Golden Mile to Murder (6 page)

Turner nodded. ‘All right. I'll arrange that. And what would you like us to do next?'

‘I wouldn't expect
you
to do anythin',' Woodend told him. ‘You've got quite enough on your hands without shepherdin' us around.'

‘So what will you and Monika be doing next?'

‘If the car's still available, I thought me an' Sergeant Paniatowski might just go an' see the grievin' widow.'

T
he Ford Zephyr crossed the promenade and headed into the centre of Blackpool. For the first quarter of a mile it passed virtually nothing but boarding houses, bingo halls and souvenir shops, but beyond that it began to penetrate the solid, respectable suburbs where the all-year-round residents of Blackpool lived.

Sitting in the back of the car, Woodend turned carefully towards his new assistant, well aware that the Zephyr was less spacious than a Humber and that, however much he tried, it was almost impossible to avoid his leg touching hers.

‘You could be very useful at this interview, Sergeant,' he said.

‘Any reason in particular you should say that, sir?' asked Paniatowski, the reluctant errand-girl, still not willing to give an inch.

‘In case you haven't noticed, you're a woman,' Woodend replied. ‘An' it's highly likely that Punch Davies' widow is a woman, too. So there's a good chance you'll notice somethin' I'll miss.'

The remark seemed to antagonise Paniatowski further. ‘It's not important that I'm a woman,' she said.

‘Then what
is
important?'

‘That I'm a trained police officer, sir, just like you are.'

‘Is that what you really think?' Woodend asked. ‘That it's the
trainin
' which makes a good bobby?'

‘Essentially. Yes.'

If he'd been dealing with a man, Woodend thought, he'd probably have tapped the lad's knee as he made his next point. But he couldn't do that with Paniatowski.

‘It's not like that, lass,' he told her. ‘I wouldn't say that what you've been taught counts for nothin' in an investigation, but you can't build a proper house if there aren't any decent foundations to start with.'

‘I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir.'

Woodend sighed and wondered how his literary hero, Charles Dickens, would have explained it.

‘Good police officers –
really
good police officers – are born with certain qualities,' he said, ‘an' all the trainin' does is to refine those qualities into somethin'
better
.'

‘Are you telling me that all policemen should be like you?' Paniatowski asked aggressively.

‘No,' Woodend replied, forcing his voice to stay level and reasonable. ‘An' if you don't mind me sayin' so, Sergeant, you're completely missin' the point. There's plenty of room for differences. In fact, they're essential. If two bobbies see somethin' –
anythin' at all
– in exactly the same way, then it's a waste of time them workin' together. It's the differences which make a team good or bad – an' I want us to be a good team.'

The driver pulled up at the curb before Paniatowski had time to reply. ‘This is the place, sir,' he said.

Woodend looked out of the window. They had stopped in front of a row of largish terraced houses.

‘Is she expectin' us?' Woodend asked.

‘Yes, sir. We rang her from the station.'

The chief inspector extracted his bulk from the car, taking pains as he did so not to brush against his sergeant. Once on the pavement, he stopped to take a look around. The row of houses was in good condition. They all had neat lace curtains, recently painted doors and an uninterrupted view of Stanley Park, with its cricket ground, putting green and rose gardens. Nice, very nice. But not anything like
too
nice – not the sort of area Woodend would have been surprised to find a detective inspector living in.

‘What are we looking for, sir?' asked Paniatowski, joining him on the pavement.

That was better, Woodend thought. Much better. She was finally starting to chuck her prejudices out of the window and use her brain.

‘A murder turns a family inside out,' he said. ‘You have to expect that. But what we're lookin' for is somethin' that wasn't quite right even
before
the victim met his end.'

‘Won't that be hard to isolate?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Almost impossible,' Woodend agreed. ‘But it's what's expected of us – that's why we get such fat wage packets at the end of the week.'

The crazy-paving path was weed-free, the borders each side of it neatly trimmed. Woodend walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.

The woman who answered the ring was wearing an old floral dress. ‘Mrs Davies?' the chief inspector asked.

‘That's right.'

Detective Inspector William Davies had been thirty-five when he'd met his end, and Woodend had been expecting his wife would look roughly the same age. She didn't – and the Chief Inspector tried to work out why. It wasn't just that her blonde hair had begun to fade, or that her upper arms – clearly visible in her short-sleeved frock – had begun to put on weight. There were deep lines around her blue eyes and small mouth – lines which, if she really was thirty-five, she should not have earned for at least another ten years.

She wasn't wearing make-up, either. That – to most people – would have been perfectly understandable. After all, you couldn't expect someone in mourning to make that kind of effort. But Woodend had talked to dozens of recent widows in his time on the force, and knew that the majority of them – either from habit or to have something to hold on to – usually made at least a token effort to be presentable.

A discreet cough from Paniatowski reminded him it was his turn to speak again.

‘I'm Chief Inspector Woodend and this is Sergeant—' he began.

‘I've been expecting you,' the woman interrupted. ‘Follow me.'

She led the two police officers down a carpeted hallway into a lounge which contained two modern easy chairs with skeletal wooden arms, a sofa in the same style, a radiogram, a cocktail cabinet and a television. Thoroughly conventional, Woodend thought. Exactly what he would have expected.

‘Won't you sit down?' Mrs Davies said.

Woodend lowered himself into one of the easy chairs. Paniatowski took the sofa.

‘You have a very nice house,' Paniatowski said.

Mrs Davies crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders tightly. ‘Billy was a good provider,' she said. ‘It was only right that he should come home to a bit of comfort.'

‘Was he often at home?' Woodend asked.

The widow shook her head. ‘He worked very hard. He gave his job almost everything he had. But he always called to tell me when he was going to be late.'

‘What about the night he was killed?' Woodend asked. ‘Was he workin'?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘What do you mean by that, exactly?'

‘He officially came off duty at six. But he rang me at about four o'clock – before I'd started to get his tea ready – to say he was going to be late.'

‘Did he give any reason for it?'

‘He said he had some paperwork to catch up on.'

‘That would mean he intended to stay on at the station?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘So how did he come to end up under the Central Pier?' Woodend asked. He paused. ‘I'm sorry to have to put things so bluntly. I know it must be painful.'

‘I'm . . . I was . . . a policeman's wife,' Mrs Davies said. ‘I know what has to be done. In answer to your question, Mr Woodend, I've no idea what Billy was doing anywhere near the Central Pier.'

‘As far as you know, was he havin' any problems at work?'

Mrs Davies hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Not generally. But I think something's been preying on his mind for the last few weeks.'

‘Did he mention anythin' specific?'

‘No,' Mrs Davies admitted. ‘Billy wasn't one to talk about his work. But I was still his wife, and I
knew
that something wasn't quite right.'

‘Is there anythin' else you think I ought to know?' Woodend coaxed.

‘Nothing comes to mind,' Mrs Davies said firmly.

Either the widow had no more to say, or she was unwilling, for the moment, to say it. There seemed no point in prolonging the interview. Woodend stood up, and was just about to hold out his hand to her and produce some conventional soothing platitude when he noticed the silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

It was a picture of two children – a boy and a girl – standing in what was probably the Davieses' back garden. The boy was about eight and, obviously conscious of the camera, had a wide grin on his face. The girl was perhaps two years younger than her brother. Her expression was blank, and her eyes were empty.

‘That's Peter and Susan,' Mrs Davies said, noticing that Woodend was examining the picture. ‘I've sent Peter to stay with his auntie until after Billy's funeral.'

‘And Susan?' Woodend asked, before he could stop himself.

Mrs Davies' face clenched in an emotional agony Woodend could only dimly begin to comprehend. ‘Susan's . . . Susan's in a special boarding school,' she gasped. ‘I tried to look after her myself, but I couldn't.
Everybody
said I couldn't.'

Woodend had not even seen Paniatowski rise from her seat, but suddenly the sergeant had her arms wrapped around the widow and was cooing softly into her ear.

‘That's all right, Mrs Davies. Don't try to hold it in, Mrs Davies.'

The widow didn't. Instead she buried her head in the other woman's shoulder, and began sobbing in earnest. With her right hand, Paniatowski gestured to Woodend that he should leave. The chief inspector needed no such urging. Cursing himself for his insensitivity – for not immediately grasping the meaning of the blank expression on the girl's face – he tiptoed quietly down the hallway and out of the house.

Mrs Davies took one last sip from her cup, and placed it back on its saucer. ‘It was very kind of you to make the tea,' she said.

Paniatowski smiled. ‘It was the least I could do after that boss of mine put his size nine clodhopper in it,' she said. ‘Are you feeling a bit better now?'

‘Much better,' Mrs Davies said. ‘I know I shouldn't get so upset – and most of the time I don't – but then there comes a moment now and again when it's all too much.'

Paniatowski reached across and stroked her hand. ‘I know,' she said soothingly.

As soon as the sergeant had released her hand, Mrs Davies stood up. ‘Well, I can't stand around here moping all day,' she said. ‘Widow or not – daughter in a special school or not – there's still the housework to be done.'

‘You're sure you're all right?' Paniatowski persisted.

‘Perfectly fine.'

‘In that case, could I ask you a favour?'

‘What?'

‘When we were standing outside, I couldn't help noticing your bedroom curtains. I'm almost certain they'd be perfect for my flat, but if I could just have a closer look –'

Mrs Davies forced a weak smile to her lips. ‘Of course. If you'd just follow me.'

She led the sergeant up the stairs and into the main bedroom. Paniatowski walked straight over to the window. She could see a group of lads playing football in Stanley Park, and noticed that, below her on the pavement, Woodend was striding up and down and puffing energetically on a Capstan Full Strength.

The sergeant ran the curtain material through her finger and thumb. ‘Very nice,' she said. She lifted the curtain and saw it had been machine-hemmed. ‘I don't suppose you've got a spare bit of this material, have you?'

‘There should be some in my sewing basket downstairs,' Mrs Davies told her. ‘Let's go and see.'

‘I . . . er . . . Would you mind if while you're looking, I just use your toilet?' Paniatowski asked. ‘Only, it's that time of the month, and you know how often you've got to go when you've got your period.'

Mrs Davies nodded. ‘I certainly do,' she agreed. ‘Take your time. I'll see you in the lounge.'

As Paniatowski followed Mrs Davies out of the room, she took a quick look around her, and what she saw pretty much confirmed the suspicion she'd had since Mrs Davies had said that her sewing things were
downstairs
.

Woodend was waiting next to the car, his third cigarette since he had left the house clamped between his lips.

Paniatowski smiled. ‘Smart thinking, sir,' she said as she approached him.

Woodend took a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘It was smart to pretend to be a typical, insensitive man. That made you into an enemy, but me into an ally – and that bought me another fifteen minutes in the house. That was your intention when you put on the show, wasn't it, sir – to buy me more time?'

‘Did you learn anythin' useful while you were in there?' Woodend asked, avoiding answering his sergeant's question.

‘Oh, I think so,' Paniatowski said with confidence. ‘Mrs Davies keeps her sewing machine downstairs.'

‘Now that is a revelation!' Woodend said sarcastically.

‘Yes, it is,' Paniatowski said, quite serious. ‘How many bedrooms would you say these houses have, sir?'

‘Four?' Woodend guessed.

‘That's right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘Now in most houses, that would mean one for each of the kids – even if one kid was in a special school and only came home for the holidays – one for the parents, and one that the wife would use as her sewing and ironing room. Only that isn't the case in the Davies household.'

‘You seem to know a lot about it,' Woodend said uneasily.

‘I told her I was interested in her bedroom curtains, and asked if I could take a closer look at them. Then, when we were just about to go downstairs again, I pretended I needed to use the bathroom, so she'd leave me alone.'