Fatal Quest (5 page)

Neatly, but almost heartbreakingly, Woodend thought.

There was a red dress (covered in dark brown stains which could only be blood), a brassiere, a pair of knickers, a suspender belt, a pair of nylon stockings (heavily laddered), and the girl's shoes.

Woodend picked up the stockings, and – though he knew it was hardly appropriate – found his mind drifting back to what would turn out to be his last home leave before the end of the War.

He had arranged to take Joan out dancing, and had arrived at her back door at seven o'clock with a bunch of freshly cut daffodils in his hands.

‘They're lovely, Charlie!' Joan had said.

‘An' so are you!' he'd exclaimed.

And so she was. Not lovely like the glamorous models in the pin-up magazines – legs all the way up to their arses, and breasts which threatened to break out of their confinement any second – but lovely in a quieter, fresher way, lovely enough for him to want to spend the rest of his life with her.

And then he'd noticed that she was wearing stockings – nylon or silk, he was not sure which – and he'd felt his stomach knot up. Because there was one way – and one way only – that she could have got her hands on them.

‘You haven't been gettin' too friendly with any of the Yankee soldiers, have you?' he'd asked, though he'd been dreading her answer.

‘Of course not, Charlie,' Joan had replied.

‘Then where did you get them stockings from?'

‘I'm not wearin' stockings,' Joan had told him, with laughter dancing in her eyes.

‘I'm not blind, you know,' Woodend had said, feeling a helpless anger growing inside him.

‘No, but you're not very observant, either,' Joan had countered. ‘I said I'm not wearing stockings, and I'm not. I've dyed my legs.'

‘What with?'

‘With tea.'

He hadn't been convinced, even though the twinkle had still been there in her eye – even though he couldn't see the point of her telling a lie which it would be so easy to expose.

‘Where did you get an idea like that from?' he'd asked suspiciously. ‘Is it somethin' all the other girls do, an' all?'

‘No, all the other girls
don't
do it,' Joan had said.

‘Well, then, I don't see how you could have come up with—'

‘Some of them don't like usin' tea, so they use gravy brownin' mixture instead.'

‘Turn around,' he'd said, perhaps a little gruffly.

And Joan had given him a dainty twirl.

‘That “tea's” got a seam runnin' up the back of it, just like it was a stockin',' he'd pointed out.

Joan had laughed. ‘That's drawn on.'

‘
Drawn
on?'

‘With my eyebrow pencil,' Joan had explained. Then she'd stood on tiptoe and kissed Woodend on the forehead. ‘You don't know much about women, do you, Charlie?'

‘No,' Woodend had admitted. ‘Apparently I don't.'

Laying the victim's stockings to one side, Woodend picked up the dress. He had already seen it on the murdered girl, but only when she was sprawled out in a pathetic heap on a piece of rough ground. Now, holding it at arms' length, he tried to picture how she would have looked in it when she was alive.

It was one of those dresses designed to show off the kind of hourglass figure that most women could achieve only through elastic assistance. It had a V-neck which plunged a little more than most of those Woodend had seen on the street, but still avoided crossing the line which divided daring from risqué. The bottom half of the dress had clearly been tight-fitting – he recalled Joan saying something about a ‘pencil' style, though that had never made much sense to him – but the hemline would have been at least an inch or two below the girl's knees. It was, in other words, the kind of dress that would be chosen by someone flirting with the idea of being a bad girl – but only half-heartedly.

Woodend replaced the dress on the table, took an edge of it between his finger and thumb, and rubbed.

‘Does that tell you anything?' asked the porter, who was hovering at his side like an aging trainee detective.

‘It tells me it's wool,' Woodend said.

‘In that case,' the porter said gravely, ‘it must have been bought sometime after May of last year.' He paused, then continued, ‘Go on, ask me how I managed to work that out.'

‘I don't need to, because I already
know
how you did it,' Woodend told him.

‘Then explain it to me,' the porter challenged.

‘You know because until last May, clothin' was rationed. An' as long as it was on the ration, the manufacturers weren't allowed to use wool.'

The porter looked somewhat deflated. ‘Well, at least you seem to know your job,' he said, as if to console himself.

Woodend turned his attention to the dead girl's knickers. They were plain – almost, in fact, frumpy – a childlike garment which would have been hidden from view by the semi-vampish red dress.

But what did that prove?

That, essentially, the girl had only been acting a part, and that her true self was reflected more in her undergarments than in her outward appearance?

Or merely that having spent all her money on an expensive dress, she simply could not afford the kind of knickers that should have accompanied it?

And how was it possible to reconcile the sophisticated aspirations that the dress implied with the bruising which – according to the doctor – was most likely the result of a vigorously healthy game of hockey?

‘It's funny, isn't it?' the porter asked.

‘Isn't what?' Woodend wondered.

‘Well, when you think about it, you just wouldn't expect a half-caste girl to be dressed up like a much older white woman, now would you?'

‘No,' Woodend agreed. ‘You wouldn't.'

W
oodend was in the middle of Canning Town. A cold wind was blowing in from the river, and though he was walking at a brisk pace, it chilled him to the bone.

A few years earlier, a river wind would never have reached this far inland, he thought, because there had been countless buildings – docks and factories and rows of crumbling terraced houses – to block it. But the War had changed all that – as it had changed so many other things.

The whole of London had suffered from the Blitz to some extent, but nowhere had taken more punishment than Canning Town, where eighty-five per cent of the housing had been destroyed in just a few short months in 1941. And the evidence of that destruction was still there for all to see in what had once been a normal street – with houses and shops running alongside it – but was now no more than a path through the rubble.

Some of the buildings he passed still bore signs of what they had formerly been – a pub with its top storey missing, a garage with only three walls and no roof, a small factory, outside which a rusting sign proclaimed ‘Quality products at reasonable prices' – but more often than not there was just a pile of rubble.

Perhaps, someday, the place would rise again, phoenix-like, from the ashes, Woodend told himself – but, for the moment, it was mostly the ashes you noticed.

The desk sergeant at Canning Town Police Station was Scottish, had red hair, and said his name was McBride. His welcome was warmer than the mere professional courtesy to a fellow sergeant which protocol dictated, and Woodend suspected that in him McBride recognized a kindred spirit – another bobby who hailed from an area of the country that the average Londoner considered to be well beyond the edge of civilization.

Once the pleasantries were over, Woodend showed McBride a photograph of the dead girl.

‘I don't recognize her myself, but if she's from round here, I guarantee that one o' my wee laddies will know her,' McBride said confidently.

His confidence proved to be well placed, for though Woodend drew a blank with the first constable he showed the picture to, the second – a fresh-faced young officer of twenty-two or twenty-three – gulped and said, ‘Oh shit, that's Pearl Jones.'

‘You're sure of that?' Woodend asked.

‘I'm sure. She's a nice girl.' The constable gulped again, and corrected himself. ‘I mean, she
was
a nice girl.'

‘What can you tell me about her?'

‘I don't know,' the constable said helplessly. ‘I can't think.'

‘Take your time, lad.'

‘I … I was only talking to her the other day, and, to tell you the truth, it's a bit of a shock to be told she's dead.'

‘Of course it is. That's only natural,' Woodend agreed, soothingly.

The lad had gone into a complete panic, he thought. If he was to learn
anything
useful from him, it might be best to start with a few easy questions first.

‘Where did this Pearl Jones live?' he asked.

‘On Balaclava Street. With her mum.'

‘Just her mum? No dad?'

‘She hasn't got a dad as far as
I
know. At least, I've never heard anybody mention him.'

‘Did she have any brothers or sisters?'

‘No, there's just the two of them – Pearl and her mum.'

‘Do you happen to know where Pearl worked?'

‘Worked? She didn't work anywhere. She was still at school.'

Then she must have been younger than she looked – much younger than the medical examiner had estimated her to be.

‘How old was she?' Woodend said.

‘Sixteen, I think.'

‘Then she
can't
still have been at school, can she?' Woodend asked gently. ‘By my calculations, her school days must have been over two years ago.'

‘I suppose they would have been, if she'd gone to the secondary mod.,' the constable agreed.

‘But she didn't?'

‘No. Pearl went to a private school.'

Private school! Hockey injuries!

‘Tell me about Balaclava Street,' Woodend suggested. ‘Is it in the posh part of Canning Town?'

The constable laughed, then – given the circumstances – looked guilty about it.

‘There
isn't
a posh part of Canning Town, Sarge,' he said.

‘Then how could her mother afford to send her to a private school? Does she have a good job? An'
if
she does, why is she livin' in Balaclava Street?'

‘Mrs Jones doesn't have any sort of job at all, as far as I know,' the constable said. ‘But I have heard it said that Pearl was quite bright, so maybe she was on some kind of scholarship.'

‘Maybe that
is
the answer,' Woodend agreed. ‘I'll need you to give me the mother's address.'

The constable pursed his brow as he counted out the street numbers in his head.

‘It must be Number 36,' he said. ‘Will you be going to see Mrs Jones?'

‘Yes, I think I better had.'

‘And would you … er … would you like me come with you, Sarge?'

‘Do you
want
to come with me?' Woodend asked.

‘Well … er … I think I should, since I know the family,' the constable said unconvincingly.

He looked about ready to throw up right there in the police station, Woodend thought. God alone knew how he'd feel when he had to break the news to Mrs Jones that her only daughter had had her throat slit.

‘I think I can handle it on my own,' he said.

‘Thanks, Sarge,' the constable replied – and sounded as though he meant it.

The north end of Balaclava Street had taken a terrific battering during the Blitz, and was now in ruins. The south end had miraculously escaped the bombs, though looking at the row of ramshackle terraced houses of which it was made up, Woodend thought it might have been best if the Luftwaffe had got rid of it, too.

The street was dirty, not just from the industrial filth which the foul smog had carried with it, but through lack of care. Rusting tin cans littered the pavement, old prams and discarded stoves lay rotting in the street.

There were a few women lurking in their doorways, but none was making any attempt to donkey-stone their doorsteps or clean their filthy front windows, and though soap rationing had ended two months earlier, the news had plainly not reached Balaclava Street yet.

He had reached Number 36, and he knocked on the door. His knock was answered by a woman – a handsome black woman, who he guessed was around thirty-five years old.

‘Mrs Jones?' Woodend asked, showing her his warrant card.

‘Dat's me,' the woman said, in a voice which betrayed just the slightest lilt of a West Indian accent. ‘What do you want?'

‘I'm afraid that I may have some bad news for you,' Woodend told her.

The woman's jaw wobbled. ‘Pearl?' she gasped. ‘Is it about my Pearl?'

‘Would you mind if I came inside?' Woodend asked gently.

‘Yes, I … I mean, no …' Mrs Jones said.

Then she turned, and gestured to Woodend to follow her.

The inside of the house came as something of a surprise. Woodend found none of the flaking plaster and signs of dampness which he might have expected. Instead, it was solid and substantial, the kind of interior which belonged in a well-built semi-detached house, rather than in a crumbling terrace.

The living room brought more surprises. The Woodends' dingy flat had been furnished by the landlord with Utility Furniture, plain but serviceable articles, built – because of the shortage of raw materials – to strict government specifications. And while it was true that furniture had been off the ration since June 1948, non-Utility was still difficult to find, and very expensive. But neither shortages nor expense seemed to have bothered Mrs Jones. The floor was covered in thick-pile carpet, the three-piece suite was leather, and in the corner of the room was a sideboard – displaying photographs in silver frames – which seemed to be made of real rosewood.