Golden Mile to Murder (2 page)

Woodend looked around him. The old covered market was still doing thriving business. The tripe shops – something you never saw down South – still offered delicacies such as pigs' trotters. And every time you breathed in, you still filled your nostrils with the smell of malt and hops from the town's three breweries. Yet there had been changes, too. There was much more traffic than there had been when he was a lad. People dressed differently, too. Clogs had been the preferred footwear before the war, and many women had still worn dark woollen shawls. Now the folk who passed him were brightly dressed and almost indistinguishable from the Londoners he'd grown used to living amongst over the previous fifteen years. So perhaps you never really
could
go back, he thought – because
back
wasn't there any longer.

He came to a halt in front of a large red sandstone building. It had arched windows which seemed to glare disapprovingly down at the street, and over the door a stone mason – probably long dead by now – had carved the words ‘Whitebridge Police Headquarters' in stern gothic lettering.

You'll be seein' a lot of this place, Charlie, Woodend told himself.

A balding sergeant with a well-clipped moustache was standing behind the duty desk. He gave Woodend's hairy sports coat and cavalry twill trousers the once over, then said indifferently, ‘Can I help you, sir?'

Woodend nodded. ‘I'm the new DCI.'

A look of surprise came to the sergeant's placid face. ‘You're Chief Inspector Woodend, are you?' he asked dubiously.

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed.

He was not surprised that the sergeant was surprised – most people would have expected a senior officer like him to appear in a suit. Aye, well, lounge suits had never been his style, and the bobbies in Whitebridge were just going to have to get used to that.

‘If you'd like to show me to my office, an' then get somebody to give me the guided tour –' he suggested.

‘Of course, sir,' the sergeant replied. ‘Just as soon as you've had your meetin' with Chief Superintendent Ainsworth.'

‘What! He wants to see me right away?'

‘That's right,' the sergeant agreed. ‘Said you were to report to him the minute you turned up.'

The door, like all the others in the building, was painted institutional chocolate brown. Woodend knocked, waited for the barked command to enter, then turned the handle. His first impression of the office he stepped into was one of neatness. Neat rug, perfectly aligned to the walls. Neat notice-board, all the messages squared and with a drawing pin in each corner. Neat desk, holding only a telephone, one in-tray and one out-tray, and an onyx ashtray.

He turned his attention to the man sitting behind the desk. Ainsworth had greying hair, suspicious brown eyes and the florid complexion of someone who either drank too much or got angry very easily. His new boss was older than he was himself, Woodend guessed – but only by a couple of years.

Ainsworth stood up, revealing the fact that he was only a little over the minimum requirement for the force. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend?' he asked, in a dry, tight voice.

‘That's right, sir.'

The DCS shook Woodend's hand and waved him to a chair.

‘When I heard you were called Ainsworth, I imagined you were a local lad,' Woodend said. ‘But you're not, are you, sir?'

‘No,' Ainsworth replied. ‘I'm originally from Kent.' He scowled. ‘Any objection to that?'

‘Not really,' Woodend said. ‘It's just that the reason I came up here in the first place was to get away from you Southern buggers.' He grinned, to show he was joking. ‘No offence meant, sir.'

Ainsworth did not return his smile. Instead he reached into his drawer and produced a sheaf of papers.

‘You didn't come up here to get away from southerners, Chief Inspector,' he said. ‘You came because the Yard didn't want you, and because my chief constable – for reasons best known to himself – did.' He flicked through the papers in front of him, and selected the one he wanted. ‘You were in the army, I see.'

‘Aye, it seemed like a good idea, what with a war goin' on an' everythin',' Woodend replied.

‘But you never rose above the rank of sergeant.'

‘No.'

‘And why was that? Were you never offered promotion?' Ainsworth asked, a slight sneer playing on his lips.

‘Oh, I was offered it, but becomin' an officer would have meant leavin' my lads, an' I'd grown quite attached to them.'

‘I was a major by the time the war ended,' Ainsworth said, making the statement seem almost like a challenge.

‘Good for you,' Woodend said. ‘Did you see much action, sir?'

‘Wars aren't just won by the death-and-glory boys, you know,' Ainsworth replied. ‘An army marches on its stomach, as the old saying goes.'

‘That's true enough,' Woodend agreed, displaying uncharacteristic tact.

Ainsworth gave him a searching stare, and then returned to his notes. ‘I've been reviewing your recent cases, Mr Woodend, and I have to tell you that your usual methods of investigation simply will not be tolerated here,' he said.

‘How do you mean, sir?'

‘This is a thoroughly modern police force. When we investigate a murder, we do it using the crime centre we have established in this station as our base of operations. That idea does not seem to find favour with you.'

He paused, giving the new man a chance to speak, but Woodend said nothing.

‘Some of your recent investigations have been conducted from, among other places, a country hotel, a public house and – I still find this hard to believe – the social club office in which a victim actually met his end.'

‘I like to be close to the scene of the crime,' Woodend explained. ‘You learn a lot more cloggin' it round the area the victim lived in than you ever would sittin' on your backside in some crime centre.'

Ainsworth frowned again. ‘There is no longer room for amateurism in the police force, Chief Inspector,' he said. ‘We must run the business of investigating crime like any other business – with the senior management making the executive decisions and the lower ranks carrying out the work on the ground.'

‘I'm not sure I could operate in that way,' Woodend said.

‘You don't have any choice in the matter,' Ainsworth told him harshly. ‘Not as long as you're serving under me.' He lit a cigarette, but did not offer Woodend the packet. ‘Where are you living, Chief Inspector?'

‘I've got a room at the Saracen's Arms. It's only temporary, of course. My wife's comin' up in a couple of days, and then we'll start lookin' for a hou—'

‘I asked where you are living at the moment, not for an account of your domestic arrangements,' Ainsworth said. ‘Not that that really matters, anyway, because you'll be going out of town.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘Last night, a body was discovered under the Central Pier at Blackpool – a man, with his face badly battered. He has since been identified as Detective Inspector William Davies.'

Woodend whistled softly.

‘Exactly!' Ainsworth agreed. ‘The chief constable feels – and I agree with him – that, given the nature of the case, it would be best to take the investigation out of the hands of the local force. You are the only one of my senior men not currently involved in any investigation, so you've drawn the short straw.'

‘But I've only just arrived,' Woodend protested. ‘I haven't got my bearings yet. My sergeant isn't even here.'

Ainsworth raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Your sergeant?' he repeated.

‘I mean, Inspector Rutter,' Woodend corrected himself.

He was still having trouble thinking of Bob Rutter as an inspector, even though he had been the one responsible for getting Rutter the promotion.

‘You have already been assigned a new sergeant,' Ainsworth told him. ‘You will be working with Sergeant Paniatowski.'

‘Polish, is he?' Woodend asked.

A thin smile came to the Chief Superintendent's lips – Woodend wondered what had caused it.

‘With a name like that, I would assume the sergeant is Polish, yes,' Ainsworth said, still enjoying his private joke. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately emptied it into the bin. ‘That's all, Chief Inspector. The Blackpool police will have a briefing file ready for you when you get there.'

Woodend was almost at the door when Ainsworth said, ‘There is one more thing, Chief Inspector.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘I told you earlier I don't like the way you seem to work, but even without that there'd already have been a black spot against your name.'

‘Is that right?' Woodend asked. ‘An' why would that be, sir?'

‘Because I don't like having some burnt-out Scotland Yard bobby dumped on me whether I want him or not. So take warning, Mr Woodend. I'll be watching you carefully, and if you step out of line by so much as a fraction of an inch, I'll have you back pounding the beat before you can say “disciplinary board”.'

Woodend forced a grin to his face. ‘Thank you for your confidence, sir,' he said.

The police canteen was a long thin room – badly in need of a fresh coat of paint – and was located at the back of the station. The counter stood close to the door. Behind it were two thick-legged, middle-aged women wearing hairnets, one lethargically buttering bread, the other filling the tea urn from a brown enamel kettle. Between the counter and the far wall were perhaps a dozen Formica-topped tables. Most of the officers in the canteen were in uniform, but there was one young man in street clothes sitting alone at a table and reading the
Daily Herald
.

Woodend gave him the once-over. Age around twenty-five. Thick black hair. Strong jaw. The same sort of determined aura around him as Bob Rutter had. He'd do very well once he'd been properly trained, the Chief Inspector decided.

Woodend walked over to the young man's table. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski?' he asked.

A puzzled expression came to the other man's face. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski?' he repeated. Then he laughed. ‘Me – Paniatowski? You've got completely the wrong end of the stick, mate.' He pointed with his right index finger. ‘That's Sergeant Panties sitting over by the window.'

Woodend's gaze followed the pointing finger, and suddenly he realised what Chief Superintendent Ainsworth's private joke had been all about.

Polish, is he? Woodend had asked.

Well, the sergeant might or might not be Polish, but the blonde with the firm bosom who was sitting next to the window was definitely not a
he
.

I
t was a pleasantly warm morning and the holidaymakers were out in droves. Groups of mill girls, their curlered hair covered with cowboy hats bearing the legend ‘Kiss Me Quick', made their way along the promenade, laughing and screaming at the tops of their voices. Gangs of young men sprawling on benches watched the girls appreciatively as they passed, then turned their attention to the new tattoos which had seemed such a good idea after five or six pints of bitter, but had now begun to itch. There were mothers pushing baby trolleys, and older children struggling to eat sticky candyfloss. The air was filled with the smell of brine, frying fish and cheap scent. The cream and green trams rattled hurriedly and importantly by. Paper Union Jacks were already being stuck in sand castles on the beach. This was Blackpool in the summer – and as far as the people out on the street were concerned, they were in the entertainment capital of the world.

The two men in dark suits sitting at a wooden table outside Dutton's ‘Oh Be Joyful' Tavern did not seem to be sharing in the holiday spirit. The older of the pair was about forty-five and had a large nose and bushy eyebrows which were already turning grey. He was staring across the promenade and out to sea – as if he were expecting the answer to all his problems to appear suddenly on the horizon. The second man had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday, but had the sort of youthful features which ensured that most people took him for much younger. He did not seem to share his superior's fascination with the water, and instead occupied himself with studying the half-empty pint glass in front of him – and wondering just exactly what this meeting was to be all about.

Apparently giving up hope that his ship would ever come in, the older man – Chief Inspector Turner of the Blackpool police – turned to the younger man, Detective Sergeant Hanson, and said, ‘I don't like it, Frank.'

‘Don't like what, sir?' Hanson replied.

‘I don't like the fact that “Punch” Davies' murder is being investigated by somebody from outside.'

Hanson frowned. ‘Why's that, sir? Murder's not exactly our speciality, and from what I've heard of this Chief Inspector Woodend, he's a very experienced officer.'

‘I was on the team Woodend put together to investigate that fishmonger's murder in Clitheroe a few years back,' Turner told him. ‘You don't really know the meaning of the term “bloody-minded” until you've worked with Cloggin'-it Charlie. He's stubborn, unreasonable, relentless – and possibly the best policeman it's ever been my privilege to work with.'

‘Well, then, what's the problem?' Hanson asked. ‘Billy was a bloody good governor to me. I miss him already, and what I want most in the world is to catch whoever topped him. That's what we
all
want, isn't it? So why should we object when they send us a top-flight bobby to handle the case?'

Turner sighed. ‘The problem is, Cloggin'-it Charlie may just be a bit
too
good,' he explained. ‘He could uncover things that a lesser man wouldn't even notice.'

‘I might be being thick, but I think you'll have to spell it out for me a bit more clearly, I'm afraid, sir,' Hanson said.