Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer Page A

‘Pissed. Legless.’
    â€˜As you say,’ Gutteridge confirmed. ‘And sometimes this human offal which poses as an audience wants more from a performance than my actors are allowed by the constabulary to provide.’
    â€˜Do you always take this long to get to the point?’ Woodend asked.
    Gutteridge smiled ruefully. ‘Forgive me, my dear man. It is sometimes difficult to break the habits of a lifetime on the stage. These particular groundlings I was about to refer to infested us with their presence about two weeks ago. There were half a dozen of them, and they were – as you would say – pissed out of their tiny minds. Not happy with the spectacular we had presented, they refused to leave the auditorium until the girls had divested themselves of their few remaining garments. That was not possible, and so we called in the police.’
    â€˜An’ what happened then?’
    â€˜Faced with the majesty of the law, the groundlings withdrew from the theatre without further resistance.’
    An obvious question came to the forefront of Woodend’s mind, but instead of asking it then – when it might be expected – he decided to file it for later.
    â€˜I’m surprised to find a man with a legitimate theatre background like your own in a place like this,’ he said instead.
    Gutteridge sighed. ‘What can I tell you, my dear man?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘For years I dedicated myself to my art, with very little to show for it in material terms. Here, I may not earn golden opinions, but at least I can now look forward to the twilight of my years with a little less financial trepidation.’
    â€˜Aye, an’ you’re probably makin’ more money an’ all,’ Woodend said, and before the manager had time to explain that was what he had meant, the chief inspector was on his feet and holding out his hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gutteridge,’ he continued.
    â€˜The pleasure has all been mine, Chief Inspector.’
    Woodend manoeuvred around the desk to the door, and was halfway out of the office when he turned and said, ‘Oh, there is one more thing, sir.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜When you called in the police, was the officer who answered the call Mr Davies, by any chance?’
    The manager only blinked once – but Woodend did not miss it.
    â€˜Who?’ Gutteridge asked.
    â€˜Detective Inspector Davies,’ Woodend repeated.
    â€˜The name sounds familiar. He wasn’t the man who met an unfortunate end under the Central Pier, was he?’
    â€˜That’s the feller.’
    â€˜Then no, it certainly wasn’t him. The two officers in question were both in uniform – a sergeant and a constable, I believe. Now if that’s all –’
    â€˜It isn’t, actually,’ Woodend told him. ‘If I can quote you a second time, you said, “our little difficulties in that direction had been satisfactorily resolved”.’
    â€˜I still fail to see—’
    â€˜I don’t have your way with words, but that sounds to me as if you were talkin’ about a long-term problem rather than an isolated incident involvin’ a few yobs.’
    For a moment, a confused expression filled Gutteridge’s face. Then it cleared to be replaced by the look of a man who has realised that there might have been an honest misunderstanding.
    â€˜I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘The problem was not the incident itself, but whether it would have longer-term consequences. I was concerned that as a result of it, the constabulary might decide to take a less-than-favourable view of my establishment.’
    â€˜But they haven’t?’
    â€˜No, the sergeant rang me a few days later to say that from his standpoint there was no more to be said on that matter. I expect he realised that we operate as a safety valve, and that if the Gay Paree was closed, something