Fatal Quest by Sally Spencer Page A

to both your credit an’ hers. Besides,’ he added, his voice hardening for the first time in the interview, ‘I’m a policeman.’
    â€˜I am aware of your position,’ Dr Jenkins said, bemused by his sudden change of tone.
    â€˜An’
bein
’ a policeman, how long do you think it will take me to find out whether or not Pearl’s on a scholarship, even if you
don’t
choose to tell me?’ Woodend continued.
    â€˜This school does provide a
number
of scholarships for deserving cases,’ Dr Jenkins said, picking her words carefully. ‘Pearl is not currently the recipient of one of those scholarships, but were she to apply for one, we would certainly look favourably on that application.’
    Oh, absolutely! Woodend thought. I bet you’d be fallin’ over yourself to give it to her, you snobby bitch.
    â€˜In other words, what you’re sayin’ is that she never
has
applied for a scholarship?’ he asked.
    â€˜I did not say that at all,’ Dr Jenkins replied, though the expression on her face clearly revealed that she now realized she’d
implied
it.
    â€˜So she got her scholarship to this school from some other source,’ Woodend mused. ‘Was it from some kind of charitable foundation, perhaps?’
    â€˜I am not all happy with the direction in which this conversation is now moving,’ Dr Jenkins said sternly.
    â€˜Now that is strange,’ Woodend said. ‘Why is it such a secret? I would have thought that philanthropists would like it to be generally known that they’re bein’ philanthropic. I would have thought anybody who’d given money to a coloured girl from Cannin’ Town would have been shoutin’ it from the rooftops.’
    There was no answer to that, and Dr Jenkins seemed to know it.
    She reached out her hand, and stabbed at a large black button at the edge of her desk. Woodend heard a buzzer ring, somewhere beyond the office, and the headmistress’s secretary appeared almost immediately.
    â€˜Please show this gentleman to the door, Miss Stapleton,’ Dr Jenkins said coldly.
    Well, at least she’s callin’ me a gentleman, even if her tone suggests I’m anythin’ but, Woodend thought.
    He rose to his feet and stretched out his hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Jenkins,’ he said.
    But the headmistress, who was making a great show of reading a document which lay on her desk in front of her, acknowledged neither the hand nor the words.
    â€˜If you’d like to follow me,’ the secretary said.
    â€˜Of course,’ Woodend agreed.
    As he was leaving the room, the digger started up again. He knew it
shouldn’t
have pleased him that the sound would distress the headmistress – but it did.

Six
    D C Ted Cotteral was sitting at his desk, his fingers periodically striking one of the keys of his battered typewriter. Woodend had decided long ago that Cotteral wasn’t much of a detective, but now, watching him from the doorway as he slowly and agonizingly tip-tapped out his report, it was becoming apparent that he wasn’t much of a typist, either.
    There were no other detective constables in the outer office, and looking across the room, through the open door of the Wolf’s Lair, Woodend noted that DCI Bentley was absent, too.
    Well, there nothing surprising in that, he told himself. Bentley was famous for sloping off home early, so the fact that the fat idle bastard was not there now shouldn’t bother him at all.
    But it
did
bother him. Or rather it bothered his gut, which suddenly seemed to be encircled by a tight iron band.
    He turned to face Cotteral.
    â€˜Any idea where the guv’nor is, Ted?’ he asked.
    â€˜Shit!’ the constable said, looking first at where his index finger had landed on the keyboard, and then at the key that it had impelled to strike the page. ‘You’ve just made me mistype, Sarge.’
    â€˜I asked