Fatal Quest (30 page)

‘And isn't that the same thing?' Naylor asked impatiently.

‘No, sir, it isn't. I investigated the case that Mr Bentley assigned me to – the murder of Walter Booth in the Waterman's Arms – and I got a result.'

Even if it was the
wrong
result, he added mentally. Even if, for reasons I still don't completely understand, Jimmy Machin allowed himself to be
fitted up
.

‘This is the Metropolitan Police Force,' Naylor said gravely. ‘We do things properly here – and we do not consider that a success in one area of your activities gives you the right to flout the rules in another.'

‘But I didn't flout any rules. My investigation into the Pearl Jones case was carried out in my own time.'

Naylor's frown deepened.

‘You're beginning to sound rather too much like a barrack-room lawyer for my taste, Sergeant,' he said. ‘But leaving aside your disregard for the proper procedure, there is another question to be answered. And it is this – did you really think that you could conduct a
better
investigation, working on your own, than DCI Bentley could with the
entire resources
of New Scotland Yard at his disposal?'

This had to be a dream, Woodend thought. He wasn't in Deputy Commissioner Naylor's office at all – he was still back his own bed, caught up a delirium brought on by the flu. How else could he explain the fact that he thought he'd just heard Naylor say he couldn't possibly expect to solve a case which, in fact, he'd
already solved
?

And yet, despite the logic of this argument, the room seemed to be real enough, and so did the deputy commissioner. And as hard as Woodend tried to, he still couldn't convince himself that he was making up this whole encounter in his own head!

‘I asked you a question, Sergeant, and I am still waiting for an answer,' Naylor said. ‘What made you think that you had a better chance of finding Pearl Jones's murderer than DCI Bentley had?'

It
was
all real! It had to be!

‘When I started out, I'd no idea whether or not I'd be able to get a result before DCI Bentley did, sir,' Woodend said, ‘but the simple fact is that I have.'

‘Have you, indeed?' Naylor asked quizzically.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And what do you base this sweeping assumption on?'

‘Well, there's the girl's coat, for a start.'

‘Ah yes, the coat. That proves the girl was in the club, does it?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘So you found it in the club, did you?'

‘No, sir. My informant took it from the club, and gave it to me.'

‘And your informant is?'

‘I'm afraid I can't tell you that, sir.'

‘So I have absolutely no basis on which to assess the reliability of this informant, except the opinion of an inexperienced detective sergeant,' Naylor said cuttingly. ‘But let us assume, for the moment, that the coat did come from the club. How do you propose to link it to the girl?'

‘It's part of her school uniform.'

‘And no doubt of the uniform of several other schools, as well,' Naylor said. ‘But again, even if the coats were unique to her school, how do you propose to set about proving that she, and not one of the other girls, left it at the Charleston Club?'

‘The other girls had no reason to be at the club,' Woodend said. ‘The other girls weren't lookin' for a gangster who they thought might be their father.'

‘And how do you know that was what Pearl Jones was doing?'

‘I …'

‘I'll tell you how you know – or
think
you know, at any rate. You're basing your whole theory on what you were told by
another
impressionable young girl, who probably doesn't know fact from fiction.'

‘You haven't met her, sir,' Woodend said stubbornly. ‘If you had, you'd have as much confidence in her as I have.'

‘It seems to me that Tompkinson girl is not the only one with an overactive imagination,' Naylor said. ‘I can think of a certain detective sergeant who seems only too willing to plunge into the depths of unreality.'

‘Look, sir, I know there might not be enough evidence to arrest Smithers yet,' Woodend said, ‘but the evidence will
be
there, an' it shouldn't be too difficult to gather it up – because there's no doubt that he did it.'

‘But that's just the point,' Naylor countered. ‘He didn't.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘As well you might, Sergeant, because Ronald Smithers
isn't
the killer.'

‘But he has to be! He was at the club, he left with the girl, and—'

‘You're quite wrong about that as well. He wasn't at the club at all.'

‘He bloody was! He's been placed there by my source, an' I have complete faith in her.'

‘And I have complete faith in the officers serving under me, Sergeant,' Naylor said coldly.

‘I don't understand,' Woodend admitted.

‘Of course you don't. How could you? You've got such a high opinion of your own abilities that you're convinced that you – and only you – have all the answers. But you don't – not by a very long way.'

‘If you'd care to explain, sir …'

‘I am under absolutely no obligation to explain
anything
to you, Sergeant Woodend.'

‘I know that, sir, but—'

‘However, since your own arrogance is unlikely to allow you to appreciate just how foolish you've been until I
do
explain, I'm prepared, on this one single occasion, to tell you why I find it so easy to rule Ronald Smithers out of the investigation.'

Before Naylor would say any more, he was going to have to say something himself, Woodend realized. And he knew what the deputy commissioner expected that
something
to be.

‘Thank you, sir,' he said, almost choking on the words.

It seemed enough for Naylor – but only just.

‘Smithers has been under deep investigation by the Flying Squad for some time,' the deputy commissioner said. ‘We have him under observation round the clock, which means, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, that he was under observation the Tuesday night before last. So we know exactly where he was, Sergeant – and he was nowhere near this Charleston Club of yours.'

‘I see,' Woodend said.

‘I thought you might. But let us now return to the matter of how I should discipline you, shall we? There are several sanctions I
could
employ. I could suspend you, or I could dock your pay. If I decided to take you in front of a board, you might be reduced in rank, or even dismissed from the Force. But I have decided to let the matter rest with a mere slap on the wrist. Would you like to know why?'

‘Yes, sir,' Woodend said – because there was really no choice in the matter.

‘There are two main reasons. The first is that while I am far from impressed with the simplistic, bull-headed way in which you have conducted this “private” investigation of yours, I recognize that at least it shows some initiative. But the second – more important – reason is that Commander Cathcart has interceded on your behalf. He has assured me that you have the makings of a very good policeman, and since I have considerably more faith in
his
judgement than I currently have in
yours
, I have agreed to let the matter rest there. But be warned, Sergeant Woodend, if you step over the line again, there will be no second chance. Have I made myself clear?'

‘Perfectly clear, sir,' Woodend said.

Naylor nodded. ‘Good. Well, in that case, you're dismissed.'

He had managed to make his exit from Naylor's office appear reasonably civilized, but the moment there was a door between him and the deputy commissioner, Woodend exploded.

Naylor had been talking bollocks, he told himself as he strode furiously down the corridor. Total and
complete
bollocks!

He reached the stairs, and slammed his foot down heavily on the first one as he began his descent.

Bang!

He felt it jar his spine, and he didn't care. He would almost welcome physical pain as a distraction from the rage that was burning him up.

Bang!

The Flying Squad had Smithers under twenty-four-hour observation, Naylor had said.

Bang!

Had they, indeed? Then why hadn't they arrested him in connection with the murder of Wally Booth – because Woodend was now sure he'd been there in the Waterman's Arms when it happened.

Bang!

Greyhound Ron Smithers was nowhere near the Charlton Club that night, Naylor had added.

Bang!

Like hell, he wasn't! Shirley, the fat cloakroom attendant, had had no reason to lie. And she
hadn't
lied! What she'd told him had been the absolute truth. And she'd told it even though she'd known she was possibly putting herself in danger – because like him, her heart bled for poor, tragic Pearl Jones.

He had reached the foot of the stairs. He stopped and took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm down.

And as he stood there, the words of Eddie, the Liverpudlian thug, floated back into his mind.

‘
Even an idiot like you should have worked out by now that nobody wants the case solved – and that includes your bosses in the big cop-shop on the river!
'

And that includes your bosses!

The words had been haunting him for two days. He had been trying to ignore them – because he didn't want to believe they were true – but that was now no longer an option open to him.

What Naylor had just administered to him hadn't been a slap on the wrist for ignoring police procedure – it had been a warning.

The deputy commissioner hadn't actually said, ‘We want Smithers to get away with this murder,' but he might as well have done.

It wasn't going to happen that way, Woodend promised himself. Whatever it took – at whatever personal cost to himself – he would see to it that Ron Smithers paid the price for killing Pearl Jones.

W
oodend's back ached, and his eyes prickled. He tried to work out how much sleep he'd had in the previous three days but gave up halfway through, because he was too tired to continue the calculation – and because, whatever the final figure turned out to be, he already knew it was too damn little.

It wasn't easy doing two jobs – grafting his private investigation on top of his official duties. It wasn't easy forcing himself to come here every night, when he could be at home playing games with Pauline Anne or listening to an agreeable programme on the radio with Joan. And now it was raining – which didn't bloody help at all!

He watched the raindrops spatter against the windscreen of his borrowed car. Some of them, he noted, dimpled on impact, then clung to the glass like limpets. Others, of a more adventurous nature, were clearly determined to explore further, and slid down the screen at a snail's pace, leaving a trail of translucent slime behind them.

He wanted to turn on the windscreen wipers, to clear the screen so he would have a better view of the front of the Royal Albert – but he didn't dare to, because nobody runs the wipers in a parked car.

He wanted to light up a cigarette, but was afraid the telltale glow would alert the minders standing just inside the pub doorway to the fact that they were being watched.

He wanted …

He wanted to jack this whole thing in.

But he knew that he couldn't.

He had little to show for the three nights of his self-imposed vigil. No, he corrected himself – he had
nothing
to show for them.

On Wednesday night, a succession of lesser gangsters had visited the pub – no doubt to hand their boss his cut of the previous week's takings – but Smithers himself had not once set foot outside. On Thursday night, he had taken a couple of his lieutenants out for a slap-up meal in the West End, but once dinner was finished, he had come straight back to his base. Now it was Friday night, and it was looking entirely possible that Greyhound Ron had decided to spend another night in.

But whatever happened, he would have to see the woman
eventually –
because he was infatuated with her.

‘'
E 'ad his lady-friend wiv''im
,' Shirley had said, ‘
an' when 'e 'anded over the coats, 'e was in a very good mood – like 'e'd been looking forward to this night out all week.
'

‘Maybe he's not seen her yet because
she
refuses to see
him
,' said the nagging voice in Woodend's head.

‘Whose side are you on?' Woodend demanded aloud.

‘Yours, of course,' the voice answered. ‘But you have to face facts, Charlie – maybe she was so horrified by what he did to Pearl Jones that she'll never see him again.'

She'd see him, Woodend told himself. She was a gangster's moll, used to the violence which was inherent to Smithers's world, and even though this particular act of violence had shocked her initially – had, in fact, sent her running to the phone to call Scotland Yard – she'd soon learn to get over it, and then life would carry on as before.

‘If it makes you feel better, you just keep on tellin' yourself that, Charlie,' the voice in his head mocked.

Besides, even if she
doesn't
want to see him, he'll want to see her, Woodend argued. He
has to
want to see her.

‘Why?'

Because the way that he feels about her won't have changed. He'll want her back. An' even if he's given up that idea, he'll need to see her just once in order to reassure himself that she has no intention of betraying him.

‘So they meet, an' you see them. Then what?'

Then he'd have a witness, if not to the killing, then at least to the prelude and the aftermath. Then he'd have all the leverage he needed.