Maxwell’s Flame

by M. J. Trow

  ‘If this is an absence note from your mum,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I can accept it …’

  ‘I don’t know who it’s from,’ she whispered, though there was no one else in the bar to hear, ‘but I know who it’s to.’

  ‘To whom it is,’ he murmured, unable to stop himself, and he read the note with growing horror. ‘Where did you get this, Sally?’ he asked.

  She took the brandy in both hands and buried her nose in the balloon. She pulled a face as it hit her lips. ‘You know, I don’t really like this stuff,’ she said.

  ‘Have a sip of mine.’ He held out the glass, his eyes still on the sheet she’d given him.

  ‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘I’m driving.’

  Then Maxwell was reading the note aloud. ‘“Oops, got the wrong one there, didn’t you, old boy? Never mind, it’s business as usual for us after all. We don’t want little Jo to find out, do we?”’

  ‘What does it mean, Max?’ Sally asked him, scanning the Head of Sixth Form’s face.

  ‘That depends on where you got it,’ Maxwell said, smoothing out the paper’s folds and staring at it on the table.

  ‘Alan Harper-Bennet’s room,’ she said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  Maxwell sucked in his teeth. ‘Sally,’ he said, ‘you must never go down to the end of town without consulting me.’

  ‘I know, Max,’ she mumbled. ‘After you’d gone last night, I was about to lock my door, like you said, when who should turn up but Harper-Bennet. He said he had something to show me.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Maxwell’s left eyebrow threatened to join his hair line.

  ‘It was in his room,’ she said.

  ‘You went to his room?’ Maxwell was incredulous.

  ‘Oh, Max, I know it was bloody silly, but … well, I thought it might shed some light on this wretched business.’

  ‘It might have got you killed,’ Maxwell growled, looking the girl hard in the face.

  ‘I know,’ she shuddered, ‘I know.’ She closed her eyes briefly, then took up the tale, ‘Anyway, I went. I thought of the old pervert pinching my knickers and I wanted them back. If I had the chance, I’d find them and confront him. He offered me wine.’

  ‘It was late.’ Maxwell was the voice of reason.

  ‘That’s what I told him,’ Sally said, ‘but he poured two glasses anyway. Basically, he took up where he left off the other day. Did I believe in open marriages? How did I know I could trust Alan – my Alan, that is – and so on.’

  ‘So he didn’t have anything to show you?’ There was a twinkle in Maxwell’s eye for all his concern.

  ‘It didn’t get that far,’ Sally assured him. ‘I “accidentally” spilt my drink and while he’d gone for a cloth, I took a butchers in his drawers.’

  ‘You feisty little minx!’ Maxwell rolled his eyes. ‘And found the knickers?’

  ‘No. I found that.’

  ‘Why did you take it?’

  ‘Stupidity,’ Sally moaned. ‘Sheer bloody stupidity. Don’t the police call it tampering with the evidence?’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Don’t you see, Max, if I’d left it there, in the drawer, where he’d put it, the police would have found it this morning and Mr Harper-Pervert would be helping them with their enquiries.’

  ‘That’s assuming it is evidence,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘What? Well, surely

  ‘What do you suppose it is?’ he asked her.

  She picked it up as though it had poison smeared over it. ‘Well, it’s a blackmail note, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, Maxie!’ she shrieked, then, quieter, ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t be so bloody obtuse.’

  He smiled. ‘Obtusian is my middle name,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Sal, just playing devil’s advocate.’

  ‘And are you winning?’ she asked, straight-faced.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, taking the paper off her, ‘no, I’m not. “… got the wrong one” – that’s Liz Striker. “Never mind, it’s business as usual for us after all” – that means the blackmail money continues to be passed in the same way. “We don’t want little Jo to find out …’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘Obviously a Bonanza fan.’

  ‘Whoever little Jo is, he’s obviously the innocent party. It’s because of him or rather his need to be kept in the dark that Liz Striker died. By mistake. She wasn’t the blackmailer. Somebody else was.’

  ‘That’s one interpretation,’ Maxwell nodded.

  ‘Max, it’s the only interpretation.’

  ‘Where exactly was the note?’

  Sally screwed up her face with the effort of remembering. ‘Top drawer, opposite the bed.’

  ‘Was Harper-Bennet’s room the same plan as ours?’

  ‘Yes, but a mirror image. Bed on the other side.’

  ‘So the drawer you found that in was the first one you’d come to – from the door, I mean?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And it was on top? You didn’t have to rummage?’

  ‘No. I intended to, but he came back pretty pronto. Max, you’ve got that funny look on your face again. What are you thinking?’

  ‘If I was a murderer,’ Maxwell said softly, ‘and I’d just killed the wrong person and I’d received a blackmail note from the real person, the last thing I’d do is keep it. And the last place I’d put it is in the first place anybody would look.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’ Sally shook her head. ‘Are you saying Harper-Bennet put the letter there deliberately, knowing I’d find it?’

  ‘Well, he did take your knickers and he did invite you to his room. What happened after he’d cleared up the drink, by the way?’

  ‘I made my excuses and left,’ Sally told him. ‘By the way, whatever record Sally Gunnell holds now, I broke sprinting back along that corridor. This time I did take your advice and I locked the door. I didn’t get much sleep, Max, trying to work out that note. Oh, I feel so guilty. I should have left it there. I feel such a shit. So … ashamed.’

  ‘Now, now,’ he patted her hand, ‘there’s no need for that.’

  ‘It was what you said clinched it. When you made me realize a few minutes ago that Harper-Bennet was trying to put the finger on Dr Moreton.’

  ‘I’m not sure he was,’ Maxwell mused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Harper-Bennet came by car. He probably assumed Moreton was with the others in the bus because that was the original plan. There’s no reason for Moreton to have told Harper-Bennet about his interviews, is there?’

  ‘We’ve got to go back, Max.’ Sally was gathering up her bag.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Max, we must,’ she said, but she did as she was told.

  ‘No, we mustn’t,’ he said, ‘the fuzz must have had their reasons for detaining Moreton.’

  ‘But if I’d left this bloody note where it was, they’d have had reason to detain Harper-Bennet too.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Maxwell agreed, ‘but we mustn’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Do you … do you recognize the writing?’ Sally asked him.

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘Not joined up,’ he thought aloud. ‘Could be anybody’s.’

  ‘The police can analyse it, Max,’ she said, ‘make comparisons.’

  ‘So can we,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘We?’ Sally frowned at him.

  ‘It’s a common enough word, Mrs Greenhow,’ the Head of Sixth Form said. ‘The plural of I.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Sally was shaking her head, ‘no, no, Max. If you don’t think it’s right to go to the police, then I’ll hold off – for now, that is. But I’m going home now.’ The girl was on her feet again. ‘I need a shower, a stiff drink, the arms of my loving husband and a good night’s sleep. In the morning, I’ll decide what to do.’

  ‘A minute ago you were all for going back,’ he reminded her.

  ‘A minute ago,’ she told him, ‘I’d forgo
tten how much I need a shower, a stiff drink and all the rest of it.’

  ‘You don’t fancy going the pretty way, I suppose?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Via Luton?’

  Sally’s eyes widened. ‘It’s taken me a while,’ she said, ‘but I finally know why the kids call you Mad Max. It’s because you’re stark staring bonkers, isn’t it?’

  ‘The simplest explanation is always the best.’ Maxwell winked at her. ‘Can I keep this?’ He held up the blackmail note.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I’m trusting you, Max, not to lose it. It’s got the murderer’s prints all over it.’

  ‘And yours,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘and mine. I hear Holloway is particularly lovely at this time of year.’

  ‘Max,’ Sally was serious, ‘Max, you know I love you dearly, don’t you? That you’re like a sort of dad to me?’

  ‘Now, Sally,’ Maxwell sighed, ‘it’s not pay-day for another fortnight yet …’

  She waved the comment aside. ‘I’ve got to ask this, Max,’ she said. ‘Is that … Could that be … Rachel’s writing?’

  Maxwell put the note in his inside pocket without looking at it again. ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘it isn’t and it couldn’t be. Harper-Bennet got it wrong twice.’

  Terry Malcolm was known universally as Bum-Bum in the McBride household. It wasn’t meant to be offensive – though neither was it a term of endearment. It just happened to be the closest little Sam could get to pronouncing the name when he was younger. But then, for the ’90s, Sam was a surprisingly deferential little kid – it was always Mr Bum-Bum.

  Mr Bum-Bum was the tallest copper John McBride knew. And one of the least pleasant. Just as Stony Warren never smiled, so Terry Bum-Bum never swore. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it all. That and a curiously rich vocabulary, for a copper, that is. And if there was one thing Superintendent Bum-Bum didn’t like, it was cock-ups by his team.

  He got to Carnforth a little before lunchtime, just as Sally and Maxwell were roaming their way along the A259 in a homewardly direction. Malcolm called his team together in the incident room, gave them a pep talk and then got down to cases.

  ‘John, isn’t it?’ The cold eyes searched the open, honest face of Inspector McBride, sitting across the table in the interview room.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You can drop the sir,’ the Superintendent told him. ‘Mr Malcolm will be fine. Does your girl do a decent tea?’

  ‘Er … WPC O’Halloran? Fair, Mr Malcolm.’

  ‘Right. I take mine black. With one sugar.’

  McBride relayed the order over the intercom, and his finger was no sooner off the button than Malcolm hit him straight between the eyes with his next question. ‘What exactly was your part in the termination of Miles Warren’s career?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Malcolm looked under his eyebrows at the Inspector. ‘I thought we had an understanding,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry.’ McBride looked uncomfortable. ‘Mr Malcolm,’ he corrected himself. He hadn’t felt like this since the promotion board to Sergeant.

  ‘Would you like me to repeat the question?’ Malcolm asked him.

  ‘I’d like you to rephrase it,’ McBride said. ‘I’m not sure what it means.’

  ‘Very well.’ Malcolm turned to the window. The blinds were up now and the midday sun was gilding the Carnforth roses. ‘Forced,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ McBride wasn’t with him.

  ‘Those roses.’ Malcolm pointed to them. ‘Forced. What I mean is, whose idea was it to use this place as an incident room?’

  ‘Mr Warren’s.’

  ‘Too incestuous,’ Malcolm said, taking in the cedars at the end of the lawns. ‘We should stay close, but not too close. Whose idea was it to keep the suspects here?’

  ‘Mr Warren’s, but –’

  ‘That was a wrong ’un,’ Malcolm said, ‘and if that “but” of yours was an attempted stab at loyalty, Inspector, I’d advise you to keep schtum. I’ve known Miles Warren for sixteen years. And I’ve known him to be a good copper. But he’s blown it this time, lad. He’ll be on his way to the coppers’ graveyard. If you don’t want to see it happen, keep your nose out of tomorrow’s papers.’ He turned to face McBride. ‘And if you don’t want to join him, let’s have no more “but”s.’

  McBride fell silent.

  ‘Whose idea was it to hold off the use of search warrants?’

  ‘That was mine,’ McBride said.

  ‘Oh?’ Malcolm raised his head.

  ‘Mr Warren had gone to Bournemouth, to St Bede’s School to ask around. In his absence I decided to wait. Was I wrong?’

  Malcolm smiled. ‘That’s one of those imponderables, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It may have been a mistiming, perhaps. At the moment, I’m inclined to be charitable.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Oh, WPC O’Halloran, is it?’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Where would you like your tea, sir?’

  ‘Down my throat, dear, in the fullness of time,’ he smiled. ‘But for now, I’ll settle for the table. Aren’t you joining me, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s almost lunchtime, Mr Malcolm,’ McBride reminded him.

  ‘So it is.’ Malcolm checked his watch. ‘Do a mean buffet here, do they, at the Carnforth?’

  ‘Antonio’s pretty good,’ McBride said.

  ‘WPC, order an egg and cress sandwich, would you, from this Antonio. White bread. Diet Clover. Anything for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Er… no, thanks. I’ll get mine later.’

  ‘Right you are. Have we got any “Do Not Disturb” signs, WPC?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  ‘Then put one on the door, there’s a good girl. Leave my sandwich outside on the nearest filing cabinet. Mr McBride and I are in conference.’

  10

  Superintendent Malcolm was eating his egg and cress sandwich, slowly chewing each mouthful with the deliberation of a prize Guernsey. In his hand were the forensic photographs of Rachel King nee Cameron. She lay face down on her bed, her hair matted with blood, her shoulders and the right sleeve of her powder blue nightdress saturated. A trail of blood spots led from her body across the mat and carpet to the door, where it ended abruptly. Mrs King was still wearing her watch. The hands had stopped at nineteen fifteen.

  ‘Right.’ Malcolm finished his lunch. ‘What have we?’

  ‘If you’d come to see the scene of the crime …’ McBride suggested.

  ‘Who’s SCO?’ the Superintendent asked.

  ‘DS Latymer.’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘Good man, Dave Latymer. He won’t have missed much. Are there any more photographs?’

  ‘No, that’s it,’ the Inspector told him. ‘Shall we look at the room?’

  ‘In the fullness of time, yes,’ Malcolm said. ‘Now, you’ve talked me through the death of Mrs Striker. Talk me through the death of Mrs King.’

  ‘Dr Anderson’s preliminary report –’

  ‘Anderson?’ Malcolm interrupted him. ‘Is he that foul-mouthed geriatric?’

  McBride smiled, not something he felt able to do often in Malcolm’s company. ‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘His preliminary report gives the time of death as between nineteen and twenty hundred hours.’

  ‘Do you mean seven and eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Malcolm.’ McBride began wondering how old his new boss was. ‘The watch narrows it down still further.’

  ‘Probably,’ Malcolm nodded, ‘but I’m far from convinced about such things. I broke my watch the other day. As you see, I am still walking around. Was there a date on Mrs King’s watch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was the glass shattered, by which I mean were there pieces missing? Out of the case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then she could have broken it that morning or the previous evening. Go on.’

  ‘From the state of the room, there was a struggle. The door hadn’t been forced, so whoever her murderer was, we assume Mrs King let him in.’
r />   ‘You’re presuming a male perpetrator?’

  ‘With the sort of force involved, yes. A woman might be capable, but no one on the course here at the moment, I wouldn’t think.’

  ‘All right.’ Malcolm would accept that for the moment.

  ‘The first blow, Anderson says, was delivered at the foot of the bed. There are blood spots on the carpet at that point. This came from the front and broke the victim’s nose. There would have been profuse bleeding. She fell backwards, probably rucking up the mat as she went down.’

  ‘Damage to fingernails? Debris?’

  ‘None. But the knuckles of her right hand were grazed.’

  ‘Implying?’

  ‘That she punched him.’

  ‘You didn’t see any obvious signs, I suppose, on any of the guests?’ Malcolm asked. McBride shook his head.

  ‘Well, that was a bit too much to hope for,’ the Superintendent said. ‘What then?’

  ‘The second blow was delivered as she lay on the bed, face up. It shattered the front of the skull – these are the later photographs you have there. At this point she’d have been virtually unconscious. Her killer either rolled her over or she rolled by herself and two more blows were delivered, probably in quick succession, destroying the back of the skull.’

  ‘So Anderson thinks four blows in all?’

  ‘Yes. And of course we have the murder weapon.’

  ‘Of course,’ Malcolm smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing that. Where is it now?’

  ‘At the lab.’

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell me, then,’ Malcolm shrugged.

  ‘It’s all in the report,’ McBride told him.

  ‘I know it is, John,’ the Superintendent smiled. ‘I’ve read it. But I’d still like to hear it from you.’

  ‘An iron pipe, wrapped in tape.’

  ‘Lord Lucan,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry, lad,’ the Superintendent said. ‘I was just reminiscing. Before your time, that one. Lord Lucan’s children’s nanny, Sandra Rivett, was bludgeoned to death with a pipe wrapped in tape. Why the tape, do you suppose?’

  ‘To give a better grip,’ McBride guessed.

  Malcolm nodded. ‘And that’s all the better for us, because it screams premeditation. We don’t have the situation where our hot-tempered friend just grabs the nearest blunt instrument in the heat of an argument. You don’t tend to find iron pipes lying around in conference centre rooms and even if you do, they’re not usually wrapped in adhesive tape for a better grip. Do we know where he got it from?’