by M. J. Trow
Their faces said it all. Those few who could afford it would be leaving soon, job or no job. The others would stay, if they were allowed to, but under a cloud. They backed away, leaving Maxwell a clear path to the door. He had been their last hope. And he had given them none. He patted the nearest shoulder and went back into the foyer, then climbed the stairs, with heavy feet.
Chapter Five
N
o man lives forever. Dead men rise up never. Even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea. The breeze off the beach was cold and mean, cutting through the coat of the woman who stood on the top of the cliff. She had had a shock and, as always when she had something to think over, she had come to the clifftop. Although it always brought the rather sad lines of Swinburne to her mind, she wasn’t suicidal these days. She had had her moments, back in the day, but now she was okay. Mostly. She knew she was over-medicated, but she preferred the deadened state she got by in to the churning of her mind when she stopped taking the tablets. She coped. But a shock always brought her back to the cliffs, the wind and the waves. That poem wouldn’t leave her head, despite trying to drive it out with something else. ‘Dead men rise up never’ – she looked out to sea with hollow eyes and shook her head. They could. Oh, yes, they could.
‘Jacquie? Can I have a minute?’
She looked up and had to think for a moment before she could answer. ‘Guv. Of course. Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘I could tell. I just need to have a bit of a chat – nothing major, just something I could do with talking over with someone, if you don’t mind. It’s always the same, isn’t it, when we’re not so busy; things get into your head and you keep on worrying away at them.’
‘I know that feeling.’ Jacquie had been reading the background on a series of wallet snatches in the town centre and felt she was near an answer – even if it sounded a bit unlikely, even the silence of her own head. Could it really be a ring of pensioners? She knew she would have to address it, but it was such a case of the prey turned predator; little old ladies seemed to be jostling skateboarding teenagers, who later found their wallets, iPhones and other removables had disappeared. It could simply be that an opportunist was jumping in when walking sticks tangled with legs, but ... again, she gave herself a little shake and suppressed a smile. ‘What’s your problem?’ she asked. ‘Mine can certainly wait.’
Henry Hall was not someone given to flights of fancy. The blank face he presented to the world was not a front; he really did have all his ducks in a row but just now, something was bugging him. He sat down opposite Jacquie and she pushed the files aside, so he knew he had her full attention.
‘My sister,’ he began, to Jacquie’s surprise – she had no idea he even had a sister. ‘My sister lives next door to a family whose kids go to Leighford High School.’
The DI held up a hand. ‘Sorry, guv,’ she said. ‘No interference with exam results possible, you know that!’
‘It would be good if that was the problem,’ he said. ‘No, the problem is, she hears crying through the wall, every night.’
Jacquie shrugged. ‘Nine nine nine,’ she said. ‘CYPR. Children’s services. Job done.’ She couldn’t quite see where this was going.
‘She did all that. Nice clean home. Child has all the trimmings – laptop, iPad, iPhone. Fridge full of appropriate food. Good clothes. Nice parents ...’
‘But?’
‘But, she still hears the crying. It’s getting her down. Social workers’ hands are tied, so are ours. I’ve got the Children’s and Young Persons’ Report here ...’ he flicked through the file he carried while Jacquie smiled gently. How like Henry to give it its full title. He found the page and handed it over. She glanced through it and it all bore out what Henry said. The crying was mentioned, with the anonymous caller, but it was marked NFA – no further action.
‘So, what would you like me to do?’ She knew the answer, but had to ask all the same.
‘Can you have a word with Max? See if he knows anything about this kid? Schools often know more than we can find out.’
Jacquie glanced at the boy’s date of birth. ‘He isn’t one of Max’s Own, Henry,’ she pointed out. ‘He’s too young. He might not even teach him, you know.’
‘Sylvia will know him, though.’ Henry had only met her once or twice, but to meet her once was to trust her implicitly.
‘She will, no doubt,’ Jacquie agreed. ‘But she doesn’t work at Leighford High any more.’
Hall was staggered. He was surprised to find that Leighford High was still standing, without Sylvia. Maxwell must be bearing all the weight of the crumbling structure on his own now, then. ‘Has she retired? She isn’t old enough, surely?’
Jacquie sighed. ‘No, she is one of the first victims of the new regime.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Did I know about it?’ he asked.
Jacquie told him the sad story of the incipient Academy in a few pithy words. Hall’s boys were well beyond that stage, but grandfatherhood beckoned and he was getting interested in schools once again, to be ready. It sounded a bit of a cockamamie plan to him, but he had never really understood teachers, especially Peter Maxwell, although they had come to a working neutrality and in many circumstances he even enjoyed the man’s company. As Jacquie came to the end of her tale, he tapped the file on the desk and got up.
‘Max might not be able to help me, then,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ Jacquie said. ‘I’m sure he still can. It will just mean a bit more digging. If this has been going on for a while ...’ Hall nodded, ‘then I am sure that Sylv already knows about it. I’ll give her a ring in a minute, and see if she has anything to add.’ She flicked over the CYPR and made a note of the name. ‘Child at risk – Thomas Ryan Morley’. She handed the sheet back and Hall slipped it into his folder.
‘Thanks, Jacquie. Hetty will be relieved.’ And he was gone.
Hetty? Oh, surely, Jacquie thought with a smile, Mr and Mrs Hall Snr hadn’t called their children Henry and Henrietta? Still chuckling quietly, she picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Sylv? Hi, it’s Jacquie. How’s retirement suiting you?’
‘Don’t even ask! I’m bored already.’
Jacquie could well believe it. Sylvia was always someone who could fit forty-eight of anyone else’s hours into every twenty-four, so she would probably be on her second complete redecoration of the house by now; it had, after all, been a week since she gave up work, or work gave her up, depending on the point of view. ‘Well, I wonder if you could do me a favour ...’
It was Peter Maxwell’s favourite day of the week. On a Monday, he always picked up Nolan from school and they wandered through the town to wait for Mums. Nolan was a child in size only – sometimes, Maxwell was convinced that he was the junior partner in the duo, but he cherished these times, having never expected them to ever come. This late child and his mother had brought joy back into a life which was previously merely content. But Nolan had a flaw – he only ever mentioned any salient fact once. This was fine as long as the recipient was a parent, but as often as not it was the dinner lady or a random parent of a friend, so there had been desperate moments Chez Carpenter-Maxwell when the requisite costume/cake/poem needed to be magicked into being on the morning of, rather than in the weeks ahead as planned by Mrs Whatmough. So Monday was important, not just for lad and dad bonding but also for gathering of vital information. Maxwell could see storms ahead when Mrs Braymarr’s regime began to bite, because unless she had some wild horses to hand, she would not be seeing Maxwell on a Monday afternoon, after school.
But that was something for later. For now, they walked hand in hand, Maxwell with his son’s satchel hung nonchalantly from his shoulder, his son’s cap at a rakish angle over one eye. He waited for the day when Nolan would complain about this bizarre parental behaviour – and hoped that that day would never come.
‘Dads?’
‘Yes, mate.’
‘Do you know your nine times?’
‘Sometimes,’ Maxwell replied. ‘I’m good up to six times nine, after that I have to be having a good day.’
Nolan nodded sagely. ‘I’m a bit like that,’ he agreed. ‘Today was a good day. I did it all.’
Maxwell was impressed. ‘All through? Nole, you’re a marvel.’
The boy gave a hop. ‘I was a bit surprised, if I tell the truth,’ he said, sounding so like Mrs B that Maxwell had to smile. ‘But I got a gold star and it won’t be my turn again for a long time.’
Maxwell did a quick calculation. ‘How far up do you go?’ he asked. ‘In the timeses?’
Nolan was quiet as he looked into the future of fourteen times, fifteen times ... ‘I think we start again when we get to twelve,’ he said, more for his own sake than Maxwell’s.
‘I expect you do,’ his father agreed. He hadn’t been joking about his prowess with nine times and wasn’t looking forward to helping with anything much higher. ‘Apart from the tables phenomenon, how was your day?’
Nolan loved new words and pounced on phenomenon with glee. ‘Phenonermen?’
‘Phenomenon.’
‘Phern ...’
‘Phen.’
‘Phen!’ Nolan loved the ritual.
‘Nom’
‘Nom!’
‘Enon.’
‘Enon!’
‘Phenomenon.’
‘Phenomenon!’ And he was off, hopping on one leg then two along the almost deserted shopping centre. ‘Phenomenon! Phenomenon! Phenomenon!’
Maxwell smiled and let the boy bounce on ahead. He was a careful parent, but not a smothering one and as long as his boy was in sight, he was happy. Then, almost simultaneously, several things happened. Nolan bounced round a corner, there was a distant scream, a crash, a shout and then silence. Without a second’s pause, Maxwell was in full flight, wanting to be at his son’s side but also scared to find a pile of mangled humanity around the corner. There had been at least three different voices in the melee, Nolan’s among them.
The scene that met his eyes was not instantly clear. Nolan wasn’t part of any carnage, so that was all right, Maxwell stepped to his boy’s side and patted his shoulder, muttering, ‘Are you all right, Nole?’
‘Yes, Dads,’ he said, sounding puzzled.
Maxwell, satisfied his chick was unhurt, refocused on the pile of humanity some yards ahead on the pedestrian area. It began to resolve as he looked into an elderly woman, complete with walking stick and a youth of around eighteen. Somewhere in the mix was a scooter, looking somewhat the worse for wear. The human elements looked a little ruffled but otherwise uninjured, but the Public Schoolboy rose up unbidden in Maxwell and he stepped forward, calling, ‘Can I help?’
The old dear looked up pathetically. ‘Oooh, what a kind gentleman,’ she cooed. ‘This young man just cannoned into me. I don’t know what’s coming to the youth of today, I really don’t.’ She started to struggle to her feet, and Maxwell extended a helpful hand.
‘Mad old biddy,’ the lad spat. ‘She stuck her stick out a purpose.’
The woman’s eyes flashed. ‘You wicked young lout,’ she said, hauling herself upright surprisingly easily using Maxwell’s arm as leverage. ‘You hit me. Zooming along on that contraption. It’s a kid’s toy, that is. What are you thinking, playing in the street at your age?’
The lad appealed to a higher authority. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ he said, jumping up and dusting himself off. ‘You know I wouldn’t do anything of the kind. I use the scooter to stay eco-friendly. I wouldn’t use a fuel-based method of transport. I keep a negative carbon footprint, I do.’
Maxwell looked closer. On inspection, the boy did indeed turn out to be one of his Own, known for his green habits and infamous for his total eschewment of deodorant of any kind. He stepped back. ‘Jem,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you from this angle. Are you all right?’
‘Oh, that’s it,’ the old crone snapped. ‘Be on his side. I might have known the poor old lady would get short shrift.’
‘Madam,’ Maxwell lifted Nolan’s cap in the time-honoured fashion. ‘I apologise, but I do know Jem here and I’m sure that this was just an accident. Can I call anyone to help you? I’m afraid I don’t drive myself so I can’t ...’
The woman curled her lip. ‘You Greens,’ she said. ‘Hang together, why don’t you?’
Maxwell glanced back at Nolan, who shrugged. He was a bit of an expert on old ladies, having honed his skills on Mrs Troubridge and Mrs B, but he knew when he was beaten. He looked pointedly up at the sky, Nolan shorthand for ‘leave me out of this – you’re on your own’.
Maxwell opened his mouth to speak, but the old lady had straightened her body-warmer and looked in her bag to make sure that there was nothing missing amongst her shopping. Satisfied, she turned to Jem, who was trying to straighten the wheel of his scooter.
‘Take more care next time, young man,’ she said. ‘I could have broken my hip and that might have been the end of me. A broken bone is no joke at my time of life.’ And with that, she brushed angrily past him, heading for the bus station.
Jem watched her go. ‘I didn’t hit her on purpose, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, plaintively. ‘I would swear she stuck her stick out deliberately.’
Nolan, seeing the old lady leaving, had joined the menfolk. ‘She did, Dads,’ he said. ‘She did stick her stick out.’ He paused for a moment. That wasn’t the kind of grammar Mrs Whatmough would allow. ‘She made him fall off his scooter.’
Maxwell and Jem looked at him in wonder.
‘And it was funny. She just walked back in the direction she came from. It’s almost as if she was waiting for him. She walked faster before she stuck her stick out than she is doing now and do you know what’s funnier still?’
‘What?’ Maxwell was used to his son but Jem was still a little overawed. It was like Maxwell. Only shorter.
‘When she went away, she pinched his wallet. Or it might have been his phone.’ The boy patted his back pocket. ‘From in there.’
Stricken, Jem did the same and came up empty. ‘You’re right!’ he said to Nolan. ‘The old cow has had it away with my phone. I saved up for that. Low impact,’ he explained to Maxwell. ‘Completely recyclable.’
‘Naturally,’ Maxwell agreed, whatever that might mean.
Jem thrust the handlebars of his scooter at Nolan, who stood holding them proudly as the lad ran off, following the elderly dip. It wasn’t long before he was back, shoulders slumped. ‘No sign,’ he said. ‘The old cow ...’ he looked anxiously at Nolan but the boy didn’t flinch. He heard much worse most nights when his father did the ritual fall over the cat on his way to bed. ‘I’m going to report it to the police. And she’s wrecked my scooter. Look!’ He held it up and it was indeed in a sorry state. The wheel was bent at right-angles to the handlebars and when he tried to straighten it, it made a rather unpleasant grating noise. He shook his head. ‘I saved up for this as well.’
Nolan slipped his hand trustingly into Jem’s. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re going to see Mums now. She will sort it out.’
Jem looked uncertain. He was touched the lad thought his mum could put anything right. He remembered when he thought that too.
Maxwell leaned forward and murmured in Jem’s ear. ‘His mum is Detective Inspector Carpenter-Maxwell, so she really will sort you out! Come on – she always enjoys it when we take her customers.’
Jem hefted his scooter over his shoulder, Maxwell Nolan’s satchel and with the brains of the outfit leading the way, singing ‘Phenomenon’ to the tune of One Man Went To Mow, they headed off to the Nick.
The deal on a Monday was that Maxwell and Nolan, having done some window shopping – or, depending on the efficacy of Nolan’s big doe eyes, actual shopping – would wait for Jacquie in the coffee shop in the local Tesco on the edge of the shopping centre. After a quick latte and poppy seed muffin, Jacquie would feel less of a detective inspector and more of a human being and they would head off home, often with a special bag of
favourites in tow. So she was taken aback when the phone on her desk trilled to tell her that the two of them were waiting downstairs. She checked her watch – no, she wasn’t late. Maxwell would surely not have come to her if Nolan had been injured in any way; he would have either called an ambulance or stuck a plaster on it, according to circumstances. Even so, she took the stairs at a rather faster pace than was usual or even advisable.
In the foyer, there was a motley crew, sixty six point six percent Maxwell. A cursory glance showed her they were both uninjured, so she turned her attention to the boy with them. He was probably about seventeen, she judged and good looking in an etiolated sort of way. He was wearing clothes that were probably considerably older than he was, but whether from a style angle or necessity, it was hard to tell. They were clearly all together and she raised an interrogatory eyebrow.
Nolan was in full official mode and didn’t do his usual flying leap at her. ‘We’re here to report a crime,’ he said, importantly. ‘I’m a witness.’
So, that explained that. Probably some homework project being squeezed till its pips squeaked.
‘I’m a bit busy for the moment ...’ she began.
