‘So you were prepared to let Davies get away with what he’d done already as long as he called it quits?’
‘Who had he actually hurt?’ Turner asked. ‘Only the people who’d bribed him. And since they wouldn’t have had to pay the bribes if they hadn’t been involved in something illegal, there are those who would argue that they only got what they deserved.’
‘Maybe there are people who’d argue that way,’ Woodend said. ‘But I’m not one of them.’
‘I’d like to offer you a word of advice,’ Turner said quietly.
‘You’d like to offer me a word of advice?’ Woodend asked, astounded. ‘An’ what might that word be?’
‘If you’re going to come out of this investigation with any credit to your name, the wisest thing you could do would be to keep Punch Davies’ shady dealings as much out of the public eye as possible.’
‘You do realise that Davies was probably killed because of what you call his “shady dealin’”, don’t you?’ Woodend demanded.
‘It’s a possibility – though not one we’re happy to contemplate,’ Turner conceded.
‘So what happens when I arrest the murderer? How the bloody hell are you goin’ to bring him to trial without mentionin’ why he killed Davies?’
‘Grow up, Chief Inspector,’ Turner said contemptuously. ‘If you offer a man a choice of being charged with the murder of his crooked business partner, or with the manslaughter of a casual acquaintance during a bout of temper – which he regretted as soon as it was over – which one do you think he’s going to go for?’
‘DCS Ainsworth would never accept a deal like that,’ Woodend said.
Turner shook his head, almost pityingly. ‘You’ve no idea how things really work, have you?’ he asked.
‘Are you sayin’ that Ainsworth knew Davies was bent all along?’
‘Of course he didn’t know,’ Turner said exasperatedly. ‘He didn’t want to know. That’s why people like me exist – to make sure people like him never get their hands dirty.’
Woodend gave Turner a look which was filled with disgust. ‘Not half an hour ago, I was talkin’ to a feller who I thought at the time lived on the bottom of the human slime pit,’ he said. ‘Now, it seems to me he wasn’t even halfway down.’
It was that early point in the evening which fell between the end of the last boarding house meal and the beginning of the first house of the variety shows. Woodend walked along the nearly empty street, trying to fit everything he had learned in the previous couple of hours into a coherent whole. That Davies had been bent was easy to accept – bobbies were often subjected to temptation, and in his case it did not take a great brain to work out why he had succumbed. Turner’s way of dealing with the problem – while being far from something Woodend would do himself – was also at least comprehensible. What didn’t make sense was the way Davies had behaved after Turner had tipped him the wink about his being under suspicion. Most men would have taken the hint, and lain low for a while. Davies had chosen, instead, to act in quite the opposite manner and make his presence on the Golden Mile even more conspicuous. It was almost as if he had wanted to get caught.
Maybe that was it! Woodend thought. Perhaps Davies was so eaten up by guilt that there was a part of him which demanded he should be punished.
The sound of footsteps close behind him brought an end to his train of speculation. Despite his showdown with Turner – despite the fact that he now knew everything the local DCI had sought to hide from him – he was still being followed. He came to an abrupt halt, and swung round so suddenly that the fresh-faced DC Eliot, who had been practically at his heel, almost cannoned into him.
‘Let me give you a hint, constable,’ Woodend said. ‘If you’re ever given the job followin’ somebody again, try to keep at least half a dozen cars’ distance between the two of you.’
Eliot blushed furiously. ‘I wasn’t exactly following you, sir.’
‘Then just what were you doin’?’
‘I suppose I was plucking up the nerve to approach you, sir.’
‘An’ why would you want to do that?’
‘Because there’s something I think you ought to know,’ Eliot said earnestly.
Something he ought to know? Woodend glanced down the street. ‘Oh look, there’s a pub,’ he said. ‘What a happy coincidence. Come on, lad, I’ll buy you a pint.’
Eliot asked for a shandy and Woodend ordered a pint of best bitter for himself. At that hour, they had their choice of tables, and the chief inspector chose one well away from the prying ears of the barman.
‘So what’s all this about, lad?’ he asked, when they were sitting down.
‘It hasn’t been easy for me working on this case, sir,’ Eliot said. ‘You’re the boss and I accept that, but –’
‘But all the information I’ve been gettin’ from you has been filtered through Sergeant Hanson and Mr Turner first?’ Woodend suggested.
‘That’s right,’ Eliot agreed. ‘I don’t think the Sarge is any happier about it than I am, but he’s got his orders.’ He took an almost birdlike sip of his shandy. ‘The thing is, sir, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope, and I’m doing my best not to fall off.’
‘We’d all like to come out of this investigation smellin’ of roses,’ Woodend told him, ‘but in the end we have to do what we think’s right. So why don’t you tell what’s on your mind?’
‘The other day, I was talking to a street seller on the Golden Mile, and he said that he’d seen Tommy Bolton coming out of Gypsy Elizabeth Rose’s booth looking really angry.’
‘It’s Tommy Bolton the comedian we’re talkin’ about here, is it?’ Woodend asked.
‘That’s right, sir. Anyway, I reported it to Sergeant Hanson, and he said he’d have to take it upstairs. I saw him again a couple of hours later, and he told me that he’d mentioned it to Mr Turner.’
‘An’ what had Mr Turner told him?’
‘According to Sergeant Hanson, Mr Turner decided it had nothing to do with the case, and he saw no point in bothering a big star like Mr Bolton unnecessarily.’
‘So I never got to hear about it.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘An’ what’s made you decide to tell me about it now?’
‘This morning I was talking to one of the doormen at the Central Pier theatre. I asked him – just on the off chance – if he’d known Mr Davies, and he said he had. So I asked him when was the last time he’d seen the inspector, and he said it must have been some time in the last week.’
‘On the Golden Mile?’
‘Yes, sir. But a bit more specific than that.’
‘Spit it out, lad.’
‘He said he’d seen him in the actual theatre. He turned up between shows, and said he had to talk to somebody.’
‘Tommy Bolton?’ Woodend guessed.
‘That’s right, sir. Tommy Bolton.’
Twenty-Eight
Tommy ‘Now Where Was I?’ Bolton stood in the centre of the stage, bathed in spotlights. He was not alone. Next to him was a slack-mouthed man dressed in a loud check jacket and an even louder cloth cap.
‘I asked my wife where she’d like to go for her holidays,’ Tommy Bolton told the audience. ‘She said she fancied somewhere she’d never been before, so I suggested she tried the kitchen. She didn’t like that.’ He shook his head wonderingly, as the audience giggled. ‘My wife! I’ve been in love with the same woman for over twenty years – and if the missis ever finds out, she’ll kill me.’
There was more laughter, but Woodend, standing at the back of the hall, leant over to his sergeant and whispered, ‘That joke was creakin’ with age when Adam was a lad.’
‘Anyway, we decided on Spain,’ Bolton continued. ‘The Costa Packet. We went to book the tickets and my wife said, “You’d better buy three, because my mother’ll want to come.”’ Bolton put his hand on his hip in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Now don’t get me wrong, ladies and gentlemen. She’s a wonderful woman, my mot
her-in-law – it’s just that you can tell when she’s knocking on the front door, because all the mice throw themselves on the traps.’ He paused to allow more laughter. ‘I wouldn’t say she’s a big woman, but she collapsed right in front of a bus last week, and the driver said that while he’d got enough room to get round her, he wasn’t sure he’d got enough petrol. Still, if I’m ever told that I’ve only got six months to live, I’ll definitely move in with her – she’ll make that six months seem like it’s forever.’
He paused, and frowned, as if puzzled by something.
‘Now where was I?’ he asked his stooge, who had not moved an inch during the entire monologue
‘You were talkin’ about takin’ your wife on holiday to Spain,’ the stooge replied in a gormless manner.
‘That’s right,’ Bolton agreed. ‘Now the thing about Spain is, most people think it’s just Blackpool with a bit more sun, but they couldn’t be wronger . . .’
Woodend tapped his sergeant on the shoulder. ‘Mr Bolton looks like a man who appreciates surprises,’ he said. ‘Let’s arrange one for him in his dressin’ room, shall we?’
The young blonde woman who was sitting on the armchair with her legs crossed was a rather a tasty dish, Tommy Bolton decided, but he didn’t at all like the look of the big feller in the hairy sports coat leaning back on the sofa. And anyway, what were they doing in his dressing room? He’d see to it that somebody lost his job for this.
‘I sign autographs outside,’ he said abruptly.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Woodend said, producing his warrant card. ‘In the meantime, Mr Bolton, we’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘Look, I’ve got another show to do in an hour and a half,’ Bolton protested. ‘I need my rest.’
‘We won’t keep you long,’ Woodend promised him. ‘At least, not half as long as we would if we had to take you down to the station.’
Bolton slumped into the free armchair. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘I’m not entirely sure myself,’ Woodend admitted. ‘It’s just that your name keeps croppin’ up in our investigation.’
‘What investigation would that be?’ Bolton demanded.
‘What investigation do you think it might be?’ Woodend countered.
‘Inspector Davies’ murder?’
‘Aye, an’ Gypsy Elizabeth Rose’s death, an’ all.’
‘But you can’t think I had anything to do with them.’
Woodend turned to Paniatowski. ‘I don’t think I suggested that, did I, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘As I recall, all I said was that his name kept croppin’ up. Isn’t that right?’
‘Perfectly correct, sir,’ Paniatowski confirmed.
‘For instance, you were at the Palace Hotel, Fleetwood, the night that poor old woman was knocked down, weren’t you, Mr Bolton?’
‘I left well before the accident occurred,’ Bolton said hotly. ‘You can check on that.’
‘We can, an’ you did,’ Woodend said easily. ‘Then there was the matter of you havin’ your Rolls Royce nicked from right out of your own garage.’
‘You can scarcely blame me for that. I was the victim.’
‘True,’ Woodend agreed. ‘So let’s put that aside for the moment, shall we? What really bothers me is that you seem to have been acquainted with both the murder victims.’
‘Hardly acquainted,’ the comedian said.
‘Sergeant?’ Woodend said.
‘You were seen leaving Gypsy Elizabeth Rose’s booth – by several witnesses,’ Paniatowski lied.
‘Does the fact that I’m a big star mean I can’t visit a fortune-teller if I want to?’
‘Again, accordin’ to the witnesses, you didn’t look very happy,’ Woodend said. ‘What were the exact words one of them used, Sergeant?’
‘The witness said that he looked as if he wanted to kill somebody, sir.’
‘So I was in a bad mood,’ Bolton conceded. ‘There’s no law against that, is there?’
‘Depends,’ Woodend said. ‘Why were you in a bad mood?’
‘Somebody had told me that this particular gypsy really could look into the future, but all she did was trot out the standard clichés about a long happy life and good health. I was furious with myself for having wasted so much time on her.’
‘That’s plausible, isn’t it, Sergeant?’ Woodend asked.
‘It would be if that had been the first time he’d been to see her,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But there’s a photograph of the two of them posing together on the outside of the booth which was taken on another occasion. In the picture, they look like the best of friends.’
‘It’s very unnerving when you talk about me as though I wasn’t here,’ Bolton said. ‘I wish you’d stop it.’
‘So what about the first time you visited her?’ Woodend asked, ignoring Bolton’s protest. ‘Did she tell you anythin’ interestin’ then?’
‘I didn’t go for a consultation. I just posed for the picture. It’s something that big stars do to help out the little people along the Golden Mile.’
‘I’m sure that was very kind of you,’ Woodend said dryly. ‘And what about Inspector Davies’ visit?’
‘He . . . he came to ask me a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’
‘He asked me to put on a show at his daughter’s school. It’s something else big stars are expected to do. It’s called giving something back to the local community. Not that we haven’t given enough back already. Do you really think so many people would come to Blackpool if big names like me weren’t appearing here?’
‘An’ did you?’ Woodend asked.
‘Did I what?’
‘Did you agree to put on a show at his daughter’s school?’
‘No. I . . . I’ve got rather a busy schedule this year.’
‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘What with tellin’ mother-in-law jokes twice a night an’ comperin’ mucky shows for a bunch of local bigwigs, you must be rushed off your feet.’
‘I’m not sure I like your attitude,’ Bolton said.
‘I’m bloody sure I don’t like yours,’ Woodend told him. He climbed to his feet. ‘It’s time were off, Sergeant. Tell Mr Bolton we’ve finished with him for the moment, but we’ll probably be back.’
‘We’ve finished with you for the moment, but we’ll probably be back,’ Paniatowski said, deadpan.
Woodend grinned. ‘Not a bad stooge, is she?’ he asked Bolton. ‘An’ I bet she comes a bloody sight cheaper than yours.’
Maudsley Tower – the weather vane in the Whitebridge joke – stood on the crown of a hill overlooking the town. The monument was reached by a steep dog-legged path which began where the tarmac road finally petered out, and as dusk fell it was being climbed by a young man with a lot of things on his mind.
Bob Rutter reached the top of the hill and turned to face the valley which now lay below him. It was good to get out of town, he thought – good to be somewhere you could be completely alone with your thoughts.
The abandoned mills and other signs of industrial decay were slowly being blacked out by the falling night, and lights were coming on all over Whitebridge. It wasn’t a bad place to live, Rutter decided. It couldn’t, of course, be compared with London, but there were compensations. For instance, he’d seen a couple of new housing estates where he was sure he and Maria could be very comfortable. And from what he’d heard around the station, he’d have the choice of several good primary schools to send the baby to once it had turned five.
But five years was a long time. Would he still be in Whitebridge when his child was old enough to carry a satchel full of pencils and colouring books? On present indications, the answer would probably be no. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this case he’d been assigned – which was probably why DCS Ainsworth had given it to him. Two cars had been stolen in the previous three days and – to all intents and purposes – they had vanished into thin air. There were no new l
eads. And though he’d scrupulously revisited the ground covered by the officer who’d previously been on the case – including calling in at every garage within a fifteen-mile radius of Whitebridge – he’d seen nothing in the least suspicious. Which left him precisely nowhere – the smart ex-Scotland Yard whiz kid who couldn’t even crack a simple car-theft ring in the unsophisticated North.
He lit up one of the cork-tipped cigarettes which Woodend never missed an opportunity to mock as unmanly, and wished he was back working with Cloggin’-it Charlie on a nice juicy murder.
The darkness had now covered the town, and he could see at least five or six illuminated petrol station signs. Did the answer to his problems lie in one of them? he wondered. It didn’t seem likely.
He turned to walk back down to where he’d left his car. In the gloom, he was going to have to tread the path carefully, he thought, then he laughed out loud as he realised his whole career with the Central Lancs police was probably going to be a matter of treading carefully.
Paniatowski was experiencing a warm glow which had very little to do with the glass of vodka sitting in front of her. What a day it had been! She had learned that Woodend trusted her and decided to trust him in return. And it was all working out! They had been a real team in there with Tommy Bolton – understanding each other and taking cues without even needing to be signalled.
‘So what do you make of our Mr Bolton?’ Woodend asked.
‘What do you think, sir?’
Woodend shook his head. ‘Nay, lass, it doesn’t work like that. I’m the boss, so I get to speak last. That way, if you say somethin’ bright an’ I agree with it, that just shows how good I am. Whereas if you say somethin’ stupid an’ I agree with it, you get the blame later for leadin’ me astray.’
A couple of days earlier Paniatowski might have taken the statement at face value. Now, she merely grinned.
‘I don’t believe his story about going to Elizabeth Rose for a consultation,’ she said. ‘He’s far too self-centred to be really spiritual.’
‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘If he ever gets to heaven, his first question to Saint Peter will be why it’s God who’s got the star billin’ instead of him. What about the visit from Mr Davies?’
Golden Mile to Murder Page 21
