Golden Mile to Murder

by Sally Spencer

  Paniatowski made the call, and then joined Woodend at the table. Though the sergeant tried to draw him out on the case, the chief inspector seemed reluctant to discuss it further, and they ended up talking about Woodend’s experiences as a soldier in war-torn Europe, and Paniatowski’s as a refugee.

  The first bottle of wine was soon empty, and Woodend ordered a second. When they’d killed that, too, he signalled the waiter again and asked for two double scotches.

  ‘I’d prefer vodka if they have any,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Is that what you drank the other night, when you were out with your boyfriend?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, we drank scotch then,’ Paniatowski admitted.

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll drink now,’ Woodend said sharply.

  For a while after his uncharacteristic outburst, the conversation was stilted and awkward, but by the time they were both halfway down their second glasses of whisky they were relaxed in each other’s company again – and with the third they were laughing and joking like old friends.

  It was only when Woodend ordered a fourth glass, just before closing time, that Paniatowski balked. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said.

  ‘One more won’t do you any harm,’ Woodend told her.

  ‘Really, sir, I’d rather not.’

  The waiter placed the two glasses on the table. Woodend looked from Paniatowski’s face to the whisky, and then back again.

  ‘Drink it, Sergeant!’ he said. ‘And that’s an order!’

  Paniatowski drifted hazily in and out of awareness. One moment she and Woodend were in the Green Man, the next they were walking along the promenade, with the chief inspector’s arm around her waist to steady her. She was drunk, she thought in disgust. Disgracefully drunk. And it wasn’t even her fault!

  Another blink – another split second she hardly noticed – and they were climbing the stairs inside the Sea View Hotel.

  ‘Have you got your key?’ Woodend asked, in a voice which – to Paniatowski – seemed very loud and very hollow.

  ‘My wha . . .?’

  ‘Your key. We’re outside your door.’

  Paniatowski fumbled in her handbag for what felt like an eternity, before eventually finding the key. She knew she wouldn’t be able to slide it into the lock herself, and so she handed it to Woodend.

  A sudden feeling of betrayal swept over her. She had forced herself to trust this man – it hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it. And what was her reward for her efforts? He was about to revert to type – to act like every lecher she’d ever taken pains to keep at arm’s length!

  ‘So wha’ happens now?’ she slurred angrily. ‘You shay . . . say you’ll just tuck me up in bed, and then I don’ remember anything else until I wake up in the morning and find you snoring next to me?’

  ‘You’re old enough to tuck yourself in bed, even if you are pissed,’ Woodend told her. ‘And if you think I’m the sort of man to take advantage of this situation, then you don’t really know me.’ He pushed the door open. ‘There you are, lass. Set a straight course for your bed, and you should be all right.’

  ‘Whash goin’ on?’ Paniatowski demanded. ‘If you din’ wan’ to take me to bed, why did you get me drunk?’

  ‘It was an experiment,’ Woodend said.

  ‘An ess . . . periment?’

  ‘That’s right. I had a theory that needed testin’ out.’ He patted her on the head in an avuncular fashion. ‘Get a good night’s sleep, lass, an’ I’ll see you in the mornin’. At eight o’clock, sharp, mind! Don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’ be late,’ Paniatowski said, as she tottered unsteadily in the general direction of her bed. ‘I’m very reliable. Well kno’ for it.’

  The bed was closer than she’d calculated it was. Her left kneecap struck the edge of it, and she fell forward, sprawling on the counterpane.

  ‘Shit!’ she mumbled into her bedding.

  Behind her there was a soft click, as Woodend, still standing in the passage, gently closed the door.

  Thirty-One

  As Woodend tucked into his cooked breakfast, he found his mind turning to thoughts of Rutter. Bob had a strong stomach for most things, but after a night on the booze even the sight of someone else’s fry-up was enough to make him look queasy. Paniatowski seemed to be made of sterner stuff, in this respect at least. Not only did his breakfast not repulse her, but she was making a fair stab at demolishing her own.

  ‘How are you feelin’?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Paniatowski replied, slicing with vigour into her thick pork sausage.

  ‘No hangover?’

  ‘I never have a hangover,’ Paniatowski said – and then she frowned, because that was no longer quite true.

  She looked out of the window, and then back at Woodend. There was something else which needed to said, she thought, and the sooner it was said, the better.

  ‘About last night, sir –’ she began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry I accused you of wanting to get into my knickers.’

  ‘It was quite understandable, given the circumstances,’ Woodend said. ‘I’m sorry I had to get you drunk.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Like I said at the time, it was necessary research.’

  ‘Necessary for what?’

  ‘If I’m right about this case, that’ll soon become self-evident. An’ if I’m not, all it’ll mean is that I’ve spent a couple of quid needlessly.’ Woodend pushed his empty plate aside and lit a cigarette. ‘As soon as you’ve finished eatin’, we’re off to Fleetwood.’

  ‘Why Fleetwood?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Because when we were in Tommy’s Bolton’s bungalow yesterday, he said somethin’ which I considered was highly significant – an’ which seems to have gone completely over your head.’

  Paniatowski glanced up at Woodend’s face to see if he was joking, and decided that he wasn’t.

  ‘What did I miss?’ she asked.

  ‘He was talkin’ about havin’ too much to drink that night at the Palace Hotel, an’ his exact words were: “It wasn’t until we were gettin’ into the car that I realised just how drunk I was.” That’s why we’re goin’ to Fleetwood, Sergeant – to find out exactly who this “we” were.’

  The Gay Paree Theatre had not closed its doors until nearly midnight, and after that Gutteridge had stayed behind – drinking neat gin and thinking gloomily about his future – so the loud hammering on his flat door at just before ten o’clock the following morning came as something of a shock to his system.

  He slipped on his faded silk dressing gown and staggered up the hall. ‘Who’s there?’ he moaned.

  ‘Police!’ said a voice from the other side.

  ‘I have no wish to speak to you.’

  ‘Open the door, or I’ll kick it down,’ Woodend threatened.

  Reluctantly, Gutteridge slid back the bolt. The second he’d opened the door, Woodend and his sergeant barged past him and marched into the living-room as if they owned the place.

  ‘This is an unforgivable intrusion,’ Gutteridge protested weakly. ‘I do have rights, you know.’

  ‘Important people have rights,’ Woodend told him, cuttingly. ‘Doctors, businessmen – all the people who belong to the Golden Mile Association. But a seedy little filth merchant like you havin’ rights? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘I’m an impresario,’ Gutteridge whined.

  ‘You’re a pimp – which is how you got tangled up in this whole bloody mess in the first place,’ Woodend said. ‘The Golden Mile Association wanted a bit of entertainment laid on for their “do”. They asked Tommy Bolton if he’d provide it, an’ because he was suckin’ up to them in the hope they’d invite him to join, he agreed. But the thing was, they wanted a little bit more than mother-in-law jokes. They wanted some smut. An’ where was Bolton to get it from? Why, from you!’

  ‘We did nothing to contravene the law.’

  Woodend glared at him. ‘Did I give y
ou permission to talk?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then don’t! When I want you to say somethin’, you’ll be the first to know. Bolton came an’ asked for your help, an’, for a fee, you provided it. But that’s not the really interestin’ bit. While you were lyin’ in your pit, we’ve been out at the Palace Hotel, talkin’ to the staff. Some of their stories contradicted each other – well, you’ll always get that – but one thing they’re agreed on is that when Bolton left in that Rolls Royce of his, you were sittin’ in the passenger seat.’

  ‘I was born to own a Rolls Royce, but until that night I’d never even ridden in one,’ Gutteridge said sadly.

  ‘You’re talkin’ without permission again,’ Woodend told him. ‘I won’t warn you a third time.’ He made his Tommy Bolton face. ‘Now where was I?’

  ‘Bolton and Gutteridge left the Palace Hotel in Bolton’s Rolls Royce,’ Paniatowski prompted.

  ‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘The same Rolls Royce which, just over an hour later, killed an old lady in the centre of Fleetwood.’

  ‘What!’ Gutteridge gasped.

  ‘It’s true enough,’ Woodend said. ‘The car’s all the evidence we need. Tommy Bolton was arrested last night.’

  ‘But we’re not convinced he’s the one we want to charge,’ Paniatowski said.

  Woodend shot her an angry look. ‘That’s enough, Sergeant,’ he said.

  The implication of Paniatowski’s words sank in to Gutteridge’s drink-befuddled brain. ‘You’re suggesting that I was behind the wheel?’ he croaked.

  ‘Bolton says you were,’ Paniatowski lied.

  ‘I’ve told you that’s enough, Sergeant,’ Woodend rasped.

  ‘Can I . . . can I tell you what really happened?’ Gutteridge pleaded.

  Woodend nodded. ‘Aye, go on.’

  ‘It had been our intention to return to Blackpool immediately, but instead of turning right, Bolton turned left. I asked him what he imagined he was doing, and he replied that he was too intoxicated to drive at that moment, and would need some time to collect himself. He pulled into the side of the road, slumped over the steering wheel, and instantly fell into a drunken sleep.’

  ‘And you couldn’t resist the temptation to push him into the passenger seat, get behind the wheel yourself, and take the Rolls for a spin,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Sergeant, we’ll hear both sides of the story before we make up our minds,’ Woodend said. ‘Carry on, Mr Gutteridge.’

  ‘I had no idea for how long he would be dead to the world, and I’d no intention of waiting to find out. I abandoned him to the dubious pleasure of his own company, and caught the last tram back to Blackpool.’

  Paniatowski snorted her disbelief, and Woodend said, ‘Have you got any witnesses to that?’

  ‘Witnesses?’ Gutteridge asked, feeling the panic inside him growing. ‘The conductor! Perhaps the conductor will remember me.’

  ‘Bound to,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘After all, they only work about sixteen hours a day in the season, and they can’t see more than a few thousand passengers during that time. I’m sure we’ll have no difficulty in finding one who remembers bringing back a particular passenger on the last tram from Fleetwood – over a week ago.’

  ‘Could you describe him for us?’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t really notice very much about him. He was around thirty, I think. Possibly thirty-five. Or maybe even a little older.’

  ‘Height?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to make things a bit easier for us by admittin’ straight away that you were the one who was drivin’ the car when it hit the old lady, would you?’ Woodend asked hopefully.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I didn’t even know Bolton’s Rolls had been involved in the accident until you just told me.’

  Woodend and Paniatowski exchanged sceptical looks. ‘Well, maybe the conductor who brought you back to Blackpool will come forward, and we’ll able to cross you off the list,’ Woodend said, with a total lack of conviction. ‘But in the meantime, don’t even think of leavin’ Blackpool without informin’ us first.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Come on, Sergeant, we’ve got work to do.’

  Paniatowski nodded, and followed him into the hallway.

  Gutteridge listened to their retreating footsteps and the sound of his front door clicking closed behind them. Almost without realising he was doing it, he began pacing the floor.

  Bolton says I was the one who killed the old woman! his mind screamed.

  He’d denied it, and would continue to deny it. But who were the police likely to believe – one of the most popular entertainers in the country, or a man who ran a seedy strip show?

  It seemed they had already made up their minds. And even if they hadn’t yet, Tommy Bolton had the money to hire the most expensive lawyers in the country, whereas he . . .

  Gutteridge walked over to the phone, and dialled a local number he’d been told to use only in times of emergency.

  ‘Yes?’ asked a gruff voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘It is I. Gutteridge.’

  ‘You’re lucky to find me in. What do you want?’

  ‘The police have just left me,’ Gutteridge babbled. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend, and his sergeant. Woodend more than implied that he’s contemplating charging me with a hit-and-run accident I’m totally innocent of.’

  ‘So what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘If they do arrest me, I’ll tell them about all the other things as well. I won’t be able to help myself.’

  ‘Stop beating about the bush, and tell me what it is you want.’

  ‘Money,’ Gutteridge said. ‘If I am to escape from this dreadful place, I’ll need cash. At least a couple of hundred pounds.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be any problem. Why don’t I bring it round to your flat?’

  ‘No!’ Gutteridge gasped, remembering what had happened to Gypsy Elizabeth Rose. ‘No, it will have to be somewhere public.’

  ‘But not too public,’ the other man cautioned. ‘I don’t want to be seen meeting you by somebody I know. Especially since you’re about to do a disappearing act.’ He fell silent for a few seconds. ‘I’ve got it!’ he continued. ‘Why don’t we meet at the top of the Tower? There’ll be plenty of people around, but they’ll all be holidaymakers, so they won’t recognise either of us.’

  That made sense, Gutteridge thought. ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘Say in half an hour. But don’t you approach me. I’ll make sure it’s safe first, and then I’ll come to you. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Gutteridge said.

  It was still too early in the day for the Tower to have attracted a lot of visitors, but Gutteridge was a little reassured by the fact that there were five other people with him in the lift which journeyed through the centre of the hollow cast-iron frame. Five witnesses at least, then, to his meeting with the man who made his bowels turn to water – and the chances were there were others already on the platform. He should be safe under their watchful eyes – and within an hour he would have left Blackpool forever!

  The lift came to a slightly juddering halt, and Gutteridge heard the woman standing beside him let out a sigh of relief. She had nothing to be frightened of, he thought viciously. She didn’t know what real fear was.

  He stepped out on to the observation platform which circled the apex of the Tower. Ahead of him was the chest-high rail and, projecting out of that, the mesh fence which had been erected to prevent accidents and deter all but the most determined suicides.

  Gutteridge counted the number of people he could see on the platform. Twelve. Still perfectly satisfactory.

  He walked over to the rail, and looked down on the street, nearly five hundred feet below. From here the cars looked like no more than toys, and the bustling people smaller than the tiniest of ants. He checked his watch. It was nearly thirty-five minutes since he had made his appo
intment. His man should here by now.

  The lift had reached the loading area again. The operator opened the gate, and the two families who had been waiting for it stepped forward. Suddenly a man in a smart blue suit was standing between them and the lift, waving what looked like an official card.

  ‘Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘but the lift will be out of action for the next few minutes.’

  ‘Here, who are you to go tellin’ them that?’ the lift operator complained. ‘I’m in charge here. I say when the lift is or isn’t workin’.’

  The man in the blue suit swung round and showed the operator his warrant card.

  ‘Police!’ he said authoritatively. ‘You’ve just taken a dangerous criminal up to the platform, and I don’t want any of these innocent people going anywhere near him.’

  ‘Dangerous criminal?’ the operator repeated. ‘Oh well, that’s different.’

  The man in the blue suit stepped into the lift. ‘Take me up to the platform,’ he said. ‘If anybody, other than the man I’ll point out to you, wants to come down, you’re to bring them immediately. But under no circumstances are you to take anybody else up to the platform until I say it’s safe. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ the lift operator told him. ‘I’ve got it.’

  Gutteridge heard the lift coming, and turned expectantly when the gates clanked open. The man in the blue suit looked straight at him, then turned and said something into the lift operator’s ear. The operator nodded. The man in the blue suit stepped on to the platform and walked around to the other side of the tower. A young couple, holding on to the hands of their two children tightly, took his place in the lift, and the operator slammed the gate closed. With a whirr from the engine, the lift began its descent.

  Gutteridge glanced nervously around him. The man in the blue suit was still out of sight on the other side of the platform. But why should that matter? All he was doing was being cautious. Wasn’t he? He’d said he’d bring the money, and the leather briefcase he’d had in his hand when he stepped out of the lift was proof that he’d kept his promise. It was all going according to plan. It was all . . . going . . . according to plan.