Fatal Quest by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online

own,’ he said.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Mrs Jones?’ Woodend asked, showing her his warrant card.
    â€˜Dat’s me,’ the woman said, in a voice which betrayed just the slightest lilt of a West Indian accent. ‘What do you want?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Would you mind if I came inside?’ Woodend asked gently.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You asked me if I’d come about Pearl,’ Woodend said. ‘How long has she been missin’?’
    â€˜Who said she was missin’ at all?’ Mrs Jones demanded.
    â€˜Please, madam, let’s try to make this as easy as possible,’ Woodend suggested.
    Mrs Jones looked down at the floor. ‘She didn’t come home last night,’ she admitted.
    â€˜Does she often stay out all night?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜Never!’ Mrs Jones said, suddenly angry. ‘My Pearl don’t do dat. My Pearl is a
good
girl.’
    â€˜I’ve got something to show you,’ Woodend said. ‘But before I do, I think it would be best if you sat down.’
    â€˜Don’t want to sit down,’ Mrs Jones told him.
    But when Woodend put his hands on her shoulders and gently eased her into the leather armchair, she did not resist.
    Woodend took the photograph out of his pocket and held it out to the woman. ‘Is this your daughter?’ he asked.
    Mrs Jones’s eyes widened, and tears began to cascade from them. ‘Oh, my God!’ she moaned. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’
    â€˜I’m most terribly sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news, Mrs Jones,’ Woodend said.
    And then, something quite remarkable happened. The woman took a deep breath, and