Maxwell’s Curse

by M. J. Trow

  ‘The wooing phase, Count,’ he decided. ‘That’s where the key to this one lies. How he gets people to trust him. Who has right of access to your home? Or who would you trust on your doorstep? Boy scout? Barnardo collector? Property developer? Policeman?’ His mind wandered away and his voice turned dark gravel, like Alec Guinness’s ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy?’

  ‘War Office?’ Maxwell was always grateful when he’d finished the reins. Those infuriating bits of stuff that modellers Historex provided for harness were fine and dandy in their own way, but my God, they were fiddly.

  ‘Max. It’s Jacquie.’

  ‘Darling.’ He put the glue down before it oozed all over his fingers and he spent eternity in close proximity to an MFI desk. ‘How the hell are you?’

  ‘Worried,’ she said.

  ‘Worried?’ he pulled off the forage cap, ‘Why?’

  There was a sigh.

  ‘All right,’ he smiled. ‘Why particularly?’

  ‘It’s Hall,’ she said. ‘His job’s on the line.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’ Maxwell came from a profession where they only ever fired people for two things – fingers in the till or fingers in the knickers.

  ‘He’s not getting results.’

  Maxwell’s blood ran cold. That of course was the government’s agenda. That nice Mr Blunkett was so in touch with education that he wanted to reintroduce payment by results for teachers. That Victorian idea they’d abandoned, along with hanging. Hello starvation. ‘Who’s piling on the pressure?’

  ‘The Chief Constable. Ever met him?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Professional bastard. I feel sorry for the guv’nor, Max. He’s a decent bloke. Stood by me often enough.’

  ‘I thought you were off hooks at the moment?’

  ‘That’s because I’ve been letting him down recently. Martin and I both, as it happens.’

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘DS Stone. On the make, but his wife’s just had a baby and he’s not really holding up his end of the job. Look, Max … there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Hall knows about the calendar.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I told him.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He could hear the tiredness in her voice. ‘It just came out. We had a bit of a slanging match.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘Probably not. He’s got ’til the first of the month. Then he’s out. Then he’ll be quietly sidelined somewhere, dog-handling or records or some such crap. They won’t give him murder again.’

  ‘What did you row about?’

  ‘The calendar. Max, this whole thing is about witchcraft, black magic. I yelled at him, thinking he couldn’t see it. How could he not? He’s an intelligent bloke. I was being stupid.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to see it?’

  ‘What?’ she asked him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jacquie, do we have any idea about callers to Albert Walters’ flat? Or Alison Thorn’s?’

  There was a pause. ‘With Thorn we believe it was someone collecting for Barnardo’s.’

  ‘Bingo,’ Maxwell said. ‘But not, I suspect, on the Barlichway. On the Barlichway, they’d pinch his money and run.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Policemen,’ said Maxwell. ‘People you trust. Blue murder. Look, Jacquie, where’s Hall now?’

  She checked her watch. ‘Still at the Incident Room, I expect. Why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just sit tight. Let’s see if we can’t get your guv’nor to hold onto his job. ’Bye, darling. Love you.’

  The line went dead. ‘Do you, Max?’ she asked herself, cradling the receiver in her hand. ‘And there again, do I love you?’ There were no ways to count. Then an odd thought entered her head. ‘People you trust?’ She was talking to the air. ‘Max, no one on the Barlichway trusts a policeman.’

  When you’ve remembered where you’ve left your bike – on the back of the Shogun of the most dangerous man-eater west of Bengal – you catch a taxi. That’s what Maxwell did when he’d got off the phone to Jacquie. It was time for some straight talking; time for some sorting out.

  Members of the public weren’t welcome in Incident Rooms. It was too hands on. There were macabre photos of dead people all over walls and display boards, sensitive information, names and car registration numbers. The fact that the place was manned twenty-four hours a day couldn’t screen the openness of all that.

  The desk man was mean, shifty, tired. ‘Who wants to see him?’ he asked.

  ‘Peter Maxwell,’ Maxwell said. ‘And it’s urgent.’

  The desk man was reluctant but he did go away and he did come back. ‘He’s busy,’ was the result.

  ‘Fine,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘It’ll take a little while, but I should think in an hour or so I’ll be back with a few lads from the media. Meridian won’t want to miss this. South Coast Radio’ll be along, plus all the nationals of course. I’m lucky, actually. Copper-bashing is quite the trend at the moment, isn’t it? What with institutional racism and all?’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ the desk man leaned over his desk.

  Maxwell leaned towards him, the echo of his posture reverberating down the corridors of the old Tottingleigh library. ‘I’m talking about offering a vital piece of information – evidence, in fact, to DCI Hall in connection with the current spate of murders in and around Leighford. Now, if you’re not interested, I’m sure the paparazzi will be.’

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ Henry Hall’s voice carried across the open space from his office. ‘That’s all, Bob. You’d better show Mr Maxwell in.’

  The desk man lifted the counter top and the Head of Sixth Form swept past. ‘Helpful isn’t the word,’ he said.

  Hall’s office was a converted corner of the old library Maxwell remembered well, with bolted on walls of cardboard and spit. The DCI offered the Head of Sixth Form a chair. ‘I think it’s time I gave you this,’ Maxwell said. He threw the calendar down onto the table. ‘I think you know what it is.’

  ‘It’s a calendar from Elizabeth Pride’s house, Myrtle Cottage.’ Hall was in his shirt sleeves, his tie gone, his glasses perched on top of his head. He looked terrible as he closed the office door and most of the building shook, ‘and it contains key dates.’

  ‘In the year of Wicca, yes. Except I’m not sure it’s as harmless as all that.’

  ‘Harmless?’ Hall sat down on the spare chair against the wall. He couldn’t look at the paperwork on his desk any more. There was just too much of it and the words weren’t making any sense.

  ‘Wicca is modern witchcraft and not, as I once believed, a trendy name for the WI … although I don’t know, though! It’s not much more than holistic medicine viewed from one angle.’

  ‘And the other angle?’

  ‘Wiccans have a code, a creed if you like,’ Maxwell told him. ‘It’s called the Rede, a sort of “love thy neighbour”. “An it harm none, do what wilt”.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘An it harm none,’ Maxwell repeated. ‘If you’re talking about Elizabeth Pride, Andrew Darblay, Albert Walters and Alison Thorn, I’d say that’s quite a lot of harm, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  Maxwell looked at Hall. He’d crossed swords with the man before. It wasn’t all cosy chats in Maxwell’s office and Hall’s Volvo. He’d faced him across the table of an interview room, briefless, friendless, the tape recorder turning to his right. For all his blandness and his immobility of expression, Hall wasn’t a man to cross; Maxwell knew that. But tonight, he’d lost it. The life seemed to have drained out of DCI Hall.

  ‘The Wiccan Rede reminds me of someone,’ Maxwell said patiently. ‘Aleister Crowley, the great beast. I won’t bore you with the man’s dates because I can’t remember them, but he liked to think he was the Devil’s anointed. Had a phone number Purgatory 666, that sort of t
hing.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Crowley had a creed, too – “Do what thou wilt is all of the law”. In other words, the master-magician didn’t give a rat’s arse whom he hurt. The more harm done the better. That’s what you’ve got here, Mr Hall. Somebody’s twisting the Wiccan tradition for good and using it to frighten the bejesus out of people. How long will it be, do you think, before the media really hits top gear? Are you ready for the locust pack? Because, believe me, there won’t be a decent man left standing when they’re finished.’

  ‘Why did you take the calendar?’ Hall asked.

  ‘Why did you send me to Myrtle Cottage?’ Maxwell snapped back.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Jesus, Henry! You don’t mind if I call you Henry, do you? Because right now, as all the best B movies had it, I’m the only friend you’ve got.’

  Hall just sat there, blinking.

  Maxwell got to his feet and leaned down to the man. ‘I know from Jacquie that you’ve been given a yellow card,’ he said. ‘Six days, isn’t it, ’til you’re given the red one?’

  Hall opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and nodded.

  ‘Well, the day after that it won’t matter.’

  ‘What won’t?’

  ‘Why did you tell me Elizabeth Pride’s address?’ Maxwell persisted.

  ‘Because …’ Hall wavered, looking up into the man’s face, ‘because there’s someone here I can’t trust. Mr Maxwell, I’ve been working on murder cases now, man and boy, for nearly twenty years. I’m good at them. I get results. And this one …’ He slumped against the wall, ‘This one’s getting nowhere because somebody here is involved. They know every turn, every twist.’

  ‘Who?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘If I knew that,’ Hall said, ‘do you think for one moment I’d have given you Myrtle Cottage? Or even the time of day? Who put the calendar there, Mr Maxwell? Because whoever did that is playing some twisted, sick game – with you and me.’

  Maxwell sighed and crossed back to Hall’s desk.

  ‘I was hoping you’d find some answers. Something we’d overlooked,’ Hall said. ‘With that bloody calendar, all you’ve done is confirm my worst suspicions.’

  Maxwell looked at the DCI and swept to the door. ‘There’s an end to all this, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Hall chuckled weakly, ‘February 1st.’

  ‘No,’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘Read your calendar. February 2nd – Candlemas, St Mary’s Feast of candles. “Candlemas Day, plant beans in the clay, Put candles and candlesticks all away.” That’s the next sabbat, Mr Hall, the next time the witches ride. You go and see your boss. Have a word with the Chief Constable. Get him to give you one more day. I’ve got some beans to plant.’

  It was nearly Friday when the phone rang in Leighford nick. Jock Haswell was on the desk, his tea curdling by his elbow, his illicit fag smouldering between his brown lingers. ‘Leighford Police station.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I rather hope you can. My daughter has gone missing. She and her baby.’

  ‘Right, madam,’ Haswell reached across for his pen. ‘Name, please?’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Please, madam. And your address.’

  ‘Saunders. Veronica Saunders. Mrs. Fifty one, Wainwright Avenue, Windsor.’

  ‘Windsor?’ Haswell checked. ‘May I suggest, madam, that you contact your local station there?’

  ‘Pointless,’ the woman told him. ‘You see, my daughter and her baby have gone missing from your area, not mine.’

  ‘I see. Could I have your daughter’s name, please?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Stone. Alexandra Stone. And the baby’s name is Samantha.’

  ‘Stone? Er … Madam, would this be any relation to DS Martin Stone at all?’

  ‘It’s precisely because of that relationship that I’m ringing you,’ the voice said. ‘Somebody has to do something about this situation.’

  14

  ‘Mr Maxwell? I’m Janet Ruger. Daily Telegraph.’

  The woman standing on the path outside 38 Columbine was wiry, with short dark hair and slightly bulging eyes behind her glasses. Her scrawny hand was firm in Maxwell’s and spoke volumes for the go-getting sort of woman who was smashing through the glass ceiling these days.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He held the door open for her. ‘Are you the forlorn hope?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Skirmishers,’ Maxwell explained. ‘You find them in civil war armies and rather later, a tiny band of masochists prepared to draw enemy fire.’

  ‘I don’t think I have those tendencies,’ she told him.

  ‘But you are an advance guard, I suspect,’ he said, ‘the first of many.’

  ‘Surely the media have been on to you already?’

  He closed the door, checking up and down sleepy Columbine first. ‘For a while,’ he nodded, ‘they formed an orderly picquet on my lawn. I’m geared up for suing for the price of a packet of bulbs – I think my croci are a no-no. After you.’

  She led the way up the stairs to Maxwell’s lounge, glad, with a man behind her, she was wearing a long skirt and coat. ‘What a charming place,’ she cooed, dutifully.

  ‘Barratt,’ he shrugged. ‘I think on balance I’d have preferred Wimpole Street. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Perhaps a sherry.’

  There was a hurtle of black and white fur and the rattle of claws on wood.

  ‘My cat, Metternich,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Misogynist, I’m afraid,’ and he clanked in his drinks cabinet for a glass. ‘Doesn’t care for women, either,’ he beamed. ‘Old Particular?’

  ‘Fine. It’s good of you to see me.’

  ‘I shall probably regret it, Ms …’

  ‘Janet, please.’

  He waved her to a cosy seat by the fire, sweeping a pile of dog-eared exercise books to the rug.

  ‘I’m doing an extended piece for the Telegraph on the murder-fest in Leighford. This is where they found the first body.’

  ‘Well, out there, yes,’ he passed her the glass and topped up his own Southern Comfort. ‘And for “they” read “me”.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she sipped the sherry. ‘That must have been quite an experience.’

  ‘I’ve had better,’ he told her.

  Janet Ruger opened her coat and pulled out a notepad from her handbag. ‘I understand you have something of a reputation around here, Mr Maxwell.’

  ‘Max, please,’ he said. ‘Wit, raconteur, film buff extraordinaire, lady-killer … oops! Perhaps you’d better scrub that last bit.’

  She smiled, arching an eyebrow. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘of your reputation as a sleuth.’

  ‘Overrated,’ he scowled, shaking his head. ‘Right now I couldn’t detect a nuclear explosion in my kitchen.’

  ‘May I?’ she’d whipped out a packet of cigs.

  ‘Please,’ and he hauled out the only ashtray he possessed, the one marking the wedding of Charles and Diana.

  ‘But you are involved?’ she pressed him, lighting up. Her shrewd, all-knowing features glowed orange for an instant and then she was framed in soft lamplight again.

  ‘I don’t know to whom you’ve been talking … ?’

  ‘Sheer poetry,’ she held up her hand, ciggie aloft, ‘Forgive me, Max, but there can’t be many with your sense of grammar.’

  ‘None, madam,’ he boomed. ‘I am a dodo, a velociraptor, the last auk. When I depart this life, there will be no one left who does not split an infinitive or mix a metaphor.’

  ‘Or do so brilliantly at changing the subject.’

  ‘Touché,’ he laughed, ‘although I believe it was you who did that.’

  ‘Elizabeth Pride,’ she brought him back with a jolt to the straight and narrow. ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘Somebody left her on my doorstep,’ he said, cradling his g
lass. ‘She’d been poisoned and frozen, presumably in that order.’

  ‘I read that in the pile of wombat’s do they call the Leighford Advertiser,’ she said flatly. ‘Telegraph readers will want a bit more. You can give me a bit more.’

  ‘Can I?’ Maxwell leaned back, wondering what kind of bitch he’d invited into his home.

  Janet Ruger leaned back as well. ‘Peter Maxwell,’ she said, ‘known as Mad Max. First-class degree in History from Jesus College, Cambridge. PGCE at Distinction level

  ‘That was a typo,’ he told her. ‘A computer error before they invented computers.’

  ‘You helped solve the murder of Jennifer Hyde some years back and that Eight Counties television business. Then there was Charts …’

  ‘I’d love to stroll with you down felony lane, Janet,’ he smiled. ‘And I’m flattered – and not a little disturbed – that you have so much on me. But this time, I really can’t help.’

  She dragged on her cigarette, then impulsively stubbed it out. ‘All right,’ she said, putting her notebook away and standing up suddenly, ‘if you can’t help me, perhaps I can help you. What are you doing Monday morning, ten thirty?’

  ‘Monday,’ he said, standing up with her. ‘Ah, that’ll be 7C4. The lesson I’m preparing for Ofsted – “Tying up our Shoelaces”.’

  ‘Shame,’ she said. ‘I think you might have enjoyed an alternative.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Have you heard of Dr Zarina Liebowitz?’

  ‘Not Dr Ruth’s replacement on the telly, is she? For people with, you know,’ he slipped into his excruciatingly shy routine, ‘hang-ups about their … you know … personal thingies.’

  ‘No,’ said the journalist. ‘Dr Liebowitz is an expert on satanic indicators and multi-generational incest.’

  ‘Like you do,’ nodded Maxwell, manifestly impressed.

  ‘She’s heard of your little problem here in dear old Leighford, Max, all the way from the West Coast, USA. She’s taking it all rather more seriously than you are. She’s called a press conference in the town hall at half past ten, Monday 29th January. Here.’ She thrust a laminated card into his hand.