by M. J. Trow
‘If I must,’ Maxwell answered. He remembered him from his Komodo Dragon days; CGI dinosaurs just didn’t really do it for him.
‘Well, we’ve got them all recorded. It’s handy when there’s nothing else on. The other day, we watched that one, can't remember the series, but it was the one where these eagle babies are in the nest and if there isn’t enough food, the biggest one pushes the others out when the parents aren’t watching. And the adults don’t seem to notice. Well, that’s us, isn’t it, Mr Maxwell? We’re like those eagle babies. We’re all pushing each other out of the nest and no one on the outside seems to be noticing anything. As far as the world is concerned, Leighford High School is just going to be called Leighford Academy and that’s the only change. But it isn’t the only change. She’s broken our school, Mr Maxwell. It isn’t right.’
He handed her another wodge of tissues. It seemed about the only gesture left right now. She blew her nose and got her story back on track.
‘So, we all applied. I thought I had done well. I did all the stuff they say to do on the internet. Transferable skills, value added. All that. And ...’ her face screwed up and she readied the tissues, but was all right in the end. ‘And, do you know what she said, Mr Maxwell?’
He shook his head, dutifully.
‘She said ... she said that I hadn’t done it myself. That someone else had written it for me and so she was going to let me go. She didn’t give me a chance to speak, Mr Maxwell. And I did do it myself. I did.’
Maxwell held out an arm and she burrowed beneath it, the tears back with a vengeance. She didn’t know how many hundreds had tucked under that arm, back in the days when it was allowed. She only knew she felt better there. He patted her and leaned his cheek against the top of her head. It could have been Nolan, Jacquie, even, heaven forfend, Mrs Troubridge. His arm had no favourites and he let the girl sob herself quiet. But his time wasn’t being wasted. He was using it well, to plot the downfall of Fiona Braymarr.
Jacquie never minded a change of scene and the forensics lab would do as well as anywhere else. She always got a warm welcome from Angus, who had carried a torch for her for years. He was married now, with a baby on the way but that didn’t matter; dreams don’t die easily and Jacquie Carpenter (he didn’t really want to face the Maxwell part) had been in his too long to disappear overnight. His wife had tidied him up, to Jacquie’s delight; he no longer had that aura of recent joints and not-so-recent underpant change and so she was grateful to the unnamed girl smiling out of the photo blutacked to his computer screen.
‘So, Angus,’ she said, pulling over a chair and cosying up beside him at his desk. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘We’ve had a bit of fun with this, DI Carpenter ...’ he let the pause go on just a tad too long ‘... Maxwell,’ he said. ‘At first, to be honest, I thought that idiot on the sound console – calls himself an expert, but, I dunno ... an NVQ in music, it’s not enough, is it?’
Jacquie shook her head. It was as good as anything else, as far as she could tell, but who knew?
‘He sent a report through, it was so convoluted I had to have him in to explain it. So he did and now I can explain it to you.’ Angus didn’t tell her that he would no more allow the sound expert near her than fly, what with his shiny hair and good teeth; no way in hell was he getting up close and personal with Jacquie Carpenter ... Maxwell, not while Angus had seniority, at any rate.
Jacquie knew better than to ask to go to the horse’s mouth, so kept quiet. ‘I had a word with Henry Hall,’ she said, to change the subject from the shortcomings of the sound expert. ‘He would appreciate it being kept simple, so if you extract what he calls the wobbly lines I think he is more likely to read it.’
‘Will do.’ Anything for DI Jacquie Carpenter ... Maxwell! Angus hutched himself nearer and bent over his keyboard. ‘So, what we have here ...’ he pointed to the top row of wobbly lines, ‘... is the message from the unknown person. By the way, we couldn’t get any kind of handle on that phone. I think he must have ditched it.’
‘I thought he would have,’ she said. ‘You can get a phone for a fiver, after all. Why would you hang on to it after it had done the job?’
‘Exactly,’ he said. He personally got the heebie jeebies when he was near any phone which wasn’t the very latest on the market, but he could see how some people could manage with a phone that cost a fiver. He would imagine that the old git that DI Carpenter ... Maxwell was married to probably had one of those old ones with a separate car battery and a stand on his shoulder for the brick-like handset.
Jacquie could read this man like a book. ‘A Blackberry,’ she said, a propos of apparently nothing. ‘My husband has a Blackberry.’
Angus blushed and went back to his keys. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I can remove the voice element,’ he pressed a key and the wobbly lines changed shape, ‘and what remains is the background noise. We can remove elements of that as well, but I’ll leave that for now. I’ll just minimise that into the corner of the screen and we’ll go to the next call. Oh, I’m assuming you don’t want the last one, the one from that Morley guy, done? You’ve got him for the wife, haven’t you?’
‘Rumours of his arrest are a little premature,’ Jacquie said, ‘but we’re making progress with him, I suppose you could say. He’s unwell at the moment, under the care of a doctor.’
‘Oh.’ Angus tossed his head, dismissively. ‘Playing the bonkers card, is he? Good plan. Anyway, here we are on the call from MacBride. Again, we’ll remove the voice ...’ he touched a key, ‘... resize the window ...’ he was almost speaking to himself, ‘... and – voila!’ He leaned back and did a big reveal, hand extended, his face transformed by a grin. ‘What do we have?’
Jacquie could have said ‘wobbly lines’ but knew that was not the right thing. She peered at the screen and then sat up, blinking. ‘Angus? Are they the same?’
He was as proud as if she had produced a rabbit out of a hat. ‘Top marks!’ he said. ‘They are the same. Well, there are a few small discrepancies, but nothing to worry you, not really. The two calls, basically, came from the same place.’
‘Well, blow me down!’ Jacquie looked at the screens, frozen in mid-wobble. ‘The Ellisdon.’
‘Wow! That’s good. We couldn’t tell where it was. We were working on that ...’
‘No, no,’ Jacquie laughed. ‘I would love to take the credit, but I can't. We know that MacBride phoned from there. It’s in his statement.’
‘You know that for a fact, do you?’ Angus asked, archly.
‘Well ... I assume it’s been checked, yes. I will tell you that he fudged the facts a bit, but I think he did stay there, yes. We just need to know who with.’
‘Ooooh,’ Angus smelt a scandal, if it was possible for there to be a worst scandal than a man’s wife being thrown off a balcony at his place of business. ‘Do tell.’
‘It’s complicated, Angus,’ she said. ‘I’m sure like the rest of the county you know all about Geoff MacBride and his wandering ... his wandering. So, we assume he was up to his old tricks this time. It’s only a matter of time before we find out exactly what went on, where and with whom.’
‘Any doubts as to his proclivities?’ Angus said, sitting back, arms folded.
Jacquie opened her eyes wide. ‘Geoff MacBride? Proclivities? Angus, he almost wears a badge – “Heterosexual male, not fussy. Stroke here”. I don’t think he’s ever met the owner of two X chromosomes he didn’t at least take a quick punt at.’
‘Well, I only ask because we did analyse the voices in the background, and we don’t think there are any women there.’
‘Perhaps he likes the silent type. Perhaps he doesn’t meet her in the bar ...’
‘Hmm. Okay.’ Angus was disappointed. He wanted to be the man to out Geoff MacBride.
‘Is that it? It’s great to tie down the location of that first call, Angus, but I must ...’
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’ He tapped
a few more keys and two more windows appeared, one above the other, full of the usual wobblies. ‘What do you think of that?’
She looked and looked. As far as she could see, it was a couple of matching patterns again, but whether they were the same patterns was impossible for her to tell. ‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘Two more lots the same.’ She looked again. ‘Sameish.’
‘Precisely!’ Angus tapped the desk in a mad mini-drumroll. ‘It isn’t exactly the same because the words are different. But ...’ he looked around at her, wanting to see her expression, ‘it’s the same voice.’
‘The same as what?’ She was still none the wiser.
‘Look at the file name,’ he said, pointing.
‘One says “anonMcBtp”,’ she said. ‘Oh, right, anonymous call, MacBride tape. And the other ...’ she looked at him. ‘Husband?’
‘Right.’ Again, a drumroll, followed by a brief moment of air guitar. ‘Which means ...?’
‘Angus,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm and making him go quite lightheaded. ‘Angus, what does it mean? Just the facts.’
He sighed. Not the reaction he had been hoping for at all. ‘It means,’ he said, ‘it means that the man who made the anonymous call was not only calling from the Ellisdon – if that turns out to be accurate – but he was still in the bar when the husband rang. If they weren’t actually together, he was certainly in earshot. As you can see,’ and he pointed again to the screen.
‘Is that in the report?’ Jacquie asked, bending down to pick up her bag, her keys already in her hand.
‘No wobbly lines.’
‘Maybe just a few. I can print out a version without.’
‘Don’t worry. Henry Hall is just going to have to manage. Angus, you and your sound expert are my favourite men. I can't believe you’ve found all this from those recordings. You’re geniuses, both of you!’ And she grabbed up the report and was gone.
Angus sat back. He was a genius, fair enough. But the other guy? NVQ Music! He didn’t think so.
Chapter Thirteen
T
homas Morley felt better, sitting up in the bed in the small sick bay at Leighford Nick. There was something about being in bed in his clothes – some of his clothes, anyway; he had taken off his trousers, but hung onto everything else – which took him back to childhood, when his mum had tucked him up when he came back from school with tummy ache or a bloody nose. He got both, often together, most weeks. He felt ... cared for, that was it. He knew, deep down, that everyone was just going through the motions. That secretary or whatever she was who had stayed with him; the doctor who had given him a very brief once-over; that nice DI, who was married to Mr Maxwell up at the school – none of them really cared, but he had learned over the last fourteen years or so to take caring where he found it. He snuggled down, feeling rather sorry for himself. He wasn’t going to cry, but he felt like letting the tears go. He couldn’t really see how he had ended up like this. His job was probably gone. Did you get an insurance pay-out when your wife was murdered, even if you didn’t do it? If you didn’t, then he would lose the house. He would lose Tommy. He would lose ... everything. He hadn’t meant to cry. But the tears were running down his cheeks, just the same.
Afternoon Thingee, aka Thingee Two tapped on Maxwell’s door. Unlike her morning equivalent, she had made the director’s cut and lived to lose calls when forwarding another day.
‘Yes?’ Maxwell had a free afternoon, teaching-wise, on Thursdays, ostensibly to catch up on paperwork and generally regroup, but it hadn’t been going very well so far. Morning Thingee had just been the shape of things to come. He had had so many of his Own coming to see him, full of news of fresh disasters, that he hardly knew how to begin. The rumour mill was working overtime and so far he had heard that the Music Department had been axed, that Art would no longer be on the syllabus, that there was going to be whole body search of each student before they were allowed onto the premises each morning and any girl in a short skirt – or a boy, for that matter; gender issues were very high on Fiona Braymarr’s hit list – would not only be turned away but would not be allowed to return and would have all currently held exam certificates revoked. Some of the rumours were so bizarre that Maxwell simply dismissed them with a wave of his hand. But, on the other hand, anyone who could sack Sylvia Matthews was probably capable of anything.
Thingee popped her head around the door.
‘Thingee, old thing, come in.’ Maxwell’s heart fell. Not another sackee, surely?
‘Mr Maxwell, can I have a word?’
‘Of course. Can I just ask, though – is there a queue of any kind out there?’
Thingee looked over her shoulder. She had been at Leighford for long enough now to recognise most of the student body and looked back in to report. ‘Just Elena,’ she said. ‘Year Eleven, I think.’
‘Oh, that’s not a queue. That’s just Elena trying to bunk off a lesson of some description. She’s been a bit bereft since Nursie ... I mean, Mrs Matthews left. Come on in, Thingee and tell me your woes.’
Thingee did come in and sat down, but the woes weren’t hers. ‘Mr Maxwell, this will sound a bit funny, probably, but this isn’t anything to do with school.’
Maxwell closed his eyes and tipped his face to the ceiling as though to a healing sun. ‘Thank you, God,’ he said, then, looking at the girl, ‘you don’t know how pleased I am to hear you say that. I’m sure you can imagine what it’s been like this week. Everyone ... well, I don’t need to draw you a picture. How can I help you?’
She set her lips in a tight line, clamped her hands between her knees and rocked tensely. ‘I don’t know how to begin. You’ll be really annoyed, Mr Maxwell.’
‘Perhaps not. Try me.’
She drew in a deep breath and relaxed, leaning back and clasping her hands in her lap. He was impressed. She was clearly a people watcher to be able to adapt her posture like that. Either that, or a fan of Lie To Me. Either way, it worked, because she started in on her story without any more shilly-shally. ‘My brother is in a bit of trouble, Mr Maxwell. We’ve been so worried and my mum suggested I have a word with you. Because of ... well, because and also because of you being married to a policeman. A policewoman, sorry. And my brother really likes her. And my nephew, he really likes you and ...’
‘Hold on, Thingee. Who are these people?’ Maxwell had a good idea already, but wanted confirmation.
‘Oh, sorry, Mr Maxwell. I forgot you don’t know my name. I’m Sam. Samantha ...’
‘Morley.’ Maxwell could have kicked himself. ‘Of course I know your name. But Thingee is easier, don’t you think?’
She smiled. ‘We’ve never been really sure,’ she said.
‘Not always a hundred percent up to date,’ he smiled. He had good reason to remember her predecessor, Charlotte, now happily recepping at a nail bar, and all the better for it. ‘I usually have the gist, though. Now, Sam ...’
The girl leaned forward. ‘Thingee, please,’ she said. ‘I’ll feel funny, otherwise.’
‘Now, Thingee, then. Your brother is Thomas Morley and your nephew is Tommy.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure you could have had some time off ... actually, belay that. Of course you couldn’t have had time off. What was I thinking? But you haven’t said. Is your mum looking after Tommy?’
‘No,’ Thingee Two said. ‘She feels bad about that, but Louise ... my sister-in-law, you know ... well, she made things so difficult between Mum and Thomas that we don’t really know Tommy very well. It’s a shame, because Mum is a lovely gran. My sister – she’s between me and Thomas – she’s got two lovely little girls and Mum has them when she’s at work. But she’s only seen Thomas a handful of times, so ...’ she shrugged.
‘He’s with a lovely couple, or so I understand,’ Maxwell told her. He didn’t need to tell her where he had plucked that nugget of information. ‘Older. Quiet. I think that’s what he needs, probably.’
‘No shouting. Yes, I
do see that. But the reason I’m here, Mr Maxwell, is for Thomas. He had a bit of a turn at the Ni ... sorry, police station, this morning. Your wife was with him. She was very kind.’
‘Of course she was.’ He knew she couldn’t be otherwise.
‘But he’s feeling very down. They rang me from the ...’
‘Call it the Nick, Thingee,’ Maxwell urged. ‘I always do.’
‘Well, they rang me to say he had had this turn and then they rang me again to say he was very low, crying and that. They’ve got my number because, well, if anything had ever happened in the street or at work or anything to Thomas, it would have been a fat lot of good ringing Louise, wouldn’t it?’
‘Really?’ Maxwell did his best to look dumb.
Thingee gave him a penetrating look. As she had heard it, his wife told him everything and then he went and solved the crime. That was how it had always been told, from one generation of Old Leighford Highena to the next. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said, ‘I know you know all about Louise. Or, at least, enough about her to know she wasn’t exactly nice to Thomas. Or Tommy. But it wasn’t just that.’
‘She kept herself busy, I gather,’ he said, diplomatically.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Thingee was grateful for the euphemism. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining Louise’s extracurricular activities.
‘So Thomas did know about her, then?’ This might clear up something it would probably be hard to get out of the man himself.
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I think he knew she had ... outside interests, as you might say. I’m not sure he knew the extent. I mean, one day, I was driving past with my boyfriend and I saw a man coming out of her house and another one literally going in on his heels. She didn’t really hide it.’
‘Interesting. Did you notice anything about them? Did you know them?’
‘One did look familiar at the time. I said as much to Darren ... that’s my boyfriend, Darren. Anyway, it was hours after and I suddenly remembered. It was that touchy-feely bloke, the one who comes to all the meetings. Anyway, him.’
