Fatal Quest Read online

  Nor was there, he thought. The forensics team had arrived at the pub long after the scene had been hopelessly contaminated by fleeing potential witnesses, and if they couldn’t find anything then, it was highly unlikely they’d be able to find anything new now.

  ‘Maybe you’d better check it over again yourself, personally, before we finally give them permission to open up,’ Bentley suggested.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, sir.’

  The chief inspector blinked, and Woodend realized he was going through one of those sudden mood swings that drunks are always prone to.

  ‘So you think that won’t be necessary, do you?’ Bentley asked, with a new, harsh edge to his voice.

  ‘That’s right, sir, but if you feel it would be—’

  ‘Let me tell you something, Sergeant. What you think doesn’t matter a tuppenny damn. Round here, it’s what I think that matters.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I quite accept—’

  ‘So instead of lecturing me on what is and isn’t necessary, you’d do well to get yourself off to the pub and see if it can be opened again. Got that?’

  ‘Got it, sir,’ Woodend said.

  The Waterman’s Arms was entered from a narrow alleyway which ran from the road to a series of steps (which, themselves, led to a small jetty on the river), and just taking a walk down the alley made Woodend feel as if he were stepping back in time.

  He knew all about the watermen, after whom the pub was named. They had made their money by ferrying people across the Thames, back in the days when there had been far too few bridges spanning the river to meet the needs of an expanding city. They’d been a tough breed, and – having to row for twelve hours a day, in all weathers, and often against the tide – they’d needed to be. In the middle of the previous century they’d been able to supplement their incomes by claiming finder’s fees for fishing dead bodies out the river, but that practice had been stopped when the authorities had noticed that the number of corpses had increased dramatically, and assumed – quite rightly – that the watermen had given up waiting for victims of drowning, and had begun to create a few of their own.

  All of which made it more than likely that Wally Booth hadn’t been the first man to die in the Waterman’s Arms by a long chalk, Woodend thought, as he drew level with the pub.

  The official notice, pinned to the door of the Waterman’s Arms, stated that the establishment was closed until further notice, on the orders of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

  Not that such a notice was really necessary, Woodend thought, because the regular customers would not only know it was closed, they would know whose angered fist had been responsible for closing it.

  He took the pub’s front-door key out of his pocket, and inserted it in the lock. Then, as he felt the mechanism begin to click into place, he began to wonder whether it was worth the effort of actually going inside.

  The only reason he was there at all, he reminded himself, was because a drunken chief inspector had irrationally told him he should be there.

  And since he had no expectations of finding anything interesting inside, what was the point of wasting any more of his time?

  ‘Hang about, Charlie,’ said the voice in his head which was comparatively new to him then, but over the coming years would grow to be a more or less constant companion. ‘You don’t actually know for certain that you won’t find somethin’ in there, now do you?’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Woodend wondered aloud.

  ‘Of course you don’t. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, is it, that a man like you – a fresh an’ brilliant young detective – will come across a vital clue that the jaded forensic team have overlooked?’

  Woodend grinned. ‘I’ve got two points to make,’ he told the voice. ‘The first is that I’d better learn to stop talkin’ to myself before somebody sends the men in white coats to take me away.’

  ‘An’ what’s the second?’ the voice asked.

  ‘I’ve got to give up these delusions of grandeur concernin’ my detectin’ skills, because if I don’t, my head will swell up so much it won’t fit through this door or any other.’

  ‘So you’re not goin’ in?’ the voice asked, disappointedly.

  Woodend sighed. ‘I’ll go in,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose I might as well, since I’m here already.’

  Then he pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  The pub was pretty much as he’d expected it to be. There was sawdust on the floor, and several spittoons placed strategically around the room, in order that customers would not have to walk far to expectorate. There was a counter which ran the whole length of the far wall, with a painted mirror behind it and the brass foot-rail – which had robbed Wally Booth of his life – at its base. There were tin adverts, mounted on the walls, for products that had long ceased to exist, and heavy wooden tables which bore the scars of generations of cigarette burns.

  This boozer would hardly have changed at all since the time the great Charles Dickens might have visited it, Woodend thought. And closing his eyes, he could picture the weather-beaten watermen, knocking back pints of bitter, paid for in aching muscles, before going home to the hovels where their families eked out their miserable existence.

  It had been a good idea to come inside, he thought, if only to immerse himself, for a moment, in the world that Dickens himself had once inhabited. But opening his eyes again, he saw none of the clues that the persuasive voice in his head had suggested he might find there.

  He turned around, and walked back towards the door.

  And it was then that he heard the noise!

  It was a deadened, heavy noise. Not the scampering of a frightened rat, but rather a slight movement made by something considerably heavier. And it was coming from behind the bar.

  He turned again.

  ‘Police!’ he said. ‘You’d better come out.’

  It was perhaps five or six seconds before the man who’d been crouching behind the counter reluctantly stood up.

  He was, Woodend estimated, roughly five feet eight or five nine inches tall, and was around forty years old. He was wearing the same kind of suit as the ones worn by Greyhound Ron Smithers’s bouncers and Toby Burroughs’s collectors, but it had been less expensive when new, and now was showing distinct signs of wear.

  ‘Who are you?’ Woodend demanded.

  ‘Smiff,’ the man said. ‘John Smiff.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly original,’ Woodend told him. ‘An’ what are you doin’ here, Mr Smith?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘I was walking past when I saw the door was wide open, so I just come in.’

  ‘The door wasn’t wide open – it was locked,’ Woodend corrected him. ‘But then that doesn’t really present much of a problem to a man with a set of skeleton keys in his pocket, now does it?’

  ‘I swear to you, I wasn’t doing nuffink,’ ‘Smith’ whined.

  ‘Tell that to your brief,’ Woodend advised him. ‘Maybe he’ll be able to convince the court it’s the truth – but I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Yer arresting me?’ ‘Smith’ asked, as though it was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard.

  ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t,’ Woodend replied. ‘Given the circumstances, it seems like the right thing to do.’ He took his handcuffs out of his pocket and held them in the air for ‘Smith’ to see. ‘Would you come round from behind the bar now, please?’

  With a great show of reluctance, ‘Smith’ did as he had been ordered, but when he was halfway between the bar and Woodend, he came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Look … er … ain’t there nuffink we can do to make this bit o’ unpleasantness just go away?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothin’ that I can I think of,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Smith’ reached into his pocket. ‘It’s like this, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘I’ve ’ad a bit of luck at the dog track, which means that I just ’appen to ’ave a few quid on me, and …’

  Woodend shook
his head. ‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘You don’t want to go addin’ attempted bribery to the charges, now do you?’

  The next few moments passed in a blur.

  One second, ‘Smith’ was standing perfectly still. The next he was lunging towards Woodend, and screaming, ‘Bastard!’ at the top of his voice. His hand, now clear of his pocket again, was holding not the promised cash but a very unpromising cosh, and as he got within striking range, he swung it at the sergeant’s head.

  Woodend did his best to feint to the side but he was not quite fast enough. The cosh failed to strike its intended target, but it did land heavily on his shoulder, and a pain shot along his arm right to his fingertips.

  ‘Smith’ took one step backwards, to give himself more space for a second assault. Woodend, his head swimming and his eyes refusing to focus properly, lashed out blindly with his right foot.

  The boot connected with something solid. Smith let out a loud ‘oof’, then sank to his knees – almost in slow motion – moaning, ‘Ohmygod, ohmygod,’ softly to himself.

  For an instant, Woodend contemplated following through with a second kick – to the other man’s chest, this time – but then he realized there was no need, because it was clear that ‘Smith’, who was gingerly, and experimentally, touching his genitals, would be in no position to cause any more trouble for quite a while.

  Woodend flexed the fingers of his right hand, and was surprised at how a movement in one part of his body could cause so much pain in so many other parts. But though it hurt like hell, he was almost sure that nothing was broken.

  ‘Smith’ looked up at him, his eyes filled with agony.

  ‘Yer’ve … yer’ve bloody well gone and castrified me,’ he complained, through clenched teeth.

  ‘The word you want is castrated, you ignorant bastard,’ Woodend said, and then, as a new wave of pain shot along the length of his arm, he added, ‘An’, if I have done, it’s no more than you bloody deserve.’

  He walked around the still kneeling man, carefully bent his own knees, and pulled ‘Smith’s’ arms behind his back.

  ‘Listen, there’s still a chance that we can work somefink out between us,’ the other man gasped, as Woodend slipped the handcuffs over his wrists. ‘I’m sorry that I ’urt yer, and I’m more the willing to pay for it. Suppose I was to offer yer fifty quid, all in used oncers? What would yer say to that?’

  ‘I’d say I’ve met any number of hopeless optimists in my time, but you really take the biscuit,’ Woodend replied, as he clicked the cuffs in place.

  ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘I mean you’ve got about as much chance of me takin’ your offer as a dog turd has of bein’ crowned Queen of the May.’

  ‘I might be able to stretch to an ’undred quid,’ ‘Smith’ said hopefully.

  Woodend rose to his feet, and then grasped ‘Smith’ by the arms and assisted him into a standing position. His own arm, he noted as he did so, still hurt like buggery.

  He transferred his hands to ‘Smith’s’ shoulders, and turned the other man around, so that they were facing each other.

  ‘John Smith, I am arrestin’ you on the suspicion that you were engaged in an act of burglary on these premises, an’ on the bloody certainty that you have attacked a police officer in the course of his lawful duty,’ he said. ‘Or to put it in the vernacular – you’re well an’ truly nicked, my son.’

  Thirteen

  The man who was still insisting on calling himself John Smith leaned heavily – and somewhat theatrically – on the interview-room table and said, ‘My knackers are on fire. I need medical attention.’

  ‘Aye, I know how you feel,’ Woodend said, with mock sympathy. ‘I’ve got this throbbing pain in my shoulder that I wouldn’t mind the quack givin’ the once-over, an’ all. So it’s a real pity, isn’t it, that neither of us have time to go an’ see a doctor at the moment?’ He slid his packet of Capstan Full Strength across the table. ‘Why don’t you stop complainin’ an’ have one of these? It’ll help to ease the pain.’

  ‘Smith’ took one of the cigarettes, and Woodend lit it for him.

  ‘Name?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I’ve already told yer, it’s John Smiff.’

  Woodend shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. He lit up a cigarette himself, and gulped down the acrid smoke greedily. ‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘since we both know that the criminal-records department is goin’ to match your fingerprints up to your real name sooner or later, why not save some time, an’ tell me now?’

  The prisoner gave the matter some thought – it seemed to be a painful process.

  ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘The name’s Machin. Jimmy Machin.’

  ‘That’s very good, Jimmy,’ Woodend said encouragingly. ‘Now, the next step is for you to tell me exactly what you were doin’ in the Waterman’s Arms.’

  ‘What do yer fink I was doing? I’m a tea leaf, ain’t I? The reason I went into the pub was to pinch somefink.’

  ‘Somethin’?’ Woodend repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth thoughtfully. ‘Like what, for example?’

  Machin shrugged. ‘Well, yer know …’

  ‘No, that’s the point, I don’t know,’ Woodend replied. ‘That’s why I’m askin’ you to tell me.’

  ‘I fort there might be some cash lying around.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You saw the notice on the door … you can read, can’t you?’

  ‘Course I can bleeding read!’

  ‘You saw a notice sayin’ that the police had closed the place until further notice, an’ you seriously thought there was a chance that the brewery would have been stupid enough to leave money inside?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t fink there was too much of a chance of it,’ Machin admitted. ‘But there’s uvver fings yer can nick from pubs, as well as gelt.’

  ‘True,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But you’d have looked a right bloody idiot walkin’ down that passageway with a piano on your back, now wouldn’t you?’

  ‘There was booze!’ Machin said.

  ‘Yes, there was. Pubs are famous for havin’ booze in them. If you wanted a bottle of whisky, an’ you had to decide between goin’ to a pub an’ a furniture store for it, you’d choose a pub every time.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ Machin said sulkily.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be sarcastic, when all you’re doin’ is feedin’ me a load of old cobblers?’ Woodend asked. ‘An’ before you start tellin’ me any more of your lies, just remember one thing – I’ve seen your skeleton keys.’

  ‘What’s that supposed ter mean?’

  ‘They’re works of art, are them keys. A beauty to behold. Only a real artist would have a set of keys like that.’

  Machin’s chest swelled with pride.

  ‘They are good, ain’t they?’ he said. ‘I made them myself, yer know.’ Then, growing wary again, he added, ‘But wot does that prove?’

  ‘It proves you weren’t after booze.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Most of your common-or-garden toe-rag criminals will turn their hands to anythin’ when the need arises. But you’re an artist – an’ artists are different. You wouldn’t catch Leonardo da Vinci whitewashin’ a shithouse wall – an’ you wouldn’t catch a good keyman like you breakin’ and enterin’ when all he could expect to come out with is a bottle or two of whisky. It’s a question of pride an’ professional standards, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oo’s this da Vinci bloke wot yer talkin’ about?’ Machin asked. ‘’E’s not that Wop wot runs the rackets down in Limehouse, is ’e?’

  ‘How long have you been workin’ for Greyhound Ron Smithers?’ Woodend asked, out of the blue.

  ‘Yer wot?’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question, I would have thought, but there’s no real need for you to answer it. An’ shall I tell you why there’s no real need?’

  ‘If yer like.’

  ‘You see, I
’ve already figured out that if you weren’t workin’ for Ron Smithers, there’s no way that you would have been in the Waterman’s Arms when Wally Booth got killed.’

  ‘Oo says I was in the Waterman’s then?’

  ‘Nobody says it directly. But they don’t need to – because your own actions give you away.’

  ‘’Ow do yer mean?’

  ‘Maybe I should explain the lines I’m thinkin’ along,’ Woodend suggested. ‘The way I see it is that ever since the murder occurred, you’ve been tellin’ yourself there was absolutely nothin’ in the pub to connect you with it. Tellin’ yourself – but not really believin’ it. An’, in the end, you were worryin’ so much that you decided you had to do somethin’ to resolve your doubts once an’ for all. So you went back to the pub, to check. You’d probably convinced yourself that there was no risk in doin’ that – an’ there wouldn’t have been, if I hadn’t walked through the door at just the wrong time.’

  Machin folded his arms. ‘I ain’t got nuffink more to say.’

  ‘You didn’t mean to kill Wally Booth. I know that,’ Woodend said coaxingly. ‘When you lost your temper with him, all you meant to do was knock him down. It was pure chance that he fell the way he did, an’ died as a result. An’ believe me, the Director of Public Prosecutions will understand that just as clearly as I do. You’ll go down for manslaughter, not murder, an’ with any luck, you’ll be out again in three years.’

  Machin uncoiled his arms, and stared down at his hands.

  ‘If I …’ he began.

  Then his mouth snapped shut, as it were on a spring.

  He was fighting the impulse to confess, Woodend thought – but it was a losing battle. And tottering on the brink as he was, it would only take the very gentlest of pushes to make him come clean.

  ‘You could get at least five years simply for attackin’ me, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘Just think of that. Five long years! But if you’re prepared to put your hands up for Wally Booth’s death, I’ll see to it that the other charges are dropped.’

  The door to the interview room suddenly swung open, and a young uniformed constable entered.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Woodend said irritably, as he silently cursed the constable’s timing.