Fatal Quest (35 page)

‘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!
'

W
hen 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.