Golden Mile to Murder (19 page)

‘Yes,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘I don't want to, but it feels like I don't have any choice.'

‘Then I
will
help you, because I
do
think you're doing the right thing.' Hanson told her. ‘But only so far.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning, when all this is over, I still have to live here. So if you decide to go to the ropes on this one, there's no point in looking over your shoulder to check if I'm still there – because I won't be. If you take a fall, you'll have to do it on your own.'

W
oodend stood in the tiny lobby of the Sea View Hotel, the telephone receiver clasped tightly in his big hand.

‘Can you hear me, Joan?' he asked.

‘Clear as a bell,' his wife replied. ‘Is somethin' the matter, Charlie?'

‘Why should somethin' be the matter?' Woodend asked defensively.

‘I don't know. It's just somethin' in your voice. An' you never ring me when you're workin' on a case – except, of course, when you're comin' home an' you want me to stock up with pork sausages.'

Woodend forced himself to chuckle. ‘Aye, I'm a bit of a bugger, aren't I?' he said. ‘Is everythin' all right at home?'

‘Very hectic. The removal men come tomorrow, so as you can imagine, there's been a lot to do.'

‘An' how's Annie?' Woodend asked, dreading the answer.

‘A bit moody – but then girls are at her age, aren't they?'

‘Could I speak to her?'

‘She's not in.'

‘But it's after ten! What's she doin' out at this time of night?'

‘One of her friends has been throwin' a goodbye party for her,' Joan said.

A goodbye party! Woodend thought. It sounded so final. But wasn't that just what it was? True, Annie might take the occasional weekend excursion to London and stay with one of her mates, but essentially that part of her life was over. And it had been his choice, not hers.

‘What time is she expected home?' he asked.

‘You're not suddenly goin' to start playin' the Victorian father, are you?' Joan countered.

‘No, that's not the reason I want to know. I just thought I'd ring again when she got back.'

‘I've told her to be in by eleven, but you know she's not exactly a dab hand at punctuality,' Joan said. ‘So you'd better leave it until around eleven-thirty. If you'll still be up.'

‘Oh, I'll still be up,' Woodend assured her.

Because of one thing he was certain – until he had spoken to his daughter, sleep would elude him.

They had been far from the last couple to enter to the restaurant, but they were the last to
leave
by a wide margin, and when they had finally stood up to go, the waiters were already relaying the tables for the next day's business, while the cashier, having already totted up everyone else's bill, was drumming her fingers impatiently.

Now they were driving along the promenade. They had already passed the North Pier and were entering the Golden Mile. The bingo halls were closed, the hamburger stands and fish and chip shops had shut for the night. Lights still burned in the pubs, but the last few customers were being shown the door. Another ten minutes and the scene would look very much like it had the night Detective Inspector Punch Davies had taken his final – fatal – walk under the Central Pier.

Hanson was at the wheel. He had had a little too much to drink, but unlike many drivers in his condition he recognised the fact, and was keeping his speed well below thirty miles an hour.

The local sergeant turned slightly towards his passenger. ‘Are you tired?' he asked.

‘More relaxed than tired,' Paniatowski replied. ‘Was that an idle question, or was there some motive behind it?'

‘I was just thinking it would be a pity to end the evening so soon,' Hanson replied.

‘So what do you suggest? A late-night drinking club?'

‘There aren't many of those in Blackpool. And the ones that do exist are pretty seedy places.'

A smile crept to Paniatowski's lips. ‘But you have an alternative?' she said.

‘My cleaning lady was round this morning, so this is the one night of the week when my flat doesn't look like a pig sty.'

‘Is that so?'

‘And there's a bottle of twelve-year-old malt whisky in my booze cabinet that I've been saving for a special occasion.'

‘Which is how you'd classify this?' Paniatowski asked lightly.

‘Yes, it's how I'd classify this,' Hanson replied seriously.

‘Before we go to your flat –
if
we go to your flat – I'd like to make one thing clear,' Paniatowski said.

‘And what's that?'

‘There are enough complications in my life already, Frank, so I'm not looking for a steady boyfriend. If anything should happen tonight, it happens
tonight
– and then that's it. Understood?'

‘Understood.'

‘You don't sound too happy about it.'

Hanson signalled a left turn, and pulled off the Mile. ‘If there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that if you can't have what you want, you might as well settle for what you can get,' he said.

Annie had not returned when Woodend phoned at eleven-thirty, nor when he called again at eleven-thirty-five or eleven-forty. In fact, it was not until ten minutes to twelve that a tired-sounding Joan told him she'd finally arrived and was waiting to talk to him.

‘You were late!' were Woodend's first words. ‘Don't you know how your mother worries about you when you're late?'

Annie gave an audible sigh. ‘I came home in a taxi,' she said. ‘Mum knew I was going to do that. Why should she have been worried?'

He was being far too heavy-handed, Woodend thought.

‘Was it a nice party?' he asked, softening his voice a little.

‘It was all right,' Annie replied – giving away nothing.

‘I think you're goin' to like it up North,' Woodend told her. ‘I'd forgotten just how pleasant it can be.'

There was only silence from the other end of the line.

‘Did you hear what I said?' he asked.

‘Yes.' Sullen.

‘I was always brought up to believe that when a grown-up asks you a question, you give them an answer,' Woodend said – aware that he was handling the conversation badly again, yet not knowing how to handle it well.'

‘Was there a question?' Annie asked. ‘I didn't hear one.'

She was right, of course. He hadn't asked a question, he'd simply told her she'd like it up North. But what he had meant was: will you try to like the North, Annie? Will you
really
try – just for me?

‘It's not so far off your sixteenth birthday,' he said. ‘We'll have to be thinkin' about buyin' you a scooter.'

Again, silence.

‘Annie . . .' he said tentatively.

‘If you're waiting for me to thank you for taking me away from all my friends, Dad, then you'll be waiting a long time,' Annie said bitterly.

‘If you feel like that, why have you never mentioned it before?' Woodend asked.

‘Because you're never here to mention it
to
, Dad. You're just never here.'

‘That's not quite fair,' Woodend protested weakly.

‘Isn't it?' Annie countered. ‘When was the last time you were here for my birthday?'

‘I can't remember,' Woodend admitted.

‘Exactly. You can't remember. Well, I can. I was ten – and halfway through my party you were called away on an important case. But then they're
all
important, aren't they, Dad?'

‘Listen, we'll talk more about this when we meet up in Whitebridge,' Woodend said.

‘There isn't anything to talk about,' his daughter told him. ‘The decisions have already been made, haven't they? We're going to live in Lancashire whether I like it or not.'

The line went dead. The receiver in Woodend's hand felt as if it were made of lead. He replaced it on its cradle, and made his way slowly upstairs to his bedroom.

‘
You had much in common with him
,' the gypsy had said, speaking of Inspector Punch Davies. ‘
He, too, was troubled over his daughter – worried that he had failed her, as you worry that you have failed yours
.'

They might have had things in common, just as the gypsy claimed, Woodend thought, but there was one big difference between them – there was so much less that Davies would have been
able
to do for his daughter.

It was almost one o'clock in the morning when the phone on Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's bedside table rang.

She reached groggily for the receiver. ‘Who the hell is this?' she demanded.

‘Who the hell do you
think
it could be?' asked a voice which chilled her to the bone. ‘Is there anybody else who'd call you at this time of night?'

All traces of sleep drained instantly from her body. ‘What do you want?' she asked.

‘Did he come to see you?'

‘Yes, he came.'

‘And what did you tell him?'

‘What we agreed I should tell him. That he was probably failing his own child as Davies had failed his.'

‘And was he convinced?'

‘About himself?'

‘About the reasons you gave for Davies going to see you?'

‘I think so.'

‘But you're not sure.'

What had started as a tight ball of fear in Gypsy Rose Elizabeth's stomach had grown and grown until it now encompassed her whole body.

Why had she ever become involved with this man? she asked herself.

Surely even the limited psychic powers she had should have been enough to tell her that he was very, very dangerous.

‘I said, you're not sure you convinced him, are you?' the man repeated.

‘I'm sure,' Elizabeth Rose told him – praying that he believed her.

‘Then you're probably right,' the man agreed. ‘But it's better to be safe than sorry.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘I think you should go away – just until all this has all died down.'

‘Go away?' Elizabeth Rose repeated.

‘That's right. You've been under a lot of strain lately. You could use the rest. Why not go to Capri? You like it there, don't you?'

The gypsy's mouth felt as dry as a desert, and she did not need to look at her hand to know that it was trembling. ‘I . . . I can't afford to go away at the height of the season,' she croaked.

The man laughed. ‘What are you worried about?' he asked. ‘Money? Money's no problem. I can give you more than enough to make up for what you would have earned in the next two months.'

‘But if I disappear, the police will think—'

‘The police will think that, like all gypsies, you get nervous when you know they're watching you and have decided to take off. It will be no more than that, I promise you.'

She wanted to tell him to go to hell – but she simply couldn't summon up the courage.

‘When . . . when would I have to go?' she asked.

‘I think that it should be as soon as possible. Don't you?'

‘Yes,' she agreed, because she dared give no other answer.

‘I've already got the money,' he said. ‘A suitcase full of it. Why don't you meet me by the South Pier in half an hour?'

‘Couldn't it wait until morning?' the gypsy asked, the panic gripping so tightly now that she thought it would strangle her.

‘By morning, you could be in a police cell, waiting for Chief Inspector Woodend to find the time to interrogate you,' the man said. ‘I've met him. I know what he's like. He's not one of those bobbies who give up. Once he's got his teeth into something, he'll go on and on at you until you tell him everything. And you know what that means, don't you?'

‘Yes,' Elizabeth Rose said, dully.

‘Tell me. Put it into words.'

‘I'll go to jail.'

‘You'll go to jail for a long time. And prison is a lot harder on gypsies than it is on normal people, Elizabeth Rose. Even if you only did five years – and you'd be very lucky to get away with so little – you'd be like an old woman when you came out.'

It was true what he was telling her – so what choice did she have? ‘What happens after you hand over the money?' she asked.

‘I drive you to Preston, and you catch the early morning train to London. Once there, you buy yourself a first-class air ticket – there'll be plenty of money for that – and by tomorrow afternoon you could be dipping your toes in the Mediterranean Sea. So what do you say, Elizabeth Rose? Will you be at the South Pier in half an hour or not?'

No!
a voice inside her screamed.
No, no, no!

‘I'll be there,' she said.

‘Good!' the man answered – and hung up.

I
t was the sunlight streaming in through the window – and shining mercilessly on her face – which woke Paniatowski up. She opened her eyes, then instantly closed them again. She felt awful. A steam hammer was pounding in her head, and she was willing to swear that something furry had crawled into her mouth and died there.

The bed she was lying in felt unfamiliar. It was not her own bed, she was sure of that. Nor was it the lumpy, iron-framed one which Mrs Bowyer provided at the Sea View Hotel. No, this bed was bigger and firmer. It was a bed in which it would be comfortable to make love.

It was all coming back to her! Entering Frank Hanson's flat. Their first kiss. Tumbling back on to the sofa. Tearing at each other's clothes. Coupling once – and then coupling again.

She heard the bedroom door click, and – bracing herself for the shock – she opened her eyes again. Frank was standing in the doorway, a white towel around his waist and a tray in his hands.