by M. J. Trow
‘Can’t be too careful,’ the driver said. ‘I had a bloke in here the other day ...’
But before he could complete his fascinating tale, Maxwell had found a fiver, which he passed across, waving away the reluctant offer of change. The central locking clicked off again and Maxwell clambered out. Whoever thought that an ordinary saloon car was a good idea for a taxi, he wondered. Emerging in a half crouch with one leg tangled in the front seat belt did nothing for anyone’s gravitas.
Straightening up, he made for the gate and got there with another taxi-delivered man, small and apologetic-looking. It was one of those awkward social moments never covered in the etiquette manuals. When approaching a police station and another person is on the same errand, how does a person avoid looking as though one of the two is escorting or chasing the other? Walking side by side is obviously out. Walking in line looks too much like a very short chain gang. The journey from the kerb to the door is too short to begin an animated conversation – what is the answer?
In this case, the problem resolved itself just inside the foyer. The desk sergeant looked up and two expressions crossed his face in quick succession. The first one said, as clearly as if he had spoken, ‘Oh, bugger. It’s Maxwell here to bend his missus’ ear about something which will mean work for us all, I expect.’ The other was even clearer and to make things even simpler for the casual bystander, was accompanied by speech. ‘Mr Morley, I presume. Stay where you are, please. Lockdown.’ And he pressed a button on the desk. This time, the click was clearly not Maxwell’s hip – unless incipient arthritis was accompanied these days by a siren and flashing blue lights.
That evening, with Nolan in bed and Metternich limbering up for a night’s voling by sleeping along Jacquie’s outstretched legs, Maxwell was nonetheless feeling a little dystopian. His world had been turned upside down more than once, but there was something about this latest crisis which felt more permanent somehow, as though a switch had been flicked on which could not be switched off. He nursed his Southern Comfort and glowered at the fire.
Jacquie looked up from her book. ‘I refuse to offer you a penny for your thoughts,’ she said. ‘Why pay good money for something I know already?’
He looked at her without turning his head. ‘Do you?’
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a rubbish day, one way and another. It hasn’t been great anywhere, as far as I can tell. Two murders. Another granny mugging, except that now I know who is mugging who things are a little simpler. One slimy git at home in what currently seems to be the clear. Another sudden widower in the nick for further questioning.’
As if in answer, Maxwell pointed the remote at the TV and brought up the text. As a technological achievement, it wasn’t first flight, but he was still proud of it. Choosing ‘local news’ he pointed wordlessly to the screen.
‘Local Man Held,’ the headline said. ‘A man is being questioned this evening by police in connection with the death by stabbing of mother of one Louise Morley, 37, in her home last night. Mrs Morley was discovered by her son, 14, who cannot be named for legal reasons. Her husband, Thomas Morley, 33, was unavailable for comment. A man, 33, is currently helping police with their enquiries.’
He flicked the TV off again and waited.
‘I wish they wouldn’t do that,’ Jacquie said, ‘that “man thirty-three” business. I know it looks as though they are keeping the identity secret, but they might just as well stick a badge on him.’
‘I can't believe he’s thirty-three,’ Maxwell said. ‘He looks fifty if he’s a day.’
‘Being married to Louise Morley will do that to a person, I should imagine.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Can we skip all the usual things about strictly between you and me, all that kind of stuff?’
‘Consider it skup.’ He smiled back at her. They had come a long way since the Red House, that was for sure, since that day when one of Maxwell’s Own had died and Jacquie Carpenter was a very new and rather scared DC.
‘We haven’t arrested him, of course, but we are questioning him as someone who may be a suspect in the death of his wife. Speaking for myself, I don’t think he did it, but that only leaves Tommy in the frame.’
‘And he definitely didn’t do it.’
‘No.’ She stroked the cat’s flank absently and he flexed a warning claw. ‘He came in, not to give himself up, as that idiot on the desk seemed to think ...’
‘That siren really gave me a start,’ Maxwell observed. ‘Thank heavens I had my brown trousers on.’
‘I know,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s his latest toy. We’re going to have to relocate the button – I think it’s because it’s near his hand. Anyway, Thomas Morley came in because he was worried about Tommy. Who isn’t his, by the way, although he is on the birth certificate.’
‘Really?’ Maxwell’s interest was piqued. ‘Do we know who the actual father is?’
‘No. And according to Thomas, we probably never will, now. She threw a lot of her past behaviour in his face over the years, but never that. No names at all, in fact. It was more a case of ... well, dimensions. Stamina. That kind of thing. She was a horrible woman, there’s no doubt of that. It’s a wonder she lived this long.’
‘I expect there are still a couple of florist shops outside the house,’ Maxwell remarked.
‘And candles, or so I believe,’ Jacquie said. ‘She kept all her nastiness for the family. Her neighbours have all made the usual noises.’
‘Except Hetty.’
Jacquie chuckled. ‘I’d forgotten Hetty. Yes, except her.’
‘Seriously, has either you or Henry had a proper sit down with Hetty ...’ Maxwell looked at Jacquie wide-eyed. ‘I can’t get away from the fact that her name is Henrietta.’
‘I don’t know that it is. But what else could it be?’
‘Étienne?’ Too French. Too male.
‘Hepzibah?’ Too ...
‘That would be Heppy, though, wouldn’t it? Herriot?’
Jacquie guffawed and Metternich took off in a rake of claws, all high dudgeon. In fact, he had overslept and should have been away hours ago. His memory for poetry was far below that of Nolan, but somewhere in his furry brain, Sir Walter Scott urged him on: Breathes there a cat with vole so dead ...
‘Are you all right, heart?’ Maxwell said as Jacquie massaged her shin. ‘Can I bring you something? Iodine? Savlon? TCP? All of the above?’
‘What is it with that animal?’ she said, settling back against the cushions with a wince. ‘One minute he’s spark out, the next he’s behaving like some kind of homicidal maniac.’
‘He’s a cat,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘All mouse and trousers.’
‘Seriously, though,’ Jacquie said, ‘you are quite right. I will have a word with Hetty. She might have seen someone at the house.’
‘And you can find out what her name is at the same time, can't you?’
‘It won't be priority, but,’ and she spluttered another laugh, ‘it would be nice to know.’
Without being asked, Maxwell got up and left the room, coming back with his glass replenished and a gin and tonic for his wife. After a good mauling by Metternich, sometimes only alcohol would do.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, puckering up for a kiss. ‘Just what a clawed person needs.’ Then, she was straight back into the conversation. ‘Of course, the unlovely Mr MacBride was let go. Now him, I’m not so sure about.’
‘Didn’t you say he had an alibi?’
‘He has a story, yes. I wouldn’t call it an alibi as such. He says he had taken a new car out for a spin, stopped at the Ellisdon for a drink, got talking with some reps and went over the limit, so stayed over. He doesn’t appear to have rung his wife to tell her, he had a zero alcohol level when we brought him in ...’ she blew out her cheeks, ‘I really don’t know. Can we arrest him for being a slimy, lying git?’
‘Perhaps if all lying, slimy gits were rounded up, the world would be a better place. A little subjective, though; one woman’s s
limy git is another’s Prince Charming.’
Jacquie watched the bubbles in her drink for a while, before nodding. ‘Yes,’ she said, looking up with a smile. ‘You may be right.’
‘I’m not sure I have ever been thought of as a slimy git. Mad as a snake, perhaps, but snakes aren’t really slimy.’
‘Mad as a newt?’ she ventured. ‘Newts are slimy. I can vouch for that.’ Over the Christmas holidays, Nolan had been proud custodian of the Class Newt, the Franz von Werra of the amphibian world; the wretched creature could escape from the tank in the time it took to throw in some nourishment.
Maxwell was serious again. It wasn’t often that three Leighford Highenas became motherless in one evening. ‘You’ve checked his story?’
‘As best we can. It won't hold up, but we need to get more evidence on him before we can test it, really. He was seen at the Ellisdon, and was indeed talking to some reps. We’ve managed to contact three of the four, but the fourth wasn’t staying there and isn’t known to the others. Also, MacBride was on tonic, ice and a slice. The blokes thought it was gin, but it wasn’t, according to the barman. Then he just drops off the radar. He left the bar, but didn’t get a room. So, he either went somewhere else he isn’t prepared to tell us about, or ...’
‘Or, what? He went off to kill his wife.’
‘Well ... yes, I suppose that is an option. But forensics is almost useless. His DNA and fingerprints will obviously be all over the crime scene, because he works there. Ditto his wife. Although he did have the lack of taste to tell me she didn’t understand him ...’
Maxwell blinked. ‘He actually said those words?’
‘Yes. He didn’t use them later to Rick Shopley, which is either interesting or typical, depending on how you look at it. However, whether or not she understood him, there was bound to be his DNA etcetera on her body. It would be strange if there wasn’t. But the one odd thing was ... her fingernails had been cleaned.’
Maxwell perked up. ‘That must mean another person involved, then, surely? If she had scratched him, he could always have said it was done earlier.’
‘Yes. Or he could have cleaned them out precisely so we thought it was another person.’
‘Hmm.’ He subsided again. ‘Is Geoff MacBride that clever, though? He’s cunning, shrewd, ambitious, all that I know, but clever? As in, intelligent enough to plan a red herring like that.’
‘Do you watch CSI?’
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’
‘Exactly. Although I don’t expect Geoff MacBride has much time for TV, what with all his committees ...’
‘... and women,’ Maxwell added.
‘Really? I assumed as much, but ... I have to ask, Max. Is that a fact or just some staffroom scuttlebutt?’
‘The latter,’ he admitted. ‘Make the most of it. I don’t think there will be much more of it. Mrs Braymarr isn’t a fan of gossip. I understand she is planning to fit us all with scolds’ bridles, only removing them as we enter a class. But, yes, back in the day, there was a lot of talk of our esteemed Head of Governors and his undoubted inability to keep it in his trousers.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
Maxwell laughed. ‘Me? Details about who is doing what to whom?’
‘You can remember it if it happened in eighteen something,’ she pointed out.
‘True. But, I doubt I will be bumping into Prinnie and Mrs Fitzherbert next time I am in Tesco. Hmm, let me think ... I do believe there was a bit of chat about MacBride and, ooh, you know, thing ... that supply teacher we had when ... oh, don’t tell me.’ He closed his eyes and sketched what seemed to be rough dimensions on the air. His eyes flew open. ‘Sandra! No, sorry, heart, we’ll have to agree that I never remember the details. But isn’t that what you police people are for? Digging? Delving? Getting all the dirt?’
She would have been disappointed had he known – she would have immediately started a search for her real husband, as opposed to the clone who knew all the dirt and could dish it like a pro. ‘That’s all right,’ she smiled. ‘Just having some gossip gives us a start. No one current though, as far as you know?’
Maxwell shrugged. It covered a multitude of sins.
‘Well,’ she drained her glass, ‘bed for me, I think. Come and cuddle up and tell me all about Fiona Braymarr. I think such stories are best told in the dark.’
‘Too scary,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say she and I have agreed to agree.’
She spun round. That was unexpected. ‘What?’
‘I hate her; she hates me. So we have that in common. Other than that, I can't get a handle on her at all. Apparently, when you Google her, which apparently isn’t as painful as it sounds, she comes up empty. She isn’t a Googlewhack as such ...’
Jacquie shook her head. ‘How many times have I told Nolan not to use words he doesn’t understand? It applies to you as well.’
‘I know what that means,’ Maxwell said, hurt. ‘It doesn’t really apply to people, but it is two words which only get one hit when you Google them. I was ... stretching the envelope.’
‘Stop it!’ She hit out at him with the newspaper, folded ready for the crossword in bed. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘Anyhoo, apparently, the only entries on anyone with that name are just two about someone called Fiona Braymarr who was run over aged six in Tasmania in 1951.’
‘That’s insane,’ Jacquie said. ‘Everyone’s got more than that on Google.’
‘I haven’t,’ he said, smugly.
She looked at him, disbelievingly. ‘Max, have you no idea? Google you and it goes for pages. Most of it good ... at least no trolls.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, dubiously. ‘The only place for trolls is under the rickety-rackety bridge, waiting for the three billy goats gruff.’
She let that one go. She was too young for Uncle Mack but had fond memories of Ed ‘Stewpot’ Stewart; she had even written in to have a record played for her birthday, but it wasn’t picked – perhaps Dexy’s Midnight Runners had been a step too far for Ed.
‘Well, at any rate, she isn’t on Google.’
‘But she should be, Max. She’s supposed to be some sort of superhead, isn’t she? Goes around the country making good schools into a seething bed of intrigue and despair?’
He put an arm round her and hugged her close. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Cut straight to the chase.’ He reached out with his other hand and switched out the light. ‘Bed for you – you’ve got grieving husbands to grill tomorrow.’
But his face was thoughtful as he closed the door and headed for the stairs.
Chapter Nine
M
axwell was still thoughtful as he pedalled through the gates of Leighford High School that morning. He barely registered the fact that Mavis, rather than standing like Achilles in the trench as was her wont, was actually on the pavement, in a small huddle with some assorted adults, some of whom he recognised vaguely as he whizzed past, his dopplering ‘Morning, Mavis,’ lost on their unhearing ears. BB (Before Braymarr) he could have taken his problem to the IT department, albeit reluctantly. He had become almost used to their expressions when he entered their sanctum; a mixture of exasperation and exaggerated patience, the kind of look always seen on the carers’ faces in newspaper photos of ‘the oldest resident’s birthday’. But those days were gone. The IT department was no more. When the computers broke down in future, Mrs Braymarr had decreed, the member of staff in question would have to call the academy helpline, where a dedicated IT professional would be able to talk them through any fixes necessary. Any member of staff experiencing more than three breakdowns in a term – on reading the memo, Maxwell had chosen to believe she meant computer breakdowns, but the other kind was no doubt implied as well – would have the cost of repair removed from their next pay. Maxwell didn’t worry unduly. He never used his computer anyway, so it was unlikely to break down.
So, what to do? Fiona Braymarr’s absence from the Google search
es had struck him as possibly odd, but when Jacquie was also struck by it, he began to see it for what it was; very strange indeed. So strange, that it must be deliberate. But once he had used the term ‘Google’, Maxwell had used up all the computer knowledge at his disposal. Asking a kid was one other way to enlightenment, but he had his dinosaur reputation to uphold, so, no.
He was deep in thought as he crossed the foyer and was suddenly stopped in his tracks when he cannoned into something wiry, angry and smelling like an ashtray.
‘Oy!’ it said.
He focussed his eyes and saw, to his amazement, Mrs B. Seeing her at Leighford High School in the morning was like seeing the sky darkened by a flock of passenger pigeon or the bird table – always vacant, perhaps unsurprisingly, Chez Maxwell – inundated by dozens of Zitting Cistacolae. Unlikely, unexpected but, especially with the thoughts going through his head, very welcome.
‘Mrs B! What are you doing here?’ He knew he was not at risk of being shot, even with a forefinger, by Mrs B. The only TV she watched was the soaps and the gadget programmes. Which was why he was so glad to see her. He leaned nearer. ‘Tell me later,’ he hissed. ‘I need your help on a technical matter.’
She looked at him, all ears. ‘I’m here to see that Braymarr woman,’ she said. ‘We all got a memo yesterday, said we has to come and do in the mornings before six and evenings after seven.’
‘Which?’
‘Both! We’re not having that! We’ve got homes to go to, lives to lead. She can't change our working hours just like that. I’ve come to represent the entire hygiene staff to tell her where to stuff it.’
If there was just one place Maxwell wanted to be that day, it was to be masquerading as a fly on the wall in that meeting. But he had something more urgent for her attention and it wasn’t just selfish. She might learn something to her advantage. ‘Can you just give me half an hour or so? I’m assuming you don’t have an appointment.’
