Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer Page B

when we were just about to go downstairs again, I pretended I needed to use the bathroom, so she’d leave me alone.’
    â€˜Bloody hell, lass, you can’t go lookin’ around people’s houses without the proper search warrant!’ Woodend exploded.
    â€˜She invited us into the house, and invited me upstairs. I might have looked around, but I didn’t touch anything. I don’t think I’ve broken any laws, have I, sir?’
    â€˜No,’ Woodend conceded reluctantly. ‘Probably not. So what did you discover on your little only-slightly-illegal search?’
    â€˜Like I said, I went into the main bedroom first, on the pretext of examining the curtains. It’s a very feminine room – all soft furnishings and bright colours. The next door up the hallway is obviously the boy’s room, with model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling and pictures of footballers stuck up on the walls. You know the sort of thing I mean?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I know the sort of thing you mean.’
    â€˜The third bedroom’s the girl’s. But it’s the fourth that’s the interesting one. That’s where I would have expected to find Mrs Davies’ sewing machine if I hadn’t already known better. Instead I found a single bed – made up – and a battered wardrobe. When I opened the wardrobe—’
    â€˜I thought you said you hadn’t touched anythin’.’
    â€˜Hardly anything. When I opened the wardrobe, I discovered it contained jackets and suits. You know what this means, don’t you, sir?’
    â€˜It means that the Davieses no longer shared a bed,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜Exactly. And wasn’t that worth finding out?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ Woodend admitted. His eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, when you threw your arms around Mrs Davies like that, was it already in your mind to try and talk your way upstairs?’
    â€˜No. But when I thought about it – when I saw how you’d deliberately created the opportunity for me – it seemed too good a chance to miss.’
    Did she really believe he’d done it deliberately, Woodend wondered – or was she just putting the onus of the search on him? If it were the former, she was more naïve than her record would indicate. If it were the latter, she was playing just the sort of game of running rings around her boss as he remembered playing when he was an ambitious DS himself. Whichever the case, this young woman would need watching.

Eight
    S ergeant Frank Hanson sat facing the three detective constables who formed the rest of the team, and puffed listlessly on a Woodbine.
    The room in which they were meeting – the basement of Blackpool Central Police Station – had for years been nothing more than a dumping ground for things it was easier to store than to sort through. Since the murder, however, the old bicycles, damaged traffic signs and cardboard boxes full of mouldy reports had all been cleared out, to be replaced by a long table, a blackboard and several gun-metal desks.
    Out of chaos had been created the nerve centre of a major criminal investigation, Hanson thought cynically. It was a pity then, that the new nerve centre still smelled like a junk room.
    â€˜Where the bloody hell did you say Mr Woodend had gone, Sarge?’ asked one of the detective constables, DC Brock, a thickset young man with a bullet-shaped head.
    â€˜To see “Judy” Davies, Badger,’ Hanson replied.
    â€˜An’ while he’s pissin’ about doin’ that, we’re left sittin’ here on our arses instead of bein’ on the streets lookin’ for the killer.’
    â€˜It’s apparently the way Mr Woodend usually works,’ Hanson said mildly. ‘First he gets a feeling for the scene of the crime, and
then
he decides what direction the investigation’s going to take.’
    He was trying to sound