Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page A

– The Sea View.’
    Woodend’s gaze followed the direction of the pointing finger. The hotel was one of a block of dressed-stone four-storied hotels, all of which had bay windows jutting out slightly over their small front yards.
    â€˜Sea View,’ he said reflectively. ‘That’s an original name.’
    â€˜If you’d prefer somewhere else –’ Turner began.
    â€˜Nay,’ Woodend interrupted. ‘You’ve worked with me before, Ron. You should know that all I want from my digs is a bed I can lay my head on for five or six hours a day – if I’m lucky. The Sea View will do me an’ Sergeant Paniatowski here just fine.’
    â€˜Well, would you like to go across there now and settle in?’ Turner suggested.
    â€˜No. Why waste the best part of the day?’ Woodend replied. ‘Have our luggage sent up there, an’ tell the landlady not to expect us for tea. Or supper, either – if there’s one provided.’
    Turner nodded. ‘All right. I’ll arrange that. And what would you like us to do next?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t expect
you
to do anythin’,’ Woodend told him. ‘You’ve got quite enough on your hands without shepherdin’ us around.’
    â€˜So what will you and Monika be doing next?’
    â€˜If the car’s still available, I thought me an’ Sergeant Paniatowski might just go an’ see the grievin’ widow.’

Seven
    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.
    â€˜You could be very useful at this interview, Sergeant,’ he said.
    â€˜Any reason in particular you should say that, sir?’ asked Paniatowski, the reluctant errand-girl, still not willing to give an inch.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Then what
is
important?’
    â€˜That I’m a trained police officer, sir, just like you are.’
    â€˜Is that what you really think?’ Woodend asked. ‘That it’s the
trainin
’ which makes a good bobby?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.’
    Woodend sighed and wondered how his literary hero, Charles Dickens, would have explained it.
    â€˜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
.’
    â€˜Are you telling me that all policemen should be like you?’ Paniatowski asked aggressively.
    â€˜No,’ Woodend replied, forcing his voice to stay level and reasonable. ‘An’ if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, Sergeant, you’re