by M. J. Trow
Maxwell stood, unusually undecided, watching the weather as it gathered itself together to deliver something special. He knew there were warnings out all along the coast, of high winds which might cause structural damage; of high seas and rivers which could result in flash floods. Fortunately, Columbine was at risk of neither, tucked as it was on a slope, in the lee of a hill and reassuringly high enough above sea level. But the weekend was going to be a challenge to many, that was clear. He suddenly decided and turned to leave, to bend his unwilling feet to join the meeting below him in the staff room. The school had that feel about it; not empty, and yet missing the scurrying feet, like the rats in the wainscoting of an old house. He took one step and the phone rang. It was probably nothing. He took another step. But wasn’t today Nolan’s first go at judo? Visions of A&E swam in his head and he snatched up the receiver.
‘Maxwell.’
‘Mr M.’ Mrs B sounded more flustered than was her wont. ‘I thought I’d miss you. Ain’t you at the meeting? It’s about now, ain’t it? She’ll have you for that; she’s a cow, that one.’
‘It is. You’re in luck. No, I’m not. Indeed it is; I was just leaving to go there. She won't if I have anything to do with it and finally, yes. She is.’ Maxwell missed Mrs B – having a conversation with her was a good workout for his brain; if he could keep up, he knew that senility was not upon him just yet. ‘How can I help you?’
‘It’s my sister’s grandson, our Jacob.’
‘Need help with the punctuation, does he?’ Maxwell didn’t mean to sound flippant, but now he had decided to attend the meeting, he didn’t want to miss a minute.
‘No.’ Mrs B sounded unusually terse. ‘He’s been questioned by the police.’
‘Pardon?’ Maxwell was suddenly all attention. ‘Whatever for?’ His first thoughts were that the lad had been hacking into somewhere. His second thoughts were that he hoped it was nothing military. Or his bank.
‘I just had a call from his missus. It wasn’t Mrs M’s lot, she said. Well, she didn’t say that exactly, she said ...’
‘Yes, I get the idea. So, what were they?’
‘I couldn’t quite tell from what she was saying. She’s hysterical. She opened the door to them and they just came in and took him. They had one of them banger things, for knocking down the door.’
Maxwell had always secretly longed for one of those, but could see that being the wrong side of a door being given the full treatment would not be much fun.
‘They didn’t use it,’ she went on, ‘because our Ellie opened the door, but they would’ve.’
‘But, what did they want?’ Surely the wife, no matter how shocked, would have an idea as to that?
‘She didn’t get the details. But she said she heard them say to him, as they took him out, that it was in connection with his searches and subsequent blog on the subject of Fiona Braymarr.’
‘What?’ It made no sense. Who was this woman? She was a dire people manager, that was clear. But being rather brusque and not too hot at HR didn’t usually make a person someone of interest to ... whom? Special Branch? MI5? The Stasi? KGB? Maxwell’s imagination ran riot. ‘Mrs B. Don’t worry. I’ll ring Mrs Maxwell and see if she can find out what’s going on.’
‘I’ve already done that, Mr M, no offence,’ Mrs B said. ‘I thought it was best to go to the horse’s mouth. But she’s out.’
‘I’ll track her down,’ he promised. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at my sister’s place. Everybody’s here. I’ll text you the number, shall I?’
‘Ooh, if you like, Mrs B. I’m sure I’ll be able to find it somewhere.’
‘Don’t come that with me, Mr M, if you don’t mind the cheek. I know you can understand texts.’
‘Got me, Mrs B,’ he chuckled. ‘Text me the number, then, and I’ll let you know how I get on.’
‘Don’t forget.’ The woman wouldn’t let his previous oversight be forgotten in a hurry, he knew that.
‘I won't. I’ll get on it now. Sooner I’m gone, sooner I’m back.’
‘Right oh. I’ll leave it to you, then.’ Maxwell heard raised voices in the background. He was sure he heard someone say ‘old git’ and other phrases he wasn’t so sure about. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Nothing, Mr M. I’ll let you get on.’ And the phone abruptly went down.
He broke the connection, dialled 9 and then Jacquie’s direct line. After what seemed like hundreds of rings, it went to voicemail. He rang off and dialled again, this time to the front desk at the Nick. The desk sergeant was unhelpful, much to his own delight. Everyone was out and he didn’t know when they’d be back. Was there a message?
Now, what to do? The meeting must have well and truly started by now and Maxwell should by rights be at it, but he had promised Mrs B and so he had to run with this hare now, not go down and join the hounds. Or perhaps a pack of hares; it was hard to say. He rang back to the direct line and left a message; it was hard to be succinct, but in the end he just needed her to call him back. He would stay in his office, he told her, until five. Then, he would be on his mobile. Nolan was judoing and then going out for pizza with the Plockers. He remembered to say he loved her.
He sat behind his desk, not a normal place for him. It was covered in neat piles of marking but nothing ever got done there; he looked upon it as just a rather wide shelf. But he needed room now to see if he could make some sense of it all. He needed to make a plan, a flow chart, anything that would clarify all the bits and pieces going through his head. He pushed one pile carefully to one side and began to write.
Several pages later, he admitted defeat. Anything he came up with just looked like a demented spider’s web and there were so many brackets, question marks and heavy underlining it looked like nothing else on earth. If he had had to make some kind of comparison, it would have been with Guy Fawkes’ signature after the torture. Pacing achieved nothing, but eventually he gave in to that basic human need and did indeed pace back and forth, every now and again giving the phone a threatening look. Despite them, it refused to ring.
Jacquie had had some tricky conversations in her time, but the new number one slot now belonged to the one in which she had convinced Henry Hall that his brother-in-law was having a relationship with a prostitute, albeit a neighbour and probably at the cheaper and more amateur end of the spectrum; mate’s rates sounded a little flippant, so she didn’t use the phrase. On all levels, it was a horrible thought. Not only was he spending money on a woman when he had a perfectly pleasant one of his own, but he was parading said woman in front of friends, people who might bump into his wife in Tesco or while she was walking Killer on the beach. She had never met Colin Hampshire, and yet she really wanted to punch him.
Henry was quiet for a long time and Jacquie was on the point of tiptoeing out of the room when he spoke. ‘We’ll have to go round there. Interview the bastard.’
It wasn’t like him to use any language other than the strictly correct, so this was Henry showing his feelings. ‘Shall I check who’s available, guv?’
‘Available? What for?’
‘Available to go and interview Mr Hampshire. I assumed you didn’t want to do it yourself.’
‘Of course I want to do it myself!’ he said. ‘I don’t want Hetty to have to put up with strangers in the house, asking her husband about the tart next door and what he did and how often.’ He stood up and reached for his coat, hung tidily on a hanger behind his chair.
‘I don’t think we need that kind of detail,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘Just whether he saw anyone else. Umm ... where he was on Monday night. Hetty says golf club do, but we don’t know that for sure. There was no need to check it out.’
‘So,’ Hall said, sharply. ‘He went on his own to that one, did he?’
Jacquie looked thoughtful. ‘That’s a good point, guv. We’d have to check how often he took Louise Morley. I don’t think it’s every time.’
‘Just the gala events, probably,’ Hall said. ‘
You know, the sort where you push the boat out a bit. Black tie. Champagne. Prostitute.’
‘Guv.’ Jacquie had to make one last attempt. ‘I really think that perhaps we should send someone else. Someone less ... connected.’ He looked at her mulishly. When Henry Hall put his foot down, it usually stayed put. ‘Why don’t I go?’ It wasn’t a great idea, but she needed to put some space between Hall and Colin Hampshire. She wanted this family to survive this thing; two had already been torn into pieces and that was bad enough. Another one would certainly be one too many.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, opening the door for her. ‘You’re coming anyway. Fetch your coat.’
As she was shrugging it on and shoving the scarf into the pocket in case the weather turned once more, the phone rang. She was almost allergic to leaving a phone ringing but as she took a step towards it, Hall’s voice concentrated her mind.
‘Leave that! I need to go now.’
Jacquie thought of what Maxwell would say if he heard that. His two bêtes noires were currently ‘need to’ and ‘reach out’. What, he would have said, is wrong with ‘want’ and ‘ask’? But picking Henry up on his grammar was possibly not really the best plan right now. Leaving the phone ringing, she scurried after him along the corridor and down the stairs.
In the car park, with the wind whistling around the corner of the building, on a straight course from Siberia, he threw her his keys. ‘You drive. I’m too angry to drive.’ No one looking at his face would have known it, but she took the keys anyway and set off towards the outskirts of Leighford, to interview Colin Hampshire.
In the car, Hall was silent, sitting in the passenger seat, his chin sunk onto his chest. He was usually a critical passenger and although it was good to be able to drive through moderate traffic without his constant admonitions, it did give the journey something of the flavour of the tumbril. When they drew up outside Hetty’s house, he didn’t move, even to unbuckle his seatbelt. Jacquie sat silently by his side; this had to be his call. His timing.
Hetty was at the window, peering out, trying to identify the two callers outside. Recognition was beginning to dawn on her face when Hall suddenly sprang back to life.
‘Let’s do it,’ he said to Jacquie. ‘I want you to ask the questions. Is that all right?’
She could only agree, but felt that this was going to be a tightrope act if ever there was one. Going over Niagara Falls blindfolded would be a walk in the park by comparison. She nodded and got out of the car, but Hall was at the door first.
Killer was doing his stuff already and Hetty opened the door, a beaming smile on her face. She lifted her cheek to be kissed and her brother planted a peck there, muttering into her ear that this was official.
‘Oh, dear,’ she twittered. ‘Hello, Jacquie.’ She fluttered her fingers at her and gestured her inside. ‘Let me just shut Killer in the kitchen. Shall we go into the lounge? Colin’s in there watching the golf.’
‘Is that Henry?’ someone called from the room. ‘I’m watching the Puerto Rican Open. Come on in while I watch Saunders take this putt ...’
Jacquie and Hall waited patiently in the doorway.
‘Oh!’ Hampshire threw his hands in the air. ‘Beautiful.’ He pointed the remote at the screen and the television went dark. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m recording it, anyway.’ He turned in his seat and smiled at Jacquie. ‘Come on in. I imagine old Hetty’ll be in with coffee and cake in a minute. She usually is.’
The two policepersons sat opposite the man and Jacquie gave him a quick glance. She imagined that Hall was seeing him with new eyes as well. As described so well by Sam Morley, he was older, balding, stooped and wearing, in deference to the Puerto Rican Open, light golfing clothes. The effect ended at the feet, which were encased in tartan slippers, complete with gnawed pompoms, doubtless courtesy of Killer. It was hard to see him as a ruthless roué, it was true. But this was probably the secret of his success in keeping his liaisons to himself. Who would look at him and suspect a thing?
‘Actually, Colin,’ Hall began, ‘I think we’d rather have this conversation without Hetty present, if that’s all right with you.’
Colin Hampshire had not been a policeman all those years for nothing. Also, despite his rather cavalier flaunting of Louise Morley, he was not quite as heartless as that had made him seem. He had worried, in a small, hidden corner at the back of his mind, that Hetty would find out, ever since he had started his little visits and it would almost be a relief to have it out in the open. It would cause a few ructions, he didn’t doubt. But good old Hetty, she had a big heart and she wasn’t interested in that kind of thing these days anyway. And what with the varicose veins and the sagging tits – she wouldn’t blame a red-blooded man for looking elsewhere. Not good old Hetty. So he smiled at Hall and said, ‘I think I know what this is about, Henry. I don’t mind Hetty being here. We always share everything, you know that.’
Hall and Jacquie looked at him in amazement. Neither could imagine how they would feel if their own very significant others confessed as Colin Hampshire was about to confess, to an affair with the next door neighbour. For money. In public. But he seemed quite unconcerned and so they waited until, as predicted, Hetty joined them, carrying a laden tray.
Jacquie glanced at Hall. He was as white as a sheet and looked sick. She had agreed to do the questioning, and so began. Hetty was pouring coffee and slicing lemon drizzle. Her husband was lounging in what was clearly always his chair, the best spot in the room with an unimpeded view of a television the size of a window. In the bookcase, row upon row of golfing books; on the mantelpiece, row upon row of golfing trophies. This was his house, his room; he was confident that he would always rule supreme and his arrogance suddenly flicked a switch in Jacquie and she let fly.
'We’re here, Mr Hampshire ...’ she began.
‘Oh, Colin, please,’ he said, leaning forward to pick up the first slice of cake and the first cup. She noticed that his teeth were grey and uneven, that the scalp beneath the plastered comb-over was flaky and dry. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Louise Morley; the things we do for love are one thing, the things we do for money quite another.
‘I think I would rather be a little more formal at the moment, Mr Hampshire, if you don’t mind.’ Jacquie caught Hetty’s reaction out of the corner of her eye and felt sorry, but this had to be got through as quickly as possible. ‘I am here to ask you about your relationship with Mrs Louise Morley, who, as you know, was found dead at her home on Monday night.’
Hetty put out her hand and Hall took it gently between both of his own.
The man leaned back in his chair, his paunch filling the front of his pink, diamond-patterned sweater. ‘She was just a neighbour,’ he countered. Suddenly, telling all in front of Hetty didn’t seem such a good idea.
‘We have several eyewitnesses who say otherwise,’ Jacquie persisted.
‘Who?’ the ex-policeman blustered. ‘They’re lying!’
‘I can't name them of course,’ Jacquie said. ‘I’m sure with your police experience you know that. But they are reliable and we are convinced that their information is accurate. You have been seen on numerous occasions at formal events with Mrs Morley and also you have been seen once leaving her house.’
Hampshire opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words emerged. Finally, he spoke, but to his wife. ‘You never wanted to come, Het, did you, eh? You didn’t really like those formal things, did you? Didn’t have a dress, or the shoes.’
His wife licked her lips and her voice when it came sounded from very far away. ‘You told me I didn’t like the formal things, Colin,’ she said. ‘You said they were boring, that the food was awful and the speeches worse. When I found a dress I liked, do you remember, that green one? You told me it made me look like mutton dressed as lamb. You told me that I had bingo-wings and saggy tits.’ She turned a stricken face to her brother. ‘I’m sorry, Henry. I never wanted you to hear all this.’ Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘I
never wanted to hear all this.’ She cleared her throat and spoke again to her husband. ‘You were cruel to me, Colin. You said at my age it was best to just get on with what I do best. Baking. Looking after the kids. Walking the dog. But you, you weren’t old, dear me, no! You could step out, if you wanted. You could take tarts to the golf club, go round next door, next door, Colin. When I had to turn the hoover on to drown her and her clients out, it was you!’
‘Het! Het, old thing. It wasn’t like that. I was ... fixing washers, light bulbs, that kind of thing. And I didn’t mean to upset you, about the dinners and such. I just thought ...’
‘Thought? Thought? You’ve never thought a moment in your whole life, you pig! When is my birthday?’
Hall knew, but clearly Hampshire had no clue.
‘It was last week. I put the cards up. The cards from the children, from Henry, from Henry’s children, for God’s sake. And you didn’t even notice.’ She turned to Hall. ‘I can't believe I’ve been so blind, Henry. I’ll have to tell the children, but not today. Can I come and stay with you and Margaret?’
‘Of course,’ Hall said, patting her hand again. ‘Pop upstairs and get some bits together. Are you thinking of bringing Killer?’
‘No, I bloody well am not,’ she said, drawing herself up. ‘Yappy little thing. And what a stupid name. No, he can have it. Take it for walks and pick up its smelly crap. No, I’m just bringing a few bits. And my solicitor’s contact details.’ She swept from the room and, little and dumpy as she was, she made a darned good exit.
