Maxwell's Revenge

by M. J. Trow

  ‘If I am to call you Max, Max,’ she smiled over the rim of her cup and for a moment she looked so like Jacquie that Maxwell did a double take, ‘you must call me … well, what do you want to call me? Not Mum, surely?’

  ‘Would you mind if I didn’t?’ Maxwell asked. ‘It’s an age thing, really. Can’t I just call you by your name?’

  ‘Like you, I’ve never used it much. Jacquie’s father always called me “Darling” or something similar. Having you call me “Betty” makes me feel I’m at work.’

  At that moment Nolan, with the perfect timing he had inherited from his father, turned from his toys and, with a grin, pointed at his grandmother and said, very clearly, ‘Ninja!’

  ‘My word,’ she said. ‘What a compliment!’

  ‘And what a brilliant name,’ Maxwell laughed. ‘Ninja it is, although I will try to stick to Betty in public. People might not understand.’

  So Jacquie walked in on a happy family scene; not the one with the blood and feathers she had been imagining all the way up the stairs, having seen her mother’s car at the kerb. ‘Hello, chaps,’ she said, kissing her men. ‘Hello, Mum. You must have set off early.’ She made a small grimace over her mother’s head at Maxwell. It spoke volumes, but it came from the one labelled ‘Love You – Sorry’ on the spine.

  ‘Not at all, dear,’ her mother said, giving her daughter a cheek to kiss. ‘We’ve had a lovely time.’ She drew back and gave Jacquie a shrewd glance. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘Well, I would do,’ Jacquie said, testily. ‘I’ve been up since midnight. And I didn’t get to bed till eleven.’

  Maxwell stood up and went over to her. ‘Nice cuppa tea?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thanks. Not even a horrible one. I just want to get a quick shower and then a lie-down.’ She looked at her mother. ‘Mum, do you mind? I’m pooped.’

  ‘Of course you are, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Look, I’ll give Nolan his breakfast while you two have a chat and then Max can settle you down, can’t you, dear? What does he have, something like groats or rusk?’

  While Jacquie digested the ‘Max’ and the ‘dear’, Maxwell explained that actually the only cereal to pass her grandson’s lips at the moment was Coco Pops. And the trick with giving him those was to stand well clear and have a friend check you over before you next went out in public. Before she could launch into the cereals given to babies in her day, when that nice Mr Asquith was at Number Ten, Maxwell and Jacquie had made a break for the stairs and freedom.

  While Jacquie had her shower, Maxwell got the guest room ready. That meant moving the huge stack of books from the floor. At least that gave him a chance to look up a few old friends. Schama. Tawney. Trevor-Roper. Even JH Elliott lay in the pile. They all found their historical way into the wardrobe while Maxwell removed the Metternich hair which had woven itself into a facsimile of the great beast on the foot of the duvet. When he heard the water switch off, he went back into their bedroom and closed the door. Jacquie emerged from the bathroom in a waft of steam and lay on the bed with an arm over her eyes. He poked her on the leg.

  ‘Oy. Sleeping Beauty. Can you stay awake for a minute longer? I’m agog.’

  ‘Hello, Gog,’ she muttered. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Means. Motive. Opportunity.’

  ‘Whether they are still alive?’

  ‘That too, of course.’ There was a pause. ‘Poor people. I hope they are all right.’

  ‘Don’t overdo it.’ She sat up and arranged the pillows behind her back. ‘As a matter of fact, they are fine. They are staying in until tomorrow for rest and recuperation. The children are at an undisclosed location in case it was targeted, but we don’t think it is.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It was the Eccles cake, by the way.’

  ‘That makes sense. I never liked them ever since I realised they were named after a Goon. Anything else in the shop got at?’

  ‘Oh, don’t. That’s a huge task. I’ve never seen so many extra SOCOs drafted in. They’ve had to strip the shop and test everything: every wrapper, every cap, every bun and loaf. It will take days. Angus is totting up the overtime as we speak.’

  Maxwell chuckled. He had heard about Angus. ‘Do they have the poison, yet?’

  ‘They haven’t pinned it down, but it isn’t anything meant to be fatal, we don’t think. It is an emetic of some kind and, of course, could be dangerous in someone very old, very young or already ill. But really, it isn’t that important. The poisoner seems to have turned from precise targets to random ones and that’s the worry. He—’

  ‘… or she,’ chipped in Maxwell.

  Jacquie looked doubtful. ‘Yes, or she, but it was a man who pushed Sylv over.’

  Maxwell shrugged. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He, the poisoner, could have laced every shop in Leighford with noxious substances by now. He wouldn’t have had to put it in many things. It could just slumber away in freezer cabinets for days, weeks, months until someone buys it, then uses it. Imagine, if he has contaminated something like a pack of dried mushrooms, a Pot Noodle, something you buy against the day. It could be next year before it gets used.’

  They sat for a moment in a shared and silent ponder. ‘But, fragrant one,’ Maxwell said, ‘that sets us a bit of a problem, surely.’

  ‘What, another? As if we didn’t have enough already. What is it?’

  ‘Well, at first, we thought it was someone who had targeted the school. Then we thought it was Mr Bevell. Now it’s random. And possibly a bit of a time bomb. Why would anyone want to poison randomly over what could become years? Isn’t gain the only motive left? And no one has asked for money or made contact with the police in any shape or form.’

  ‘It hasn’t been long, Max. Only two days.’

  ‘So I keep telling myself. What do we do, then? Just wait and see? I think you’ll find that the good burghers of Leighford won’t do that. Excuse the pun. The school didn’t have half the kids it should have on Friday. As soon as this latest little bit of fun gets into the news, the schools will be empty, the shops as well. People feel very strongly about food. It’s deep in those lizard brains we still carry in our heads; it’s a nurture thing, a trust thing. Giving food is love; parents don’t risk poisoning their kids. What you put in your mouth isn’t supposed to kill you. The phrase is to die for, not of. Most people carry enough food for a week or so, if not more, in cupboards and freezers. I think those stores will get a bit of an airing in the next few days.’

  Jacquie looked at him, through sleepy eyes. ‘Are you serious? The town will grind to a halt?’

  ‘Trust me on this one, heart. An historian is never wrong. Want to start a panic? Stand by the bread counter in Asda and shout “I hear there’s a bread shortage” and you’ll be killed in the stampede. Death by housewife. This historian can tell, too, that you are nearly asleep. Snuggle down now, and have a kip. Ninja and I will see to Nole.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said, sleepily. ‘I think I will close my eyes for a …’ She sat up suddenly. ‘Ninja?’

  But all she heard in reply was a chuckle and his soft footsteps on the stairs.

  Downstairs in the dining room, a small battle was being waged and at this early stage it was hard to tell who was winning. Nolan seemed to have the upper hand; he had after all got his Coco Pops. But Nolan’s grandmother had a secret weapon. In order to be his grandmother she first had been his mother’s mother and that role had taught her much. She had learnt negotiating skills that would put most SWAT teams to shame. Move over, Kevin Spacey. So she had introduced to the breakfast table some slices of wholemeal toast which she had spread with organic marmalade. She was eating them with extravagant enjoyment and Nolan’s interest was piqued. His spooning was automatic but lacked its usual enthusiasm. Maxwell noted with amusement that he had hardly any cereal in his hair and absolutely none up his nose. This woman would take watching. Who could tell what she might think of next? Straight bananas? The Boy chewing his food forty times?
/>   He sat down next to his son. ‘Nice brekker?’ he asked, in a casual tone.

  ‘Mmm,’ said the boy, still watching his chewing grandparent.

  Maxwell smiled at his mother-in-law-to-be. ‘Clever Ninja,’ he remarked.

  ‘If you say so,’ she smiled. ‘Toast?’ She pushed the plate towards him.

  Maxwell toyed with raising a glass to someone like ‘The King Over the Water’ or ‘The Little Gentleman in Velvet’, but only Nole would get it, so he settled for a feeble, ‘No thanks. I know that wholemeal toast tastes like the burnt remains of a budgie cage bottom. But keep up the good work; I think Nolan might be fooled.’

  There was a silence, broken only by Nolan’s spoon clinking on the bowl. Then Maxwell spoke again; this time there was no humour in his voice, no room for doubt.

  ‘Betty. Sorry to be so formal, but this is serious. If you take Nolan out for a walk, or a drive, please don’t buy him any food or drink. Take everything with you. Take a flask for yourself as well.’

  ‘But surely, Max,’ she said. ‘Something like an ice cream? Or a bottle of juice?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing is safe. A perfectly innocent couple were poisoned last night by an Eccles cake from their own shop. The police haven’t found out yet what the poison is; in fact, they are referring to it as a noxious substance, which to me sounds worse than plain old arsenic or strychnine, but there you are.’

  ‘Are they going to be all right?’ Betty asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, I believe so. But at Leighford High School someone died and others are in a very serious condition. A teacher was given something horrible yesterday; he’s all right now, but feeling pretty ropey, Jacquie says. There was another attempt on one of the original victims in the hospital. But now it seems to have become much wider, more random. And so that’s why I’m saying, don’t let Nole have anything to eat outside. It will need planning; the child is like a dustbin. Take crisps, biscuits, juice boxes. Pack as though you are going on a safari even if you just go to the end of the road. I don’t want you to be driven by his yelling to buy him something.’

  ‘Give me a bit of credit,’ she bridled. ‘I have brought up a child, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maxwell said gravely. ‘And may I congratulate you on an excellent job. But that was a while ago now, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me saying, and I can’t imagine that Jacquie had a pair of lungs on her like his, and although I grant you she is a very determined woman, she has passed on the stubborn gene times ten to her son.’

  Betty looked at him, head cocked on one side. ‘I wonder where the other nine parts came from,’ she remarked to no one in particular. Then, she swept the plates and mugs up and carried them into the kitchen. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll guard him with my life.’

  ‘I know you will,’ he said, and bent to kiss his little boy’s head. ‘I know you will.’ But, alone in that house, he knew that, sometimes, even your best isn’t good enough. That the wet road, the speeding car, the innocent bar of chocolate, can rob you of all you love.

  Saturday lunchtime came and went. Jacquie’s store cupboard was perhaps not quite as well stocked as Delia Smith’s, but it beat Old Mother Hubbard’s into a cocked hat. She and her mother calculated that, as long as ravening hordes did not descend on them, they were good for a fortnight, give or take. It might get a bit boring towards the end, but as long as they paced themselves on the pasta, it should all go well. They wouldn’t have to do a General Gordon and kill their favourite camel. Metternich, now, might be different … And by then, well, the poisoner would be caught or they would all decamp to Grandma’s house or shop at a distant Tesco, far from Leighford.

  A siege mentality had descended on 38 Columbine. Maxwell felt like singing a few wartime standards from his Vera Lynn Songbook and had indeed let fall a few platitudes about planting carrots for the night fighters, joining the parson in parsnips and listening to Lord Haw Haw on the wireless, until silenced by Jacquie. Nolan’s car seat had been relocated in Ninja’s car, with only one pinched thumb and a small amount of language calculated to make a mother-in-law-to-be bridle, and he and his grandmother had driven off for a bracing walk along the Dam. Maxwell had seen them off with a tightened throat and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew she would look after him. He knew she wouldn’t let him eat anything. He had told her so many times how important it was that she had finally told him rather tersely that, although his son was not a Gremlin, she didn’t intend to feed him, before or after midnight.

  As they waved them off, Jacquie and Maxwell held hands so hard it hurt.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t worry.’

  He gave her a hug. ‘I can’t promise that,’ he said. ‘But I promise I’ll try not to run up to the Dam and follow them to make sure.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ she said. ‘Now, I have a bit of a surprise for you.’

  ‘Ooh, goodie. I assume it isn’t coffee and cake at our favourite rendezvous?’

  ‘Better. It’s coffee and a biscuit in Henry Hall’s office. I rang him at home before I came down from my nap. I told him what you said, about the food panics and how it might all go. He wants to have a chat with you, see if you might be able to see a connection between all these different cases. He doesn’t want to face the fact that we may have a mass poisoner on the loose, but he can’t ignore it.’

  ‘Henry Hall wants to see me? Again? I thought I annoyed him enough on Thursday.’

  ‘Apparently not. You must be slipping.’

  ‘Second time lucky, then. Is there a set time? Do I have time to do my hair?’

  ‘Max. Stop taking the piss. But you might want to put some shoes on. After that strange ensemble you were wearing last time, we want to try and make a good impression, don’t you think?’

  Maxwell looked down at his feet. He was wearing the slippers given him by the Ninja last Christmas, and he agreed that mules made to look like pints of Guinness perhaps didn’t give the impression of coherent intelligence that he wanted to convey. He held a finger in the air and trotted back into the house. He came back a few minutes later, suitably shod and twirling Jacquie’s car keys round his finger.

  ‘Off we go, then,’ he said, hopping into the car. He bent round to click shut his seat belt and could scarcely prevent a small scream of alarm when he straightened up to find Mrs Troubridge’s face pressed against his window. He rolled it down, stretching her cheek in a disconcerting George A Romero moment as he did so.

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ Mrs Troubridge trilled. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that dear little Nolan was taken away just now. Social Services can be so interfering, can’t they?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Maxwell was, as was so frequently the case, completely flummoxed by the old bat’s thought processes.

  ‘That rather boot-faced woman who took Nolan away. Social Services, had it written all over her. I knew that woman with the dog was going to ring them. After he was abandoned yesterday, you know.’

  Jacquie leant across Maxwell and said curtly, ‘My mother, Mrs Troubridge. Nolan’s granny. Come to stay for a while. And if the woman with the dog has so much as picked up her phone, she will be so sorry. If she doesn’t disinfect the entire pavement every time her dog farts, I’ll have her up for fouling, just see if I don’t. Sorry, must go.’ And she pressed the window button and they watched in horror as her face rose up pressed to the glass. The memory of the eye disappearing behind spare cheek until she broke away with a faint plop would revisit them in the watches of the night for years. ‘Mad old bat,’ she muttered, reading Maxwell’s mind as she slammed the Ka into gear. ‘Social Services, indeed.’ She drove in silence for a while, then, ‘Boot-faced. Hah!’

  Maxwell knew better than to speak. It was an odd conundrum that, although Jacquie looked like her mother, the features that they shared had been distributed in different ways. On Jacquie, they were attractive, open, regular and downright gorgeous. On her mother, they had come together to resemble
a boot. Nature could be cruel. He stifled a small smile. No point in antagonising her. He had a long way to go and must be steady.

  Chapter Twelve

  Henry Hall was rather undecided about weekends. On the one hand, he didn’t have to go to work. On the other hand, if he stayed at home he would be roped in to painting something, digging something or going off on what Margaret called ‘a lovely long ramble’ with another couple who seemed to wear seven-league boots as a matter of course. So, when work called, he didn’t really mind. Alice had the IQ of a lamp base and Norman sold insurance; nuff said. He usually had to put up with token resistance at home, but this time his wife almost shoved him out of the door. That lizard brain that Maxwell had identified was working overtime already in Margaret’s head. Contaminated food was the start of the end of the world and her man could stop it in his tracks. Superman. Mighty Mouse. The Incredible Hulk. He stirred his coffee moodily and raised the mug to his lips. As he took his first sip, his heart skipped a beat and he waited to see if it would manage another. All was well – for a start, he could tell by a strange old-damp-shoe taste at the back of his throat that the coffee had been in the canteen for more years than he could tell.

  He needed his caffeine at the moment. He was at least one man down, with Bob Davies suspended, and it was hard to make the rota work without him. The man may be a menace to many sections of polite society, but at least he was a name to put in the box. And pressing forward with his case wasn’t going to be easy. There was no reply from his landline or mobile and the ex-Mrs Davies was not much help; as far as she was concerned he was too near if he was on Mars, coming, as she did, from Venus. He plied his eraser again as he discovered he had used one person three times in one time slot. He knew most of them could manage two, but three was pushing it a bit. As though to save him from himself, there was a tap on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ he called. It wasn’t like him, but he was feeling a bit jittery. The place was too quiet; he wasn’t used to it.