Fatal Quest (20 page)

‘No, sir, I don't suppose it does.'

‘Then let me put matters another way. Do you – or do you not – consider him a good copper?'

‘We all have our blind spots, an' DCI Bentley's no exception,' Woodend said, picking his words carefully.

‘Which is another way of saying that he's a fat, lazy, drunken bastard who never looks for a complicated answer when there's a simple – if wholly erroneous – one lying within his easy reach.'

‘I wouldn't put it quite like that, sir.'

‘I'm sure you wouldn't. And, given your position in the pecking order, you're very
wise
not to. But, you see, I outrank him, and so I can say what I like.' Cathcart took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and offered one to Woodend. ‘To be honest, Charlie, I had initial doubts myself about placing you with Bentley. But that posting was the one that became available at the time, and I decided that you'd probably rather work with him than wait a year or so for another opportunity to arise. Was I right?'

‘On balance, yes, you were,' Woodend said. ‘Can I ask you what this is all
really
about, sir?'

‘I've been hearing rumblings about you coming into conflict with Bentley over one of your recent cases,' Cathcart said, slightly uncomfortably. ‘According to these rumblings, you don't like the way your guv'nor's been conducting the investigation, and you've made no attempt to keep those feelings hidden.'

‘I've made
every
attempt to keep my feelings hidden – but I'm just not very good at it,' Woodend told him. ‘An' just to be clear about this, you are talkin' about the Pearl Jones case, aren't you?'

‘I don't know any of the details of your dispute with Bentley, Charlie – and, to be honest with you, I'm not sure I really
want
to,' Cathcart said evasively.

‘But you do know
somethin
' about the case I'm talkin' about, don't you?' Woodend persisted.

‘I may vaguely have heard a few of the details in passing. This Pearl Jones was a coloured girl, wasn't she?'

‘An' by that, do you really mean that she was
just
a coloured girl, sir?' Woodend asked.

‘Of course not,' Cathcart protested.

‘Good! Because that particular coloured girl had more balls than the two of us put together. An' somebody – some vicious bastard! – robbed her of all her hopes an' dreams by slittin' her throat.'

‘You've taken it hard,' Cathcart said sympathetically. ‘And not just hard, but personally. Still, knowing you as I do, I can't say I'm surprised about that.'

‘The point I'm tryin' to make is that while
you
might not think of her as
just
a coloured girl, that's the way DCI Bentley sees her – which means that he's not about to bust a gut to bring her killer to justice,' Woodend said.

‘So a clash between you and Bentley is inevitable?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘And there isn't a way in which you can honourably back down?'

‘I haven't thought about it that way, to tell you the truth. But even if there was, I wouldn't take it.'

Cathcart nodded. ‘Again, I suppose that's pretty much what I should have expected you to say. Look, Charlie, I'll try to protect you as much as I can …'

‘I'm not askin' for that.'

‘I know you're not, but we're old comrades, and old comrades watch each other's backs. Even so, this isn't the War any more, and while I would have been prepared to give my life for you back then, I'm not prepared to give up my career for you now. If you go down, you go down alone.'

‘Understood,' Woodend said.

‘That said, if you keep me in touch with developments – preferably without getting
too
specific about the details – I'll do what I can. I may not be able to stop a bullet for you – but at least I should be able to warn you it's on the way.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Woodend said.

Cathcart checked his watch. ‘The food should be on the table soon.'

‘Then maybe we'd better …'

‘But to tell you the truth, I don't much fancy a lavish buffet lunch. Why don't the two of us slip off quietly to a pub – one of
Margaret
's pubs, preferably, since it will be keeping the business in the family – and have a couple of pints and a sandwich instead?'

‘I'm not sure Joan would like that,' Woodend said.

‘Margaret will look after Joan. I'm willing to wager they're already getting on like a house on fire.'

‘Even so …'

‘What are you, Charlie – a man or a mouse?' Cathcart asked, and without giving Woodend time to reply, he continued, ‘Look, I'm your boss, and I
insist
on us going out. So if you get into any trouble with your missus later, you can always blame it me.'

‘All right,' Woodend agreed reluctantly.

But he was thinking, If you believe that that kind of excuse will work with
my
missus, then you really don't know Joan Woodend.

‘I'm sorry about missin' the buffet, but Major Cathcart insisted we went to one of his wife's pubs for lunch,' Woodend said, as he and Joan walked back down the lane towards the bus stop.

‘Yes, I expect he
did
insist,' Joan replied noncommittally. ‘He looks like a man who expects to get his own way. Still, he
was
kind enough to apologize to me for it, just before we left.'

And what, exactly, did she mean by that? Woodend wondered. That the apology had made everything all right? Or that it had just added insult to injury?

‘An'
while
he was apologizing, he offered to arrange a lift back into town for us,' Joan continued.

‘Did he?' Woodend asked, still treading carefully while he tried to establish which way the wind was blowing.

‘He did – though I imagine it was Peggy who put him up to it.'

‘An' what did you say?'

‘I told him it was very nice of him to think of us, but we'd quite enjoy the walk to the bus stop – an' besides, we'd bought return tickets.'

The signs weren't looking good, Woodend told himself.

‘I'd never have gone with him if I hadn't thought you'd be all right on your own,' he said. ‘But you seemed to be gettin' on so well with his wife.'

‘So you were watchin' us, were you?' Joan asked.

‘Not exactly
watchin
',' Woodend said uncomfortably, ‘though I may have glanced across at you occasionally.'

‘An' did you happen to hear what we were talkin' about?'

‘Not really. I might have caught the odd word or phrase – it was hard not to – but as far as …'

‘But you
did
see us go over an' talk to Veronica?'

‘Who?'

‘The woman in the expensive cocktail dress.'

‘Yes, I think I did notice that.'

‘An' did you notice how, after we'd finished talkin' to her, we almost collapsed in a fit of giggles?'

‘Yes, I assume that was because she'd reacted just like Mrs Cathcart …'

He dried up, realizing that he'd said too much.

‘Just like Mrs Cathcart said she would?' Joan supplied.

‘Well, yes.'

‘So you heard more of our conversation than you were lettin' on to?'

‘I suppose so,' Woodend admitted.

‘Anyway, you're quite right,' Joan continued. ‘Peggy asked her how her Christmas preparations were goin' and she said, “Oh God, don't ask. I swear, I don't know where Harrods
find
their assistants from these days. They're positively simian, my dear. And the shoppers themselves are even worse. I'm sure most of them would feel much more at home making their purchases in some fusty little department store in the suburbs.”'

Woodend laughed, both at the accent she was assuming and the verve with which she played the role.

‘Very good,' he said.

‘Thank you,' Joan replied, in a tone which suggested that while she was pleased he'd liked her impression, she was not yet quite ready to forgive him for the desertion. ‘Would you like to hear more?'

‘Yes, I'd love to.'

‘“Not that it really matters
what
the assistants or other customers are like,”' Joan continued in the same plummy accent, ‘“since there's practically nothing there to buy any more. I think the pre-War concept of quality has disappeared for ever. I imagine – sigh! – we'll all just have to get used to putting up with mass-produced rubbish. But I suppose one shouldn't complain, because when things are at their bloodiest, we'll be sunning ourselves in the Caribbean.”'

‘Mrs Cathcart had that part wrong, at least,' Woodend pointed out.

‘Did she?'

‘Well, yes,' Woodend said, realizing he'd made another mistake but accepting there was no way of pulling back from it now. ‘She said they'd be goin' skiing, didn't she?'

‘You
were
listenin' carefully, weren't you?' Joan said.

‘All right, I admit I was worried about you,' Woodend conceded. ‘An' if it had really looked like you were sinkin', I'd have waded in an' pulled you out. But after the first few minutes, you seemed to be doin' fine.'

‘I
was
doin' fine – after those first few minutes,' Joan said. ‘In fact, I really started to enjoy myself.'

‘So you an' her had a really good time together?'

‘For a while.'

‘What do you mean – for a while?'

‘Well, Peggy couldn't spend her whole time with me, could she? She was the hostess. She had certain social obligations to fulfil.'

‘So what did you do when she'd gone off to talk to other people?' Woodend asked, intrigued.

‘I talked to other people myself. What did you
expect
me to do? Hide myself away in some corner?'

Well, yes, that seemed
exactly
what you were likely to do at one point, Woodend thought.

‘An' what did you think of these people you talked to?' he asked aloud.

‘Allowin' for the fact that they don't have the slightest idea of what it's like to live like ordinary folk, some of them were rather nice.'

‘An' the rest?' Woodend couldn't resist asking.

‘Oh, the rest of them were nothin' but a bunch of stuck-up snotty bitches,' Joan said, without heat.

Stuck-up snotty bitches! Woodend thought. That was Peggy Cathcart's influence!

‘Still, I suppose it's not their fault they're like they are,' Joan continued. ‘They can't help havin' been born under-privileged.'

‘Under-privileged!' Woodend repeated. ‘Are you sure you've got quite the right word there?'

‘Absolutely,' Joan said firmly. ‘Havin' been born with silver spoons in their mouths, they've been denied the chance to see the world as it really is.'

Woodend chuckled. ‘You're a marvel.'

‘
I
know that,' Joan said. ‘I'm just surprised it's taken
you
so long to realize it.' She paused for a second. ‘So are you goin' to tell me what you an' Mr Cathcart were talkin' about in the garden?'

‘He said he wanted me to know that he had my best interests at heart,' Woodend told her.

‘Meanin' what, exactly?'

‘It means that, as far as he's concerned, he's plucked me out of the mire, an' that brings with it a certain responsibility.'

‘That's a bit patronizin', isn't it?'

‘I suppose it is, if you look at it one way,' Woodend agreed. ‘But to understand men like Major Cathcart—'

‘Commander Cathcart,' Joan corrected him.

‘He'll always be
Major
Cathcart to me,' Woodend replied. ‘Anyway, as I was sayin', to understand men like him – to see what's drivin' them – you really have to get into the mind of the officer class.'

‘An' what will I find, once I'm in there?' Joan wondered.

‘You'll find men who look on themselves as natural-born leaders, an' feel that they have a duty to develop an' foster the talents of those folk below them who they've chosen to adopt as their protégés.'

Joan sniffed. ‘It
still
seems a bit patronizin' to me,' she said. ‘Are you sure it doesn't bother you at all, Charlie?'

‘He means well,' Woodend replied. ‘Anyway, as a future leader myself, I hope one day to have protégés of my own.'

‘Well, I'm certainly glad you feel that way about him,' Joan said, ‘because the last thing I would want would be for you to feel uncomfortable when we have the Cathcarts round to dinner.'

‘When we have
what
?'

‘The Cathcarts round to dinner,' Joan repeated. ‘I wouldn't normally invite people without consulting you first, but unfortunately, Charlie, you weren't there
to
consult.'

No, I wasn't, Woodend thought, I was in the pub with the major – and I'm paying for it now!

‘You've invited them round to our pokey little place?' he asked, still not quite able to grasp the magnitude of what his wife had done in his absence.

‘What's the matter, Charlie? Do you think they're better than us?' Joan asked, deliberately echoing the words he had used himself, a few hours earlier.

‘Well, no,' Woodend replied awkwardly.

‘Then what's your problem?'

The problem was that he noticed the way Cathcart had looked down his nose at Joan when she asked for a
sweet
sherry. The problem was that he was afraid Joan was unable to decipher the code which these people talked in, and instead of reading the hidden messages had taken everything they'd said at face value.

‘You don't even like Major Cathcart,' he said.