Golden Mile to Murder Read Free

of town.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon, sir?’
    â€˜Last night, a body was discovered under the Central Pier at Blackpool – a man, with his face badly battered. He has since been identified as Detective Inspector William Davies.’
    Woodend whistled softly.
    â€˜Exactly!’ Ainsworth agreed. ‘The chief constable feels – and I agree with him – that, given the nature of the case, it would be best to take the investigation out of the hands of the local force. You are the only one of my senior men not currently involved in any investigation, so you’ve drawn the short straw.’
    â€˜But I’ve only just arrived,’ Woodend protested. ‘I haven’t got my bearings yet. My sergeant isn’t even here.’
    Ainsworth raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Your sergeant?’ he repeated.
    â€˜I mean, Inspector Rutter,’ Woodend corrected himself.
    He was still having trouble thinking of Bob Rutter as an inspector, even though he had been the one responsible for getting Rutter the promotion.
    â€˜You have already been assigned a new sergeant,’ Ainsworth told him. ‘You will be working with Sergeant Paniatowski.’
    â€˜Polish, is he?’ Woodend asked.
    A thin smile came to the Chief Superintendent’s lips – Woodend wondered what had caused it.
    â€˜With a name like that, I would assume the sergeant is Polish, yes,’ Ainsworth said, still enjoying his private joke. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately emptied it into the bin. ‘That’s all, Chief Inspector. The Blackpool police will have a briefing file ready for you when you get there.’
    Woodend was almost at the door when Ainsworth said, ‘There is one more thing, Chief Inspector.’
    â€˜Yes, sir?’
    â€˜I told you earlier I don’t like the way you seem to work, but even without that there’d already have been a black spot against your name.’
    â€˜Is that right?’ Woodend asked. ‘An’ why would that be, sir?’
    â€˜Because I don’t like having some burnt-out Scotland Yard bobby dumped on me whether I want him or not. So take warning, Mr Woodend. I’ll be watching you carefully, and if you step out of line by so much as a fraction of an inch, I’ll have you back pounding the beat before you can say “disciplinary board”.’
    Woodend forced a grin to his face. ‘Thank you for your confidence, sir,’ he said.
    The police canteen was a long thin room – badly in need of a fresh coat of paint – and was located at the back of the station. The counter stood close to the door. Behind it were two thick-legged, middle-aged women wearing hairnets, one lethargically buttering bread, the other filling the tea urn from a brown enamel kettle. Between the counter and the far wall were perhaps a dozen Formica-topped tables. Most of the officers in the canteen were in uniform, but there was one young man in street clothes sitting alone at a table and reading the
Daily Herald
.
    Woodend gave him the once-over. Age around twenty-five. Thick black hair. Strong jaw. The same sort of determined aura around him as Bob Rutter had. He’d do very well once he’d been properly trained, the Chief Inspector decided.
    Woodend walked over to the young man’s table. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski?’ he asked.
    A puzzled expression came to the other man’s face. ‘Sergeant Paniatowski?’ he repeated. Then he laughed. ‘Me – Paniatowski? You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick, mate.’ He pointed with his right index finger. ‘That’s Sergeant Panties sitting over by the window.’
    Woodend’s gaze followed the pointing finger, and suddenly he realised what Chief Superintendent Ainsworth’s private joke had been all about.
    Polish, is he? Woodend had asked.
    Well, the sergeant might or might not be Polish, but the blonde with the