ specific?’
‘No,’ Mrs Davies admitted. ‘Billy wasn’t one to talk about his work. But I was still his wife, and I knew that something wasn’t quite right.’
‘Is there anythin’ else you think I ought to know?’ Woodend coaxed.
‘Nothing comes to mind,’ Mrs Davies said firmly.
Either the widow had no more to say, or she was unwilling, for the moment, to say it. There seemed no point in prolonging the interview. Woodend stood up, and was just about to hold out his hand to her and produce some conventional soothing platitude when he noticed the silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
It was a picture of two children – a boy and a girl – standing in what was probably the Davieses’ back garden. The boy was about eight and, obviously conscious of the camera, had a wide grin on his face. The girl was perhaps two years younger than her brother. Her expression was blank, and her eyes were empty.
‘That’s Peter and Susan,’ Mrs Davies said, noticing that Woodend was examining the picture. ‘I’ve sent Peter to stay with his auntie until after Billy’s funeral.’
‘And Susan?’ Woodend asked, before he could stop himself.
Mrs Davies’ face clenched in an emotional agony Woodend could only dimly begin to comprehend. ‘Susan’s . . . Susan’s in a special boarding school,’ she gasped. ‘I tried to look after her myself, but I couldn’t. Everybody said I couldn’t.’
Woodend had not even seen Paniatowski rise from her seat, but suddenly the sergeant had her arms wrapped around the widow and was cooing softly into her ear.
‘That’s all right, Mrs Davies. Don’t try to hold it in, Mrs Davies.’
The widow didn’t. Instead she buried her head in the other woman’s shoulder, and began sobbing in earnest. With her right hand, Paniatowski gestured to Woodend that he should leave. The chief inspector needed no such urging. Cursing himself for his insensitivity – for not immediately grasping the meaning of the blank expression on the girl’s face – he tiptoed quietly down the hallway and out of the house.
Mrs Davies took one last sip from her cup, and placed it back on its saucer. ‘It was very kind of you to make the tea,’ she said.
Paniatowski smiled. ‘It was the least I could do after that boss of mine put his size nine clodhopper in it,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling a bit better now?’
‘Much better,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘I know I shouldn’t get so upset – and most of the time I don’t – but then there comes a moment now and again when it’s all too much.’
Paniatowski reached across and stroked her hand. ‘I know,’ she said soothingly.
As soon as the sergeant had released her hand, Mrs Davies stood up. ‘Well, I can’t stand around here moping all day,’ she said. ‘Widow or not – daughter in a special school or not – there’s still the housework to be done.’
‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ Paniatowski persisted.
‘Perfectly fine.’
‘In that case, could I ask you a favour?’
‘What?’
‘When we were standing outside, I couldn’t help noticing your bedroom curtains. I’m almost certain they’d be perfect for my flat, but if I could just have a closer look –’
Mrs Davies forced a weak smile to her lips. ‘Of course. If you’d just follow me.’
She led the sergeant up the stairs and into the main bedroom. Paniatowski walked straight over to the window. She could see a group of lads playing football in Stanley Park, and noticed that, below her on the pavement, Woodend was striding up and down and puffing energetically on a Capstan Full Strength.
The sergeant ran the curtain material through her finger and thumb. ‘Very nice,’ she said. She lifted the curtain and saw it had been machine-hemmed. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare bit of this material, have you?’
‘There should be some in my sewing basket downstairs,’ Mrs Davies told her. ‘Let’s go and see.’
‘I . . . er . . . Would you mind if while you’re looking, I just use your toilet?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Only, it’s that time of the month, and you know how often you’ve got to go when you’ve got your period.’
Mrs Davies nodded. ‘I certainly do,’ she agreed. ‘Take your time. I’ll see you in the lounge.’
As Paniatowski followed Mrs Davies out of the room, she took a quick look around her, and what she saw pretty much confirmed the sus
picion she’d had since Mrs Davies had said that her sewing things were downstairs.
Woodend was waiting next to the car, his third cigarette since he had left the house clamped between his lips.
Paniatowski smiled. ‘Smart thinking, sir,’ she said as she approached him.
Woodend took a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It was smart to pretend to be a typical, insensitive man. That made you into an enemy, but me into an ally – and that bought me another fifteen minutes in the house. That was your intention when you put on the show, wasn’t it, sir – to buy me more time?’
‘Did you learn anythin’ useful while you were in there?’ Woodend asked, avoiding answering his sergeant’s question.
‘Oh, I think so,’ Paniatowski said with confidence. ‘Mrs Davies keeps her sewing machine downstairs.’
‘Now that is a revelation!’ Woodend said sarcastically.
‘Yes, it is,’ Paniatowski said, quite serious. ‘How many bedrooms would you say these houses have, sir?’
‘Four?’ Woodend guessed.
‘That’s right,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘Now in most houses, that would mean one for each of the kids – even if one kid was in a special school and only came home for the holidays – one for the parents, and one that the wife would use as her sewing and ironing room. Only that isn’t the case in the Davies household.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Woodend said uneasily.
‘I told her I was interested in her bedroom curtains, and asked if I could take a closer look at them. Then, when we were just about to go downstairs again, I pretended I needed to use the bathroom, so she’d leave me alone.’
‘Bloody hell, lass, you can’t go lookin’ around people’s houses without the proper search warrant!’ Woodend exploded.
‘She invited us into the house, and invited me upstairs. I might have looked around, but I didn’t touch anything. I don’t think I’ve broken any laws, have I, sir?’
‘No,’ Woodend conceded reluctantly. ‘Probably not. So what did you discover on your little only-slightly-illegal search?’
‘Like I said, I went into the main bedroom first, on the pretext of examining the curtains. It’s a very feminine room – all soft furnishings and bright colours. The next door up the hallway is obviously the boy’s room, with model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling and pictures of footballers stuck up on the walls. You know the sort of thing I mean?’
‘Yes,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I know the sort of thing you mean.’
‘The third bedroom’s the girl’s. But it’s the fourth that’s the interesting one. That’s where I would have expected to find Mrs Davies’ sewing machine if I hadn’t already known better. Instead I found a single bed – made up – and a battered wardrobe. When I opened the wardrobe—’
‘I thought you said you hadn’t touched anythin’.’
‘Hardly anything. When I opened the wardrobe, I discovered it contained jackets and suits. You know what this means, don’t you, sir?’
‘It means that the Davieses no longer shared a bed,’ Woodend said.
‘Exactly. And wasn’t that worth finding out?’
‘Maybe,’ Woodend admitted. His eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, when you threw your arms around Mrs Davies like that, was it already in your mind to try and talk your way upstairs?’
‘No. But when I thought about it – when I saw how you’d deliberately created the opportunity for me – it seemed too good a chance to miss.’
Did she really believe he’d done it deliberately, Woodend wondered – or was she just putting the onus of the search on him? If it were the former, she was more naïve than her record would indicate. If it were the latter, she was playing just the sort of game of running rings around her boss as he remembered playing when he was an ambitious DS himself. Whichever the case, this young woman would need watching.
Eight
Sergeant Frank Hanson sat facing the three detective constables who formed the rest of the team, and puffed listlessly on a Woodbine.
The room in which they were meeting – the basement of Blackpool Central Police Station – had for years been nothing more than a dumping ground for things it was easier to store than to sort through. Since the murder, however, the old bicycles, damaged traffic signs and cardboard boxes full of mouldy reports had all been cleared out, to be replaced by a long table, a blackboard and several gun-metal desks.
Out of chaos had been created the nerve centre of a major criminal investigation, Hanson thought cynically. It was a pity then, that the new nerve centre still smelled like a junk room.
‘Where the bloody hell did you say Mr Woodend had gone, Sarge?’ asked one of the detective constables, DC Brock, a thickset young man with a bullet-shaped head.
‘To see “Judy” Davies, Badger,’ Hanson replied.
‘An’ while he’s pissin’ about doin’ that, we’re left sittin’ here on our arses instead of bein’ on the streets lookin’ for the killer.’
‘It’s apparently the way Mr Woodend usually works,’ Hanson said mildly. ‘First he gets a feeling for the scene of the crime, and then he decides what direction the investigation’s going to take.’
He was trying to sound reassuring – it was a necessary prerequisite for a murder team that they had confidence in the man who would be leading them – but he did not feel very reassured himself. Chief Inspector Turner had told him that he should keep a tight rein on Woodend, and already, after only an hour or so in the town, the ex-Scotland Yard man had gone off on his own bat. Of course, it was highly unlikely he’d learn anything damaging from ‘Judy’ Davies. Living out by Stanley Park – a couple of miles away – she would never have heard any of the ugly rumours which had been buzzing around the cop shop. But still . . .
‘We don’t need anybody from headquarters stickin’ their oar in,’ said another of the constables – a slightly overweight ginger-haired officer who went by the name of Eric Stone.
‘You don’t think so?’ Hanson asked.
‘No, I don’t. We’re the ones with the local knowledge, aren’t we? We could handle this on our own.’
‘So who did it?’ Hanson asked, as if he really was expecting an answer.
‘Who did what?’
‘Who killed “Punch” Davies?’
‘I don’t know,’ the ginger-haired constable admitted.
‘But you know how to find out, do you? You have a plan for conducting the investigation?’
Stone shrugged. ‘I’m only a DC, Sarge. I haven’t got the experience yet. But there’s men here who have – men like DCI Turner.’
Hanson stubbed out his Woodbine in a battered tin ashtray.
‘DCI Turner is a good boss to work for,’ he said, ‘and though he’s only been here a couple of years, he already knows Blackpool like the back of his hand. But if you want to talk about experience, how much experience do you think Mr Turner has had in leading murder inquiries?’
‘I don’t know, Sarge.’
‘Well,’ Hanson said patiently, ‘he won’t have led one before he got promoted, will he? And as soon as his promotion came through, he was transferred here, so he’ll only have dealt with domestics. Mr Woodend, on the other hand, must have handled a couple of dozen serious cases while he was at the Yard. Bearing all that in mind, don’t you think he might be just a little bit useful?’
‘What about her?’ the bullet-headed DC Brock asked.
There was no need to enquire who the ‘her’ in question was. ‘What about her?’ Hanson countered.
‘Why’s she on the case? She doesn’t have either the experience or the local knowledge.’
Hanson reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Have you got something against women officers, Badger?’ he asked.
Brock shrugged. ‘They’re all right for lookin’ after missin’ children and brewin’ up, but they’ve no place in a murder investigation.’
‘She’s Mr Woodend’s bagman. Nothing mor
e and nothing less,’ Hanson reminded him. ‘You should know by now what a bagman’s job is. She’ll be running his errands while we do the real detective work around here. And I’m sure even you, Badger, can have no objection to a woman running errands.’
The other two constables chuckled, and even Brock allowed a smile to come to his lips.
‘No. I’ve no objection to that,’ he agreed. The smile twisted, and acquired a lascivious edge. ‘I might even be able to think of a few little jobs that she can do for me.’
Someone – a woman – coughed, and the four detectives turned to see Sergeant Paniatowski standing in the doorway.
‘How long have you been there?’ Hanson asked.
‘I’ve just arrived,’ Paniatowski told him – though none of the men were sure whether she was telling the truth or not.
‘And where’s Mr Woodend?’ Hanson asked. ‘He’ll be along in a minute, will he?’
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘He’s walking back.’
‘All the way from Stanley Park?’
‘No, he came most of the way by car. It’s only the last bit he’s doing on foot.’
Hanson remembered his conversation with DCI Turner earlier in the day, and felt his stomach churn over. ‘Where did you drop him off?’ he asked.
‘Just near the Tower.’
At the northern end of the Golden Mile, Hanson thought – right in the middle of the area on which the rumours about Punch Davies had been centred. Bloody hell fire!
It had been towards the end of the nineteenth century that Blackpool Borough Council had passed legislation to ban most traders from the beach, thus leaving more room for holidaymakers. But the traders had not wanted to lose their lucrative businesses, and the holidaymakers – while appreciating the extra lounging space – still wanted the services the traders offered. The solution had been simple. The traders had hauled their barrows and stalls off the sands, crossed the promenade, and set up shop again in the front gardens of sea-front hotels. The traders were happy their businesses continued, the buyers were happy to still be able to buy, the hotel owners were happy with the unexpected extra source of revenue – and the Golden Mile was born.
Golden Mile to Murder Page 5
