Fatal Quest

by Sally Spencer

  The revelation shook Deputy Commissioner Naylor to his core. More than shook him – he couldn’t have looked worse if he’d been hit by a bus.

  ‘Is that true, Peggy?’ he asked, with a slight wobble in his voice. ‘Were you out on the town with Ron Smithers as recently as last Friday night?’

  For the briefest of moments, it looked as if Peggy Cathcart would try to brazen it out by claiming that Woodend had made the whole thing up.

  Then another tear ran down her cheek, and she said, ‘He made me go out with him. I didn’t want to – but he made me.’

  ‘Which, of course, he couldn’t have done if he’d already been behind bars,’ Woodend pointed out.

  The mask of penitence melted from Peggy Cathcart’s face and was replaced by a look of haughty anger.

  ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with here, you insignificant little man,’ she told Woodend. ‘I have money, I have influence – and I have the unquestioning support of every single policeman in the Met who counts for anything.’

  She turned to Naylor for confirmation, but all the deputy commissioner said was, ‘I think you’d better go now, Peggy.’

  ‘Robert …’ Peggy Cathcart said plaintively.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ Naylor replied flatly.

  ‘You’ll live to rue the day you ever crossed me,’ Peggy Cathcart told Woodend. ‘I promise you that.’

  Then she turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Funny you didn’t know about her seein’ Smithers again, isn’t it, sir?’ Woodend asked mildly. ‘I’d have thought your crack Flyin’ Squad surveillance team would have told you all about it.’

  ‘Be careful, Sergeant,’ Naylor warned. ‘You’re treading on very thin ice.’

  ‘Oh, it’s me that’s treadin’ on thin ice, is it?’ Woodend asked. ‘Funnily enough, I’d have thought the ice was quite solid beneath my feet, because – unlike you – I’ve not been involved in an elaborate cover-up.’ He paused for a second, then said, ‘Was Commander Cathcart himself part of it, an’ all?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Naylor said. ‘He knows nothing at all about what went on. It was Mrs Cathcart who – as an old friend – came to me for help and advice.’

  ‘An’ was it just advice you gave her?’ Woodend wondered. ‘Or did you slip her a length between the sheets, as well?’

  ‘You are being grossly impertinent,’ Naylor growled.

  ‘Or, in other words, that’s exactly what you did,’ Woodend said. ‘When will you be issuin’ the warrant for Mrs Cathcart’s arrest?’

  ‘We won’t be. There is simply not enough evidence for us to mount a successful prosecution.’

  ‘Not enough evidence! For God’s sake, we’ve both just heard her confess she was there!’

  ‘And what if she retracts it all later? What if she says that we bullied her into that confession? Just picture how frail and vulnerable she’d look, sitting there in the dock. By the second day of her trial, she’d have all the jurors thinking we were absolute brutes.’

  ‘Then don’t use her confession,’ Woodend said. ‘Bloody hell, there’s evidence enough without that. Now Ron Smithers is out of the way, there’ll be no shortage of witnesses willin’ to come forward, an’ besides—’

  ‘It is not going to happen, Sergeant,’ Naylor said firmly. ‘And if you are foolish enough to attempt to mount another case on your own – against Peggy, this time – I shall be forced to take action to counter that attempt, not the least of which will be to deny this meeting ever took place.’

  ‘Why?’ Woodend demanded. ‘Was she such a good screw that you’re prepared to abandon everythin’ you’re supposed to believe in – everythin’ you’ve sworn to uphold – just to protect her?’

  ‘I’m not doing it for her,’ Naylor said.

  ‘Then who are you doin’ it for?’

  ‘For Arthur Cathcart. Have you thought about what such a prosecution would do to him? It would ruin his career. Do you want that?’

  No, Woodend thought, I don’t. He’s a decent man, who’s always treated me well, an’ I’d hate to see him destroyed.

  ‘There’s one thing that does have to happen,’ he said aloud.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Commander Cathcart has to be told exactly what his wife has been gettin’ up to.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Naylor exploded. ‘Have you gone completely out of your mind?’

  ‘He has to be told,’ Woodend repeated. ‘He may decide to forgive her, or he may decide to divorce her. That’s his choice. But he has to be told – an’ if you won’t do it, I will.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Naylor said. ‘It will sound better coming from me, a friend, than it would coming from you, a mere subordinate. But I want you to know that the fact you’ve made me do it won’t be forgotten, Sergeant,’ he added menacingly.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I’m sure you’ll lie awake at night, tossin’ an’ turnin’ at the thought of it. But you’ll do it, anyway.’

  ‘But I’ll do it anyway,’ Naylor agreed.

  ‘Good,’ Woodend said. ‘Have we now reached the point in the conversation where you tell me you’d like me to submit my resignation?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case,’ Woodend said. ‘But, just as a matter of interest, would you mind tellin’ me on what grounds you think my resignation’s called for?’

  ‘Do you need to ask that? I can’t even begin to list the number of regulations you’ve ridden roughshod over.’

  ‘I also made a case against a murderer.’

  ‘And then connived in his own murder.’

  ‘You can’t prove that, however hard you try. An’ anyway, if you’d done your job as you should have done it, he’d have been safely under arrest by the time of his death, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘If you leave the Force voluntarily, I’ll see to it that you’re furnished with glowing references,’ Naylor said, sidestepping the point. ‘And there’ll be lots of new opportunities for you, once you’ve resigned.’

  ‘Like what, for example?’

  ‘Like taking a well-paid job with your good friend Toby Burroughs. He runs quite a number of legitimate businesses, side by side with his criminal ones, and I’m sure he’d be more than willing to employ you, after what you’ve already done for him.’

  ‘It’s temptin’,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Naylor agreed, speaking in a soft, seductive voice, as if he had suddenly become Woodend’s own personal friend. ‘Just think about what the future could bring for you. You’d be able to run a car of your own. A big flashy one. You could have a magnificent house overlooking the Thames, just like Commander Cathcart has.’

  ‘Aye, it certainly is temptin’,’ Woodend mused. ‘But on reflection, it’s not temptin’ enough. I’ve decided I quite like bein’ a policeman – so if you want to get rid of me, you’re just goin’ to have to fire me.’

  ‘I’d rather it didn’t come to that,’ Naylor said.

  I’ll just bet you would, Woodend thought. Because you can’t fire me without takin’ me before a disciplinary board – an’ if you take me before a board, all your nasty little secrets will come out.

  Naylor sighed. ‘Very well, if you refuse to do the decent thing, you leave me no choice but to promote you.’

  Woodend laughed. ‘Oh, that’s how it works, is it? You’re threats have failed, so now you turn to bribery – an’ as a result, I’m goin’ to be Inspector Woodend.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Naylor said. ‘You’re going to be Chief Inspector Woodend.’

  ‘What?’

  Naylor smiled thinly. The look of astonishment he had brought to Woodend’s face was not much of a triumph, but on a day when he seemed to have suffered nothing but defeats, it was better than nothing.

  ‘It will have to go through the promotions board, of course,’ Naylor continued, ‘but most of the members are in my debt, and I
don’t anticipate having any difficulty in getting them to accept it.’

  ‘Why?’ Woodend asked, still reeling from the shock.

  ‘Why what? Why move you up two ranks in one fell swoop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Necessity,’ Naylor said, heavily. ‘I would like to pretend that you don’t even exist, but I can’t do that if there’s always a chance of running into you in the Yard. Therefore, the less time you spend in London, the happier I’ll be. And what that means is that every time one of the turnip-top constabularies in the provinces gets tired of tripping over its own boots, and is forced to call on the Yard for help, you’ll be the man we’ll send.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why that means I have to be—’

  ‘But the big problem with the turnip tops, you see, is that they’ve got a very high opinion of themselves. An ordinary inspector isn’t good enough for them. Oh, dear me, no! They expect us to provide them with a chief inspector. And the chief inspector who we’ll provide – as often as possible – will be you.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a turn up for the books?’ Woodend said.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Naylor agreed bitterly. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Chief Inspector. I hope you use some of the extra salary you’ll be earning to finally fit yourself out with a decent wardrobe. Now get the hell out of here, you bastard!’

  6 June 1973

  When the train finally appeared in the distance, two and quarter hours late, most of the folk who’d intended to take it had either abandoned their travel plans or found some other way to reach their destination, and the only two people standing on the platform were the attractive blonde with the Central European nose and the big bugger in the hairy sports coat.

  ‘So this is it, Charlie?’ Monika Paniatowski said heavily.

  ‘This is it,’ Woodend agreed.

  Paniatowski shivered. ‘It hurts,’ she said.

  ‘I know, petal,’ Woodend said. ‘But it won’t feel like this forever. In six months’ time – when I’m runnin’ my little private detective agency with my old mate Paco Ruiz, an’ you’re already bein’ talked about as the most formidable detective chief inspector Central Lancs has ever known – all this will seem like no more than a dream.’

  ‘Will I be formidable, Charlie?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Bloody right you will be,’ Woodend said.

  The train slowed as it approached the station, and Woodend bent down to pick up his battered suitcase.

  ‘I remember that bag,’ Paniatowski said, with a choke in her voice. ‘It’s the same one you had with you on the first case we ever worked on together – in Blackpool.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve never been one for throwin’ anythin’ out before it was completely knackered,’ Woodend replied.

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I know it wasn’t,’ Woodend said. ‘But I’m doin’ my best not to burst into tears here – and I have to say, Monika, you’re not bloody helpin’ much!’

  The train came to a juddering halt in front of them. The door opened, and a man with a red face climbed down.

  ‘Over two hours late,’ he said, to nobody in particular. ‘Well, that’s the last time I’ll give British Rail my custom.’

  Woodend stepped onto the train, closed the door behind him, and then pulled down the window.

  ‘This really is it,’ he told the new detective chief inspector.

  ‘But there’s so much we still haven’t said,’ Paniatowski complained.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Woodend replied. ‘Even if not another word ever passes between us, we’ll never stop talkin’ to each other in our own heads.’

  As the train picked up speed, the town started to flash past Woodend’s eyes like the final visions of a drowning man.

  There were the mills, where his father had worked all his life. What mills they had been – the smoking groaning heart of the commercial empire which had made Britain great. They had been loathed on a Monday morning – as clogs clacked reluctantly against cobblestones – but loved on Thursday evening – when the pay packets were handed out. Yet love them or loathe them, the one thing the people of Whitebridge had been sure of was that they would always be there.

  And now they had gone.

  Many of the people he had cared about were gone, too. His mother and father, long dead and buried. Maria, Bob Rutter’s blind wife, cruelly murdered in her own home. Bob himself, found dead in his car, at the bottom of a steep drop.

  Even Annie, his beloved daughter, was, in a sense, lost to him, now that she had a life of her own in which – he fully accepted – he could only play a small part.

  ‘So what’s the verdict, Charlie?’ he said softly to himself. ‘Did you make a success of it or not?’

  And then the train entered a long dark tunnel, and his new life began.