Golden Mile to Murder (30 page)

Woodend surveyed the workshop. It was a big place, with several pits and a couple of hydraulic ramps. Three cars were in the process of being repaired, and another four were waiting to be dealt with. The whole establishment gave off the impression of being an efficient, well-organised business.

‘Are you in charge here?' asked an angry voice to Woodend's left.

The chief inspector turned to find himself looking at a fat man in a shiny blue suit.

‘I said, are you in charge?' the man repeated.

Woodend looked around for Chief Inspector Turner. ‘I appear to be – for the moment,' he conceded.

‘Well, I want to know what the bloody hell's goin' on,' the fat man said.

‘That's easy. We have received information which leads us to believe that you are dealin' in stolen cars.'

‘Stolen cars!' the fat man repeated incredulously.

‘Cars which have been stolen,' Woodend amplified.

‘All these cars were brought in by regular customers,' the fat man protested. ‘I've got the paperwork to prove it.'

‘Then I'd appreciate it if you'd show it to me,' said a fresh voice – that of the newly arrived Chief Inspector Turner.

‘You'd better come to the office,' the fat man told him.

The ‘office' was no more than a partitioned-off cubicle at the far end of the garage. Woodend watched as the fat man led Turner to it, and then rummaged though his desk drawer for the logbooks.

‘I'm startin' to get a very bad feelin' about this,' Woodend said worriedly.

‘So am I,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘We should have waited until another car had gone missin', then raided the place in the middle of the night,' the chief inspector said. ‘If we'd done it that way, we'd have caught them red-handed in the act of sprayin' the thing. But Turner wouldn't wait. Once he'd finally decided he was goin' to do the job he's paid for, he was all for goin' in mob-handed right away.'

‘Maybe you shouldn't have told him anything about the ring until the moment when you wanted him to raid the garage,' Paniatowski suggested.

‘Rule Number Two in the
Workin' for Woodend Manual
,' the chief inspector said. ‘If I've made a mistake, you point it out to me in such a way as to suggest you don't even know you're doin' it.'

Paniatowski looked up at her boss, saw he was grinning, and grinned back. ‘I'll remember that,' she promised.

Turner and the fat man had emerged from the office. Even from a distance, it was possible to see the look of perverse satisfaction on the local chief inspector's face.

Turner drew level with them, and came to a halt. ‘So “your lad, Rutter” was convinced this garage was dealing in stolen cars, was he?' he asked.

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed.

‘Well, let me tell you something, Chief Inspector, the place is as clean as a whistle.'

Woodend scanned the garage. Maintenance pits, hydraulic lifts. Boxed-in office in one corner, pile of tyres in the other. But it was a bloody
big
pile of tyres, Woodend thought – enough for half the cars in Blackpool.

‘I'd like a couple of your lads to shift them tyres for me,' he told Turner.

‘What for?' the fat man in the shiny blue suit asked – and for the first time there was a suspicion of panic in his voice.

‘What for?' Woodend repeated. ‘Because I'd like to see what's underneath them.'

It required the removal of only a few of the tyres for it to be obvious that there was indeed something underneath them – and that the something was a car covered with a tarpaulin.

Not a small family car, either, Woodend thought. Whatever make it was, it was a big bugger.

‘Leave the tyres that are stacked along the side alone for a minute,' he told the constables. ‘Concentrate your efforts on clearin' the ones that are coverin' the bonnet.'

‘You know what it is under there, don't you?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I won't be certain until we've stripped back the tarpaulin,' Woodend told her. ‘But I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't have a pretty good idea.'

The tyres had been lifted away. One of the constables took hold of the edge of the tarpaulin, and began to peel it carefully back. When he'd uncovered enough to make it worthwhile, Woodend stepped forward to examine it.

‘Well, well, well,' he said. ‘A Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. An' from the size of that dent on the wing, I'd say it's had a nasty bump.'

Tommy Bolton was sitting in his living-room when he saw the black Humber pull outside the bungalow.

It didn't
have
to be the police! he told himself. It didn't have to be them at all!

And then he saw the bulky man and blonde woman climb out of the car – and knew that it was.

Flight was his first thought – but how far would he get? No distance at all! And so, instead of making a dash for the back door, he walked over to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a stiff whisky.

He had all but downed his drink when the bell rang. On shaky legs, he walked up the hallway and opened the door. He had hoped for a miracle – hoped that Woodend and Paniatowski were going elsewhere, and all he would be faced with was a door-to-door brush salesman. But it seemed that, for him at least, the age of miracles had finally passed.

‘We'd like a word, Mr Bolton,' Woodend said gravely. ‘Well, considerably more than
one
word, if the truth be told.'

‘What if I don't want to talk to you?'

‘That's your privilege, sir, but we'll search your house anyway.'

‘Have you . . . have you got a warrant?' Bolton spluttered.

‘Oh yes, indeed.' Woodend patted his inside pocket. ‘Want to see it?'

Bolton shook his head. What would be the point? What was the point of
anything
, any more? His career would be in ruins whatever happened. He might just as well get the whole thing over with as soon as possible.

He led them into his expensively furnished lounge and offered them seats. Paniatowski took an armchair and Woodend the sofa, just as they had done the previous evening in his dressing room. Bolton himself had intended to remain standing, but when Woodend gestured him towards the other armchair, he couldn't find the courage to argue.

The comedian swallowed. ‘Now, what's all this about?' he asked.

‘We've found your car,' Woodend said.

‘Where?'

‘Where you – or one of your associates – left it. In the Excelsior Garage.' Woodend crossed his legs. ‘The reason it was there was because it had a bit of a bump on it that needed fixin'. Of course, if it had been an ordinary car, the work would have been finished long ago. But it's not that simple with a Rolls. Everythin' about the car is quality. You can't just get spare parts an' paint for it from your local wholesaler. You have to order them from the manufacturer – an' that takes time.'

‘My car was stolen,' Bolton said. ‘Where it ended up is nothing to do with me.'

‘That story might just have held water if you'd reported the car stolen
before
the hit-an'-run in Fleetwood,' Woodend said. ‘But you didn't, did you? You waited till a couple of days
after
the accident. And why? Because until then you had nowhere to hide it.'

‘It's not true!' Tommy Bolton gasped. ‘None of it's true.'

‘It's
all
true,' Woodend contradicted him. ‘We know you knocked down that poor old woman, an' now we've got your car it should be easy enough to prove. There'll be traces of hair an' fibre all over the front of the Rolls. Blood, as well, I should think. An' as if all that wasn't enough, there's a wound down the dead woman's back which should be a perfect match to the edge of the Spirit of Freedom ornament on your bonnet.' He reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘The game's up, Mr Bolton. Your best option now would be to try an' get us on your side by makin' a clean breast of it.'

Bolton nodded fatalistically. ‘I was very nervous about making a good impression on the Golden Milers that night, and I must have had too much to drink,' he admitted. ‘But it wasn't until we were getting into the car, at round about eleven o'clock, that I realised just how drunk I was. I knew it would be stupid to drive through Fleetwood in that condition, so I parked the car a little way along the promenade, and tried to sober up. I thought I
was
sober when I set out again, just after midnight. I swear I did. But I still didn't see the old woman on the crossing, and I slammed right into her.'

‘You drove back here, an' parked the Rolls in your garage,' Woodend said. ‘An' that's where it stayed for the next two or three days, with you goin' spare about what to do with it. Then somebody you trusted suggested he could get it fixed at the Excelsior Garage.'

‘Somebody I trusted!' Bolton repeated, spitting out the words as though they were a curse.

‘All right, let's say somebody you were
forced
to trust,' Woodend amended. ‘Once the Rolls was safely in the Excelsior's hands, you reported it stolen – just in case your neighbours noticed that it was missin'. But your plan was always to have the bobbies find it again once the repairs had been done.'

‘Yes, that's right,' Bolton admitted, defeatedly. ‘Have we done now?'

‘No, we haven't. Not by a long chalk. Tell us about Gypsy Elizabeth Rose.'

‘I went to see her – but you already know that.'

‘Yes, we do. But we'd like you to tell us
why
you went to see her.'

‘Why? Because I'm bloody stupid, that's why.' Bolton spread out his hands as if he were begging for their understanding. ‘Look, I'd killed an old woman. It was an accident, but she was still dead. I felt terrible. I thought it would make things a bit easier to bear if I talked them through with someone else. You've seen that sign on Elizabeth Rose's booth yourselves, haven't you? “Are you looking for a real friend?” it says. “One to whom you can tell all your worries and problems?” Well, I needed a friend, so I went to see her.'

‘An' told her all the details?'

‘Of course I didn't tell her all the details,' Bolton said contemptuously. ‘I was vague. I said I'd been involved in an accident a couple of years ago in which somebody had died – and I was feeling guilty about it.'

‘But she wasn't fooled?'

‘She couldn't have been, or the man wouldn't have come round to see me in my dressing room the next night.'

‘What man?'

Bolton shook his head violently. ‘I'm not going to tell you his name.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I've got no proof that we ever met, so it's only his word against mine.'

‘What's the real reason?' Woodend asked.

Bolton gulped. ‘Because he terrifies me.'

‘We can protect you,' Woodend said.

‘No, you can't. Not from him. He'll find a way to get at me, wherever you put me.'

‘Not if we arrest him too.'

‘I'm not going to tell you who he is,' Bolton said firmly.

They could push him harder, Woodend thought, but then he would clam up and refuse to tell them the rest of his story. Better – far better – to get that story now, and return to the question of the mystery man later.

‘What did this unnamed feller who came round to your dressin' room have to say for himself?' he asked.

‘He said he knew that I'd knocked down the old woman, but he was prepared to help me. He had contacts who could fix the Rolls, and once that was done, I'd be safe.'

‘What did he want in return?'

‘He said he wasn't a greedy man. He'd be happy with ten per cent of my income.'

‘An' you agreed?'

‘What choice did I have?'

‘Did you make the connection between him an' Gypsy Elizabeth Rose right away?' Woodend asked.

‘No. I was so confused it took me quite a while to work it out, but the moment I did, I went straight round to see her.'

‘She didn't deny it?'

‘Far from it. She laughed in my face. And then she told me not to feel too bad about it – because I wasn't the only mug who fallen into the trap. Not by any means. There were half a dozen of us paying off her partner.'

‘Tell us about the visit Inspector Davies paid on you. He didn't really want you to perform at his daughter's school, did he?'

‘No. He said he knew that I was in trouble, and if I'd tell him everything I knew he'd help me in any way he could.'

‘He didn't want anything else?'

‘Like what?'

‘He didn't ask you for money, for example?'

‘No. He said his own reputation was in danger, and doing what he could to protect it was all he cared about.'

‘Did you tell him what he wanted to know?'

‘How could I? The man who was blackmailing me was a criminal. As long as I gave him what he wanted, I could trust him. But Davies struck me as an honest man, and there was no way
he
was going to completely overlook what I'd done.'

‘Did you kill Gypsy Elizabeth Rose?' Woodend demanded.

‘No!' Bolton gasped. ‘I thought about it often enough but I . . . but I . . .'

‘But you didn't have the balls for it?' Woodend supplied. ‘I believe you. Knockin' down innocent old ladies when you're pissed out of your head is much more your style.' He paused, and allowed a comical, bemused expression to come to his face. ‘Now where was I?' he asked Paniatowski.

‘You were about to charge Mr Bolton with manslaughter,' the sergeant said.

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed. ‘Thomas Malcolm Bolton, I am chargin' you with the manslaughter of Ethel Phyllis Bainbridge. You are not obliged to say anythin', but anythin' you do say will be taken down an' may be used in evidence against you.'