Fatal Quest

by Sally Spencer

  ‘I can assure you, I never meant to concern you,’ he said, giving nothing away.

  ‘I’m sure you did not,’ Dr Jenkins agreed. ‘But you must understand that it is a very rare occurrence indeed for the forces of law and order to enter this temple of learning.’

  ‘Aye, an’ you’re probably not used to havin’ the Old Bill visitin’ your school, either,’ Woodend said – though he knew he shouldn’t have done.

  Dr Jenkins frowned, perhaps not quite sure whether he was poking fun at her or was merely stupid.

  ‘So how may I assist you?’ she asked, apparently settling on the ‘stupid’ explanation.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about one of your pupils,’ Woodend said.

  ‘One of my pupils?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And which pupil might that be?’

  ‘Pearl Jones.’

  A look of distaste flickered briefly across Dr Jenkins’ face – but not briefly enough for Woodend to have missed it.

  ‘And why would you wish to know anything about Pearl?’ the headmistress asked.

  Because she’s dead! Woodend thought.

  But he couldn’t say that.

  Not when he couldn’t actually prove it.

  Not when her own mother refused to admit the truth.

  ‘I’m afraid that, given the confidential nature of my inquiries, I’m not in a position to go into any details,’ he said.

  ‘And yet you still expect me to speak freely about the girl?’ Dr Jenkins asked, haughtily. ‘You still expect me to betray my confidences?’

  She was anticipating him being crushed by the remark, Woodend though – a mere detective sergeant put in his rightful place by a doctor of philosophy.

  But he wasn’t. He’d got the woman sized up by now – and he knew just which buttons to push.

  ‘I can see your problem,’ he admitted humbly. ‘I myself wouldn’t like to be put in to the position that I’ve put you in.’

  ‘Well, then, there’s really no more to be said, is there?’ the headmistress asked triumphantly,

  ‘But, you see, I’m just a simple copper,’ Woodend continued. ‘When I’m treadin’ the line between what’s confidential an’ what isn’t, I’m never quite sure whether I’ve stepped over it or not. That’s where you’re different, Dr Jenkins. You have a subtlety of mind that’s quite lackin’ in me.’ He paused, and frowned. ‘Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we’re two of a kind, an’ it would be just as difficult for you as it would be for me.’

  The idea of them being ‘two of a kind’ seemed to truly appall Dr Jenkins.

  ‘I am, of course, willing to help in any way I can,’ she said, somewhat hastily, ‘though you must be willing to accept that certain areas of Pearl’s life within this school cannot be explored.’

  ‘Of course,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘Very well, then. Pearl is an exceptional pupil, both in terms of her sporting prowess and her academic excellence. We expect her to do very well indeed. In fact, a place at either Oxford or Cambridge is certainly not out of the question.’

  But the look of distaste was definitely back on the headmistress’s face, Woodend thought, and whatever she might say, Dr Jenkins clearly didn’t like the fact that a black girl from the slums was doing better than many of her white middle-class pupils.

  So if she didn’t like it, why did she tolerate it? Why was Pearl even in the school?

  There was a sudden loud mechanical roar from below, and looking out of the window, Woodend saw that a digger was attacking the tarmac in the corner of the playground.

  ‘Trouble with your drains?’ he asked.

  Dr Jenkins shot him a disdainful look, as if it was bad taste on his part to even mention drains at all – as if he was expected to believe that the pupils and staff at this fine school didn’t have the ordinary, nasty, bodily functions which required drains.

  ‘We are in the process of laying the foundations for our new science block,’ she said. ‘It will be an unpleasant disruption to the scholarly life we are used to here, but there is no choice in the matter, for though we excel in the classics, we must also move with the times.’

  Woodend wondered if he should applaud the carefully balanced statement, but decided that even someone as self-absorbed as Dr Jenkins might see it for the sarcasm it was.

  ‘Is Pearl good at science?’ he asked.

  ‘As I’ve already indicated to you, Pearl is good at everything,’ the headmistress said.

  And the distaste was back on her face again.

  ‘You mentioned sport, earlier. Does she play hockey?’

  ‘Yes, she is a very strong player indeed,’ Dr Jenkins said, forcing the words through her teeth.

  And one who was not afraid to get hurt playing the game, Woodend thought.

  ‘How strong?’ he asked. ‘Is she the best player you’ve got?’

  ‘All things are relative, but I suppose, in a way, she is.’

  ‘So she’ll be captain of the team, then?’

  ‘No, not the captain,’ Dr Jenkins admitted. ‘There is another girl who is more suited to that particular role.’

  So that was at least one small triumph that the bigoted Dr Jenkins had been able to deny her.

  The sound of the digger outside stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and Dr Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘I don’t see why they couldn’t just use men with pickaxes, instead of all that noisy machinery,’ she said. ‘But I suppose they simply can’t get the labour any more. Working men don’t seem to want to do any actual work, these days, do they?’

  There speaks a woman who’s never wielded a pickaxe in her life, Woodend thought.

  He took out his cigarettes, then, seeing the glare in Dr Jenkins’s eyes, slipped them back in his pocket again.

  ‘What I find quite surprisin’, given her humble background, is that Pearl’s a pupil at this school at all,’ he said.

  ‘In educational matters, it is talent, not background, which should always prevail,’ Dr Jenkins said, though with perhaps not as much conviction as she would have liked.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure talent is very important,’ Woodend agreed ‘But, when all’s said an’ done, the education still has to be paid for, doesn’t it? An’ I don’t see how Pearl’s mother could possibly afford the fees that you must have to charge. That’s why I was wonderin’ if you’d given her some kind of scholarship.’

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly comment on that,’ Dr Jenkins said stonily.

  ‘Why not?’ Woodend wondered. ‘If she is on a scholarship, it’s to both your credit an’ hers. Besides,’ he added, his voice hardening for the first time in the interview, ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘I am aware of your position,’ Dr Jenkins said, bemused by his sudden change of tone.

  ‘An’ bein’ a policeman, how long do you think it will take me to find out whether or not Pearl’s on a scholarship, even if you don’t choose to tell me?’ Woodend continued.

  ‘This school does provide a number of scholarships for deserving cases,’ Dr Jenkins said, picking her words carefully. ‘Pearl is not currently the recipient of one of those scholarships, but were she to apply for one, we would certainly look favourably on that application.’

  Oh, absolutely! Woodend thought. I bet you’d be fallin’ over yourself to give it to her, you snobby bitch.

  ‘In other words, what you’re sayin’ is that she never has applied for a scholarship?’ he asked.

  ‘I did not say that at all,’ Dr Jenkins replied, though the expression on her face clearly revealed that she now realized she’d implied it.

  ‘So she got her scholarship to this school from some other source,’ Woodend mused. ‘Was it from some kind of charitable foundation, perhaps?’

  ‘I am not all happy with the direction in which this conversation is now moving,’ Dr Jenkins said sternly.

  ‘Now that is strange,’ Woodend said. ‘Why is it such a secret? I would have though
t that philanthropists would like it to be generally known that they’re bein’ philanthropic. I would have thought anybody who’d given money to a coloured girl from Cannin’ Town would have been shoutin’ it from the rooftops.’

  There was no answer to that, and Dr Jenkins seemed to know it.

  She reached out her hand, and stabbed at a large black button at the edge of her desk. Woodend heard a buzzer ring, somewhere beyond the office, and the headmistress’s secretary appeared almost immediately.

  ‘Please show this gentleman to the door, Miss Stapleton,’ Dr Jenkins said coldly.

  Well, at least she’s callin’ me a gentleman, even if her tone suggests I’m anythin’ but, Woodend thought.

  He rose to his feet and stretched out his hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Jenkins,’ he said.

  But the headmistress, who was making a great show of reading a document which lay on her desk in front of her, acknowledged neither the hand nor the words.

  ‘If you’d like to follow me,’ the secretary said.

  ‘Of course,’ Woodend agreed.

  As he was leaving the room, the digger started up again. He knew it shouldn’t have pleased him that the sound would distress the headmistress – but it did.

  Six

  DC Ted Cotteral was sitting at his desk, his fingers periodically striking one of the keys of his battered typewriter. Woodend had decided long ago that Cotteral wasn’t much of a detective, but now, watching him from the doorway as he slowly and agonizingly tip-tapped out his report, it was becoming apparent that he wasn’t much of a typist, either.

  There were no other detective constables in the outer office, and looking across the room, through the open door of the Wolf’s Lair, Woodend noted that DCI Bentley was absent, too.

  Well, there nothing surprising in that, he told himself. Bentley was famous for sloping off home early, so the fact that the fat idle bastard was not there now shouldn’t bother him at all.

  But it did bother him. Or rather it bothered his gut, which suddenly seemed to be encircled by a tight iron band.

  He turned to face Cotteral.

  ‘Any idea where the guv’nor is, Ted?’ he asked.

  ‘Shit!’ the constable said, looking first at where his index finger had landed on the keyboard, and then at the key that it had impelled to strike the page. ‘You’ve just made me mistype, Sarge.’

  ‘I asked you if you had any idea where the guv’nor is?’ Woodend repeated.

  Cotteral reached for his eraser, and began to rub gingerly at the surface of his report.

  ‘He’s in one of the interview rooms, Sarge,’ he said, almost absently.

  When he’d been a sergeant in the army, Woodend thought, he’d never have tolerated this casual attitude from the other ranks. But then, the army had been different. The officers he’d served under had had confidence in him, and would have backed to the hilt whatever action he’d decided to take, whereas Bentley …

  ‘What’s the guv’nor doin’ in the interview room, DC Cotteral?’ he asked. ‘Talkin’ to a suspect?’

  ‘Not a suspect as such,’ Cotteral replied. ‘He’s having a bit of a chat with a coloured woman.’

  The iron band tightened another notch. In later years, when he had learned to respect his gut more, Woodend would take it as a certain sign that something had gone seriously wrong. But for the moment – even though what he’d just heard was disturbing – he wasn’t entirely convinced it was any more than just acid indigestion.

  ‘A coloured woman?’ he repeated. ‘Do you happen to know her name?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ Cotteral consulted his report. ‘She’s called Victoria Jones, and she lives at 36 Balaclava Road, Canning Town.’

  ‘Since you’re the one writin’ the report, I’m assumin’ you’re the one who brought her in.’

  ‘That’s right. I was.’

  ‘Are you bein’ deliberately bloody minded, DC Cotteral?’ Woodend demanded.

  ‘No, Sarge,’ Cotteral said, looking innocent.

  ‘Then tell me who told you to bring her in. Did you do it on the guv’nor’s specific instructions?’

  Cotteral chuckled. ‘Oh, they were certainly his instructions – and they were definitely specific enough.’

  Woodend sighed heavily. ‘Life is full of choices, Cotteral, an’ I’m about to offer you one,’ he said. ‘You can either give me a complete run down on exactly what happened …’

  ‘I’m not sure the guv’nor would be happy about me doing that, Sarge.’

  ‘… or you can run the risk of breakin’ your bloody neck when I haul you out of the chair an’ throw you across the room.’

  Cotteral blanched. ‘Fair enough, Sarge,’ he said, after a few seconds had passed. ‘At around half past two, the guv’nor got a phone call in his office – and that’s when things started happening.’

  ‘Who was this phone call from?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cotteral said. Then, as Woodend started to move towards him, he shrank back into his chair and continued, ‘I swear to you, I don’t know. But whoever it was, it had an effect on him, because five seconds after he’d rung off he came tearing out of the Lair like he’d got a red-hot poker up his arse, and said he wanted the woman picking up.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he wanted her pickin’ up?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘But he must have told you what to say to her if she asked why she was bein’ brought in.’

  ‘He didn’t do that, either,’ Cotteral said evasively.

  ‘The choice is still yours,’ Woodend growled. ‘Tell me what I want to know or find out what it feels like to fly through the air. It’s really up to you.’

  ‘He wrote her a note, put it in an envelope, and told me to give it to her,’ Cotteral replied sulkily. ‘He said once she’d read it, she’d come quietly.’

  ‘What was in the note?’

  ‘I don’t know! Bentley had sealed the envelope before he gave it to me, and I wasn’t going to open it, was I?’

  ‘So what happened once you got to Mrs Jones’s house?’

  ‘She didn’t want to come with me at first. In fact, she started screaming at me to go away and leave her alone. Then I gave her the guv’nor’s note, and it worked just like he’d said it would. She was as meek as a lamb after that.’

  ‘She was as meek as a lamb,’ Woodend repeated silently.

  Remembering the way she had thrown him out of her house just a few hours earlier, it was hard to imagine her acting meekly.

  So what had Bentley’s note said?

  And just what game was the chief inspector playing?

  Did he think he could solve the murder himself – without even leaving the Yard?

  That didn’t seem likely – but if it did turn out to be the case that he could, it would certainly be a personal humiliation for his sergeant, who had spent the whole day pounding the streets, and still come up with practically nothing.

  Bentley returned an hour later.

  ‘My office,’ he barked at Woodend, as he headed for the Wolf’s Lair himself.

  The sergeant followed him in. Bentley sank back gratefully into his comfortable chair, but did not invite Woodend to take a seat.

  ‘I’ve just spent the last two hours talking to a darkie woman by the name of Victoria Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Is that right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, it is. And do you know what the first thing she told me was?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘She told me that you’d already talked to her.’

  ‘May I ask you where you got her name and address from, sir?’ Woodend said. ‘Did she phone you herself?’

  ‘Let me ask you a question, first,’ Bentley countered. ‘All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  ‘You are, sir.’

  ‘So who gets to do the talking, and who gets to do the listening?’

  ‘You get to talk, and I g
et to listen.’

  ‘And if there are any questions to be asked, who asks them?’

  ‘You do, sir.’

  But how had Bentley got her address? Woodend wondered.

  And what had been in the chief inspector’s note which made Victoria Jones agree to come meekly to the Yard?

  ‘Are you still with me, Sergeant?’ Bentley asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, well, since we seem to have got the question of who’s in charge out of the way, let’s get back to the matter in hand, shall we? Now, where was I? Oh, yes. You went to see this darkie woman, and blandly informed her that her daughter was dead. And even though she told you, several times, that the girl in the picture which you showed her wasn’t her daughter, you kept insisting that she was. Why was that?’

  ‘Because Mrs Jones wasn’t tellin’ the truth.’

  ‘And you know that for a fact, do you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Mrs Jones had several photographs of her daughter on the sideboard, and I could see it was the same girl.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, is that all you’ve got to say in your defence?’ Bentley exploded.

  ‘Isn’t it enough?’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t enough. The girl in the photographs may well have looked like the girl in the morgue, but then all darkies look alike anyway, don’t they?’

  ‘No, sir. Not to me.’

  ‘Of course! I should have known that, shouldn’t I?’ Bentley said. ‘After all, you’re so much more sensitive – so much more intelligent – than the rest of us. And how would you feel, Sergeant Genius, if I told you that ten minutes after you’d accused Victoria Jones of lying, her daughter rang up to say she was all right.’

  ‘I’d be surprised, sir,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Why? Because you think you’re so bloody clever that you can never be wrong?’

  ‘Because Mrs Jones doesn’t have a phone in her house. Nobody on Balaclava Street does. That was one of the first things I noticed when I was down there.’

  There was short pause – perhaps no more than two or three beats – before Bentley said, ‘Did I actually tell you that the daughter rang Victoria Jones at home?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but—’