Free Fatal Quest by Sally Spencer Page A

thought, as he watched the constable escort Horrocks out into the corridor – because while it was as clear as daylight that he was lying, it would be almost
impossible
to prove it.
    So how should he go about conducting this investigation, the sergeant asked himself, as he lit up a Capstan Full Strength.
    Questioning the landlord again would be a complete waste of time. Horrocks would never crack, and though he’d just gone through the motions of interrogating the bloody man, he’d realized that the moment he’d seen him across the interview room.
    So what
would
it take to get a result?
    One thing, and one thing only! It would take one of the customers who had been there at the time of Booth’s death to come forward and start naming names – and that was simply never going to happen!
    But then, Woodend suspected, this sudden reassignment of his didn’t actually have much to do with the Waterman’s Arms murder anyway. Instead, it had been a convenient way of removing from the Pearl Jones case the one man who seemed interested in finding her killer!
    The Crown and Anchor pub was on the corner, at the southern end of Balaclava Street. From the outside it reeked of neglect, and Woodend guessed that the brewery was only holding on to it until the government was once again rich enough – whenever
that
might be! – to buy it with a compulsory purchase order, and pull it down.
    The inside of the pub matched its exterior perfectly. The paint was cracked, the wallpaper was peeling, and the ceiling was browned with generations of nicotine stains. There was a battered piano up against one of the walls, but no one was playing it, and Woodend doubted if it was even still playable.
    Yet despite all this, the landlord was a cheery, amenable soul – the sort of landlord who prevented fights not by being a hard man himself, but by somehow managing to remind those customers intent on violence of their favourite uncle, who would be disappointed in them if they behaved badly.
    Woodend ordered a pint of best bitter, then showed the landlord his warrant card, and said, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your regular customers.’
    â€˜Oh yes? And which particular customer might that be?’
    â€˜Mrs Victoria Jones.’
    The landlord smiled ruefully. ‘She’s no customer of mine.’
    â€˜Really? I was told she was.’
    â€˜Victoria Jones is a strict Methodist,’ the landlord said. ‘As far as she’s concerned, what I sell is the devil’s potion.’
    â€˜So she’s never been in here?’
    â€˜She wouldn’t even
think
of setting foot in the temple of the arch-fiend.’
    Woodend grinned. ‘Is that what this place is? The temple of the arch-fiend? I didn’t know that.’
    â€˜Neither did I – till I read it in one of the pamphlets she’s forever sliding under my front door.’
    â€˜
Victoria Jones has a weakness for the drink, you see
,’ DCI Bentley had said.
    Bloody liar!
    â€˜So if I want to learn more about Mrs Jones, I’m talkin’ to the wrong person, am I?’ Woodend asked the landlord.
    â€˜Couldn’t be talking to a much wronger one,’ the other man agreed. ‘But if you want to talk to the
right
person, she’s over there.’
    He was pointing at a woman sitting in the corner of the bar. She was old, and so small she could have been mistaken for a child, but for her heavily wrinkled face. She was wearing a purple beret and was wrapped up in a heavy, old-fashioned coat which could just as easily have been a carpet as an article of clothing. There was a glass of milk stout in front of her, and occasionally she would lift it to her mouth and take a bird-like sip.
    â€˜I have to tell you, she doesn’t
look
like she’d be much help to me,’ Woodend said doubtfully.
    â€˜Don’t be fooled by appearances,’ the landlord told him.