Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer Page A

‘You don’t believe them,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve said that I don’t believe them either. So have Stone and Brock. It’s the natural thing to do when one of your colleagues comes under attack. But let’s be honest, at least within
this part
of the team. Whatever we say – however much we might defend Punch – I think we all know, deep down inside ourselves, that the rumours are spot on.’

Ten
    T he interior of the Sea View Private Hotel was exactly as Woodend had pictured it would be. Beyond the entrance was a hallway just large enough for the polished wooden table which held the guest register and the brass gong used to announce meals. The door to the dining-room lay to the right, the stairs to the left. The narrow corridor running along the side of the stairs had a sign pinned to the wall which announced it was ‘Private’, and presumably led to the kitchen and staff quarters.
    The woman who had admitted Woodend and Paniatowski into this peaceful haven announced that she was the landlady, Mrs Bowyer. She was tiny – almost bird-like – but compensated for her slight frame with a hard gaze which could easily slice its way through thick copper piping. In other words, Woodend thought, she was a typical example of the kind of seaside landlady he remembered from his family’s holidays before the war.
    â€˜I was expectin’
two
policemen,’ she said accusingly. ‘That’s what the young bobby who came round to book the rooms told me.’
    Both her tone and her expression suggested that she suspected there was more to all this than met the eye – that she would not be the least surprised if she had been caught up in a vast conspiracy involving the whole of the Lancashire Constabulary, the sole aim of which was to allow the man in the hairy sports jacket to slake the fires of his burning lust on his young blonde companion.
    â€˜
Two
policemen,’ she repeated.
    â€˜You were told to expect two police
officers
,’ Woodend responded. ‘And here we are – Chief Inspector Woodend and Detective Sergeant Paniatowski.’
    â€˜Are you sure that’s who you are?’ Mrs Bowyer asked, the clear implication being that detective chief inspectors should dress better than Woodend did, and that as for Paniatowski, well, women simply had no business being detective sergeants.
    â€˜We can show you our warrant cards if that will make you happier,’ Woodend suggested.
    Mrs Bowyer sniffed disapprovingly, but bowed to the inevitable. ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘If you’ll wait here for a minute, I’ll go an’ check what rooms I’ve put you in.’
    As she retreated down the narrow corridor, Woodend chuckled to himself. What a breed apart these landladies really were, he thought. Unlike most people, the thought of having a senior police officer under their roof did not intimidate them. If the Queen herself turned up and asked for a room, they’d probably want to know why Her Majesty hadn’t booked in advance and remind her that a deposit would be required.
    â€˜I’m goin’ to take a wander when I’ve unpacked my case,’ Woodend said to his new sergeant. ‘Want to come with me?’
    â€˜No, thank you, sir. I think I’ll stay in and wash my hair.’
    Woodend suppressed a grin.
I’m staying in and washing my hair
. How many lads had he known in his youth who’d been given that excuse, when what the girl giving it really meant was: ‘I’d rather go out with a gorilla than go out with you.’
    A new thought struck him, and he felt his good humour evaporate. Had Paniatowski really imagined that he was asking her out on some kind of date? Her previous behaviour suggested that she probably had. How was he ever going to get through to her? How would he ever convince her that the only sort of close relationship he wanted with his new