by M. J. Trow
‘I found the note,’ she said and even then she couldn’t believe she was saying it.
‘Did you?’ Malcolm said, his face expressionless, his eyes cold. He hadn’t the first idea what Sally Greenhow was talking about, but he’d thrown her a lifeline in that cruel sea of the yob culture and she’d caught at it.
‘I didn’t realize what it was. Not at first.’ She was feeling better already. ‘Then I knew it was blackmail.’
The WPC in the corner stiffened, but she was young. Naive. Had a long way to go. Malcolm hadn’t moved.
‘Where was the note?’ he asked.
‘Top drawer. Left-hand side,’ Sally remembered. ‘Alan Harper-Bennet’s room at the Carnforth Centre.’
‘And what did it say?’
‘Er …’ She shut her eyes tight. ‘I can’t remember exactly. The gist of it was that whoever it was had got the wrong person. The blackmailer was still alive and wanted paying.’
‘So you assumed, you and Maxwell, that Mr Harper-Bennet was the murderer?’
‘That’s what I thought,’ she nodded. ‘He’d been chatting me up, making a play in a rather schoolboyish way. I …’ She noticed her cigarette had gone out, but the Superintendent didn’t offer to relight it. ‘I think he was watching me in the swimming pool.’
He nodded.
‘I also think he stole my underwear.’ He nodded again.
‘Well, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I wanted them back, Superintendent. I felt … dirty, somehow. The fact that he was watching me. By getting my underwear back … well, I’d have burned them, of course, but I’d feel … complete again. It’s difficult to explain.’
‘So you broke into his room?’
‘No. He invited me there. While he was in the other room, I had a look in the drawer. There was the note.’
‘On top?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled quickly. ‘That’s what Max thought as well.’
‘Really?’ Malcolm was bemused. ‘What did Mr Maxwell think?’
‘That it was peculiar to find such a damning piece of evidence so relatively easily. The first place I looked I found that.’
‘That was peculiar as far as Mr Maxwell was concerned, was it?’
‘Of course. He said it was planted. We now think it was Gregory Trant.’
‘Mr Trant?’
‘One thing we learned at Luton,’ she said, getting into her stride now, on a high of confession, ‘is that Trant is a notorious practical joker. Either he is the murderer and implicated Harper-Bennet with the blackmail note and Moreton with the iron pipe, or at least he knows who the murderer is.’
‘And, having talked to Mr Trant, to which conclusion did you and Mr Maxwell come?’
‘Neither,’ Sally said. ‘I think that by the end of yesterday, all this had finally got to Max. You see, he once loved Rachel King. He can’t bring himself to believe that she was the murderer’s real target; that she was a blackmailer. They could have married. You don’t want to believe that about your other half.’
‘No, indeed,’ Malcolm nodded. ‘And tell me, where is the note now?’
‘Max has got it. He’s … Oh, God.’ And only then did Sally Greenhow realize what she’d done. She’d sold Mad Max down the river. She leaned her head to one side, looking straight at Terry Malcolm. As though she were listening. As though she’d heard, in Pontius Pilate’s presence, the cock crow thrice.
14
Now Peter Maxwell had heard of POOO – Parents Opposed to Opting Out. He’d even been pressured into joining TOOO – Teachers Opposed to Opting Out – though he’d never paid his sub. Yet, here he sat in the Principal’s study, trying to come to terms with the excruciating chesterfield and the fact that St Bede’s had opted out last year. He’d had to walk past two hideous photographs, first of the Pope, then of a benign old boy beaming at and shaking hands with John Patten.
The benign old boy shuffled noiselessly into the room as Maxwell sat, watching the gulls wheel in the May sunshine over St Bede’s extensive playing fields.
‘Mr Maxwell?’
The Head of Sixth Form rose to grip the benign old hand. ‘Father Brendan?’
‘Do sit down. Can I get you a coffee? Something stronger?’
For a moment, Maxwell was tempted to order a Southern Comfort, but the ancient Father might have been referring to tea, so he declined. Father Brendan sat back in his opulent chair, the other side of his opulent desk. This could have been a little ante-room in the Vatican. It bore no relationship to the graffiti-strewn corridors and scruffy staff-room offices of Maxwell’s own dear high school. The old man bore a passing resemblance to Wilfrid Hyde White and Maxwell had seen many a film where he’d found the old actor to be rather sinister and anything but what he seemed.
‘It’s good of you to give me your time on a Saturday, Father,’ Maxwell said, trying to arrange his buttocks differently this time.
‘It’s my pleasure, Mr Maxwell.’ Brendan leaned forward so that his white collar disappeared behind his pointed chin. ‘My secretary tells me you have a personal matter to discuss.’
‘It’s about Rachel King,’ Maxwell explained.
‘Ah,’ and the old boy crossed himself. Maxwell wasn’t too surprised at that. He’d often seen Father Dowling do it on the telly, always in the winter streets of downtown Chicago. He was a little surprised by what followed though. ‘A victim if ever I met one.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Maxwell frowned.
‘No, no,’ Brendan leaned back, fluttering his fingers, ‘it is I who should apologize. Many people take my view to be unchristian, though I assure you it isn’t. You see, I believe there are victims in the world, Mr Maxwell. People whose outlooks, walks of life, even their names, lead them into murky byways. Wrong people. Wrong places. It’s sad. Very sad.’
‘I would have said Rachel King was anything but a victim,’ Maxwell said. ‘Outgoing, vivacious, charming.’
‘You knew her well?’
‘Not, apparently, as well as I thought.’
‘We closed the school,’ Brendan said, ‘on the day we heard the news. Some of the children were inconsolable. And with Michael and Jordan away …’
‘Did that leave something of a gap at St Bede’s?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Brendan smiled, ‘I have to ask you on what authority …’
‘None,’ Maxwell smiled back. ‘I have no right to be here at all. Except that … except that Rachel King was once a dear friend of mine and I think I owe it to her to find out what really happened.’
‘The police have been here already,’ the Principal told him.
‘I’m sure they have.’
‘But they weren’t once dear friends of Rachel?’ Brendan twinkled.
Maxwell chuckled. Why wasn’t his headmaster like this one? Why was everybody else’s headmaster a human being? ‘Exactly,’ he said.
‘Did Michael’s and Jordan’s absence leave a gap?’ Brendan took up the threads of the conversation. ‘Yes, it did. I’m proud to say I’m seventy-six, Mr Maxwell. No, don’t bother to mouth the platitudes. I look every week of that. The point is that I can still follow a dialogue, but running a school is more complex than that, isn’t it? Michael Wynn is our St Peter, Mr Maxwell. The rock of St Bede’s. Our anchor in a sea of change. He handled all the opting-out business, runs the curriculum like a well-oiled machine. I’ll go next year, I expect, and I’ll be happy to hand over to Michael. A worthy successor in every sense.’
‘And Father Gracewell?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Brendan smiled. ‘A very earnest young man.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Brendan said, ‘I understand that Rachel King meant something to you and that is why I am talking to you now. But I cannot discuss the personalities of my staff with you. As a teacher and as a Catholic, that would be totally wrong. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Of course,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘but I’d like to talk to them both if I may.’
But it was Sat
urday and the Deputy Principal and the Chaplain weren’t there. Father Brendan was very obliging however and he made sure that Maxwell had their addresses before he left. The Head of Sixth Form grabbed a sandwich and a swift half at the local and made his first visit.
There was no doubt about it. Deputy Heads in opted-out schools seemed to have a bigger slice of the action than Heads of Sixth Form under the yoke of the good old local authorities. Michael Wynn’s pied-a-terre must have set him back all of £200,000. It was Thirties Cute in style, owing a little to Edwin Lutyens, a little to Rennie Mackintosh and a little to Toby Twirl. There was even a Range Rover parked nonchalantly on the gravel sweep before which ghost koi slid effortlessly through the clear, dark waters of the lily pond.
Maxwell felt a little uncomfortable, a little out of his depth. His own modest 38 Columbine could have fitted neatly in the lobby of the house that stood before him. But he was in blood steeped in so far, there was no going back now. He rang the bell. A crop-headed kid put his face around the door and there was a dog barking somewhere in an outhouse.
‘Is your dad in?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Mum,’ the boy called back into the darkened hall, ‘it’s for dad.’
The tiny woman who stood in the doorway peered out at the visitor through cautious eyes. ‘Yes?’ Her voice was thin, as though her throat wouldn’t last the afternoon.
‘Mrs Wynn?’
‘Yes.’
Maxwell swept off his panama. ‘My name is Peter Maxwell. I wonder if I might have a word with your husband?’
‘What’s it about?’ He noticed her eyes flicker. Strangely cold, they were, and empty.
‘I was on the GNVQ course at Carnforth last week, Mrs Wynn. One of the women who died was a friend of mine. I’m trying to find out what happened to her.’
‘She died, Mr … er … Maxwell. Isn’t that what you said?’
‘Yes,’ Maxwell nodded, wondering quite what he’d stumbled on here. ‘But I need to know why.’
Mrs Wynn hesitated, then let the door swing back. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said and led him through the hall into the kitchen and out on to a sunlit patio. ‘Can I get you some home-made lemonade?’ she asked and offered him a garden seat.
‘That would be lovely,’ he said and watched her wander away. For all the world Mrs Wynn looked like an older woman. She couldn’t be more than forty, yet her movements, her vagueness gave her the air of an old biddy. Perhaps she’d had a hard life. The boy who’d opened the door to Maxwell was tinkering with an upturned mountain bike, clattering spanners and spinning wheels.
‘Bit of chain trouble?’ Maxwell asked him.
‘No, it’s the pedal,’ the boy said. ‘Keeps coming off.’
‘Perhaps your dad can fix it?’ Maxwell suggested.
‘My dad’s never here,’ the boy said and hauled the machine upright.
There was a movement out of the corner of Maxwell’s eye and he saw a little girl, younger than the boy, dart across the gap between two apple trees. Then she peered around the trunk at him and grinned a gappy grin.
‘Hello,’ Maxwell said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Belinda,’ she said.
‘That’s a lovely name,’ Maxwell smiled. He never quite knew how to handle kids under eleven. Always felt he was over-compensating, condescending.
‘My mummy’s name is Gwendoline Josephine,’ the little girl volunteered.
‘Belinda was my mother’s name.’ Mrs Wynn had returned, carrying a tray. ‘I’m afraid Michael’s not here at the moment. He’s gone fishing. He always goes fishing on a Saturday.’
‘Doesn’t your boy enjoy that?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Charlie?’ It was almost as if Mrs Wynn had to remind herself of the boy’s name. ‘Yes, he doesn’t mind it. But Michael deserves his quiet. He works so hard at the school. He needs his peace. He’s rather a solitary man in many ways.’
‘You know, it’s funny, but I could have sworn that Michael had two boys.’
‘No,’ she looked at him oddly, ‘only Charlie.’ She smiled at the boy, but there was no warmth there. ‘Sometimes he seems like two. I wonder why you’d think that?’
Maxwell sipped the lemonade. It lacked the bite of Southern Comfort, but it would pass muster on a hot, dry early summer’s day. ‘Delicious,’ he said. ‘You have a lovely house, Mrs Wynn.’
She sat down at the green enamel table and for the first time he saw how scrawny her hands were, how thin her neck. Anorexia clearly ruled OK. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been in my family for three generations.’
‘Oh, it’s your house,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘I was wondering how Michael had done so well for himself.’
‘My family were in shipping for years. Grandfather was very careful with his money. Of course, it’s all Michael’s now.’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, it will be. I don’t really understand money, Mr Maxwell. I leave all that sort of thing to Michael. Is that how it is in your house?’
‘Ah, well, I’m a bachelor, Mrs Wynn,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘I’m Chief Accountant, Gardener, Head Cook and Bottle Washer all rolled into one.’
‘That must be very difficult.’
‘Well,’ Maxwell shrugged, ‘it can lead to acute schizophrenia, but I usually win the arguments with myself. Er … any idea when Michael will be back?’
‘It’s usually late,’ she said. ‘Dawn sometimes.’
‘He fishes overnight?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Wynn said, ‘frequently. He says there’s nothing like standing in the roaring surf in the dark with the wind on your face and the line straining.’
‘That’s almost poetic,’ Maxwell said softly. ‘I don’t suppose you know exactly which stretch of coast he uses?’
Mrs Wynn shrugged. ‘It could be anywhere. I suppose you could look for him, if it was that urgent.’
‘I’m on foot,’ Maxwell told her. ‘That might take a little time. Never mind, I’ll catch him at school on Monday,’ and he downed his lemonade.
‘Which of them was your friend?’ she suddenly asked him.
Maxwell blinked. ‘Rachel King,’ he said. ‘Did you know her?’
Mrs Wynn nodded. ‘Not all that well. I knew Liz Striker better. Rachel came here once or twice. I think Michael even took her fishing once.’
‘Really?’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Well,’ Maxwell laughed, ‘I knew Rachel a long time ago, Mrs Wynn. She didn’t know one end of a fish from another in those days. But I am going back a few years. People change.’
‘Yes.’ She looked steadily into his eyes. ‘Yes, they do.’
‘You don’t go fishing then?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘When Michael and I were first married, I went with him a few times. I’m afraid I don’t share his poetry. I find it cold and … well, boring.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Maxwell winked at her. ‘Tell me, Mrs Wynn, how well do you know Father Gracewell?’
‘Jordan? Better than I knew Rachel King, I suppose. Michael took him rather under his wing, especially when he first joined St Bede’s. He had nowhere to live, so he spent a few weeks with us. Belinda was still a baby. I felt very sorry for him.’
‘Why?’
‘Some people are born to teach, Mr Maxwell. Michael was. He has a natural, wonderful gift with children. I’m sure you’re the same.’
‘I’m sure there are four hundred or so children at Leighford High who would take issue with you on that point,’ Maxwell said.
‘Well,’ Mrs Wynn said, ‘Jordan was not a natural. He was diffident to the point of embarrassment. I am not a particularly maternal type, Mr Maxwell, but even I wanted to mother him. Or I did until …’
‘Until?’
Mrs Wynn stood up abruptly. For a moment, she swayed, steadying herself with her knuckles on the garden table. ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment, Mr Maxwell, the children and I. I’m sorry your journey has been wasted.’
‘Not at all, Mrs Wynn, the lemonade was delicious. I’ll see myself out. Goodbye, children,’ and Maxwell retrieved his hat and left, aware of three pairs of eyes burning into his back.
He’d seen dead houses before. Places where the windows watch you like sad eyes. Where the halls ring hollow and no one answers the bell. Rachel King’s house was like that, on the edge of a small estate with cedars behind it and sprinkled lawns at the front.
Maxwell stood there for a few minutes until he realized that someone was looking at him, watching from a picket fence to his left.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ Maxwell scowled. ‘CID.’ And he remembered not to tip his hat.
The old boy in the neighbouring garden peered at the policeman on the pavement. What sort of rozzer wore a bow-tie and waistcoat and a hat out of a television ad for Yellow Pages? Still, the old boy had caught a nasty one at Arromanches and he’d never been quite the same since. The Normandy landings had left their mark on all of them. The shrapnel he carried made him blurred, uncertain. And the years hadn’t helped.
‘Can I see your identification?’ he said.
Maxwell fumbled in his inside pocket and flashed his Countdown card, the one that membership of the National Union of Teachers gave him access to. He flicked it away again before the old boy could focus his bi-focals.
‘Your blokes have been here already,’ the old boy said.
‘I know,’ Maxwell said. ‘Just a follow-up visit. Routine. They said you had a key.’ Maxwell was fishing. For all he’d told Gwendoline Josephine Wynn that he found it boring, every now and then it paid dividends.
‘That’s right,’ the old boy nodded. ‘Who? Who said?’
‘The lads at the station.’
‘Are you the bloke what’s in charge?’
‘Nah,’ Maxwell breathed in. ‘Dogsbody, that’s me. Mind if I have a look around? I’ll lock up again afterwards.’
‘Well … I s’pose it’s all right. I’ll just get the key, shall I?’
‘That’s the ticket.’ Maxwell winked at him. He shuddered inwardly. He’d been patronizing to a small kid and a wrinkly and it wasn’t even supper time yet. Even so, he’d stay close to this old boy. Just in case he wasn’t the giddy old gander he appeared. Just in case he took it into his head to ring the station, just to check.
