Fatal Quest (11 page)

‘'E don't even 'ave the time to speak to chief superintendents, never mind detective
sergeants
,' the other added.

‘I could get a search warrant,' Woodend pointed out.

The bouncers thought this was hilarious. ‘Ain't you 'eard?' the bigger one asked. ‘Mr Smivvers is
fireproof
.'

It was probably true, Woodend thought. He had, earlier in his career, taken a conscious decision to avoid having anything to do with the Serious Crime Squad himself, because it was well known – though impossible to prove – that just as big-time criminals like Smithers offered their “protection” to small businesses, there were men high up in the Met, who, for a fee, would protect the protectors.

‘I'm not here tryin' to nail Smithers,' he said.

The bouncers laughed again. ‘Well, I'm sure 'e'll be very relieved to 'ear
that
,' the bigger one said.

‘'E's been losing sleep at nights at the fort of you turning up at his door, one day,' the other added.

Woodend smiled. ‘I do like a good comedy double act,' he said.

The bigger bouncer smirked. ‘We aim ter please,' he said.

‘But if I wanted to see clowns in action, I'd go to the circus an' see the professionals,' the sergeant added.

The big bouncer's smirk vanished. ‘'Ang on, are yer saying we're a pair o' clowns?' he demanded.

‘I'm sayin' that I want to see Greyhound Ron,' Woodend replied. ‘An' while I can't
make
him see me, I
can
make you
ask
if he'll see me.'

‘You reckon?' the big bouncer asked aggressively.

‘I reckon,' Woodend agreed. ‘Because while your boss might be fireproof, I could burn the pair of you easily, if I put my mind to it.'

‘That sounds like a fret,' the bigger bouncer said.

‘Does it?' Woodend asked. ‘Well, you should know, because makin' threats is somethin' you
are
good at.'

The bouncers exchanged glances, then the bigger one said, ‘Wot 'ave I got ter tell 'im yer want to see 'im about?'

‘Tell him I want to see him about Wally Booth.'

The bouncer nodded, almost as if that was exactly what he'd
expected
the sergeant to say.

‘Wait 'ere,' he told Woodend.

Greyhound Ron Smithers was sitting at a table in the corner of the bar of the Royal Albert. There was a brassy blonde talking to him as Woodend walked in, but Smithers jerked his thumb in the direction of a door at the back of the room, and the blonde obediently headed towards it.

Given his nickname, Woodend had expected him to be a slightly less seedy version of the thousands of punters who crowded into the White City to watch the dogs run, but Smithers bore no resemblance to them at all.

He was a big man, in his late thirties or early forties, and was dressed in a sharp suit, which, whilst it might have just stepped over the line separating good taste from flashiness, was undoubtedly top quality. He had thick black hair, and his dark eyes were either intelligent or cunning – or perhaps both. His nose was slightly out of kilter, his mouth tight and his chin square and forceful. Overall, he gave the impression of being a handsome man – if handsome in a
brutal
sort of way.

Smithers gestured Woodend to take a seat.

‘I wouldn't normally waste my time talking to—' he began.

‘I know,' Woodend interrupted, ‘I've already had all that patter from your two goons stationed outside.'

‘Wot patter?'

‘That you're a very busy man, that you only usually speak to coppers above the rank of chief superintendent, etc., etc. So since you
are
such a busy man, can we take it as read that I feel highly honoured to have been granted an audience with you, an' then just get on with the business in hand.'

‘I will say this for yer – yer've got some balls on yer!' Smithers said.

‘Two of them, to be exact,' Woodend replied. ‘I used to kid myself they were world-championship size, but the police doctor tells me they're only slightly larger than average.'

For a moment it looked as Smithers was about to lose his temper, then he smiled and said, ‘My boys tell me you're investigating Wally Booth's murder.'

‘That's right.'

‘How do yer fink I can help?'

‘Simple – you can help by tellin' me who did it.'

‘What makes yer fink I know?'

‘It's your
business
to know. An' even if you don't actually know
now
, you could soon find out, because the killer is either a member of your gang or somebody closely
connected
with the gang.'

‘Why are yer so certain 'e's one of
my
“business associates”?' Smithers asked. ‘Maybe 'e's one of Toby Burroughs's blokes. Yer 'ave 'eard of Toby, I take it?'

‘Oh yes, I've heard of him,' Woodend agreed.

There wasn't an officer serving in the Met who
hadn't
heard of Burroughs. Toby had been in the game even longer than Smithers had, and his firm was the only serious rival to Greyhound Ron's.

‘Yeah, maybe it
was
one of Toby's boys who bumped off Wally,' Smithers said, seeming to warm to the idea. ‘It would make sense, wouldn't it?'

‘It would make no sense at all,' Woodend replied. ‘The Waterman's Arms is on your firm's territory. Burroughs's “business associates” know better than to try an' show their faces there.'

‘All right, if one of them didn't do it, maybe Wally was killed by a civilian – an ordinary punter,' Smithers suggested.

‘In that case, where's the second body?' Woodend wondered.

‘Yer what?'

‘If an ordinary punter had killed one of your lads, he'd have been dead himself before he had time to reach the door. But there was only one body in the pub when the coppers arrived – Booth's! Which can only mean, when you think about it, that whoever killed Wally must have been much more important to your firm than Wally was himself.'

‘Do yer seriously fink I'd let one of my boys get topped wivout doing somefink about it – even if that somefink didn't necessarily involve the law?' Smithers asked.

‘If I knew you better, I might be able to give you an answer to that,' Woodend said, ‘but since we've only just met, I've no idea.'

‘Bullshit apart, what is it that yer
really
want?'

‘I thought I'd already made that plain. I
really
want the guilty man.'

‘And yer don't just want 'im – yer want to collar 'im in a
hurry
.'

‘That's right.'

‘Why?'

Because the sooner I can close this case, the sooner I can get back to the one that really
matters
, Woodend thought.

‘I want him collared in a hurry because I've got my guv'nor breathin' down my neck for a result,' he said aloud.

‘That guv'nor would be DCI Bentley, would it?' Smithers asked.

‘You know it would.'

‘If yer like, I could get the word to Bentley that yer need a bit more elbow room,' Smithers suggested.

‘I
don't
like,' Woodend told him firmly.

Smithers sneered. ‘Oh, you're that kind of copper, are yer? The by-the-book, holier-than-thou variety.'

‘Not exactly,' Woodend said. ‘I've cut a few corners in my time – but I've always been choosy about which corners they were.'

‘So if I was to offer yer some money not to bovver me no more – say, for sake of argument, a couple of grand – yer'd turn it down, would yer?'

Two thousand pounds was a small fortune to a detective sergeant, Woodend thought. Even high-ranking officers, like Commander Cathcart, didn't come anywhere near earning that much in a year.

‘If you were to offer me a couple of grand, I'd have to assume you were tryin' to hide a much bigger secret than the name of Wally Booth's killer,' he said.

Smithers laughed. ‘Yer right,' he agreed. ‘An' if I
did
'ave a big secret to hide, I wouldn't even
bovver
trying to bribe
you
. For a couple o' grand, I could buy myself a monkey much higher up the tree.'

And the depressing thing was, what he was saying was probably true, Woodend thought.

‘I'd like to know what you think about another matter,' he said.

‘What uvver matter?'

‘Pearl Jones.'

‘The coloured girl wot was killed the night before last?'

‘That's right.'

‘Why should I know anyfink about 'er?'

‘Because her throat was slashed with a razor.'

Smithers chuckled. ‘Oh, now I get it,' he said. ‘Because a razor was involved the murderer must have been a “businessman”.'

‘Exactly.'

‘Razors went out of fashion before the War. The only people wot still carry them are a few of the old-timers – men like Toby Burroughs.'

‘You never miss the chance to point the finger at Toby Burroughs, do you?' Woodend asked.

‘Would you miss the chance, if yer were in my position?' Smithers countered. ‘What businessman wouldn't love to see 'is main competitor banged up for a few years?'

‘Whatever happened to the concept of honour among thieves?' Woodend wondered, almost to himself.

Smithers looked down at his watch. ‘Time for yer to go,' he said. ‘But before yer leave, I'd like to give yer a bit of advice. And it's this – if yer want to do well for yerself in the Met, it's best not to rock the boat too much.'

‘Even if that means lettin' the villains go free?' Woodend asked.

‘Yes, even if it means that some of the villains – certain
selected
villains – go free,' Smithers said. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, do yer ever wonder why some top coppers in the Met spend so much of their time being wined and dined by some of the top “businessmen”?'

‘Because they feel they have to do
somethin
' to earn their bribes?' Woodend suggested.

Smithers looked disappointed with the answer. It was almost, Woodend thought, as if the question had been set as a test of his knowledge and intelligence and – in Smithers's eyes – he had failed it miserably.

‘We both know that there are a fair number of bent coppers on the Force,' the gangster agreed, ‘but a lot of the ones wot I go out clubbing with are straight as a die. Try again.'

‘If it's not that, then you must all be part of the same funny handshakes brigade,' Woodend said, knowing that this wasn't the answer Smithers was looking for, either.

‘Some of my social acquaintances in the Met
are
members of my Masonic lodge,' Smithers conceded. ‘But that's not it eiver.'

‘Then what
is
the answer?'

‘Yer might fink fings are in a hell of a mess out there now,' Smithers said, gesturing towards the street, ‘but yer can't even
begin
to imagine how bad they'd be wivout people like me around.' He paused for a second. ‘Now don't get me wrong,' he continued, in an almost avuncular manner. ‘It's not actually your fault that you can't imagine it.'

‘Isn't it?' Woodend asked.

‘No, it ain't. You're at the bottom of the 'eap, looking up. But your brass are the top of the 'eap, and they've got a much clearer view of the situation as it really is. So they see me as an ally – at least, they do
some
of the time – because they know that we're involved in the same struggle. Because they know that if we weren't
both
here – the coppers and the top businessmen – everyfink would fall apart in no time at all.'

D
C Cotteral was slouched over his desk. He had wrapped a rubber band in an intricate weave around the outstretched fingers of his right hand, and was now slowly moving one finger at a time, in order to see what effect that would have on the overall structure.

‘It's good to see you're keepin' busy,' Woodend said.

Cotteral looked up. ‘Oh, I am,' he agreed. ‘This isn't as easy as it looks, you know. If you don't get the tension just right, you'll snap the elastic and end up with a nasty case of rubber-band-lash.'

Woodend glanced across at the Wolf's Lair. The door was open, and there was no sign of Bentley.

‘Where's the guv'nor?' he asked.

‘Don't you know?' Cotteral asked.

Woodend shook his head, and Cotteral smirked.

‘Funny he didn't tell you where he was going,' the detective constable said. ‘I thought DCIs
always
made it their business to keep their bagmen apprised of their movements.'

But not this particular DCI with this particular bagman, Woodend thought – and you know that as well as I do, Cotteral, you little shit.

‘I'm not in the mood for playin' games,' he said aloud.

‘Aren't you, Sarge?' Cotteral asked. ‘I am surprised, especially after what the guv'nor said this morning, just before he left for his half-day conference.' He wiggled his fingers again, putting even more tension on the rubber bands. ‘Now what
were
Mr Bentley's exact words?' he pondered. ‘Oh yes, I've got it now. “I'm sick to death of that smart-arse Woodend and his bloody games.” That's what he said. I think he's rather annoyed with you.'

If he'd needed any further indication that his own position on the DCI's team was precarious, he'd got it now, Woodend thought. His star had never hung
very
high in Bentley's sky, but for Cotteral to dare to put the boot in like this, it must have gone into freefall and be plunging rapidly towards the earth.

‘So you're sayin' the guv'nor's gone to a half-day conference?' he asked Cotteral.