Maxwell’s Flame

by M. J. Trow

‘You took her upstairs?’ Warren chased his man.

  ‘Yes. Trant and I found the lift and took her to her room.’

  ‘Room 203?’ McBride checked.

  ‘That’s right. I put her on the bed and telephoned Reception.’

  ‘Where was Mr Trant?’

  ‘He went off saying he’d fetch somebody. I always thought Greg was a cooler customer, but I’m afraid he panicked. No balls in the end.’

  ‘Who took your call?’

  ‘I don’t know. A girl. Tracey, was it? You’d have to ask her.’

  ‘We did,’ Warren told him. ‘Your call was logged at ten thirty-one.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which is odd.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Timing is very important in cases of murder, Mr Harper-Bennet,’ Warren said. ‘Crucial, in fact. What time would you say you and Miss Farr discovered the body?’

  ‘Er … I don’t know. About five minutes before, I suppose.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to know it was nearly thirteen minutes before?’

  ‘Nearly …? No. No, it couldn’t have been.’

  ‘You were seen entering that side door at ten seventeen. Allowing for the time taken to open it, see the late Mrs Striker, get to Ms Farr’s room and lay her on the bed, that’s quite a long time, Mr Harper-Bennet, before you contacted Reception.’

  ‘Well, Lydia … Miss Farr … was hysterical. I’ve told you. She was in a fainting condition. I had to revive her.’

  ‘Oh? How did you do that?’ McBride asked.

  ‘A flannel.’ Harper-Bennet’s eyes were bulging in his head. Little beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip. ‘I got a flannel from the bathroom.’

  ‘Ms Farr’s room is en suite?’

  ‘They all are,’ Harper-Bennet said. ‘Look here, what are you implying?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Warren shrugged, unclasping his hands and leaning forward for the first time. ‘Nothing at all, sir. I’m just tying up the odd loose end – you know how it is.’

  Harper-Bennet looked at the cold-eyed detectives in front of him. ‘Can I go?’ he blurted. ‘I’m late for a lecture.’

  ‘Of course,’ McBride said and he leaned forward over the table. ‘Interview terminated at … eleven sixteen. Thank you, Mr Harper-Bennet.’

  The big man grated back his chair. He swayed for a moment, as though about to ask a question. Then he thought better of it and left with a scowl in the direction of the WPC who was already pouring Mr Warren another cup of coffee.

  ‘Who saw him, sir?’ McBride asked, when Harper-Bennet had gone. ‘Going in through the side door?’

  Warren turned one of his stormiest glances in his Number Two’s direction. ‘His conscience, John,’ he said softly.

  ‘Sir?’

  Warren got up and stretched his legs. ‘Unorthodox policing bothers you, doesn’t it, Inspector?’ he asked.

  McBride glanced at the WPC. He didn’t like being put on the spot. And he thought he knew his guv’nor. Warren’s latest ploy was indeed bothering him. ‘Can you get me the staff list, Sheila?’ he asked. ‘It’s on my desk.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ She smiled and left the room.

  McBride knew he didn’t have long. And he rounded on Warren. The Chief Inspector was ready for him. ‘Call it man’s intuition,’ he said. ‘It was the way Bennet kept sneaking furtive looks up Sheila’s skirt. Did you notice that?’

  ‘No,’ McBride frowned. ‘But that’s …’

  ‘… not unusual, no. Ninety per cent of red-blooded males would cop a crafty look. But not constantly. Not in the way he did. There’s something … unhealthy about it.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘So I invented the sighting. For all I know, the whole episode, from finding the body to making the phone call, may have taken seconds. We’ll have to check with Gregory Trant. But it rattled him, didn’t it? He was edgy, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Well, yes …’ McBride conceded. ‘But?’

  ‘He went to the bathroom,’ Warren said.

  ‘To get a flannel, yes.’

  ‘To get a flannel?’ Warren raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what Lydia Farr said?’

  ‘Er … no. There was no mention of a flannel because she was hysterical. Fainting. She just didn’t remember.’

  ‘And, conveniently, Gregory Trant had already buggered off. The other possibility is that there was no mention of a flannel because there was no flannel.’

  ‘Then why go to the bathroom?’

  Warren sipped the coffee Sheila had made for him. ‘Warrants,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘We need warrants, John.’

  ‘Why?’ McBride was nettled. There was no heading ‘Intuition’ in any police manual he’d ever read. It belonged to crime fiction, not crime fact.

  ‘Because we need to find a few things.’ Warren handed his empty cup to the returning WPC. ‘Like Ms Farr’s used underwear, which was probably in the linen basket in her bathroom.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘And like some bloodstained clothing. I’d settle for that; wouldn’t you, John?’

  There was a lull midday shortly after lunch. The group had been subjected to a mid-morning lecture on ‘GNVQ in Practice’ during which Maxwell had fallen asleep and had slumped sideways against a pillar. He’d eaten too much at lunch – the quiche, which the Head of Games at Leighford High told him real men didn’t eat, was particularly entrancing – and he lay now on his narrow bed in Room 101, facing God knew-what terrors. He may have been dozing off again, when there was a sharp rap at the door.

  A tall kid stood there, in faded stonewash jeans and a skimpy top that showed her navel. ‘Are you alone, Max?’ She popped her head around the door.

  ‘I’m not sure what that question is supposed to imply, Mrs Greenhow, but yes. How would you like me?’

  ‘Back, Max,’ she said solemnly. ‘I’d like you back.’

  He looked at the girl in front of him, the earnestness on her pretty, dimpled face, the eyes grey and bright behind the glasses. ‘I’ve never been away,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t you?’ Sally asked him, perching on his bed and plumping up the pillow behind her. ‘A woman’s been murdered, Max. I want your brain.’

  ‘Vincent Price,’ Maxwell clicked his fingers, ‘or was it Peter Lorre? It’s either Revenge of the Blood Beast or Secret Seven Discover Satanic Abuse. I’ll remember in a minute.’ Both take-offs were lost on Sally Greenhow. The only lorries she knew had eight wheels and turned into side streets.

  ‘I’m serious, Max,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you just make me want to scream.’

  ‘All right,’ he chuckled, collapsing into the easy chair by the desk. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That we solve this ourselves.’

  He looked at her, then shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’ She bounced forward on the bed so that her breasts jiggled.

  ‘It’s none of our business,’ he said.

  Sally Greenhow’s mouth flopped open. ‘Can you hear yourself?’ she asked. ‘Is this the same Mad Max who solved Jenny Hyde’s murder last year?’

  ‘That was different,’ Maxwell said. ‘Jenny was one of mine.’

  It was and she had been. Jenny Hyde was in the sixth form at Leighford High. When she was found, Maxwell had felt responsible. There were members of the West Sussex CID who felt he was responsible too. But it was a painful memory for Maxwell. He had no wish to be reminded of it.

  ‘Liz Striker was somebody’s,’ Sally argued. ‘Rachel King told me she was married. What’s her husband going through about now, I wonder?’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  There was another knock on the door, more furtive, doubtful.

  ‘Well, well,’ Maxwell said, rising. ‘I am in demand today.’

  He opened the door to the hunched, rather unprepossessing figure of Jordan Gracewell. He was glancing nervously up and down the dimly lit corridor.

  ‘Selling the War Cry, padre?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ Grace
well blurted, ‘I was wondering if I might have a word?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Maxwell threw the door open.

  ‘Oh!’ The chaplain caught sight of the long legs of Sally Greenhow across the bed and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.’

  ‘No, no.’ Maxwell closed the door and ushered Gracewell into the room. ‘Not company, exactly. Just Mrs Greenhow. We were discussing the role of Intermediate Level GNVQ, weren’t we, Sally?’

  ‘Bollocks, Max!’ the girl snorted and rummaged in her bag for her ciggies.

  ‘Before she joined us,’ Maxwell explained, ‘Mrs Greenhow was at the Ernst Röhm School of Charm.’

  ‘I … shouldn’t really be here,’ Gracewell said. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Why?’ Maxwell stopped the man with the edge in his voice. ‘What have you got to hide, Mr Gracewell?’

  The chaplain looked so utterly vulnerable at that moment, so totally alone, that Sally wanted to pick him up and run with him.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gracewell said. Then he wandered into the corner of Maxwell’s room and stared out of the window, across Carnforth’s manicured lawns and rose-beds. ‘Everything.’

  Maxwell then took another sexist offensive step. Well, why not? He’d been taking them all his life. ‘Sally,’ he said, opening the door, ‘would you mind?’

  Sally Greenhow would and did. She sat there with a cigarette clinging to her lower lip and her lighter flickering in her left hand. ‘Maxie?’ was all she could manage.

  ‘If I were you,’ Maxwell took her arm and lifted her off his bed, ‘I’d concentrate on your strategic intent. I particularly like your concept of the exercise book – archaic, but somehow, in this day and age, innovative. Do keep in touch. Remember, synergize to maximize.’ And he slammed the door in her face.

  He waited for the furious knock. All he got was a strangled cry as Sally Greenhow dashed off down the corridor. Not a bad Greta Garbo, he mused as he turned to face the back of Jordan Gracewell.

  ‘Are you a drinking man, padre?’ he asked.

  ‘Er … no.’ Gracewell had not turned. Only his hands fluttered convulsively to his sides.

  ‘No.’ Maxwell raided the courtesy bar again, looking for Southern Comfort. ‘Unfortunately, I am. Running up quite a little bill here, one way or another. I’m sure County will accept eight Southern Comforts as necessary subsistence; what do you think?’

  There was a pause. ‘I think I know who killed Liz Striker, Mr Maxwell.’ The chaplain had turned to face his man. Jordan Gracewell was nearly thirty. He’d been a priest for three years, a teacher for two. The great love in his life was God. God and Elizabeth Striker.

  ‘Really?’ Maxwell said. ‘Perhaps you should talk to the police.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Gracewell sat down heavily in Maxwell’s chair. Maxwell sat down more gently on his bed. Ever the master of body language, he didn’t want to be higher than Gracewell. Not now. The last thing he wanted to appear was an authority figure. And he leaned forward, giving an air of concern without invading the young man’s space.

  ‘I can’t talk to Warren. He frightens me.’

  Maxwell nodded. ‘That may be part of his job,’ he said. He felt the warm, dark gold nectar hit his tonsils. ‘Distilled on the banks of the good ol’ Mississippi,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you won’t …?’

  Gracewell was already shaking his head. Not once did he look Peter Maxwell in the face. ‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I feel I can trust you. I can’t trust anyone else here. But you, you’re different …’

  ‘Mr Gracewell,’ Maxwell warned softly, ‘perhaps you need a priest …’

  Gracewell turned away, suddenly, savagely. ‘No,’ he said, his voice like gravel, ‘that’s the last thing I want. Will you …’ He turned back, looking into the steady, grey eyes of Mad Max Maxwell for the first time. ‘Will you hear my confession?’

  Maxwell spread his arms in supplication. ‘I’m not exactly qualified,’ he said.

  ‘Please?’ Gracewell was on the chair again, this time perched on its arm, staring at Maxwell with pleading eyes.

  ‘All right,’ Maxwell said.

  Gracewell took a deep breath and launched himself. ‘For two years now, I’ve been … in love with Liz Striker.’

  ‘In love?’

  ‘Yes. She was a married woman and I am a man of the cloth.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Is that it?’ Maxwell thought he’d better ask.

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Gracewell bellowed, tears welling in his eyes. For Maxwell, it wasn’t. He’d half suspected something about sniffing the saddles of little girls’ bicycles or at least a little ragged breathing over the phone to the local convent. It was all rather tame, really.

  ‘Did you have an affair with Mrs Striker?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Anything physical, I mean?’

  ‘No, no,’ Gracewell shuddered. ‘Although I often thought about it. Often imagined … Sometimes, when we were alone together, working late on marking or preparation, the temptation was strong.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Appallingly strong. I … I will have to resign.’

  ‘As my lately departed colleague said, if my memory serves, bollocks, padre.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a euphemism for testicles,’ Maxwell explained.

  ‘I have committed adultery in my heart,’ Gracewell sobbed, the tears starting to trickle down his cheek and splash on to his black cuffs.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Maxwell fished out a relatively respectable hanky, ‘better there than somebody’s bedroom. Now, come on, old chap, buck up. I can’t stand to see a grown chaplain cry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gracewell sniffed, accepting the handkerchief gratefully. ‘I actually feel a lot better now. Now it’s off my chest.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘good.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Maxwell.’

  He suddenly felt his hand being shaken warmly, by both of Gracewell’s. ‘Not at all,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘The pleasure’s been mine. Now, who did you say killed Liz Striker?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Gracewell said, ‘but I’m making an educated guess, with all the information at my disposal.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rachel,’ Gracewell said, as if he’d just ordered chips. ‘Rachel King.’

  6

  It was Peter Maxwell’s turn to rap on Sally Greenhow’s door.

  ‘Why, Max,’ she did her Southern Belle to perfection, ‘Ah declare, you’ve come to escort me tuh the lecture.’

  ‘Sod the lecture!’ Maxwell brushed past her and slammed the door.

  ‘Oh well,’ sighed Sally. ‘Looks like I’m not going to the ball after all.’

  ‘Cheer up.’ Maxwell had flung his heavy carcass into the girl’s chair. ‘Some day your prince will come.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Some day. Can I rustle you up a coffee?’

  ‘You can.’ He sat fuming, his grey whiskers standing even more on end than usual. ‘White. Three sugars.’

  ‘Three?’ She fiddled with the kettle on the bedside cabinet. ‘Max, you’re regressing. That’s nursery food. You’ll be angling for spotted dick next.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ Maxwell said, wiping his hands down his face as though to wipe away his features.

  ‘Not for my scintillating company, then?’ Sally professed. ‘Or the opportunity to apologize for throwing me out of your room so unceremoniously no more than half an hour ago? I was tempted to go and play Mummies and Mummies with Valerie Marks.’

  ‘I’ve just heard the most ludicrous load of guff in my life,’ he told her.

  ‘That was this morning, Max.’ Sally found the sugar packets. ‘This afternoon – “Experiential Learning” – could have been even better.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the lectures, dear girl,’ Maxwell said, hauling off his bow-tie. ‘I’m talking about the cock-happy clergyman.’

  ‘Who?’ Sally’s eyes widened as
she looked at Maxwell over her glasses.

  ‘Jordan “Superstud” Gracewell, that’s who. Tell me, Sallance, in your quieter moments, when hubby’s at the office, or the squash club or waxing his CD player, do you ever read whodunnits?’

  ‘It has been known,’ she confessed. ‘Ruth Rendell, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Motives,’ Maxwell ruminated, bending himself oddly to take off his jacket and flinging it on the floor, ‘do they ever feature? In this Rendell person, for instance?’

  ‘Often,’ she told him.

  ‘Right. Let me try you with this one. Are you sitting comfortably? Only you’ll need to, I think. A has such a goddammed powerful sex aura that women just flock to him. He has to fight them off. That’s not that difficult, because A happens to be a Catholic priest, so he’s had the training. Undergone the Bell test or whatever where they tie electrodes to your nuts then show you photos of Sharon Mammothtits to curb your natural testosterone levels. Unfortunately for A, B and C are so crazy for his body that they come to blows – behind the scenes, that is. And B ends up stoving in C’s head in order to gain unimpeded access to the aforesaid body beautiful. And if you haven’t guessed it by page two, I’m a Chippendale.’

  Sally had been about to pour Max’s coffee. Now she sat down on the bed instead. ‘All right,’ she nodded, ‘apart from the body beautiful bit, A is Jordan Gracewell. C must be Liz Striker …’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Who’s B?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’ Maxwell waved his arms in the air. ‘And I could have kicked myself for not guessing it sooner, Watson. B is none other than our old friend Professor Moriarty, otherwise known as … Rachel King.’

  Sally blinked at her old colleague in disbelief.

  ‘Well, say something,’ Maxwell said. ‘Most people are quite impressed by my Basil Rathbone.’

  ‘Oh, Max,’ Sally frowned, shaking her head, ‘is that what Gracewell told you?’

  He looked at the girl. It must be all those years teaching in Special Needs. ‘Do you think I made it up?’ he asked.

  ‘What does Rachel say?’

  ‘Rachel?’ Maxwell laughed. ‘Do you think I could tell her? My dear girl, that’s why I came to you.’

  ‘Well,’ Sally resumed her housewifely duties at the coffee front, ‘Max, I’m flattered.’