‘But she was a difficult baby. Always cryin’ – never letting up even for a second.’
Mrs Davies put her hands on her hips as, in a split second, resignation turned to fury.
‘Is that what you think?’ she demanded angrily. ‘Do you really think that Bill abused his own baby – just because she wouldn’t keep quiet?’
‘That isn’t what happened?’
‘No, it isn’t what bloody happened. He dropped her, all right?! He lost his grip on her and she landed on her head. There was brain damage.’
Woodend believed her. Inspector Davies had never beaten his daughter, as he’d initially suspected, but the fact that he had dropped her had been enough for police humour – made harsh by its daily contact with the worst kinds of reality – to christen him Mr Punch.
‘You don’t blame him?’ Woodend asked.
‘Of course I blame him!’ Mrs Davies replied, almost screaming. ‘How could I not blame him! He’d been drinking.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘No,’ the woman replied. ‘He’d just had enough to make sure that he couldn’t take proper care of my sweet little angel.’ Tears were welling up in her eyes. ‘He tried his best to make up for it. He was a perfect father after that. He’d show Susan more patience than I could ever have managed. But it was all a bit too bloody late then, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Woodend said. ‘If there’s anything I can do –’
‘You’ve got what you wanted,’ the widow told him. ‘You’ve heard what a mess Bill made of all our lives. Now will you please just go.’
She was right, Woodend thought. There was nothing more he could say – no consolation he could offer her. He turned and made his way quickly down the garden path and out on to the street.
The Alderman Salter School for Children with Special Needs was set back from the sea at a point roughly midway between Blackpool and Cleveleys. It was a large, ugly nineteenth-century edifice, and had probably once been the seaside retreat of a cotton magnate who had made his fortune from the dark, satanic mills further inland. The building was surrounded by pleasant, landscaped grounds, but they did nothing to disguise the fact that it was also surrounded by a high wall, and had a heavy iron gate which was permanently manned.
As Woodend made his way up the drive which led from the gate to the main building, he looked around him. There were a number of children out in the grounds. Some of them were playing games with each other, and could have been mistaken for normal kids. But there were others – solitary figures – who sat on benches under the watchful eye of nurses and gazed blankly into space.
The principal’s office was on the ground floor at the front of the house. The principal herself was an attractive, energetic woman in her late forties. She gestured Woodend to sit down, then stretched across her desk to offer him a thin black cigar from a silver box.
‘We don’t get many visits from the police here,’ the principal said, when Woodend had politely turned down her offer and lit up a Capstan Full Strength instead. ‘In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had any at all. The children we look after can be naughty, and even antisocial, but we take great care to ensure that they are given very little opportunity to do anything criminal.’
She was probably making a joke, Woodend decided – an institutional joke – but he kept his smile halfway between friendly and amused, just in case he was wrong about that.
‘I’m here in Blackpool to investigate the death of Detective Inspector Davies,’ he said.
The principal lit up one of her thin cigars, and blew the smoke down her nostrils. ‘I thought that might be the case. Which made me wonder why you decided to visit us. We are a combination of school and hospital, and on both counts we are bound by a code of confidentiality not to reveal any details of our pupils’ records.’
‘I understand that,’ Woodend replied. ‘It’s Mr Davies himself, not his daughter, that I’m here to ask you about. Do you think you can talk about him without breaching your code?’
‘Possibly,’ the principal said cautiously. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘I’ve just been talkin’ to his wife, an’ I came away with the impression that he’s been a carin’ an’ lovin’ father to his daughter.’
‘You came away with the right impression. Mr Davies visited his daughter at every possible opportunity. His patience with her was a marvel to behold. There was nothing he wouldn’t have done for her, although – to be brutally honest – there was not much he could do.’
‘The brain damage is irreversible, then?’
The principal shot him a warning glance. ‘We rarely use words like irreversible in this school. This is an institution built on hope – however slender that hope may be. And perhaps when Susan moves to the new school – if that is, Mrs Davies decides that she should still move—’
‘Hang on,’ Woodend said. ‘What new school are we talking about here?’
‘It’s in Switzerland. Mr Davies read about it somewhere, and asked me what I thought. I had to tell him that it appeared to have produced some remarkable results.’
‘But Switzerland! Wouldn’t that have been expensive?’
‘Very expensive indeed. I’m told that Eton College charges four hundred and sixty pounds a year to educate the future leaders of this country. The school in Switzerland costs more than twice that amount, even without the extras.’
DCS Ainsworth, the most highly paid detective in Lancashire, couldn’t be earning more fifteen hundred quid a year, Woodend thought. Yet Punch Davies, a humble inspector, was considering sending his daughter to a school which would cost close to a thousand pounds.
‘Do you have any idea where he was hopin’ to get the money from?’ Woodend asked.
‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. He told me that he was due to come into an inheritance. A rich relative had died, and Mr Davies was, apparently, the sole heir to his estate.’
An’ if you could swallow a story like that, Woodend thought, then swallowin’ a double-decker bus should be a doddle.
Twenty-Seven
If Chief Inspector Turner’s lackeys had followed his taxi out to Edna Davies’ house and then on to the special school, Woodend had certainly not spotted them. But from the way the constable posted on the promenade opposite the corner of New Bonny Street was so studiously ignoring him, there could be no doubt that he was back under surveillance again now.
Woodend walked up to the constable and waved his hand in front of the man’s face.
‘Yes, sir?’ the constable asked.
Woodend shook his head. ‘Wrong reaction, lad,’ he said. ‘You should have seemed surprised when a complete stranger came up to you and did that.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what—?’
‘Of course you don’t,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But do you know where the nearest police phone box is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ Woodend said. ‘Now listen carefully, lad. I’m goin’ in there –’ he pointed to the Gay Paree Theatre – ‘an’ I expect to be about half an hour. Then I’ll be payin’ a visit to your chief inspector. I think he might appreciate some advance warnin’ of that – especially when he finds out where I’ve been – so if I was you, I’d give him a call the moment I’ve gone. Understood?’
‘But sir, I—’
‘Just do it!’ Woodend advised him.
He turned on his heel and crossed the road. The platform outside the Gay Paree was deserted and the coloured lights which spelled out its name were switched off, but that didn’t necessarily mean there was no one inside. Woodend strode up to the side door opposite the fish and chip shop, and began hammering furiously.
It was Clive, the barker and very amateur magician, who opened the door. He did not seem very pleased to find Woodend standing there.
‘We’re closed,’ he said sullenly.
‘Aye, so you are,’ the chief inspector agreed. ‘An’ if you don’t do exactly what I say, that could pretty soon become a p
ermanent state of affairs.’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’
‘I want to see Gutteridge. Now! Is he in his office?’
Clive shrugged. ‘He was the last time I looked. You know the way, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I do yet, but I think I’m just beginnin’ to find it,’ Woodend said enigmatically, stepping past him and striding down the aisle.
He flung open the door of Gutteridge’s office without bothering to knock. The manager was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by his tatty stage props. Woodend’s visit had obviously taken him by surprise, but he soon recovered enough to stand up and hold out his hand in welcome.
‘Mr Woodend,’ he said. ‘What an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon.’
‘Sit down!’ Woodend ordered him, ignoring the hand.
The manager slunk back behind his desk, and the chief inspector took the chair opposite.
‘The last time I was here, you told me you’d had a bit of trouble, an’ you’d had to call in the police,’ Woodend said.
‘That is quite correct.’
‘You also told me you’d never heard of Detective Inspector Davies.’
‘As, indeed, I hadn’t, save for the references to him in the newspapers.’
‘We have a technical name for fellers like you in the detectin’ business,’ Woodend said. ‘We call them “lyin’ toe-rags”.’
‘Now look here, my dear man—’ Gutteridge protested.
‘Shut up!’ Woodend interrupted. ‘You said that when you called the local bobbies, they sent round a uniformed sergeant an’ a constable. So why is there no record of any such call bein’ made?’
‘Could it be that policemen, like thespians, are so often caught up in their performance that they overlook the minor technical details?’ Gutteridge suggested hopefully.
‘As I see it, there are two possible explanations,’ Woodend continued, treating the remark with the contempt it deserved. ‘Either you were just spinnin’ me a line to cover the blunder you’d made when you said you thought everythin’ had been taken care of – or the incident actually did occur, but the officer you called came round as a personal favour. Now which is it?’
‘I think it would be unwise to make any further comment until I have consulted my legal advisor,’ Gutteridge said, sticking out his jaw stubbornly.
Woodend lifted up his left leg and pointed at his shoe. ‘See that?’ he asked. ‘That’s a size nine brogue.’
‘I fail to see how that could be relevant to—’
‘If it had been my intention to wade around in the filthy little sewer you call a business, I’d have worn wellington boots. But, you see, I’ve got a double murder to investigate – so I’m not particularly interested in collarin’ a nasty little pimp like you.’
‘Are you saying that there is still a possibility of my avoiding the full rigour of the law?’
‘Aye, there could be a way to squirm out of it if you come clean now,’ Woodend agreed.
Gutteridge reached for a pencil and began to roll it around nervously between his fingers.
‘How can I assist your investigation?’ he asked.
‘I want to know how a modestly paid detective inspector thought he could raise nearly a thousand quid a year to send his kid to a special school.’
Gutteridge continued to play with the pencil. ‘You must appreciate that life is rarely like drama,’ he said. ‘Even if one begins with a script, one finds oneself improvising well before the end of the first act.’
‘So you just drifted into bein’ a pimp, did you?’ Woodend asked, unsympathetically.
‘Throughout the whole history of the theatre there have always been men who’ve hovered like besotted moths around the stage door, in the hope that the artistes would show them favour.’
Woodend groaned. ‘You’re making my head ache,’ he said, ‘an’ if you don’t stop pissin’ about an’ start talkin’ in plain English, I’ll find a way to make yours ache an’ all.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ the manager asked nervously.
‘Aye, that’s about the long an’ the short of it,’ Woodend agreed.
‘I always advised the performers to stay clear of such men,’ Gutteridge said, making an effort to use the plain English Woodend had demanded. ‘But then I discovered that one of my artistes had been taking payment in return for her favours and—’
‘An’ you saw it as a way of supplementin’ your pension fund,’ Woodend said. ‘So now all the girls are expected to turn a trick when the opportunity arises, an’ you just sit back an’ collect your cut.’
‘I am an impresario. I provide a showcase for their talents. It is only right that I should be recompensed.’
‘How does Inspector Davies fit into all this?’ Woodend asked – although he thought he already knew the answer.
‘Mr Davies first came to see me about a year ago. He had photographs he wished to show me.’
‘Photographs of what?’
‘Of some of the artistes consorting with patrons just outside the stage door of the theatre. He accused me of running a disorderly house. He said that if they found out about it, the inland revenue would be very interested in my additional source of income – and that I might even be incarcerated.’
‘An’ then he offered you a deal?’
‘He said that in return for ten per cent of what the artistes earned, he would assume the role of protector.’
‘Was it Davies you called that night you had a bit of trouble with rowdy punters?’
Gutteridge hesitated. ‘Yes, it was he.’
‘You don’t seem very sure.’
‘Once a man is caught up in a web of deception, it is sometimes difficult to unravel what is true from what is not. But it was Mr Davies, our protector, who I called on to perform his duty, you can be assured of that.’
Chief Inspector Turner had been expecting trouble since he’d got the phone call from the constable on the beat, but even so it came as something of a shock to see just how angry the man who had just burst into his office unannounced really was. He’d always known that Woodend was big, but now the man in the hairy sports coat seemed to have swollen to giant size.
‘Listen, Charlie—’ Turner began.
‘Don’t you go callin’ me Charlie!’ Woodend exploded. ‘That’s what my mates call me – an’ you’re about as far from bein’ one of them as an Eskimo is from bein’ a bloody Hottentot.’
‘Listen, Chief Inspector—’ Turner said, beginning again.
‘No, you listen!’ Woodend told him. ‘For the last three days, while I’ve been doin’ my damnedest to find a murderer, you’ve been doin’ all you could to steer me into a maze. You must have been delighted when the gypsy got herself topped, because that complicated things – an’ the more complicated they were, the happier you were. An’ what about these uniformed bobbies you’ve had followin’ me all mornin’? What were they for? To stop me goin’ where you didn’t want me to go? Or to put the wind up me, so I’d go runnin’ back to Whitebridge with my tail between my legs?’
‘It was a mistake to use the uniforms,’ Turner admitted, ‘but I had to try anything which might have a chance of throwing you off balance. Why don’t you sit down, Mr Woodend?’
‘Because I’m particular whose chair I plant my arse on,’ Woodend retorted. ‘An’ because I’m not here for a cosy chat – I’m here for some answers.’
Turner sighed. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You could start by tellin’ me how long you’ve known that Punch Davies was on the take.’
‘We still don’t know for certain that he was.’
‘Don’t you? Well, I bloody do. An’ I’ve got witnesses to prove it.’ Woodend took his Capstan Full Strength out of his pocket, and lit one up. ‘All right, let’s play it your way,’ he continued, when he’d taken a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘How long have you suspected that Punch Davies was on the take?’
‘The first indication was e
arly on in the season, when we started getting anonymous letters,’ Turner replied. ‘They all said pretty much the same thing – that there was an officer in the Blackpool force who was open to taking bribes.’
‘An’ what did you do about them?’
‘You know yourself that people are always trying to stir up trouble by complaining about the police,’ Turner said. ‘And you must also be aware of the fact that there’s any number of complete nutters out there who will do anything to get attention.’
‘In other words, you did bugger all.’
‘We filed the letters. You can see them, if you like.’
Woodend dismissed the suggestion with an impatient gesture of his hand. ‘What happened next?’
‘The rumours started.’
‘An’ where did they come from?’
Turner shrugged. ‘Who’s to say where rumours start?’
‘But they confirmed that there was a bent bobby on the force – an’ that that bobby was Davies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Punch know the rumours were circulatin’?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘I had him in the office for a quiet word. He was astounded when I told him what people had been saying.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Woodend said, incredulously. ‘You suspected him of corruption – an’ you had him in your office to let him know you suspected him?’
‘I wouldn’t put as crudely as that.’
‘Put it how you like,’ Woodend countered. ‘It doesn’t alter the facts. I’ve been in this business for a long time, an’ I’d never let a villain know I was on to him. Unless –’ he clicked his fingers as a sudden insight hit him with the force of a sledgehammer – ‘unless you didn’t want to catch him at all. Unless you only wanted to warn him off.’
From the look on the other man’s face, he knew he had hit the nail squarely on the head.
‘You’ve never worked on a provincial force before,’ Turner said. ‘If you had, you’d appreciate that catching criminals is only a part of our job. Another part is to make sure that ordinary people have confidence in the police. And it’s also important – especially in a town like Blackpool – that there are no scandals to frighten visitors away.’
Golden Mile to Murder Page 20
