Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
The instructor had told her during her training that women could never match men press-up for press-up. And maybe he was right – maybe most of them couldn’t. But she was determined to try – determined to show all those complacent bastards back at headquarters that having male genitalia didn’t automatically grant them the keys to the universe.
By the time her nose had brushed against the floor thirty times, she’d had enough, but still pushed herself on to complete another ten. She’d be up to fifty press-ups soon, she promised herself, and once that barrier was broken, it shouldn’t be impossible to reach a hundred.
She had washed, dressed and smoked her first two cigarettes of the day by the time she heard the gong in the hallway imperiously summoning her down to breakfast. As she walked down the stairs, she could smell the odours of a fry-up drifting from the kitchen, and remembered the times when her mother had carefully measured out what little food they’d managed to scrounge and advised her to eat it slowly. Well, those days were gone forever, thank God.
Her stomach was rumbling by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, but then, through the open dining-room door, she caught sight of Woodend – already sitting at what would probably be their table for the whole of the investigation – and felt her appetite vanish.
The chief inspector’s attention was focussed on the bowl of cornflakes in front of him, but once he had finished scooping the milk and cereal on to his spoon, he would undoubtedly look up and see her. Before he had the chance to do that, Monika strode quickly past the open door and on to the street.
Once outside, she took a deep breath of the salty sea air, and wondered why her instincts had ordered her to flee. Was it that she couldn’t bear the thought of Woodend making a pass at her over the breakfast table? It didn’t seem likely that he would. Experience had taught her that men trying to get into her knickers didn’t make the offer and then give her all day to think about it. When they struck they were like snakes – one second pretending to be as harmless as dead wood and the next sticking their fangs into her.
So just what was it that made her so uneasy about being in the presence of her new boss? Could it be that she was worried that when he spoke of being a team and sharing the credit, he was actually being sincere – which made her own plans to always squeeze out of any situation only what was best for Monika Paniatowski seem almost treacherous? No! Woodend was as full of shit as the rest of them. He just had to be!
The bacon was crisp, the egg thick yolked, and the fried bread steeped enticingly in lard. As Woodend polished off the last few morsels of his fry-up, he told himself that whatever other headaches he would have to endure at the hands of Chief Superintendent Ainsworth, it was worth being back up North just for the food.
He was just finished his last piece of buttered toast when Mrs Bowyer strode meaningfully over to his table.
‘There’s a phone call for you,’ she said accusingly.
‘Who is it?’
‘Didn’t say. Just asked to speak to you.’ The landlady gave a martyred sigh. ‘This is most irregular, you know. The phone in the hallway is supposed to be for outgoing calls only – and then only in a real emergency.’
She was a real dragon, Woodend thought admiringly. If Saint George had had to face a creature like Mrs Bowyer in his quest to free the maiden, he would have abandoned the girl to her fate and gone off in search of the nearest pub.
He bit back an incipient grin and tried to look duly rebuked. ‘It’ll be somebody from Blackpool Central,’ he explained. ‘I’ll tell them not use the phone in future. If they want to contact me, they can always send a constable round.’
‘They can do no such thing!’ the landlady said. ‘This is a respectable house. No uniformed policeman has ever crossed my threshold on official business, and I’m not about to have them starting now.’
Woodend could constrain the grin no longer, and in order to save the landlady the need to become righteously indignant, he climbed to his feet and turned slightly away from her.
‘Better go an’ answer the phone, then,’ he said, half over his shoulder. ‘You know how bad-tempered bobbies can be when they’re kept waitin’.’
He walked into the hall and picked up the receiver. ‘Woodend.’
‘It’s me, sir,’ said a familiar voice.
So it wasn’t someone from the local station at all! Instead, it was his faithful assistant – the Tonto to his Lone Ranger – Bob Rutter.
‘Where are you, Bob?’ Woodend asked, delighted.
‘I’m in Whitebridge. I arrived yesterday – just after you’d left, as a matter of fact.’
‘An’ what do you think of it so far?’
‘Seems a reasonable sort of place,’ Rutter said cautiously.
‘A reasonable sort of place!’ Woodend repeated incredulously. ‘You probably don’t know this, lad, but when God created the earth, he started with Lancashire an’ worked his way out.’ He lit up a cigarette. ‘Anyway, enough of the idle chatter. How soon can you get down here?’
There was an embarrassed pause on the other end of the line. ‘I’m not sure I can get down there at all,’ Rutter said finally.
‘What are you talkin’ about?’
‘I had an interview with Chief Superintendent Ainsworth as soon as I reported for duty this morning. He’s assigned me to another case.’
‘Another case? What kind of case?’
‘Car theft. There’s apparently been a lot of it going on in the first place God created.’
Woodend felt his fingers crushing the cigarette he held between them. ‘But that’s outrageous!’ he protested. ‘Car theft’s a job for the local flatfeet!’
‘We are the local flatfeet now,’ Rutter reminded him.
So they were, Woodend supposed. But that didn’t alter the fact that he needed his right-hand man working with him on this case.
‘You did point out to Mr Ainsworth that I’m investigatin’ the murder of a policeman here, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Not quite as subtly as you might have done, sir,’ Rutter replied – and Woodend could picture the grin on his face. ‘But I did remind him that I’m one of your team.’
One of his team? Bob Rutter was the team. ‘An’ what did he say to that?’ Woodend asked.
‘He told me that you already had a team in place. Then he went on to add that if I want to have any future in the Lancashire Constabulary, I’d do well to remember where my loyalties are supposed to lie.’
‘Bastard!’ Woodend said.
‘Yes, you don’t have to be here long before you start hearing rumours about Mr Ainsworth’s parentage,’ Rutter agreed.
Woodend deposited his crumpled – but still burning – cigarette in the souvenir ashtray next to the phone. If he’d been in Whitebridge at that moment, he’d have marched straight into Ainsworth’s office and pointed out forcibly how vital Bob Rutter had become to his work. But he wasn’t in Whitebridge when the blow fell – which had probably all been part of the Detective Chief Superintendent’s machiavellian calculation.
‘We’ll get it clear just who you report to as soon as I’ve got this case wrapped up,’ he promised. ‘In the meantime, stay in touch.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Rutter promised.
Not that it seemed likely to him that there would be much to stay in touch about.
When Monika Paniatowski arrived at the Incident Room, Sergeant Hanson and the three detective constables were already seated around the central Formica table. And they looked as if they had been there for a while – as if they had deliberately arrived early for the express purpose of having a private discussion before the outsiders from Whitebridge arrived.
The three constables merely nodded in her general direction, but Sergeant Hanson stood up and walked over to her.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.
Monika felt her defensive shield slide into place, as it always did when she was with male officers. He�
��d asked her if she’d slept well, but had he really meant, had she slept alone? It wouldn’t be the first time a man had used that gambit on her – not by a long bloody chalk.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to stump you with that question,’ Hanson said, smiling. ‘Should I have started with something easier?’
Monika felt herself returning his smile. ‘I slept very well,’ she said.
‘And now I’ll bet you’re just bursting to get down to work. I’ve taken the liberty of assigning desks already, but if you’re not completely happy with the arrangement—’
‘I’m sure whatever you’ve decided will be fine.’
Hanson almost looked relieved. ‘In that case, that’ll be your desk over there – right next to Mr Woodend’s. You’ll find all the usual forms and requisition orders in the drawer. If there’s anything else you want, you’ve only to ask me for it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you fancy a cup of tea before you get started?’ Hanson asked.
He was being very nice, Monika thought – but male officers had been nice to her before, and there was usually a price they expected to be paid.
We’ve filled in all the forms for you, Monika. The least you can do is show us a bit of leg.
I’ll swap shifts with you, Monika, as long as you give me a quick kiss and cuddle in return.
‘Oh dear, have I asked another difficult question?’ Hanson asked, his smile back in place.
‘I’d love a cup,’ Monika said, looking round for the tea urn.
‘Haven’t got the catering side of things organised down here yet,’ Hanson said, following her glance, ‘so I’ll have to pop up to the canteen for a cup.’
‘If it’s too much trouble –’
‘No trouble at all. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
Hanson disappeared up the stairs, and Monika wondered what she should do next. She could stay standing where she was until he returned, but that would make her look like a useless pillock. She could go and sit at the table with the three men who had barely acknowledged her presence. Or she could go over to her desk. She chose the desk.
The typewriter which rested on the desk was an Underwood – old, but serviceable enough. The pencils had all been sharpened to a fine point and there was a new sheet of blotting paper. She’d had no chance to form an opinion of Hanson as a detective yet, but he certainly knew how to organise an office – and that skill was rarer than most people seemed to appreciate.
As she leant over the typewriter and experimentally tapped one of the keys, she got a sudden sensation of being watched – studied, almost – by at least one of the men sitting at the table. It was not a new experience, yet somehow this time it was different. The inspection she was undergoing was not lascivious. If anything it was almost clinical – as if she were a laboratory rat being observed as she made her way through the maze.
She brushed the feeling aside, and reached for her desk drawer, intending to find out which kinds of forms Sergeant Hanson considered necessary for officers conducting a murder inquiry. As the drawer slid open – and she saw what was inside – she had to force herself to hold back a gasp.
All the forms were there, just as Hanson had promised her they would be, but in addition, resting on top of them, there was a rubber condom – a used rubber condom.
Behind her, she heard a loud snigger. She turned, slowly, towards the table. All three of the detective constables had their heads bent and seemed intent on their paperwork.
Paniatowski picked up the condom carefully between her thumb and forefinger and walked over to the table. Once there, she dropped it on a spot equidistant between the DCs. It fell on the table with a dull squelch. The three men first looked up – and then down.
‘I don’t know which of you has been having it off with my drawer,’ Paniatowski said, ‘but whoever it is, somebody should explain to him that he’s been wasting his money on condoms, because it’s almost impossible for him to get a desk pregnant – especially if his tackle is so small that he can’t fill a rubber johnny out better than this.’
The young Constable Eliot blushed, the ginger-haired Constable Stone giggled. Only Constable Brock, it seemed, did not find her remark either embarrassing or funny – and that told her all she wanted to know.
‘Get rid of it, Brock,’ she said.
‘Me?’ Brock demanded, outraged.
‘You!’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘That is, unless, you’d rather it was still there when Mr Woodend arrives.’
Without waiting for a response, she turned and marched out of the room. As she mounted the stairs, she noted that her heart was galloping.
You’re being stupid! she told herself. This isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever had to put up with.
No, it wasn’t. It was nothing more than the latest in a long string of indignities which had begun the moment she’d joined the Whitebridge force as a uniformed constable. But every time something like this happened, it got a little bit harder to cope with – every time, the light at the end of the tunnel seemed just that bit further away.
Rank hadn’t insulated her from it – things were as bad now as when she’d been a rookie constable – and she had a nightmare vision of herself as a fifty-five-year-old Chief Superintendent, still having to put up with the crap. Of course, there was an obvious solution to the problem. She could resign from the force and take a job in something safe and mundane – like local government. But she didn’t want to, dammit! She had earned her position as detective sergeant by guts and hard graft – and she was not about to relinquish it now without a fight.
By the time Monika Paniatowski had thoroughly scrubbed her hands in the ladies’ toilet and returned to the Incident Room, Hanson was back with her tea, and Woodend was firmly ensconced in a chair at the head of the Formica table.
‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ the man in the hairy sports coat suggested. ‘I sent you lads out cloggin’ it along the Golden Mile last night. Was it worth it?’
The three constables immediately looked to Hanson for guidance.
The sergeant gave a slight cough. ‘Yes, sir. Apparently you were right,’ he admitted.
‘Oh aye? Right about what?’
‘Several of the people we talked to admitted seeing quite a lot of Inspector Davies over the last two or three weeks.’
‘An’ not before?’
‘Not since he was made up to inspector, which must have been three or four years ago now.’
Which pretty much confirmed what the rock seller had told him, Woodend thought.
‘An’ where did Mr Davies stop durin’ these walks up the Mile?’ he asked.
Hanson shrugged. ‘There you’ve got us, sir. We’ve found plenty of witnesses who saw him going past, but none who actually saw him stopping anywhere.’
‘Not even at the Gay Paree Theatre?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘The manager of the Gay Paree – a self-important ham who goes by the name of Gutteridge – knows your Mr Davies.’
‘Are you sure of that, sir?’
‘I can’t prove it, but I’m sure enough. Anyway, the interestin’ question is – where did their paths first cross? It’s highly unlikely they met on the golf links or at their local rotary club – I know some of these places can be quite liberal, but even they must draw the line at admittin’ filth merchants. An’ Mr Gutteridge doesn’t strike me as the kind of feller who’d be interested in model aeroplanes, like Mr Davies was.’
‘Perhaps Punch . . . Mr Davies was a . . .’ – Hanson was searching for the right word – ‘. . . a patron of the theatre, sir.’
‘If he’d been a “patron”, as you so delicately put it, he’d just have sunk into the darkness like everybody else, and Gutteridge wouldn’t have known him from Adam,’ Woodend said. ‘There has to be more to it than that.’ He paused for a second. ‘I was readin’ somewhere about a town in America called Las Vegas,’ he continued. ‘Apparently it’s in the arse-en
d of nowhere – slap-bang in the middle of the desert, to be precise.’
‘Really, sir?’ Hanson asked politely, though it was obvious he had no idea where this particular line of thought was leading.
‘Aye,’ Woodend said. ‘It seems that the reason it exists at all is that these gangsters in California had a lot of money they didn’t know what to do with – so they decided to invest it in creatin’ a town dedicated to gamblin’.’
‘You’re wondering if the same thing could have happened here and there’s British gangsters’ money behind the Golden Mile?’ Hanson asked.
‘Well, it’s a thought, isn’t it?’
Hanson shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’ll look into it, sir, but don’t expect me to come up with too much. As far as I know, there’s two kinds of businesses on the Mile – the big ones, which are owned by legitimate entertainment companies like Rank and Mecca, and the small ones, which sell hot dogs, postcards and rock, and are pretty much one-man operations. I can’t see scope for organised crime in either of them.’
‘I think I agree with you there,’ Woodend said. ‘But the fact remains that somethin’ was drawin’ Mr Davies – who was an experienced an’ dedicated police officer – to the Golden Mile – an’ so far we’ve bugger all idea what it was.’ He lit up a Capstan Full Strength and inhaled deeply. ‘Get out on the streets again, lads. An’ really put your backs into the job, because by the end of the day I want to know what that mysterious somethin’ is.’
The four local men rose to their feet. Paniatowski was about to do the same when she noticed Woodend gesturing to stay where she was.
‘So, tell me, Sergeant, what little expeditions have you got planned for today?’ the chief inspector when the local men had gone.
‘I’ve got a meeting with the sergeant in charge of the stolen car ring inquiry in an hour, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘And I’ve arranged to meet the team who were working with Mr Davies on the hit-and-run just before lunch. Once I’ve had a talk with both of them, I should have a clearer idea of where to go next.’
Half the sergeants he’d worked with in the past would have given a much longer outline of what they intended to do, Woodend thought – and have been watching him intently for signs of approval or disapproval as they spoke. He liked the fact that Paniatowski did not do that. On the other hand, after seeing the way she’d conned Mrs Davies the previous day, he was going to have to look out for her taking short cuts.
Golden Mile to Murder Page 9
