by M. J. Trow
‘A visitor, apparently,’ Sarah said, taking care not to mention Peter Maxwell by name, ‘taken poorly. Just a precaution.’
And she followed him down the corridor, all thoughts of Sylvia Matthews forgotten.
Maxwell and Jacquie followed the men in green down the stairs and watched from the foyer as they loaded an uncomprehending and uncaring Lindsey Matthews into the ambulance. She was walking, which disappointed them; they had just taken delivery of a new chair which could do stairs and they were dying to try it out, but never mind; there was always another crisis just around the corner. Maxwell felt he should wave or make some other social gesture, but in the end settled for putting his arm around Jacquie’s shoulders.
‘I wonder what happened to young Thingee?’ Maxwell asked as they turned away.
They looked through the glass partition into reception and saw that the desk was empty.
‘She can’t still be scouring the gym, surely?’ Maxwell said.
‘How big is it?’ Jacquie asked.
Maxwell looked at her. ‘You do know who I am, do you?’ he asked. ‘I have quite literally no idea. In the good old days I invigilated exams in there, proceeding in a Westerly direction at two and a half miles an hour. But since the Exams Office Posse have taken all that over, I never set foot. Old men forget, but I wouldn’t have thought it is that hard to find a fully grown adult in there. Never mind, crisis averted. I suppose you’ll be off to the Nick now, starting the search for April.’
‘That’s right,’ Jacquie said. ‘And you can go home and get some shuteye. You look like rubbish.’
Maxwell bowed. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s nice when a marriage keeps the magic, don’t you think?’
She glanced around and, seeing no kids, kissed him briefly on the lips. ‘I always feel a bit naughty doing that here,’ she said.
‘We could always pop out to the bike sheds if you would feel more comfortable,’ he said. He held up his hand. ‘But, time is short! I couldn’t do myself justice. Anyway, there’s probably a queue. Off you go, find April and come back and tell me all about it. I’ll go home – if I drop off, Surrey knows the way – and you’re right, I could do with a snooze.’ With another slightly puzzled glance at the empty reception desk, Maxwell fished in his pockets for his cycle clips and gallantly opened the door for his wife. Two days down; only another million or so to go.
Thingee, released from Bernard Ryan’s boring clutches and shaking herself free of letters to the multi-use playing field Stasi, half walked, half ran back to reception and immediately punched in Maxwell’s extension number. It rang and rang and eventually she put down the receiver. He couldn’t have wanted to know where Mrs Matthews was that much if he had gone home. She glanced at the clock. And now she could go home. Hurrah! She reached under the desk for her bag, snatched up her coat from the back of the chair and was out in the car park before you could say knife. Leighford High belonged to Mrs B and the cleaners now.
Maxwell reached home without needing to resort to White Surrey’s homing instinct, but only just. He had hardly dismounted when Mrs Troubridge’s door opened and the woman herself was approaching.
‘Mrs Troubridge,’ Maxwell said, hoping this might be something quick. ‘How lovely.’
‘I’m cut to the quick, Mr Maxwell,’ she said. ‘To the quick.’
‘I can only apologise for the Count,’ Maxwell said, automatically. ‘We’ve tried to tell him about the vole innards. It’s because he loves you… this isn’t about vole innards, is it?’ He had read her expression, which was beyond bulldog chewing a wasp and was verging on the Les Dawson with his teeth out.
‘I was standing in my front window last night,’ she hissed, ‘as one does, and I saw a Man arrive. He rang the bell and very shortly afterwards, DI Carpenter-Maxwell left.’
Alarm bells were ringing. When Mrs Troubridge called Jacquie anything so formal, things were bad. ‘Indeed. She was called in to…’
‘You,’ she said, poking him in the stomach with a bony finger, ‘were out. With that Nurse from the school.’
‘That’s right, we…’
‘I don’t want to know about your private life,’ the old woman sniffed. ‘What you do behind closed doors is all the same to me. But to leave Nolan, that Dear, Innocent Child,’ and the capital letters were enunciated with a snap of her chelonian jaws, ‘in the care of a Stranger, well, that is beyond the pale, Mr Maxwell. I feel I should call someone in authority.’
‘Mrs Troubridge,’ Maxwell prepared to pour oil on troubridged waters. ‘Firstly, Mrs Matthews and I were on a mission of mercy to a colleague in Leighford General. Secondly, the man you saw arriving was not a stranger, he was a very trusted colleague of my wife. In other words,’ – he toyed briefly with his impeccable Sly Stallone, then thought better of it – ‘he was the law. And thirdly… what were you doing at your window? It was quite late. That’s why Jacquie didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Didn’t want to worry me?’ Mrs Troubridge drew herself up and still barely reached Surrey’s handlebars. ‘Didn’t want to worry me? I have been worried all night and all day, wondering what might have happened to that Dear, Innocent Child.’
Maxwell found himself mouthing the words. Mrs Troubridge loved every hair on his son’s head, of that he was sure. He only hoped that the lad would never disappoint the old trout by showing his feet of clay. ‘Nolan was very well looked after. In fact, he didn’t even wake up. He got two bowls of Cocoa Pops out of the deal, so he went to school happy.’
‘I’m just saying.’ Mrs Troubridge barred his way and the only method of getting into the house was to lift her bodily and move her aside. Unless…
‘Mrs Troubridge,’ Maxwell ingratiated. ‘Nolan is with Plocker this afternoon. How would it be if I ring Mrs Plocker and ask her to drop him off at your house? He’ll have eaten, but you can play Scrabble. He’ll like that.’ And the odd thing was, Maxwell thought as he formulated the plan, the kid would actually like it. He had found a way under the old bat’s shell and had her firmly in the palm of his hand, mixing metaphors as if there was no tomorrow.
‘I really wouldn’t want to push myself forward where I’m not wanted,’ she said, but they both knew this was just going through the motions.
‘If you just budge over a second so I can get by,’ he smiled, ‘I’ll make the call now.’
She stepped back onto her own path and he pushed Surrey up to the garage door and let himself in. ‘You’ll ring her now?’
‘This minute. Bring him back when you’ve had enough.’
‘Oh, Mr Maxwell,’ she trilled, happy again. ‘Don’t say that or I might never bring him back. Oh,’ and she skipped back to her door, ‘I might just have time to make him some of his favourite brownies…’ and with that, she was gone.
Maxwell stowed his bike, picked up the post, went up the stairs and was about to crash on the sofa when he remembered the night before. Instead, he went on up to his bedroom and sank gratefully onto his bed, still smiling. Brownies, indeed. Why that child wasn’t the size of a house, he would never know. His mother’s metabolism, that must be the answer. He quickly picked up the bedside phone and made his call. Mrs Plocker was an accommodating woman who had met Mrs Troubridge on numerous occasions. How the Maxwells could leave their lovely son with her, she had never really understood, but hers not to reason why. Maxwell was still smiling as his head hit the pillow and sleep came up to meet him with outstretched arms.
Downstairs in the sitting room, the phone’s little red light flashed unheeded. ‘You have two new messages’ the sign marqueed across its base station. ‘You have two new messages.’
The Incident Team had been working all day on various tasks and had got precisely nowhere, which was why they were looking so enthusiastic as they gathered yet again for a briefing. Jacquie was again in the chair and filled them in quickly on what she had managed to glean from Lindsey Summers and Maxwell. That she could now do this without mentioning her husband at all bore tes
timony to the number of times she had done it. The old stagers could tell that he was in the background; one mention of Leighford High School and ears were pricked and hackles raised before the sentence was done. However, a missing girl was a missing girl and the door to door and street interviews began as soon as they could all gather their coats and hats. As the room emptied, Henry Hall stood behind Jacquie and leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
‘Where’s Max, Jacquie?’
For once, she had no need to dissemble. ‘At home. Catching up on his sleep after a night on the sofa.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’ She too had rung Mrs Plocker, to be told that Max had already rung and arranged for Nole to go to that mad old bat next door, oh, I do beg your pardon, Mrs Troubridge. So he was clearly planning a good long sleep. It was nice to be able to tell Henry where he was and know it was right.
‘That’s all right then. Are you going out with the others or staying here to co-ordinate? I’ll do whichever you don’t do – I don’t mind which.’
‘I thought I’d go out, guv. I’ve met the girl and so that might be a help when they find her.’
‘I thought that’s what you’d choose to do. You have considered the possibility of publicity, I suppose?’
‘What, the parents hiding her, you mean?’
He nodded. ‘Hopefully nothing worse.’
‘The mother seemed genuine. I know this isn’t gospel, but Max said she was rubbish at acting at school, so I doubt she’s improved now. She seemed to be in total collapse and the paramedics agreed.’
‘You’re checking the house first, I take it.’ He didn’t like telling his granny how to suck eggs, but this could be a media minefield.
‘There’s a team there now, guv. And the granny’s. Not that you’d choose to stay with her if you were desperate. She is a truly horrible woman and it’s not many I say that of, as you know.’
‘We certainly do meet them,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll make sure you get any updates. Who are you with?’
‘Jason.’ He wouldn’t have been her first choice, but he was better than many.
‘Fine. I’ll be here.’ And in his usual abrupt fashion, Henry Hall was gone.
Maxwell was dimly aware of a car drawing up outside and a voice that sounded very much like his son’s briefly raised in song. A twitter that could only be Mrs Troubridge and the cheerful goodbyes of the Plockers, mere et fils, joined the mix and then peace again descended on Columbine and Maxwell dropped gratefully back to sleep.
The next noise came just a few seconds later by his reckoning, but in fact it was three games of Scrabble, two brownies and a glass of milk later. It took him a moment to work out what it was, then it resolved into the phone.
‘Mmm?’
‘Max?’ A man’s voice grated anxiously in his ear. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Sleepy,’ Maxwell managed, licking his lips and struggling upright. ‘Bad night last night. Catching up.’
‘Oh. Max, it’s Guy. Is Sylv with you?’
Against his better judgement, Maxwell couldn’t help checking the room. ‘No,’ he said, after a cursory glance. ‘Should she be?’
‘No, no, it’s not that. I know she was with you yesterday. You know, when that girl was in hospital. We didn’t have much time to chat last night and I was gone this morning before she woke up.’
‘I see.’ Maxwell was concerned. This didn’t sound like Guy and Sylvia of old.
‘It’s nothing like that,’ the man said, hearing the tone. ‘It’s my new job. It’s a killer. We’re talking about moving nearer, but… well, these things take time.’
‘Yes,’ said Maxwell, getting into his stride. ‘Have you no idea where she might be? It’s not like Sylv to be dippy and disappear.’
‘No, exactly. She’s got that pad thing, you know, in the sitting room. She’s absolutely rigorous about filling it in. Me, not so much, but I’ve never known her fail. Sometimes I’ve come in and she’s put things like “I’m in the garden” or “I’m in the loo”. She just hates to be off the radar.’
‘I know. Medical training, I suppose,’ Maxwell said.
‘And a tiny touch of control freakery, but in a good way.’ Maxwell sensed that Guy was beginning to wish he hadn’t shaken this particular tree. ‘Look, Max, sorry to have bothered you… she’ll turn up in a minute, I expect.’
But Maxwell was sitting up now and taking notice. When had he last been aware of Sylvia Matthews being in the right place at the right time at school that day? She seemed to have gone awol around three thirty. He glanced at the clock. Gone seven now. That was a long time, in the world of Matthews.
‘Guy, we need to talk. I’ve just got to pop next door and palm Nole off on Mrs Troubridge for the evening and then I’ll be ready. Can you pick me up?’
‘To go where? We can’t just drive around looking for her, can we?’
‘Well, it won’t be quite as random as that, I hope. I have an itinerary in mind. But please, Guy, please leave a note on the pad!’
‘Will do,’ the man said, thoroughly rattled by now. He had rung Peter Maxwell up for reassurance and was now in the grip of full scale panic. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘See you shortly,’ Maxwell said and crashed the phone back on the rest. He grabbed his coat from the rack as he hurtled past and was soon ringing Mrs Troubridge’s doorbell. It went without saying that she would be delighted and scurried off to put a hot water bottle in the bed in Nolan’s room, as her spare room was now called, down to the little plaque on the door. Nolan loved it now; it would only be in the years to come that the Bob the Builder decoration would come to be an embarrassment, when Sir Nolan Maxwell was Architect Royal to King William V. As Maxwell reached the pavement he stopped. Caught in the crosshairs of Metternich’s disapproving glare he suddenly had lost the use of his feet. He tried to brazen it out.
‘Count,’ he said, curtly, and nodded, trying to sidestep the animal.
The enormous black and white beast didn’t even blink. He got up from his classic cat-sat-on-the-mat position and stretched extravagantly. He then walked up to the man laughingly referred to as his master and sunk a thoughtful pawful of claws into his calf. Then he quietly walked away.
‘I love you too,’ Maxwell muttered and, hoping the blood wouldn’t show on his dark trousers, limped in the direction that he knew Guy Morley would be approaching from – anything rather than stand there being eyeballed by a cat planning to sue for desertion. Guy’s car came round a corner in what even Maxwell could tell was the wrong gear. He got in as the car slewed to a halt and fastened his seatbelt. It was going to be a bumpy night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thingee One, Sarah to her friends, was on her third drink before she remembered her promise to Sylvia Matthews. She had said she would text her number to her and it had gone right out of her head. And now, it was too late because she didn’t know her number, not right off the top of her head, anyway. She could remember about half the numbers, but, she thought with a giggle, that wasn’t much help with a phone number. It had to be right or not at all. She had taken her phone out of her bag, ready to text and sat there with it in her hand, irresolute.
‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,’ her date said, bitterly. He had picked this one at the Speed Dating evening at the Red Lion and was beginning to regret it. She was pretty enough, legs up to here, but she wasn’t much in the way of company. She’d just sat there necking drinks at his expense and now she had her bloody phone out. Great. He started thinking of excuses to leave – even his missus was a better bet than this silly little chickie. There was raucous laughter from the bar – the yachtie crowd were out on the tiles. Starting early by their normal standards but they hadn’t had much wind to keep them on the water and they were stuck for anything to do on dry land except drink.
‘Sorry.’ She looked up at him and his heart melted. Those big blue eyes – they did it for him every time. ‘It’s just that I promised I’d let someone
have my number, for emergencies, if you know what I mean, and I forgot. Now I don’t know how to get hold of her.’
‘Emergency?’ he asked. He had thought she was a receptionist or something. How many emergencies did they get when they weren’t at work? Or when they were at work, come to that.
‘It’s a friend,’ she began, and ended up telling him the whole story, leaving nothing out. ‘And so,’ she said, ‘I ended up missing Mr Maxwell and Mrs Matthews, so now I don’t have any way of finding out what’s going on or whether Charlotte is all right.’ Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears now and he was lost.
‘Don’t worry, Sally…’
‘Sarah.’
‘Sarah,’ he said, scarcely missing a beat. ‘I know Mr Maxwell’s phone number. Both home and mobile.’
She narrowed her lovely eyes at him. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘I am a reporter on the Leighford Advertiser and there isn’t a reporter in the town who would dream of not having Mad Max’s phone number in his little black book.’
‘But Mr Maxwell never answers his phone. He’s famous for it.’
‘It’s worth a try though, don’t you think?’ He smiled down at her. Oh, you lovely little thing, he thought. I do believe I may get lucky after all.
‘Why not?’ she smiled at him, and carefully wiped away a tear. You may have breath that can stop a clock, she thought to herself, but you have your uses. It’s a shame I won’t be paying in any currency you’d understand. ‘Ben.’
‘Bob.’
‘Yes. Sorry. Bob.’
‘Shall we ring or text? Mr Maxwell.’
‘Oh, ring, I think, don’t you? He might not know how to pick up texts.’
‘We’ll text if he doesn’t answer. Okay?’
‘That sounds good. Let’s have your book, then.’ She had her phone out in readiness.
‘It’s on my phone,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll ring him. Hang on.’ He whipped out his iPhone and scrolled through his contacts, choosing a name finally and holding the gadget to his ear. ‘No reply,’ he mouthed. Then he rang off. ‘No point in leaving a voicemail. There’s certainly no way he knows how to pick them up. Hold on, I’ll text. What shall I say?’
