Maxwell's Academy

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Mrs Maxwell,’ Jem broke in. ‘We really are here to report a crime. I’ve been ...’ the lad lowered his voice; his street cred was already low, what with the pre-loved clothes and the scooter, not to mention the armpits. He really didn’t need the world to know his latest problem. ‘... I’ve just been mugged by an old lady.’ He waited for the laugh, but none came. ‘Nolan saw everything.’

  ‘Max?’ Jacquie looked at her husband, standing at the back of the tiny mob. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I didn’t see,’ he said, sensing a problem looming. ‘Nole had gone round the corner just as Jem was tripped up by the old dear and then he saw her pinch his phone.’ He read her face. ‘I was only inches behind, I promise.’

  Her face promised questions later, but for now it all seemed to be falling into place. Her hunch had been right – but was it a gang or just one person? ‘Tell me about this old lady, Jem, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Maxwell. I go to Leighford High. Mr Maxwell knows I wouldn’t have run into her on purpose. She stuck her stick out. It got in the axle of my scooter and I went right over the handlebars. I don’t think I even touched her but when I looked, she was lying on the ground.’

  ‘She sat down,’ Nolan offered. ‘She didn’t fall over. She just sat down, like this.’ The boy mimed a walking stick and used it to lower himself to the ground.

  Jacquie put a friendly arm around Jem then recoiled slightly. ‘Come this way, Jem,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt at all? Would you like to see the First Aid officer?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Maxwell,’ Jem said, a little in love. He had always favoured the older woman – more likely to be green, in his experience – and here was one to die for. Mad Max was a bit of a dark horse and no mistake.

  ‘A drink, then. Coke?’

  Jem nodded.

  Jacquie gestured to the desk sergeant who pressed some buttons on the vending machine and handed over the can. ‘Come through, Jem. Nole, can you take Dads home, please? I may be a while here.’

  ‘But what about your poppy seed muffin?’ Nolan asked. He worried about his mother, was she eating properly when he wasn’t there, what if a burglar got her ... you couldn’t be too careful.

  ‘Why don’t you buy me one to take out?’ she suggested. ‘And something nice for supper. I shouldn’t be too long.’ She planted a kiss on the top of his head. ‘See you soon. I might even be home first, if you two get enravelled in your shopping.’ Then, like flicking a switch, she was DI Carpenter-Maxwell again, ushering Jem through the flap in the counter, into the hinterland of the Nick.

  The Maxwell men turned on their heels and made their way outside, pulling scarves tighter as the cold of the February evening bit.

  Nolan was quiet as they walked towards the supermarket, then finally burst out, ‘Now do you see why I don’t tell you everything!’

  Maxwell laughed and pulled the boy closer. ‘Nole,’ he said. ‘Welcome to my world!’

  ‘So,’ Maxwell said when, finally, the evening got back on track. ‘Tell me about the Darby and Joan Gang.’

  ‘No Darbies as far as we can tell,’ Jacquie said. ‘Just a lot of Joans. I think yours this afternoon was unusual in that she was working alone. There is normally one to stick out the stick, wheelie thing or whatever is to hand and one to take the fall. Perhaps she just saw Jem as a perfect victim and had a go all on her own.’

  ‘Are you likely to catch them?’ Maxwell found it hard to take mugging grannies seriously.

  ‘I would like to say yes,’ Jacquie said, ‘but I think it’s doubtful. The public see little old ladies as victims, no matter what they do and in this case there is the built in response which suggests they are just fighting back. But when a nice lad like Jem is turned over, it isn’t so clear cut and anyway, from our point of view, it is a crime and we have to sort it out, stop it. When you add up the things they have stolen, it comes to thousands of pounds. It isn’t a minor thing at all.’

  ‘She was a bit of a piece of work,’ Maxwell said. ‘Somebody’s granny, no doubt, but more Catherine Tate than anything else.’

  ‘I got that impression from Jem,’ Jacquie said. ‘And I do feel sorry for the lad; no phone, no scooter and all saved up for too. No indulgent parents for him ... oh, that reminds me. Do you know a boy called ... oh, hang on, what’s his name?’ She tapped her head, annoyed with herself.

  ‘Tommy Morley.’

  She opened her eyes wide. ‘That’s bonkers! How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just had a rather painful afternoon with him, that’s all, doing my best to be Sylv. He’s a sad little boy, and no mistake.’

  ‘Henry’s sister lives next door.’

  ‘Henry has a sister?’

  ‘Hetty.’

  ‘Not short for Henrietta, I hope.’

  They looked at each other for a few moments, in shared horror, then laughed. ‘I can’t think of anything else.’

  Maxwell shook himself and returned to the problem of Thomas Morley. ‘It’s a problem. He doesn’t want to have any police involvement. Apparently, there was a visit ...’

  ‘Hetty dialled 999.’

  ‘Ah. And that made everything worse. He said the policeman looked around and wrote things down and then nothing else happened. Except that the abuse got worse. Can that be right?’

  ‘I’ve seen the report. They checked all the usual things – cleanliness, appropriate food, clothing, all that. Thomas seemed to have everything any child could want, he had no bruises they could see. The parents seemed very affectionate towards him ... their hands were tied.’

  ‘There are no bruises to see. Just mental scars, caused by relentless bullying. Everything they ‘give’ him,’ Maxwell made ironic speech marks in the air, ‘has to be earned and if he steps out of line, it is taken back. It doesn’t take much. If he eats all of his dinner, he is a fat pig; loss of TV rights. If he leaves anything on his plate, he is an ungrateful little bastard, loss of iPad. If he has a bath, he’s wasting their hard earned money; if he doesn’t, he’s dirty. The list goes on. A sad, sad little boy.’

  ‘Hetty said that she hears him crying, but there was no mention of shouting, anything like that. I suppose they are the worst kind of bullies, the ones with smiles on their faces.’

  ‘Bully. Not bullies. Apparently, it is just the mother. Tommy doesn’t want to be taken away, though, because when he isn’t there, she picks on his dad. When he went away on a school trip, when he came back, his dad was in plaster; she’d broken his arm.’

  ‘I’ll have to report this, Max. The child is in danger.’

  ‘With no bruises?’

  ‘But ... we can get her on domestic abuse. It doesn’t all have to be physical these days.’

  ‘Can you promise she would be taken into custody? Never let near the boy and his father again?’

  Jacquie didn’t answer and that was answer enough.

  ‘Precisely. I think perhaps a visit from a social worker to Tommy, at school, might be a halfway house. I can’t believe that Sylv not being there has had repercussions so soon. She’s only been gone one day and here we are, trying to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘I gave her a ring after Henry popped in about Hetty’s worries and she seems stir crazy already. She sends hers. But she hadn’t been able to pin Tommy down to much. Just general misery, which he couldn’t quantify.’

  ‘Funnily enough, he opened up to me. On the other hand, I suppose women don’t exactly fill him with confidence.’

  Jacquie smiled. ‘This isn’t women, Max. This is Sylv.’

  ‘True. But Sylv to us is Womenkind to Tommy. Still, we’re on the case now. You’ll leave it till tomorrow though, yes?’

  Jacquie sat, half in and half out of her chair. ‘I can see now how they crawled under the wire,’ she said. ‘Comfortable home, nice clothes and surroundings. A woman’s touch. A spot visit won’t come up with anything different and will make things worse, no doubt. I’ll leave it.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Maxwell said. ‘A
gilded cage is still a cage. Sometimes it’s hard to see the bars, except from the inside.’

  Chapter Six

  T

  hat night, things took their usual course along Columbine. At the end of the road, traffic became intermittent, then stopped. Metternich prowled his favourite beat, leaving little sprayed messages here and there to warn off any strangers that it would be unwise to hang around. He had already played out the ritual of hiding just in the shadow of the third stair from the top, so that Maxwell could fall over him. It was as near to an endearment that the Count would come; women and children always excepted, of course. That little chore complete, he could maraud at will and woe betide any creature, big or small, that crossed his path. He had to keep the road safe for his Boy, after all; you couldn’t be too careful.

  Mrs Troubridge heard the cat flap’s clatter and began to get herself ready for bed. Metternich’s movements were better than a clock for her – although they existed in a state of armed neutrality, the great beast had his uses. She warmed up her milk and added a spoonful of honey and a glug of single malt – both for medicinal purposes. She filled her hot water bottle and tucked it under her arm and headed for the stairs. All was quiet from next door on one side and she thanked her lucky stars for the Maxwells, even though that included Mr Maxwell, a loose cannon if ever there was one. From the other side came the distant howl of the Arctic Monkeys, but she had embraced the benefits of old age and turned down her hearing aid to compensate.

  Chez Maxwell, all was peace. Maxwell had bathed his most recent Metternich-induced scratch down his shin with TCP and was sitting up reading the new biography on Rupert Brooke. He was not surprised to find that he was a rather odder person than previous thinking had portrayed him to be; no one with hair that floppy could be quite the thing, in his opinion. Jacquie was already asleep – she had a knack he envied of deciding to go to sleep and simply dropping off. Nolan had inherited that skill and Maxwell never failed to be grateful; he had seen too many colleagues joining the zombie legion of the parents of sleepless children.

  Finally, all Rupert Brooked out, Maxwell put his book down and turned over to go to sleep. He reached out and switched off the light and had soon joined the rest of his family in the Land of Nod.

  Mrs Troubridge drained her cup of milk and snuggled down, her hot water bottle strategically placed under her knees, to give her arthritis a bit of TLC.

  Metternich, out in the frosty dark, pounced on a vole whose luck had finally run out.

  The Arctic Monkeys faded away to silence.

  Columbine slept.

  Arthur Innes didn’t actually like dogs. Come to think of it, he didn’t much like his wife, either. And since Jock was his wife’s dog, he didn’t remember which came first. In a way, they had merged. Sheila didn’t demand to be walked three times a day and she didn’t go a bundle on charcoal biscuits; yet facially there was something of a resemblance. Didn’t they say people start to look like their pets? Sheila had taken to wearing a bow in her hair recently, often of tartan hues. Mercifully her sartorial tastes had not yet run to a little diamante collar, but it was early days.

  Arthur was getting less and less patient with Jock. Not only did he had the most clichéd name possible, as a Skye terrier, he insisted on stopping every half yard to sniff the pavement and cock his leg. Arthur wasn’t sleeping well these nights. Sheila had buggered off to her own room years ago, so it wasn’t her snoring that kept him awake. He’d done the crossword, found the latest Andy McNab less than gripping, so he thought he’d clear his head and take Jock for a late constitutional.

  Leighford was like a graveyard at this time of night, at this season of the year. The nightclubs were all locked and barred and the fairground silent. To be honest, Arthur liked it like this. He didn’t know why he’d moved to a seaside town, really. Something to do with the council job and the pension, he supposed.

  Jock had found a new lease of life tonight. It was the witching hour and Arthur expected to see Sheila flapping skyward against the clouds any minute, shrieking in that banshee way of hers. The dog was straining at the leash, at least as much as a Skye terrier could strain, his little fluffy feet skidding on the concrete. Suddenly, he stopped. His head and ears were erect. He was staring into the window of the car sales showrooms, the Renault outlet. MacBride’s, wasn’t it? Arthur had once considered buying a car from there but Sheila hadn’t liked anything on offer and didn’t care for the snake-oil salesman with the glib patter, so off they went elsewhere.

  There was a dim blue light at the back of the showroom and another one in the top left hand corner of the window. Half a dozen new cars gleamed with their sale prices and today’s deals still visible. But it wasn’t the consumerism that had stopped Jock in his tracks. It was the long dark smear that ran from the top of the showroom window to the bottom; that ran down to the unmistakeable shape of a woman’s body, wedged between a car and the glass. Her cheek and mouth had been compressed, as though she had leaned too close to a mirror and her eyes were wide open in shock.

  Jock cocked his head from side to side. Then he cocked his leg and prepared to move on. That was fine if you were a Skye terrier. But Arthur Innes could not let things lie.

  Suddenly, bells seemed to ring from every quarter. The landline phone on the bedside table sprang to life and Jacquie’s mobile, stashed under her pillow to cause less annoyance if it rang in the night, pealed urgently, even though a little muffled. As the two sprang awake, groping for handsets, so a frantic ringing of the doorbell joined the fun and for a moment or two, Maxwell had a pang of fellow feeling for Quasimodo.

  With her phone clamped to her ear, Jacquie made for the stairs, shrugging one arm into her dressing gown as she went. Maxwell heard her, ‘Guv?’ as she dived through the door.

  He turned his attention to the phone in his hand, still ringing. He pressed the appropriate button, as far as he could identify it through the haze of sleep and spoke. ‘Maxwell.’ The middle of the night didn’t seem appropriate for his usual greeting of ‘War Room.’

  ‘Is that Peter Maxwell?’ a clipped voice asked.

  ‘It is. May I ask who is speaking?’ He could hardly believe it was a cold call at this time of night, but it was hard to second guess them these days – it might well be there were people out there keen to discuss reclaiming mis-sold PPI at gone three o’clock in the morning.

  ‘This is Marilyn Fairbrother. I am the duty social worker and I need an appropriate adult.’

  Maxwell wasn’t completely up on social work and all its wiles, but he was pretty sure he was on firm ground with his reply. ‘Isn’t that you?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t it me what?’

  ‘Are you not an appropriate adult?’

  ‘I am, of course. But this particular case has requested you.’

  Maxwell tamped down his hackles. A case? A case? Presumably, this was a person she was talking about. But nothing would be solved by losing his temper. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

  There was a rustle of paper which only served to annoy him more. For heaven’s sake, how many people did she have in her caseload on this particular shift? Leighford wasn’t perfect, he of all people knew that, but her night duty would be something of a sinecure, he would have thought.

  ‘Umm ... it’s Thomas Ryan Morley.’

  ‘Tommy? What’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t divulge that over the phone, Mr Maxwell. Can you come or not?’

  Maxwell was stuck for an answer. Jacquie was obviously in the middle of some kind of crisis of her own and they had Nolan to consider. Although the Count would be back in by now, he was hardly the babysitter of choice. And Mrs Troubridge would be well away, snoring to beat the band and she couldn’t be disturbed at this hour. ‘I’m afraid it may be a bit difficult. My wife has just had a call and ...’

  ‘Would that be Detective Inspector Carpenter-Maxwell?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘I see. I understand there is a case which will involve a large
number of staff currently off duty. This does make it ... excuse me.’ Mrs, Miss or Ms Fairbrother was clearly talking to someone over her shoulder. ‘We can arrange for someone to come and sit with your son, Mr Maxwell. It really is very important that you come to the police station, if you possibly can.’

  ‘I don’t understand why ...’

  The social worker put her mouth much nearer to the phone and dropped her voice. ‘Tommy really does need you, Mr Maxwell,’ she hissed. ‘You see, we think he has killed his mother.’

  Maxwell was both gobsmacked and not at all surprised. It was a crime waiting to happen; he just hadn’t expected it so soon. Assured by the woman that the sitter was on her way – and was, not unusually in Leighford one of his very Own from way back – he rang off and started to dress. Slowly, he became aware of voices from the floor below and started down to meet the next crisis which was clearly blowing up. He met Jacquie on the stairs.

  ‘I’ve got to go out, Max,’ she said, looking up into his face and then letting her eyes travel down, taking in his fully clothed state. ‘Why are you dressed?’

  ‘I’ve got to go out too,’ he said.

  ‘But ...’ she gestured to Nolan’s room.

  ‘Someone’s on their way. A duty social work assistant – I’m needed as an appropriate adult.’ He held up his hand to circumvent her questions. ‘I expect that’s where you’re going too, is it? The Nick? Tommy Morley’s in there, accused of murdering his mother.’

  ‘What?’ Her eyes popped. ‘No, I’m going to look at a body, just found in town.’

  He frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit ...?’ Overkill didn’t seem the right word, in the circumstances.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘It looked like a jumper at first, but then the ambulance guys noticed her nails were all torn and she seemed to have a lot of damage to her clothes – rips and so on – that suggested she had struggled with someone before she died. It looks like murder.’

  ‘Even so ... the call from Henry. The heavies at the door. Wouldn’t a preliminary report and a meeting tomorrow be more appropriate?’ Appropriate seemed to be tonight’s word.