Fatal Quest (9 page)

Woodend waited for her to say more on the subject, but it soon became plain that she wasn't going to.

‘So what's special about this car?' he asked. ‘Does it sometimes pick the Joneses up from their home?'

‘Now why would it want to do that?' Lene wondered.

‘Then what
does
it do?'

‘It just sits there.'

‘Where?'

‘On the street.'

Woodend suppressed a sigh. ‘So what has this car got to do with the Jones family?' he asked.

‘Well, it's only there in the early morning and late afternoon, ain't it?'

‘You've lost me again,' Woodend confessed.

Lene looked at him pityingly.

‘It's only there when the girl is eiver going to school or coming back from it,' she said.

Woodend felt a tiny shock of excitement run through his body, making his fingertips tingle.

‘How many people are usually in the car?'

‘Just the one. A man.'

‘An' could you describe him to me?'

‘He wears a big 'at.'

‘Is that all?'

‘It's all I can see from my
winder
. Like I said, it's a very
big
'at.'

‘How often does this car turn up? Every day?'

‘No, nuffink like that. Sometimes I don't see it for weeks on end.'

For weeks on end! Woodend repeated to himself.

So whoever had been watching Pearl Jones hadn't just started doing it recently.

‘How long has this been goin' on?' he asked. ‘Months?'

Lene gave him a look which was even more pitying than the last one. ‘Months?' she said. ‘Yer must be joking!'

‘Then how long has he been comin'?'

‘Bloody hell, it must 'ave been
years
!'

The Conway Club had no sign over its entrance to announce its existence, since the management had long ago decided that if you didn't already know it was there, then it probably wasn't for you anyway. Its customers were mostly journalists who plied their trade in nearby Fleet Street – hard-drinking men who lived under the constant pressure of deadlines. Ladies – of
any
sort – were generally discouraged.

It was at the bar of the Conway Club that Tom Townshend was sitting, a ten-year-old malt whisky in one hand and a Craven A cigarette in the other. He was aware that other hacks kept glancing at him, some with looks of pure admiration on their faces, some with expressions which burned with deep envy – and he didn't give a damn about any of it.

Townshend had started out his career as a cub reporter on his local newspaper, and, but for the War, would probably have been perfectly content to carry on covering christenings, weddings, and jam-making competitions at the local Women's Institute, until the day he retired. The Normandy landings had changed all that. He had seen his comrades die in ways it was too horrendous even to describe. He had killed men he didn't even know, but who, he suspected, were just as decent and ordinary as he was himself. And he had faced death himself on numerous occasions, and had come to understand that if a certain bullet had been two inches further to the left, or if a certain German soldier had swung his bayonet just a little quicker, he would have ceased to be.

And so it had been a new Tom Townshend who had walked though the gates of the army camp in his demob suit – a Tom Townshend who had learned to value life, and was determined to make his mark on it.

It had taken him just four years to go from junior reporter on the
Daily Globe
to its crime editor, he reflected, as he sipped at his whisky. And that did not have to be the end of it. Many of those who knew him saw even this as just one small step in his inevitable rise – and who was he to disagree?

He felt a light tap on his shoulder, and turned to see the big man in the hairy sports coat who was standing next to him.

‘A pint of your best bitter, Horace,' he called to the barman. ‘And since it's for one of our friends from the North, you'd be well advised to make sure it's got a good head on it.'

‘Good to see you, Tom,' Woodend said, holding out his hand.

‘Good to see you, Charlie,' Townshend replied, taking it. ‘But I assume you're not here by chance.'

‘No, I'm not,' Woodend agreed.

‘So to what
do
we owe the honour of your presence amongst us? It can't be to re-fight old battles, since we've already clearly established that it's only because of the efforts of Sergeant Charlie Woodend and Corporal Tom Townshend that Adolf Hitler isn't living in Buckingham Palace today.'

Woodend grinned. ‘You always did exaggerate the part we played in the War,' he said. ‘Me, I'm more realistic. I believe that even without us, the Allies could probably
still have won.'

Townshend returned the grin. ‘Why don't you tell me what it is you want, Charlie?' he suggested.

Woodend took the picture of the dead girl out of his pocket, and laid it on the bar. ‘She was killed last night,' he said. ‘No one's claimed the body yet.'

Townshend shook his head. ‘Poor little bugger,' he said sadly. ‘I take it that you'd like me to print her picture in the paper?'

‘That's right.'

‘And what sort of headline would you like? Something on the lines of “Do you know this girl?”'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, if it'll help you to put a name to the face, I'd be glad to do it,' Townshend told him.

‘Actually, I already know who she is,' Woodend confessed.

‘Then why …?'

‘Because other people know, too – only they won't admit it. But once her picture's been printed – an' once you get a couple of dozen calls identifyin' her – they won't have any choice but to acknowledge the truth, now will they?'

T
here were three detective constables already at their desks when Woodend arrived at the office the next morning, but two of them were busily pretending to be absorbed in their work, and it was only DC Cotteral, with an unpleasant smirk on his face, who seemed willing to even acknowledge the sergeant's presence in the room.

‘Did you happen to glance at the morning papers on your way to work, Sarge?' Cotteral asked.

‘No,' Woodend replied. ‘I didn't.'

‘Not even the
Globe
?'

‘Not even the
Globe
.'

‘Well, the guv'nor's seen it,' Cotteral said, as his smirk widened. ‘Oh yes, he's seen it, all right. And now he wants to see
you
!'

The chief inspector was sitting at his desk, with a copy of the
Globe
spread in front of him. When Woodend entered his office, he picked up the paper with his left hand, and pointed to the picture of Pearl Jones, prominently displayed on the front page, with his right index finger.

‘That's the dead darkie,' he said, unnecessarily. ‘Do you happen to know, Sergeant Woodend, how this hack – ' he glanced at the by-line – ‘how this hack, Townshend, managed to get hold of the picture?'

‘No, sir,' Woodend said, forcing himself to do his best to sound convincing – but not giving a damn that he was failing.

‘Yes, I'd be very interested indeed to know how he got his hands on it,' Bentley mused. ‘Come to think of it, you had a copy of the photo yourself, didn't you, Sergeant?'

‘I did, sir,' Woodend agreed. ‘But then so did the morgue. In fact, I'd imagine that the morgue had
more than
one copy.'

‘Suppose I was to ask to see your copy right now,' Bentley said. ‘Could you show it to me?'

‘I'm not sure I could, sir,' Woodend admitted. ‘In fact, now I think about it, I'm almost sure I threw it away when you took me off the case.'

‘How convenient,' Bentley said. ‘Well, I suppose you must be feeling like a real smart-arse this morning, mustn't you, Sergeant?'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘Don't try playing the innocent with me,' Bentley growled. ‘Ever since the paper hit the streets, the switchboard's been jammed with callers identifying the darkie in the picture as Pearl Jones. Which means, doesn't it, that you were right all along?'

‘Yes, sir, I suppose it does.'

‘But much more important than any petty feeling of triumph you might have, it means that the mother
lied
to me. To
me
!'

‘She does seem to have done,' Woodend agreed.

‘But she's not the
only one
who's made a fool of me,' Bentley continued. ‘By handing that picture over to the
Globe
– and there's no point in denying it was you, because I won't believe it –
you've
made a fool of me, too.'

There was no logic to that argument, Woodend thought, but then logic had never been one of Bentley's strong points.

‘Does it really matter
who
gave the picture to the newspaper, sir?' he asked. ‘Isn't the important thing that it's clearly established, once an' for all, who the dead girl is?'

‘Of course that's the important thing,' Bentley agreed gracelessly, and without a great deal of conviction. ‘But the authorization to print it should have come from me, not from some young copper who was still in shitty nappies when I first started collaring villains.'

But you
didn't
authorize it, Woodend thought. And I don't think you ever
would have
authorized it.

‘Victoria Jones has made me look bollock-brained,' Bentley said. ‘A
nigger
has made me look bollock-brained. Well, it won't be long before she starts to feel sorry she ever did
that
. Because the kid gloves are off, as far as I'm concerned – and within an hour or so, I'll have her spilling the beans.'

‘Spilling
what
beans?' Woodend asked, before he could stop himself.

‘What beans do you think I mean, you moron?' Bentley asked. ‘She's been up to her sweaty armpits in something very bent, and it's more than likely that her daughter was involved in it, too.'

‘I don't think it
is
likely at all, sir,' Woodend said. ‘According to Pearl's headmistress, she was a—'

‘Did I ask for a comment from you, Sergeant?' Bentley interrupted.

‘No, sir.'

‘Then keep your trap zipped until I tell you that you can speak. As I was saying, the kid was probably involved in some shady business or other, which was why she was killed. And look at
how
she was killed! With a razor! That's a typical underworld weapon!' Bentley paused. ‘You should have told me the murder weapon was a razor, Sergeant. If I'd known about the criminal connection earlier, I'd probably have had this case sewn up by now.'

‘I
did
tell you,' Woodend protested. ‘When I briefed you yesterday morning, one of the first things I said was that—'

‘Don't you dare contradict me, Sergeant!'

‘No, sir.'

‘And I will
not
be lectured to about how to conduct a complex case by a man who seems completely incapable of conducting even a simple one,' Bentley said. ‘Or am I wrong about that? Have you already arrested Booth's murderer?'

‘You know I haven't.'

‘Do I?' Bentley asked. ‘You didn't tell me about the razor, so why should I assume that you'd tell me about making an arrest? After all, why I should I need to know? I'm only your
guv'nor
!'

Woodend said nothing.

‘Are you, in any way, shape or form, on top of the case I've assigned you, Sergeant?' Bentley wondered. ‘Did you even know that the landlord of the Waterman's Arms has been released?'

‘I imagined he would have been by now.'

‘That's not what I asked. Did you actually
know
?'

‘No, sir, I didn't.'

Bentley shook his head, despairingly. ‘Do you know what the real trouble with you smart-arses is?' he asked. ‘It's not that you're cocky and self-righteous, although that's bad enough – the real trouble is that you're not
half
as smart as you think you are.'

Wally Booth had a long criminal record. But there were no surprises there, Woodend thought, as he skimmed through the file at his desk. In fact, since it was highly probable that he'd been a regular patron of the Waterman's Arms, it would only have been surprising if he
hadn't
had any form.

Booth's criminal career had begun in the 1930s. He'd been a cat burglar at the outset of it, but – like many young men with the ambition to get on in their chosen profession – he'd soon graduated to smash-and-grab raids.

It was during one of these raids – on a jeweller's premises on Bond Street – that he'd first come seriously unstuck. The car which the gang had been using for their getaway had stalled not thirty yards from the shop, and Booth had been arrested and given a two-year stretch for his part in the raid.

When he'd been released, in May 1942, he found that the reception committee waiting for him at the gates took the form of two military policemen, who immediately handed him his call-up papers and informed him he was in the army now.

Booth's military career had been neither long nor glorious. After only two days in an army camp near Bradford, he'd done a runner, and headed straight back to London, which – according to an old lag called Ozzie Phelps, who Woodend had once been handcuffed to in the anteroom of the Bow Street Magistrates' Court – had been a thieves' paradise during the War years.

‘He did a good job for us, did ole Adolf Hitler,' Phelps had said. ‘It was 'cos of his bombing raids that we 'ad the blackout in London, yer see, which is the finest fing that ever 'appened to a burglar. Yer didn't 'ave to worry about the street lights any more, 'cos there
wasn't
no street lights. And making yer getaway was a lot easier in the dark.'