Fatal Quest Read Free Page A

lot of death in my business, and I suppose you just get used to it,’ he said, in what might – or might not – have been a vague apology.
    I’ve seen a lot of death myself, too, Woodend thought.
I’ve
seen mountains of bodies piled up inside a German concentration camp. But that doesn’t make this particular death any less tragic.
    â€˜When was she killed?’ he asked.
    â€˜Three hours ago at the earliest, two at the latest.’
    From the near distance came the sound of a bell chiming midnight.
    â€˜Big Ben,’ said one of the constables, as if he thought that the yokel sergeant with the Northern accent would need the information.
    Woodend stood up and looked back towards the pavement. There was no way the woman who’d called him could have seen the girl’s body from the road, he thought.
    But then she’d never
claimed
to have seen the body, had she?
    What had her actual words been?
    â€˜
He said she was dead. And he doesn’t lie. Not about things like that. He’s not that kind of man.
’
    She not only knew there’d been a murder, but she knew the murderer’s name. So why wouldn’t she tell him that name? Why wouldn’t she even give him her
own
name?
    Both those questions would be answered if he could find her – but how the hell was he supposed to do
that
?

Two
    I t was a long walk through the smog from the scene of the crime to the dingy one-and-a-half-bedroom flat which Woodend was still reluctant to call ‘home’, and it was a quarter past two in the morning before he finally opened the front door and saw that his wife, Joan, was sitting in the living room, half asleep.
    â€˜I wish you wouldn’t do that, lass,’ he said.
    â€˜Do what?’ Joan asked innocently.
    â€˜Wait up for me.’
    Joan yawned. ‘Who
says
I was waitin’ up?’
    He grinned. ‘I’m a detective, love. It’s printed on my warrant card. An’ usin’ my detectin’ skills, I’ve deduced that you were waitin’ up because you’re still here.’
    â€˜The reason I’m still here is because I wasn’t
tired
enough to go to bed,’ Joan lied. ‘Anyway, you’ll be wantin’ somethin’ to eat.’
    â€˜I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ Woodend told her.
    â€˜An’ I’ve got just the thing,’ Joan continued, with the showmanship of a magician who was just about to pull a rabbit out of his top hat. ‘What would you say to some nice lamb chops?’
    Woodend’s stomach turned over. ‘I’m really not hungry,’ he said.
    He felt guilty about disappointing her, but the simple truth was that, after seeing the girl with her throat cut, he no longer had any appetite.
    â€˜I had to queue in the butcher’s for over an hour to get them,’ Joan said, disapprovingly.
    â€˜I’m sure you did, but—’
    â€˜I got the very last ones he had. You should have seen the way the women behind me in the queue glared at me. If looks could kill …’
    â€˜I’m sorry, love, I really am,’ Woodend said.
    Joan nodded, as if she’d suddenly understood. ‘Another murder?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜A nasty one?’
    â€˜Very.’
    â€˜You take it all too personally, Charlie.’
    â€˜I know,’ Woodend said. ‘But that’s the way I am.’
    â€˜Yes, that
is
the way you are,’ Joan agreed. ‘Still, I suppose I shouldn’t complain, because if you
hadn’t
been the way you are, I’d never have married you in the first place.’ She paused. ‘Are you
sure
you wouldn’t fancy the chops?’
    â€˜Maybe I’ll have them tomorrow,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜An’ maybe you won’t,’ Joan replied, as if she had already foreseen what the next twenty-odd years of their married life held – her buying the food, and Charlie being