by M. J. Trow
When he judged that most of his charges had finished eating, he moved in like a ninja. The main skill here was getting them up to bed before they got their second wind. The timing was vital – too soon and they were back to full wakefulness before they got into bed and then ran screaming like banshees round the hotel until the wee small hours. Too late and they had to be carried insensible one by one up to their rooms, which was a tall order for even a team of teachers and he was alone on this one. Taking each child on their own merits, according to various clues such as speed of head nod, degree of eyelid droop, he walked round the room touching them lightly on the shoulder and suggesting in the low voice he had cultured over the years that they were tired and might want to go up to bed. It worked on everyone except for the traveller in underwear who was somewhat surprised to get such a suggestion from a man no longer in the first flush of youth. He had taken a bit of a shine to Pansy Donaldson in the bar the previous night, but he was aware that you couldn’t be lucky every time.
With everyone safely stowed away, Maxwell ensconced himself at what he already considered to be ‘his’ table out on the decking and relaxed with a large Southern Comfort to the sound of the gentle waves lapping far out on the shingly beach as it turned at low tide. The air was still warm, and as he turned his head the most enormous harvest moon crept up out of the sea, reflecting in the still water. Someone came and sat beside him, and stroked his cheek to say hello. He assumed from this that it was Jacquie, but since seeing the gleam in the traveller’s eye, he preferred not to turn his head.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. Thank goodness; it was his wife.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the moon so big.’ He turned his head to look at her, ‘Unless they cheat, like in Bruce Almighty.’ He widened his eyes. ‘You don’t think there’s anything in this Nostradamus thing, do you? Twenty-twelve, all that?’
She gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘No, idiot.’ Her face grew serious. ‘But if there is, I’d be OK. My men are here, except the Count and he is needed at Happy Paws, to organise the evacuation.’
He blew her a kiss. ‘I must say, I can’t take the number 2012 very seriously. Do you remember when Nole used to count like that? Twenty-eleven, twenty-twelve, twenty-thirteen?’
‘Yes, Max, I can,’ she said. ‘It was last week.’
‘As recently as that? I suppose Mrs Whatmough knocked it out of him as being too darned cute.’ At the mention of her name, a shadow passed across the moon.
One by one, the staff trickled down and joined them on the deck. They all sat transfixed by the enormous satellite and sipped their drinks in silence. They were all content that the day had been a success, that everyone had seemed to have had a good time and, as Izzy Medlicott remarked, nobody died. Only she knew that she was quoting a song by Nickelback. In the weeks to come, everyone would remember where they were when she said it.
Chapter Six
It was amusing to watch Year Seven straggle down to breakfast that Sunday morning. There was not so much as a single spring in any step – some were only making due progress by holding on to furniture or less crocked-up friends. It was, as Sylvia Matthews remarked to her husband, a very good way of getting to know each other, when you would fall over without the other person. Apart from the slow pace, it was pretty much a carbon copy of the previous day. Pansy had a hangover. The Medlicotts weren’t there. The ginger-headed kid was taking notes. Nolan was eating enough fried food to last him a week, for the second time in two days. Ethan Oojah had walked into a bedside lamp. Just one thing was different; they had been joined by Barton Joseph, tracksuited and ready for the fray.
‘Were we expecting him to join us for meals?’ Sylvia asked Maxwell out of the corner of her mouth.
‘I think he’s getting his money’s worth,’ he told her. ‘In case we don’t come up with funding.’
And it certainly looked that way; why else would he be eating three Weetabix?
Then, suddenly, two things were different. Tom Medlicott appeared in the dining room doorway, not sleekly kitted out in running gear, an immaculate Izzy beside him, but in pyjama bottoms and skin. He stood dramatically with a hand on each side of the door frame, as if to stop escapees.
‘Has anyone seen Izzy?’ he asked.
The kids looked at each other and made various ‘Idunnow’ noises. One or two of the girls sniggered – sir with his top off. Coo.
He remembered himself. ‘Mrs Medlicott, I mean.’
The answer was the same. Maxwell slid out from his seat in the bay window and went up to the man, shepherding him from the room. Maxwell was no stranger to behaving strangely, but he knew for a definite fact that he had never appeared before a room full of pupils in just his pyjama bottoms. It didn’t result in very good discipline in future, he had been taught during his teacher training. It was around about Rule 400, just before exposing yourself, but important, nonetheless.
‘Come on, Tom,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s go through here. Or,’ he looked again at the man, wild-eyed, barefoot, ‘better still, let’s go up to your room. Bit more private there, don’t you think?’
Tom Medlicott struggled in his light grasp, but found that it wasn’t quite as light as he had thought. ‘I must ask them … I can’t find Izzy.’
‘Has she gone for a run?’ After all, they clearly did that as a habit.
‘No. She wouldn’t go without me. Or without at least saying she was going.’
Maxwell could understand that. He and Jacquie told each other if they were changing rooms, let alone that they were going out. But he had always rather thought that was because they both led rather dangerous lives, she as a woman policeman, he as a nosy bastard.
‘She did say that you sleep quite deeply. Perhaps she couldn’t wake you to tell you she was going out.’
‘No, that’s only in the middle of the night. Anyway, she can wake me, if she really tries. It’s just that I don’t wake up at external noises, things like that.’ Medlicott allowed Maxwell to guide him gently to the stairs.
‘Do you snore, Tom? I know I do and Jacquie often changes rooms, just to get a few hours sleep. Might she have done that?’
‘In a hotel?’ Medlicott was dismissive. ‘Wouldn’t that be rather unusual?’
‘Yes, but shall we ask?’ Maxwell had to prevent him from turning round and making straight for Reception. ‘Better still, I’ll ask, you go up and get dressed. I’ll see you in the lounge in a few minutes.’
The Head of Art turned reluctantly and headed up the stairs, turning every few steps to make sure that Maxwell was doing as he promised. When he had turned the corner on the landing, Maxwell walked quickly into Reception. He knew he only had a limited time before Medlicott was back down and kicking up a fuss.
The girl at Reception looked crisp and efficient. Her name, on her badge and on the laminated sheet on the desk, was Lorraine.
‘Hello, Lorraine,’ he said, whilst mentally filing her in his brain as Thingie Three. ‘Can you help me? Do you have a night porter or receptionist here?’
She looked at her watch, somewhat ostentatiously. ‘It’s eight-forty-nine, Mr … Maxwell.’
He was impressed and annoyed in almost equal amounts. ‘Yes, I know. But before it gets to be eight-forty-nine, or,’ he pre-empted her as she drew in her breath to speak, ‘any time classed as day in this hotel, do you have a night porter or receptionist?’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘Thank you. Do they keep records?’ he asked.
She looked at him in the way that reception staff are specially trained to do, mixing polite subservience with total contempt. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We have a complete record of everything that goes on on night shift here, on the computer.’
‘Well then,’ Maxwell leant closer, aware that Tom Medlicott might come back at any minute. ‘Can you have a quick look and tell me if Mrs Medlicott changed rooms last night?’
She smiled up at him. ‘I don’t have to,’ she said. ‘We are compl
etely full. Thanks to you and your school party,’ she added, with a twinkle. The staff of the hotel had a book going as to when the first window would get broken. The chef had had ‘in the first hour’ and was sulking. She had ‘hours of darkness, Wednesday’ and so still lived in hope. ‘Delightful children,’ she added.
‘Indeed,’ Maxwell said, keeping the surprise in his voice to a minimum. He’d have to see whether he could get that in writing. ‘Well then, in that case, could she possibly have gone out for a jog or anything? Early, before you came on duty.’
‘This isn’t a prison, Mr Maxwell,’ she admonished him. ‘Guests can come and go as they please. The doors are locked, of course, at night and into the early morning, but the push-button to the left of the door opens it from the inside, so she might have gone out and not necessarily been seen.’
‘I see. Well, thank you, Lorraine. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Do I understand that you have lost Mrs Medlicott?’ she asked.
‘We do seem to have temporarily mislaid her, yes. But I’m sure she will turn up soon.’
‘I don’t want to alarm anyone,’ the receptionist said, in an alarming way, ‘but the cliff paths are a little treacherous sometimes and if she went for a jog … well, I think it would be wise to go and have a look, perhaps. Is Barton here?’
Maxwell had forgotten that the supply teacher had come highly recommended. ‘Yes, he has joined us for breakfast.’
The receptionist made a note on a pad and smiled. Maxwell read it upside down. It said ‘Breakfast x 6 @ £12’. Maxwell chuckled when he pictured Bernard Ryan’s expression when the bill came in. ‘Well, you couldn’t do better than send him to look. He knows all the paths around here like the back of his hand.’
‘What a useful chap,’ Maxwell murmured and, smiling, turned away back towards the dining room. As he reached the door, Tom Medlicott came down the stairs, dressed but still looking strangely unkempt and confused.
‘Her jogging things are still in the room,’ he said. ‘In fact, I can’t find anything missing at all.’
Maxwell forebore to say what he was thinking – except your wife.
‘Except for Izzy, of course.’ Medlicott tried a weak smile.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it too much,’ Maxwell said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Did she do her own packing?’
‘No, I packed. That’s how I know what we brought. She had been away a lot, sorting out some family stuff, so I have been doing all the laundry, that kind of thing. She just trusted me to bring what she needed.’ He was looking puzzled. ‘Where is she, Max?’ He grabbed the Head of Sixth Form and stared into his eyes. ‘Where has she gone?’
Maxwell gently moved his hands and held them, down at waist level, and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Tom, I know that you’re worried. But we have a roomful of kids in there who are in our care. Before you say anything, yes, I am aware that they are not as important as your wife. But that’s only how important they are to you. To other people, they are the most precious thing in the world. Izzy is an adult. They, despite what they think, are children. They get upset easily. They want their mum. They ring home. Then everything blows up in our faces.’ He gently shook the man. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Slowly, Tom Medlicott nodded, but his eyes were flicking from side to side as though his wife would appear like the genie of the lamp from behind any piece of furniture.
‘I want you to wait out here. I’ll send Jacquie.’
‘That will be nice.’ Medlicott sounded rather dubious and Maxwell remembered that he was new to the school.
‘She’s a woman policeman. A sergeant, in fact, soon to be inspector, we hope. So, she will take you up to your room and help you have a proper look.’
‘I’ve made a bit of a mess, you know, in suitcases and things.’
‘Never mind, she’s used to that kind of thing. Then, I’m going to get Guy Minter and Barton Joseph to go along the paths from here and see if she has ricked her ankle or something. I’d send the driver as well, except that we can’t waste time looking for him when he gets lost. What’s his name, by the way? The driver.’
Medlicott looked at him rather oddly. ‘You used it to him yesterday. I heard you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes you did. James, his name is, although I think he prefers Jim.’
Maxwell looked thoughtful for a moment and reran the conversation on the bus back through his head. He nodded as he remembered. ‘Right. Well, the fact remains, he probably wouldn’t be much help.’ He leant over and stuck his head round the door. ‘Mrs Maxwell,’ he called. ‘Could I just have you for a moment?’
Gales of laughter met his query. He shook his head. How could he possibly have fallen into that trap, after so many years at the chalkface? And how could so many Year Sevens be so quick on the uptake with the double entendre?
Jacquie walked through the dining room, head high and elbow low, causing a few minor injuries in her flight path.
‘Good elbow work there, heart,’ Maxwell commended her. ‘Now, we’ve done a bit of preliminary work and can’t fathom out where Izzy might have gone. Could you pop up with Tom and have a look at the room? Woman policemanly stuff, clues and so forth.’
She looked at them both standing there, the husband of the missing woman, hopeful that she could magic his wife out of the wardrobe with a cry of ‘Abracadabra’. Her own husband was looking rather sheepish. She knew that he was dying to mention that, since this wasn’t a murder case, he could get involved, especially since they weren’t even in Leighford, but somehow even he couldn’t manage the ‘m’ word at the moment. She sighed and gestured Tom Medlicott up the stairs. With a muttered promise to Maxwell that she would speak to him later, she followed.
Maxwell watched them go and then went into the dining room and spoke quietly to Guy and Barton. They sloped off, sadly not looking in the flesh as cool and undercover as they did in their imaginations. Maxwell slid into Guy’s vacated seat and gestured Sylvia and Pansy nearer. He filled them in on the plan and suggested that, even if the search was successful and the result quickly achieved, the whole brouhaha was taking up time which was pencilled in for travelling. Therefore, the morning’s trip to Carisbrooke Castle would have to be shelved.
‘We’ll have a few beach football tournaments,’ Sylvia suggested. She smiled at Pansy. ‘We can each umpire a game.’
‘Can we?’ Pansy asked, weakly.
‘Of course.’ Sylvia produced a whistle and blew it sharply. Pansy covered her ears. ‘Do you have a whistle, Mr Maxwell?’
‘Indeed I do, Nursie,’ Maxwell smiled. Sylvia Matthews had been his rock through the years, and they knew more about each other than was really decent, as their spouses often remarked. She wouldn’t ask him for a whistle if she hadn’t already known he had one in his trouser pocket. ‘One whistle, umpires for the use of.’
‘Excellent.’ She handed it to Pansy, who groaned. She stood up and faced the still-masticating children. ‘Finish eating asap, Year Seven,’ she said. ‘We have a slight change of plan this morning. Beach football.’ A cacophony of groaning met her remark. ‘Come on, now, you’re all young and fit. Mr Maxwell is going to join us, aren’t you, Mr Maxwell?’
Pansy looked round, an evil grin on her hungover face. ‘Yes, Mr Maxwell!’ she cried, with enthusiasm. ‘Do join us!’
‘Hooray!’ the room exploded. ‘Come on, Mr Maxwell! You can be on my team!’ and similar scary cries. Maxwell could do nothing but grin like a victim of strychnine poisoning and stand there, wishing Sylvia Matthews, Pansy Donaldson, Year Seven, but most of all Izzy Medlicott into the Seventh Circle of Hell.
‘I’ll go up and get changed, then, shall I?’ he muttered, through clenched teeth. Maxwell was not the owner of much sporting apparel. What would be the point? When he cycled, he was usually going somewhere where flannel trousers with a permanent cycle clip crease and a tweed jacket would be perfectly acceptable. On holiday, or on a school tr
ip, which was of course a completely different thing, he wore a slightly toned-down version of the same, the jacket tending towards blazer, the trousers linen, the footwear a deck shoe in place of the usual brogue. But in any case, he would be seriously hampered in a game of beach football.
‘You have football kit?’ Sylvia asked in hushed tones.
‘I had a whistle, didn’t I?’ he replied insouciantly and left the dining room, Nolan casually riding a hip.
‘Do you have a football kit, Dads?’ Nolan asked in amazement when they got to the door of their room.
Maxwell put his son down and hunkered lower to look him in the eye. ‘What do you think, mate?’ he asked the child.
Nolan lengthened his upper lip and placed it carefully over his lower, his thinking expression. He made a small sucking sound through his teeth. He looked at his father and announced, ‘No, Dads, I don’t think you have a football kit. And I think you have a plan so’s you won’t need one.’ He smiled at his father, who stood up, swung him in the air and landed him neatly with a kiss plonked on his curly head.
