Fatal Quest

by Sally Spencer

  ‘It’s not funny, Charlie,’ Joan said. ‘It’s not somethin’ you can just laugh away. Look at them cars.’

  It was indeed an impressive array, Woodend was forced to concede. There were Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and Jaguars. There was even a Wolseley, though this particular model was almost large enough to have fitted the modest one Woodend was contemplating buying in its boot.

  ‘Did you hear what I said just now, Charlie?’ Joan demanded.

  ‘About it not bein’ funny?’

  ‘No – that I want to go home.’

  ‘We can’t go home, even if you do want to. You heard what the conductor said. There won’t be another bus along for two hours.’

  ‘I don’t care. We’ll go back to the bus stop, an’ wait for it anyway.’

  ‘Waitin’ there won’t make it come any quicker.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘An’ there’s no bus shelter, or even a bench to sit on.’

  ‘Then I’ll stand. I don’t mind.’

  ‘What exactly is it that’s botherin’ you, luv?’ Woodend asked solicitously. ‘Is it all them flashy cars?’

  ‘No,’ Joan replied. ‘It’s not the cars themselves – it’s the folk that can afford to run them.’

  ‘The folk who’ve come to lunch?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do you think they’re better than us?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, of course I don’t,’ Joan said, though with not quite as much conviction as her husband would have liked.

  ‘Then what is your problem?’

  Joan took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have a problem. After all, you’re a decorated war hero …’

  ‘Give over,’ Woodend said awkwardly.

  ‘… an’ I’m a real little peach of a woman.’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score.’

  ‘So let’s go to this party an’ enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Woodend said.

  Given the grandeur of the house, Woodend would not have been entirely surprised if they’d been met at the door by a butler kitted out in full livery. But instead, his ring on the door bell was answered by Commander Cathcart himself, accompanied by a strikingly attractive and very elegant woman in her mid-thirties.

  ‘How nice that you could make it, Charlie!’ Cathcart said – and he did sound genuinely pleased. He turned his attention to Joan. ‘And this, I take it, is Mrs Woodend?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Woodend confirmed.

  Cathcart held his hand out to Joan. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at last, Mrs Woodend – or may I call you Joan?’

  ‘Please do,’ Joan said.

  Cathcart performed another slight twist, so he was looking at the woman next to him. ‘And this is my wife, Margaret.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Arthur is such a stuffed shirt that he will insist in introducing me that way,’ she said. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d ignore him, and call me Peggy – like everyone else in the whole world does.’

  Cathcart grinned, perhaps a little ruefully.

  ‘I’ll try again,’ he said. ‘This is my wife, Peggy. Shall we go inside?’

  Cathcart led them through a large hallway into an even larger lounge.

  At one end of the lounge, there was a large oak table on which had been placed half a dozen kinds of glasses and a seemingly endless variety of drinks. Behind the table stood a crisply uniformed waiter. His eyes were as alert as those of any sentry on duty in a war zone, and his general demeanour suggested that when it came to a desire to please, he could leave a puppy dog standing.

  At the other end of the room was another long table, covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was piled high with plates, but the promised buffet had, as yet, to appear. The space in the middle of the room was occupied by perhaps two dozen people, all well dressed and all exuding an air of self-assurance which could only have been inherited.

  If Joan made a dash for the door now, he would not entirely blame her, Woodend told himself.

  But worse was yet to follow.

  ‘Drinks first!’ Cathcart announced. He was clicking his fingers – only lightly, but enough to have the waiter scurry across the room in record time. ‘What would you like, Joan?’

  ‘I’ll have a sweet sherry, please,’ Joan said.

  For an instant, Cathcart’s eyes fluttered. ‘I’m not sure we have a sweet sherry, as such,’ he said, ‘but I happen to know we have a rather fine old amontillado, if that will serve instead.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Joan replied, in a voice which managed to blend the confused with the totally miserable.

  ‘And what about you, Charlie?’

  ‘I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got one.’

  Cathcart laughed. ‘I should say we’ve got beer, old chap,’ he said. ‘Barrels of the stuff. I’ll tell you later why that is. And now we’ve got the serious business out of the way, why don’t we leave the ladies alone to get to know one another properly, while we find a quiet corner where we can talk about the old days?’

  Woodend saw the look of panic well up in Joan’s eyes, and said, ‘If you don’t mind, sir, we’d appreciate a few minutes to get our bearings.’

  ‘Get your bearings!’ Cathcart repeated. ‘What nonsense! We’ve got a lot of fat to chew over which would bore the ladies half to death, and you’ve no need to worry about Joan, because Margaret – Peggy, I should say – is perfectly capable of keeping her amused. Isn’t that right, darling?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Peggy agreed, with a smile.

  Cathcart placed a hand firmly on Woodend’s shoulder, and steered him away from the women.

  They did not move far – no more than a few feet. But then, Woodend assumed – though knowing nothing about it – in cocktail-party circles a few feet was all you needed to move in order to signal that you were having a private conversation.

  ‘I’ll always be grateful for the privilege of having spent time in Berlin in ’45,’ Cathcart said. ‘I can’t say it was a particularly pleasant experience, but an experience it certainly was.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Woodend said, but his thoughts were not really on Cathcart, but on the woman Cathcart had forced him to abandon.

  Joan looked distraught, but if Peggy Cathcart had noticed that, it certainly wasn’t showing in her animated expression and extravagant gestures.

  Woodend strained his ears in an effort to hear what was being said, and found that, despite the surrounding hubbub, it wasn’t too difficult.

  ‘I sometimes feel that while Arthur and I both love this house dearly, it’s really rather selfish of us to live here,’ Peggy Cathcart was saying.

  ‘Selfish?’ Woodend heard Joan echo. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps “selfish” wasn’t quite the right word,’ Peggy conceded. ‘What I really meant, I suppose, was inconsiderate.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘To our visitors, of course. We invite our friends to lunch with gay abandon, not giving a second’s thought to how long it will take them to get here, or how difficult it is to find the place. I can’t tell you how many people have arrived late, simply because they’ve spent hours lost down these country lanes of ours. Of course, I don’t imagine you had that difficulty, not with your Charlie driving. He looks like a man who knows exactly where he’s going, and I expect he didn’t take a single wrong turning.’

  Poor Joan, Woodend thought, wondering if she’d have the nerve to admit that they hadn’t actually come by car.

  ‘No, we had no difficulty at all,’ Joan agreed. ‘But then, Charlie didn’t have to know the way.’

  ‘Didn’t he? Why ever not?’

  ‘Because the bus driver did.’

  ‘Did I say something unintentionally amusing?’ Cathcart asked Woodend sharply.

  ‘No, sir, I was just remembering something funny that happened yesterday,’ Woodend lied.

  And he was thinking, That’s my girl! That’s the woman I marrie
d.

  Peggy was laughing, as though she thought Joan had made a rather clever joke. But then, when she realized the other woman was serious, her look turned to one of absolute horror.

  ‘You came by bus?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘Not all the way, no,’ Joan said. ‘We did the first half of the journey on the tube.’

  ‘So you don’t have a car?’ Peggy asked, as if she could still not quite get her head around the idea. ‘Oh, Arthur’s such a fool! He should have known that, and sent a car to pick you up.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have wanted to put anybody to that much trouble,’ said Joan, who looked as if she was beginning to wish she’d just nodded when Peggy had asked if the finding the place had been easy.

  ‘I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion there are only two kinds of women in this world,’ Peggy said. ‘Sweethearts like you, who “don’t want to put anybody to that much trouble”, and bitches like my friends and me, who are so used to putting other people to trouble that half the time we don’t even realize we’re doing it.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Joan said vaguely.

  ‘And now I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’ Peggy asked.

  An’ she’s not the only one you’ve shocked, Woodend thought.

  ‘Well, yes, I was a bit surprised,’ he heard Joan admit. ‘You see, while I’ve heard men call women “bitches” once or twice – usually when they’ve had too much to drink – I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woman use the word about herself – an’ certainly not about other women.’

  Peggy laughed again. ‘Then clearly you don’t hang out with the same kind of bitches as I do,’ she said. ‘But let’s change the subject, shall we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joan said gratefully. ‘I think that might be for the best.’

  ‘So what shall we talk about? Why don’t you tell me how you feel about living in London?’

  ‘It really is very polite of you to spend so much of your time with me, Mrs Cathcart …’ Joan began.

  ‘Peggy! Call me Peggy!’

  ‘… an’ I want you to know that I do appreciate it. But wouldn’t you rather be chattin’ to some of your other guests?’

  ‘Look around you at the women in this room,’ Peggy Cathcart said. ‘Do they remind you of me? Or do they remind you of you?’

  ‘Well, of you, obviously.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s the trouble with them.’

  ‘The trouble?’

  ‘I’ve grown up with them – or with their sisters or cousins, which is much the same thing. I know all about their attitudes, and the ways their minds work. So even as I’m asking them a question, I already know what the answer’s going to be. And that’s most awfully boring.’

  ‘Listen, I know you’re tryin’ to be kind—’ Joan said.

  ‘See the woman over there?’ Peggy interrupted, pointing.

  ‘Yes?’

  And Woodend saw her, too. She was as tall and elegant as Peggy, and was wearing a cocktail dress which had probably cost as much as a small cottage in Whitebridge.

  ‘I’m going to ask her how her plans for Christmas are going,’ Peggy Cathcart told Joan. ‘And she’s going to tell me that it’s hell in Harrods these days, because the assistants are useless, it’s full of people who should really be shopping elsewhere, and anyway, it doesn’t offer anything like the quality it used to. She may also say – and this is more of a guess on my part – that at least she and her family will avoid the worst of the actual Christmas period, because they’ll be away in Switzerland, on a skiing holiday.’

  ‘Look, there’s no need to …’ Joan protested.

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t spoil my bit of fun,’ Peggy said, and then she took Joan by the arm, and led her across to where the woman in the smart cocktail dress was standing.

  ‘Do you think I’m right about that, Charlie?’ Woodend heard Cathcart ask.

  ‘Right about what, sir?’

  ‘That if we’d had the political will, we could actually have stopped the Russians from taking over so much of Berlin?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Woodend said.

  And from the corner of his eye he saw that Peggy had now led Joan away from the woman in the smart cocktail dress, and the two of them were huddled in a corner, giggling like schoolgirls.

  ‘You seem to be having difficulty concentrating with all this noise,’ Cathcart said.

  ‘Well, it is a bit distractin’,’ Woodend admitted.

  ‘Then maybe it might be better if we adjourned to the garden before we start talking about really important matters, don’t you think?’ Cathcart said.

  And though it sounded like a suggestion, it was very clearly an order.

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ Woodend said.

  And he meant it. He had no qualms about leaving Joan alone any longer. In fact, he thought, she seemed to be coping with the situation better than he was.

  ‘What I didn’t know at the time – an’ didn’t find out until considerably later – was that while all this was goin’ on, a very different kind of meetin’ was takin’ place back in London,’ Woodend told Paniatowski. ‘It was a significant meetin’ in all kinds of ways, not the least of which was that it was the first time in years that Toby Burroughs an’ Greyhound Ron Smithers had come face to face.’

  ‘Come face to face,’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘But weren’t they bitter rivals?’

  ‘They were. An’ not just at a business level. They hated each other with a passion. Toby Burroughs had told me that he was quite happy to let Ron Smithers have his share of the London pie, you remember, but that was a lie. The simple fact was that there was nothin’ he could do about it, and while both men would have loved to take over the other’s gang, neither of them was strong enough to pull it off.’

  ‘So where did this meeting take place?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Somewhere public, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Very public,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Tower Bridge. They both arrived mob-handed, but on different sides of the river. Then, while the minders stayed at the ends of the bridge, the two bosses walked to the middle, which was where an invisible line ran, dividin’ Toby’s territory from Ron’s.’

  ‘Is that what the meeting was about? Territory?’

  ‘No, it was about Jimmy Machin.’

  ‘Why would Burroughs be interested in Jimmy Machin?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  Woodend grinned. ‘You’re almost askin’ the right question – but not quite,’ he said.

  ‘So what is the right question?’

  ‘Who asked for the meetin’ in the first place?’

  ‘All right, who asked for the meeting in the first place?’ Paniatowski said obediently.

  ‘Smithers did. Now ask me why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he knew Machin hadn’t killed Booth. An’ how did he know that?’

  ‘Because he was there himself when Booth was killed?’

  ‘Exactly. He’d almost confessed as much when I confronted him in the Savoy Grill. You remember what he said? “It’s possible I was in the Waterman’s on Tuesday afternoon, though I’ll deny it if I’m pushed. An’ it’s possible – if I was there – that I saw a fight break out in which nobody was meant to get seriously hurt, but somebody ended up dead. But it really is as simple as that. A simple accident occurred”.’

  ‘Did he see a fight break out – or did he start one?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘That’s somethin’ we’ll never know,’ Woodend said. ‘Though given his reputation for both temper an’ violence, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he was the one who killed Booth.’

  Paniatowski took a thoughtful sip of her vodka. ‘I still don’t see why he wanted the meeting with Burroughs,’ she said. ‘After all, since he’d already dealt with the business by getting Machin to confess …’

  ‘But that’s the point! He hadn’t! The other thing he’d told me in the Savoy Grill was that if somebody was usin’ Tongue to fit up Machin, it certainly wasn’t him. And for once, he was telling the tru
th.’

  ‘So he thought that Burroughs was responsible for the fit-up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because although Machin wasn’t actually on Burroughs’s firm, he’d at least done some work for him in the past.’

  ‘And so Smithers wanted to know why Burroughs – his deadly enemy – had gone out of his way to do him a favour?’

  ‘He was burstin’ to know – mainly because he wanted to find out what Burroughs expected in return.’

  ‘And what did Burroughs expect in return?’

  ‘Nothin’. In fact, he said that he knew absolutely nothin’ about the fit-up.’

  ‘Was he telling the truth?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Woodend said, enigmatically.

  ‘And if he wasn’t telling the truth – if he was behind it – what was his motive? What possible reason could he have had for saving Smithers’s bacon?’

  Woodend’s grin broadened. ‘You’re the new detective chief inspector,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’

  Sixteen

  Woodend and Cathcart strolled through the garden until they reached the natural barrier of the river.

  Woodend looked around him – at the swans gliding majestically by; at the weeping willows which would be truly magnificent in a few short months; at the jetty projecting out into the water, to which an expensive motor boat was moored.

  ‘So what do you think of the old place, Charlie?’ Cathcart asked. ‘Are you impressed by it?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be?’ Woodend asked.

  Cathcart grinned. ‘But if you’re as good a copper as I think you are, you’ll also have been wondering how I can possibly afford to run it on my salary.’

  ‘No … I …’ Woodend began.

  ‘Charlie!’ Cathcart said sternly.

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ Woodend admitted.

  ‘My wife’s maiden name was Bairstow. What’s the first thing that you think of, when you hear that name?’

  ‘Bairstow’s Best Bitter,’ Woodend said, automatically.

  Cathcart laughed again. ‘Knowing your penchant for strong ale, I’d have been disappointed if you’d said anything else. Bairstows own not only the brewery, but two hundred and fifty public houses as well. And my wife, as the only child of the late Harold of that ilk, owns Bairstows – lock, stock, and beer barrel.’