by M. J. Trow
Jacquie looked at the woman in front of her, a shadow of the person she had last seen at the hospital, weeping decorously into a handkerchief after identifying her sister’s body. She was wild-haired and wild-eyed, barefoot and dressed in jeans and a sweat-shirt, both looking the worst for a night in the cells. Her right hand was bandaged but was clearly swollen. She had really socked Sid Lewis good and proper, which was the best thing that could be said for the whole night’s work. Jacquie held out a hand and took her by the arm, piloting her gently towards the interview room.
‘Did they tell you my bloody husband turned up last night?’ she said. ‘On bloody call.’ She gave another of her crazy laughs. ‘That put a spoke in his wheel. Him and his bloody tart.’ She turned to Jacquie and the tears began again. ‘He’s left me, you know,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I thought we were just giving things a rest, you know, before we got back together again. We see each other every day at the office. He’s never said. I expect everyone knows but me.’
Jacquie thought she was probably right, but she needed to get to the bottom of things, so shook her head. ‘You’re tired,’ she said. ‘Things are out of proportion. Let me get you a drink. Coffee – black, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘You remember,’ she said. ‘More than that dick ever does.’
Jacquie put her head out of the door and hailed a passing secretary who was only too glad of an excuse to have a few seconds in the room with the nutter who had given Sid Lewis his comeuppance and went off to get the drinks.
Jacquie clicked the switch on the recorder and made sure that the CCTV camera was aligned. ‘Mrs Morton,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you know that I must record everything in this room because you have been charged with assaulting a police officer, but this is not the reason for this conversation. I would like to discuss with you the subject you mentioned on the phone last night.’
‘Who killed Mollie, yes,’ she said, rummaging in her pockets and coming up empty. Jacquie reached into a drawer and pulled out a pack of tissues which she pushed across.
‘That’s right. You said you knew who had done it.’
‘Yes, that’s it. I do.’
‘Would you like to tell me now?’
The woman shrugged and blew her nose, crumpling the tissue and stuffing it up her sleeve. ‘It’s no secret. My husband. He did it.’
Jacquie felt like getting up and walking out, but resisted the urge and continued speaking in a gentle, even tone. She had seen the Assistant DA in Los Angeles question a drug dealer for four hours without ever raising his voice and if he could do it in the room with a man later convicted of killing nine people, she could do it with this troubled woman.
‘Do you have proof, Mrs Morton, or is it just a suspicion?’
‘Proof? Well, I didn’t see him do it, if that’s what you mean. But he did it, I’m certain.’
‘There must have been something, though?’
‘Yes. He kept… looking at her. They would watch TV on the settee and if it was a comedy, well… they would laugh.’
‘Isn’t that the plan?’ Jacquie could see this keeping her cool thing might prove tricky.
‘Yes, but, you know what I mean. He would slap his hand on her leg, she would nudge him in the ribs. Touching, you know.’
Jacquie sat back and looked her woman in the eye. ‘May I ask how long your husband had known Mollie, Mrs Morton?’
‘All her life, more or less.’
‘So, could it be that he considered himself, well, a brother? A father figure, even? Sex isn’t the only relationship between two people, you know.’
‘I do know that,’ the solicitor snapped. ‘I do, it’s just that… having her in the house. It was a strain on us all and them being so friendly… Anyway, in the end, I asked him to give us a break. That Mollie needed to settle. He got a flat in town, but he still came round for meals. They would still laugh, joke. He would kiss and cuddle her… it wasn’t right.’
Jacquie pulled a piece of paper towards her and clicked her pen. ‘Could I have your husband’s name, please, Mrs Morton. Morton, obviously, but his first name, if you would. And his mobile number.’
The woman took a deep breath. ‘John,’ she said. ‘John Morton. Everyone calls him Jack. I can’t remember his mobile number. But he’ll be at the office this morning. They’ll be busy without… without me.’
Jacquie jotted down the details and looked over her shoulder, hoping to see the drinks miraculously appearing. But there was no one.
‘Mrs Morton, do you have any other reason to suppose that Mollie and your husband had a relationship other than a family one?’
Caroline Morton snorted. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me,’ she said. ‘That’s why I didn’t come to you sooner. And look what’s happened now? My marriage in ruins. And my career – I hit a policeman because of you. It’s all your fault.’
Suddenly, Jacquie could see why Mollie went out at nights. If she was looking for love, she wouldn’t have got it from this woman. She stood up. ‘I’ll just go and get our drinks,’ she said, ‘I can’t think where they are. Excuse me.’ She slipped through the door into the corridor and it was as though she had gone down the rabbit hole. The usual buzz and hum was missing. It was as though all her colleagues had disappeared since she went into the interview room. She couldn’t help sneaking a look at her watch, but only about fifteen minutes had elapsed. She walked along the corridor to the conference room and pushed open the door.
Everyone was sitting in solemn rows and Henry Hall, his glasses gleaming, looked up as she went in.
‘Ah, Jacquie,’ he said. ‘I was about to rescue you. I need you in here now, I’m afraid.’ He read her unspoken question. ‘Yes, there’s been another one.’
She looked at him, hardly understanding what he was saying for a moment and he walked to the door and ushered her into the corridor.
‘Another murder?’ she asked eventually.
‘Almost. The girl was lucky. They were interrupted. By a courting couple, of all people. Their hearts clearly weren’t in it – they heard scuffling in the bushes that they weren’t causing and went in search. He had his hands around her throat and did a runner when he saw them. The girl’s in Leighford General now. The couple are coming in later this morning but by all accounts, they are not the world’s best witnesses.’
Jacquie half turned to where she had left Caroline Morton in the interview room. ‘I’d better tell Mrs Morton she can go… oh, I suppose not. Has she been processed for the assault?’
‘Let her go and get her to report locally when she gets home. I don’t think I can handle a bolshie solicitor today and nor can you. Hurry up and join us. I was about to begin.’
She nodded and went back the interview room and went in, not sitting down at the table. Caroline Morton was looking more waspish even than usual.
‘Something come up?’ she said, with a sneer.
‘As it happens, yes,’ Jacquie said. ‘You are free to go but we would ask you to call in at your local police station when you get home. We will send details of your assault on a police officer over to them and they will progress the case.’
‘But my husband…?’
‘Has an alibi,’ Jacquie said drily. She ushered the woman out of the room and closed the door. ‘Please report to the desk and they will return your things. Thank you for coming in, Mrs Morton.’ And the DI went into the conference room, letting the door swing closed on the sound of Henry Hall’s voice.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Bernard’s back,’ Paul Moss muttered to no one in particular, sitting near him in the staff room.
‘What’s the matter with it?’ Gerry Tranter’s stand-up patter left a little to be desired.
‘I thought I did the jokes around here.’ Peter Maxwell squeezed past on his way to a chair. There were general ‘Hellos’ and ‘About times’ and ‘What are you doing heres’ from old colleagues who had secretly missed the man. Only Ben Holton went far enough back with Maxwell to
risk going further – ‘Glad to see the old extradition treaty still works.’
‘Oh, it does.’ Maxwell reached across heads to shake the man’s hand. ‘I just told them, “I am now and I have always been a member of the Communist Party.”’ He held his right hand over his heart. ‘So help me Rhonda.’
Anyone who had been in on All Hell Day would have seen Bernard Ryan, but those who hadn’t nodded or raised an eyebrow, depending on their level of sophistication. Only the two NQTs at the front looked on as the Dauntless Three took their positions at the front of the room. All they saw was the headteacher who had interviewed them both last June, a rather nervous looking bloke they assumed was his deputy. And a token woman. A similar scene was being enacted in schools up and down the country at that moment.
‘Welcome back, everyone.’ Legs Diamond began talking as usual while a murmuring hubbub was going on. Maxwell tutted and rolled his eyes; the man had no classroom skills at all. ‘I trust you all had a good break and are ready for the challenges of the new term.’
The old joke rattled through Maxwell’s head, of the keen Westpointers’ stock response to such an oration – ‘Yarc, Yarc; You’re Absolutely Right, Commander.’ Then he looked around him; there were so few good men. What happened next impressed him, though. As if nothing odd had occurred during the summer; as if the deputy head had not been handcuffed and taken away in irons; as if girls had not died in a sleepy seaside town; as if there was not a madman at large, Legs Diamond cleared his throat. ‘First, Bernard. Could you talk us through the exam results, please?’
And Bernard did. He was nervous at first, halting, deferential even. But by the time he was into his stride with predictions and differentials and bar charts and spread sheets, it was as though he had never been away. Was it only Mad Max, the film buff, who nevertheless saw something of the maniacal Tod Slaughter in Bernard Ryan’s face, eerily lit by the powerpoint’s glow?
When he had finished, Diamond made the annual mistake he always made at this time of year; he asked if there were any questions. Paul Moss braced himself, grinning like an idiot, because he knew what was coming. Gerry Tranter did too and wished he’d got his tape recorder for moments such as these. Ben Holton sighed and folded his arms; he knew what he’d be doing for the next twenty minutes and closed his eyes. Only the NQTs sat upright, craning round to look at the bow-tied old geezer with the mad hair who looked as though he was about to make a point. It was the equivalent of ‘Can I Do You Now, Sir?’, ‘The Day War Broke Out’, ‘And It’s Goodnight From Me.’ Peter Maxwell leaned forward, speaking as he did for the common teacher and for common sense – ‘With respect, Headmaster…’
When the agony was over, it was time for the ecstasy. Peter Maxwell went into his office and shut the door with care. He walked over to the shelf space in the corner dedicated to coffee and comfort biscuits and indulged in that First Day pleasure of making a hot drink without having to scour the mug out first. He was still standing there, wondering how he would manage the remaining seventy working days until the Christmas holidays began. Retirement had often crossed his mind in previous years, but now it was tending to cross his mind, sit down halfway and start a crossword. Being a househusband might be fun. He drifted off into a little reverie which was, as all his reveries of any size were, interrupted by a tap on the door.
‘Come in,’ he carolled. He always made tappers sound welcome even before he knew who they were. That way, he could take them by surprise when he subsequently kicked them out unceremoniously five seconds later. Paul Moss stuck his head around the door.
‘Max,’ he said, ‘I was going to pop in for a quick meeting, you know, before the hordes arrive to start making the place look untidy, but I met this lady in the corridor, looking for you so I thought we might meet later. She seems a little,’ and he dropped his voice and enunciated the word silently and extravagantly, ‘upset.’
Maxwell poured the water on his coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. One day in and already there was an upset woman outside his door. Never mind, start as you mean to go on. ‘Show her in, Paul,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later.’
Moss nodded and withdrew his head, then the door opened and Lindsey Summers walked in, head down and her hand cupped over her stomach in a familiar gesture, protecting her baby while she could, before the world intervened. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but… well, your wife was lovely with my April, but I had to talk to you again.’
‘Always welcome, Lindsey, of course. How are you all? April…?’
‘She’s at home now. My mum isn’t the easiest woman at the best of times and she really hasn’t been helping. Her stepdad is with her – he’ll make sure she doesn’t go off.’ Her lip trembled. ‘It isn’t easy for me, Mr Maxwell, to talk about this sort of thing with you, but…’
He put an arm around her shoulders and led her to a seat. It was so much easier, he couldn’t help thinking, when you could touch a person you were supposed to be comforting, and talk to them on their own without the door open. It was always like that before the Molestation Movement gathered momentum. Heady days. ‘Here, sit down and tell me all about it.’
‘I expect your wife told you all about her talk with April.’
‘Heavens, no!’ Maxwell managed to sound convincing. ‘Not allowed.’
‘No, sorry, of course not. I… well, she talked to April and got a few details, but I don’t think it will be any help, not in the long run. I’m sorry she couldn’t be more use, Mr Maxwell. I don’t like to think of this pervert running round Leighford, taking girls off the streets.’
‘Nor do I, Lindsey, nor do I. But he seems to have a wider range even than Leighford. My wife is working with other police stations, all over the county, really. Still, she’s good at what she does. She’ll catch him if anyone can.’ He smiled and hoped it looked better than it felt.
‘Well, what I came to say was that my April’s decided to have an abortion. A termination, you know, get rid of the baby.’ Her voice was harsh and Maxwell couldn’t tell whether it was in agreement with her daughter’s decision or sadness.
‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ he said, gently. ‘It’s no start for a child, is it?’
‘No,’ the woman sighed. ‘But… it’s a lot to have on your shoulders, Mr Maxwell. When you’re only a kid yourself. You can’t put the clock back if you regret it later.’
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But you can’t undo a baby either, when it’s here. April will be getting counselling, won’t she? She won’t make this decision on her own.’
‘We’re taking her to the GP tomorrow,’ the girl’s mother said. ‘I spoke to him on the phone this morning and there shouldn’t be any problem. It seems that in cases of…’ she foraged in her sleeve for a hankie and brought out a sodden rag on which she blew her nose, ‘. . . sexual abuse, there isn’t usually any problem.’ She leaned sideways until she was on Maxwell’s shoulder and there, cushioned by ancient tweed and encircled by his arm, she cried, for the lost childhood of herself, her daughter and all the little girls out there whom even Maxwell couldn’t protect from harm. He leaned his cheek on the top of her head and let her weep, absently patting her arm and shushing her as though she were a child.
Eventually she had cried herself to a standstill and had sat up, wiped her eyes, sipped some coffee and left. Maxwell looked at the clock and stifled a curse. Just where had the day gone? He had a new lot of Year Sevens to terrify and they would be waiting for him downstairs in the Hall for a reenactment of the Battle of Bosworth. Just the thing to banish the baby blues. He picked up the phone and punched the zero.
‘Reception’
‘Thingee old thing…’ Puzzled, he looked at the clock. Something was wrong. ‘Thingee?’ he asked. ‘Is that you?’
The girl had worked at Leighford High for a while and before that was a LeighfordHighena. She understood Mad Max as well as she understood herself.
‘Charlotte isn’t in today, Mr Maxwell,’ she said. �
��It’s me, Thingee One. Sarah.’
‘I thought it was,’ Maxwell said, proudly. ‘Nothing serious, is it? Thingee’s absence?’
Sarah’s voice was solemn. ‘We’re not sure, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, dropping the volume so no one else could hear. ‘She’s afraid she might be… well, there may be a problem with the baby.’
Babies again. It was the theme today and no mistake. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Maxwell said and meant it. ‘I hope it’s all a false alarm. Is… is Mr Baines with her?’
There was a puzzled silence, then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, no, I’m not sure they’re… it’s very complicated, Mr Maxwell.’
‘Oh dear, well, much as I would love to chat, I rang to say I am on my way down to the Hall for the Year Seven induction lesson but I am running a bit behind. Can you pop your head round the door and tell the other staff in there I won’t be long and can they make a preliminary division into two armies for me. If someone stands out as Richard III, they can make a choice but ask them not to choose anyone too… obvious. Remember the fuss last year.’
Thingee did. The law suit had only just been averted.
‘Thank you, Thingee. Tell them five minutes. Ten at the outside.’ Maxwell didn’t replace the phone, but pressed the rest and then punched a number. It answered on the first ring.
‘Sylvia Matthews.’
‘Sylv, dear heart, it’s me.’
‘Max. How’s your day going?’
‘Not well, but better than many, I can’t help thinking. Have you got time for a bit of a chat at the end of the day today?’
‘If it’s short.’
‘Yes, I’m not over-endowed with time myself. But I have a bit of a trend developing and I want to talk it through with you. Will you come up here?’
‘No, not with your coffee. Come down here and I’ll make you a decent cup.’
‘Excellent woman. I’ll see you then.’
‘Everything’s all right, Max, isn’t it?’ Sylvia Matthews may well have a man of her own and know that Maxwell was more than adequately looked after himself, but she still couldn’t help worrying. His vulnerable side was well and truly hidden, but she had seen it peeping out sometimes and she would do anything to keep any more sorrow from those eyes.
