Fatal Quest (33 page)

‘An' you were wise not to,' Woodend said. ‘Because however much money you'd offered him, he wouldn't have dared help you.'

‘Wouldn't 'e? Why not?'

‘That's not somethin' you need to know. It's more to do with another little matter that I have to clear up later, with Deputy Commissioner Naylor.'

‘And suppose I
insist
on knowing?' Burroughs asked.

‘Insist all you like, but I still won't tell you,' Woodend replied. ‘It's police business, an' – trust me – you're better out of it.' He lit up a cigarette. ‘You still haven't said why you chose me for the investigation.'

‘Because yer were the only one 'oo who seemed to
care
– the only one who seemed to fink that the death of a coloured girl was
wurf
investigating.'

‘Why did Victoria deny that the girl in the photograph was Pearl?' Woodend asked.

‘Because she was scared.'

‘Of you?'

‘Yes. She fort that I'd blame 'er for Pearl's death. She fort I'd kill 'er if I found out.'

‘An' the only way to prevent that happenin' was to pretend that Pearl wasn't dead at all?'

‘Exactly.'

‘An'
did
you kill her?' Woodend asked, remembering what Lene had said about the car picking her up, and how she had been reluctant to get it.

‘No, of course I didn't kill 'er.'

‘Then what did you do with her?'

‘I sent 'er back 'ome to the West Indies.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I knew that when the police finally got around to questioning 'er, the 'ole story – wot I've been keeping secret for sixteen years – would finally come out into the open.'

And you still didn't dare to admit to what you've done, Woodend thought. You just couldn't find the strength within yourself to tell the world that you were once in love with a coloured woman.

‘Can yer … can yer tell me anyfink about the last few hours of my daughter's life?' Burroughs asked, on the verge of tears again.

‘She was in a place called the Charleston Club,' Woodend said. ‘That's where she met her killer. I won't try to tell you that she didn't suffer at all, but at least it was quick, because ten minutes later she was dead.'

‘She was just a schoolgirl,' Burroughs said. ‘What in God's name was she doing in a nightclub?'

She was lookin' for you, Woodend thought – lookin' for the father who she'd never met, yet desperately needed to know.

But Burroughs was already in enough pain without him adding to it, so all he said was, ‘I suppose that's somethin' we'll never have the answer to.'

I
t was eight-fifteen on Monday morning when the man walked, unannounced, into DCI Bentley's outer office. He didn't say who he was, but there was no need to – because his uniform said it for him.

The three detective constables who'd already reported for duty jumped to their feet.

‘Sit down, men,' the chief superintendent said. ‘Which one of you is DS Woodend?' And then, observing that none of them was wearing the hairy sports jacket he been told about, he added, ‘He's not here yet, is he?'

‘No, sir, punctuality isn't one of the sarge's virtues,' Cotteral said.

The chief superintendent nodded, as if he'd been expecting to hear something like that, then said, ‘Which of these desks is his?'

‘That one,' Cotteral said, pointing helpfully.

The chief superintendent sat down on Woodend's chair and produced a bunch of keys from his pocket. The first one he tried on Woodend's desk drawer didn't work, but the second did, and the drawer slid open.

The chief superintendent shook his head disgustedly at the chaos which confronted him, then heaped the contents of the drawer onto the desk and began the process of putting them into some sort of order.

By eight twenty-five Woodend was in the corridor, surveying the scene – the chief superintendent still sorting through his notes, the constables bent earnestly over their desks as if engaged in work of national importance.

It couldn't have been easy for the constables to ignore the fact that one of the big guns was sitting within touching distance of them, he thought, but they were putting on a creditable performance of doing just that. It was a bit like Death calling, he supposed – once you'd established that he hadn't come for you, you pretended that he wasn't there at all.

He entered the office and walked over to his desk.

‘Have you found what you were looking for, sir?' he asked, with mild curiosity.

The superintendent glared up at him. ‘You, I take it, are DS Woodend,' he said coldly.

‘That's right, sir,' Woodend agreed.

‘And I'm Chief Superintendent Markham,' the other man said. ‘Your desk is in a disgraceful state, Sergeant.'

‘I'm sorry, sir,' Woodend replied. ‘If I'd known that you'd be riflin' through it, I'd have tidied it up before I went home on Friday.'

Markham stood up. ‘You are required to come with me,' he said.

Required to come with me
, Woodend repeated silently.

Well, that certainly set the tone of what was to follow clearly enough, didn't it?
Whatever
it was, it certainly wouldn't involve a cosy little chat, with tea and biscuits provided.

Markham stepped around Woodend and out into the corridor. Once there, he performed a smart right turn, and marched quickly off towards the stairwell. As Woodend fell into step behind him, he couldn't help hearing a sharp release of breath from the rest of DCI Bentley's team back in the office.

You could pretty much gauge the importance of your enemies by the men they sent to run their errands for them, Woodend told himself. And since the errand boy in this case was a
chief superintendent
, it was a fair bet that the office they were heading towards belonged to Deputy Commissioner Naylor – the man who was the assistant to God's deputy on earth.

He wasn't surprised to find himself in this situation, he thought. In fact, he'd been expecting it – and if
anything
was surprising, it was that Naylor hadn't hauled him in immediately after the police had been called to the Royal Albert, but instead had waited until Monday morning.

They reached the stairwell, but rather than starting the climb to the celestial heights inhabited by Naylor and his kind, Chief Superintendent Markham chose instead to begin descending.

‘Aren't we goin' in the wrong direction, sir?' Woodend asked.

‘
Down
, you mean?' Markham asked, over his shoulder.

‘Yes, sir.'

Markham laughed. It was a dry throaty sound, completely devoid of any real humour.

‘Down is where you've been heading for quite some time, Sergeant,' he said. ‘Didn't you realize that?'

Yes, Woodend agreed silently. I suppose I did.

And by now he had worked out exactly where they were going. It was not to
any kind
of office at all, but to the interview rooms on the floor below, which were the only part of the Yard that the criminal classes ever saw.

Deputy Commissioner Naylor was already in the interview room when Markham ushered Woodend in.

He greeted the sergeant with a look of intense dislike. ‘You're not here under caution, Sergeant,' he said. ‘At least, you're not under caution
yet
.'

‘That's good to know, sir,' Woodend replied. ‘Why aren't we doin' this in your office? Is it bein' decorated or somethin'?'

‘Your flippancy does not impress me,' Naylor said, glancing, as he spoke, at the interview room's other door. ‘But since you ask, the reason we are here is because I felt that, given the nature of this meeting, it would be the most appropriate setting.'

No, that wasn't it at all, Woodend decided. They were there because this room – unlike Naylor's office – had that second door. And
behind
that door was someone else, waiting to hear what was about to be said.

‘Ronald Edward Smithers, otherwise known as Greyhound Ron, was murdered yesterday,' Naylor said bleakly. ‘His throat was cut.'

‘You told Burroughs!' Paniatowski said, astounded. ‘You
actually
gave him Smithers's name!'

‘I don't see why you should sound so surprised,' Woodend replied airily. ‘I did warn you, at the very start of this tale, didn't I, that I'd arranged to have somebody killed?'

‘What were you thinking of, Charlie? If it had ever got out, you'd have been finished on the Force. They might even have decided to charge you as an accessory to the murder.'

‘Oh, there was very little danger of that,' Woodend said, with uncharacteristic flippancy. ‘Toby Burroughs was an honourable man, by his own lights, an' even if he'd been caught, it was unlikely he'd ever have given me up.'

‘It was still a risk,' Paniatowski persisted.

‘But a risk worth takin'. I thought that Burroughs had the right to know who'd murdered his daughter. An' I thought that Pearl had the right to justice.'

The lightness had completely disappeared from his voice, and been replaced by a weightier – altogether more frightening – tone.

His earlier casual approach had been no more than camouflage, Paniatowski thought. He was still angry about Pearl Jones's death, even after twenty-three years.

‘Would you do the same thing again, Charlie?' she asked.

‘Today, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

‘No, I wouldn't. Times have changed, an' we don't have capital punishment any more.'

‘And that makes a difference, does it?'

‘To me it does, yes. If Smithers had been convicted of the murder back then, he'd have hanged, just as he should have. I didn't see a lot of difference between the hangman's rope an' Toby Burroughs's razor. But there was one thing I made Burroughs promise before I gave him the name.'

‘And what was that.'

‘That if his daughter's killer was to die, it had to be by his hand alone. Man to man. Face to face. With no outside help.'

‘Why did you insist on that?'

Woodend shrugged. ‘To this day, I'm not sure I really know the answer,' he admitted. ‘Maybe I was feelin' just a
little bit
guilty about what I'd done, an' wanted to at least give Smithers a fightin' chance. Or maybe I thought that there was no real virtue in St George killin' the dragon if he used a guided missile to do it. Whatever the reason, it just felt
right
.'

‘And Toby Burroughs had no objections to doing it that way?'

‘No, he didn't. To tell you the truth, I think Toby would have gone after Smithers on his own whatever I'd said. He may have had his faults, but he at least knew there was more to bein' a man than just wearing trousers.'

‘Did you hear me, Sergeant?' Naylor demanded. ‘Ron Smithers has been murdered.'

‘Has he really, sir?' Woodend asked. ‘Well, at least you'll have no trouble catchin' the killer, will you?'

‘What exactly do you mean by that?'

‘I should have thought it was obvious, sir. Since the Flyin' Squad were keepin' a round-the-clock surveillance on him, they'll know exactly who was with him at the time of his death, won't they?'

‘Are you trying to be funny?' Naylor demanded.

‘No, sir. I'm just goin' by what
you
told me.'

‘Smithers was murdered with a cut-throat razor,' Naylor said. ‘What does that suggest to you?'

‘What
should
it suggest to me?' Woodend countered.

‘A cut-throat razor is a very
personal
weapon, and that suggests that there was a very
personal
motive behind the murder.'

‘Possibly you're right about that, sir. I wouldn't know.'

‘But it's also a weapon which has largely gone out of fashion, and is now only used by a very few of the old-style gangsters.'

‘Old-style gangsters like Ron Smithers, who used his to cut Pearl Jones's throat,' Woodend said.

‘I was thinking more of
Toby Burroughs
,' Naylor said. ‘In fact, this particular killing has Burroughs's stamp all over it.'

‘Does it?' Woodend said. ‘I didn't know that.'

‘Are you asking me to believe that it's a pure coincidence that a few days after I refused your request to have Smithers arrested for murder, someone killed him?' Naylor asked.

‘With respect, sir, I'm not, in point of fact, askin' you to believe
anythin
',' Woodend told him.

‘So here's what I think happened. I think that you went to see Toby Burroughs, and gave him a
personal
reason to want to kill Smithers.'

‘Now that is a bit far-fetched, if you don't mind me sayin' so, sir,' Woodend said. ‘Can you yourself think of a
single
thing that
I
could have said which might have driven Burroughs into a homicidal rage?'

‘No, I can't,' Naylor admitted. ‘But that still doesn't mean that it didn't happen that way.'

‘It doesn't mean that it
did
happen that way, either,' Woodend pointed out.

‘I don't think you yet fully comprehend the amount of damage you've done,' Naylor said. ‘I don't think you can even
begin
to imagine how much more difficult Smithers's death is going to make my job.'

‘Maybe not, but I'd still like to try,' Woodend said. ‘Let me see,' he mused. ‘A violent criminal – a man who's made thousands of people's lives a misery, an' is probably responsible for scores of deaths – is now no longer a problem by virtue of the fact that he's dead himself.' He shook his head. ‘You were quite right, sir – I
can't
really see how that could possibly make your job more difficult.'