‘For God’s sake, Charlie, you’re going to be the head of the family,’ Cathcart had said to Woodend, in that jeep in Berlin. ‘Your wife will do what’s necessary for you to get on in life.’
Woodend noticed a slight flickering of the eyes when Peggy saw the fresh-fruit salad that Joan was serving as a sweet, but she attacked this offering, as she had the hotpot, with apparent enthusiasm.
‘I’m feeling awfully guilty about the fact that we seem to have spent the whole evening talking about me,’ Peggy said, as Joan cleared away the dishes. ‘So let’s put a stop to that right now, shall we? Why don’t you tell me something about your work, Charlie?’
‘You’ll not get him to talk about that,’ Joan said, returning from the kitchen. ‘Charlie never brings his cases home with him.’
‘Besides, I would have thought you got enough police talk from your own husband,’ Woodend added.
‘Oh, Arthur never talks about his work,’ Peggy told him.
‘Well, there you are then, we’re two of kind,’ Woodend said.
But that wasn’t quite true, was it, Woodend thought.
They were both policemen, that was true enough, but they were far from being two of a kind – and if recent proof of that were needed, he had it in Commander Cathcart’s absence from this meal.
‘But even if Arthur did talk about his work, I don’t think I’d find it particularly interesting,’ Peggy said.
‘No?’
‘Of course not. Arthur’s an administrator. It so happens that he works for the police, but he could just as easily use the same skills he employs in the Yard to run a dull insurance company or a dreary bank. Your job’s quite different, Charlie. You get to see life as it is really lived – in all its glory and all its depravity. You’re surely not going to deny that, are you?’
‘No,’ Woodend agreed, ‘I’m not.’
‘Which is precisely the reason why it would be so fascinating for me to hear all about it.’
‘I’m not sure …’ Woodend began.
‘It wouldn’t do any harm to tell Peggy just a little about what you do, would it?’ Joan asked.
His wife’s words knocked Woodend slightly off balance. It was not just that they were unexpected in themselves. It was also the tone – which somehow managed to turn what could have been a simple question into almost a plea.
He found himself wondering just what was going on – and then the answer came to him in a flash.
Joan’s new friend claimed to be having a good time, but Joan herself was wondering how that could possibly be true – how a woman used to cruises and royal events could actually enjoy herself in this humble flat with a detective sergeant and his wife. But now, Peggy had expressed a real interest in something – and Joan was desperate to give her what she wanted.
‘What particular part of my job would you like me to talk about?’ he asked, bowing to the inevitable.
‘You could tell us about your current case, couldn’t you, Charlie?’ Peggy suggested brightly.
No, he bloody well couldn’t, Woodend thought, because even making allowance for the fact that her husband was in the ‘job’, she was still a civilian.
‘Yes, tell us about your current case!’ Joan said enthusiastically.
Woodend wondered if there was any way around his dilemma – any way to please his wife without stepping over his own carefully defined limits.
‘I could tell you about a case that’s fairly current,’ he said, picking his words with some care. ‘It’s not one I’m directly involved in, though I do have some general background knowledge of it.’
Peggy looked a little disappointed, and then she smiled and said, ‘I’m sure that will be perfect.’
‘But there’ll be no names, an’ no details that I think will give too much away,’ Woodend cautioned.
‘Of course not,’ Peggy said solemnly.
‘There was the case of this girl who was found murdered on a bomb site recently,’ Woodend said, testing the water.
If, in response, Peggy said, ‘You’re talking about the Pearl Jones investigation, aren’t you?’ it would stop right there, Woodend promised himself.
But all she did say was, ‘Yes?’
‘You haven’t read anythin’ in the newspapers on the case that I’m talkin’ about?’ he probed.
‘I don’t think so,’ Peggy told him. ‘To tell you the truth, I really don’t look at the newspapers very often.’ She turned to Joan. ‘I mostly read the fashion magazines. Aren’t women like me so superficial?’
‘This girl I’m talkin’ about was still at school,’ Woodend continued. ‘A very bright girl, by all accounts …’
He told his tale, editing it as he went – and making no mention at all of either what had happened to Tom Townshend or what had happened to him. It was his hope, for Joan’s sake, that he could still give Peggy some flavour of the work, even if many of the details were necessarily missing.
And then a strange thing happened. He was halfway through his narrative when he realized, to his own surprise, that he’d actually begun to enjoy himself.
When he’d finished, Peggy said, ‘So there are two things you really need to know, aren’t there?’
‘Are there?’
‘I think so. The first is where the girl had been immediately prior to her ending up on the bomb site.’
‘An’ the second?’
‘The second – and I think the more important of the two – is what happened to make a seemingly respectable girl like her suffer the kind of fate which is normally reserved for violent criminals.’
‘You’re all there with your cough drops, aren’t you?’ Woodend said admiringly. Then he noticed the look of jealousy which had appeared in his wife’s eye, and he quickly added, ‘But then, I imagine the same thoughts had occurred to you, an’ all, lass.’
‘Imagine what you like,’ Joan said flatly.
When the evening was finally over, Woodend escorted Peggy Cathcart down to her car, which was parked in the street below.
‘Thank you so much, Charlie,’ she said, as she opened the door. ‘I’ve really enjoyed myself.’
Then, before climbing inside the car, she kissed him lightly – and unexpectedly – on the cheek.
When he returned to the flat, he found that Joan was sitting – silently and broodingly – in her armchair.
‘I thought that went rather well,’ Woodend said.
‘Did you?’ Joan asked, looking up at him. ‘Well, I think the whole thing was a complete disaster.’
‘What makes you say that? Did Peggy Cathcart turn out not to be the woman you thought she was?’
‘She’s exactly the woman I thought she was – except even more so. She poised, witty, charmin’ and intelligent. And she’s not content to rest on her laurels – even if them laurels are padded an’ gold-plated, an’ even if that stick-in-the-mud husband of hers tries to block her at every turn. She wants to try out new things. She wants to try out difficult things.’
‘An’ isn’t that a good thing?’
‘Well, of course it’s a good thing, you idiot!’
‘Then what’s the problem?’ Woodend wondered. ‘I thought you liked the woman.’
‘I do like her!’ Joan said. ‘Though I didn’t much like the way she flirted with you.’
‘Flirted with me? Don’t talk soft. She didn’t do that.’
‘Yes, she did. An’ you fell for it, Charlie Woodend, hook, line, an’ sinker. Just look at the way you told her all about that investigation!’
‘You asked me to do that!’
‘Yes, I did – but you didn’t have to do it so well,’ Joan complained. ‘An’ you didn’t have to look so pleased about what she said when you’d finished.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘“It seems to me you have two main problems, Charlie,”’ Joan said, in a fair imitation of the other woman’s voice. ‘“Oh, thank you so much, Peggy,”’ she continued, imitating her husband now. ‘“Thank you for
pointin’ that out to me.” Isn’t that how it went?’
‘No,’ Woodend said. ‘That isn’t at all how it went. I was pleased that she’d understood what the problems were …’
‘I’ll just bet you were pleased!’
‘… but only because that showed that I’d explained myself well.’
‘Yes, I could see you were takin’ great care over it,’ Joan said tartly.
‘An’ she certainly didn’t tell me anythin’ about the case that I didn’t already know,’ Woodend concluded.
‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ Joan said – though it clearly wasn’t.
‘Look, you said earlier that you like the woman, but you’re certainly not talkin’ now as if you do,’ Woodend said. ‘So if you’ve changed your mind – if you’ve decided that you don’t like her after all – why don’t you just come straight out an’ say it?’
‘But I do like her,’ Joan said, as tears began to form in her eyes. ‘I like her a lot. It’s me I’m not very keen on.’
Twenty-One
Joan Woodend may have gone to bed angry with herself – and possibly with others – but when she woke up the following morning, she was feeling distinctly sheepish.
And as she watched her husband drink his early morning mug of tea, inevitably accompanied by his second cigarette of the day, she said, ‘I made a complete fool of myself last night, Charlie.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Woodend replied, in as soothing a voice as he could muster so early in the day. ‘You were maybe a little strange, I’ll grant you that, but I’m sure Peggy didn’t really notice.’
‘Peggy!’ Joan retorted. ‘Who mentioned Peggy?’
‘Well, nobody did, but I just assumed …’
‘I don’t give a bugger what Peggy Cathcart thinks, or doesn’t think, about the way I behaved. What I’m talkin’ about is makin’ a fool of myself in front of you. My husband! That’s what I did – an’ don’t you dare pretend I didn’t!’
‘I think you’re bein’ too hard on yourself,’ Woodend said.
‘But the one thing I was right about was that Peggy was flirtin’ with you,’ Joan persisted. ‘Not that you should let that go to your head.’
Woodend fought back a smile. ‘Shouldn’t I?’
‘No, because what attracted her to you wasn’t any of the qualities that I see in you – or even the ones you see in yourself. What attracted her was that you were different.’
‘Different?’ Woodend repeated.
‘That’s right,’ Joan agreed. ‘She found herself, for probably the first time in her life, in close contact with a bit of rough – an’ I think she found it quite excitin’.’
Woodend gave up the battle to keep his smile at bay. ‘Is that what I am?’ he asked. ‘A bit of rough? An’ there was me thinkin’ that since I’ve been livin’ in London I’ve grown all smooth an’ sophisticated.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have you any other way,’ Joan said, ignoring the comment. ‘An’ after seein’ that poncy stuffed shirt of a husband of hers, I can quite understand why Peggy would find you appealin’.’
‘Come on, Major Cathcart’s not that bad,’ Woodend said, in defence of his old commander.
But Joan was not interested in talking about Arthur Cathcart.
‘Of course I’m not sayin’ she’d ever take it any further than mild flirtation,’ she continued. ‘I’d be perfectly happy leavin’ the two of you alone together, for example – at least, I think I would – but flirt with you was definitely what she did.’ She paused, slightly red in the face. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you.’
‘So what did you want to discuss?’
‘When I went to bed last night, I was burnin’ with jealousy over the way Peggy had helped you out with the investigation, an’—’
‘She didn’t help me out,’ Woodend protested. ‘There wasn’t a single thing she told me that I didn’t already know.’
‘Can you shut up, Charlie?’ Joan asked. ‘Can you possibly bring yourself to keep that lip of yours buttoned for just a few minutes?’
‘I’ll try,’ Woodend promised.
‘So there I was, lyin’ in bed, tryin’ to think of some way that I could help you with the case,’ Joan said. ‘An’ then it came to me.’
‘What came to you?’
‘You’ve no idea where Pearl Jones was prior to the murder, have you?’ Joan asked, answering his question with one of her own.
‘That’s true,’ Woodend admitted.
‘An’ you’ve no idea why she was wearin’ the dress she died in, which – by all accounts – was far too grown-up for her?’
‘No, I haven’t. An’ that dress is one of the things that’s been really puzzlin’ me,’ Woodend agreed.
‘So why don’t you simply find out who Pearl’s best friend at school was, an’ ask her about it?’
‘But is her best friend likely to know?’ Woodend wondered.
Joan gave him a look of astonishment – a look which said she was truly amazed at the depths of his ignorance.
‘Will she know?’ she repeated. ‘Of course she’ll know. Girls don’t keep secrets from their best friends. They tell them everything.’
The girl was walking towards the former Georgian palace which was now an expensive private school. She had pale blonde hair, blue eyes, and light freckles scattered liberally across her cheeks and nose. She carried a leather satchel in her right hand and a hockey stick in her left, and her legs, protruding from below the modest hemline of her navy blue skirt, were almost hockey-stick thin themselves.
She did not look like a particularly adventurous or forceful girl, but she did seem to be a nice one – and she was undoubtedly the same girl as the one in the photograph which had been given pride of place on Victoria Jones’s sideboard.
When the big man in the hairy sports coat suddenly stepped into the centre of the pavement, effectively blocking her way, she did not show any signs of alarm. Instead, she smiled politely, yet distantly – as she’d probably been taught to – and said, ‘Can I help you, sir? Are you lost?’
Woodend held out his warrant card for her to inspect.
‘No, I’m not lost,’ he said. ‘An’ yes, I think you can help me.’
The smile froze on the girl’s face, but her eyes began to dart around wildly. For a moment, it seemed as if she was about to do a runner, but then she took a deep breath and calmed down a little.
‘I can’t think of anything that I could possibly have to say which might be of use to a policeman,’ she told Woodend, in a voice which was relatively steady.
‘What’s your name?’ the sergeant asked.
‘My … my name?’
‘Yes.’
It’s Rachael. Rachael Tompkinson.’
It would have to be something like that, Woodend thought. Just looking at her, it was obvious that she had not been born into a family which named its kids Maisie or Lil – or even Pearl.
‘You were Pearl Jones’s best friend, weren’t you, Rachael?’ he asked.
The girl had clearly been expecting the question since the moment Woodend had shown her his warrant card, but even so, when he actually put it into words, it still succeeded in confusing her.
‘No, I …’ she began. ‘We weren’t exactly … what I mean to say is, we knew each other, of course …’
Yes?’
‘… but not that well.’
Woodend shook his head sadly. ‘You were her best friend – an’ she was yours,’ he said emphatically. ‘An’ I’m sure that when she was alive, you promised each other that you’d stick together always, through thick an’ thin. But now she’s dead, an’ since she can’t do anythin’ for you any more, you’re perfectly willin’ to betray her without a second’s thought. Isn’t that right?’
Rachael Tompkinson looked down at the pavement. ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she muttered.
‘What are you afraid of?’ Woodend wondered.
‘Nothing.
Nothing at all.’
‘You helped her to do somethin’ that you both knew was wrong, didn’t you? And now that she’s dead, you’re the only one who’s left to be punished for it. So you’ve decided you’ll do whatever it takes to avoid that punishment?’
‘You don’t understand,’ Rachael said. ‘I am being punished. I’m constantly being punished.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t study. I can’t eat. When I switch off the light at night, all I can see is her face – so I can’t sleep, either.’
‘You feel guilty,’ Woodend guessed.
‘Well, of course I feel guilty!’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s partly my fault. I should have tried to stop her – but instead I encouraged her.’
‘Tell me all about it,’ Woodend said softly. ‘I promise you, you’ll feel a lot better when you have.’
Behind them there was the sound of a bell ringing, and all the other girls who were heading in the same direction as Rachael immediately began to speed up.
‘I have to go now,’ Rachael said.
‘We’ll need to talk again – an’ soon.’
The girl thought about it for a moment. ‘I’ve got a free period at ten o’clock. There’s a cafe on the corner over there. If you want to … if you could …’
‘I’ll be there,’ Woodend promised.
In many other parts of the city, the cafes had simple names like Joe’s or – if the owner was a little more fanciful – The Drop Inn. A large tea urn was considered the only essential piece of equipment in these places. It was kept in plain view behind the counter, where it hissed and spluttered incessantly, and when the tea was delivered to the table – and placed on the inevitable plastic tablecloth – it was in a thick brown mug.
Such an establishment would never have thrived in an area like this one. To be a success here, a cafe need pretensions – and the one that Woodend found himself in at ten o’clock that morning had them by the fistful.
It was called – for reasons of its own – The Longchamps, and a trellis, covered with artificial ivy, separated and masked the kitchen area from the part of the cafe used by customers.
Fatal Quest Page 19
