Fatal Quest by Sally Spencer Page A

– that just as big-time criminals like Smithers offered their “protection” to small businesses, there were men high up in the Met, who, for a fee, would protect the protectors.
    â€˜I’m not here tryin’ to nail Smithers,’ he said.
    The bouncers laughed again. ‘Well, I’m sure ’e’ll be very relieved to ’ear
that
,’ the bigger one said.
    â€˜â€™E’s been losing sleep at nights at the fort of you turning up at his door, one day,’ the other added.
    Woodend smiled. ‘I do like a good comedy double act,’ he said.
    The bigger bouncer smirked. ‘We aim ter please,’ he said.
    â€˜But if I wanted to see clowns in action, I’d go to the circus an’ see the professionals,’ the sergeant added.
    The big bouncer’s smirk vanished. ‘’Ang on, are yer saying we’re a pair o’ clowns?’ he demanded.
    â€˜I’m sayin’ that I want to see Greyhound Ron,’ Woodend replied. ‘An’ while I can’t
make
him see me, I
can
make you
ask
if he’ll see me.’
    â€˜You reckon?’ the big bouncer asked aggressively.
    â€˜I reckon,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Because while your boss might be fireproof, I could burn the pair of you easily, if I put my mind to it.’
    â€˜That sounds like a fret,’ the bigger bouncer said.
    â€˜Does it?’ Woodend asked. ‘Well, you should know, because makin’ threats is somethin’ you
are
good at.’
    The bouncers exchanged glances, then the bigger one said, ‘Wot ’ave I got ter tell ’im yer want to see ’im about?’
    â€˜Tell him I want to see him about Wally Booth.’
    The bouncer nodded, almost as if that was exactly what he’d
expected
the sergeant to say.
    â€˜Wait ’ere,’ he told Woodend.
    Greyhound Ron Smithers was sitting at a table in the corner of the bar of the Royal Albert. There was a brassy blonde talking to him as Woodend walked in, but Smithers jerked his thumb in the direction of a door at the back of the room, and the blonde obediently headed towards it.
    Given his nickname, Woodend had expected him to be a slightly less seedy version of the thousands of punters who crowded into the White City to watch the dogs run, but Smithers bore no resemblance to them at all.
    He was a big man, in his late thirties or early forties, and was dressed in a sharp suit, which, whilst it might have just stepped over the line separating good taste from flashiness, was undoubtedly top quality. He had thick black hair, and his dark eyes were either intelligent or cunning – or perhaps both. His nose was slightly out of kilter, his mouth tight and his chin square and forceful. Overall, he gave the impression of being a handsome man – if handsome in a
brutal
sort of way.
    Smithers gestured Woodend to take a seat.
    â€˜I wouldn’t normally waste my time talking to—’ he began.
    â€˜I know,’ Woodend interrupted, ‘I’ve already had all that patter from your two goons stationed outside.’
    â€˜Wot patter?’
    â€˜That you’re a very busy man, that you only usually speak to coppers above the rank of chief superintendent, etc., etc. So since you
are
such a busy man, can we take it as read that I feel highly honoured to have been granted an audience with you, an’ then just get on with the business in hand.’
    â€˜I will say this for yer – yer’ve got some balls on yer!’ Smithers said.
    â€˜Two of them, to be exact,’ Woodend replied. ‘I used to kid myself they were world-championship size, but the police doctor tells me they’re only slightly larger than average.’
    For a moment it looked as Smithers was about to lose his temper, then he smiled and said, ‘My boys tell me you’re investigating Wally Booth’s murder.’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜How do yer fink I can