‘Sometimes you’re too close to a thing to see it properly,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Exactly. I could put Sergeant Hanson on that side of the investigation, but he’d be on familiar territory, and because it was familiar, he might start takin’ things for granted that he shouldn’t be takin’ for granted at all. That’s why I’d rather use one of my own people.’
One of his own people. Paniatowski ran the phrase through her mind. She didn’t feel like one of his people. If the truth be told, apart from the period she had worked under Mr Turner in Whitebridge, she had not felt like one of anybody’s people since she’d joined the police force.
Sergeant Hanson sat at a table in Yates’s Wine Lodge, facing the other three local detectives. He let his gaze move from Brock to Stone, and from Stone to Eliot.
‘What I’m about to say comes straight from Chief Inspector Turner,’ he told them. ‘Mr Woodend’s the senior officer on this case, which means that you’re working for him – but nothing goes to him without it passing through me first. Is that clear?’
The three constables nodded.
‘And whenever we have a brainstorming session with Cloggin’-it Charlie like we had earlier, you leave all the talking to me,’ Hanson continued.
Eliot looked troubled. ‘But what if he asks one of us a direct question?’ he asked.
‘Think of him like you’d think of an unfriendly brief asking you an awkward question in the witness box,’ Hanson advised. ‘Appear to be co-operating, but give as little away as possible.’
‘I don’t want to do anything which will damage my career,’ Eliot said.
‘Then you’ll play it the way I’ve told you to,’ Hanson countered. ‘Listen, whether he finds Billy’s killer or not, Mr Woodend will be gone in a few weeks. But Mr Turner won’t be. Get on the wrong side of him and you’ll be back directing traffic. And you’ll stay directing traffic for as long as you’re on the force.’ He sighed. ‘Look, we’re in a difficult situation here. We want to find Punch’s killer, right enough, but at the same time we want to protect the inspector’s reputation – and that of the force.’
‘Maybe there’s no need to do that,’ Eliot said hopefully. ‘Maybe all the rumours floating around about him aren’t true. I don’t believe them, for one.’
Hanson shook his head slowly – almost despairingly – from side to side. ‘You don’t believe them,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve said that I don’t believe them either. So have Stone and Brock. It’s the natural thing to do when one of your colleagues comes under attack. But let’s be honest, at least within this part of the team. Whatever we say – however much we might defend Punch – I think we all know, deep down inside ourselves, that the rumours are spot on.’
Ten
The interior of the Sea View Private Hotel was exactly as Woodend had pictured it would be. Beyond the entrance was a hallway just large enough for the polished wooden table which held the guest register and the brass gong used to announce meals. The door to the dining-room lay to the right, the stairs to the left. The narrow corridor running along the side of the stairs had a sign pinned to the wall which announced it was ‘Private’, and presumably led to the kitchen and staff quarters.
The woman who had admitted Woodend and Paniatowski into this peaceful haven announced that she was the landlady, Mrs Bowyer. She was tiny – almost bird-like – but compensated for her slight frame with a hard gaze which could easily slice its way through thick copper piping. In other words, Woodend thought, she was a typical example of the kind of seaside landlady he remembered from his family’s holidays before the war.
‘I was expectin’ two policemen,’ she said accusingly. ‘That’s what the young bobby who came round to book the rooms told me.’
Both her tone and her expression suggested that she suspected there was more to all this than met the eye – that she would not be the least surprised if she had been caught up in a vast conspiracy involving the whole of the Lancashire Constabulary, the sole aim of which was to allow the man in the hairy sports jacket to slake the fires of his burning lust on his young blonde companion.
‘Two policemen,’ she repeated.
‘You were told to expect two police officers,’ Woodend responded. ‘And here we are – Chief Inspector Woodend and Detective Sergeant Paniatowski.’
‘Are you sure that’s who you are?’ Mrs Bowyer asked, the clear implication being that detective chief inspectors should dress better than Woodend did, and that as for Paniatowski, well, women simply had no business being detective sergeants.
‘We can show you our warrant cards if that will make you happier,’ Woodend suggested.
Mrs Bowyer sniffed disapprovingly, but bowed to the inevitable. ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘If you’ll wait here for a minute, I’ll go an’ check what rooms I’ve put you in.’
As she retreated down the narrow corridor, Woodend chuckled to himself. What a breed apart these landladies really were, he thought. Unlike most people, the thought of having a senior police officer under their roof did not intimidate them. If the Queen herself turned up and asked for a room, they’d probably want to know why Her Majesty hadn’t booked in advance and remind her that a deposit would be required.
‘I’m goin’ to take a wander when I’ve unpacked my case,’ Woodend said to his new sergeant. ‘Want to come with me?’
‘No, thank you, sir. I think I’ll stay in and wash my hair.’
Woodend suppressed a grin. I’m staying in and washing my hair. How many lads had he known in his youth who’d been given that excuse, when what the girl giving it really meant was: ‘I’d rather go out with a gorilla than go out with you.’
A new thought struck him, and he felt his good humour evaporate. Had Paniatowski really imagined that he was asking her out on some kind of date? Her previous behaviour suggested that she probably had. How was he ever going to get through to her? How would he ever convince her that the only sort of close relationship he wanted with his new sergeant was the sort he’d had with Bob Rutter?
The landlady returned. ‘If you’d like to follow me,’ she said, mounting the stairs.
On the first landing was a long, narrow corridor. ‘Down here,’ the landlady said, but when both Woodend and Paniatowski started to follow her, she quickly added, ‘No, not you, madam. Just the gentleman.’
Most of the doors along the corridor were closed, but two of them, right next to one another, were open, and inside Woodend could see freshly made beds. The landlady had been planning to put the two police officers in adjacent rooms, he thought – but that was before she had realised one of them was a woman.
‘That’s your room,’ Mrs Bowyer said, pointing to the second of the open doors. ‘The toilet and bathroom are at the end of the corridor. There’s hot water between seven-thirty and nine-thirty, then again between seven and nine in the evenin’. Breakfast is at eight, dinner at twelve and tea at five-thirty. Guests are asked to refrain from smokin’ in bed. Thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ Woodend replied, but Mrs Bowyer was already on her way to shepherd Paniatowski to a part of the house where she would be safe from his evil clutches.
Woodend threw his battered carpet bag on to the bed, watched it sink into the lumpy mattress, then lit up a Capstan Full Strength. If it weren’t for sex rearing its ugly head all over the place, his job would be a lot easier, he thought. But then, remembering how often the sexual element had played a part in the cases he’d investigated, he realised that without it he probably wouldn’t have a job at all.
Eleven
The Gay Paree Theatre stood on a street corner halfway down the Golden Mile. It was shaped like an upended domino, and had a rickety platform jutting out from it at about six feet above ground level. For most of the time, the double doors at the end of the platform were closed and the platform was empty, but as the evening wore on – and the children were safely tucked up in bed – the place came to life.
There were two people on the platfo
rm at that moment – a man and a woman. The man, dressed in a cheap, flashy suit, was standing. The woman, a brassy blonde woman in a peach-coloured beach robe – and who knew what else, if anything, underneath? – was sitting on a chair next to him. On the pavement below stood a couple of dozen men and a few couples. The single men showed marked signs of interest in what was going on. The ones with their wives or girlfriends were doing their best to feign a lazy indifference.
The man on the platform held up a crudely made and crudely painted black wooden box.
‘And now, before your very eyes, ladies and gentlemen, I will perform an incredible feat of magic,’ he said.
But none of the men were looking at him, because the brassy blonde had just – slowly and deliberately – crossed her legs.
‘I put the box over my partner’s head, like so,’ the man continued.
He slid the box in place. The front of it projected out at least six or eight inches past the blonde’s face, so that its edge was poised over her bosom.
‘And now,’ the man said, producing a long-bladed knife, ‘I will insert this dangerous weapon right into the box – so far that it will come out on the other side. This is a piece of magic, ladies and gentlemen, which calls for the utmost concentration – and I would be grateful if you would maintain complete silence until it is finished.’
Woodend, standing in the middle of the pack below, shook his head in wonder.
Complete silence?
With the trams thundering past on the other side of the road?
With the noise of the amusement arcade to their left and the amplified shouts of the bingo callers on the other?
Or perhaps the ‘magician’ just meant the complete silence of the people standing in front of the platform. If that was his aim, then he should have no problem achieving it – because the brassy blonde had just shifted position again, revealing even more of her legs to the watchers below.
The man on the platform inserted the knife into a slot in the box, and, just as he had promised, the tip appeared out of the other side. With a little less than a flourish, he lifted the flap on the front of the box. The knife had indeed gone all the way through, and the brassy blonde’s head had completely disappeared. Or at least, it would seem to have disappeared to any onlooker with such a poor sense of perspective that he failed to grasp the fact that the box had a false bottom about a third of the way down its length.
The man closed the front flap again, pulled out the knife and removed the box from the blonde woman’s head. There was no applause. Nor had he probably expected any. The whole ‘show’ – such as it was – had been nothing more than an excuse for exhibiting a semi-naked woman on an open-air platform.
‘What a spectacular show we’ve got waiting inside for you, ladies and gentlemen,’ the man continued. ‘See Helga, the sex slave of a vicious Berlin night-club owner. Drugged and beaten, Helga was forced to perform acts of incredible depravity every night in front of a group of slavering German businessmen. Now she is free of her humiliation at last, and you can see her – live – on this very stage.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know how much longer the Blackpool Watch Committee is going to allow this daring show to go on,’ he continued. ‘The police could close it down tomorrow morning.’
Woodend grinned to himself. There would be no Helga, the drugged sex slave, inside. The ‘entertainment’ offered would be almost innocent, staying strictly within the limits imposed by the obscenity laws. Still, it was amusing to listen to such a good line in patter.
‘Yes, only at the Gay Paree Theatre, Blackpool, can you see the show that has shocked the whole of Europe,’ the barker continued. ‘Don’t miss what might be your last opportunity.’
Had Detective Inspector Punch Davies stood before this platform on one of his still-unexplained trips along the Golden Mile? Woodend wondered. And after the barker had finished his patter, had Davies walked up the wooden steps to the platform, crossed it and entered the Gay Paree Theatre?
‘You’d pay ten pounds to see a show like this in London,’ the barker told the small crowd below. ‘But how much will it cost you tonight? Not ten pounds. Not five pounds. Not even one pound. All I’m asked you to part with, ladies and gentlemen, is five shillings. A miserable five bob for the erotic thrill of a lifetime.’
After one more flash of thigh, the brassy blonde stood up and walked slinkily back into the theatre. ‘Follow me,’ her walk seemed to saying. ‘Follow me and get some of the titillation your frumpy wives will never give you at home.’
‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen,’ the barker exhorted. ‘Don’t be holding back.’
A group of three lads – it was always easier to do something slightly risqué in a group – began to climb the steps.
‘That’s the spirit,’ the barker encouraged them. ‘Only five bob? For a show like this? We must be mad!’
Young men were looking at their girlfriends, their expressions suggesting that they weren’t bothered one way or the other, but if the girl wanted to see it, then it might be a bit of a laugh. Two of the couples followed the initial group of lads up the stairs, the rest drifted away.
‘Come on, gentlemen,’ the barker cajoled the single men still standing below. ‘You’ll have a good time – and I promise you that I won’t tell your wives you’ve been here.’
Woodend felt in his pocket for a couple of convenient half-crown coins.
Standing at the window of her hotel room, Monika Paniatowski watched the waves break against the shore and thought about her first sight of the sea.
She had been just eleven years old at the time, and had been standing with her mother and Arthur Jones on the dock at Calais.
‘See that?’ Jones had asked Monika and her mother, pointing across the water. ‘That’s England, that is. The White Cliffs of Dover. In a few hours we’ll be over there ourselves, at the start of our wonderful new life.’
And Monika had taken him at his word – had actually believed that just by crossing a stretch of water, she could magically find happiness. That belief in the possibility of happiness was still there, somewhere deep inside her – but she had long ago abandoned the idea that it could be attained just by wishing for it. Life, she now understood, was a hazardous business. In fact, it was not one business at all, but several distinct ones, each of which called for a different approach. If she were to be successful in her chosen career, for example – if she were to climb the ladder of success in the male-dominated police force – then she must be bold, grabbing her opportunities before someone else snatched them away from her. But in her private life, caution was called for. Though she felt she would not be complete until she had a man of her own, it was vital to make certain he was the right man. She was determined she would not make the mistake of throwing herself at the first one who presented himself – as her mother had done.
She turned her back on the sea, walked over to her bed, and began to apply her mind to the murder of Punch Davies. Was the task her new boss had assigned of any real value – or was Woodend merely using it as a way to keep her out of his hair? And even if it were the latter, couldn’t a smart woman like her find some way to turn it to her own advantage?
She lit a cigarette, and looked down at the notes she had made earlier.
‘Would anyone being investigated by Davies be desperate enough to have committed murder to cover his trail?’ she had written in her tight, neat handwriting. ‘Would a cat burglar risk being hanged rather than face a few years in jail?’
The burglars she knew in Whitebridge regarded jail as nothing more than an occupational hazard – something to be tolerated in much the same way as non-criminals tolerated paying income tax and national insurance. Was there any reason to assume that the burglars in Blackpool would be any different?
What about the car-theft ring? she asked herself. A decade earlier, there would have been no call for one, but the number of car drivers had doubled since the early fifties, and it was now
something of a growth industry. But not a cottage industry! Villains didn’t nick cars off one street and try to sell them on again in the next. When they finally disposed of the stolen vehicle, it would be in another town – which meant the centre of the ring’s operation usually had to be one of the big cities like Liverpool or Manchester.
Monika took a drag of her cigarette. She was back to the question of a strong enough motive for murder again, she realised. Say Davies had got a lead on the local branch of the car ring. Would the men running it decide he was a big enough threat to risk the rope for? No! Why should they, when all they had to do was close down the Blackpool end of things and concentrate on stealing cars from Burnley or Clitheroe instead?
Which left the hit-and-run case – and the more Monika thought about it, the faster her pulse began to race! The average perpetrator in a hit-and-run was not a felon like the ordinary criminal. He didn’t regard a prison sentence as something which merely had to be endured. For him, it was the end of life as he had known it. And if the life he was about to lose was a good one, might he not risk the possibility of being hanged if that was the only way to protect it? So if Davies had had a good lead on the case, wasn’t it possible that—?
She was on to something! She was sure of it!
Monika stubbed her cigarette out in the souvenir-of-Blackpool ashtray, which the landlady had provided. She had done a very productive hour’s work, she told herself, and she was entitled to a reward. She wondered if any of the nearby pubs sold vodka.
The auditorium of the Gay Paree Theatre was dimly lit, which Woodend suspected was as much to mask the run-down nature of the place as to create an atmosphere. Most of the people who’d paid their admissions had chosen seats near the back of the room, but Woodend selected one close to the blue mock-velvet curtain currently drawn across the stage.
Golden Mile to Murder Page 7
