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

completely missin’ the point. There’s plenty of room for differences. In fact, they’re essential. If two bobbies see somethin’ –
anythin’ at all
– in exactly the same way, then it’s a waste of time them workin’ together. It’s the differences which make a team good or bad – an’ I want us to be a good team.’
    The driver pulled up at the curb before Paniatowski had time to reply. ‘This is the place, sir,’ he said.
    Woodend looked out of the window. They had stopped in front of a row of largish terraced houses.
    â€˜Is she expectin’ us?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜Yes, sir. We rang her from the station.’
    The chief inspector extracted his bulk from the car, taking pains as he did so not to brush against his sergeant. Once on the pavement, he stopped to take a look around. The row of houses was in good condition. They all had neat lace curtains, recently painted doors and an uninterrupted view of Stanley Park, with its cricket ground, putting green and rose gardens. Nice, very nice. But not anything like
too
nice – not the sort of area Woodend would have been surprised to find a detective inspector living in.
    â€˜What are we looking for, sir?’ asked Paniatowski, joining him on the pavement.
    That was better, Woodend thought. Much better. She was finally starting to chuck her prejudices out of the window and use her brain.
    â€˜A murder turns a family inside out,’ he said. ‘You have to expect that. But what we’re lookin’ for is somethin’ that wasn’t quite right even
before
the victim met his end.’
    â€˜Won’t that be hard to isolate?’ Paniatowski asked.
    â€˜Almost impossible,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it’s what’s expected of us – that’s why we get such fat wage packets at the end of the week.’
    The crazy-paving path was weed-free, the borders each side of it neatly trimmed. Woodend walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.
    The woman who answered the ring was wearing an old floral dress. ‘Mrs Davies?’ the chief inspector asked.
    â€˜That’s right.’
    Detective Inspector William Davies had been thirty-five when he’d met his end, and Woodend had been expecting his wife would look roughly the same age. She didn’t – and the Chief Inspector tried to work out why. It wasn’t just that her blonde hair had begun to fade, or that her upper arms – clearly visible in her short-sleeved frock – had begun to put on weight. There were deep lines around her blue eyes and small mouth – lines which, if she really was thirty-five, she should not have earned for at least another ten years.
    She wasn’t wearing make-up, either. That – to most people – would have been perfectly understandable. After all, you couldn’t expect someone in mourning to make that kind of effort. But Woodend had talked to dozens of recent widows in his time on the force, and knew that the majority of them – either from habit or to have something to hold on to – usually made at least a token effort to be presentable.
    A discreet cough from Paniatowski reminded him it was his turn to speak again.
    â€˜I’m Chief Inspector Woodend and this is Sergeant—’ he began.
    â€˜I’ve been expecting you,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Follow me.’
    She led the two police officers down a carpeted hallway into a lounge which contained two modern easy chairs with skeletal wooden arms, a sofa in the same style, a radiogram, a cocktail cabinet and a television. Thoroughly conventional, Woodend thought. Exactly what he would have expected.
    â€˜Won’t you sit down?’ Mrs Davies said.
    Woodend lowered himself into one of the easy chairs. Paniatowski took the sofa.
    â€˜You have a very nice house,’ Paniatowski said.
    Mrs Davies crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders tightly.