Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer Page B

much more sordid would spring up to take its place.’
    â€˜Aye, that probably
is
what he thought,’ Woodend said. ‘Well, goodbye again, Mr Gutteridge.’
    As he stepped through the office door, Woodend noticed the brassy blonde again. She was standing a few feet away from him and wearing the same towelling robe she had worn when she’d been on the platform. Now, however, it was so loosely belted that there was no longer a question of whether or not she was wearing a bra.
    With a smile playing on her lips, she ran her eyes appraisingly up and down Woodend’s body. ‘Well, fancy running into you again so soon, Handsome,’ she said.
    Before there was a chance for the policeman to respond to her, Gutteridge emerged from the office and quickly inserted himself into the space between them.
    â€˜Where are my manners, allowing you to leave unescorted?’ the theatre manager said. ‘Let me show you the exit,
Chief Inspector
.’
    Woodend allowed himself to be led away, but not before he had noted the look of shock which had appeared on the girl’s face.
    Gutteridge steered Woodend to the door. ‘Come again, Mr Woodend,’ he said. ‘And next time do not feel obliged to part with any of your coins of the realm. For we humble players, the honour of your presence is payment enough.’
    â€˜That sounds a bit like bribery and corruption to me,’ Woodend said.
    The manager laughed – rather too loudly, the chief inspector thought.
    â€˜What a wit you are,’ he said. ‘What a loss to the stage was your decision to follow the path of law enforcement.’ But even as he spoke, his hand – resting in the small of Woodend’s back – was easing the chief inspector through the exit.
    Woodend stepped out into the side street and saw that directly opposite was not only a row of boarding houses as he had expected, but also a brightly lit fish and chip shop.
    â€˜Now if that’s not fate pointin’ my way, what is?’ he asked himself.
    He crossed the road and entered the chip shop. There were no other customers at that moment, and the cook, a jolly-looking fat man, was standing behind the counter reading the evening paper. When he heard the bell over the door ring, he laid the paper on the counter and smiled at his new customer.
    â€˜What can I do for you, mate?’ he asked.
    â€˜A fried cod an’ a double ration of chips,’ Woodend told him.
    â€˜Good choice. The cod’s so fresh it hasn’t stopped swimmin’ yet.’
    Woodend watched the fryer scoop the chips out of the bubbling fat in the range and place them, with the fish, into a neat newspaper parcel.
    â€˜Does the name Inspector Davies mean anythin’ to you?’ the chief inspector asked, as he handed over the money.
    â€˜I should say it does. He got himself topped last night – under yon Central Pier.’
    â€˜Did you know him personally?’
    â€˜Can’t say that I did.’
    â€˜But you had no difficulty in recognising the name?’
    â€˜Well, of course not. We don’t get many murders in Blackpool, an’ as far as I can remember, we’ve
never
had a bobby killed before. So when one does get done in, it’s bound to stick in your mind, isn’t it?’
    Exactly, Woodend thought as he picked up his parcel of fish and chips.
It’s bound to stick in your mind.
But it hadn’t stuck in Gutteridge’s mind. When the name of the dead policeman had first come up, he hadn’t recognised it at all. Or perhaps he’d only
pretended
not to recognise it.
    The last end-of-the-pier show of the day was long over, the amusements had been closed for the night, and the Central Pier was in darkness. But it was not quite deserted. The glowing red end of a cigarette, moving through the night like a demented firefly, would have told any observer that at least one person had stayed behind.
    Tommy ‘Now Where Was