‘Understood.’
‘You don’t sound too happy about it.’
Hanson signalled a left turn, and pulled off the Mile. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that if you can’t have what you want, you might as well settle for what you can get,’ he said.
Annie had not returned when Woodend phoned at eleven-thirty, nor when he called again at eleven-thirty-five or eleven-forty. In fact, it was not until ten minutes to twelve that a tired-sounding Joan told him she’d finally arrived and was waiting to talk to him.
‘You were late!’ were Woodend’s first words. ‘Don’t you know how your mother worries about you when you’re late?’
Annie gave an audible sigh. ‘I came home in a taxi,’ she said. ‘Mum knew I was going to do that. Why should she have been worried?’
He was being far too heavy-handed, Woodend thought.
‘Was it a nice party?’ he asked, softening his voice a little.
‘It was all right,’ Annie replied – giving away nothing.
‘I think you’re goin’ to like it up North,’ Woodend told her. ‘I’d forgotten just how pleasant it can be.’
There was only silence from the other end of the line.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Sullen.
‘I was always brought up to believe that when a grown-up asks you a question, you give them an answer,’ Woodend said – aware that he was handling the conversation badly again, yet not knowing how to handle it well.’
‘Was there a question?’ Annie asked. ‘I didn’t hear one.’
She was right, of course. He hadn’t asked a question, he’d simply told her she’d like it up North. But what he had meant was: will you try to like the North, Annie? Will you really try – just for me?
‘It’s not so far off your sixteenth birthday,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to be thinkin’ about buyin’ you a scooter.’
Again, silence.
‘Annie . . .’ he said tentatively.
‘If you’re waiting for me to thank you for taking me away from all my friends, Dad, then you’ll be waiting a long time,’ Annie said bitterly.
‘If you feel like that, why have you never mentioned it before?’ Woodend asked.
‘Because you’re never here to mention it to, Dad. You’re just never here.’
‘That’s not quite fair,’ Woodend protested weakly.
‘Isn’t it?’ Annie countered. ‘When was the last time you were here for my birthday?’
‘I can’t remember,’ Woodend admitted.
‘Exactly. You can’t remember. Well, I can. I was ten – and halfway through my party you were called away on an important case. But then they’re all important, aren’t they, Dad?’
‘Listen, we’ll talk more about this when we meet up in Whitebridge,’ Woodend said.
‘There isn’t anything to talk about,’ his daughter told him. ‘The decisions have already been made, haven’t they? We’re going to live in Lancashire whether I like it or not.’
The line went dead. The receiver in Woodend’s hand felt as if it were made of lead. He replaced it on its cradle, and made his way slowly upstairs to his bedroom.
‘You had much in common with him,’ the gypsy had said, speaking of Inspector Punch Davies. ‘He, too, was troubled over his daughter – worried that he had failed her, as you worry that you have failed yours.’
They might have had things in common, just as the gypsy claimed, Woodend thought, but there was one big difference between them – there was so much less that Davies would have been able to do for his daughter.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when the phone on Gypsy Elizabeth Rose’s bedside table rang.
She reached groggily for the receiver. ‘Who the hell is this?’ she demanded.
‘Who the hell do you think it could be?’ asked a voice which chilled her to the bone. ‘Is there anybody else who’d call you at this time of night?’
All traces of sleep drained instantly from her body. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Did he come to see you?’
‘Yes, he came.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘What we agreed I should tell him. That he was probably failing his own child as Davies had failed his.’
‘And was he convinced?’
‘About himself?’
‘About the reasons you gave for Davies going to see you?’
‘I think so.’
‘But you’re not sure.’
What had started as a tight ball of fear in Gypsy Rose Elizabeth’s stomach had grown and grown until it now encompassed her whole body.
Why had she ever become involved with this man? she asked herself.
Surely even the limited psychic powers she had should have been enough to tell her that he was very, very dangerous.
‘I said, you’re not sure you convinced him, are you?’ the man repeated.
‘I’m sure,’ Elizabeth Rose told him – praying that he believed her.
‘Then you’re probably right,’ the man agreed. ‘But it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I think you should go away – just until all this has all died down.’
‘Go away?’ Elizabeth Rose repeated.
‘That’s right. You’ve been under a lot of strain lately. You could use the rest. Why not go to Capri? You like it there, don’t you?’
The gypsy’s mouth felt as dry as a desert, and she did not need to look at her hand to know that it was trembling. ‘I . . . I can’t afford to go away at the height of the season,’ she croaked.
The man laughed. ‘What are you worried about?’ he asked. ‘Money? Money’s no problem. I can give you more than enough to make up for what you would have earned in the next two months.’
‘But if I disappear, the police will think—’
‘The police will think that, like all gypsies, you get nervous when you know they’re watching you and have decided to take off. It will be no more than that, I promise you.’
She wanted to tell him to go to hell – but she simply couldn’t summon up the courage.
‘When . . . when would I have to go?’ she asked.
‘I think that it should be as soon as possible. Don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, because she dared give no other answer.
‘I’ve already got the money,’ he said. ‘A suitcase full of it. Why don’t you meet me by the South Pier in half an hour?’
‘Couldn’t it wait until morning?’ the gypsy asked, the panic gripping so tightly now that she thought it would strangle her.
‘By morning, you could be in a police cell, waiting for Chief Inspector Woodend to find the time to interrogate you,’ the man said. ‘I’ve met him. I know what he’s like. He’s not one of those bobbies who give up. Once he’s got his teeth into something, he’ll go on and on at you until you tell him everything. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth Rose said, dully.
‘Tell me. Put it into words.’
‘I’ll go to jail.’
‘You’ll go to jail for a long time. And prison is a lot harder on gypsies than it is on normal people, Elizabeth Rose. Even if you only did five years – and you’d be very lucky to get away with so little – you’d be like an old woman when you came out.’
It was true what he was telling her – so what choice did she have? ‘What happens after you hand over the money?’ she asked.
‘I drive you to Preston, and you catch the early morning train to London. Once there, you buy yourself a first-class air ticket – there’ll be plenty of money for that – and by tomorrow afternoon you could be dipping your toes in the Mediterranean Sea. So what do you say, Elizabeth Rose? Will you be at the South Pier in half an hour or not?’
No! a voice inside her screamed. No, no, no!
‘I’ll be there,’ she said.
&n
bsp; ‘Good!’ the man answered – and hung up.
Twenty-One
It was the sunlight streaming in through the window – and shining mercilessly on her face – which woke Paniatowski up. She opened her eyes, then instantly closed them again. She felt awful. A steam hammer was pounding in her head, and she was willing to swear that something furry had crawled into her mouth and died there.
The bed she was lying in felt unfamiliar. It was not her own bed, she was sure of that. Nor was it the lumpy, iron-framed one which Mrs Bowyer provided at the Sea View Hotel. No, this bed was bigger and firmer. It was a bed in which it would be comfortable to make love.
It was all coming back to her! Entering Frank Hanson’s flat. Their first kiss. Tumbling back on to the sofa. Tearing at each other’s clothes. Coupling once – and then coupling again.
She heard the bedroom door click, and – bracing herself for the shock – she opened her eyes again. Frank was standing in the doorway, a white towel around his waist and a tray in his hands.
‘I thought you might like a bit of breakfast,’ he said. ‘Tea, toast and freshly squeezed orange juice. If you fancy egg and bacon, I can do you that, too.’
Paniatowski groaned. ‘How can you be so bloody cheerful?’ she demanded.
‘Why shouldn’t I be? It’s another beautiful day outside, and the memories of last night still haven’t quite faded.’ He frowned slightly. ‘You do remember last night, don’t you? I’d hate it if you didn’t.’
‘I remember,’ Paniatowski said.
‘God, you were wonderful,’ Hanson said sincerely. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been with a woman quite like you.’
‘And exactly how many women have you been with?’
‘A few. Enough to recognise someone special when I come across her.’
Paniatowski groaned again, as the steam hammer in her head shifted gear. ‘Don’t you have a hangover?’ she asked, inviting him to share her misery.
‘I had a bit of a headache when I woke up,’ Hanson admitted. ‘But it’s gone away now.’
‘God rot you!’ Paniatowski said, through clenched teeth. ‘Why did you let me drink so much?’
Hanson grinned. ‘You don’t seem to me to be the kind of woman who needs anyone’s permission to do anything.’
True, Paniatowski thought. She had no one to blame but herself.
‘I should never have had that last whisky just before we went to sleep,’ she said, self-pityingly. ‘I was all right without that last whisky.’
‘You’ll be fine once you’ve got a bit of food inside you,’ Hanson assured her. He laid the tray on the bedside cabinet. ‘Look, I’ve cut the toast into soldiers to make it easier to swallow. So why don’t you eat your breakfast like a good little girl?’
Paniatowski sat bolt upright. It hurt.
‘Breakfast!’ she exclaimed. ‘What time is it?’
‘About a quarter to eight. Why?’
Paniatowski sprang out of bed. She was naked, but it seemed pointless to start coming over modest after all that had happened the night before.
She began a frantic search of the floor, looking for the clothes she had so carelessly abandoned in the heat of passion.
‘What’s the hurry?’ Hanson asked. ‘The morning briefing isn’t until nine o’clock.’
‘Yours might not be,’ Paniatowski told him, picking up her stockings and bra, ‘but mine’s with Cloggin’-it Charlie over breakfast, and if I’m not there on time he’ll have my guts for garters.’
Woodend was just eating the last bit of his kipper when Paniatowski entered the dining-room and sat down opposite it.
‘You look like hell,’ the chief inspector said.
‘Mornings aren’t my best time, sir,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘Bollocks!’ Woodend snorted. ‘You were out on the razzle last night, weren’t you?’
‘I may have had a couple of drinks,’ Paniatowski admitted.
‘I don’t care if you had a couple of dozen drinks,’ Woodend told her. ‘I don’t care if you were so pissed you couldn’t find your bed. What you do on your own time is entirely your own business. But what I do insist on, Sergeant, is that when you’re on my time, you’re able to keep your eye on the ball. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Paniatowski said meekly.
‘Right, we’ll see if we can order you up some breakfast,’ Woodend said raising his arm in the air to signal the waitress. ‘Though I’m far from convinced the dragon who runs this place will be willing to serve anybody who’s had the temerity to turn up late.’
‘It’s all right, sir, I’m not hungry,’ Paniatowski said. ‘All I want’s a cup of tea.’
Woodend bad mood suddenly evaporated, and he chuckled. ‘Virtue might not always be its own reward,’ he said, ‘but vice is usually its own punishment. I’d go more carefully next time, if I were you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Paniatowski said.
But she was thinking: Will there be a next time? Do I want to see Frank Hanson again? Can I afford to put myself in a position where I might start getting involved?
Only the skeleton of the kipper lay on Woodend’s plate now. He pushed it to one side.
‘So have you got anythin’ to report, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Or were your investigations yesterday just a waste of time?’
‘Why don’t I tell you what I found out, and see what you think, sir?’ Paniatowski suggested.
‘Aye, go on then,’ Woodend agreed.
Paniatowski merely sketched out her meeting with Sergeant Collins and what he’d told her about a possible stolen car ring, but when she came to Sergeant Howarth and the hit-and-run, she was much more thorough – though she omitted to mention her brief excursion behind the reception desk of the Palace Hotel.
Woodend listened in silence until she had finished, then nodded his head. ‘It doesn’t seem quite right,’ he admitted, ‘but I don’t see what it’s got to do with us.’
‘If a crime’s been committed, sir –’
‘Then much as I deplore it – much as I hate hit-an’-run drivers – it’s really none of our business.’
Paniatowski had been prepared for this, and even in her post-hangover haze she had her counter-argument prepared.
‘What if it’s not just a local matter?’ she said. ‘What if it’s connected with Mr Davies’ murder?’
‘Go on,’ Woodend said, noncommittally.
‘We know that everyone who belongs to the Golden Mile Association is influential in the community, and so has a lot to lose if there’s even a breath of scandal. But this is much more than a breath. One of them gets blind drunk and kills an old woman – and he knows that if he’s caught he’ll be exchanging his big detached house for a prison cell before he’s even had time to say “involuntary manslaughter”.’
‘I’m still listenin’,’ Woodend told her.
‘He manages to get home without being discovered, and his first thought is that he’s in the clear. After all, there are thousands of cars in Lancashire, and the driver of any one of them could have been responsible. But then the doubts start to set in. What if the police pin down the hit-and-run driver to the Golden Milers, he asks himself, and then narrow it down further to the last ones to leave? He won’t be one of thousands of suspects any more – he’ll be one of only a handful. Now let’s just say he knows both the men leading the investigation. He doesn’t see any difficulties with Sergeant Howarth – all he has to say is that he had nothing to do with the accident, and Howarth will believe him. But Inspector Davies is another matter. He has a reputation for never letting go of a case until he’s solved it.’
‘At least, he had until recently,’ Woodend mused.
‘The driver decides that the only way to be sure he’s safe is to get rid of Mr Davies. He lures him under the pier on some pretext or other, and kills him.’ Paniatowski spread out her hands like a magician who’d just completed a successful trick. ‘What do you think of that, sir?’
‘I’m not
convinced a man would risk life imprisonment to avoid three or four years in jail.’
‘Life or three or four years, it makes no difference – it’s all the same to him.’
‘You’d better explain that.’
‘He’s at the top of the mountain, and he likes it there. If he once falls it doesn’t matter whether he only rolls a few feet or ends up right at the bottom – because however small the fall, he knows he can never reach the top again.’
‘You’ve got a way with words, I’ll give you that,’ Woodend said. ‘So do you really think the hit-and-run and the murder are connected?’
‘I do,’ Paniatowski said.
Well, it wasn’t completely beyond the bounds of possibility that they were, she told herself.
‘If you were goin’ to take this particular investigation any further, you’d need a list of the folk who actually attended this function,’ Woodend said.
‘I’ve got one.’
‘Have you, now?’ Woodend asked. ‘From Sergeant Howarth?’
‘No, sir.’
‘From the manager of the Palace Hotel?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then from where?’
‘I’d rather not say, sir.’
Woodend rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. ‘I’m known for cuttin’ corners, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but I always make sure I stay within the bounds of the law.’ Well, usually, anyway, he added as a mental qualification. ‘Have you kept within the bounds of the law in obtainin’ this list, Sergeant?’
‘I believe so, sir,’ Paniatowski said – or at least, if she hadn’t, nobody would be able to prove it.
‘An’ who’s on this list of yours?’
‘As I said, it’s exclusively local bigwigs. Doctors with private practices, a few successful solicitors, a builder, a couple of bank managers, three or four magistrates . . . According to Sergeant Hanson you don’t get invited to join the Milers unless you’re a true pillar of the community. You get the picture?’
‘Aye, I get the picture,’ Woodend said. ‘So despite the fact it’s called the Golden Milers Association, it’s really nothin’ to do with the Golden Mile. For example, there was nobody there from behind the scenes in what you might call the “entertainment industry”.’
Golden Mile to Murder Page 15
