Golden Mile to Murder (33 page)

‘And Gypsy Elizabeth Rose?'

‘I don't think Hanson ever intended usin' her as part of his plan to run rings round Charlie Woodend, but then one of his team – possibly Stone, or maybe Eliot – must have come up with the information that Davies had been to see her. Now Hanson had two choices again – he could suppress the report an' run the risk of me findin' out later that he'd done it – or he could tell me about that meetin'. He decided in the end to tell me about it, because, in the meantime, he'd come up with a neat little refinement which he thought would only add to my confusion.'

‘What neat little refinement?'

‘I'll get back to that later,' Woodend promised. ‘For the moment, let's stick to the main story. After I'd been to see the gypsy, Hanson started to wonder whether it might have been a mistake to let me talk to her. An' from there, it was only a short step to him seein' her as the weakest link in the chain. So she had to be got rid of.'

‘What I don't see is how you came to suspect Fr— Hanson in the first place,' Paniatowski said.

‘That wasn't hard – once we'd learned that Davies, instead of bein' a crook, was as pure as the driven snow,' Woodend told her. ‘You see, the villain really had to be some kind of bobby.'

‘Why?'

‘Because the rumours about Davies emerged from police headquarters, which means that was where they must have been planted in the first place. And the only person who
could
have planted them was another bobby. Then there was my little talk with Gypsy Rose Elizabeth.'

‘What about it?'

‘She told me that the thing I had in common with Davies was that we both felt guilty about lettin' our daughters down. That rattled me – as it was intended to – because, you see, I was already subconsciously frettin' over movin' my Annie away from her school an' all her friends.'

‘You've lost me,' Paniatowski confessed.

‘Everythin' depends on whether you believe the gypsy's warnin' or not.'

‘And did you?'

‘For a while, I at least half-believed it,' Woodend confessed, ‘but when I found out about the blackmail business I began to see her less as a mystic an' more as a con-man. So if she hadn't read my mind, just where had she got her information from?'

‘Police records!'

‘Spot on. She knew I'd been transferred from London. She knew I had a fifteen-year-old daughter who was still at school. An' bein' both a smart woman an' an amateur psychologist, she worked out I'd probably be worryin' about Annie. But the point is, she'd never have been able to get that information on her own – it had to come from a bobby.'

‘Clever,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘Me? Or Elizabeth Rose?'

‘Both of you.'

‘Hanson was clever, too,' Woodend said. ‘He tried to bugger up my brain by the Annie thing, an' he tried to bugger up yours by encouragin' you to go on a wild goose chase over this hit-an'-run accident.'

True, Paniatowski thought bitterly. Hanson had known who'd knocked down the old lady, but he must also have known – given the stark facts as they stood – that it wouldn't be Bolton she suspected, but one of the last five Golden Milers to leave the hotel.

‘I still don't why you homed in on Hanson, rather than anybody else on the local force,' she said.

‘If you're goin' to fit somebody up, your best plan is to choose a feller you know well. That way, he's not likely to surprise you. The first time I met Hanson, he told me he'd worked very closely with Davies. In fact, he said that the only reason he wasn't workin' on any of Davies' current cases was because he'd been on leave when they were assigned. An' there was an added advantage in pickin' Davies rather than anybody else.'

‘What was it?'

‘Davies trusted him. It's more than possible that he kept Hanson informed about his attempts to clear his name.' Woodend paused to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘Then there was the fact that Hanson seemed very interested in spendin' a lot of his time with you.'

‘Are you saying he didn't find me attractive?' Paniatowski demanded – and the moment the words were out of her mouth she realised how ridiculous she must sound and felt herself starting to blush.

Woodend chuckled. ‘Oh, he found you attractive, all right. But you were also an invaluable source of information from right in the middle of the enemy camp.'

‘I've been a fool, haven't I?' Paniatowski asked.

‘We're all entitled to one mistake, lass,' Woodend said. He grinned again. ‘Just don't go makin' any more.'

‘I'll do my best not to.'

‘But the biggest clincher of all, as far as leadin' me to Hanson went, was that Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's body was buried in a shallow grave,' Woodend continued.

‘What did that tell you?'

‘That the killer needed to make it difficult to establish the exact time of death. An' why? Because though he had a rock-solid alibi for earlier in the evenin', the one he had for the time she was actually killed was shakier – an' certainly wouldn't stand close scrutiny.'

‘Hold on a minute,' Paniatowski interrupted. ‘I'm not disputing the fact that Hanson had Elizabeth Rose killed – but he couldn't have done it himself, because he was with me.'

‘When you came into the dinin'-room the mornin' after your night of passion with Hanson, you looked a real mess. It wasn't just that you were wearin' the same clothes you'd had on the previous evenin' – a clear pointer that you hadn't been back to your own room – but from the look on your face I'm guessin' that it must have felt as if you had the Halle Orchestra playin' in your head. An' out of tune, at that!'

‘I was feeling pretty rough,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘Now the thing is, from what I'd seen of you earlier, I'd gained the impression you were the kind of lass who could hold her booze, an'—'

‘Now I get it!' Paniatowski said.

‘Get what?' Woodend asked innocently.

‘Get why you insisted that I got drunk last night.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. You did it because you wanted to see what I'd look like this morning.'

‘An' you looked fine. From bein' virtually legless at midnight, you'd recovered enough to be ready for action by eight o'clock in the mornin'. So I knew I'd been right about you when I'd decided you could hold your booze. But it had been an entirely different story after the night you spent with Hanson.'

‘We both had a last whisky just before we went to sleep. He must have slipped a knock-out drop in mine.'

‘Aye, he did,' Woodend agreed. ‘An' while you were out for the count, he drove down to the South Pier an' killed the gypsy. When I saw you this mornin', I was finally sure that's what must have happened, an' I knew that as well as puttin' a tail on Gutteridge, we needed to put one on Hanson.'

‘It's an education working with you, sir,' Paniatowski told him.

That's just what Bob Rutter might have said, Woodend thought, feeling inordinately pleased with himself.

‘I suppose you're here because you're expecting me to pat you on the back and bring out the cigars, are you?' Detective Chief Superintendent Ainsworth asked, looking up from his paperwork at the man in the hairy sports coat who was standing in front of his desk.

‘No, sir, I'm not here for that,' Woodend replied evenly. ‘I'm here because you left instructions that I was to report to you as soon as I got back to Whitebridge.'

‘You've left Blackpool in a real mess.'

‘Really. I thought I'd done a pretty good job.'

‘A pretty good job!' Ainsworth repeated. ‘You've arrested one of our own for a double murder, and you've got one of Blackpool's top attractions locked up on a hit-and-run charge.'

‘They did do it,' Woodend pointed out.

‘Of course they did it!' Ainsworth exploded. ‘Nobody's disputing that. But there are ways to handle delicate matters of this nature – and ways
not
to handle them. And you seem unable to distinguish between the two.'

‘Are you sayin' I shouldn't have arrested Tommy Bolton, sir?' Woodend asked.

‘He had a bit too much to drink – as we all do on occasions – and accidentally killed an old woman who probably hadn't got much longer to live anyway. He'd never have repeated the mistake, and by locking him up you've done serious damage to Blackpool's tourist trade.'

‘Are you sayin' I shouldn't have arrested him, sir?' Woodend repeated.

Ainsworth took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and mopped his brow. ‘No! No, of course not.'

‘That's all right, then. What about Frank Hanson? Should I have let him get away with it?'

‘He had to be punished for his crimes, of course. But that might have been accomplished without the glare of publicity there'll be when he comes to trial.'

‘You're sayin' I should have given him the same option he was givin' Gutteridge, an' let him jump off the Tower?'

‘I can think of officers who would have done that,' Ainsworth said, noncommittally.

‘Aye, well, I'm not one of them,' Woodend said. ‘Besides, he'd never have taken that option. He's a real chancer. Even now, he probably still thinks he can find some way to wriggle out of the mess he's landed himself in.'

‘But you didn't even try, did you? You didn't even test the water,' Ainsworth said. He turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. ‘That's all, Chief Inspector. You can go now.'

‘There is one more thing before I leave, sir,' Woodend said. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski.'

‘What about her?'

‘I've nothin' against workin' with women, sir, but I find her a bit hard to take. I'd appreciate it if you could assign me another bagman for my next case.'

‘Would you, indeed?!' Ainsworth demanded. ‘Well, let me make one thing clear, Chief Inspector. I'm the one who decides who works with who in this county – and you're stuck with Paniatowski. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, sir,' Woodend said, bowing his head.

And then he turned quickly to the door, before Ainsworth had a chance to see the grin which was starting to spread across his face.

H
is mother had forgotten to lock the box room again, and Peter Davies took the opportunity to sneak in. He closed the door quietly behind him and ran his eyes over all the toys – especially the dolls. They were as new and fresh as when they had first come out of their wrappers. They had never been played with – and never
would
be played with. Except by him.

He remembered the old days, the days when there had been just him, Mummy and Daddy. How he had snuggled up in bed with them. How he had been the centre of their world. And then Susan had come along, and spoiled it all.

He stood on tiptoe and took one of the dolls from the shelf – a bright pink one with a bald head and puckered lips. It had been one of Susan's favourites, back when she'd been a toddler. Back when she'd shown some interest in the world around her.

Holding the doll by its legs, he turned it upside down and told himself he was going to count slowly to ten.

'One,' he began. ‘Two . . . three . . . four . . .'

There'd been a time when he had thought his daddy hadn't loved him as much as he loved Susan. But he'd been wrong. His daddy had loved him more – much more. And he'd proved it.

‘Five . . . six . . . seven . . .'

He felt a tightening across his chest, and his small breaths were now coming quickly and irregularly. It was no good – he simply could not hold out any more.

He loosened his grip, and felt the doll slowly slip from his hands. He waited until he heard the sound of the impact before he opened his eyes again. The doll was lying on the floor, in just the position he'd expected it to be.

He experienced the moment of panic which always hit him at this point. What if he'd damaged it? What if there was even a thin, hairline crack on its skull? However would he explain that to his mother?

He picked up the doll and saw there was no evidence at all of its fall to the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe – at least this time. But he knew there would be other times, because there always were.

He replaced the doll on the shelf, making sure it was in exactly the same position as he had found it. Then he opened the door again, listened carefully for his mother and stepped quickly into the corridor.

He sighed. Dropping
dolls
on their heads was a lot of fun, he thought – but it was nowhere near as good as doing the real thing.