Golden Mile to Murder (15 page)

‘That's it?'

‘You've told me all you know, haven't you?'

‘Well . . . yes.'

‘Then there doesn't seem much point in taking up any more of your valuable time.'

‘I'll drive you back to the station,' Howarth said, gesturing towards his car.

‘If it's all the same to you, I think I'd like to spend a bit more time in Fleetwood,' Paniatowski told him.

‘Any . . . er . . . particular reason for that?'

‘No. No
particular
reason,' Paniatowski lied.

‘I'll see. Well, if you'd like to tell me what time you'd like picking up again –'

‘I'll take the tram back,' Paniatowski said firmly.

‘There's no need—'

‘I know there isn't,' Paniatowski agreed, ‘but I still fancy a tram ride.'

The café just behind the Winter Gardens was a favourite haunt of tram drivers and policemen. When Sergeant Hanson arrived, his team had already assembled and were sipping strong tea out of white enamel mugs.

‘What happened with Sergeant Paniatowski this morning?' Hanson said, as he spooned a heaped teaspoon of sugar into his mug.

‘What do you mean, Sarge? What happened to her?' DC Stone asked.

Hanson took a sip of the tea. God, it was so strong you could build bricks out of it. ‘When I went to get her a cuppa, she seemed fine, but she when she passed me as I was coming back from the canteen, she looked as if she'd just heard her mother had died,' Hanson said. ‘Now why was that?'

‘Told you we'd got to her,' Brock said to Stone in an undertone.

‘What was that?' Hanson demanded.

Brock shrugged. ‘Some women just don't have a sense of humour.'

‘Much as I love riddles, there are times when I'd prefer a straight answer,' Hanson said, with an impatient edge creeping into his voice. ‘So I'll ask you again – what happened?'

‘She . . . we . . .' DC Eliot mumbled.

‘Spit it out, lad,' Hanson ordered.

‘I put somethin' in her desk drawer,' Brock admitted, slightly sheepishly.

‘Did you, indeed? And what was it, exactly?'

Brock shrugged again. ‘A nodder.'

‘A nodder! You put a contraceptive in her desk?'

‘It was only a bit of fun.'

Hanson laid his mug down on the table. ‘Outside, Brock,' he said.

‘You what, Sarge?'

‘You heard me.'

The sergeant stood up and walked to the door. Brock hesitated for a second, followed him.

‘There's three ways I can handle this,' Hanson said, once they were out on the street. ‘Can you guess what they are?'

‘No,' Brock said sulkily.

‘The first is that I can go along with the rest of you, and treat what you did to Sergeant Paniatowski as nothing more than a joke. But I have a problem with that, because I'm a sergeant too.' He paused. ‘The second alternative is to report the incident to Chief Inspector Turner.'

‘You wouldn't do that, would you, Sarge?' Brock asked, slightly panicked.

‘No, I wouldn't,' Hanson admitted, ‘but only because I don't believe in shopping any of my lads, even if he is a toe-rag like you. So I'm left with the third alternative, aren't I?'

‘And what's that?' Brock asked, some of his cockiness returning.

‘We forget rank for a few minutes, find a nice quiet spot somewhere, and settle this man-to-man.'

‘You'd fight for her?' Brock asked.

‘No,' Hanson told him. ‘I'd fight for her right to get the respect her stripes have earned her.'

‘I could take you, you know,' Brock said menacingly.

‘Maybe you could,' Hanson agreed. ‘I don't think so myself, but maybe you could. Anyway, it shouldn't take us long to find out, should it?'

Brock shook his head. ‘I don't want any trouble with you, Sarge.'

‘Then you'd better make sure that you don't make any more trouble for Sergeant Paniatowski,' Hanson told him. ‘Am I making myself clear?'

‘Yes.'

Hanson slapped Brock on the shoulder. ‘Good lad,' he said. ‘Now let's get back inside and I'll buy you another cuppa.'

As a detective, Sergeant Howarth would have made a good hat-stand, Monika Paniatowski thought as she walked down Victoria Street, Fleetwood, towards the waterfront. He had instigated door-to-door inquiries and rung all the repair garages because that was what the police manual said he should do in cases like this. What he
hadn't
done, while following the generalised theory, was to pay any attention of the specifics of this particular case – especially the ones involving geography.

She ran these geographical factors quickly through her mind. A driver who knocked down his victim in London might live a hundred miles away from the city and merely have been travelling through it on the way to somewhere else. But that couldn't have happened in Fleetwood, because there was
nothing
beyond the north edge of town but the sea. All of which led her to conclude that the driver hadn't been in the relatively small area bounded by the sea and the river as a result of chance, but had had some definite purpose. And what purpose
could
he have had, so late at night?

She had reached the river, and gazed across the slightly choppy water at the Knott End Golf Course. Most of the senior officers back in Whitebridge seemed to spend half their time playing golf – either that or rolling up their trouser legs at meetings of their Masonic Lodge. Those were the ways to get on in the police force, but she couldn't see herself doing the former, and was barred by her sex from the latter. So it looked as if any significant promotions she won would have to be through talent and sheer bloody-mindedness – and she was blessed with an abundance of both.

Monika turned left on to Queen's Terrace. Ahead of her stood the lighthouse – a solid, slightly ornate Victorian structure which could as easily have been a part of the town hall complex as a beacon to guide shipping. Beyond that she could see Fleetwood Pier, which was nothing more than a stunted relative of the three much longer piers which could be found, just a short tram ride away, in Blackpool.

It was the building between lighthouse and pier which took her by surprise. For a start, it was four stories high, which made it much taller than any of the other structures in the vicinity. Then there was its shape – it was built in a crescent, rather then being square or oblong. It seemed to the sergeant to be altogether far too grand to be in a place like Fleetwood and judging from the name spelt out in individual letters along its frontage – The Palace Hotel – that was an opinion its owners shared with her.

Monika stopped to light a cigarette. The hotel was nothing more than a monument to unfulfilled hopes, she thought. Yet despite the fact that Fleetwood had never become the swish resort the builders had anticipated, the Palace was still there – still doing business. How had it managed to survive after it had become clear that there would never be enough holidaymakers – and certainly not the right
kind
of holidaymakers – to fill up all its rooms?

A triumphant smile found its way to her lips. It was obvious, she told herself – there was only one way it
could
have survived.

I
t simply wasn't in the nature of Northern males to have a fuss made over them, even when they were no longer around to see it for themselves, Woodend thought – which was why he hated men's funerals in general and the idea of his own in particular. And a funeral of a police officer was even worse than most.

All those uniforms!

All that pomp and ceremony!

It was enough to make a corpse cringe, and he hoped that when his time came, Joan would have him popped into the ground with as little bother as possible.

Still, full-blown funerals like this one did serve a function, he admitted as he stood in a corner of Blackpool's Layton Cemetery – even if that function was only to help those left behind to come to terms with death. And perhaps, especially in a case like that of Detective Sergeant William Davies – a man cut down in his prime – the family needed to be assured that his contribution had been appreciated and his presence would be missed.

You're thinkin' too much, Charlie, he told himself.

That was another thing about funerals – they made you think too bloody much.

The funeral cortège was approaching – a coffin carried shoulder-high by officers in full dress uniform, and followed by a sea of navy-blue serge interspersed with islands of grey and black, which denoted the civilian mourners. The Blackpool police must have galloped through the forensics and all the other formalities in order to make this happen so quickly, Woodend thought. Maybe they'd done
that
out of respect for the family, too. But there was at least a part of him which couldn't help seeing the whole thing as an unseemly rush – which couldn't help wondering whether the hurried funeral was any more than one part of a process aimed at getting Davies buried and forgotten as quickly as possible.

Wishing he could light up a cigarette, he moved a little closer to the hole in the ground which was to be Punch Davies' last resting-place. The widow took up her position next to the grave. She was wearing a black dress with a veil. Standing beside her were her two children. The boy, who looked around eleven years old, was unnaturally pale, and was gripping his mother's right hand tightly. The girl, by contrast, had a vacuous look on her face, as if – as far as she were concerned – it didn't matter whether she was here or in some other place entirely. Her hand was in her mother's, too, but in this case it was Edna Davies who was maintaining a tight grip.

Though he was too far away to hear the actual words distinctly, Woodend could see the vicar's lips moving, and knew that the service had begun. He turned his attention back to the widow and her children. The girl – Susan – was gazing uncomprehendingly at what was happening in front of her. On the other hand, the boy – Peter, was it? – seemed to be becoming increasingly agitated.

Woodend watched in fascination as the pale child tugged at this mother's arm, seeking – no, more like, demanding – attention. The widow finally gave way, bending her head so that the boy could whisper something in her ear. She nodded. The boy spoke again, and this time she shook her head. Peter's agitation was, if anything, increasing. He was pulling so hard now that his mother was in danger of overbalancing.

The boy broke free. His mother stood there uncertainly. She had a husband to bury, a retarded daughter to look after, and a wayward son to control. She couldn't do all three, and when the boy took a couple of steps backwards, cannoning into those people standing behind him, she could do nothing more than shrug helplessly.

Peter disappeared into the forest of adult legs. Poor little bugger, Woodend thought, it had obviously been too much for him. He could only hope that one of the adults attending the funeral had the presence of mind to try to calm the child down.

Peter appeared again at the very edge of the half-circle of mourners. He was crying, but there was a determined expression on his face, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He began to move quickly, cutting a wide arc around the funeral party and heading in Woodend's direction. It was perhaps thirty seconds before the chief inspector realised that the child was not
just
heading in his direction – he was making directly for
him
.

Another fifteen seconds and they stood facing each other – the big policeman and frail, pallid boy.

‘My mummy says you're the man who's going to catch the man who killed my daddy,' Peter said, without preamble.

Going
to catch! By God, what it was to be young, Woodend thought – to believe that right would always prevail.

He crouched down, so that his eyes were at the same level as the boy's. ‘I'm certainly lookin' for him,' he said softly.

‘He's a very
bad
man,' Peter replied, as if he expected that would make Woodend's task easier.

‘Yes, he is,' Woodend agreed.

The boy cocked his head to one side, as though he was looking at Woodend as a person for the first time.

‘Do you have any children?' he asked.

‘One,' Woodend told him. ‘A girl. But she's a bit older than you.'

‘A girl,' Peter repeated in disgusts. ‘Girls are soppy. Why couldn't you have a boy?'

‘She's what the stork brought me,' Woodend said. ‘And I love her very much.'

‘My daddy loved me,' the boy said defiantly.

‘Of course he did,' Woodend agreed. ‘He still loves you, even though he's in Heaven. And you still love him too, don't you?'

‘Yes,' the boy said seriously. ‘I still love him. My daddy did a very bad thing once, but . . .'

‘But what?'

‘But he was still a very
good
daddy!'

Woodend became aware of another person – a woman who looked like a younger version of Peter's mother – standing a few feet away from them.

‘Who are you?' she asked, not quite sure yet whether she ought to be suspicious or grateful.

‘Chief Inspector Woodend. And you'd be Peter's auntie?'

‘That's right,' the woman agreed.

‘Peter and I have been havin' a nice little talk,' Woodend told her, ‘but I think it's time he went back to his mummy and sister.' He reached into his pocket and extracted two half-crowns. ‘Here you are,' he said, holding them out to the boy. ‘Buy yourself some sweets when you get home.'

Peter looked up questioningly at his aunt, and, when she nodded, he extended his arm, like a well-mannered little boy, so that Woodend could drop the coins into the palm of his hand.

‘Say thank you,' the aunt ordered.

‘Thank you,' Peter said dutifully.