Fatal Quest (31 page)

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Authors: Sally Spencer

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural

BOOK: Fatal Quest
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‘An' just how long are you prepared to wait for this leverage to fall into your lap, Charlie?'

As long as it took, Woodend told the voice.

A week, a month, a year – it didn't matter.

If he had to be here until either he or Smithers died of old age, then that was the way it was.

Another hour had slowly ticked away, and with every minute that passed, Woodend's craving for a cigarette had grown stronger and stronger.

He peered through the windscreen – squinting between the raindrops – at the street which lay before him. There were a number of parked vehicles, but none of them remotely resembled the ostentatiously nondescript vans that the Flying Squad used for their surveillance operations. Nor had there been any sign of such a van on the previous two evenings, either.

It didn't surprise Woodend that there wasn't even a
whiff
of the Sweeney. He'd never believed Deputy Commissioner Naylor's claim that Greyhound Ron was being watched round the clock. In fact, he doubted that Smithers was being investigated
at all –
because if the Yard was prepared to let him get away with such a heinous crime as murder, it could only be because someone, somewhere in the higher echelons of the Force, was making a hell of a lot of money out of protecting the man.

One of Smithers's cars, a flashy Cadillac sedan, pulled up in front of the Royal Albert. The driver got out and went inside the pub, but fumes continued to pump out of the exhaust pipe.

Smithers came out a few moments later. He was flanked by a couple of his minders as he walked to the car, but it was only Greyhound Ron himself who got in.

The fact that he was going out alone didn't necessarily mean anything, Woodend thought, as the Cadillac pulled away from the kerb and he set off in pursuit.

Maybe Smithers – like so many other London gangsters – had a grey-haired old mum tucked away somewhere, and was going to visit her.

Or perhaps he'd just grown bored with being cooped up inside the Royal Albert, and had decided to drive around for a while, with no particular destination in mind.

But while Woodend's brain cautioned him against getting too excited, his heart was ignoring the warning, and beating out rapid messages of hope.

Smithers drove along Whitechapel Road, an area which, sixty-odd years earlier, had been terrorized by the nocturnal activities of Jack the Ripper – a man who, like Smithers himself, had used a razor to slash and murder his innocent victims.

Woodend wondered if, back then in the last century, there had been a policeman much like himself, who had made a vow that he would never give up until the killer was brought to book. There probably had been – because even in the most corrupt, most lethargic of societies, there were always
a few
dedicated fools like him.

‘But if there was such a copper, he never made his case,' the voice in his head said. ‘An' you might not, either, Charlie.'

An image of his own gravestone flashed before Woodend's eyes, and on it was written:

That wasn't going to happen, he told himself angrily. He wouldn't
allow
it to happen!

As Smithers turned left onto Bishopsgate the rain became heavier, and by the time he drew up in front of Liverpool Street Railway Station it was coming down in buckets.

A woman, her head obscured by an umbrella, emerged from under the station awning where she'd been sheltering from the downpour, and walked quickly towards the Cadillac.

In order to open the passenger door from inside the car, Smithers had only to reach across. But he didn't do that. Instead, he got out of the Cadillac, walked around the front, and opened the passenger door from the outside!

It was her, Woodend thought. It
had to be
her. Smithers would never have made such a gallant gesture – in the pouring rain – for just
any
woman.

Once the woman was inside, the Cadillac sedan set off up Bishopsgate again.

As Woodend followed, he found that he was already running through a future interview with the woman in his head.

‘
I didn't know anything about it
,' she would claim tearfully – because that was what the
y
always claimed.

‘
You knew he left the club with the young girl, didn't you?
' Woodend would demand.

‘
Yeah, I … I knew that.
'

‘
And that when he came back later, he'd already killed her?
'

‘
No … I … he said he'd just run her home.
'

‘
Don't lie to me. If you hadn't known she was dead, how could you have phoned me to tell me where the body was?
'

‘
I didn't.
'

‘
More lies! I know it was you.
'

She would break in the end. She would break and – to save herself – she would tell him enough to ensure that, however many friends in high places Ron Smithers had, he would still end up with a rope around his neck!

The couple's destination, it turned out, was a nightclub on Bethnal Green Road, which went by the name of the Waldorf Club. Smithers drew up directly by the door, and he and the woman rushed inside to avoid the rain, leaving the bouncer on duty with the job of parking the Cadillac.

Woodend himself parked a little further down the street, and lit up a Capstan Full Strength.

Even from a distance, he thought, the Waldorf reminded him, in so many ways, of the Charleston Club. It had the same flashy lighting, which might appear sophisticated to those who knew no better, but in reality was merely tawdry. It had the same kind of bouncers, who acted out the part of hard men without really being hard. And it had the same kind of punters entering it, bank officials and their wives, city clerks and their girlfriends – people who relished the air of danger attached to the place, but only so long as they could be assured that it was
safe
danger.

He wondered what could possibly have attracted Ron Smithers – a man who would know the real thing when he saw it – to a place like this. It didn't make sense that he should have chosen to take his girlfriend to this particular club, any more than it made sense that he should have taken her to the Charleston.

He felt a strong urge to go inside the club – to reward himself for his patient vigil with a glimpse of the woman who had been the object of it. But he knew that was not a good idea, because if Smithers saw him he would immediately realize what was going on.

And then what would happen?

The woman would quickly disappear off the face of the earth! Possibly Smithers might send her abroad – somewhere beyond the reach of the Metropolitan Police. Possibly he might even kill her – because, as fond as he appeared to be of her, he was undoubtedly even fonder of his own neck.

And without the woman, Woodend thought, he had nothing.

Without the woman, he would be back to square one.

So he would fight his natural urge, and stay where he was – just sit there, chain-smoking, until they came out again.

When they did eventually leave the club, he would follow them, and when they separated, it was the woman he would continue to tail. Because once he knew where she lived – once he knew
who she was
– he would have her!

Another four hours passed before Smithers and his paramour emerged from the club again. It had stopped raining by then, but even so, the woman seemed eager to get into the waiting Cadillac as quickly as possible. Greyhound Ron, on the other hand, was in no hurry at all, and struck up a conversation with the bouncers, who were already treating him like the visiting royalty he actually was.

The woman waited for about half a minute, then tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed to the car. But Smithers seemed to have had enough of playing the gentleman for one night, and shook his head brusquely.

The woman was furious. She stood there impotently for a few moments, then began to march peevishly up and down in front of the car.

Up until that moment, Woodend had not been able to get a proper look at her, but now, as she continually passed under the club's flashing lights, it was almost as if she were taking part in an identification parade solely for his benefit.

An involuntary tremble took control of Woodend's cigarette hand.

‘I had it all wrong,' he groaned.

No, not
all
wrong, he corrected himself.

He'd been right about Smithers committing the murder – the case for that was stronger than ever, now that he'd suddenly been handed a motive.

But where he
had
been wrong –
so
wrong – was in his thinking about the cover-up. He'd fervently believed, until just a few seconds earlier, that the only reason the Yard seemed unwilling to pin Pearl Jones's murder on Smithers was because he had someone important – perhaps even one of the top brass, like Deputy Commissioner Naylor – in his pocket.

Now he saw that that wasn't it.

It wasn't it at all!

Smithers finally decided it was time to go, and he and the woman got into the car and drove away.

But, despite his earlier planning, Woodend made no effort to follow them.

Because he didn't need to!

Twenty-Six

H
is childhood was something that Toby Burroughs did his best not to think about. Yet as hard as he tried to keep it firmly locked away in a dark corner of his mind, he could not
always
keep it caged.

Sometimes it seemed to take very little to set him off on a reluctant journey to the past. A picture, a word – even a perfectly ordinary sound – could be enough to fling him into the time tunnel and send him hurtling back to the last days of the Victorian era. And once he was there, it was as if he'd never been away.

He felt the cold of those years – a cold so huge and all-encompassing that it had almost killed him. He relived the humiliation of being dressed in rags – of being mocked for it by other boys,
almost
as poor as he was. But most of all, he recalled the hunger.

It seemed always to have been there – that hollow feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach. Walking past a pie shop, sniffing its aroma in the air, he would be conscious of the saliva forming his mouth – as if he were not a boy at all, but a dog. Standing with his nose pressed up against a cafe window, he would watch the people inside – people who had no idea what a precious gift they had been given – as they shovelled food carelessly into their mouths. And he had promised himself then, that one day –
one day
– he would eat when he wanted to, not just when he could.

He was rich and powerful now. He owned property all over London, drove around in flashy cars, and told the time by expensive watches. But of all the things his wealth had brought him, it was food – and especially breakfast – which he valued the most.

He was eating breakfast that Saturday morning when he was informed by one of his minders that DS Woodend was outside, and wanted to see him.

‘Did 'e say what he wanted?' Burroughs asked.

‘No, 'e didn't, boss. The cheeky bleeder said 'e didn't need to, because yer'd already know. D'yer want me to send 'im away wiv a flea in 'is ear?'

‘No, I'll see 'im,' Burroughs said, looking down at his breakfast, and realizing he didn't really want it any more.

Woodend was escorted into the room by two minders, one on each side of him. Yet he didn't look intimidated by his situation, Burroughs thought. In fact, he looked as if
nothing
could intimidate him that morning.

Woodend looked around, at the heavy curtains and the heavy wallpaper, at the pictures which had been painted on the ceiling.

‘Nice place,' he said.

‘Yes, it is,' Burroughs agreed. ‘It's my private dining room. It's the place where people come when they want to eat wiv me, but don't want ter be
seen
eating wiv me.' He paused for a moment. ‘Why are yer 'ere? I don't recall 'aving sent for yer.'

‘Let's get one thing straight right from the start,' Woodend told him. ‘I'm not your boy now – an' I never will be.'

One of the minders tapped him on the shoulder, and Woodend turned to face him.

‘Watch yer mouth, copper!' the minder warned.

‘This has nothin' to do with you,' Woodend said. ‘Can't you see I was talkin' to the organ grinder, not his monkey?'

The minder stepped clear of the policeman, and balled his hands into tight fists. ‘It's time yer learned a bit of respect,' he growled.

‘An' you think you can teach it to me, do you?' Woodend asked. ‘Well, go ahead. Take a swing at me. I'd really like that.'

‘Leave it out, Larry,' Burroughs said.

‘Sorry, boss?'

‘I'm 'aving my breakfast, and I don't want blood all over the table, so why don't you and Pete go back to the bar?'

‘Wot about 'im?' Larry asked, jerking a thumb in Woodend's direction.

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