‘I don’t believe him, but I’m not quite sure why,’ Paniatowski confessed.
‘Then let me explain it to you,’ Woodend said. ‘I’ve seen Susan Davies, an’ I’ve been to her school. Not all the kids are quite as slow as she is, but I’m willin’ to bet there’s not one of them that could follow Tommy Bolton’s act. No, if Davies had been lookin’ for entertainment for her, he’d have gone an’ asked one of the clowns at the Tower Circus to put on a performance.’
‘Maybe Bolton got it wrong,’ Paniatowski suggested. ‘Perhaps Davies wanted him to put on a show at his son’s school.’
‘Same difference,’ Woodend said. ‘There were quite a lot of kids in the theatre tonight, but how many of them did you notice laughin’ at his jokes?’
‘I didn’t notice the audience at all, sir.’
‘Then you’ve broken Rule Number One in the Workin’ for Charlie Woodend Manual, which clearly states that his sergeant will notice everythin’.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Forget it. You’re new an’ you’re only just startin’ to learn the rules,’ Woodend said generously. ‘But if you’re still makin’ the same mistakes in six months, I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.’ He paused to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘Anyway, since you didn’t notice the kids yourself, I’ll tell you about them,’ he continued. ‘There wasn’t one of them who was the least bit amused by his patter. An’ why should they have been? They don’t have wives who make their lives a misery – they’ve got parents for that. An’ they don’t have mother-in-laws, either – only grannies who spoil them rotten. You’d have to be an idiot to think Tommy Bolton could keep a group of children amused, an’ whatever else Punch Davies was, it doesn’t strike me that he was thick.’
Paniatowski glanced down at her watch.
‘It’s the third time you’ve done that in ten minutes,’ Woodend said. ‘Have you got an appointment or somethin’?’
‘I’ve arranged to meet somebody for drinks.’
‘Oh aye? Sergeant Hanson, is it?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I obey Rule One of my own manual,’ Woodend said. ‘I notice everythin’.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘So tell me, do you think this thing between you an’ Hanson will turn out to be serious?’
‘I’d rather not discuss my private affairs, sir,’ Paniatowski said, as a sliver of her old self pricked the surface.
‘You can please yourself, lass,’ Woodend said. ‘But you’ll end up tellin’ me your whole life story. My sergeants always do.’
Yes, Paniatowski thought. I can believe that.
Twenty-Nine
It was half-past nine the following morning when Edna Davies heard the knock on her front door, and opening it found herself looking at a cheery young man in a smart suit who she’d never seen before.
‘Yes?’ she said.
The young man smiled, displaying a set of brilliant white teeth. ‘Mrs Davies?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘I was wondering if Mr Davies was at home. I’ve got something to give him. He’s been expecting it.’
‘Mr husband is dead,’ Edna said flatly.
The young man’s face fell. ‘Oh my God! That’s terrible. Was it a sudden illness?’
‘He was murdered.’
The young man shook his head from side to side. ‘Terrible, terrible,’ he said, sounding genuinely upset. ‘I’m not used to this.’
‘Neither am I!’
The young man made an effort to pull himself together. ‘You don’t understand,’ he told her. ‘People are usually so pleased to see me. It’s the part of my job I like most – the expression on their faces when they realise who I am. Of course, the best of all is when I can bring the photographers with me, but even when they’ve put an “X” in the box because they wish to remain anonymous, as your husband did—’
‘Who sent you?’ Edna Davies demanded. ‘Are you from some sort of evangelical church organisation, because if you are you can just—’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ the young man interrupted hastily. ‘Didn’t your husband tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Oh dear,’ the young man worried. ‘Perhaps if he didn’t tell you, I shouldn’t say anything myself.’ He turned the matter over in his mind. ‘You are Mr Davies’ widow, aren’t you?’ he said finally.
‘I’ve already told you I am.’
‘And the heir to his estate?’
‘He left everything to me in his will, yes.’
‘Well, in that case, I suppose it rightfully belongs to you.’
‘What rightfully belongs to me?’
‘Your husband scooped a first dividend on Littlewood’s Football Pools a week last Saturday. I have the cheque in my pocket – made out to him – to the value of twenty-five thousand six hundred and eleven pounds, five shillings and ninepence.’
Bob Rutter sat as his desk, flicking through his case notes. The sign on the outside of his door said ‘Detective Inspector R. Rutter’, and the first few times he’d seen it, he’d felt a thrill run through his entire body. But that sensation had soon passed. He was starting to realise what it was like to be working on his own – getting precisely nowhere – and he didn’t feel much like a detective inspector any more.
The phone by his elbow rang shrilly. He picked it up. ‘Inspector Rutter?’ the switchboard operator asked. ‘I’ve got a call for you from the Manchester police.’
‘Inspector Sam Platt here,’ said a new voice. ‘I thought Jed Rowe was in charge of this stolen car business.’
‘He was,’ Rutter replied, ‘but now it’s been handed on to me.’
Dumped on me would be closer to the mark, he thought.
‘So you’re the man I have to talk to now, are you?’ Platt asked.
‘That’s correct.’
‘Righto. Well, it looks as if we might have got a break at last. We raided a used-car lot this morning, and found several vehicles which had been reported stolen, including two – I might say – from Whitebridge. They’d been done up, of course, resprayed a different colour, and so forth, but we’ve checked the chassis numbers and they’ve been nicked, all right.’
So we get a couple of cars back, Rutter thought. Put that on the scales at the opposite end to three or four we lose every week, and my track record still doesn’t look good.
‘Now we come on to the good bit – at least as far as you’re concerned,’ Platt said. ‘The dealer we’ve arrested was eager to make a clean breast of it as long as we were prepared to let the judge know how co-operative he’d been. And one of the first things he’s told us is that this car-theft ring offers a customised service.’
‘Would you mind explaining that?’
‘Simplicity itself, my old son. If our laddie had a customer who wanted a cream-coloured Ford Anglia, he’d just ask for it, and it would be delivered in two or three days. And he was guaranteed that wasn’t the original colour of the car.’
‘But that means that the thieves must have a stock to draw on,’ Rutter said.
‘Just what I thought.’
‘And how did he contact the thieves to place his order?’
‘He didn’t. They rang him every two or three days.’
Rutter felt the faint ember of hope which had been ignited in his bosom start to cool and die. ‘So you’ve no idea where the cars were coming from?’
‘I didn’t say that, exactly. It was usually a woman who rang our laddie. He’s from Whitebridge originally, and he’s prepared to swear this woman had a Whitebridge accent herself. So it’s just possible the headquarters of the racket is somewhere in your area.’
Rutter thanked the Manchester man and replaced the receiver. So the ring could be operating out of Whitebridge, he thought. What would it need to work properly? Somewhere to store a fair number of stolen cars, for a start – a place where they wouldn’t be noticed by passers-by or nosy bobbies. And then t
hey would also need fairly easy access to the kinds of equipment necessary to modify the cars, so that if, for example, they got an order for a cream Ford Anglia and only had a black one in stock, they could spray-paint it without too many problems.
Rutter felt a smile forming across his features. He had only been in Whitebridge for a few days, and he hadn’t even been over half the patch – yet he’d seen enough to realise that if he were running that kind of racket, he’d know exactly where to situate it.
Woodend gazed gloomily at Paniatowski across the table in the police canteen. ‘My workin’ assumption was that Inspector Davies was so desperate to get special schoolin’ for his daughter that he was prepared to do anythin’ to lay his hands on the money,’ he said. ‘Well, that theory’s gone right out the window, hasn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘He didn’t know he was going to win the football pools and he could have been trying other – illegal – ways to obtain the money before he did.’
Woodend shook his head. ‘Nice try, lass, but if that had been the case, he’d have gone to see the principal of his daughter’s school as soon as he read about the place in Switzerland. But he didn’t – he waited until he’d scooped his first dividend.’
‘But why lie about the money? Why say he’d inherited it?’
‘I’ve been thinkin’ about that. This school he wanted to send Susan to is not only expensive – it has to be exclusive as well. They might well have looked down their noses at somebody who’d won the pools – but bein’ left the money in a will is a perfectly respectable way to get rich.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ Paniatowski asked, her despondency matching her boss’s. ‘Back at Square One?’
‘Not quite. Davies might have been an honest man, but we know that somebody in the Blackpool police has to be bent.’
‘Because of what the manager of the Gay Paree told you?’
‘Exactly,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Only nutters admit to crimes they haven’t committed, an’ Gutteridge’s no nutter. So if he says he was paying off a bobby to turn a blind eye to his pimpin’, he has to be tellin’ the truth. But why finger Punch Davies? Because that way he could protect the feller who’s really been puttin’ the squeeze on him.’
‘But why should he do that?’
‘Because he’s bloody terrified. There’s a strong possibility that whoever he’s been payin’ the kickback to has already killed twice. Even if he hasn’t, I’m almost certain Gutteridge thinks he has – and he’d rather go to jail than risk bein’ the third victim.’
‘So shouldn’t we go and see Gutteridge right now, and try to sweat the truth out of him?’
‘No, that wouldn’t work,’ Woodend said. ‘If he’s goin’ to crack at all, he’s only goin’ to do it when we can threaten him with somethin’ which is almost as frightenin’ as the hold his protector’s got over him.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the prospect of a long stretch in prison, rather than the few months he’d probably serve for what he’s confessed to so far.’
‘And how could we convince him that there’s a real possibility he’ll be sent down for a long time?’
‘We need to connect him with another – more serious – crime.’
‘For example?’
‘I’m buggered if I know,’ Woodend admitted.
Bob Rutter drove past the abandoned shell of the Calcutta Mill, and pulled on to the forecourt of Grimsdyke’s Garage. He had expected the old man himself to appear when he ran over the bell-wire, but instead it was his granddaughter, Jenny, who came out of the office. And she was not dressed in her usual grease monkey’s overalls that morning, but instead was wearing a sombre black skirt and sweater.
‘We’re closed,’ she said – but without any of the fire in her voice Rutter had heard the last time they’d spoken.
‘Your grandfather?’ he asked gently.
The girl nodded. ‘He died in his sleep last night. It was all very peaceful.’
Rutter got out of his car. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I liked him. He was a nice old man. But I’ve still got business here. You know that, don’t you?’
The girl nodded again. ‘The first time I saw you, I knew you were going to cause trouble. But it doesn’t matter now. Not with Grandad dead.’
‘Shall we go and look around the mill?’ Rutter suggested.
Jenny Grimsdyke shrugged indifferently. ‘Why not?’
She walked round the side of the garage, then turned towards the back of the mill. She came to a halt in front of a large up-and-over metal door. The paint was peeling from it, and it looked as if it had not been used for years, but when Jenny pressed the button the engine hummed smoothly and the door began to open without even a squeak.
‘This was the loading bay in the days when the mill was still a going concern,’ the girl said. ‘Tons and tons of cotton used to be shipped out of here every day. Not any more.’
The motor had completed its operation, and the door now lay flat against the ceiling.
Jenny and Rutter stepped inside. The loading bay was huge, and even with the couple of dozen cars parked in it, there was plenty of space to spare.
‘How did you get into this racket?’ Rutter asked.
‘A man approached me. He said his name was Jack. He asked me if I wanted to earn a bit of extra money. I knew it was a question of either accepting his offer or closing the garage down – and closing it down would have broken my grandfather’s heart.’
‘How much did he pay you?’
‘Not as much as he offered at first. I wouldn’t take it. I didn’t want a lot of cash – just enough to keep the garage open.’
‘Tell me how it worked,’ Rutter said.
‘I’d get a phone call to say a new car was being delivered. Once it arrived, I’d be here to hide it. Every few days I’d ring the car salesrooms in Manchester and Liverpool to see what they wanted. The cars had already been resprayed before they got here, but if the customer had a special request – say he wanted black when all we’d got was green – I’d change the colour for him.’
‘But they’d already been resprayed?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So there were other garages involved?’
‘There’s a chain of them throughout the North West. It’s a very slick operation. The only reason they needed me to be part of it was because I was the one with the storage space.’
‘Do you know the names of any of these garages?’
‘A few.’
‘And would you tell me the names? It might persuade the judge to go easy on you.’
The girl shrugged. ‘Why not? There’s no honour among thieves, so they say, and I don’t owe them anything. They were using me just as much as I was using them.’
Rutter took a quick sideways glance at Jenny Grimsdyke. For all that she’d been involved in a car-theft ring, she was still little more than a kid. And she hadn’t even done it through greed – she’d just wanted her grandfather’s last days on earth to be happy ones. It was awful to think of her going to prison for that, and he found himself wondering what Charlie Woodend would have done in his situation.
‘I think I may have found a way out for you,’ he said.
The girl looked puzzled. ‘A way out?’
‘It’s obvious that somebody from the garage was connected with this racket – but it doesn’t have to have been you.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Your grandfather’s dead. The law can’t touch him now.’
‘Grandad would never have been involved in anything like this!’
No, Rutter thought, though the old man must have suspected something of what was going on, otherwise he’d never have said what he had when they’d met by accident in the pub. But there was no point in telling the girl that – no point in letting her know that her attempt to keep the old man in blissful ignorance had been at least a partial failure.
‘I’m sure your gra
ndfather wouldn’t have become involved,’ he said, ‘but who’s to know that for sure, except the two of us?’
‘I won’t do it!’ Jenny Grimsdyke said firmly. ‘And I won’t allow you to do it for me.’
‘You’ll go to jail then.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘For God’s sake, the old man’s gone!’ Rutter said exasperatedly. ‘His reputation won’t matter to him now, one way or the other.’
‘I know it won’t,’ Jenny agreed. ‘But it still matters to me.’
‘Aye, well, it’s your choice,’ Rutter said, thinking, even as he spoke, that he’d only been in the North for a few days, but already, when he opened his mouth, the words which came out sounded like Charlie Woodend’s.
It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon when Woodend marched – unannounced, as usual – into Chief Inspector Turner’s office.
‘I think my lad, Rutter, might have solved one of Punch Davies’ cases for you,’ he said, without preamble.
‘The hit-and-run?’
‘Talk sense! Bob’s in Whitebridge, and the hit-an’-run took place in Fleetwood. He’s a bloody good detective, but even he couldn’t crack an investigation from that distance.’
‘Then it must be the stolen car ring.’
‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘A couple of hours ago he raided a garage in Whitebridge an’ came up with the names of several other garages involved in the racket. One of them is right here in Blackpool. So what are you goin’ to do about it? Raid the place – or sweep it under the carpet because it wouldn’t be good for the town’s image to expose some home-grown crime?’
Turner’s face flushed with anger. ‘That was uncalled for!’ he said.
‘That’s only your opinion,’ Woodend countered. ‘Well, are you goin’ to raid the place or not?’
Turner reached for the telephone. ‘Yes, I’m going to raid it,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll come along for the ride,’ Woodend told him.
Golden Mile to Murder Page 22
