Fatal Quest

Table of Contents

Cover

By Sally Spencer

Title Page

Copyright

10 November 1950

6 June 1973

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

6 June 1973

The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

THE SALTON KILLINGS

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

THE DARK LADY

THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

DEAD ON CUE

THE RED HERRING

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

THE ENEMY WITHIN

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

THE WITCH MAKER

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DYING IN THE DARK

STONE KILLER

A LONG TIME DEAD

SINS OF THE FATHERS

DANGEROUS GAMES

DEATH WATCH

A DYING FALL

FATAL QUEST

The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

THE RING OF DEATH

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

BACKLASH

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

A WALK WITH THE DEAD

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2008 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2008 by Sally Spencer.

The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Spencer, Sally

Fatal Quest

1. Woodend, Charlie (Fictitious character) - Fiction

2. Police - England - Fiction 3. Detective and mystery stories

I. Title

823.9'14[F]

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6682-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-084-6 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-44830-121-8 (ePub)

I am indebted to Martin Chambers for several valuable suggestions he made at the earlier stages of this book. Many thanks, Martin!

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

T
he girl looked around her in total panic. But she could not see far, because the smog – that swirling layer of yellow filth which sought out the weak-chested and mercilessly clamped itself around their throats – had all but isolated her from the rest of the world.

‘Get in the car,' the man said, his voice harsh and commanding.

‘I … I don't want …' she protested.

‘Get in the car!' the man repeated.

And she did.

Even though her every instinct screamed that she shouldn't.

Even though she already knew it was a mistake, perhaps the biggest – and last – mistake she would ever make.

Because she was too afraid to do anything else.

It was a dead city through which they drove. The buses had stopped running hours earlier, and now the few cars still in evidence moved at a crawl, like wounded animals desperate to return to their lairs.

The girl grasped her right arm with her left hand, and her left arm with her right, and hugged herself tightly. She felt all alone – and so she was.

From somewhere deep inside herself, she found the courage to speak.

‘Where are we going?'

The man said nothing. She wasn't even sure that he knew the answer himself, because most of the time he wasn't looking at the road ahead of them at all, but at the pavement.

The car slowed, then came to a halt.

The man opened his door. ‘Stay there!' he said.

She stayed. She had no choice. Her legs felt like lead. Her head was pounding. There were so many things she needed to say, but she couldn't find the words.

The man walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger door.

‘Get out!'

‘I … I don't think I can.'

The man grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the car.

‘You're hurting me!'

He didn't reply, and she realized that he didn't
care
if he was hurting her – didn't care about her
at all
.

He dragged her round the car, across the pavement and onto a piece of waste land. The ground was rough, and several times she stumbled. But the man kept his tight grip on her, and wouldn't let her fall.

When they had gone perhaps a dozen yards – and looking over her shoulder, she could no longer see the pavement – they came to a stop.

The man swung her around, so that she was facing him.

‘What were you doing, back there?' he demanded.

Back there!

He meant the place in which she'd first caught sight of him, and then – with a look of horror quickly coming to his face –
he'd
first caught sight of
her
!

‘I … I …' she began.

‘Tell the truth, because if you're lying to me, I'll know,' he said menacingly.

And she believed him – believed he could see right through her.

‘I … I was looking for you,' she confessed.

The man nodded sombrely. ‘That's what I thought,' he said

And then he put his free hand into his overcoat pocket, and when it emerged again, she saw it was holding a razor.

‘Please, no!' she gasped. ‘I didn't mean to … I only wanted to …'

But even as she spoke, she understood that she was wasting her breath – that the emptiness and yearning which had been eating away at her for years would soon be gone.

Because
she
would soon be gone.

T
he barman in the buffet of Whitebridge railway station had been studying the racing form, but now he laid the paper down on the counter and turned his attention to his sole customer – a big bugger in a hairy sports jacket – who seemed engrossed in a tattered paperback.

The man had an interesting face, the barman thought. Like the rest of him, its features were writ large – long nose, wide mouth, square jaw. It was not an unattractive face, but it did somehow manage to give the impression of having been hastily carved by a sculptor using a blunt chisel.

The barman knew who this customer was, of course. Anyone in Whitebridge who had an interest in crime – or even someone who'd simply picked up a local newspaper in the last decade or so – would have known.

‘Another pint, Chief Inspector?' he called across the empty room.

Woodend looked up from his book – which was Charles Dickens'
Bleak House
. ‘What's the latest news on the delay?' he asked.

‘No news at all. But if you want my opinion, it'll be at least another couple of hours before normal service is resumed. It always takes that long when a train comes off the track.'

Woodend nodded. ‘In that case, another pint would be in order,' he agreed. ‘An' by the way, it's not
chief inspector
any more. As of yesterday, I'm retired.'

‘Good for you!' the barman said, trying not to sound as if he envied the other man his retirement – and
almost
making it.

The door swung open, and a blonde woman walked in. She was probably in her mid to late thirties, the barman thought, assessing her with a professional eye, but she had a cracking figure which – by rights – should belong to a much younger woman.

The blonde walked over to the table, and sat down without waiting for an invitation.

‘What are you doin' here, Monika?' Woodend asked. ‘You should be at my farewell bash.'

‘So should
you
,' Monika Paniatowski pointed out.

Woodend shrugged awkwardly. ‘Aye, well, I've never been much of a one for makin' myself the centre of attention when I didn't have to. An' as long as there's plenty of booze flowin' – which there should be, because it's cost me a packet – the lads won't even notice that the guest of honour isn't there.'

‘You never
did
quite appreciate how popular you were, did you, Charlie?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I've never really given a bugger about whether I was popular or not,' Woodend said, in what was almost a growl.

Paniatowski smiled. ‘I know you haven't. That's one of the reasons why people like you so much.' She paused, to light up a cigarette. ‘Well, are you going to buy me a drink, or what?'

Woodend grinned. ‘You want me to buy you
a drink
?' he asked, feigning astonishment. ‘I'd have thought you sank enough last night in the Drum an' Monkey to have lasted you a lifetime.'

Paniatowski returned the grin. ‘I wasn't alone in that,' she said. ‘You and Beresford more than matched me.'

‘Aye, I will say that for Sergeant Beresford – he's turned into no mean boozer.'

‘And no mean detective,' Paniatowski said, in defence of the man who would soon be her second-in-command.

‘An' no mean detective,' Woodend agreed. He signalled to the barman. ‘A vodka for Chief Inspector Paniatowski, please. On second thoughts, make it a double.'

‘I'm not a chief inspector yet, Charlie,' Paniatowski hissed, as if she was embarrassed to hear him use the title.

‘That's true,' Woodend agreed genially. ‘But you will be tomorrow.'

‘And where will
you
be tomorrow?' Paniatowski asked, more sharply than she'd intended.

‘I'll be in London, with Joan an' our Annie,' Woodend said.

‘And next week, you and Joan will be in your castle in Spain,' Paniatowski said – and now there was a definite hint of bitterness to her tone.

‘Scarcely a
castle
,' Woodend said. ‘But it
is
a pleasant little villa, with a view of the sea.' He paused. ‘I had to go
sometime
, you know,' he continued gently. ‘It's the way of the world. I move on, an' you move up.'