by M. J. Trow
‘No, that’s not fair! I am dedicated to improving results.’
‘You doubtless are,’ he said. ‘But forcing people to leave because they simply can't stand it here any longer isn’t the best way to do it, in my very humble opinion. I have put up with a lot in the past week, Mrs Braymarr, although I confess it seems far longer. I have seen my oldest and dearest friend lose the job she loved. A woman who was the glue which kept this school together, kicked out without so much as a by your leave.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she sneered. Men and women stuff; she understood that all right. ‘I did hear that you and Mrs Marriott ...’
‘Matthews. Please do her the courtesy of remembering her name.’
‘Matthews, yes, that you and Mrs Matthews had a bit of a ... thing ... going on. Does your wife mind? Her husband? I’m surprised, to tell you the truth.’ She was using one of her other weapons now, the twin barrelled gun of rumour and innuendo. It had scored more hits than any other. ‘What with your wife being that much younger and her husband ... you’d think you would be more careful.’
Maxwell was used to gibes like this. He and Jacquie didn’t really notice the age gap. In fact, they didn’t really notice that Nolan was a child; as far as they were concerned, he was just an unusually short human being. But it all seemed to matter to other people. But he didn’t like Sylvia being dragged into it, just the same. ‘Sylvia and I love each other, yes. And if you have no one you love with whom you don’t want to leap into bed, I am truly sorry for you, Mrs Braymarr. I really, really am.’
The compassion in his voice knocked her for six. No one had cared about Fiona Braymarr in a long, long time and she found it hard to cope with. And all the worse for being true. Looking back, it was years since she had felt anything but passing lust for anyone. She hadn’t even liked Geoff MacBride, with his ironed Calvin Klein underpants and his nasty cheap knock-off not-quite-Paco Rabanne aftershave. There had been one or two where she had come close; but she had had to sack one and the other had gone back to his wife, so she had had no choice. She found she quite literally couldn’t speak. If she had done so, she knew she would end up in tears. And, like falling in love, she hadn’t done that for years.
It was almost too dark to see now, but he could tell he had struck a chord. ‘I don’t want to pry, Mrs Braymarr,’ he said, getting a sudden gut feeling and deciding to go for it, ‘but have you moved to Leighford? From wherever you come from, I mean.’
She shook her head.
‘Are you in a hotel, then?’ he asked, all innocence. Various cogs were clicking into place in his head and he thought that while she seemed to be winded, he could serve the sucker punch. ‘I would imagine a person like you, on a top salary, used to nice things, wouldn’t exactly slum it, so ...’ he put a finger to his lips, as if thinking, ‘... I would assume you would be somewhere nice and classy. Somewhere like the Grand in Brighton, if you don’t mind a drive. Or the Ellisdon, if you prefer to be closer at hand.’
She cleared her throat. She could speak now, as long as he didn’t do that kindness thing again. ‘The Ellisdon, yes. That’s right. The Academy board very kindly made arrangements for me.’
Well, that tied in; Jacquie has said that it was impossible to go beyond the company credit card. ‘Comfy, is it?’ His smile in the darkness was like something lurking in a swamp.
‘Very.’ This conversation was a little tangential, but it gave her time to think.
‘Mr MacBride like it, does he?’
She was silent for a moment. How could he know? He couldn’t know; he was just fishing. ‘Who?’
‘Now I know you’re fibbing, Mrs Braymarr. You must know Geoff MacBride. He’s our Chair of Governors for one thing. But you know him better than that, don’t you? He was in your room, doubtless discussing staffing levels and similar, when his wife died. Or was horribly murdered, depending on how graphic one wishes to be.’
Fiona Braymarr had not got where she was by not thinking on her feet. She weighed her options quickly and decided on her course of action. ‘I have clearly underestimated you, Max.’ He hadn’t taken her up on her implied offer to be more friendly, but she could persevere. ‘But how did you know that he was at the Ellisdon on that night? Wifie been talking out of turn, has she?’
Ooh, but she was cunning. Happily, Maxwell didn’t care. He knew a woman on the ropes when he saw one and decided that she would be in no position to damage Jacquie once he had finished with her. ‘We did chat about it, yes. Actually, as Tommy Morley’s appropriate adult and as the two cases are interlinked, she told me nothing I wasn’t entitled to know.’ As he said the words, they sounded like a load of old tosh even to him, but they would serve. ‘So, I am right, then?’
She shrugged. ‘So what if you are? I did have a small liaison with him, but it’s over now.’
‘Ah.’ Another cog snicked into place. ‘That explains the scratches.’
‘I didn’t know you had met Geoff since ...’
‘Not so much met, more bumped into.’ He looked at her as well as he could in the dark. ‘Do you want the light on, Mrs Braymarr? It’s as black as Dick’s hatband in here.’
‘You do like to play the simple old soul, don’t you, Mr Maxwell? But I do have the measure of you, you know. You are actually very clever.’
This puzzled Maxwell. He had no idea that she should have presumed otherwise.
‘It’s no good trying to use this against me, Max.’ She reverted to the faux friendship which had been falling so flat. ‘I’m divorced and his wife’s dead. So no harm, no foul.’
‘No.’ He had to agree she was right, there. ‘Unless one of you killed his wife, of course. Or both of you, working together. Or Louise Morley, mother of his son and also his bit on the side every second Wednesday or whenever his turn happened to come around.’
‘Why would I want to kill anyone, Max?’ she asked. ‘I have what I want. A new challenge every term or so. Top class accommodation. A salary you classroom scum can only dream about. My choice from any of the men I come across in the course of my work – I rather had my eye on Bernard Ryan in fact, though he seems to be unwell much of the time.’
Maxwell smiled. ‘I don’t think Bernard is really your type,’ he said, keeping his voice level. ‘Anyway, I think his husband is more the kind to make a fuss than the wives you usually usurp.’
‘Husband? Really? I must speak to my researchers. They seem to have missed that one.’
‘Clearly. But killing isn’t always just a matter of stone-cold reason, is it? Rarely is, in fact, if you think about it. I’m just thinking about this particular scenario. MacBride threatens to leave you. You follow him home. You decide to speak to his wife. It turns ugly.’
She stood up. ‘Can you hear yourself?’ she said. ‘You haven’t known me long, but you must know I would never behave like that. I was annoyed when MacBride threw me over. But I had something else on my mind at the time, something else to ... well, I won't lie to you, Max. I had had a shock. I was not myself.’
‘A shock? Anything I should know?’
‘No. Just something personal. I do have a personal life, you know. Feelings. Things like that. I’m not the devil incarnate. Nor am I War, or Death, or Pestilence or whatever you compared me with on Monday morning.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘I’m glad. So you should be. Which was it, just for the record?’
‘War.’
‘Hmm. That’s good.’ She grinned and even in the gloom, he saw her teeth flash. ‘We could have been friends, Max. Do you know that?’ She was suddenly on her knees on the seat next to him, leaning over and forcing him back. ‘More than friends, perhaps.’
Before he could stop her, she had her mouth clamped on his and he couldn’t move. She had her knee on his lap and was holding his arm down firmly on the back of the seat. Her other hand was rummaging at the front of his trousers. Her other hand was wound in his hair, tilting his head back. He hadn’t been subject to such a determined attack si
nce ... Her other hand? Something was wrong, but which hand was someone else’s?
‘It’s all right, my precious,’ he heard a voice croon above his head. In his mouth, he felt her whimper. ‘I saw his evil wiles from the start. He forced himself on you. You don’t need to worry. I got here in time to witness what you had to do.’
The hand in his hair tugged hard and her mouth left his. A torch shone in his face and blinded him. She still had hold of his arm, but had stopped her rummaging. He could tell that she was crouching down, as far away from his attacker as she could get. But she still had hold of his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Max,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise to him, my darling,’ the voice said. ‘He’s scum. Rapist scum.’
‘May I speak?’ Maxwell said.
The torch swung and smacked him around the head. ‘No,’ the voice hissed. ‘No, you may not. You may not speak in the presence of my wife, you scum.’ The torch swung again. ‘Scum!’ It swung back for a third time and this time, Fiona Braymarr took the blow on her arm.
Maxwell’s head was tugged back even further across the back of the seat and he heard his spine grind. It occurred to him that at his age, he probably shouldn’t be able to adopt this position.
‘Now look what you made me do!’ The voice was whining now, passing the blame. ‘I’ve hurt my darling’s arm. Sweetheart, are you all right? Tell your Alan, tell me.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, darling. I think you may have broken it.’ The torch swung and she hurriedly continued. ‘No, sweetheart. Don’t hit him again. He’s old. You won't need to do much to finish him off. But don’t you want to talk to him, first? Don’t you want to find out how much he wanted me? You know you like that.’
Maxwell didn’t like Fiona Braymarr. Never had. Never would. But at that moment, as her hand squeezed his arm encouragingly, he could have kissed her all over again.
The torch lowered slowly. ‘He did want you, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Fiona Braymarr’s voice had taken on a singsong sound, consoling and almost hypnotic. ‘Yes, he did. I had to do it, didn’t I, Alan? Thank goodness you came along and saved me.’
The pressure on the back of Maxwell’s head eased a little. The torch flashed onto Fiona Braymarr, moving up and down, slowly.
‘He didn’t hurt you, baby, did he?’ the voice crooned.
‘’No,’ she said, still holding Maxwell’s arm, as if to ground herself in some kind of normality. ‘He didn’t hurt me. Alan?’
‘Yes, my lovely darling?’
‘I like him, Alan. I don’t want you to hurt him.’
‘You like him?’ The pressure grew on the back of Maxwell’s head and his neck gave another protesting click. He raised his hand in protest and couldn’t help a small cry of pain.
‘No. No, Alan. Not that much. I like him as much as ... well, I like him as much as George. Do you remember George? You let him, go, remember?’
Maxwell was not comforted much by the way this conversation was going. And he still couldn’t see who had hold of his hair.
There was a silence from behind him, then a grunt of assent. ‘George. Yes, I remember him. Harmless, you said he was.’
‘And so is this one,’ she said. ‘That kiss was just for a joke, wasn’t it, Mr Maxwell?’
Instinctively, Maxwell tried to nod, but the grip on his hair stopped him. ‘Yes. Mrs Braymarr was teaching me how easy it is to kiss ... umm, to kiss in the dark. I’ve been having trouble. Technique, you know.’
‘Is this true, Moyra?’
‘Moyra?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Maxwell,’ she said. ‘I have been flying under false colours. My real name is Moyra Dunbar. This is Alan Dunbar, in case you were wondering. My husband. My ex-husband, to be exact.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Maxwell said. He reached round with his right hand but Alan Dunbar wasn’t that easy to fool.
‘She calls me ex,’ he said. ‘But I don’t accept that. A marriage is forever. I look after her. I promised. Till death us do part.’
‘Alan takes things very literally,’ she said. Then, remembering she must placate the man, ‘bless him.’
‘She’s too trusting, you see, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘She goes off with anyone who asks her. She’s got herself into some scrapes. She even changes her name, so they can't find her afterwards. But I can always find her. I always can track her down. To protect her.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘That’s right.’
In the silence that fell for a moment, as all three contemplated the position, two voices sounded from the ground floor. It was impossible to hear the words, but Maxwell knew it was the two remaining office staff, locking up for the night. Once they turned that key, the whole place would be alarmed and anyone trying to get in would set off bells and whistles in the police station and the fire station. Sirens would be the order of the day as they all rushed to the scene. Maxwell was not famed for listening to notices in meetings, so he didn’t know whether that also applied should anyone try to get out. But he would be giving it a go, first chance he got. The voices receded and then, far off in the car park, two engines fired up and disappeared into the silence.
‘So,’ said Alan Dunbar brightly. ‘We’re locked in, now. That’s cosy. Mr Maxwell. I’m going to get Moyra here to tie you to the chair. And then we can chat in a bit more comfort, can’t we?’
‘That would be nice.’ Once, as a small boy, Maxwell had seen, on the outskirts of Dreamland on a family holiday to Margate, a supposedly headless woman. It had scared him sleepless for days but when he calmed down, he wondered where they had got the body from and what had happened to the head. He was beginning to think he knew the answer. He didn’t know you could get cramp in your scalp, but apparently, it was possible.
‘Do you have any string, Mr Maxwell?’ she asked.
‘In my desk drawer,’ he said. Also in his desk drawer were some scissors which at a pinch would make a goodish weapon. But did she want to stab this man, this ex-husband? Was blood-by-marriage thicker than water or would she save Maxwell, should it come to the point? He would give her the tools for the job, if nothing else.
‘Tie him tightly, now,’ the madman said. ‘No tricks.’
‘No tricks, darling,’ she said. She walked round to the desk by going past the man and Maxwell heard her drop some featherlight kisses on his ear. ‘No tricks.’
‘Don’t try that kind of nonsense,’ Dunbar said. ‘You know I don’t like you demeaning yourself like that.’
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not likely to forget.’
She came back with the string and tied Maxwell’s ankles efficiently to the legs of the chair. Dunbar gave her the torch and, still holding Maxwell by the hair so he had to bend forward painfully, he checked the knots.
‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Now his hands. Over the back.’
She went round behind the chairs and did as he told her.
‘Now, that’s better,’ he said. ‘We can all just sit properly now and talk things through like sensible adults.’ He pulled Maxwell’s chair round from behind the desk and motioned his ex-wife to sit at the far end of the row of chairs, as far from Maxwell’s malign influence as possible.
‘Do we have anything to talk about?’ Maxwell asked. ‘I mean, I have a lot to ask Fiona ...’
‘Moyra!’ Dunbar corrected him.
‘Moyra, then. But I think I would be asking questions to which I already know the answer. Such as “Why did you change your name?” has the obvious answer; to hide from you, you madman. The question “Why do you go to bed with any man with a pulse?” has pretty much the same reply; because my ex-husband is a madman who doesn’t like touching me there. Am I getting close?’
Dunbar leapt to his feet. ‘I’m going to kill him, Moyra. He is impugning you. He is demeaning our love. He ...’
‘Do you know,’ Maxwell said reasonably. ‘I don’t think we hear the word “impugning” enough in general conversation these days, do you,
Moyra? It sounds to me as if Alan here is trotting out some platitudes he has been using either out loud or to himself for some time now. What do you think?’
As Fiona Braymarr, she had not liked Peter Maxwell much. As Moyra Dunbar, she needed him as she had never needed anyone before. She was sure that this time, Alan was here to kill her, to end their misery. This folie a deux that she had begun when she was too young to know any better, before she knew he was as mad as any man could be and still walk around undetected. She knew how to handle Dunbar. She had to hope that Maxwell would be able to tell and not descend into heroics which would get them both killed.
‘Alan looks after me, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, in the little singsong voice. ‘He always has, always will.’
‘Yes,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘Ever since we met, I’ve looked after Moyra. She was still at school, you know, when we met. She went to university in the town, so we weren’t parted. She could have gone anywhere she wanted. Oxford. Cambridge. They both offered her a place. But she wanted to stay with me. Didn’t you, Moyra?’
‘That’s right.’ She took over the tale. The way Alan told it, it sounded almost normal and that would never do. ‘Alan looked after me so well that in the end, I worried that it would be too much for him and I ran away.’
‘She’s so kind like that,’ Dunbar said. ‘Always thinking of others. But I found her, didn’t I, sweetheart?’
‘That’s right. And Alan got into a few scrapes on my behalf, didn’t you, my love?’
‘Someone called the police,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘If I ever find out who did that ...?’
‘And, in the end, they separated us,’ she said, quickly. ‘For our own good.’
‘Yes.’ In the backwash from the torchlight, Maxwell could see him nodding his head. ‘The thing was, Mr Maxwell, I had lost someone before Moyra. And although I didn’t love her like I love Moyra, I realise now, I did suffer, when she left me. So I didn’t ever want that to happen again. And if I didn’t watch over my Moyra ...’ his voice broke, ‘she might leave me.’
