Golden Mile to Murder (22 page)

‘Are you sure?' Eliot asked. ‘Can they actually do that?'

The other man shook his head in mock despair. ‘It's as easy as fallin' off a log if you know a little bit about photography,' he said.

‘But why would she bother to fake the photographs?'

‘Because it's good for business. Look, your average punter comes along an' he sees these pictures, an' what does he think? He thinks, well, if she's good enough to tell the fortune of a big star like Lonnie Donegan, then she's certainly good enough to tell mine.'

‘Are all the photos fakes?' Eliot asked.

‘No,' the vendor said. ‘Not
all
of them. A few are the genuine article. Like that one there.' He pointed at the picture of a slightly rotund man who was grinning broadly and had his arm draped over Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's shoulder. ‘She knows Tommy “Now Where Was I?” Bolton, all right. Matter of fact, I saw him comin' out of the booth only last week, though I have to say he wasn't lookin' half as cheerful then as he does in the picture.'

‘Wasn't he?'

‘He was not. Judgin' by the expression on his face, I'd have said he was all set to kill somebody. Of course, it could just have been indigestion.' The vendor glanced down at his watch. ‘Well, if you'll excuse me, there's somewhere else I have to be. See you around.'

‘See you around,' Eliot replied.

‘An' keep practisin' with that detective work. You never know, one day you might get good at it.'

The vendor sauntered calmly down the prom, and it was not until he had completely disappeared from sight that Eliot realised that the little man had never produced the trading licence he'd been asked for.

Monika Paniatowski had spent some considerable time selecting the clothes she would wear that morning. She had finally settled on a black-and-white check suit which was both smart and businesslike, and which – she hoped – would create the right impression with the important people she planned to meet. Initially, the suit had done the trick – at least for her – and when she'd set out from the police station, she'd been brimming with confidence. But now, as she sat in the main hall of Tideswell's Bank – watching the customers depositing and withdrawing money, and trying to look as if it didn't bother her that she'd been kept waiting for over forty-five minutes – she felt some of that confidence start to ebb away.

‘Sergeant Paniatowski?' asked a voice.

She looked up. A young man in a grey suit was hovering over her.

‘Yes, that's me,' she said.

‘Mr Lumsden will see you now.'

She followed the clerk down a long corridor until they reached a door on which had been fixed an impressive brass plate inscribed with the words ‘J. Lumsden, Manager'. The young man knocked on the door, opened it, ushered Paniatowski in, and discretely withdrew.

Paniatowski got her first look at the man who'd been one of the last of the Golden Milers to leave the Palace Hotel on the night of the hit-and-run. Lumsden was between forty-five and fifty, she guessed. He had greying hair which was parted to the left, and wore thick-framed horn-rimmed glasses. And he was very impressed with himself. Even from a distance, she could detect the aura of self-congratulation that shrouded him like a thick cloak.

Lumsden did not get up. Instead, he glanced at a piece of paper on the heavy oak desk which separated them.

‘It's Miss Paniatowski, is it?' he asked, looking at her over the tops of his glasses.

‘It's
Detective Sergeant
Paniatowski,' Monika corrected him.

‘Quite so,' the bank manager agreed, only slightly awkwardly. ‘Won't you take a seat, Sergeant.'

Paniatowski chose one of the two chairs in front of the desk, and sat down. She crossed her legs slowly – just to see what would happen – and was not at all surprised to note that Lumsden was following the action with his eyes.

‘Now what exactly was it you wanted to see me about?' the bank manager asked, when he'd finally forced himself to stop admiring the detective's legs.

‘I believe you attended a function organised by the Golden Mile Association last Thursday—' Paniatowski began.

‘Is this about that blasted hit-and-run in Fleetwood?' Lumsden interrupted her curtly. ‘Because if it is, that matter's already been dealt with.'

‘What do you mean?' Paniatowski asked suspiciously. ‘
Dealt with
?'

‘I mean that I've spoken to the local police about it.'

‘Who did you talk to? Was it Sergeant Howarth?'

‘Yes, I believe that was the officer's name. Not that I can see why it matters, one way or the other, who I actually—'

‘Sergeant Howarth is investigating a hit-and-run accident, as you've already pointed out,' Paniatowski said. ‘I, on the other hand, am investigating the murder of Detective Inspector Davies.'

‘You're surely not suggesting the two are connected, are you?'

Not really, Paniatowski thought. In fact, the more I think about it, the less likely it seems.

‘There may
very well
be a connection,' she said.

‘What kind of connection are we talking about?'

‘I'm afraid I'm not able to reveal the nature of my inquiries.'

‘
Your
inquiries?' the bank manager repeated. ‘If you don't mind me saying so, you seem to have taken rather a lot of responsibilities on yourself for a mere detective sergeant.'

The bastard was doing his best to intimidate her, Paniatowski told herself. Well, she wasn't going to let that happen.

‘I have the full confidence and support of my chief inspector, Mr Woodend,' she said. ‘And Mr Woodend, in his turn, has the full confidence of the chief superintendent,' she continued, stretching the truth well beyond breaking point, ‘If you have any doubts about that, sir, perhaps you'd like to give Mr Woodend a ring.'

‘That won't be necessary – at least for the present,' the bank manager said. ‘What would you like to know about that particular night, Sergeant?'

‘You were one of the five guests who stayed behind when all the others had departed—' Paniatowski began.

‘I'm not sure you've got your numbers quite right,' Lumsden said.

‘I am,' Paniatowski assured him, reeling off the names that Sergeant Hanson had given her. ‘You do
remember
them all being there, don't you?'

‘Yes, I suppose so,' Lumsden said reluctantly.

‘What I'm really interested in is the sequence of departure,' Paniatowski told him.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘When you did all finally drive back to Blackpool, I assume that you stayed together in a sort of unorganised convoy until you had left Fleetwood, and then went your separate ways,' Paniatowski said, giving Lumsden the opportunity to place himself neatly in the centre of her conspiracy theory.

‘Then you'd be wrong,' the bank manager replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I can't really tell you what the others did, because I was the first to leave.'

As befits the chief rat on a sinking ship, Paniatowski thought caustically.

‘Do you happen to remember which way you drove home?' she asked.

‘Why should you want to know that?' the bank manager countered sharply.

Paniatowski shrugged. ‘You may have seen something which meant nothing to you at the time, but could have relevance to our inquiries.'

‘Your inquiries into how Detective Inspector Davies came to be found dead under the Central Pier – several miles away from Fleetwood – a few nights later?' Lumsden asked sceptically.

‘That's right,' Paniatowski replied, deadpan.

Lumsden sighed. ‘As I recall, I took Blakiston Road down as far as Poulton Road, and from there I went on to the Broadway.'

‘In other words, you travelled down the road on which the hit-and-run incident occurred.'

‘Yes, I did. But I can assure you there was no old woman lying in the street when I passed by. If there had have been, I would certainly have stopped.'

It was perfectly possible that he was totally innocent, Paniatowski thought. On the other hand, if he
had
killed the old woman – and was sure that there were no witnesses to the act – the smartest thing he could do would be to stick fairly closely to the truth, thus minimising the possibilities of being caught out over any inconsistencies later.

‘Would you say that any of the friends you left behind was particularly drunk?' she asked.

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realised that she had gone a step too far.

The bank manager gave her an angry glare. ‘None of my friends were in
the least
drunk,' he said. ‘We are all far too responsible to indulge in that kind of behaviour.' He glanced down pointedly at his wristwatch, although there was an expensive carriage clock sitting on the desk right in front of him. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, Miss Paniatowski, I have a rather important appointment.'

He had said all he was prepared to say, Paniatowski decided, and to try and push him any further would simply be a waste of effort.

‘Thank you for your time,' she said.

She rose from her seat carefully – so as to avoid giving Lumsden the undeserved reward of a second show of leg – and walked over to the door.

‘Oh, there is one more thing,' she said, as her hand reached for the brass door handle.

‘Yes, yes! What is it?'

Lumsden sounded impatient, but also off his guard, Paniatowski thought.

‘It's nothing really very important, just something I was curious about,' she said.

‘Get on with it.'

‘The cabaret – which is what I suppose you'd call it in your social circle – left right after the show was over, didn't it? At around eleven o'clock?'

‘Something like that.'

‘The point that's been puzzling me is the
kind
of cabaret you could put on for a group of gentlemen having a night out. I thought of a band at first, you see, but then I couldn't imagine the gentlemen dancing with each other.'

For a few seconds Lumsden merely gaped at her, then he took a spotless white handkerchief out of his pocket, and quickly wiped it across his brow.

‘No, a band wouldn't have been appropriate,' he agreed, somewhat shakily.

‘So what sort of cabaret was it?'

‘It was . . . it was a magician,' Lumsden said. ‘That's right. A magician. He's appearing at one of the shows in town, though I couldn't tell you which. He was rather good,' he added weakly.

‘Thank you again for your help,' Paniatowski said, biting back a small smile of triumph.

Then she closed the door behind her, and was gone.

Lumsden mopped his face again with what had been a pristine handkerchief a few moments earlier, and was now stained with sweat.

He should have anticipated that last question, he thought angrily. He should have been ready with a quick answer. But the bitch had deliberately blind-sided him by seeming to be only interested in the hit-and-run, so he'd fallen right into her trap – and now the damage was done.

He picked up the phone and dialled the operator.

‘Blackpool Central Police Headquarters,' said a voice on the other end of the line when he was connected. ‘Can we help you?'

‘I want to speak to Chief Superintendent Richardson,' Lumsden said.

‘If you'll tell me what the problem is, I'll connect you to the right department,' the switchboard girl told him.

‘I don't want
any
bloody department,' Lumsden said, aware that he was shouting, but not being able to do anything about it. ‘I want to speak to Mr Richardson personally.'

‘I'm afraid that won't be poss—'

‘My name's Lumsden. I'm the manager of Tideswell's Bank. I happen to be a close friend of Mr Richardson's, calling about a matter of some importance, and if you don't put through in the next few seconds, I wouldn't like to be in your shoes when he finds out about it.'

‘Connecting you to his office now, sir,' the girl said, her polite words larded with dislike.

Richardson would make things all right, Lumsden told himself, mopping his brow again. Or if he couldn't, he would know someone higher up the chain of command who could.

G
ilbert Sidebotham, a tackler from one of the biggest mills in Rochdale, leant back in his deckchair and sighed with pure pleasure. This was the life, he thought – sitting on the beach with your bare feet exposed to the fresh sea air. This was what you worked for all year round – one week of the magic of Blackpool.

Sidebotham took in the scene spread out in front of him with a lazy contentment. The donkeys were racing along the seashore, carrying screaming, excited kids on their backs. A few people were wading into the sea, retreating with a shriek when an unexpected high wave came in. The deckchair attendants were manoeuvring their way between tight knots of people, the change in the pockets of their white coats clinking as they went. There really was nothing like the seaside.

He turned his attention to his two sons, who were busy digging away in the sand with their buckets and spades. They were only five and seven, but they were big lads for their age, and Sidebotham couldn't help noticing – with some pride – that the hole they were digging seemed to be much wider and deeper than any of the holes the other kids had managed.

His eldest boy suddenly stopped digging, and called his brother over. Together, they examined the bottom of the hole with puzzled – possibly troubled – expressions on their faces. For a moment Sidebotham considered getting up and seeing what the matter was, but he quickly dismissed the idea. It was comfortable in the deckchair, and whatever was bothering the lads couldn't really be of much importance, he told himself.

His younger son jumped into the hole and began to clear away the sand with his hands. The mystery, whatever it was, would soon be revealed, Sidebotham thought, as he reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.