Golden Mile to Murder (24 page)

‘The reason I mentioned it now – apart from bein' unable to resist a dig at you whenever the opportunity arises – is that every time you tried to skive off a job, I told you to stick with it because I didn't trust the local flatfeet to do it properly,' Woodend continued. ‘I've been sayin' for years that one Scotland Yard man is worth five or six bumpkins from out in the sticks. Well, if we're goin' to survive in Whitebridge, we're goin' to have to prove that boast's true. So there's our second choice, lad. We'll do our job so well that we'll make ourselves bloody indispensable.'

A waiter appeared at the end of the table. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend?' he asked.

‘Aye, that's me.'

‘There's a telephone call for you, sir.'

Woodend rose from his seat. ‘I won't be a minute.'

Left alone, Rutter picked up his fork and listlessly moved the remains of his pie around his dish. He'd been delighted when he'd got his promotion, but now he wasn't sure it was such a good thing. They had to prove they were indispensable, Woodend had said. But were they? Or – more specifically – was he? Had he learned enough approaches and intuitive leaps from the master of bluff to make it on his own – or could he have benefited from a couple more years working as Woodend's bagman?

When the chief inspector returned to the table, he was looking as grim as Rutter had ever seen him.

‘Has something happened, sir?' the newly promoted inspector asked.

‘Aye, you might say that,' Woodend replied. ‘Another body's turned up in Blackpool.'

‘Does it have anything to do with your case?'

‘It'd be a bloody miracle if didn't. The body in question belongs to a fortune-teller who worked on the Golden Mile. I was questionin' her about the murder only yesterday.'

T
he first dead body little Charlie Woodend had ever seen had been his grandmother's. He'd been eight at the time, and his parents – having decided that he was old enough to look death squarely in the face – had ushered him into the cold front parlour where her coffin lay. The old lady had looked so peaceful that he'd found it hard to believe that she wasn't just sleeping. Then his mother had told him he could touch his granny if he wanted to, and as his fingertips brushed softly against her cold, dry skin, he had accepted that she was lost to him for ever.

The body which lay before him in the Blackpool morgue had none of his grandmother's tranquillity. Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's mouth was wide open, and her eyes bulged so much that they looked as if they were about to burst.

Here was a woman who had known she was on the point of death, Woodend thought – and he wondered whether her killer had taken any pleasure from having so much power over another human being.

‘Fill me in on all the details you've got so far,' he said to Chief Inspector Turner.

‘The body was discovered just before noon, on the sands close to the South Pier. It had been buried in a shallow grave, no deeper than two and a half feet at any point. The kids who found her uncovered her left hand first. Initially they thought it was one of those you can buy at joke shops, but then they dug further, discovered there was an arm attached to it, and realised how serious the whole situation really was.'

‘Why a
shallow
grave?' Woodend murmured, almost to himself.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘If he was goin' to bury her, why not make a proper job of it? Why not take her out into the woods somewhere, an' put her under six feet of earth?'

‘Beats me,' Turner said.

‘He must have known that leavin' her there, she'd either be found by some kids – as she was – or uncovered by the tide. So we have to assume that he
wanted
her to be found.'

‘A fair point,' Turner agreed.

‘But if he wanted her to be found, why go to the trouble of buryin' her at all? Why not simply dump her in a quiet back street?'

‘He might have been worried he'd be seen doing that.'

‘Whereas he wasn't at all worried that somebody might see him diggin' a big hole in the sand, an' then carryin' a body to it?' Woodend asked. ‘Buryin' her must have taken at least half an hour. Throwin' her from his car would have taken seconds. So I say again, why go to the trouble of buryin' her?'

‘I don't know,' Turner said.

And he didn't seem very interested in finding out, either! Woodend thought. Turner was going through the motions as if he were one serious police officer presenting the facts of a murder case to another serious police officer, yet he somehow managed to give the impression that he was merely acting – that beneath his grave exterior there lurked a strong emotion he was doing his best to restrain.

‘You've established that the cause of death was definitely strangulation, have you?' Woodend asked.

‘Oh yes. And the pathologist thinks that whoever killed her must have been quite strong – which would seem to rule out a woman as the perpetrator.'

Woodend lit a Capstan Full Strength in the vain hope that it might deaden the smell of formaldehyde which permeated the whole building.

‘I remember this woman who lived on our street when I was kid,' he said. ‘Tiny little thing, she was – looked as if the slightest puff of wind would blow her away. But every Friday night, she'd be down at the pub door at eleven o'clock sharp, and when her sixteen-stone husband staggered out, she'd half-carry the drunken bugger home.'

‘Meaning some women are stronger than they look?' Turner asked.

‘Meanin' just that.'

‘You're probably right.'

Woodend studied Turner again. The local bobby seemed quite open to accepting the idea that the killer might be a woman. In fact he seemed open to accepting
any
idea that his colleague from headquarters might care put forward about Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's murder.

‘How about suicide?' Woodend suggested. ‘Do you think there's any chance she killed herself?'

For a second, Turner was uncertain how to react, then he forced a reluctant grin to his face. ‘You're making a joke, aren't you?'

‘Aye,' Woodend agreed. ‘I'm makin' a joke.'

But he was almost sure that if he'd put forward a theory that was even
slightly
less ludicrous, Turner would have gone along with it.

‘Does the quack have any idea about the time of death?' he asked.

‘Dr Philips is a little cagey about being too definite. If the body been left out on the beach, he could have made the standard calculation based on the drop in her body temperature, but the fact that she was buried under warm sand means the rate of cooling would have been slower. The only problem is, nobody's sure yet
how much
slower.'

‘Well, that might answer one of my earlier questions,' Woodend said thoughtfully.

‘What question would that be?'

‘The one about why she was—'

Woodend bit back the rest of the comment, because he was not certain that he entirely trusted Chief Inspector Turner. Come to that, he was not certain he trusted
anybody
in the Blackpool police.

‘What were you about to say?' Turner asked.

‘Doesn't matter for the moment,' Woodend told him. ‘Let's get back to the matter in hand. Is the good doctor prepared to give any estimate
at all
as to the time of death?'

‘He's willing to say it probably didn't occur earlier than ten o'clock last night or later than seven o'clock this morning.'

‘That's somethin', anyway,' Woodend said. ‘Now I suppose the next question is: “Does this murder belong to me, or is it bein' given to somebody else?”'

‘Our chief super spoke to DCS Ainsworth about half an hour ago,' Turner said. ‘They both think it's unlikely that two killings – so close together in both time and geography – could be unconnected. There was some talk of putting a second DCI on the Elizabeth Rose case, but in the end Mr Ainsworth decided that – for the time being at least – the two crimes should be treated as parts of one investigation.'

Aye, that will just suit Ainsworth, Woodend thought. Why should he nail me for failin' to solve one murder when he's got the chance of nailin' me for failin' to solve two?

‘Will you be needing more of my men now the scope of the investigation's widened?' Turner said.

Would I like to invite more possible spies into my camp? Woodend asked himself. No, I bloody well wouldn't.

‘I don't want any more men reportin' directly to me,' he said aloud. ‘But I would appreciate it if your lads could save my team a bit of leg-work.'

‘What do you want them to do?'

‘I want to know as much about Elizabeth Rose's movements last night as you can come up with. What time did she leave her booth? Where did she go after that? Who was the last person to see her alive? You know the routine.'

Turner nodded. ‘If you don't need me for anything else, I'll get on to it right away.'

‘Aye, you do that,' Woodend agreed.

He turned his attention back to the body. Had there been any indication, when he'd been talking to the dead woman the previous day, that she'd soon end up like this? No, he didn't think there had been. So he had no reason to feel guilty, then. But he did – because however much he tried to persuade himself he couldn't have known, there was something inside him which said that he
should
have.

He walked over to the window and looked out on to the car park. DCI Turner had already left the building, and was heading towards his vehicle.

Woodend closed his eyes, and tried to visualise the other occasions on which he'd seen Turner walking away from him. Was there any difference in his demeanour this time? he wondered.

Yes! Yes, there bloody well was!

Turner had a definite spring in his step now – almost as if some heavy burden of responsibility had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

The chief inspector took a deep drag on his Capstan Full Strength. It wouldn't be strictly accurate to say that Turner was glad Gypsy Elizabeth Rose had been murdered, he thought – but the man was certainly relieved about
something
. Now why the hell should that be?

The team had been gathered together around the basement table, and they all looked suitably grave and responsible. But could they just be play-acting, as Turner had been earlier?

‘We know for a fact that Mr Davies went to see the murdered woman,' Woodend said, ‘but when I talked to her, she claimed he'd only dropped in for a consultation. Did he seem like the kind of man who'd believe in fortune-telling, Sergeant Hanson?'

‘No sir,' Hanson said, without hesitation. ‘Mr Davies was one of the most down-to-earth officers I've ever worked with.'

‘So assumin' that the two murders are connected, then what Davies an' Elizabeth Rose said to each other could be of vital importance to the case. The only problem is, we can't ask them what it was – because they're both dead. We've found nothin' to connect Mr Davies with the gypsy, so what I want to do is turn the thing on its head, an' see if we can find anythin' to connect
the gypsy
with
Mr Davies
. Chief Inspector Turner's men are investigatin' what she did in the last few hours of her life – what I want you to come up with is what she did with the rest of it. Am I makin' myself clear?' The four local men nodded. ‘Right,' Woodend continued. ‘Sergeant Hanson will co-ordinate. Get on with it.'

Woodend watched Hanson and three constables leave the room, then turned his attention to Sergeant Paniatowski, who had gone back to her desk.

‘How's it lookin' from your end of things, Monika?' Woodend asked. ‘Are you still convinced there could be a link between Mr Davies' murder an' the hit-an'-run?'

‘More than ever,' Paniatowski lied.

‘In that case, you'd better stick with it.' The phone rang on Woodend's desk. He walked over and picked it up. ‘Yes? This is Woodend, sir. Yes, she has been considerin' the possibility that . . . No, I haven't . . .'

After making sure that his back was turned to her, Paniatowski quietly picked up the receiver on her own desk. ‘I've been getting nothing but complaints about her all day,' she heard Ainsworth bark.

‘That can sometimes be the sign that an officer's doin' his job – her job,' Woodend countered.

‘You've got two murders on your hands. Isn't that enough for you, without upsetting everybody who matters in Blackpool?'

‘My sergeant thinks there may be a connection.'

‘And what do you think?'

‘I won't know until she's completed her investigation and reported back to me.'

‘Let me get this straight!' Ainsworth said. ‘You've let Paniatowski loose on some of the most important people in Lancashire without a shred of evidence that she'll come up with anything worthwhile?'

‘You have to have confidence in your team,' Woodend replied evenly. ‘Besides, if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that in order to come up with a few right answers, you have to ask a lot of what will probably turn out to be pointless questions.'

‘Do you want to be taken off this investigation, Chief Inspector?' Ainsworth asked threateningly.

‘No sir. But if I can't conduct it the way I see fit, then I might as well be.'

‘You're relying on the chief constable to protect you, aren't you?' Ainsworth demanded. ‘You think you can pull the old-pals act on him. Well, let me tell you, Woodend, he's got his own position to protect, and he's not about to sink himself just to keep you afloat.'

‘I quite appreciate that, sir.'

‘So you'll call Paniatowski off?'

‘I'll have to think about it,' Woodend said.