Golden Mile to Murder (16 page)

‘And I'd like to thank you, too,' the aunt said.

Woodend shrugged awkwardly. ‘I didn't do anythin',' he told her. ‘Like I said, me an' Peter were just havin' a nice little chat.'

The aunt put her hand on Peter's shoulder, and shepherded him, unprotesting, back towards the open grave.

Woodend straightened up. ‘
My daddy did a very bad thing once . . . but he was still a very good daddy
,' he said softly to himself.

‘Sir,' called a voice to his left.

Woodend turned to see Sergeant Hanson standing there.

‘I thought I'd find you here, sir,' the sergeant said.

‘Oh aye? An'
why
should you have thought that?'

‘Because if I'd been in charge of the investigation, it's where I would have been.'

Hanson was a good bobby, Woodend thought – his kind of bobby.

‘Why didn't you attend the funeral?' he asked the sergeant. ‘Didn't you want to pay your last respects to Inspector Davies?'

‘I did consider coming,' Hanson admitted, ‘but it seemed me that the best way to show my respect to Billy was to do all I could to catch the man who killed him.'

‘An' are you getting' anywhere?' Woodend asked.

‘It's too early to say for sure, sir,' Hanson told him. ‘But I think I might finally have come up with a good lead.'

T
he lobby of the Palace Hotel, Fleetwood, was in a different world to the entrance hall of the Sea View boarding house in Blackpool. There was no danger in the Palace of new arrivals barking their shins against their suitcases as they bent over to sign the guest book. The lobby was a celebration of space. Its front desk would have more than filled Monika Paniatowski's living-room. It had polished wooden floors and a jungle of palms sitting complacently in brass pots on top of delicate inlaid tables. Yet for all its pretensions, the sergeant noted, its grandeur had a faded edge to it – the leather sofas showing distinct signs of cracking, the wood panelling crying out for a little maintenance.

Paniatowski walked over to the desk. Behind it stood no harridan who looked as if she would measure the soap to see if the guests were washing too much, but a pleasant young man in a grey suit and grey and silver checked tie.

The young man looked up from the ledger which he'd been studying, and gave Paniatowski a smile which was more practised than welcoming.

‘How can I help you, madam?' he asked.

‘Police,' Paniatowski replied, producing her warrant card. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?'

As if a switch had been clicked in the back of his head, the young man's smile evaporated, and he was suddenly very guarded. ‘What kind of questions, exactly?' he asked.

‘Routine questions,' Paniatowski replied, deadpan.

‘Is this about the night of the hit-and-run accident in town?'

‘It might be. And what if it is?'

‘Well, then you're wasting your time. We've already had a policeman here asking questions about that.'

‘Inspector Davies?'

‘Inspector Davies? The officer who was murdered?'

‘That's right.'

‘No, it wasn't him. It was a detective sergeant. I think his name was Howarth.'

Ah, Sergeant Howarth – Blackpool's answer to the wet sponge! Paniatowski thought.

‘What exactly did the good sergeant want to know?' she asked.

‘If we'd catered a function on the night of the accident.'

‘And had you?'

The clerk smirked. ‘We cater functions most nights of the week. We have quite a reputation. People come from all over the North West to attend them.'

Paniatowski slipped a cigarette into her mouth, and looked expectantly at the counter clerk. He gaped at her for a second, then produced a lighter from his pocket and flicked it open.

‘Thank you,' Monika said, inhaling deeply. ‘Now what's the answer to my question?'

‘What question?'

‘Whose “do” were you catering on the night of the accident?'

‘I'll have to check,' the receptionist told her.

He reached under the counter and produced an old, leather-bound ledger. Laying it out grandly in front of him, he opened it at the bookmark and ran his index finger down a column which had been filled in with tight handwriting.

‘This shouldn't take a minute,' he said, looking up at her.

It shouldn't take any time at all, Paniatowski thought. The man had already given this information to Sergeant Howarth, and that was not something he'd be likely to forget.

‘Ah, here it is,' the clerk said unconvincingly. ‘Last Thursday we catered a function for the Golden Mile Association.'

‘And who might they be?' Paniatowski asked. ‘People who've got businesses on the Golden Mile?'

The receptionist laughed, deprecatingly. ‘Oh dear me, no. The Golden Milers – as we call them – are all very prominent figures in the community. The Mayor of Blackpool himself is their honorary president.'

‘And what exactly do they do?'

‘Exchange ideas about how Blackpool can be improved. Raise money for various charities. That kind of thing.'

‘I see,' Paniatowski said thoughtfully. ‘Were you on duty that particular night?'

‘I was, as a matter of fact.'

‘So you'll know what time this “do” of theirs broke up?'

‘The bar was open until eleven.'

‘But they didn't
leave
at eleven, did they?'

‘Some did,' the receptionist said evasively. ‘Most of them, in fact.'

‘But not all?'

‘I've already told all this to Sergeant Howarth.'

‘So there's no harm in telling it again – to me. You were saying that not all the guests left when the bar closed at eleven.'

The receptionist shrugged. ‘You know what it's like when you get a group of good friends together. It seems a pity to break up the party, and they take their time to get moving.'

‘So some of them could have left much closer to midnight?'

The receptionist stuck his jaw out. ‘No, they'd all gone well before that,' he said stubbornly.

‘I'd like to see a guest list for the Golden Milers' function,' Paniatowski told him.

‘I'm afraid I can't give you one.'

‘Because it doesn't exist?'

‘Because I'd need the manager's permission to do that.'

Paniatowski picked up the receiver off the telephone cradle and handed it to the receptionist. ‘Then
get
his permission,' she suggested.

With a great show of reluctance, the receptionist took the receiver from her with his left hand, and dialled a single number with his right.

‘We have a detective sergeant in the lobby,' he said. ‘No, not from here. From Whitebridge. She wants to see a list of people who attended the Golden Mile Association function . . . Yes, that's right . . . She seems adamant . . . Yes, I'll do that.' He placed the phone back on its cradle, and stepped from behind the counter. ‘Wait here a moment, please,' he told Paniatowski.

Then he scuttled off through the lounge like a man with a great deal on his mind.

The manager of the Grand Hotel had grey hair, a large nose and horsy teeth. He could have passed – in poor light – for a diplomat or the chairman of a large company, Paniatowski thought. He had been sitting at a large mahogany table when she entered the room, an ideal position from which to spring gallantly to his feet and shake her hand.

There were two straight-backed chairs facing the manager's table, but instead of inviting her to sit in one of them, he waved her to the other side of the room, where two armchairs stood, one each side of a coffee table.

Paniatowski took one of the armchairs, and the manager the other. The manager crossed his legs, and placed his clasped hands over the upper knee. Paniatowski found herself disliking the gesture almost as much as she instinctively disliked the man.

‘Would you care for something to drink, Sergeant?' the manager asked. ‘A pot of tea?' He winked. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger?'

Paniatowski shook her head. ‘No, thank you.'

The manager guffawed. ‘You're the first detective I've ever met who turned down a drop of the hard stuff,' he said. ‘Maybe that's because you're the first
lady
detective I've ever met.'

Paniatowski looked down at the oriental rug in front of her chair, and wondered how difficult it would be to clean if she vomited all over it.

‘Your receptionist tells me he needs your permission to hand over guest lists,' she said.

‘Quite right,' the manager agreed. ‘He was doing no more than his job.'

‘But I take it you have no objection to giving that permission.'

The manager favoured her with what he probably considered an endearingly perplexed frown.

‘I gave Sergeant Howarth a list, and he has already used it to eliminate everyone who was here that night,' he said, avoiding answering the question directly.

‘And how do you imagine he was able to do that?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Oh, it shouldn't have been too difficult,' the manager replied. ‘Given the time of the accident, anyone who left before eleven-thirty should be in the clear, shouldn't they?'

‘Probably,' Paniatowski agreed reluctantly.

‘And of the minority who were still here after that, most had chauffeurs to take them home.'

‘But some didn't?'

‘There were a few who drove themselves.'

‘Or got their wives to do it?'

‘Ah . . . no. You see, this was a gentlemen-only evening – a short break from the pleasures of domestic bliss.'

‘So we're still left with a few of them who could have been travelling down Blakiston Road at the time of the accident,' Paniatowski persisted.

‘No. As I think Robert at the desk may already have told you, all the guests left well before midnight. Besides, they're all respected members of the community, and if they'd seen anything, I'm sure they would have reported it.'

Paniatowski looked the manager squarely in the eyes. ‘If Sergeant Howarth has a list, why won't you give me one?' she asked.

‘Sergeant Howarth is a local policeman, and therefore sensitive to . . . err . . . the local situation. I was sure he'd handle the information I gave him in the proper manner.'

‘Whereas a bobby from Central Lancs HQ might be less than impressed with the local bigwigs, and could stir up all kinds of dirt?'

The manager's eyes hardened. ‘I'll be frank with you, Sergeant Paniatowski,' he said. ‘Before I agreed to see you, I took the opportunity to call up Sergeant Howarth. According to him, you are here to investigate the murder of Inspector Davies – and only that. The accident has nothing to do with you.'

‘Unless it's connected with the murder.'

The manager laughed. ‘How could the murder possibly be connected with a case of drunk-driv—' He came to a sudden halt.

‘Drunk-driving?' Paniatowski said. ‘I don't remember anyone mentioning drunk-driving.'

‘Given the nature of the accident, I think it is a fair assumption that the driver was drunk,' the manager said. He glanced down at his wristwatch. ‘I'm running late for another appointment, so if there's nothing else, perhaps we could end our meeting now.'

‘You won't give me the list?'

‘Sergeant Howarth has one. Perhaps he will be willing to show you his. Failing that, I'm afraid you'll have to get a court order.'

And how easy would that be? Paniatowski asked herself. Considering that all the magistrates in Blackpool were probably members of the Golden Mile Association, it should be bloody near impossible.

She stood up, and ignored the hand which was being offered to her. ‘I can find my own way out,' she said.

She turned the door handle and stepped into the corridor. The manager had said he had another appointment, but Paniatowski was hardly surprised to see that there was no one waiting outside.

The sergeant made her way back to the lobby. Robert the receptionist was back behind the counter, and reading the expression on her face, he smirked again.

Paniatowski glanced over the counter at Robert's little kingdom – a switchboard, a desk, a safe and
two filing cabinets
. She wondered how far he would go to protect that kingdom of his – how many lies he would be willing to tell to pervert the course of justice.

She stepped through the main door and out on to the promenade. A breeze had blown up, and she greedily gulped in the fresh sea air.

The meeting with the manager had been a waste of time, as she'd known it would be. But it had been a
necessary
waste of time, if she were to avoid arousing his suspicions. Opening her handbag, she took out her notebook, flipped it open to the last page she had used, and scanned what she'd written.

Receptionists who wanted to keep their secrets truly secret should be more careful, she thought. More specifically, they should make sure that when they left their posts to consult the boss, they locked their filing cabinets first.

C
hief Inspector Turner and Detective Sergeant Hanson sat in one of the shelters close to the Central Pier, apparently doing nothing more than watch the green and cream trams rattle by.

Though it had been Hanson who had requested the meeting, he seemed reluctant to speak, and finally it was Turner who said, ‘Don't you think you'd better tell me what's on your mind?'

‘I don't know how much longer I can protect Mr Davies,' Hanson blurted out.

‘Protect Mr Davies?' Turner repeated, questioningly.

‘Protect his reputation, then.' Hanson fumbled with his packet of cigarettes. ‘I'm a good bobby, sir.'