Golden Mile to Murder (10 page)

She turned her back on the sea, walked over to her bed, and began to apply her mind to the murder of Punch Davies. Was the task her new boss had assigned of any real value – or was Woodend merely using it as a way to keep her out of his hair? And even if it were the latter, couldn't a smart woman like her find some way to turn it to her own advantage?

She lit a cigarette, and looked down at the notes she had made earlier.

‘Would anyone being investigated by Davies be desperate enough to have committed murder to cover his trail?' she had written in her tight, neat handwriting. ‘Would a cat burglar risk being hanged rather than face a few years in jail?'

The burglars she knew in Whitebridge regarded jail as nothing more than an occupational hazard – something to be tolerated in much the same way as non-criminals tolerated paying income tax and national insurance. Was there any reason to assume that the burglars in Blackpool would be any different?

What about the car-theft ring? she asked herself. A decade earlier, there would have been no call for one, but the number of car drivers had doubled since the early fifties, and it was now something of a growth industry. But not a
cottage
industry! Villains didn't nick cars off one street and try to sell them on again in the next. When they finally disposed of the stolen vehicle, it would be in another town – which meant the centre of the ring's operation usually had to be one of the big cities like Liverpool or Manchester.

Monika took a drag of her cigarette. She was back to the question of a strong enough motive for murder again, she realised. Say Davies
had
got a lead on the local branch of the car ring. Would the men running it decide he was a big enough threat to risk the rope for? No! Why should they, when all they had to do was close down the Blackpool end of things and concentrate on stealing cars from Burnley or Clitheroe instead?

Which left the hit-and-run case – and the more Monika thought about it, the faster her pulse began to race! The average perpetrator in a hit-and-run was not a felon like the ordinary criminal. He didn't regard a prison sentence as something which merely had to be endured. For him, it was the end of life as he had known it. And if the life he was about to lose was a good one, might he not risk the possibility of being hanged if that was the only way to protect it? So if Davies had had a good lead on the case, wasn't it possible that—?

She was on to something! She was sure of it!

Monika stubbed her cigarette out in the souvenir-of-Blackpool ashtray, which the landlady had provided. She had done a very productive hour's work, she told herself, and she was entitled to a reward. She wondered if any of the nearby pubs sold vodka.

The auditorium of the Gay Paree Theatre was dimly lit, which Woodend suspected was as much to mask the run-down nature of the place as to create an atmosphere. Most of the people who'd paid their admissions had chosen seats near the back of the room, but Woodend selected one close to the blue mock-velvet curtain currently drawn across the stage.

The seat was cramped, and creaked when he moved. It had probably been bought cheap from one of the cinemas forced to close down when television had become so popular, he thought.

He lit up a Capstan Full Strength and wondered if Inspector Davies had ever sat where he was sitting now. Could that be the explanation for Davies' apparent obsession with the Golden Mile? Could he have been no more than a lonely man – denied access to his wife's bed – who drew what vague comfort he could from watching semi-naked women?

The lights went down even lower – though not low enough to prevent Woodend from seeing the weedy middle-aged man who was sitting three seats up from him and was coughing nervously.

‘Welcome to the show,' boomed the voice of the barker/magician who had enticed the audience in. ‘Our first tableau this evening depicts the meeting between Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, and Mark Antony, the mighty Roman general.'

So there was to be no drug-crazed Helga committing depraved acts, Woodend thought with a grin, as he sensed some of the other customers' disappointment.

The curtains rolled back noisily to reveal the scene. Mark Antony, ‘the mighty Roman general', was dressed in a plastic helmet and cardboard breastplate which his ample stomach threatened to burst out of any second. His sandals, though not Roman, at least looked leather, but Woodend couldn't help but think he'd have seemed a little more authentic if he'd bothered to take off his socks.

The general was standing next to a couch, on which lounged Cleopatra – the brassy blonde from outside – dressed only in her knickers, a plastic girdle and a blue, see-through top which was probably bri-nylon. Behind her stood two female attendants, both holding large feather fans and both naked to the waist. Any movement the assembled company made was purely involuntary – they knew the law. Except it was not
quite
true that there was no movement at all. Though the Queen of the Nile kept her body perfectly still, she let her eyes rove over the first two rows of the audience until they finally settled on Woodend. Then, just before the curtain was drawn again, her fixed expression melted into a broad smile which – there could be do doubt about it – had been intended solely for him.

There were six more tableaux – Queen Boadicea meeting the Romans; Christopher Columbus discovering native girls (who already seemed to have discovered Marks & Spencer's ready-wear for themselves); Dick Turpin (cardboard hat and cardboard mask) with his half-naked doxies. And during each of the scenes the star seemed to smile ever more broadly – and knowingly – at Woodend.

Then it was all over. The curtain was closed for the last time, the lights were raised and the punters climbed to their feet, feeling vaguely discontented.

Woodend squeezed his own large frame out of his flimsy seat, but made no move towards the exit. The barker, who was shooing the other customers through the door, noticed he seemed to have no intention of leaving, and walked over to where he was standing.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to go now, sir,' he said.

‘Are you the manager?' Woodend asked.

‘No, but that's got nothing to do with—'

Woodend produced his warrant card. ‘Central Lancashire CID,' he said. ‘I'd like to see the manager.'

‘The show was within the bounds of what's permitted by law,' the barker protested. ‘Well within the bounds.'

‘Maybe it was,' Woodend agreed. ‘But I'd still like to see the manager.'

For a moment it looked as if the barker were about to argue further, then he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘You'd better follow me.'

He led Woodend to a door at the edge of the stage, knocked and then turned the handle without waiting for a reply.

‘There's a bobby here to see you, Mr Gutteridge,' he said.

Over his shoulder, Woodend got a clear view of the office and the man the barker had been addressing. Gutteridge was in his early fifties, and had a mane of grey hair swept dramatically back, almost touching his shoulders. His office – in contrast to his own distinguished appearance – was little more than a cubbyhole. Most of the space was taken up by an old metal desk and two chairs. The rest was occupied by props from the various tableaux which, under the harsh light of a single naked bulb, looked even tattier than they had on stage.

‘A bobby?' the manager repeated. ‘A guardian of the law? But I was under the impression that all our little difficulties in that direction had been satisfactorily resolved.'

‘He's not from the
local
force,' the barker said hastily. ‘He's come from Central Lancs Headquarters.'

The manager ran the fingers of his left hand through his mane. ‘I see,' he said thoughtfully. ‘And he would be –?'

‘I would be Chief Inspector Woodend,' Woodend said, answering for himself. ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr Gutteridge?'

‘Not at all, my dear man,' the manager assured him. He turned his attention to the barker. ‘Your public awaits you, Clive. Fly to them! Tread the boards like a colossus. Do all that is in your power to make them part with their five bobs.'

The barker shook his head as if he'd just been addressed in a foreign language – but had somehow managed to understand anyway – and departed. Woodend stepped into the office, closed the door behind him and manoeuvred his way around the props to the vacant chair.

‘So how can I be of assistance you, Chief Inspector?' the manager asked.

‘When your lad Clive told you I was from the police, you said you thought that – what were your exact words? – that the
matter
had been “satisfactorily resolved”. What exactly did you mean by that?'

‘That the difficulties we strolling players all so often have to face had been dealt with.'

‘Would you care to be specific?'

Gutteridge laughed. ‘I have toured the length and breadth of this great country of ours with my troop,' he said. ‘I have given my audiences
Hamlet
and
Antigone
,
Doctor Faustus
and
Lady Windermere
. My company has brought tears to eyes of the many, but there are always the few – the groundling element – who have attempted to cause disruption. And if that is true of presentations of the classics, think how much more common it must be in a show which has less merit than the crudest Elizabethan burlesque.'

‘You're sayin' you've had a bit of trouble with your punters,' Woodend translated.

‘Precisely!' Gutteridge agreed enthusiastically. ‘They come not to hear the immortal words of the Bard, but to gaze at naked flesh. Many of them arrive already fired up with alcoholic beverages –'

‘Drunk,' Woodend supplied. ‘Pissed. Legless.'

‘As you say,' Gutteridge confirmed. ‘And sometimes this human offal which poses as an audience wants more from a performance than my actors are allowed by the constabulary to provide.'

‘Do you always take this long to get to the point?' Woodend asked.

Gutteridge smiled ruefully. ‘Forgive me, my dear man. It is sometimes difficult to break the habits of a lifetime on the stage. These particular groundlings I was about to refer to infested us with their presence about two weeks ago. There were half a dozen of them, and they were – as you would say – pissed out of their tiny minds. Not happy with the spectacular we had presented, they refused to leave the auditorium until the girls had divested themselves of their few remaining garments. That was not possible, and so we called in the police.'

‘An' what happened then?'

‘Faced with the majesty of the law, the groundlings withdrew from the theatre without further resistance.'

An obvious question came to the forefront of Woodend's mind, but instead of asking it then – when it might be expected – he decided to file it for later.

‘I'm surprised to find a man with a legitimate theatre background like your own in a place like this,' he said instead.

Gutteridge sighed. ‘What can I tell you, my dear man?' he asked rhetorically. ‘For years I dedicated myself to my art, with very little to show for it in material terms. Here, I may not earn golden opinions, but at least I can now look forward to the twilight of my years with a little less financial trepidation.'

‘Aye, an' you're probably makin' more money an' all,' Woodend said, and before the manager had time to explain that was what he had meant, the chief inspector was on his feet and holding out his hand. ‘It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gutteridge,' he continued.

‘The pleasure has all been mine, Chief Inspector.'

Woodend manoeuvred around the desk to the door, and was halfway out of the office when he turned and said, ‘Oh, there is one more thing, sir.'

‘Yes?'

‘When you called in the police, was the officer who answered the call Mr Davies, by any chance?'

The manager only blinked once – but Woodend did not miss it.

‘Who?' Gutteridge asked.

‘Detective Inspector Davies,' Woodend repeated.

‘The name sounds familiar. He wasn't the man who met an unfortunate end under the Central Pier, was he?'

‘That's the feller.'

‘Then no, it certainly wasn't him. The two officers in question were both in uniform – a sergeant and a constable, I believe. Now if that's all –'

‘It isn't, actually,' Woodend told him. ‘If I can quote you a second time, you said, “our little difficulties in that direction had been satisfactorily resolved”.'

‘I still fail to see—'

‘I don't have your way with words, but that sounds to me as if you were talkin' about a long-term problem rather than an isolated incident involvin' a few yobs.'

For a moment, a confused expression filled Gutteridge's face. Then it cleared to be replaced by the look of a man who has realised that there might have been an honest misunderstanding.

‘I see what you mean,' he said. ‘The problem was not the incident itself, but whether it would have longer-term consequences. I was concerned that as a result of it, the constabulary might decide to take a less-than-favourable view of my establishment.'

‘But they haven't?'

‘No, the sergeant rang me a few days later to say that from his standpoint there was no more to be said on that matter. I expect he realised that we operate as a safety valve, and that if the Gay Paree was closed, something much more sordid would spring up to take its place.'

‘Aye, that probably
is
what he thought,' Woodend said. ‘Well, goodbye again, Mr Gutteridge.'

As he stepped through the office door, Woodend noticed the brassy blonde again. She was standing a few feet away from him and wearing the same towelling robe she had worn when she'd been on the platform. Now, however, it was so loosely belted that there was no longer a question of whether or not she was wearing a bra.