Maxwell's Return

by M. J. Trow

  He carried on positioning Cooper’s arms for a moment or two, bringing the plastic hands together as though shelling an egg and then leaned over and prodded the cat in a particularly portly part with his brush.

  ‘I said, that would be a bit of a result.’ The cat turned over with a grunt and Maxwell nodded. ‘Exactly. The poor kid is still pregnant, though. Just another statistic, you might say and before you were Done I daresay you were responsible for many such. But you didn’t prey on kittens, did you, unless you fancied a snack, presumably. This is an adult, not a kid who opens his flies and his brains fall out. He knows better. It’s a choice and it’s a choice we’ve got to prevent him making again.’

  There was a pause, totally silent apart from a slight creak from the linen basket.

  ‘Yes,’ Maxwell said, gesturing at the cat. ‘I did say “we”. After all, it was me who got Bernard’s alibi, it was me to whom Lindsey came with her little problem… No, I don’t know why. Race memory, I suppose. So, yes, the bottom line, my feline friend, my companion of a vole, “we” I said and “we” I mean. Let’s talk serial killers, Count.’

  Maxwell set the 54mm ex-plumber aside to dry and stared up at the stars beginning to come out beyond his skylight. ‘Since you are one, I expect your input to be pithy and precise. As I understand it, we left 74% of them behind when we left the dear ol’ US of A. So all we have to worry about are the remaining 86% who live here in Leighford. Sorry.’ He caught the cat’s steely gaze. ‘A little flippant perhaps, bearing in mind the subject matter. Let’s look at the victims first of all. Two dead girls, both mid-teens and a possible third – attempted. Did they know each other? Josie went to St Olave’s – most kids meet via school unless they’re neighbours. Molly went there too, but only for a few days, tasters for this coming term. Lindsey’s girl was at Leighford for a while – yes, of course, Count,’ he heard the animal’s disapproving inrush of breath. ‘I’ll be checking with her Year Head tomorrow; although… Year Seven, that’s Angie ‘Airhead’ Skillington, so my hopes are not of the highest.’

  He was twirling the paintbrush in his fingers. ‘Of course, they could have met at a disco, nightclub, wherever girlies go after dark. School may be a red herring,’ and he winked at Metternich. ‘Makes your mouth water, doesn’t it, me ol’ piscavore? One type of serial killer is disorganised. He’s driven by forces he can’t control, so he’s an opportunist. He’ll launch a blitz attack one night and he’s brought no murder weapon with him. In this case, the cause of death is strangulation so the weapon of choice is a ligature of some kind or his bare hands. He leaves the body where it is and does a runner…’

  Maxwell sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was getting too old for this. Close-focus modelling and crime-solving, all at the end of a day’s work. Where was the light at the end of the tunnel?

  ‘But that’s not his MO, is it, Count?’ he said, picking up the two halves of Private Cooper’s horse, minus, for the moment, head and tail. ‘Chummy doesn’t leap on people out of the shadows. He selects them, grooms them. Hell, if Lindsey’s girl’s bloke is our man, he lives with them. Sex, presumably, is consensual, so that’s not likely to be the motive. But power, you see, Count, power. Robbie Coltrane in Cracker used to do it well, didn’t he? Remember?’

  The cat didn’t.

  Maxwell lapsed into Lowland Scots. ‘He’s won the girl away from her family, her friends. She’s his plaything now. She belongs to him.’ He dropped the Coltrane suddenly, and became what passed for himself again. ‘The Home Secretary assures us that domestic slavery is all too common in this great country of ours. Subservients brought up in confined spaces, locked into some ghastly Stockholm Syndrome relationship with their captors. Is that what we’re talking about here? And does the captor suddenly have no more use – or no more space – for these girls? So he discards them, like so much recyclable waste?’

  He frowned at the black and white beast coiled in front of him. ‘Talking of which,’ he sighed, ‘Isn’t it about time you began your cycle of killing? I’m sure there’s a rodent out there somewhere with your name on it – if you’ll excuse the unlikely idiom for a moment. Off you bugger – I think I just heard the Mem draw up outside and she’ll want a bite to eat.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Head of Sixth Form’s ears had not misled him and he met Jacquie on the landing, she at the top of the stairs, he at the bottom. She smiled weakly at him and mimed a cup of tea and a sandwich as she headed for the sitting room where he heard her bag land with a thump on the floor. This was standard practice for his wife who, although clean, could never be accused of being tidy. The floor for her was just one enormous shelf and she used it to its maximum. The house was still Hector Gold clean – which meant very clean indeed – but things were beginning to gather in the corners, including a new civilization of socks in the corner of the bedroom. Never mind, Maxwell smiled and looked back over his shoulder to where Jacquie’s shadow danced on the wall between the windows overlooking the street, he wouldn’t have her any other way.

  When he joined her in the sitting room, cup of tea steaming and the sandwich a tempting round of her favourite ham and hummus, he found her relaxed back in her favourite chair and her feet up on a stool. She held out a hand wordlessly for the tray and took a swig and a mouthful, in that order. She chewed with her eyes closed and then sighed. ‘You have no idea how much I was looking forward to that,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Your ex-star mathematician might be bright but she’s not much of a hostess.’

  ‘A lot on her plate,’ Maxwell suggested.

  ‘Hmm.’ She took another bite of her sandwich and nodded. ‘She does have a houseful. But I don’t know if it is going to get much bigger after all.’

  ‘Oh?’ If Maxwell was surprised at the level of sharing, he didn’t show it.

  ‘I’m telling you this because I have no doubt Lindsey will be round tomorrow telling nice Mr Maxwell all about it, how his nasty wife asked her April all sorts of things that are rude and unnecessary. She has suddenly decided to pretend that April is as innocent as a babe unborn – is that a quote? It sounds like one. Anyway, I think someone, her mother perhaps or a friend, has told her that if she admits that April has been at it like a weasel since she left Junior School, the Social will be round to take the kids, including her own unborn one. So we had a bit of an uphill struggle, to say the least. I kicked the mother out from the first – she really does call a spade a spade. Some of the words she used for having sex I’m going to have to look up later. Lindsey isn’t foul mouthed, but she seems totally… unsurprised, is the word, I think. When she remembered, that is.’

  ‘She did take me aback a bit, being so casual about the promiscuity.’ Maxwell had thought he knew it all, but he had to admit that Lindsey took lax parenting to a new level.

  ‘Yes, well, in the end, we had to get her to leave the room as well. We could hear the two of them at it hammer and tongs in the kitchen. Blaming each other, I suppose. Fortunately, one of our appropriate adults had just come in with her expenses sheet as I was leaving the Nick and I nabbed her to come with me.’

  ‘Ah, you had your precognition turned on all right,’ Maxwell smiled.

  ‘I certainly did. For some reason, the kid really took to her. Most of the time she does the appropriate bit with some real low-lives so she came into her own when dealing with basically a very nice, very scared little girl.’

  ‘You mentioned the family not getting bigger…’

  ‘Yes,’ Jacquie frowned and put her hand on her own stomach, reminiscently. ‘I think April may be planning a termination. She isn’t very far along and she certainly fits all the criteria for getting one quickly. And…’ she paused, struggling for words. Since having Nolan, it was sometimes hard to be hard. She swallowed and took another run at it. ‘It will be easier for us to extract DNA. From the foetus, you know, rather than by amniocentesis.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said softly.

  ‘Anyway, she’s seeing a social worker
tomorrow. I personally think that is the only way out, but it has to be her decision, in the end.’

  ‘Does it make any difference the baby being the result of sexual assault?’ Maxwell checked.

  ‘Is it?’ Jacquie said, suddenly remembering her sandwich and taking another bite. ‘There was no assault as far as I could tell. This bloke…’

  ‘Do we have a name? We can’t keep calling him “this bloke” can we?’

  ‘Bearing in mind that you shouldn’t be calling him anything at all,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Always bearing that in mind, dearest, of course,’ he said. ‘So, name?’

  ‘No, and funny you should call me “dearest” at that point, because apparently, he told her that names were only labels, that they were no longer who they had once been before they met and so they only used endearments.’

  Maxwell whistled through his teeth. ‘What a very, very clever predator you have to catch, Detective Inspector Jacqueline Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-their-nobles-with-links-of-iron Carpenter-Maxwell, to give you your full title.’

  ‘Now, that is a quote!’

  ‘Macaulay, well spotted, yes. But that is just what I would do, if I wanted to trap and discard someone. Disorient them by taking away their identity, whilst making them think that losing their name is a good thing and meanwhile making sure they don’t know who you are. Genius!’ Maxwell tried not to grin – this man was a monster and had to be stopped. But still… it was damned clever.

  ‘We asked her if she had any seen any post, had anyone rung and overheard him answer with his name, all that; but the answer was no – he never slipped, not once. And of course, using random endearments makes it foolproof in bed. None of this accidentally murmuring the wrong name.’

  ‘Indeed, Mousehabit,’ he said. ‘It does. This bloke… oh, for heavens’ sake,’ he said, ‘you must have a name for him. The Vole or something.’

  ‘The case has been assigned a random name, yes, just for filing and reference, but it came out as Umbrella. The next one copped Viking which would have been easier to use without laughing, but that went to someone who has been widdling in other people’s wheelie bins. Quite impressive range, by all accounts.’ She finished her tea in one gulp and put her tray to one side, brushing random crumbs from her lap. ‘Delicious, thank you,’ she smiled.

  Maxwell was delighted, however. ‘Umbrella man!’ he said. ‘From the Zapruder film.’ He looked at her before her went on.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, flapping a hand. ‘Grassy knoll, all that. Okay, Umbrella Man he is. However, may I point out that this is no help at all, except for convenience. We can’t search the electoral roll for Mr U Man, can we?’

  ‘No, but it helps him seem more real, rather than a nebulous “bloke”. Next, address?’

  ‘Absolutely no help. She ran out in a blind panic, was driven home by what she describes as a nice lady, she thinks she might be foreign because she was sitting on the wrong side of the car.’

  ‘Tourist.’ Maxwell slumped in his seat.

  ‘Indeed. Tourist. And she could be anywhere in Europe by now. We’ll have to leave that strand as something to follow when all else fails. In any case, April thinks she may have run as much as half a mile before getting picked up.’

  ‘Umm, what else is there?’ Maxwell held up a wagging finger.

  ‘Well, description, I suppose. Sadly, she was looking through the eyes of love.’

  ‘Uh oh! Let me guess. In the old days it would have been Sean Connery. Who is it now?’

  ‘Well, this is where I was surprised. Daniel Craig, so same franchise. I took this to mean that he really is that type. Daniel Craig rather than Daniel Radcliffe. So we have settled on medium height, up to six foot. Lightish hair rather than dark. Thirties rather than twenties…’

  ‘Mr Craig would be delighted,’ Maxwell observed. ‘But I also assume this lets out the stepfather, the boyfriend, the builder… I don’t quite know what label to use for the man, lacking, as I do, his name.’

  He smiled encouragingly at her but she just smiled right on back.

  ‘I don’t know why I assume stepfathers have to be older…’ he hinted.

  ‘Yes, it does let him out. For this one, at least. We are not anxious to put all our eggs in one basket just yet. But, anyway, if I can interrupt myself,’ Jacquie said, ‘we did ask her about age and got some photos out, just the usual suspects, you know, the equivalent of a quick identity parade. She immediately threw out everyone over around thirty five as an old git, so we decided that he is in his thirties.’

  ‘So, thirties, blondish, tallish… build?’

  Jacquie almost blushed. ‘I don’t think you want to know the details. But apparently he does strip off quite well.’

  Maxwell chuckled. It wasn’t often his wife was discomfited. ‘Any distinguishing marks or features?’

  ‘May I refer you to my previous answer?’ she said, ‘or I will have to take the Fifth.’

  ‘He has five of them?’ Maxwell said, throwing up his hands in horror.

  ‘To hear April, he would need every one. I think she was trying to shock me and Viv – the appropriate adult – but she gave up after a while. She got quite tearful, poor little soul. All she wanted was someone to love her.’

  ‘I wonder how he finds these girls?’ Maxwell mused, tapping a forefinger on his chin.

  ‘Just prowls, I assume. He certainly picked April up on the Esplanade.’

  ‘LeighfordEsplanade?’

  ‘No. Brighton. But he lives in Leighford. We know that for sure.’

  ‘So the fact that the other girls come from Brighton way is not a red herring?’ He didn’t usually use the same phrase twice in one evening if he could help it, but sometimes it had to be done.

  ‘We don’t know. Because we don’t know where he met them, how he got into conversation with them… in fact, without having the perp in custody, we really don’t know much.’ She stopped for a moment and ran the sentence back. She smiled across at Maxwell, who had raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Sorry about the perp thing. Umbrella Man, I mean.’

  Maxwell decided to turn the conversation from its current cul de sac. ‘Do you think the DNA will help, however you get it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I doubt it, except as proof later. I just don’t get the impression that this bl… Umbrella Man is on our books. His methods don’t really fit the pattern of a large-scale sexual predator. He has taken at least one girl back to his house. He doesn’t like having sex anywhere but inside, according to April, so he isn’t likely to be the sort to jump out at girls and drag them into the bushes. They are the ones that tend to get caught. The impulsive attackers. The flashers. That kind of thing.’

  Maxwell looked across at her, noting the shadows under her eyes, the way one bit of hair stood up at one side of her head where she had run exasperated fingers through it. ‘Early night?’ he asked.

  ‘Is it still early enough to count as early?’ she asked, squinting at the clock on the DVD player.

  ‘It depends on where you are,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty early in LA. In fact, it’s positively afternoon. Call it a siesta, and it will seem early. What do you say?’

  ‘I say I think that sounds like a plan,’ she said. ‘I’ll just look in on Nole and then hit the hay.’

  ‘If he’s smiling, don’t be surprised,’ Maxwell said.

  She cocked her head and put her arms around him, leaning briefly on his shoulder. ‘Scrabble?’ she said, indistinctly.

  ‘I couldn’t possible comment,’ he said, rubbing her back then giving her a decisive pat. ‘Come on, bed for you, woman. Tomorrow it will be another day, another collar.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ she said and made for the stairs.

  Down on the seafront at Leighford, there was a fin de siècle air abroad, as all the schoolchildren from the town made the most of the last of the late nights. Back to school tomorrow, back to scratchy jumpers, shiny-bummed trousers, new, squeaky shoes. Back to looking like a kid, instead o
f anything upwards of twenty. There were a handful of boys there, leaning in gangs on the railings, shouting half-hearted insults at the girls as they tottered past in too high heels and too-tight jeans. They looked like baby colts, all legs and knees, eyelashes out to here, looking for love. Umbrella Man leaned in the shadows of a beach-goods hut, closed now that the season was over. The shutters over the serving hatch made a small niche of the doorway and he could hide in there without looking like a lurking pervert. Because he wasn’t a pervert. Of that much he was sure. He just had sex with these girls quite normally, nothing perverted, just a bit rough sometimes. They liked it really. And sometimes things could get… complicated. He felt his erection growing and pressed it with his palm in his specially adapted pocket, the one with no lining. Get down, he muttered. No good approaching his quarry with a hard on. These girls looked for that. Her mates would all laugh and he wouldn’t be able to peel her off from the herd. That’s how he thought of himself, a leopard, sinewy and lithe, a pretty face with a black, carnivorous heart. He leaned forward slightly as he heard the clack of a clique of girls heading his way. He carefully searched every face, looking for the right one. And, yes, what he had been hoping for, the laggard, the weakling, the runt of the litter, a few steps behind, looking a bit sulky, a bit left out. Pretty enough, though. He had his standards. He stepped forward and she turned to him, her little peachy cheek just asking to be stroked, her lips, jammy with gloss, parted in an unspoken question.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  Caroline Morton was in bed, but sleepless. She had gone to bed early, being bone tired, deeply exhausted as only weeks of lying awake can make a person. Her world had been turned upside down. A year ago, she had had everything. A loving husband. A loving father, stepmother, sister. Now, she had nothing. A self-pitying tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye to run down and join the others soaking into her pillow. She reached out for her phone, never far from her because she always seemed to be on call these days, always working. Working and crying, that was her life now. She ran her thumb around the edge of the phone and then punched two keys. She waited as the signal bounced from tower to tower until she heard the ringing sound. To her, it sounded like a standard ring. At the other end, she knew, it sounded like Stairway to Heaven played on the spoons in a bucket. Another tear squeezed out, ran down, soaked in.