Golden Mile to Murder

by Sally Spencer

Hanson smiled. ‘I think you do,’ he said. ‘There was an unpleasant incident this morning. Well, I’ve taken steps to see that nothing like it occurs again.’

  ‘I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,’ Paniatowski said.

  If Hanson noticed the lack of graciousness in her tone, he did not take offence. ‘It was my battle as well,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Certainly. My main function – as I see it – is to make sure that things round here run smoothly, so that the whole team can concentrate on the job in hand. Badger wasn’t just being bloody rude to you this morning – he was undermining my authority as well. And I can’t have that.’

  He was behaving decently towards her and he deserved to be treated decently in return, Paniatowski thought, starting to feel slightly ashamed.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘I was only doing my job,’ Hanson assured her. He paused for a second. ‘Got any plans for tonight, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Blackpool’s not all fish and chip shops, you know. There are a couple of nice restaurants tucked away in quiet corners.’

  ‘Are you asking me out?’ Paniatowski asked suspiciously.

  ‘I’m suggesting that two sergeants might have a meal together so they can discuss the case – and anything else of interest which might crop up during the course of the evening.’

  ‘And will you tell your wife about it?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘I can easily check up on that, you know,’ Paniatowski warned.

  Hanson laughed. ‘Ask anyone you like. I’m not married. I’ve never even been engaged. I broke up with my last steady girlfriend more than two years ago. Not that that should have anything to do with it, one way or the other. Like I told you, it’d just be two very professional police officers havin’ a bite together. So what do you say?’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘I say yes,’ she replied.

  Bob Rutter looked around the hotel room the Central Lancashire Police had booked him into. It didn’t take long. The room contained a single bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe and a sink. There had to be better ways to spend his first evening in Lancashire – the first evening of his new life – than sitting alone in this box, he thought.

  He’d noticed a television set in the residents’ lounge downstairs, and for a moment he was tempted to go and watch it. Then he remembered that it was ‘Bonanza’ night, and the lounge was sure to be crowded. The flicks, then? According to the local paper, they were showing The Guns of Navarone at the Plaza, but somehow he wasn’t in the mood for a gung-ho war film, either.

  He sat down on the bed and tried to analyse his vague feelings of discontent. Perhaps they came from the fact that he was spending the night away from home. But he’d done that often enough before, so why should it be any different this time? And then he had it – he was used to being away, but he was not used to spending time in alien territory without Cloggin’-it Charlie by his side.

  He grinned ruefully. He was a big boy now. He was going to learn to do without Woodend’s reassuring presence and caustic comments.

  Why not go for a walk? he asked himself. A good long walk – punctuated by a pause for a couple of pints – would help him to sleep.

  For the next hour or so, Rutter wandered aimlessly, but quite happily, through the streets of Whitebridge. In some ways, the town was still old-fashioned enough to remind him of the London he had known as a child. Everything had seemed fresh and exciting in those days, he thought, enveloping himself effortlessly in a cosy blanket of nostalgia. Even shopping had been an adventure back then.

  He remembered going down to the corner store, where butter and biscuits had been sold from large barrels, and bacon sliced off the bone before your very eyes. A smile came to his lips as he recalled the complex network of spring-loaded overhead wireways the assistants used to send the customers’ money to the cashier’s desk. Now, only a decade or so later, the corner shops were all being replaced by large, impersonal self-service stores in which the assistants didn’t know your name, and the smell of cheese was smothered by plastic packaging. And where London had led, Whitebridge would soon follow. It was progress of a sort, he supposed but –

  But he was starting to sound more like Charlie Woodend with each day that passed, he thought with some chagrin.

  It was time to stop and have that drink he’d promised himself, he decided, coming to a halt in front of a pub called The Grapes. He had a choice of two doors just inside the main entrance, one leading to the saloon bar and the other to the public. In the days before he’d started working with Charlie Woodend, he would automatically have selected the saloon, but now he pushed the public bar door open.

  There were only four customers, and he was surprised to find that although he’d been in the town for less than a day, he recognised one of them.

  He walked across to the man with a scrubbed red skin and a few cotton balls of white fluffy hair on his head, and said, ‘Hello, Mr Grimsdyke. Do you remember me?’

  The old car mechanic looked up. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Tha’s that bugger from the South what can’t speak the Queen’s English proper.’

  Rutter grinned. ‘I’m just going to order myself a pint. Can I get you one in at the same time?’

  The old man held his glass up to the light. There was perhaps an inch of beer left in the bottom of it.

  ‘Aye, tha might as weel get me one,’ he said.

  It was strange what effect being away from home could have on him, Rutter thought, as he waited for the pints to be pulled. If he’d been in London and come across someone he’d only met once, he’d simply have nodded politely. In the wilds of Lancashire, on the other hand, he found he was inordinately pleased to see even a vaguely familiar face.

  He took the drinks over to the table. ‘How much did that cost thee?’ the old man asked, picking up the pint Rutter had bought him. ‘One an’ fivepence, were it?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Rutter agreed.

  ‘When I were a lad, tha could buy a pint for a penny ’alfpenny. An’ it tasted a damn sight better than the stuff we’re suppin’ now.’

  The old man was drunk, Rutter realised – and while not exactly legless, he’d certainly had enough to make whatever anyone else had to say much less important than what he had to say himself.

  ‘Aye, a penny ’alfpenny a pint,’ the old man repeated. ‘Tha could get a decent meal for a tanner in them days, an’ all.’

  ‘Things change,’ Rutter said.

  ‘They do that. An’ usually not for the better. When I were a lad, tha could go out for the day an’ leave tha back door unlocked. Can tha do that now? Can tha hell as like.’

  Rutter was starting to regret sitting down, and wondering how soon he would be able to make his excuses and leave.

  ‘Tha can walk for twenty mile these days an’ still not come across an honest man,’ Grimsdyke continued. ‘It’s enough t’ mek thee weep.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as that,’ Rutter said soothingly.

  ‘Tha’d be surprised what’s goin’ on, even in a little place like Whitebridge,’ the old man countered. ‘That granddaughter o’ mine thinks it all goes over my head. But it dun’t. I see what’s happenin’, right enough. An’ let me tell thee somethin’ for nothin’ – a lot of what’s goin’ on just isn’t right.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Rutter asked, starting to get interested.

  ‘I’m sayin’ na more,’ the old man replied, his expression suddenly guarded. ‘If truth be told, I’ve probably said too much already.’

  The prawn cocktail had been served on crispy lettuce, the steak had been cooked to perfection, and the waiter was just opening a second bottle of wine. Monika Paniatowski leant back in her chair and tried – though not too hard – to throw off the feeling of well-being which she felt was so inappropriate to a business meal with a colleague.

  ‘What�
�s your opinion of Sergeant Howarth?’ she asked.

  ‘Howie?’ Frank Hanson repeated. ‘He’s all right, in his own way, I suppose.’

  Paniatowski felt she wanted to giggle, but instead she said, ‘That’s a case of damning with faint praise if ever I heard one.’

  ‘Your question wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Howarth’s investigating a hit-and-run in Fleetwood – and you were up in Fleetwood yourself this afternoon – would it?’ Hanson asked.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  Hanson grinned. ‘If you had bobbies from a different area tramping all over your patch, wouldn’t you make it your business to know where they’d been?’

  Monika returned his grin. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And does the one thing have anything to do with the other?’

  ‘It might,’ Paniatowski replied.

  She was feeling very light-headed, she thought – far more light-headed than she should have been after what she’d drunk. Perhaps it was the rich food. Or maybe the relief at finding she had at least one ally within the Blackpool police force. Or could it be – could it possibly be – that it was a long time since she’d been attracted to a man as much as she was finding herself attracted to Sergeant Hanson?

  ‘I’m not one to talk out of school,’ Hanson said, delivering his words slowly and carefully, ‘but given a choice between working with you on an important case, and working with Howarth on it, I’d choose you any day of the week.’

  ‘He’s not likely to make waves, then?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Say he suspected that someone important in this town was involved in a serious crime. Would he go after them – or would he prefer to leave the case unsolved?’

  ‘Are we still talking about the hit-and-run?’ Hanson asked.

  Paniatowski nodded. ‘The night the old lady was knocked down, there was a meeting of the Golden Mile Association at the Palace Hotel.’

  ‘Was there, by God?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘The car which killed her was coming from the direction of the hotel, at a time when the pubs had been closed for over an hour. And the driver was drunk – even Howarth agrees on that point. So what does that tell you?’

  ‘It tells me that if I’d been assigned to the case, I’d be concentrating my efforts on talking to the people who’d attended the function.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But Sergeant Howarth’s been through them in record time, and decided that none of them had anything to do with it.’

  Hanson scooped up his remaining vegetables on to his fork and popped them into his mouth.

  ‘Where’s all this taking us?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m here to investigate a murder – but if I discover that another serious crime has been committed and it’s not being properly investigated, what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Are you sure that seeing justice done is your only motivation?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘If Mr Woodend solves this murder – as I’m sure he will – you’ll get some of the credit for it. But not much. Whereas, if you were to wrap up a hit-and-run case entirely on your own, you wouldn’t have to share the credit with anybody. Now don’t tell me that hasn’t crossed your mind.’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘It may even be what first persuaded me to push this thing further. But it’s not my only motive.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No! Look, that old lady was out minding her own business when she was hit by a car going at nearly sixty miles an hour. The impact crushed I don’t know how many bones, and threw her into the air. The medical report says she died almost instantly. But what’s almost instantly? Who’s to say how much agony she suffered before everything went black? She was an innocent. She didn’t deserve to die. And I want to nail the bastard who killed her.’

  ‘And you want me to help you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But it’s what you meant.’

  ‘Perhaps I won’t need your help,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Perhaps I can do it all on my own.’

  Hanson shook his head. ‘You know that’s not true. You can maybe make a start on it yourself, but there’ll come a point when you need local support.’

  ‘Will I get it?’

  Hanson looked down at his wine glass. ‘Throughout my entire career, I’ve tried to be a good bobby and always do the right thing,’ he said heavily. ‘I think you’re trying to do the right thing here, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Sometimes you find yourself faced with a choice between doing what’s right by the victim and doing what’s right by your colleagues and the community you live in. It’s not an easy choice, but it has to be made.’

  ‘This conversation isn’t about the hit-and-run any longer, is it?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘All this “rights of the victim” and “rights of the community” stuff has to do with the murder of Punch Davies.’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . well, maybe,’ Hanson said, looking confused. ‘I think I might have had a bit too much to drink. Look, let’s forget the murder and stick to the point. You’re going to go ahead with your own personal investigation into the hit-and-run whatever I say, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘I don’t want to, but it feels like I don’t have any choice.’

  ‘Then I will help you, because I do think you’re doing the right thing.’ Hanson told her. ‘But only so far.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, when all this is over, I still have to live here. So if you decide to go to the ropes on this one, there’s no point in looking over your shoulder to check if I’m still there – because I won’t be. If you take a fall, you’ll have to do it on your own.’

  Twenty

  Woodend stood in the tiny lobby of the Sea View Hotel, the telephone receiver clasped tightly in his big hand.

  ‘Can you hear me, Joan?’ he asked.

  ‘Clear as a bell,’ his wife replied. ‘Is somethin’ the matter, Charlie?’

  ‘Why should somethin’ be the matter?’ Woodend asked defensively.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just somethin’ in your voice. An’ you never ring me when you’re workin’ on a case – except, of course, when you’re comin’ home an’ you want me to stock up with pork sausages.’

  Woodend forced himself to chuckle. ‘Aye, I’m a bit of a bugger, aren’t I?’ he said. ‘Is everythin’ all right at home?’

  ‘Very hectic. The removal men come tomorrow, so as you can imagine, there’s been a lot to do.’

  ‘An’ how’s Annie?’ Woodend asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘A bit moody – but then girls are at her age, aren’t they?’

  ‘Could I speak to her?’

  ‘She’s not in.’

  ‘But it’s after ten! What’s she doin’ out at this time of night?’

  ‘One of her friends has been throwin’ a goodbye party for her,’ Joan said.

  A goodbye party! Woodend thought. It sounded so final. But wasn’t that just what it was? True, Annie might take the occasional weekend excursion to London and stay with one of her mates, but essentially that part of her life was over. And it had been his choice, not hers.

  ‘What time is she expected home?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re not suddenly goin’ to start playin’ the Victorian father, are you?’ Joan countered.

  ‘No, that’s not the reason I want to know. I just thought I’d ring again when she got back.’

  ‘I’ve told her to be in by eleven, but you know she’s not exactly a dab hand at punctuality,’ Joan said. ‘So you’d better leave it until around eleven-thirty. If you’ll still be up.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll still be up,’ Woodend assured her.

  Because of one thing he was certain – until he had spoken to his daughter, sleep would elude him.

  They had
been far from the last couple to enter to the restaurant, but they were the last to leave by a wide margin, and when they had finally stood up to go, the waiters were already relaying the tables for the next day’s business, while the cashier, having already totted up everyone else’s bill, was drumming her fingers impatiently.

  Now they were driving along the promenade. They had already passed the North Pier and were entering the Golden Mile. The bingo halls were closed, the hamburger stands and fish and chip shops had shut for the night. Lights still burned in the pubs, but the last few customers were being shown the door. Another ten minutes and the scene would look very much like it had the night Detective Inspector Punch Davies had taken his final – fatal – walk under the Central Pier.

  Hanson was at the wheel. He had had a little too much to drink, but unlike many drivers in his condition he recognised the fact, and was keeping his speed well below thirty miles an hour.

  The local sergeant turned slightly towards his passenger. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked.

  ‘More relaxed than tired,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘Was that an idle question, or was there some motive behind it?’

  ‘I was just thinking it would be a pity to end the evening so soon,’ Hanson replied.

  ‘So what do you suggest? A late-night drinking club?’

  ‘There aren’t many of those in Blackpool. And the ones that do exist are pretty seedy places.’

  A smile crept to Paniatowski’s lips. ‘But you have an alternative?’ she said.

  ‘My cleaning lady was round this morning, so this is the one night of the week when my flat doesn’t look like a pig sty.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘And there’s a bottle of twelve-year-old malt whisky in my booze cabinet that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.’

  ‘Which is how you’d classify this?’ Paniatowski asked lightly.

  ‘Yes, it’s how I’d classify this,’ Hanson replied seriously.

  ‘Before we go to your flat – if we go to your flat – I’d like to make one thing clear,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘There are enough complications in my life already, Frank, so I’m not looking for a steady boyfriend. If anything should happen tonight, it happens tonight – and then that’s it. Understood?’