Fatal Quest (6 page)

‘You asked me if I'd come about Pearl,' Woodend said. ‘How long has she been missin'?'

‘Who said she was missin' at all?' Mrs Jones demanded.

‘Please, madam, let's try to make this as easy as possible,' Woodend suggested.

Mrs Jones looked down at the floor. ‘She didn't come home last night,' she admitted.

‘Does she often stay out all night?' Woodend asked.

‘Never!' Mrs Jones said, suddenly angry. ‘My Pearl don't do dat. My Pearl is a
good
girl.'

‘I've got something to show you,' Woodend said. ‘But before I do, I think it would be best if you sat down.'

‘Don't want to sit down,' Mrs Jones told him.

But when Woodend put his hands on her shoulders and gently eased her into the leather armchair, she did not resist.

Woodend took the photograph out of his pocket and held it out to the woman. ‘Is this your daughter?' he asked.

Mrs Jones's eyes widened, and tears began to cascade from them. ‘Oh, my God!' she moaned. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!'

‘I'm most terribly sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news, Mrs Jones,' Woodend said.

And then, something quite remarkable happened. The woman took a deep breath, and – by a sheer effort of will – forced her tears to stop.

‘Dat is not my daughter,' she said, in a voice which fell somewhere between hysterical and eerily calm.

‘I know you might find it quite hard to accept …' Woodend began.

‘I feel sorry for de poor girl, but she is
not
my daughter,' Mrs Jones said firmly.

Woodend walked over to the sideboard on which the silver photograph frames rested. All the pictures were of the same girl, and charted her development from infant to young woman.

Little Pearl, smiling broadly at the camera, as she took her first few tentative steps towards whoever was holding it.

Pearl at four or five, sitting under the Christmas tree and proudly clutching a doll which was almost as big as she was.

Pearl at nine or ten, all her attention focused on the picture she was drawing, her tongue licking the corner of her mouth as she strove to get it just right.

In the last photograph, Pearl was dressed in gym clothes. She had a hockey stick in one hand, and her free arm was draped over the shoulder of a blonde white girl, who had her own free arm draped over Pearl's shoulder.

Both girls were smiling. They looked so happy. So innocent!

Woodend shook his head sadly, and turned to face Mrs Jones again. The woman had not moved from where he'd sat her, and though her shoulders shook, she was still managing to hold in most of her sorrow.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Jones, but the girl in the photograph I showed you
is
your daughter,' he told her. ‘There's no doubt about it.'

Mrs Jones struggled to her feet.

‘It's not her!' she screamed, waving her arms wildly in the air. ‘I done told you, it's not her.'

‘I know it's hard, but the sooner you accept the fact that she's dead, the sooner you'll be able to start coming to terms with it,' Woodend said softly.

‘Get out o' my house!' Mrs Jones demanded. ‘Get out o' my house right now!'

‘Mrs Jones—'

‘I tell you – get out!'

There was nothing he could do – no way he could refuse to go.

Woodend walked down the corridor to the front door, with Mrs Jones at his heel.

‘And don't come back!' the woman told him, when he was back on the street. ‘Don't you
ever
come back.'

When he turned, as if to walk away, she slammed the door violently on him. But he did
not
walk away immediately. Instead, he simply stood there, looking back at the house from which he'd just been ejected.

And from the other side of the door, he thought he could hear Mrs Jones sobbing uncontrollably.

T
he bus carried Woodend across the river, and when it finally deposited him on the corner of Buckton Road, he found himself in a completely different world from the one he'd left behind him in Canning Town.

It was true that this part of London – being far enough away from the docks for the German bombers to have largely ignored it – had not suffered from the Blitz as Canning Town had, he admitted in fairness. But even if both areas had taken the same battering from the Luftwaffe – even if they'd been equally reduced to ashes – the two would never have been confused, because, as any passer-by would immediately have seen, the ashes of Buckton Road would have been of a far better
class
than those from Balaclava Street.

Woodend wondered how Pearl Jones had managed the difficult transition – how she had felt, every single school day, about leaving the mean streets of Canning Town behind her for this leafy suburb, but then returning to those same mean streets when the final bell rang.

Had she ever thought of running away?

Had the red dress, perhaps, been a part of the
process
of running away?

Just ahead of him lay his destination – a large Georgian building which might once, long ago, have been a duke's summer palace, but was now the Newton High School for Young Ladies.

‘So how did
you
feel about bein' a “young lady”, Pearl?' he said softly to himself. ‘Did you ever really
believe
that that was what you were?'

The headmistress introduced herself to Woodend as Dr Jenkins, with an emphasis on the ‘Dr'. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, and a pair of half-moon spectacles rested on the bridge of her long, thin nose. She wore a single row of cultured pearls around her neck, and was dressed in a tweed jacket which had been cut on almost masculine lines. And though he could not see her feet because of the desk, he was almost certain they were clad in heavy ‘sensible' shoes.

‘I must admit to having experienced a certain amount of surprise, and perhaps even a little concern, when my secretary informed me that you wished to see me,
Detective Sergeant
,' she said.

Detective Sergeant! Woodend noted. Not
Mr
Woodend, or even
Sergeant
Woodend, but just his rank. It was all titles with this woman!

‘I can assure you, I never
meant
to concern you,' he said, giving nothing away.

‘I'm sure you did not,' Dr Jenkins agreed. ‘But you must understand that it is a very rare occurrence indeed for the forces of law and order to enter this temple of learning.'

‘Aye, an' you're probably not used to havin' the Old Bill visitin' your school, either,' Woodend said – though he knew he shouldn't have done.

Dr Jenkins frowned, perhaps not quite sure whether he was poking fun at her or was merely stupid.

‘So how may I assist you?' she asked, apparently settling on the ‘stupid' explanation.

‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about one of your pupils,' Woodend said.

‘One of my
pupils
?'

‘That's right.'

‘And
which
pupil might that be?'

‘Pearl Jones.'

A look of distaste flickered briefly across Dr Jenkins' face – but not briefly enough for Woodend to have missed it.

‘And why would you wish to know anything about Pearl?' the headmistress asked.

Because she's
dead
! Woodend thought.

But he couldn't say that.

Not when he couldn't actually
prove
it.

Not when her
own mother
refused to admit the truth.

‘I'm afraid that, given the confidential nature of my inquiries, I'm not in a position to go into any details,' he said.

‘And yet you still expect
me
to speak freely about the girl?' Dr Jenkins asked, haughtily. ‘You still expect me to betray
my
confidences?'

She was anticipating him being crushed by the remark, Woodend though – a mere
detective sergeant
put in his rightful place by a
doctor of philosophy
.

But he wasn't. He'd got the woman sized up by now – and he knew just which buttons to push.

‘I can see your problem,' he admitted humbly. ‘I myself wouldn't like to be put in to the position that I've put you in.'

‘Well, then, there's really no more to be said, is there?' the headmistress asked triumphantly,

‘But, you see, I'm just a simple copper,' Woodend continued. ‘When I'm treadin' the line between what's confidential an' what isn't, I'm never quite sure whether I've stepped over it or not. That's where you're different, Dr Jenkins. You have a subtlety of mind that's quite lackin' in me.' He paused, and frowned. ‘Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we're two of a kind, an' it
would
be just as difficult for you as it would be for me.'

The idea of them being ‘two of a kind' seemed to truly appall Dr Jenkins.

‘I am, of course, willing to help in any way I can,' she said, somewhat hastily, ‘though you must be willing to accept that certain areas of Pearl's life within this school cannot be explored.'

‘Of course,' Woodend agreed.

‘Very well, then. Pearl is an exceptional pupil, both in terms of her sporting prowess and her academic excellence. We expect her to do very well indeed. In fact, a place at either Oxford or Cambridge is certainly not out of the question.'

But the look of distaste was definitely back on the headmistress's face, Woodend thought, and whatever she might
say
, Dr Jenkins clearly didn't like the fact that a black girl from the slums was doing better than many of her white middle-class pupils.

So if she didn't like it, why did she tolerate it? Why was Pearl even
in
the school?

There was a sudden loud mechanical roar from below, and looking out of the window, Woodend saw that a digger was attacking the tarmac in the corner of the playground.

‘Trouble with your drains?' he asked.

Dr Jenkins shot him a disdainful look, as if it was bad taste on his part to even mention drains at all – as if he was expected to believe that the pupils and staff at this fine school didn't have the ordinary, nasty, bodily functions which
required
drains.

‘We are in the process of laying the foundations for our new science block,' she said. ‘It will be an unpleasant disruption to the scholarly life we are used to here, but there is no choice in the matter, for though we excel in the classics, we must also move with the times.'

Woodend wondered if he should applaud the carefully balanced statement, but decided that even someone as self-absorbed as Dr Jenkins might see it for the sarcasm it was.

‘Is Pearl good at science?' he asked.

‘As I've already indicated to you, Pearl is good at everything,' the headmistress said.

And the distaste was back on her face again.

‘You mentioned sport, earlier. Does she play hockey?'

‘Yes, she is a very strong player indeed,' Dr Jenkins said, forcing the words through her teeth.

And one who was not afraid to get hurt playing the game, Woodend thought.

‘How strong?' he asked. ‘Is she the best player you've got?'

‘All things are relative, but I suppose, in a way, she is.'

‘So she'll be captain of the team, then?'

‘No, not the captain,' Dr Jenkins admitted. ‘There is another girl who is more suited to that particular role.'

So that was at least one small triumph that the bigoted Dr Jenkins had been able to deny her.

The sound of the digger outside stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and Dr Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I don't see why they couldn't just use men with pickaxes, instead of all that noisy machinery,' she said. ‘But I suppose they simply can't get the labour any more. Working men don't seem to want to do any actual
work
, these days, do they?'

There speaks a woman who's never wielded a pickaxe in her life, Woodend thought.

He took out his cigarettes, then, seeing the glare in Dr Jenkins's eyes, slipped them back in his pocket again.

‘What I find quite surprisin', given her humble background, is that Pearl's a pupil at this school at all,' he said.

‘In educational matters, it is talent, not background, which should always prevail,' Dr Jenkins said, though with perhaps not as much conviction as she would have liked.

‘Yes, I'm sure talent is very important,' Woodend agreed ‘But, when all's said an' done, the education still has to be
paid for
, doesn't it? An' I don't see how Pearl's mother could possibly afford the fees that you must have to charge. That's why I was wonderin' if you'd given her some kind of scholarship.'

‘I'm afraid I couldn't possibly comment on that,' Dr Jenkins said stonily.

‘Why not?' Woodend wondered. ‘If she
is
on a scholarship, it's to both your credit an' hers. Besides,' he added, his voice hardening for the first time in the interview, ‘I'm a policeman.'

‘I am aware of your position,' Dr Jenkins said, bemused by his sudden change of tone.

‘An'
bein
' a policeman, how long do you think it will take me to find out whether or not Pearl's on a scholarship, even if you
don't
choose to tell me?' Woodend continued.

‘This school does provide a
number
of scholarships for deserving cases,' Dr Jenkins said, picking her words carefully. ‘Pearl is not currently the recipient of one of those scholarships, but were she to apply for one, we would certainly look favourably on that application.'

Oh, absolutely! Woodend thought. I bet you'd be fallin' over yourself to give it to her, you snobby bitch.

‘In other words, what you're sayin' is that she never
has
applied for a scholarship?' he asked.