Fatal Quest (16 page)

‘No comment.'

‘But what's got me really puzzled – as I mentioned to the constable back there in the interview room – is that you even
knew
that Jimmy had been arrested. How
did
you know, Mr Tongue?'

Tongue sneered. ‘You seem to have got things entirely the wrong way round, Sergeant,' he said. ‘
You
don't put
me
through the third degree. What happens is that we wait until you're in the witness box, when
I
give
you
a grilling.'

‘You're a real cocky sod, aren't you?' Woodend said.

‘I take great exception to being addressed in that manner,' Tongue told him, ‘and if it happens again, I shall report you to your superiors.'

‘Is that right, you bag of piss an' wind?' Woodend asked pleasantly. ‘Well, when you do report me, make sure you spell my name right.'

When Woodend entered the bar of the Conway Club, Tom Townshend was already holding court in front of a bunch of admiring younger reporters, but the moment he saw the detective sergeant approaching, he imperiously waved them away.

‘Must be nice to be looked up to like that,' said Woodend, with a mock-admiration that was, in fact, only
half
mocking.

Townshend shrugged. ‘Fame is a fleeting thing, Charlie, and any man who takes his own fame seriously is a fool. Those chaps look up to me now because I'm at the top of my game, but the moment I pass my peak, they'll have absolutely no difficulty at all in finding someone else to admire.'

‘Are you really as cynical as you seem, Tom?' Woodend wondered.

‘The cynicism you see on the surface is merely the tip of the iceberg of disillusion which floats heavily below,' Townshend replied. ‘What can I do for you, Charlie?'

‘I wanted to thank you for gettin' that picture of Pearl Jones printed in your paper.'

‘And your thanks are very much appreciated. But you could have delivered them just as easily by phone.'

‘That's not quite the same, though, is it?' Woodend asked.

‘No, it probably isn't,' Townshend agreed. ‘And, of course, on the phone it's much more difficult to ask for
additional
favours.'

Woodend sighed. ‘Am I that obvious?'

‘Yes – though perhaps it is less your poor acting abilities which give you away than it is the edge of desperation which goes with them.'

‘Edge of desperation?' Woodend repeated, looking round to make absolutely certain that Townshend wasn't talking to someone else.

‘That's what
I'd
call it,' Townshend replied. ‘Though you, I suppose, would choose some more
comfortable
term – like drive, initiative, or determination – to wrap it up in.'

Woodend forced a grin to his face. ‘You certainly don't pull your punches, do you, Tom?' he asked.

‘Would you want me to?' Townshend countered.

No, Woodend thought, I wouldn't.

And what his old friend had said was quite right – he
was
desperate.

He was desperate to bring Pearl Jones's killer to justice – if only because no one else seemed to give a damn about her.

But he was also desperate, if he was being completely honest, to demonstrate that he really
could
handle a major case – to prove, if only to himself, that his decision to join the police had been the right one.

‘I wouldn't need your help if I was gettin' the backup I need from the Yard,' he said bitterly. ‘But I'm not.'

‘And I'm not in the least surprised,' Tom Townshend said. ‘Do you know what your problem is, Charlie?'

‘You mean I've got other problems, apart from my desperation?' Woodend asked, doing his best to lighten the tone.

‘Dozens of them,' Townshend said. ‘But the one I want to discuss at the moment is the problem of your being a decent, honest,
principled
bloke in a world that has largely given up being decent and principled. Worse than that – you're a knight in shining armour, riding out on a white charger to slay dragons, just at a time when everybody else has decided to pretend that dragons don't exist.'

‘An' that's a problem, is it?'

‘Yes, because you still expect the same standards from others that you expect from yourself. But you won't get them. Most people – and especially most policemen – are complete arseholes.'

‘I wouldn't go so far as—'

‘And if you refuse to see that, Charlie, then you'll never learn how to deal with them effectively.'

Once, not so long ago, they had been comrades and equals, Woodend thought. Now Townshend seemed so much older – so much more in control – than him.

Why was that?

Because Tom Townshend was now a top-flight reporter, and he was still a humble detective sergeant? Because Townshend had grown more cynical since the old days, while he had merely grown more naive?

Whatever the reason, it was not a happy thought.

‘So what, exactly, is it that you'd like me to do for you?' Townshend asked.

‘Two things,' Woodend told him, sounding – at least to himself – crisper and more authoritative now. ‘Firstly, I want you to dig up everythin' you can on Victoria Jones – especially in matters relating to her finances.'

‘Why should Mrs Jones's finances be of any particular interest to you?' Townshend wondered.

‘Because she doesn't work, but she lives well, an' her daughter went to an expensive school. Because if I can find out where her money comes from, I'm guessin' it will open a lot of doors, an' answer a lot of questions.'

‘You may be right,' Townshend agreed. ‘And how do you propose that I get this information?'

‘Takin' a look at her bank account might be a good start.'

Townshend pretended to look shocked. ‘Bank accounts are private and confidential. I wouldn't even begin to know how to get access to someone else's.'

Woodend grinned. ‘Wouldn't you? Then I probably imagined readin' that story the other week – the one in which you revealed where that crooked stockbroker had stashed all the money he'd stolen from his clients.'

Townshend returned the grin. ‘All right, I may have a
few
tricks up my sleeve that can help you,' he admitted. ‘What's the other thing you want to know about?'

‘Edward Tongue.'

‘Now there's a thoroughly nasty piece of work,' Townshend said. ‘Our Edward started out in life with all the advantages. He went to a good school and a good university. He could have built himself a distinguished career in the law, if he'd put his mind to it. Instead, he decided to get very rich, very quickly.'

‘In other words, he sold his soul?'

‘Yes, he did. But to be fair to him, he made sure he got a good price for it. Employing him can be
very
expensive.'

And yet he was representing Jimmy Machin, Woodend thought.

‘What kinds of people does Tongue work for?' he asked.

‘Dodgy property developers, slum landlords, bent stockbrokers like the one in my article – people of that ilk.'

‘Gangsters?'

‘Them, too. I believe he's on a retainer from Toby Burroughs.'

‘An' Ron Smithers?'

‘Might be. I haven't heard about it, but that doesn't mean he isn't, because while it's true that Smithers and Burroughs are bitter rivals, that wouldn't deter our Edward from working for both of them, if there was money to be made out of it.'

So it probably was Smithers who was paying Tongue to handle Jimmy Machin's case, Woodend thought.

But why would he do that? Why spend a lot of money on defending a minor criminal?

Because Machin was not the
only one
involved in Wally Booth's death!

Because Greyhound Ron was up to his neck in it, as well!

T
he dark clouds hanging heavily over the Victoria Embankment oppressed all that lay below them. They frowned down on New Scotland Yard, which seemed to shiver under their disapproval. They imbued the river with the colour of suicidal greyness. And even the wind, which was wont to announce its arrival from across the water with a howl, had been subdued into no more than a whimper that morning.

From the window of his office, Woodend watched the rounded bundles of heavy clothes scuttling along the Embankment, and thought he knew just how the people wrapped up inside those bundles must feel.

It was one of those mornings which might have been specifically designed to weigh down the human soul, he decided – one of those mornings when it was almost impossible to envision a silver lining hiding beyond the clouds, and oh so easy to believe that the whole Earth had descended into perpetual winter.

‘Buck up, Charlie, it might never happen,' said a cheery voice from somewhere behind him.

DCI Bentley? Woodend asked himself.

It certainly
sounded
like Bentley's voice. But, of course, it couldn't
be
him.

And then he turned and saw – to his amazement – that it was.

But this was not the old Bentley, the drunken sot who had lumbered aggressively around the office the previous afternoon, the mangy wolf for whom an angry snarl came as naturally as breathing.

This was a new Bentley. A happy, beaming one – a Bentley who looked capable of gazing out of the window onto the mournful Embankment below and seeing in it the promise of the spring to come.

‘Somethin's happened, hasn't it, sir?' Woodend guessed. ‘Somethin' significant?'

‘You could say that,' Bentley agreed. ‘Yes, I think you could definitely say that without fear of contradiction.'

‘Have you got a break in the Pearl Jones murder?'

‘The Pearl Jones murder?' Bentley repeated, as if he had no idea what his sergeant was talking about. Then he shook his head. ‘No, no progress there, I'm afraid. But the Wally Booth murder's a different matter entirely, Charlie boy! Machin's prepared to hold his hands up for it – but he insists that you're there in the room when he makes his statement.'

‘Why would he want
me
to be there?' Woodend wondered.

Bentley shrugged. ‘Who knows the way that little toe-rag's twisted mind works? Who even
cares
?'

‘It doesn't make any sense,' Woodend muttered, almost to himself.

‘Maybe he wants you there because he secretly fancies you,' Bentley said, his good humour unabated by Woodend's concern. ‘Maybe he's only insisting you're there because Tongue
told
him to insist. I couldn't give a damn, because the important thing is that he's willing to come clean. Isn't that right?'

‘Yes, I suppose it is,' Woodend agreed dubiously.

There were four of them at the table, Woodend and Bentley on one side, and Machin and Tongue on the other.

The solicitor, with a leather-bound folder open in front of him, seemed calm, relaxed, and totally in control of the situation. His client, on the other hand, looked unnaturally wooden. It was rather, Woodend thought, like watching a ventriloquist and his dummy at work.

‘My client wishes to make his statement now,' Tongue said. ‘Should you wish to question him at any point while he is making it, I will not raise any objections.' He turned to Machin. ‘Go ahead, Jimmy.'

The prisoner cleared his throat. ‘I met Walter Booth in the Waterman's Arms at approximately two-fifteen on Thursday afternoon,' Machin said. ‘'E seemed very angry about somefink, but when I asked 'im what the matter was, 'e told me to mind my own bleeding business.'

The first half of that statement was as dull and flat as a routine police report, Woodend thought. The second half, in contrast, was a first step in the process of establishing Booth as the aggressor in what had followed.

‘Carry on,' he said.

‘As the afternoon wore on, Booth's mood got worse and worse. I fort of leaving 'im to stew in 'is own juice, but I knew 'e'd be offended if I walked away, and the last fing I wanted was any trouble.'

‘He was drunk, was he?' Woodend asked.

‘No, 'e wasn't. 'E'd certainly 'ad a couple o' drinks during the afternoon, but 'e was 'olding it well enough.'

‘You're sure about that?'

‘As sure as I'm sitting here.'

Strange, Woodend thought.
Very
strange.

Given that Machin was attempting to construct a version of the events that was favourable to himself, it would surely have been in his interest to grasp – with both hands – the suggestion that Booth had been drunk.

So why hadn't he?

It was almost as if he knew that the post-mortem report stated the dead man had had very little to drink.

‘What happened next?' Woodend asked.

‘Just before closing time, Booth really started to lose 'is rag. 'E accused me of sleeping wiv 'is girlfriend, which I assured 'im I never 'ad. Then 'e turned violent. 'E 'it me two or free times, but I didn't do nuffink in return. It was only when I saw 'e was reaching for a bottle that I realized I 'ad to defend myself.'

‘But even then, you exercised restraint, didn't you?' Woodend suggested. ‘Even then, you did no more than push him away.'

‘The mood 'e was in, pushing him away wouldn't 'ave done no good,' Machin said. ‘So I punched 'im.'

‘Where?'

‘In the face.'

And that was
another
detail which was not generally known, but
had
been in the post-mortem report, Woodend thought.

‘That's when Booth fell over backwards, is it?'

‘That's right, Sergeant. As he went down, 'e 'it 'is 'ead on the brass rail, and that was wot did for 'im.'

‘There's no mention in your record of your ever havin' been an associate of Wally Booth's,' Woodend said.