Maxwell's Island

by M. J. Trow

  Maxwell was happily ensconced amongst his papers when he heard the car draw up. He looked up as Jacquie’s key turned in the door and judged the moment to speak so she didn’t die of shock.

  ‘Hello, hon,’ he said, from the gloom of the garage. ‘You’re home early.’

  She leapt a mile in the air and came down fuming. ‘Good God, Max! Are you trying to kill me?’ He hadn’t got the timing quite right, it appeared.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ he said. ‘I tried not to scare you. I thought you might notice the light.’ He sounded very contrite and as a rule she would have forgiven him on the spot, but she had had a serious word with herself in the car on the way home, wavering from wanting to tell him everything, to never wanting to speak to him about work ever again, and all points in between. So, of course, it was his fault.

  ‘Well, I didn’t!’ she snapped, standing in the doorway.

  He recognised this mood and decided he was too busy for it. ‘Well, don’t lurk, sweetness. You’re in my light.’

  She didn’t move straight away. He knew his Jacquie and she took the bait. ‘What are you doing in here, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit of research. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I had to do something.’ He held up his clutch of clippings.

  ‘I assume Nole isn’t back?’

  ‘No. For some reason Sylvia and Guy haven’t had enough of children so far this week and so they are taking him and Guy’s niece to Chessington.’

  ‘He’ll enjoy that,’ Jacquie said, smiling. ‘He and Lucy always get on … it is Lucy, isn’t it? Not his other neice, the bossy one?’

  ‘No, it’s Lucy. They’ll be bringing him back tonight or tomorrow if the kids can’t be separated, as usual. They’ll ring to confirm.’ Maxwell was more than ready to have his son back; twenty-four hours without him was plenty. But when he thought of the havoc he would wreak amongst the newspapers, building forts and tunnels with his father’s careful filing system, he was glad he was elsewhere.

  ‘Great. That gives us a good while, then. Leave that for a minute. Let’s go and get a sandwich – have you lunched, by the way?’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘I had a cup of tea and a biscuit with Mrs B.’

  Mrs B? Jacquie decided she would delve into that later. ‘Nor have I. Just a bag of Maltesers.’

  ‘One of my favourite food groups,’ Maxwell said, ‘but not really lunch. I’ve got this sandwich,’ he looked around him but there was no sign, ‘well, I had one. It’s under here somewhere.’ He gave up the search. ‘I bought some bread and bits. We’ll go up and have something to eat. What meal is it? Not brunch, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Tunch?’ tried Jacquie. ‘Lea? Lunch and tea doesn’t work so well, does it?’ She could never stay mad at him for long.

  ‘I think “tunch” has a ring to it,’ he said. He got up, showering bits of paper. He looked rather like Kerwin Mathews as Gulliver, shaking off the Lilliputians. Following her gaze, he said quickly, ‘I’ll clear up later. I’ll bring my clippings. See if anything fits your theories.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to talk about the case?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, Woman Policeman Carpenter-Maxwell,’ he laughed, kissing her. ‘When will you learn that you can’t fool an old fool? But I like it when you keep on trying.’

  She looked at him seriously for a moment. ‘I know I say this every time, Max, but please don’t—’

  ‘—use any of this information to get involved. Of course not, poppet.’ Despite Maxwell’s considerable thespian skills, it didn’t sound too convincing. ‘Now, get that apron on, woman, and make me my tunch!’

  Chapter Twenty

  The bacon-and-egg sandwiches went down a treat and soon Maxwell and Jacquie were sitting opposite each other across the kitchen table, each with a very welcome cup of tea.

  ‘That was nice,’ Jacquie said. ‘I had no idea how hungry I was.’

  ‘It’s having been on the school trip,’ Maxwell told her. ‘Having to feed the little dears regularly so they don’t turn into something even more unpleasant becomes a habit very quickly.’

  ‘You are always so nasty about them,’ Jacquie said, reprovingly. ‘They really weren’t that bad, I didn’t think.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Maxwell said. ‘If you want to see a school’s worth of pupils behaving badly, come in with me on Monday. Legs will announce the deaths in a special assembly. Girls will immediately start to cry and hug each other. Anyone not there will be texted. The boys will start to kick off, knowing that everyone will be making allowances. A large number will bunk off. Flowers will start appearing on the school gates and before you know it, it will be Grief Central. And that doesn’t even include the kids who were on the trip. The Ed Psychs will be circling like vultures, kids will be given counselling whether they want it or not. But only, of course, for point-three-five of the week because the County budget won’t spread any further. Pansy, Sylv and I will be asked if we would like counselling. We will all tell them to go and do the other thing. That will mean that we need counselling … but only, of course, for—’

  ‘I get your point,’ she said, to try to stop the flow. ‘But even so, I don’t think they were too bad on the trip. What with one thing and another.’

  ‘I must say, I was glad that Tom found Barton that first day. Otherwise, we would still be circling the Isle of Wight, trying to achieve escape velocity.’

  She spluttered into her tea. ‘He was a piece of work, wasn’t he, Jim? Was he a real coach driver, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve never known one who takes seven goes to get out of the one-way system in Leighford, I must say,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘One-way system? What was he doing there? It’s on the opposite side of town to the road to Southampton.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Maxwell said. ‘I think I rest my case.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Barton was a good bloke, though. It seems a shame that he doesn’t have a permanent job.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder if Legs would consider having him as supply to replace Tom.’

  She looked at him over the rim of her mug. ‘You can’t fool me,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to get him a job because he is a good bloke. You just want him in the vicinity to grill him in case he knows anything.’

  ‘And you think that’s a bad idea, I assume,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘Not a bad idea, no. But, the way the case is going, it’s not what happened on the trip that is important. There are lots of other threads which seem to be more relevant.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Now the moment had come, she still felt reticent. It was pointless asking him not to get involved. The sheaf of cuttings on the table between them proved that. But somehow there was a huge difference between letting him tinker about with old newspapers and telling him all she knew. But, and this was a big but, someone had tried to kill a defenceless old lady; an annoying and defenceless old lady, it had to be said, but she was, in the absence of anyone else to care, their annoying and defenceless old lady. Which meant the ‘zipped lip or no promotion rule’ no longer applied. So, she took a deep breath and told him everything she knew. Plus ça change.

  When she had finished, leaving nothing out, he leant back in his chair. ‘Is that it?’ he asked.

  ‘It?’ She was appalled. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. There are so many gaps, aren’t there? Did Izzy know she was her ex-husband’s beneficiary?’

  ‘I imagine so. I got the impression that it was part of the divorce settlement.’

  ‘Right. Do we know where Izzy was when he died?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘And now, of course, there’s no one to ask.’

  ‘Her mother no use on that one?’ he said, knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘Hah! Don’t ask me to even think about that woman. She was a nightmare. Tom had said she was grasping, but … I don’t think she ever thinks about anyone but herself, anyway. Even if she knew where Izzy was at the time, she wouldn�
��t remember. It gave me the willies when she implied that she and Izzy’s ex would have become an item, given time.’ Jacquie gave a huge shudder.

  ‘I’ll put that down as a no, then, shall I?’ Maxwell said, solemnly. As Jacquie opened her mouth to clarify further, he held up his hand. ‘Enough, already. Now, have you police people given any thought to who Izzy was with on the Wednesday night?’

  Jacquie ran her hands through her hair. ‘I think someone is on it, but it’s such a long shot. We really need to have a suspect, then see if we can put them there at the time, rather than try and pick someone out of a population of … what is it now? Sixty-six million, something like that?’

  ‘On the Isle of Wight? That’s huge for such a small place. I would have guessed at … what? A hundred and forty, hundred and fifty thousand people at the most. I mean, I know they used to say that the whole of the world’s population could stand on the Isle …’ He saw her expression and stopped. ‘Sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘I was being frivolous, I admit,’ she said. ‘But at the moment we have three suspects for Paul Masters, two for Izzy, one for Tom. And the one still standing is Izzy’s mother, Mizz Nelson, who wouldn’t have done the murders in that order, because she has now lost out entirely.’

  ‘Mizz?’ Maxwell said. ‘What a nightmare she must be, to be sure.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jacquie said. ‘Mizz. Henry hates that almost as much as you do. Possibly more. So, long story cut short, Henry is trying to get the other forces to agree that the cases are linked. Hampshire are OK with it; I think they have enough on their hands, what with the Bestival and the thousands of extra people that brings. Northants don’t see the Masters case as a case, so that’s also a problem. Henry wants to bring Mrs Troubridge’s fall into the mix, but that isn’t going too well. To be honest with you, hon, I was only too glad to come home.’

  ‘I hope you’re always glad to be home,’ Maxwell remarked, rather archly.

  She flicked at him across the table. ‘Can we have a bit of time off murder and mayhem for a while?’ she asked. ‘I feel as though I need another holiday already and I’m not even officially back from this one yet.’

  ‘Sweetie,’ he said. ‘Of course. You must be pooped. Let’s go and see Mrs Troubridge …’ he held out his hands, ‘no, hear me out. We’ll just go and pop in for a few minutes to see the old trout, then we’ll go round to Sylv’s and pick up Nole, peeling Lucy off him if we must. Fish and chips for supper, as if we didn’t have enough last week, and then home for a nice bath and bed. And that goes for all of us. Then, tomorrow, we’ll go … you pick.’

  ‘That all sounds good,’ she said with a sigh. ‘OK, let’s go to …’ She peeped at him from under her lashes. As predicted, he was mouthing ‘antique centre’ at her, hoping that it might have a subliminal effect. ‘… Marwell Zoo.’ She looked up at him properly. ‘That would be nice. See how all the little babies are progressing, the ones we saw in the spring.’

  ‘That reminds me of something,’ Maxwell said, pursing his lips and looking at the ceiling for inspiration, which, as usual, wasn’t there. ‘Never mind, I’ll remember it later. All right, the zoo it is.’

  Jacquie mimed extreme surprise. ‘No antiques?’ she said.

  He rifled through his cuttings. Not all of them were to do with the case, it transpired. He found the one he wanted and held it up.

  ‘Otter inner aim cord ize,’ she read.

  ‘What? No, no, that’s the wrong side. Sorry.’ He turned it round.

  ‘Antiques Fair, Winchester, Sunday the … oh, I see.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a deal. Antiques, then lunch, then zoo. Lunch is your shout.’

  ‘Yes, I must talk to you about money,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ It had never been an issue between them. Although they joked about ‘yours’ and ‘mine’, it was a case of mi dinero es su dinero in the Carpenter-Maxwell household.

  ‘Nothing, really. It’s just that Mrs B wondered if Mrs Troubridge is having money troubles. Apparently, she calls out, numbers mostly. Unless she was a bingo caller in a previous existence. The staff wondered if it is because she is worrying about money.’

  ‘Henry mentioned that.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Maxwell was relieved. ‘It’s not just a Mrs B-ism then. And of course, with her in hospital, bills will be coming in, and they will need to be paid.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I think there is a way of dealing with that. Sylvia will probably know. If we just sort the bills out as they arrive, there’s Patient Liaison, something like that.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maxwell said, the light dawning. ‘The almoner.’

  ‘Aren’t you a sweet old-fashioned little thing?’ she said, smoothing his cheek. ‘Yes, the almoner. When I was a little girl …’

  ‘Just after they stopped having almoners,’ he slipped in.

  ‘… I used to think they were the ladies who gave out nuts to the patients,’ she concluded.

  ‘As opposed to most NHS staff now …’ he began.

  ‘… who just say nuts to the patients.’ She kissed the tip of his nose. ‘We should go on the stage,’ she said, and went off to shower and change. She had worn suede in a fish restaurant with Nolan before and had come to regret it.

  ‘We’d be a riot,’ Maxwell said. He also needed to shower and change, if only to get rid of the large black smear down the middle of his face which both Mrs B and Jacquie had found it amusing not to mention.

  Jacquie and Maxwell weren’t quite sure what they would find when they visited Mrs Troubridge in Bed 7, Lady Elizabeth Molester that afternoon. Maxwell had not told Jacquie quite how bad she was, Mrs B had slightly exaggerated to Maxwell. So it was anybody’s guess.

  ‘Which one is she?’ Jacquie whispered as she peered through the glass as they sanitised their hands. ‘They all look the same.’

  Maxwell peered in as well and pointed with a still slightly damp finger. ‘There she is, third along. Oh, that’s good. She’s sitting up. She was flat-out when I was here last night.’

  As they walked into the almost silent ward, a nurse looked up and beckoned them over. ‘Mr Maxwell?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Maxwell, yes,’ he said, putting one foot in the stirrup of his high horse. ‘Is there a problem?’

  Jacquie was turning round from the nurses’ station and waving at Mrs Troubridge, who lifted a weak hand in greeting.

  ‘We’ve had … a call,’ the nurse said, looking embarrassed. ‘Asking that we don’t allow you to visit Mrs Troubridge. In case she gets upset.’

  ‘But look,’ Jacquie said, pointing. ‘She’s waving at us.’

  ‘Waving at you,’ the nurse pointed out. ‘Not at him. Sorry, but I have my orders.’

  ‘From whom?’ Jacquie asked, sharply.

  ‘Well … from the person who rang up, I assume,’ the nurse said, looking for the Post-it note which had carried the message.

  ‘And that person was …?’ Jacquie was already reaching into her bag and only Maxwell knew what she was searching for.

  ‘They didn’t give their name, I don’t think. A well-wisher, I suppose you might call them.’

  ‘So,’ Jacquie said, keeping her hand below the level of the desk, with her warrant card firmly clasped in her fist, ‘an anonymous caller rang in to say that Mr Maxwell, specifically, should not be allowed to visit Mrs Troubridge.’

  ‘More or less, yes,’ the nurse said, folding her arms and looking truculent.

  ‘Any reasons?’ Jacquie’s voice was ice.

  ‘It upsets her, the man said …’

  ‘That’s a help,’ Jacquie said. ‘A man, was it?’

  ‘I believe so. I didn’t actually take the call. I think we all assumed that it was the man who has been visiting. A Mr Hall, I think it was. He’s a policeman.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jacquie. ‘And here’s a coincidence.’ She brought her warrant card up to face level. ‘So am I. Now, I happen to know that DCI Hall would have made no such call, that Mrs Troubridge would want my husband to v
isit and so that is what he is going to do.’ She walked away from the nurses’ station towards Mrs Troubridge’s bed.

  Maxwell, glancing behind, saw the nurse reach for the phone, hit one button and speak into the receiver without taking her eyes off them. He was sorry he had made his plea for no Old Leighford Highenas. One would come in useful around about now. He and Jacquie sat one each side of their neighbour and each took a hand. That she squeezed back showed how glad she was to see them. Usually any physical contact, apart from with Nolan, was strictly off limits.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Troubridge,’ Jacquie said. ‘You’ve given us quite a fright.’

  ‘I’ve been so worried,’ she said, in a small, weak voice. ‘Such dreams, I’ve had. Flying. Wardrobes. Showers of money.’ She looked at Maxwell. ‘Metternich, he was there.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘I was so frightened,’ she said, her voice getting shriller. ‘Please, please don’t …’

  The nurse slid off her stool to come over to the bedside. She was stopped halfway across the room by the entry of some shoulders, dressed in a dark-blue uniform. ‘That’s him, there,’ she said, in the strident whisper specially taught to nurses, particularly those likely to do a lot of nights.

  ‘Right,’ said the security officer, shooting his cuffs and making his way over to Bed 7. Maxwell turned round and, lo and behold, an Old Leighford Highena, as he lived and breathed. ‘Hello, Mr Maxwell,’ the man said. ‘They said on the phone it was a Mr Maxwell, but I said to my mate, it can’t be our Mr Maxwell and he said no, it can’t. He went up the school as well; you taught us up to GCSE.’ He turned to Jacquie. ‘This your good lady?’ Jacquie nodded and the man shook her hand, almost wrenching her arm off at the elbow. ‘Glad to meet you. “Mad Max”, we used to call your old man, you know. T’cha. Old times, eh? Sorry about this little misunderstanding. I’ll sort it out.’ Suddenly, he struck a pose with one finger in the air. ‘Neville Chamberlain was the first British prime minister to fly. I’ve never forgot that, Mr Maxwell. Won us a pub quiz, that did, last week.’ He leant over and shouted at Mrs Troubridge. ‘I’ll leave you with your visitors, shall I, love? Yes! Nice visitors!’ Then, on a rather less volcanic level, to Maxwell and Jacquie, ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Maxwell. Nice to meet you, Mrs Maxwell,’ and he turned on his heel and strode over to the nurses’ station. From her vantage point, Jacquie could see the body language and decided that for everyone’s sake, it was as well they couldn’t hear what the Old Leighford Highena was saying in support of his hero. ‘Ape’ would have gone through the shredder for that man.