Golden Mile to Murder (32 page)

Gutteridge listened to their retreating footsteps and the sound of his front door clicking closed behind them. Almost without realising he was doing it, he began pacing the floor.

Bolton says I was the one who killed the old woman!
his mind screamed.

He'd denied it, and would continue to deny it. But who were the police likely to believe – one of the most popular entertainers in the country, or a man who ran a seedy strip show?

It seemed they had already made up their minds. And even if they hadn't yet, Tommy Bolton had the money to hire the most expensive lawyers in the country, whereas he . . .

Gutteridge walked over to the phone, and dialled a local number he'd been told to use only in times of emergency.

‘Yes?' asked a gruff voice on the other end of the line.

‘It is I. Gutteridge.'

‘You're lucky to find me in. What do you want?'

‘The police have just left me,' Gutteridge babbled. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend, and his sergeant. Woodend more than implied that he's contemplating charging me with a hit-and-run accident I'm totally innocent of.'

‘So what do you expect me to do?'

‘If they do arrest me, I'll tell them about all the other things as well. I won't be able to help myself.'

‘Stop beating about the bush, and tell me what it is you want.'

‘Money,' Gutteridge said. ‘If I am to escape from this dreadful place, I'll need cash. At least a couple of hundred pounds.'

‘That shouldn't be any problem. Why don't I bring it round to your flat?'

‘No!' Gutteridge gasped, remembering what had happened to Gypsy Elizabeth Rose. ‘No, it will have to be somewhere public.'

‘But not
too
public,' the other man cautioned. ‘I don't want to be seen meeting you by somebody I know. Especially since you're about to do a disappearing act.' He fell silent for a few seconds. ‘I've got it!' he continued. ‘Why don't we meet at the top of the Tower? There'll be plenty of people around, but they'll all be holidaymakers, so they won't recognise either of us.'

That made sense, Gutteridge thought. ‘When?' he asked.

‘Say in half an hour. But don't you approach me. I'll make sure it's safe first, and then I'll come to you. Agreed?'

‘Agreed,' Gutteridge said.

It was still too early in the day for the Tower to have attracted a lot of visitors, but Gutteridge was a little reassured by the fact that there were five other people with him in the lift which journeyed through the centre of the hollow cast-iron frame. Five witnesses at least, then, to his meeting with the man who made his bowels turn to water – and the chances were there were others already on the platform. He should be safe under their watchful eyes – and within an hour he would have left Blackpool forever!

The lift came to a slightly juddering halt, and Gutteridge heard the woman standing beside him let out a sigh of relief. She had nothing to be frightened of, he thought viciously. She didn't know what
real
fear was.

He stepped out on to the observation platform which circled the apex of the Tower. Ahead of him was the chest-high rail and, projecting out of that, the mesh fence which had been erected to prevent accidents and deter all but the most determined suicides.

Gutteridge counted the number of people he could see on the platform. Twelve. Still perfectly satisfactory.

He walked over to the rail, and looked down on the street, nearly five hundred feet below. From here the cars looked like no more than toys, and the bustling people smaller than the tiniest of ants. He checked his watch. It was nearly thirty-five minutes since he had made his appointment. His man should here by now.

The lift had reached the loading area again. The operator opened the gate, and the two families who had been waiting for it stepped forward. Suddenly a man in a smart blue suit was standing between them and the lift, waving what looked like an official card.

‘Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, ‘but the lift will be out of action for the next few minutes.'

‘Here, who are you to go tellin' them that?' the lift operator complained. ‘I'm in charge here. I say when the lift is or isn't workin'.'

The man in the blue suit swung round and showed the operator his warrant card.

‘Police!' he said authoritatively. ‘You've just taken a dangerous criminal up to the platform, and I don't want any of these innocent people going anywhere near him.'

‘Dangerous criminal?' the operator repeated. ‘Oh well, that's different.'

The man in the blue suit stepped into the lift. ‘Take me up to the platform,' he said. ‘If anybody, other than the man I'll point out to you, wants to come down, you're to bring them immediately. But under no circumstances are you to take anybody else
up
to the platform until I say it's safe. Have you got that?'

‘Yes,' the lift operator told him. ‘I've got it.'

Gutteridge heard the lift coming, and turned expectantly when the gates clanked open. The man in the blue suit looked straight at him, then turned and said something into the lift operator's ear. The operator nodded. The man in the blue suit stepped on to the platform and walked around to the other side of the tower. A young couple, holding on to the hands of their two children tightly, took his place in the lift, and the operator slammed the gate closed. With a whirr from the engine, the lift began its descent.

Gutteridge glanced nervously around him. The man in the blue suit was still out of sight on the other side of the platform. But why should that matter? All he was doing was being cautious. Wasn't he? He'd said he'd bring the money, and the leather briefcase he'd had in his hand when he stepped out of the lift was proof that he'd kept his promise. It was all going according to plan. It was all . . . going . . . according to plan.

His breathing was coming harder and faster, his vision was beginning to blur slightly and his hands felt as if they had turned to ice. Gutteridge reached forward and grasped the rail for support.

The whole of Blackpool was spread out before him. He could see the miles of golden sands, stretching as far as Fleetwood in one direction and Lytham in the other. He could see the three piers projecting out into the sea, and the tramcars making their way along the promenade. He was a long way up, he realised – higher than anyone ever should be.

The man in the blue suit had appeared again, and was talking to a group of the sightseers.

Why
was he talking to them? Gutteridge's panicked mind screamed. The whole point of the two of them meeting at the top of the Tower was so they wouldn't be noticed – and yet there he was making himself conspicuous!

The lift had returned, and there seemed to be a sudden rush for it. Gutteridge counted heads. Five adults and three children! Eight people! All his remaining witnesses!

As they entered the lift, he moved forwards it himself, but the operator held out his arm, barring the way.

‘Sorry, mate. There's no room for any more.'

‘But there's plenty of room!' Gutteridge protested. ‘You could fit at least a dozen more people in there.'

‘Have to follow regulations,' the operator said stubbornly. ‘Can't take any more.'

He slid the door closed and turned the handle. The lift began to sink out of sight.

I should have forced my way in, Gutteridge thought. He'd have had let me in if I'd made trouble.

But it was too late for that now. The lift had gone, and he and the man in the blue suit were all alone on platform – no more than a few feet apart.

‘G-give me the money,' he stuttered, reaching out for the briefcase. ‘G-give me the money and I'll be out of your life for ever.'

The other man smiled, and took a step backward. ‘If only it were as simple as that,' he said. ‘If only I felt I could trust you.'

‘You can trust me,' Gutteridge assured him.

‘No, I can't. The police will catch up with you in the end, and when they do you'll tell them everything you know.'

‘I won't. I promise I won't.'

The man in the blue suit glanced at wire. ‘There's only one solution to the dilemma we're facing – and we both know what that is,' he said.

‘No!' Gutteridge croaked.

‘Yes,' the other man said firmly. ‘Only one solution, but two ways of bringing it about. The easy way is for you climb up the wire and jump. It will all be over very, very quickly. The hard way is for you to resist. If you do that, then I'll knock you unconscious, pull you up the wire and throw you over. When they ask me what happened, I'll say I tried to stop you killing yourself, but I wasn't in time.'

‘Nobody will believe you!'

‘
Everybody
will believe me.'

‘There'll be marks of the struggle on my body!'

‘Do you really think they'll survive a five hundred foot drop?'

It was true, Gutteridge thought. It was all so horribly true. He was going to die – and there was nothing he could do about it. And yet he still couldn't bring himself to climb over the netting.

He heard the lift start its ascent again, and felt a faint glimmer of hope. If he could scream – if he could just attract the operator's attention . . .

The man in the blue suit closed the gap between them at lightning speed, and struck Gutteridge hard at a pressure point on his forehead.

The theatre manager's knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, unconscious. His attacker was well aware that he did not have long for the next phase of the operation – but he didn't need long. He grabbed Gutteridge under the armpits and hauled him to his feet. A few seconds was all it would take. Half a minute at the most. He looked up at wire, assessing his task.

The lift gate creaked open, and Woodend stepped out. He turned and saw the two figures – one lifeless, the other manhandling him.

‘It's over,' he said. ‘Your best plan now would be to come quietly, Sergeant Hanson.'

I
t was rather early in the day to go on to the vodka, but when the waiter asked what they wanted, Paniatowski ordered a double anyway.

‘I'm sorry it had to be Sergeant Hanson,' Woodend said.

Paniatowski shrugged. ‘It was who it was,' she replied, hoping that the chief inspector would leave it there.

‘If you ever want to come to terms with your feelin's, you'll have to learn to stop denyin' them in the first place,' Woodend told her.

Paniatowski felt anger start to bubble up inside her. ‘He was a fling – that's all,' she said. ‘He meant nothing to me. For God's sake, I hardly knew the man.'

‘You gave him your trust,' Woodend said softly. ‘An' that's not somethin' you hand out lightly.'

He was speaking the truth, Paniatowski thought. But he was saying more. He was saying: ‘We're a team – and whatever else you do, don't lie to me.'

She took a slug of her vodka. ‘I'll be more careful, next time,' she promised.

‘But not
too
careful,' Woodend cautioned. ‘If you spend all your time worryin' about gettin' your fingers burnt, you never find out what a great pleasure it is to warm your hands by the fire.'

Paniatowski grinned. ‘What are you quoting from, sir?' she asked. ‘The follow-up to the
Working for Woodend Manual
–
Uncle Charlie's Advice to the Lovelorn
?'

For a moment, she wondered if she had gone too far, then Woodend returned her grin and said, ‘Somethin' of that nature,' he agreed. ‘Shall we talk about the case now?'

‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea,' Paniatowski said.

‘An ambitious young sergeant finds himself workin' in a place where there's a lot of activity which, if it's not exactly criminal, in teeterin' on the edge of it,' Woodend said. ‘An' he sees the opportunity to make a tidy sum for himself. A bit of protection money here, a percentage off an illegal gamblin' operation there, a deal with a stolen car ring somewhere else. An' of course, his masterpiece – his blackmailin' partnership with Gypsy Elizabeth Rose.'

‘And then the anonymous letters started to arrive,' Paniatowski said.

‘Exactly,' Woodend agreed.

‘Where do you think they came from?'

‘We'll never know for sure, but in all probability one of the people he was puttin' the squeeze on finally decided he'd had enough. Anyway, once the anonymous letters
did
start to arrive, Hanson had two options. One of them was to quit while he was ahead – but he was too greedy for that. The other was to make sure that when Chief Inspector Turner finally got off his arse an' started investigatin', there was somebody else already in place to take the fall. An' the somebody he chose was Punch Davies. I imagine it won't be long before we come across a few bank accounts which Hanson opened in Davies' name. They won't contain a lot of money – but there will be enough in them to incriminate him.'

‘He'd arranged for a number of other people to implicate Davies as well, didn't he?' Paniatowski said.

‘Aye,' Woodend agreed. ‘People like Gutteridge. But they were what you might call a last line of defence. They were only to implicate Punch when it was plain they were goin' down themselves. But we're getting' ahead of ourselves. Hanson was settin' Davies up to take the fall, then Chief Inspector Turner – God bless him – completely buggered up his plans by tryin' to warn Davies off. An' that had an effect that neither Turner nor Hanson could have anticipated. Up until that point, Davies had had no idea he was under suspicion. Once he found out he was, he was determined to clear his name.'

‘That's why he suddenly started putting in appearances on the Golden Mile.'

‘Correct. An' he must have been a pretty good detective, because we know from the fact that he talked to Elizabeth Rose an' Bolton that he must have been gettin' close to at least part of Hanson's network. An' that, of course, is why he had to be killed.'