Golden Mile to Murder (27 page)

‘We still don't know for certain that he
was
.'

‘Don't you? Well, I bloody do. An' I've got witnesses to prove it.' Woodend took his Capstan Full Strength out of his pocket, and lit one up. ‘All right, let's play it your way,' he continued, when he'd taken a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘How long have you
suspected
that Punch Davies was on the take?'

‘The first indication was early on in the season, when we started getting anonymous letters,' Turner replied. ‘They all said pretty much the same thing – that there was an officer in the Blackpool force who was open to taking bribes.'

‘An' what did you do about them?'

‘You know yourself that people are always trying to stir up trouble by complaining about the police,' Turner said. ‘And you must also be aware of the fact that there's any number of complete nutters out there who will do anything to get attention.'

‘In other words, you did bugger all.'

‘We filed the letters. You can see them, if you like.'

Woodend dismissed the suggestion with an impatient gesture of his hand. ‘What happened next?'

‘The rumours started.'

‘An' where did they come from?'

Turner shrugged. ‘Who's to say where rumours start?'

‘But they confirmed that there was a bent bobby on the force – an' that that bobby was Davies?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did Punch know the rumours were circulatin'?'

‘No.'

‘You're sure of that?'

‘I had him in the office for a quiet word. He was astounded when I told him what people had been saying.'

‘Let me get this straight,' Woodend said, incredulously. ‘You suspected him of corruption – an' you had him in your office to let him
know
you suspected him?'

‘I wouldn't put as crudely as that.'

‘Put it how you like,' Woodend countered. ‘It doesn't alter the facts. I've been in this business for a long time, an' I'd never let a villain know I was on to him. Unless –' he clicked his fingers as a sudden insight hit him with the force of a sledgehammer – ‘unless you
didn't want
to catch him at all. Unless you only wanted to warn him off.'

From the look on the other man's face, he knew he had hit the nail squarely on the head.

‘You've never worked on a provincial force before,' Turner said. ‘If you had, you'd appreciate that catching criminals is only a part of our job. Another part is to make sure that ordinary people have confidence in the police. And it's also important – especially in a town like Blackpool – that there are no scandals to frighten visitors away.'

‘So you were prepared to let Davies get away with what he'd done already as long as he called it quits?'

‘Who had he actually hurt?' Turner asked. ‘Only the people who'd bribed him. And since they wouldn't have had to pay the bribes if they hadn't been involved in something illegal, there are those who would argue that they only got what they deserved.'

‘Maybe there are people who'd argue that way,' Woodend said. ‘But I'm not one of them.'

‘I'd like to offer you a word of advice,' Turner said quietly.

‘
You'd
like to offer
me
a word of advice?' Woodend asked, astounded. ‘An' what might that word be?'

‘If you're going to come out of this investigation with any credit to your name, the wisest thing you could do would be to keep Punch Davies' shady dealings as much out of the public eye as possible.'

‘You do realise that Davies was probably killed because of what you call his “shady dealin'”, don't you?' Woodend demanded.

‘It's a possibility – though not one we're happy to contemplate,' Turner conceded.

‘So what happens when I arrest the murderer? How the bloody hell are you goin' to bring him to trial without mentionin'
why
he killed Davies?'

‘Grow up, Chief Inspector,' Turner said contemptuously. ‘If you offer a man a choice of being charged with the murder of his crooked business partner, or with the manslaughter of a casual acquaintance during a bout of temper – which he regretted as soon as it was over – which one do you think he's going to go for?'

‘DCS Ainsworth would never accept a deal like that,' Woodend said.

Turner shook his head, almost pityingly. ‘You've no idea how things really work, have you?' he asked.

‘Are you sayin' that Ainsworth knew Davies was bent all along?'

‘Of course he didn't know,' Turner said exasperatedly. ‘He didn't
want
to know. That's why people like
me
exist – to make sure people like
him
never get their hands dirty.'

Woodend gave Turner a look which was filled with disgust. ‘Not half an hour ago, I was talkin' to a feller who I thought at the time lived on the bottom of the human slime pit,' he said. ‘Now, it seems to me he wasn't even halfway down.'

It was that early point in the evening which fell between the end of the last boarding house meal and the beginning of the first house of the variety shows. Woodend walked along the nearly empty street, trying to fit everything he had learned in the previous couple of hours into a coherent whole. That Davies had been bent was easy to accept – bobbies were often subjected to temptation, and in his case it did not take a great brain to work out why he had succumbed. Turner's way of dealing with the problem – while being far from something Woodend would do himself – was also at least comprehensible. What
didn't
make sense was the way Davies had behaved after Turner had tipped him the wink about his being under suspicion. Most men would have taken the hint, and lain low for a while. Davies had chosen, instead, to act in quite the opposite manner and make his presence on the Golden Mile even more conspicuous. It was almost as if he had wanted to get caught.

Maybe that was it! Woodend thought. Perhaps Davies was so eaten up by guilt that there was a part of him which demanded he should be punished.

The sound of footsteps close behind him brought an end to his train of speculation. Despite his showdown with Turner – despite the fact that he now knew everything the local DCI had sought to hide from him – he was still being followed. He came to an abrupt halt, and swung round so suddenly that the fresh-faced DC Eliot, who had been practically at his heel, almost cannoned into him.

‘Let me give you a hint, constable,' Woodend said. ‘If you're ever given the job followin' somebody again, try to keep at least half a dozen cars' distance between the two of you.'

Eliot blushed furiously. ‘I wasn't exactly following you, sir.'

‘Then just what were you doin'?'

‘I suppose I was plucking up the nerve to approach you, sir.'

‘An' why would you want to do that?'

‘Because there's something I think you ought to know,' Eliot said earnestly.

Something he ought to know? Woodend glanced down the street. ‘Oh look, there's a pub,' he said. ‘What a happy coincidence. Come on, lad, I'll buy you a pint.'

Eliot asked for a shandy and Woodend ordered a pint of best bitter for himself. At that hour, they had their choice of tables, and the chief inspector chose one well away from the prying ears of the barman.

‘So what's all this about, lad?' he asked, when they were sitting down.

‘It hasn't been easy for me working on this case, sir,' Eliot said. ‘You're the boss and I accept that, but –'

‘But all the information I've been gettin' from you has been filtered through Sergeant Hanson and Mr Turner first?' Woodend suggested.

‘That's right,' Eliot agreed. ‘I don't think the Sarge is any happier about it than I am, but he's got his orders.' He took an almost birdlike sip of his shandy. ‘The thing is, sir, I feel like I'm walking a tightrope, and I'm doing my best not to fall off.'

‘We'd all like to come out of this investigation smellin' of roses,' Woodend told him, ‘but in the end we have to do what we think's right. So why don't you tell what's on your mind?'

‘The other day, I was talking to a street seller on the Golden Mile, and he said that he'd seen Tommy Bolton coming out of Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's booth looking really angry.'

‘It's Tommy Bolton the comedian we're talkin' about here, is it?' Woodend asked.

‘That's right, sir. Anyway, I reported it to Sergeant Hanson, and he said he'd have to take it upstairs. I saw him again a couple of hours later, and he told me that he'd mentioned it to Mr Turner.'

‘An' what had Mr Turner told him?'

‘According to Sergeant Hanson, Mr Turner decided it had nothing to do with the case, and he saw no point in bothering a big star like Mr Bolton unnecessarily.'

‘So I never got to hear about it.'

‘That's right, sir.'

‘An' what's made you decide to tell me about it now?'

‘This morning I was talking to one of the doormen at the Central Pier theatre. I asked him – just on the off chance – if he'd known Mr Davies, and he said he had. So I asked him when was the last time he'd seen the inspector, and he said it must have been some time in the last week.'

‘On the Golden Mile?'

‘Yes, sir. But a bit more specific than that.'

‘Spit it out, lad.'

‘He said he'd seen him in the actual theatre. He turned up between shows, and said he had to talk to somebody.'

‘Tommy Bolton?' Woodend guessed.

‘That's right, sir. Tommy Bolton.'

T
ommy ‘Now Where Was I?' Bolton stood in the centre of the stage, bathed in spotlights. He was not alone. Next to him was a slack-mouthed man dressed in a loud check jacket and an even louder cloth cap.

‘I asked my wife where she'd like to go for her holidays,' Tommy Bolton told the audience. ‘She said she fancied somewhere she'd never been before, so I suggested she tried the kitchen. She didn't like that.' He shook his head wonderingly, as the audience giggled. ‘My wife! I've been in love with the same woman for over twenty years – and if the missis ever finds out, she'll kill me.'

There was more laughter, but Woodend, standing at the back of the hall, leant over to his sergeant and whispered, ‘That joke was creakin' with age when Adam was a lad.'

‘Anyway, we decided on Spain,' Bolton continued. ‘The Costa Packet. We went to book the tickets and my wife said, “You'd better buy three, because my mother'll want to come.”' Bolton put his hand on his hip in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Now don't get me wrong, ladies and gentlemen. She's a wonderful woman, my mother-in-law – it's just that you can tell when she's knocking on the front door, because all the mice throw themselves on the traps.' He paused to allow more laughter. ‘I wouldn't say she's a big woman, but she collapsed right in front of a bus last week, and the driver said that while he'd got enough
room
to get round her, he wasn't sure he'd got enough
petrol
. Still, if I'm ever told that I've only got six months to live, I'll definitely move in with her – she'll make that six months seem like it's forever.'

He paused, and frowned, as if puzzled by something.

‘Now where was I?' he asked his stooge, who had not moved an inch during the entire monologue

‘You were talkin' about takin' your wife on holiday to Spain,' the stooge replied in a gormless manner.

‘That's right,' Bolton agreed. ‘Now the thing about Spain is, most people think it's just Blackpool with a bit more sun, but they couldn't be wronger . . .'

Woodend tapped his sergeant on the shoulder. ‘Mr Bolton looks like a man who appreciates surprises,' he said. ‘Let's arrange one for him in his dressin' room, shall we?'

The young blonde woman who was sitting on the armchair with her legs crossed was a rather a tasty dish, Tommy Bolton decided, but he didn't at all like the look of the big feller in the hairy sports coat leaning back on the sofa. And anyway, what were they doing in his dressing room? He'd see to it that somebody lost his job for this.

‘I sign autographs outside,' he said abruptly.

‘I'll bear that in mind,' Woodend said, producing his warrant card. ‘In the meantime, Mr Bolton, we'd like to ask you some questions.'

‘Now?'

‘Now.'

‘Look, I've got another show to do in an hour and a half,' Bolton protested. ‘I need my rest.'

‘We won't keep you long,' Woodend promised him. ‘At least, not half as long as we would if we had to take you down to the station.'

Bolton slumped into the free armchair. ‘What's this all about?'

‘I'm not entirely sure myself,' Woodend admitted. ‘It's just that your name keeps croppin' up in our investigation.'

‘What investigation would that be?' Bolton demanded.

‘What investigation do you think it
might
be?' Woodend countered.

‘Inspector Davies' murder?'

‘Aye, an' Gypsy Elizabeth Rose's death, an' all.'

‘But you can't think I had anything to do with them.'

Woodend turned to Paniatowski. ‘I don't think I suggested that, did I, Sergeant?' he asked. ‘As I recall, all I said was that his name kept croppin' up. Isn't that right?'

‘Perfectly correct, sir,' Paniatowski confirmed.

‘For instance, you were at the Palace Hotel, Fleetwood, the night that poor old woman was knocked down, weren't you, Mr Bolton?'

‘I left well before the accident occurred,' Bolton said hotly. ‘You can check on that.'

‘We can, an' you did,' Woodend said easily. ‘Then there was the matter of you havin' your Rolls Royce nicked from right out of your own garage.'