Fatal Quest (24 page)

One of his men grabbed Paulie by the ankles, the other grabbed Jack. They dragged the two men along the street, and as they did so the backs of the Liverpudlians' heads went bang-bang-bang along the cobblestones. Once they had deposited the first two in the van, the men came back for Eddie.

Duffel Coat crouched down in front of Woodend.

‘Yer fort yer was a gonner there, didn't yer?' he said.

‘No, I always knew that the cavalry would turn up at the last minute,' Woodend replied.

And then he tried to smile – which hurt.

‘Let me 'elp yer up,' Duffel Coat suggested, putting this hands under Woodend's armpits and levering him to his feet.

It was a painful process, but once he was up, Woodend found that he could
stay up
without assistance. And though his gut was still on fire, at least now his vision had cleared.

‘Do you need us ter take yer anywhere, or can yer get there under yer own steam?' Duffel Coat asked.

‘I can manage on my own,' Woodend said. ‘Who are you?'

‘The last bloke wot asked me somefink like that got a club round the 'ead,' Duffel Coat said.

And though – given the way the nylon stocking distorted his features, it was hard to say for sure – Woodend was
almost
certain that he grinned.

‘What are you goin' to do with them three Liverpool lads?' he asked. ‘Kill them?'

‘Nah,' Duffel Coat said. ‘Nuffink like that. We'll just wrap 'em in a nice neat parcel, and send 'em 'ome to mum.'

He walked back to the van, and just before he got in, he turned again. He stood rooted to the spot for a moment – as if assessing whether or not Woodend really could manage on his own – then gave a cheery wave and said, ‘Mind 'ow yer go.'

It was those few seconds of standing still which had really given him away, Woodend thought.

Up to that point he'd had his suspicions about the man, but no more. After all, he argued to himself, there were probably thousands of men in London – perhaps even scores of thousands – who wore green duffel coats. And if only by the law of averages, the chances were that a good number of them would be roughly the same height and build as this man.

But how many of the men of similar height and build would adopt exactly the same
stance
when sizing up a situation as he had? And what was the likelihood of Woodend running into two of them, barely more than an hour apart?

The van drove away, and Woodend found himself wondering if Duffel Coat had followed him from the park, or if he'd only been called in when it became obvious that reinforcements would be needed.

‘W
hat are you working on, Sergeant?' DCI Bentley asked.

Woodend looked up from a desk, artfully strewn with documents and reports, which, if they were not in fact meaningless in themselves, were certainly meaningless to him.

‘I'm just catchin' up on my backlog of paperwork, while I've got the chance, sir,' he said.

Bentley nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent. I've always said that well-maintained paperwork is the sign of a tidy mind – and that a tidy mind is the sign of a good policeman.'

Quite right, Woodend thought. Who cares whether you catch any criminals or not, as long as all your ‘i's are neatly dotted an' all your ‘t's clearly crossed?

‘What about the rest of you?' Bentley asked the three detective constables who were the other current occupants of the office. ‘Have there been any developments on that little darkie's murder yet?'

Two of the constables contented themselves with simply shaking their heads, but DC Cotteral said, ‘We're still working on it, sir.'

‘Is that right?' Bentley asked. ‘Well, might I suggest that you work on it a little
harder
?'

‘Sure thing, guv,' Cotteral agreed readily.

‘I have to go out for the afternoon, and the chances are that I won't see you again until tomorrow morning,' the DCI continued. ‘But when I
do
see you, you'd better not come to me empty-handed. Solid leads is what I want. Solid leads is what I
demand
.'

His words didn't ring true, Woodend thought. It was almost as if Bentley was play-acting – and doing so solely for
his
benefit.

What was it Eddie, the Liverpool thug, had said?

‘
Nobody wants the case solved – and that includes your bosses in the big cop-shop on the river!
'

So maybe he'd had it wrong about the investigation all along. Maybe it wasn't just idleness or bigotry that was slowing it up. Maybe there was
another
reason for the sluggishness – one he couldn't even begin to guess at.

‘Remember, boys,' Bentley said from the doorway, ‘it's a solid lead I want – something I can really get my teeth into.'

Then he stepped through the door, and was gone.

And as Bentley's footsteps echoed down the corridor, Woodend's mind turned to thoughts of the man in the green duffel coat.

‘I was very grateful for what he'd done for me,' Woodend explained to Paniatowski. ‘As it was, I was hurtin' quite a lot, but if he
hadn't
intervened, it would have been a bloody sight worse. But what I still couldn't understand was
why
he'd intervened.'

‘I should have thought that was pretty obvious,' Paniatowski said.

‘Would you?' Woodend asked. ‘Then please explain it to me.'

‘Well, the man who'd sent the Liverpudlians after you wanted you off the Pearl Jones case. Agreed?'

‘After what they'd said to me, there's no disputin' that.'

‘And whoever was behind the man in the green duffel coat wanted you to stay
on
the case.'

‘It's as simple as that, is it?' Woodend asked.

‘I think so.'

‘Then how do you explain what happened to Tom Townshend?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Two hours before the man in the green duffel coat rescued me so I could continue investigatin' the murder, he beat the shit out of Tom precisely
because
he was part of that same investigation. Now how do you make any sense out of that?'

‘I can't,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘No, I didn't think you could,' Woodend said, his smile back in place. ‘But there
is
an answer, an' when it comes to you, you will let me know, won't you?'

Woodend raised his head, and glanced around the office. Even though Bentley had gone, the three detective constables were all on the phone, making a great show of trying to come up with the lead that their guv'nor had demanded. Yet Woodend couldn't help thinking that that was all it was – a show!

So there they all were, he told himself – four men sitting in an office, three pretending that they
were
working on the Pearl Jones case, and one pretending that he
wasn't
.

When Woodend arrived home at seven o'clock, it was to be greeted by the smell of furniture polish and freshly cut flowers, which was no surprise at all to him, since that night was
the
night on which Commander and Mrs Arthur Cathcart were coming round for
the
meal.

‘So how does the place look?' Joan asked him, the moment he stepped into the living room.

Woodend glanced around him, which, given the size of the flat, didn't really take him very long.

‘It looks grand,' he said. ‘What are we givin' them for supper?'

‘Dinner, Charlie,' Joan corrected him. ‘We're givin' them
dinner
.'

‘Dinner, then,' he agreed.

‘We're havin' Lancashire hotpot.'

He'd been expecting her to say steak or fish. It had never occurred to him that she would be offering her guests the typical Lancashire mill workers' meal of meat and vegetables, which owed its popularity mainly to the fact that it could be left stewing all day, while the whole family was out at work.

‘Is there somethin' wrong with givin' them hotpot?' Joan asked, sensing his misgivings.

‘Nay, lass,' Woodend said, unconvincingly.

‘You think there is,' Joan countered. ‘I can see it in your eyes. But what you have to understand, Charlie, is that posh food would be no treat for them. They're so used to it, they'll have it comin' out of their ears. But they'll never have had Lancashire hotpot – so it'll be a nice change for them.'

‘You're one in a million,' Woodend said admiringly.

And so she was, he thought.

Most wives in her position would have been intimidated by the thought of the Cathcarts coming round to eat, but Joan had not only taken the whole thing in her stride – she had been the one who'd actually arranged it.

‘You seem to be movin' a bit stiffly, Charlie,' Joan said.

And how many women, just before their important dinner party, would have noticed
that
? Woodend thought with affection.

‘I'm all right,' he said. ‘Is there anythin' I can do to help?'

‘No, you just put your feet up for a while.'

‘I don't need to …'

‘You've probably been sweatin' over a hot criminal all day, an' now you need to put your feet up!' Joan said firmly.

‘Well, just for the sake of domestic tranquillity, I'll not argue with you any more,' Woodend told her, as a pain shot across his midriff.

It was at twenty past seven that Joan's veneer of confidence began to show the first signs of cracking.

‘I think you were right, Charlie – I should have cooked somethin' else for them,' she told Woodend.

‘
I
never
said
you should have cooked somethin' else,' Woodend pointed out. ‘An' anyway, I'm sure they'll enjoy what you
have
cooked them.'

‘Maybe we should have taken them out to a restaurant,' Joan fretted.

As if we could ever afford the kinds of restaurants that
they're
used to goin' to, Woodend thought.

‘I told you, they'll love your food,' he said. ‘An' if they don't …'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, they can just get stuffed, can't they?'

‘Thank you, Charlie,' Joan said, with a weak smile.

‘What for?' Woodend asked.

His wife shrugged. ‘I don't really know. For just bein'
you
, I suppose.'

At twenty-five past seven, Joan began moving the vases of flowers around, and would probably have rearranged all the furniture, too, if Woodend hadn't stepped in and stopped her.

‘It's just that the flat looks so
small
,' Joan said.

‘It
is
small,' Woodend told her. ‘An' shiftin' around the sofa isn't goin' to make it look any bigger. Besides, this is where we
live
,
not
who we
are
.'

‘Sometimes I think I've married the wisest man in the world,' Joan said.

‘An' sometimes you think you've married a bloody idiot,' Woodend countered.

‘That's true as well,' Joan agreed.

At half past seven on the dot, the door bell rang.

‘You answer it, Charlie,' Joan said, in a panic.

Woodend opened the door, and saw Peggy Cathcart standing on the threshold. At her own luncheon party she'd been wearing an elegant cocktail dress. Now she was wearing a cheap – if slightly daring – frock.

Woodend wondered if she'd deliberately dressed down, so as not to intimidate them – and
if
she had, whether he appreciated the gesture or not.

‘Where's the commander?' he asked. ‘Parkin' the car?'

Peggy looked embarrassed. ‘I'm afraid Arthur won't be coming after all,' she said. ‘He was called to a very important meeting at the last minute.'

Had
he been called to a meeting, Woodend wondered – or had he
arranged
a meeting himself, in order to avoid what he probably suspected would be a very awkward social situation?

‘Well, it's a great pity the commander can't be here, but these things happen,' he said aloud.

‘Maybe they do, though I'm still furious that he
allowed
it to happen,' Peggy replied. ‘But I'm certainly not going to let his absence spoil
my
fun.'

Peggy looked surprised that there was no first course to precede the hotpot, but she made such a quick recovery that Woodend was almost certain that Joan hadn't noticed. And the commander's wife certainly attacked the food which was placed in front of her with real gusto.

Over the meal – and mainly in answer to Joan's questions – Peggy talked about her life. She told of foreign cruises and embassy receptions, of sitting on the boards of museums and attending the final day of racing at Royal Ascot. She was both witty and modestly brief, but the more she spoke, the more Joan seemed to shrink into herself.

‘Well, you certainly seem to have led an interestin' life,' Joan sighed, as Peggy mopped up the last of her stew with a piece of bread.

‘Do you really think so?' Peggy asked.

‘Well, yes.'

‘Well, I don't. I think it's been all been so mind-numbingly predictable. Oh, I admit the idea of a cruise
sounds
glamorous if you've never been on one, but really, it doesn't take you long to realize that when you've seen one stretch of sea, you've seen them all.'

‘But what about goin' to Royal Ascot for the races? What about meetin' the King an' Queen in the Royal Enclosure?'

‘You don't
meet
the King and Queen,' Peggy said. ‘You're
presented
to them.'

‘Isn't that the same thing?'

‘No, it most certainly is not. You stand in a line, and when they draw level with you, you curtsey. And if you're
very
lucky, they say a few words to you. It's supposed to be a great honour …'