by M. J. Trow
Henry Hall never rose to bait of any kind. ‘Now, don’t mix your metaphors,’ he told her in a quip worthy of the Great Man himself. ‘We’re talking about Radley.’
‘In a grave?’
‘Sure. If I remember rightly, they’ve found a dozen or so, haven’t they? Saxon remains or whatever. What could be neater? Somebody’s already done the hard work for you – the six feet under bit.’
‘But he’d be found too soon,’ she realized.
‘Say on.’ He liked the way this was going.
‘That kid from Leighford High didn’t find the body until late afternoon, and if he hadn’t been sticking his nose in where it shouldn’t have been, it would have been later still. Maybe not until the Friday or whenever the team planned to start work on the grove itself.’
‘Right. But, conversely, no attempt to bury him. Radley was fully clothed, was still carrying his wallet, complete with cash and credit cards. It would have been quite easy to flick a few feet of earth over him. Chances are we wouldn’t have found him yet.’ There was a silence while Jacquie negotiated a few roundabouts, slower this time.
‘There again,’ this was the DCI’s PS, ‘somebody had stripped him and re-dressed him. Why?’
Silence
‘Scenario two,’ Hall said.
‘Er…scenario two,’ Jacquie focused, ‘is that Samantha Welland took her own life while the balance of her mind was disturbed over issues we know nothing about.’
‘Which brings us to Hazel Twigg.’
Jacquie snorted. ‘Sorry, guv. I mean, I know it’s all very tragic, but I don’t know how I kept a straight face. What kind of people call their daughter Hazel if their surname is Twigg?’
‘What indeed?’ Henry Hall had only smiled three times in his life. He saw no need to extend that record today.
‘What did you make of her?’
‘Mannish lass,’ Jacquie said, remembering their first sight of the woman on the steps of The Orchards. ‘Clearly lesbian.’
‘Live-in-lover of Sam Welland. You interviewed her first. What did she tell you?’
‘My notebook’s back there.’
Hall was waving a finger in the air. ‘Uh-huh. Memory, detective sergeant, if you please. You know how much the eminences on the Bench hate little black books.’
Jacquie flashed him a steely glance. Hall felt it, even with his eyes closed, but he wasn’t giving her the satisfaction. ‘Well,’ Jacquie ventured, ‘she was clearly distraught. I calmed her down, made her a cup of tea, the usual drill.’
The usual drill indeed, but Henry Hall knew Jacquie Carpenter. She’d have done it perfectly, as though Hazel Twigg, at that moment, was the only person in the world and that there had never been anyone so special or as wonderful as Sam Welland.
‘“I loved her” she kept saying, over and over again. “I loved her”. Almost as if…’
‘Yes?’
‘…Almost as if, somehow, her love had caused what had happened.’
‘Tell me about their relationship.’
‘They’d met ten years ago at the Karate Club…um…’
‘The Campdens.’ As always, the DCI was a step or twelve ahead.
‘The Campdens. Sam was working on a research thesis – an M.Phil. She got Hazel a job in the archaeology office at Petworth.’
‘Not an archaeologist?’
‘No, assistant to the Admissions Tutor; glorified typist, in fact, but she was concerned with undergraduates. She and Sam had similar interests.’
‘Women.’
‘I was going to say Martial Arts,’ Jacquie was brave enough to correct her boss when she didn’t have time to think about it. ‘They dated a few times, realized they could make a go of it and Hazel moved in.’
‘To a very nice pied-a-terre indeed. I didn’t know they paid university lecturers so well.’
‘According to them, they don’t,’ Jacquie said. ‘Oh, in your own time!’ she suddenly snarled at some daffy tart in a sun hat. Here she was, up to her armpits in other people’s tragedies and daffy tarts still drove badly in sun hats. It was the way of the world. She reined in her venom; she was beginning to think like Mad Max now. ‘No, Ms Welland’s family are loaded. According to Hazel, her parents are divorced and mother was killed in a plane crash – Cessna over the Downs, engine failure. Father didn’t want to know so little Sam was brought up by grandparents. They in turn have shuffled off, leaving Sam with a packet, including the house in Hove.’
‘Is there a will?’ Hall’s mind was wandering in a different direction now.
‘Doubt it, guv; she was twenty seven.’
‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ Hall said. ‘What were Ms Twigg’s movements over the last twenty-four hours?’
‘Well, she was at the university on Thursday until five. Came home, had supper with Sam and got an early night.’ Picture of wedded bliss, really.
‘They slept together?’
‘Usually, yes. But not when she or Sam had early mornings. So as not to disturb each other, they each had a spare room. Sam was up early to get to the dig at Leighford.’
‘This was the day before yesterday?’ Hall checked.
‘That’s right. After that, it all gets a little hazy. What did she tell you?’
The DCI had interviewed the companion after Jacquie. She’d been the Nice Policeman. He was curt, brusque even, by the book. His back was beginning to register that he was, after all, travelling in a Ka. He tried to stretch, but there was little chance of that. ‘She visited friends in London later yesterday,’ he took up the thread, ‘Clerkenwell. Obviously, we’ll need to check this out. The address is in my notebook, but of course,’ he looked blankly at her, ‘I’ve committed it to memory. She stayed over.’
‘Left a message on Sam’s answerphone.’ Jacquie filled in from her own knowledge.
‘Which is still there.’
‘Yes.’
‘I played it,’ they both chorused.
‘So she made an early start from London,’ Hall went on alone. ‘Got to Hove about ten, ten fifteen. And found Sam in the garage. Minutes before we arrived.’
‘What did you make of the forensics, guv? By the time I got there, SOCO were finishing up.’
‘From the house, you approach the garage from the utility room. A flight of steps get you down there. I counted ten. Room for three cars but only Sam’s Volvo was there. Hazel Twigg’s was on the drive, if you remember. Sam would have rigged up the rope from the wall to the left as you look at it, across the overhead beams and into the position we found her in. There was a chair under her body, taken from the kitchen. All very tragic.’
Another silence. None of it made much sense to Jacquie, but she was prepared to bow to her oppos’ far greater experience. ‘Is that it, then?’ she ventured. ‘Can we say Case Closed and all go home?’
For a fleeting moment, Jacquie thought she saw the hint of a smile hover around Henry Hall’s lips, but on second thoughts, it was probably the afternoon sun reflected back from her bonnet as they took the long rise to the Downs above Leighford, and the run up to Staple Hill.
‘Tut, tut, Detective Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Why kill yourself with a rope you’ve had to buy – Hazel Twigg said there was no rope in the house – when you’ve got a medicine cabinet full of tablets upstairs and a kitchen absolutely chocka with sharp knives? No, no. Young Samantha clearly had no money worries. She seemed very happy with her companion of a mile. For all we say Radley was better, she was successful in her career. No reason that I can see to kill herself. No, we are looking at scenario three.’
‘We are?’ Jacquie was afraid Henry Hall would say that, but at least this one he was going to expound.
‘Scenario three is that Sam Welland is the third killing in a series, all part of a common plan. David Radley, neck broken, found in the ash grove at Leighford. Sam Welland, dangling from a rope in her garage – “suddenly, at home”.’
‘And Martin Toogood?’ Jacquie said. He was never far from any of their thoughts, but n
either of them had mentioned him all day.
‘And Martin Toogood,’ Hall nodded. ‘And that’s the one that breaks the mould. It doesn’t fit the pattern and it’s bugging me to hell.’ He sat upright and what happened next was pure Peter Maxwell. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ he snapped. And that was pure Bart Simpson.
Sundays in summer. Gorgeous, slim young things wandering the white beaches of Leighford, G-strings covering their modesty, barely evident breasts just concealed by halter-neck tops. Slabs of lard oozing onto the sand, the great beached whales of middle-aged England, listening to raucous music on their portable CD players. Hedged round by a protective barrier of groynes and wind-breaks, an ancient granddad with a straw hat and the bravery to take off his tie in the soaring temperatures. Skinny, spotty lads, mostly Leighford High’s finest, kicking a football in any direction but the improvised goal.
The smells of the season wafted across the beach – instant barbecues, curling black on their foil bases, carried promise of underdone sausages and crisp burgers, tastes to harden our arteries. The slightly sickly odour of sunblock mingled with them, with just a threat of whatever problem Southern Water hadn’t quite sorted out in Leighford’s sewage disposal system.
He waited until the coast was clear, until the queue had gone from the ice cream kiosk, then he pounced.
‘I’ll have a 99 please, Michaela.’
She froze in mid-serve. Under a ludicrous straw hat, she barely recognized the Head of Sixth Form from up at the school. He had dark, almost purple circles under his eyes and his nose seemed to be jointed in the middle. His lips were thicker than usual and were coated, even before he’d bought his ice cream, in something white.
‘Is that with a flake in it?’ Michaela asked, ever the professional, regaining her composure. She didn’t look much less of a tart now in the regalia of Mr Scrummy, than she had framed in the doorway of Railway Terrace the previous night.
‘Yes, my dear,’ Maxwell said patiently. ‘That’s what makes it a 99. Otherwise I’d have asked for a cone.’
‘Strawberry sauce?’ She was operating the EU regulated gadgetry, with an efficiency which would have astounded her Science and Design Technology teachers.
‘Thank you, no,’ he said. ‘I’m allergic to pink.’
‘You know, my dad’s really pissed off with you. Hazelnuts?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not best pleased with him.’
‘He says you’ve broken his hand.’
‘I say he’s broken my nose,’ Maxwell countered.
‘One fifty,’ she passed him his 99.
‘Hang on,’ he rummaged in his back pocket. ‘I’ll have to remortgage. Why did you lie to him, Michaela?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come off it!’ he handed her the coins. ‘You accused me of touching you up. I don’t blame your dad. In those circumstances, I’d probably have done exactly what he did.’
‘You got kids, then?’
The little girl. The photograph. The memories. The pain. ‘No, Michaela,’ he said softly. ‘You’re missing the point. Look, you’re Annette’s best friend, right?’
‘Maybe,’ she sniffed.
‘Don’t you care what’s happened to her?’
‘Nothing’s happened to her,’ she whined.
Bingo!
‘So you have heard from her?’
Michaela hesitated. This was Mr Maxwell in front of her. He’d taught her back in Year Eight. Some of his lessons were actually quite interesting. And he did look a sorry state at the moment. Perhaps she had been a bit hasty the night before last. ‘Yeah, yeah, I have.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Your 99’s melting,’ she commented.
He slurped his hand, gingerly. Michaela’s white goo was only marginally less painful than Jacquie’s ice pack. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Look, she’s quite safe,’ Michaela said. ‘She just needs a bit of time, that’s all. Her mum’s gonna kill her as it is…’
‘I think her mum could be the least of her troubles, Micky,’ he said.
‘Look…you in the phone book? Got a mobile?’
‘Yes. No, in that order. Well, I have, but I never use it.’ Michaela was incredulous. How old must you be not to use a mobile?
‘How about, if she texts me again, I tell her you want to talk to her. Yeah?’
‘I’m in the book,’ Maxwell said, slurping his hand again. ‘Call me, Michaela. I think everybody should be more worried about Annette than they are. All right?’
‘Oi, can we get some service around here?’ The queue had formed again behind Peter Maxwell and the great, tolerant British public was exercising its bonhomie. All on a Summer’s Day. Nonny Nonny.
Chapter Ten
‘Jesus! Mr Maxwell, what happened to you?’ The waiter hovered by the table, menus in hand, horror etched on his face.
‘Don’t ask, Hop Sing. It’s a very long story,’ Maxwell told him.
‘You brave enough for chopsticks tonight?’ The man looked as if he had enough to worry about as it was.
‘Is the Pope a Buddhist?’ the Great Man felt constrained to ask.
‘That’ll be a no, Kenny,’ Jacquie Carpenter explained. Kenny had been in Britain for many years now, but no one was assimilated enough for Maxwell’s repartee.
The pair sat opposite each other in the Great Wall, Jacquie stuffing prawn crackers, Maxwell trying not to cry when he nibbled his.
‘Tell me again why you call him Hop Sing.’ She sipped her lager. The dragon lanterns threw weirdly coloured patterns on the flock wallpaper as the breeze lifted from the sea and slipped in through the sash windows of Leighford’s favourite – and only – Chinese restaurant.
‘Ah, you have to be a certain vintage, darling heart,’ he told her. ‘“We chased lady luck, till we finally struck, Bonanza.” They don’t write Western theme songs like that anymore. “Hoss and Joe and Adam know every rock is high.” There was almost a tune to it. They were the sons of Ben Cartwright, aka the actor Lorne Greene – now there’s a name to conjure with – in a cowboy series in the Fifties and Sixties. Hop Sing was their Chinese cook.’
‘I’m not sure Kenny understands,’ Jacquie whispered.
‘Nonsense. His people invented fireworks and paper money and printing. There’s a profound wisdom in the Chinese that goes way beyond gai pad bai gaprow. Have you noticed, by the way,’ Maxwell leaned towards her and became conspiratorial, ‘how the Thailanders are taking over. Siam and China have about as much in common as us and the Bulgarians, but you can’t tell their dishes apart these days. It’s a sad, sad world, my masters.’
‘And talking of sad worlds…’
‘Ah, yes.’ He reached across to hold her hand. ‘You poor darling. Samantha Welland. You all right?’
‘Who’s having the crab and sweetcorn soup?’ Hop Sing was back.
‘That’ll be me, Hop,’ Maxwell said. ‘Got a particularly enticing Chardonnay in your extensive cellar? I’m trying to make a lady out of my beer-swilling companion here.’
Kenny winked. ‘Got something special, Missy,’ he all but bowed.
‘Will you stop winding him up?’ Jacquie hissed, tackling her crimson-coated ribs.
‘Mine feel a bit like that,’ Maxwell said, pointing at them, ‘And I’ve been on the beach all day.’
‘The beach? That’s not like you, Max.’
‘Michaela Reynolds. Works at the Lilliput Adventure Playground, selling Mr Scrummy icecream. More E-numbers than the parson preached about. She knows where Annette Choker is.’
‘She does?’ Jacquie swallowed quickly and dabbed her mouth to catch some, at least of the falling sauce. She grabbed for her mobile. ‘I must get on to Alison McCormick.’
‘It’ll keep.’ He held her hand fast. ‘How long have you been on duty now?’
‘We never sleep, Max,’ she said. ‘You know that.’
‘OK, Mr Maxwell?’ Hop Sing hovered with the Chardonnay.
‘A
h, the south side of the vineyard, Hop. Perfect. Thanks.’ And he waited until the waiter had gone. ‘Shit, this is hot.’
‘Anything’s going to seem hot with a lip the size of yours, Max,’ she said.
Why was it that women, even soft, loving women, could be so bloody non-understanding at times? Had there been a Mrs Michelangelo Buonarroti, no doubt she’d have been standing at the base of a column in the Sistine Chapel, tapping her foot and screaming, ‘I’ve called you three times already. Are you coming in for your dinner or not?’ He let it go.
‘Henry thinks Sam Welland was murdered.’
Maxwell paused to let his lips recover from the last mouthful. ‘Does he now?’ he raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’d be telling me this, why?’ Could this be a turning-point in their relationship?
She threatened to stick a rib up his nose. ‘I thought you might be interested,’ she said.
‘Oh, Woman Policeman mine,’ he chuckled. ‘How many cases have you and I worked on now – eight? Nine?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is that usually I have to extract information from you with a variety of Inquisition-type instruments of torture. First, I show them to you in the best Torquemada tradition, then I lop off bits of your body, one by one. And here you are, without so much as a turn of the rack, making free with what I’m sure are DCI Hall’s most intimate deliberations.’
‘He needs your help,’ Jacquie said, stone-faced.
‘My help?’ Maxwell could frown all right. It was smiling that took its toll.
‘Several times on the way to Hove,’ she remembered. ‘Once there and several times again on the way back, he said something like “Ask Maxwell”.’
‘Figure of speech,’ the Head of Sixth Form shrugged, blowing on a particularly luscious piece of crab on his porcelain spoon.
‘Uh-huh,’ she shook her head, ‘I know Henry Hall. There’s an historical twist to this case, Max, and he knows it. That’s where you come in.’
‘You fed him my views on Martin Toogood’s computer entries?’
‘The Julius Caesar? Yes, I did. He’s intrigued,’
‘We all are,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘But still, I’m not sure I’m right.’
