Fatal Quest (3 page)

Woodend's stomach turned over. ‘I'm really not hungry,' he said.

He felt guilty about disappointing her, but the simple truth was that, after seeing the girl with her throat cut, he no longer had any appetite.

‘I had to queue in the butcher's for over an hour to get them,' Joan said, disapprovingly.

‘I'm sure you did, but—'

‘I got the very last ones he had. You should have seen the way the women behind me in the queue glared at me. If looks could kill …'

‘I'm sorry, love, I really am,' Woodend said.

Joan nodded, as if she'd suddenly understood. ‘Another murder?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘A nasty one?'

‘Very.'

‘You take it all too personally, Charlie.'

‘I know,' Woodend said. ‘But that's the way I am.'

‘Yes, that
is
the way you are,' Joan agreed. ‘Still, I suppose I shouldn't complain, because if you
hadn't
been the way you are, I'd never have married you in the first place.' She paused. ‘Are you
sure
you wouldn't fancy the chops?'

‘Maybe I'll have them tomorrow,' Woodend said.

‘An' maybe you won't,' Joan replied, as if she had already foreseen what the next twenty-odd years of their married life held – her buying the food, and Charlie being too wrapped up in his work to eat it.

‘You get yourself off to bed,' Woodend said.

‘An' what about you?'

‘I'll just have a last fag, an' then I'll join you,' Woodend promised.

‘Make sure you do,' Joan warned, as she headed for the bedroom.

Woodend slouched back in his chair, lit up the cigarette he'd promised himself and traced in his mind the events that had led him, a Northern lad who had always considered Southerners a breed apart – and who had never even
been
to London before the War – to be actually
living
there now.

‘How
did
you end up in London, Charlie?' Paniatowski asked.

Woodend smiled. ‘A few minutes ago you were clamourin' to hear how I got a man killed, an' now you're askin' for my life story. Which is it you want?'

‘Both,' Paniatowski said.

And she meant it. By asking about Woodend's first case, she had inadvertently found the key to a part of her boss's life she had known nothing about – had stumbled on the opportunity to build up a more complete picture of the man she was
already
missing, even as she sat there opposite him.

‘I suppose the decision was taken in Berlin, back in 1945,' Woodend said. ‘You should have seen the place at the time.' Then he noticed Paniatowski shudder, and added, ruefully, ‘I'm sorry, lass, you
did
see it, didn't you?'

‘Yes,' Monika agreed. ‘I did.'

But though she had managed to keep her voice flat and emotionless, her heart was beating faster and there was a pounding in her head.

It was all over half a lifetime ago! she thought.
More
than half a lifetime! So why does it feel like it only happened yesterday?

After six years of wandering Europe as refugees, she and her mother, hoping to make contact with the victorious Allies, had reached Berlin just after it had fallen. And what they had found was a city devastated by RAF bombs and Russian shells.

A wasteland.

A true vision of hell.

They had looked on as German civilians, clad in little more than rags, sifted desperately through the rubble, looking for something they could use or something they could sell. Or perhaps even just something
– anything
– that would remind them of their old lives, before the inferno.

They had looked on, and they'd felt something they'd thought they'd never feel for the enemy –
pity
.

‘Anyway,' Woodend said hurriedly – as if he could see the pictures in Monika's head himself, and felt a strong urge to distract her – ‘anyway, I was sittin' in this jeep with Major Cathcart, who I was servin' under at the time, when the major turns to me an' says, “So what are your plans once you're demobbed, Charlie?” An' I told him the first thing I was goin' to do was to get married.'

‘To Joan?' Paniatowski asked, as a little of the colour returned to her cheeks.

‘Of course to Joan. There was never anybody else
but
Joan. So then the major says, “Good idea. We could all do with a little of the peace and stability that marriage brings.” An' that was when I made the mistake of askin' him if he was married himself.'

‘Why was that a mistake?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘Firstly because it's not an NCO's place to go askin' officers intimate questions. But secondly – an' more importantly – because of the effect it had on him.'

‘What effect was that?'

‘He was older than me by a good ten years, but suddenly he seemed much younger an' much more vulnerable. “No,” he said. “No, I … er … never quite seemed to get around to it.” Well, I apologized for pryin', an' he told me it didn't matter – though it clearly did. Then he shifted ground – which is what people do when they find themselves in sticky situations – an' he said, “Tell me, Charlie, have you given much thought to how you'll support a wife and – soon enough, I would imagine – a family?”'

‘And you said, “Well, I've always had this burning ambition to work for the Metropolitan Police Force”?' Paniatowski suggested.

‘No, I didn't,' Woodend replied. ‘The fact was that even though I wouldn't admit it – even to myself – there was a part of me which believed that if you had any plan for a future, you wouldn't get one, whereas if you expect to be killed, you just
might
survive. Still, the major was clearly expectin' an answer to his question, so I said, “I'll probably get a job as a tackler in one of the mills. It's what I did before the War.”'

‘And how did he react to that?'

‘Didn't like it at all. He was back in control of himself by this point – very much the officer again – an' he clicked his tongue disapprovingly an' said, “You disappoint me, Sergeant. There's no future for you as a … as a tackler, was it?”'

‘Cheeky bastard!' Paniatowski said. ‘He had no idea what a tackler does, did he?'

‘No, he didn't,' Woodend agreed. ‘But he meant well. “The mills are finished,” he said. “Everybody knows that.” Not in Lancashire, they don't, I thought. But aloud, all I said was, “Is that right, sir?” “Yes, it certainly is,” he told me. “In ten or fifteen years' time, all the cloth we buy in England will be made in India or China. And even if the mills weren't finished, that's not the kind of job to really stretch a man of your obvious abilities, now is it?'

‘A man of your obvious abilities!' Paniatowski repeated, teasingly. ‘Do you think he fancied you or something?'

‘No, I don't,' Woodend said firmly. ‘There was nothin' even vaguely homosexual about Major Cathcart – as you'll find out for yourself if you stop interruptin' an' just listen to the story.'

‘Sorry, Charlie,' Monika said, with mock humility.

‘Anyway, I asked him what he thought I should do,' Woodend continued, ‘and he suggested I should think about becomin' a bobby. “I was a policeman before the War,” he told me. “In the Met. And when I'm demobbed, that's what I shall be again.” I said it was certainly worth thinkin' about once I was back in Lancashire, an' that's when he started clickin' his tongue disapprovingly again.'

‘Why did he do that?'

‘He said, an' I think I'm quotin' exactly here, “If you're going to paint a picture, set out to produce a masterpiece. If you're going to write a book, aim at it being the best one ever written. And if you intend to become a policeman, join the best police force in the world – which is the Met.” I pointed out that would mean livin' in London, an' he laughed an' said, “Well, of course it would – so there's another advantage for you.”'

‘That's the problem with Londoners,' Paniatowski said. ‘They believe there are only two kinds of people – those who live in London and those who
want
to live in London.'

‘Those were exactly my thoughts at the time,' Woodend agreed. ‘An' there were other considerations to be taken into account. “I'm not sure my fiancée would fancy the idea of movin' down South, sir,” I told him. “For God's sake, Charlie,” he said, “you're going to be the head of a family – so you'd better start thinking like one, even before you're married. The Met's desperately short of good men at the moment, and for anyone who's even halfway competent – and you're much more than that – it's a golden opportunity. If your wife has anything about her, she'll see that, and want you to do whatever's necessary to get on in life. And if she doesn't like it, well, as I said, you
will be
the head of family, so she'll just have to lump it, won't she?”'

A smile played on Paniatowski's lips. ‘And did Joan “just have to lump it”?' she asked.

‘As a matter of fact, she raised no objection at all,' Woodend told her. ‘What she actually said was, “I've got faith in your judgement, Charlie. After all, you showed enough of it to be pretty desperate to marry me, now didn't you?”'

Paniatowski laughed. ‘That sounds like Joan,' she said. ‘But tell me, Charlie, did
you
ever regret taking the decision?'

‘Now an' again,' Woodend admitted. ‘On nights like the one I've just been talkin' about, when the smog was so thick it settled in your lungs an' didn't seem like it would ever go away, I did get a bout of the blues an' start to yearn for home, where even the industrial filth seemed to taste better. But when that happened, there was always somethin'
– one
thing – I could do to lift my spirits.'

‘And what was that?'

‘Go an' look at our Annie, sleepin' peacefully in her little bed.'

Woodend stood in the doorway of his daughter's bedroom. From the illumination provided by her nightlight he could see that she was deeply asleep, but still he held his breath for fear of waking her.

She was a wondrous child, he told himself. A precious gift that – most of time – he felt unworthy of.

She had been born just before the move to London, and, after much thought, he and Joan had christened her Pauline Anne. Woodend was still not sure which of the two names he preferred. And neither, it appeared, was his daughter, since for weeks on end she would insist on being called Annie, and then – completely out of the blue – would recognize no other name but Pauline.

He realized suddenly that the War – or at least
his
War – had been for her. That before she'd even been conceived, it was for her future – for the future of children everywhere – that he'd been fighting.

But there was one child who would
have
no future, he thought with rising anger – one child whose future had been drained out of her, as if she were no more than a stuck pig, on a sordid bomb site.

The sudden and unexpected ringing of the telephone in the living room filled the silent flat with a noise which sounded loud enough to waken the dead. Woodend glanced anxiously down at his small, precious daughter, saw that she was still sleeping peacefully and retreated from her bedroom as quietly as he could.

Once in the hallway, he clicked his daughter's door gently closed and turned to face the instrument which had dared to shatter the peace.

He was sure the call must be a mistake – who the bloody hell would be ringing
him
at half-past two in the morning? – but since the only way to silence the infernal racket seemed to be pick up the receiver, that was what he did.

‘Detective Sergeant Woodend?' asked a man's voice.

Not a mistake, he told himself.

And not the Yard, either – because the first thing someone from the Yard would do would be to identify himself.

‘Yes, I'm Woodend,' he said.

‘Well, yer 'ave been a busy boy, ain't yer?' the caller replied.

‘Who is this?' Woodend demanded.

‘Fing is, yer don't want ter go takin' this case too seriously,' the other man continued.

‘What are you talkin' about?'

‘The girl, you wally.'

‘The murdered girl?'

‘Unless yer can fink of any uvver.'

‘If you've got any information on the murder, it's your duty to report it.'

‘I ain't got any information,
as such
, but what I 'ave got is a bit of advice for yer.'

‘Go on,' Woodend said.

‘Yer want to tread carefully.'

‘An' what does that mean, exactly?'

‘It means that nobody expects yer
not
to investigate the case wot's been assigned to yer. That's yer job, after all. That's 'ow yer earn yer crust and keep a roof over yer 'ead.'

‘Get to the point!'

‘All I
am
saying is, if yer know what's good for yer, yer won't do that job
too
thoroughly.'

‘That sounds like a threat,' Woodend growled.

‘Now yer catching on, Charlie boy,' the other man agreed. ‘It's a threat. Start making too many waves, and somefink very nasty could 'appen to yer.'

‘An' who'll be makin' this “very nasty” thing happen to me?' Woodend wondered. ‘You?'

‘Could be.'