Fatal Quest

by Sally Spencer

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because they know that if they do, they’ll find the house stripped when they get back.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she isn’t going back.’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes is not dead,’ Bentley said, with heavy sarcasm. ‘He lives on, in the form of Detective Sergeant Charlie Woodend.’ He leant over, and put his hands on Woodend’s desk. ‘Look me in the eyes, and tell me you weren’t the one who tipped off Victoria Jones,’ he ordered.

  Woodend did as he’d been instructed. ‘I did not tip off Victoria Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Then who did?’ Bentley wondered.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Woodend said.

  But he was certainly going to do his damnedest to find out.

  Nine

  Throughout the length and breadth of London, much the same things were happening everywhere – men were already at work, women were busy cleaning their houses, and children were sitting behind their desks at school. But Balaclava Street was in this way – as in so many others – different. On this street, the men slept late, dragging themselves from their pits just in time to reach the pub’s front door for opening time, the women wouldn’t have recognized housework if it had hit them in the face, and the children went to school only when their parents were threatened with fines by truancy officers.

  And yet, Woodend thought as he walked up the street, there was, in the middle of all this decay and desperation, a small oasis of tidiness and order – the home that Victoria Jones had made for herself and her dead daughter.

  He drew level with Lene’s house, and was just reaching for the door knocker when the door itself swung open.

  ‘Shaw yer coming up the shtreet,’ Lene said.

  Of course she had, Woodend thought, and noted that though she kept her purple beret on, even when she was at home, she had no such qualms about her false teeth.

  Lene led him into her front parlour. There was an armchair positioned right by the window, and though the window itself was sparkling clean, the rest of the room smelled of neglect and indifference.

  ‘Yer mished all the excitement,’ Lene told him, as she offered him a seat on her ratty two-seater sofa.

  Woodend sat down gingerly, but not gingerly enough to avoid a cloud of dust and dubious odours from engulfing him.

  ‘The excitement?’ he repeated. ‘You’re talkin’ about the policeman, are you?’

  ‘Wot policeman?’

  ‘The one who went into Mrs Jones’s house, about an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh, ’e was a copper, was ’e?’ Lene asked. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘So who did you think he was?’

  ‘I fort he might ’ave been a burglar.’

  ‘So you called the Old Bill, did you?’ Woodend asked, already suspecting he knew the answer.

  ‘I didn’t call them as such,’ Lene admitted.

  ‘Meanin’ you didn’t call them at all?’

  Lene shrugged indifferently. ‘It wasn’t none of my business, was it?’ she asked. ‘Besides, if I ’ad called ’em, I’d just ’ave been wasting police time, ’cos when he came out of the ’ouse ’e was carrying no more in ’is ’ands than ’e ’ad when ’e went in,’ she added, in her own defence.

  There was something not quite right about this conversation they were having, Woodend thought – something about the woman’s whole attitude which jarred.

  And then he had it!

  Lene, whose entire life revolved around watching what went on outside her window, should have been thrilled to learn that the man who had entered Victoria Jones’s house was a policeman. She should have been absolutely bursting with questions about why he had gone to the house, and what he had found there.

  But she wasn’t.

  Which could only mean one thing – that Cotteral’s visit had been little more than an anticlimax. That something far more exciting had preceded it.

  ‘Would you like to tell me about what happened before the copper turned up?’ he asked Lene.

  ‘Gawd Almighty, I fort yer’d never ask,’ Lene replied. ‘What ’appened was that that big black car wot I told yer about come back again.’

  ‘The one driven by the man who watched Pearl?’

  ‘That’s right. Only, it didn’t park furver down the street, like wot it usually does. This time, it pulled up right in front of that darkie’s ’ouse.’

  ‘An’ was the same man in it?’

  ‘There was two men, this time. And I don’t fink neiver of ’em was the man wot usually comes.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘They was big blokes, wiv their ’ats pulled down over their eyes.’

  ‘So how do you know one of them wasn’t the man who usually comes?’

  ‘’E’s smaller. There’s a few inches between ’is ’ead and the roof of the car, but these two was scraping it with theirs.’

  I wish all witnesses were like you, Lene, Woodend thought.

  ‘What did these two men do?’

  ‘They knocked on the door, o’ course, and when the Jones woman answered it, they barged straight in.’

  ‘You’re sure about that, are you, Lene? You’re absolutely certain that she didn’t invite them in?’

  ‘Invite ’em in? I should say not! The first one pushed straight past ’er, an’ nearly knocked ’er flying. Then the second one sort o’ jostled ’er inside, and closed the door behind ’im.’

  ‘An’ what happened next?’

  ‘About ten minutes later, the door opened again, and one of the men stepped out onto the pavement. ’E ’ad a suitcase in ’is ’and, ’e puts the suitcase in the boot, then gets inside the car and starts the engine. Once it’s running, ’e gets out again, and looks up and down the street, like ’e’s making sure there’s nobody about. Then ’e makes a “come on” sign with ’is ’and. That’s when the uvvers come out of the ’ouse.’

  ‘Mrs Jones an’ the second man?’

  ‘Course, it was them. ’Oo did you fink I’m talking about? King George and Queen Elizabeff?’

  Woodend grinned. ‘No, that would have been unlikely,’ he admitted.

  ‘Anyway, this second bloke is ’olding on to the darkie’s arm. ’E ain’t exactly dragging ’er, if yer see what I mean. It’s more like ’e’s guiding ’er. ’E leads ’er over to the motor car and opens the back door. ’E points into the car, and she gets inside. ’E follows ’er, and then the one in front drives away.’

  ‘So you think she was reluctant to go with them, but not that reluctant?’ Woodend suggested.

  Lene looked at him as if he’d suddenly started speaking to her in an exotic foreign language.

  ‘Yer wot?’ she asked.

  ‘She wasn’t exactly keen on gettin’ in the car, but she didn’t fight against it, either,’ Woodend rephrased.

  ‘No, she didn’t fight against it,’ Lene agreed. ‘If yer ask me, she was too bleeding terrified to fight.’

  The Royal Albert public house was on Rotherhithe New Road. With its sign hanging over the main entrance and the name of the brewery etched in its frosted-glass windows, it was, in theory, like any other pub in the area. In practice, however, the only people who entered it were those who had been invited to do so, and the two men standing in the doorway – one big, and the other very big – were there to ensure that this practice continued to be observed.

  When Woodend showed the two men his warrant card, and asked to speak to Greyhound Ron, the bouncers looked less than impressed.

  ‘Mr Smivvers is a very busy man,’ one of them said.

  ‘’E don’t even ’ave the time to speak to chief superintendents, never mind detective sergeants,’ the other added.

  ‘I could get a search warrant,’ Woodend pointed out.

  The bouncers thought this was hilarious. ‘Ain’t you ’eard?’ the bigger one asked. ‘Mr Smivvers is fireproof.’

  It was probably true, Woodend thought. He had, earlier in his career, taken a conscious decision to avoid
having anything to do with the Serious Crime Squad himself, because it was well known – though impossible to prove – that just as big-time criminals like Smithers offered their “protection” to small businesses, there were men high up in the Met, who, for a fee, would protect the protectors.

  ‘I’m not here tryin’ to nail Smithers,’ he said.

  The bouncers laughed again. ‘Well, I’m sure ’e’ll be very relieved to ’ear that,’ the bigger one said.

  ‘’E’s been losing sleep at nights at the fort of you turning up at his door, one day,’ the other added.

  Woodend smiled. ‘I do like a good comedy double act,’ he said.

  The bigger bouncer smirked. ‘We aim ter please,’ he said.

  ‘But if I wanted to see clowns in action, I’d go to the circus an’ see the professionals,’ the sergeant added.

  The big bouncer’s smirk vanished. ‘’Ang on, are yer saying we’re a pair o’ clowns?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m sayin’ that I want to see Greyhound Ron,’ Woodend replied. ‘An’ while I can’t make him see me, I can make you ask if he’ll see me.’

  ‘You reckon?’ the big bouncer asked aggressively.

  ‘I reckon,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Because while your boss might be fireproof, I could burn the pair of you easily, if I put my mind to it.’

  ‘That sounds like a fret,’ the bigger bouncer said.

  ‘Does it?’ Woodend asked. ‘Well, you should know, because makin’ threats is somethin’ you are good at.’

  The bouncers exchanged glances, then the bigger one said, ‘Wot ’ave I got ter tell ’im yer want to see ’im about?’

  ‘Tell him I want to see him about Wally Booth.’

  The bouncer nodded, almost as if that was exactly what he’d expected the sergeant to say.

  ‘Wait ’ere,’ he told Woodend.

  Greyhound Ron Smithers was sitting at a table in the corner of the bar of the Royal Albert. There was a brassy blonde talking to him as Woodend walked in, but Smithers jerked his thumb in the direction of a door at the back of the room, and the blonde obediently headed towards it.

  Given his nickname, Woodend had expected him to be a slightly less seedy version of the thousands of punters who crowded into the White City to watch the dogs run, but Smithers bore no resemblance to them at all.

  He was a big man, in his late thirties or early forties, and was dressed in a sharp suit, which, whilst it might have just stepped over the line separating good taste from flashiness, was undoubtedly top quality. He had thick black hair, and his dark eyes were either intelligent or cunning – or perhaps both. His nose was slightly out of kilter, his mouth tight and his chin square and forceful. Overall, he gave the impression of being a handsome man – if handsome in a brutal sort of way.

  Smithers gestured Woodend to take a seat.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally waste my time talking to—’ he began.

  ‘I know,’ Woodend interrupted, ‘I’ve already had all that patter from your two goons stationed outside.’

  ‘Wot patter?’

  ‘That you’re a very busy man, that you only usually speak to coppers above the rank of chief superintendent, etc., etc. So since you are such a busy man, can we take it as read that I feel highly honoured to have been granted an audience with you, an’ then just get on with the business in hand.’

  ‘I will say this for yer – yer’ve got some balls on yer!’ Smithers said.

  ‘Two of them, to be exact,’ Woodend replied. ‘I used to kid myself they were world-championship size, but the police doctor tells me they’re only slightly larger than average.’

  For a moment it looked as Smithers was about to lose his temper, then he smiled and said, ‘My boys tell me you’re investigating Wally Booth’s murder.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How do yer fink I can help?’

  ‘Simple – you can help by tellin’ me who did it.’

  ‘What makes yer fink I know?’

  ‘It’s your business to know. An’ even if you don’t actually know now, you could soon find out, because the killer is either a member of your gang or somebody closely connected with the gang.’

  ‘Why are yer so certain ’e’s one of my “business associates”?’ Smithers asked. ‘Maybe ’e’s one of Toby Burroughs’s blokes. Yer ’ave ’eard of Toby, I take it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of him,’ Woodend agreed.

  There wasn’t an officer serving in the Met who hadn’t heard of Burroughs. Toby had been in the game even longer than Smithers had, and his firm was the only serious rival to Greyhound Ron’s.

  ‘Yeah, maybe it was one of Toby’s boys who bumped off Wally,’ Smithers said, seeming to warm to the idea. ‘It would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would make no sense at all,’ Woodend replied. ‘The Waterman’s Arms is on your firm’s territory. Burroughs’s “business associates” know better than to try an’ show their faces there.’

  ‘All right, if one of them didn’t do it, maybe Wally was killed by a civilian – an ordinary punter,’ Smithers suggested.

  ‘In that case, where’s the second body?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘If an ordinary punter had killed one of your lads, he’d have been dead himself before he had time to reach the door. But there was only one body in the pub when the coppers arrived – Booth’s! Which can only mean, when you think about it, that whoever killed Wally must have been much more important to your firm than Wally was himself.’

  ‘Do yer seriously fink I’d let one of my boys get topped wivout doing somefink about it – even if that somefink didn’t necessarily involve the law?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘If I knew you better, I might be able to give you an answer to that,’ Woodend said, ‘but since we’ve only just met, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Bullshit apart, what is it that yer really want?’

  ‘I thought I’d already made that plain. I really want the guilty man.’

  ‘And yer don’t just want ’im – yer want to collar ’im in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because the sooner I can close this case, the sooner I can get back to the one that really matters, Woodend thought.

  ‘I want him collared in a hurry because I’ve got my guv’nor breathin’ down my neck for a result,’ he said aloud.

  ‘That guv’nor would be DCI Bentley, would it?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘You know it would.’

  ‘If yer like, I could get the word to Bentley that yer need a bit more elbow room,’ Smithers suggested.

  ‘I don’t like,’ Woodend told him firmly.

  Smithers sneered. ‘Oh, you’re that kind of copper, are yer? The by-the-book, holier-than-thou variety.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Woodend said. ‘I’ve cut a few corners in my time – but I’ve always been choosy about which corners they were.’

  ‘So if I was to offer yer some money not to bovver me no more – say, for sake of argument, a couple of grand – yer’d turn it down, would yer?’

  Two thousand pounds was a small fortune to a detective sergeant, Woodend thought. Even high-ranking officers, like Commander Cathcart, didn’t come anywhere near earning that much in a year.

  ‘If you were to offer me a couple of grand, I’d have to assume you were tryin’ to hide a much bigger secret than the name of Wally Booth’s killer,’ he said.

  Smithers laughed. ‘Yer right,’ he agreed. ‘An’ if I did ’ave a big secret to hide, I wouldn’t even bovver trying to bribe you. For a couple o’ grand, I could buy myself a monkey much higher up the tree.’

  And the depressing thing was, what he was saying was probably true, Woodend thought.

  ‘I’d like to know what you think about another matter,’ he said.

  ‘What uvver matter?’

  ‘Pearl Jones.’

  ‘The coloured girl wot was killed the night before last?’

  ‘That’s r
ight.’

  ‘Why should I know anyfink about ’er?’

  ‘Because her throat was slashed with a razor.’

  Smithers chuckled. ‘Oh, now I get it,’ he said. ‘Because a razor was involved the murderer must have been a “businessman”.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Razors went out of fashion before the War. The only people wot still carry them are a few of the old-timers – men like Toby Burroughs.’

  ‘You never miss the chance to point the finger at Toby Burroughs, do you?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Would you miss the chance, if yer were in my position?’ Smithers countered. ‘What businessman wouldn’t love to see ’is main competitor banged up for a few years?’

  ‘Whatever happened to the concept of honour among thieves?’ Woodend wondered, almost to himself.

  Smithers looked down at his watch. ‘Time for yer to go,’ he said. ‘But before yer leave, I’d like to give yer a bit of advice. And it’s this – if yer want to do well for yerself in the Met, it’s best not to rock the boat too much.’

  ‘Even if that means lettin’ the villains go free?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Yes, even if it means that some of the villains – certain selected villains – go free,’ Smithers said. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, do yer ever wonder why some top coppers in the Met spend so much of their time being wined and dined by some of the top “businessmen”?’

  ‘Because they feel they have to do somethin’ to earn their bribes?’ Woodend suggested.

  Smithers looked disappointed with the answer. It was almost, Woodend thought, as if the question had been set as a test of his knowledge and intelligence and – in Smithers’s eyes – he had failed it miserably.

  ‘We both know that there are a fair number of bent coppers on the Force,’ the gangster agreed, ‘but a lot of the ones wot I go out clubbing with are straight as a die. Try again.’

  ‘If it’s not that, then you must all be part of the same funny handshakes brigade,’ Woodend said, knowing that this wasn’t the answer Smithers was looking for, either.

  ‘Some of my social acquaintances in the Met are members of my Masonic lodge,’ Smithers conceded. ‘But that’s not it eiver.’