Maxwell's Chain

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Well, if you’re sure…’ her eyes narrowed. ‘Why aren’t you there?’ she asked. ‘You bin suspended again? That Mrs Lessing, she ain’t no better than she should be. It ain’t fair they keep pickin’ on you, Mr Maxwell, it ain’t. Just ’cos you’re a bit strange.’

  He was shepherding her down the stairs and he toyed with a sharp push in the big of her back. They’d see it as self-defence, surely, justifiable homicide. Maybe he’d get the George Medal. ‘I’m having a day off. No, I haven’t. No, she isn’t. No, it isn’t and,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose I am.’ By now they were in the hall and he waved her off without regret. ‘Bye, now. You have a nice day now, d’you hear?’ It was a pretty good Clint Eastwood, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

  Mrs B, on the path now with her mop at a less than jaunty angle, turned away. ‘Poor old bleeder,’ she muttered to herself, as she walked off to mop aimlessly up at the school. ‘He’s really lost it, this time. As soon as you find blokes on their settees, it’s the end, that’s what it is. I read about that old poof actor; what was his name – Charles Laughton? Married to that Elsa Manchester. That poor policewoman and that little baby. What a carry-on.’

  Mrs Troubridge, Maxwell’s neighbour, the wrong side of eighty and mad as a tree, crouched behind her hedge giving her cotoneaster a right seeing to. She nodded sagely to herself. She’d seen it coming for years and now it was here. She was disgusted and appalled, all at the same time. How exciting!

  Chapter Seven

  Maxwell was stirring his tea and looking pensively at the sleeping photographer when he heard the car draw up outside Thirty-eight. By the time the door had slammed and purposeful feet had negotiated the path, he was at the front door, flinging it open to prevent the doorbell from waking Bill Lunt.

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ Emma stood on the step and looked past him. She was a little heavier than Maxwell remembered her, a little less light of step, but running a photographic emporium and living with the man who invented neurosis couldn’t have been a piece of cake. ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Maxwell said. Seeing her surprised look, he elaborated. ‘Town house,’ he said, gesturing overhead. ‘That’s where the sitting room is. The estate agent described it as three up, three even upper, nothing down.’

  ‘Ah.’ She waited. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he stepped aside. ‘How rude of me. I just thought I’d warn you first. He’s a bit tired and depressed. This thing has been a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll just collect him though, if I may. I have to get back to the shop. The staff aren’t all that reliable, if you leave them on their own.’ She sighed. ‘Just youngsters, really. But they are the ones who know all about digital.’

  Maxwell suppressed a smile. Emma wasn’t exactly a pensioner herself. He led the way upstairs and pushed open the door.

  Hard Emma Lunt, proprietress of Lunt Photographic, disappeared before his eyes. At the sight of her husband stretched out on Maxwell’s sofa, one arm thrown across his eyes, the other protectively across his midriff, fist clenched, she had dissolved into wifely mush. She rushed across to him and threw herself across his torso.

  ‘Bill,’ she wailed. ‘Are you all right? I’ve been so worried.’

  He woke with a start and had scrambled into a half sitting position in the corner of the sofa before he realised what was happening. Then, he recognised the arms around him, the head on his chest. ‘Emma?’ She snuggled up further on his chest and tucked her head under his chin. Everything became a little incoherent and Maxwell withdrew into the less embarrassing realms of the kitchen, where he busied himself yet again with making tea.

  When he came out, the image of a Jolyons nippy, were it not for the missing apron, frilly cap and air of resignation, they had gone.

  He went over to the window and tweaked aside the curtain, in his best Mrs Troubridge style. Emma was tucking Bill into the passenger seat, making sure he was comfy and belted in before driving away. Well, thought Peter Maxwell, a sort of happy ending was beginning there at least. There would still be the police questioning, the paparazzi, the short-lived notoriety, which would either make or break Lunt Photographic. ‘’Ere, weren’t you that bloke wot found…’ – that sort of thing. The Daily Mail would throw in a dream cottage for the exclusive rights. Al Pacino would demand to play the photographer in the film. Kill Bill. Or had somebody done that already? But for now, they were driving off into the sunset on a second honeymoon.

  A car was turning in to Columbine and missed the Lunt vehicle by a whisker. It was Jacquie, Nolan safely strapped in the back, home from the nick, via the childminder. Maxwell savoured the moment, watching unobserved as she pulled up to the kerb and switched off the engine. She turned to say something to Nolan – whatever it was, he liked it; Maxwell could see his arms wave and could almost hear the gurgle. She got out and went round to the back, undid his harness and lifted him out. He was getting to be a bit of an armful now; he could walk, but, like Alan Bennett’s Lady Dundown, he didn’t have to.

  Maxwell contrived to be sitting casually, two cups of tea waiting on the table, when Jacquie walked in. Nolan slid down her and toddled across to Metternich, who welcomed him with a yawn and a stretch.

  ‘Hello, Nole,’ Maxwell called, waving extravagantly.

  Nolan waved and gave his attention back to the cat, who glanced at Maxwell over the boy’s shoulder with a triumphant gleam in his wicked yellow eye as if to say ‘Want me to lick him or eat him?’

  Jacquie dropped into her usual seat on the sofa and reached for the tea. ‘For me?’ she asked. ‘God, my feet!’

  ‘Of course, Light of my Life,’ Maxwell said quickly.

  ‘Not made for anyone else, like…visitors, for example?’

  ‘No, no, just for you,’ Maxwell lied.

  She aimed one of those tired feet at him, missing him by miles. ‘Don’t give me that. I just saw the Lunts leaving. I am a trained copper, you know! They looked like love’s young dream, I must say.’

  ‘Yes, well, I admit I made it for them, but they’d buggered off by the time I came out of the kitchen. Gratitude, eh? There haven’t been any lips in it or anything.’ He pulled a face at her. ‘Except mine, of course.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ She held the mug to her face gratefully and swigged. ‘Oooh, that’s better. There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘No. Except a cup of tea, of course.’

  ‘I won’t rise today. It’s been a shocker. Henry Hall was really quite upset after he visited the Blackwells. He took it hard. They didn’t realise the boy was sleeping rough. Thought he was with friends.’

  ‘Sleeping rough? What, really rough, as in in a cardboard box?’

  ‘A tent in the woods, actually.’

  Maxwell put down his tea. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jacquie knew that look.

  Nolan was crouching by Metternich, trying to engage the black and white monster in something approximating to conversation. Metternich wasn’t having any, just lashing his tail. He wouldn’t hurt the Boy for all the world, but the only one who knew that for certain was Metternich. So Maxwell kept an eye, just in case…

  ‘I’ll tell you now, save time,’ he went on. ‘Bill Lunt spent last night sleeping in his car. In the woods.’

  She relaxed again. ‘There are loads of woods around here.’

  ‘Yes, but not many where you can park. For that I suppose it would have to be Silverdown Woods.’

  ‘Well, in that case, it is “Oh”.’ She put the cup down on the coffee table.

  ‘Did he die there?’ Maxwell asked. ‘It was in the park, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But it is a bit of a coincidence that the man who found the first body…’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Not you,’ she corrected him. ‘You were just there. Why is it always about you?’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Where was I? Yes, the man who found the first body happens to spend the night in the
same woods where the second victim has been sleeping out. Henry isn’t going to just let that one go. He can’t, Max. There are coincidences and there are coincidences.’

  ‘No, I suppose he can’t. But I still say Bill Lunt is innocent. Rather like his distant relative, Bill Stickers.’

  Jacquie was a little young for that one. She didn’t know who Mr Chad was either. She reached for the phone. ‘I’m telling Henry, Max. Then, we’ll have something to eat, play with Nolan, give him a bath and watch some rubbish on the telly. And at no time during those activities are we going to speak of this case. Is that clear?’

  ‘As crystal, dearest,’ Maxwell said, and, putting his tea down first for Health and Safety reasons, he slipped down out of his chair and crawled over for a natter with his boy and his cat.

  The boy took matters into his own hands by wandering off in search of his mother and food, though who could be sure they were in that order of importance.

  ‘That’s it, that’s it,’ Maxwell called after his receding heir. ‘Leave the old man sprawling like a prat on the mat.’ He bumped noses with Metternich. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  The cat stretched again and looked intelligent, not easy when all you have to work with are two big yellow eyes with slits for pupils and a set of white whiskers. Nonetheless, Maxwell settled in beside the animal and began the conversation. After all, he had whitish whiskers too and his pupils only differed from Metternich’s by one consonant.

  ‘Well, Count,’ he said, risking a clawing by stroking him between the ears. ‘Where are we on this one? And I shall be asking questions later. Two youngsters, sleeping rough or at least homeless within the meaning of the act. One girl, one boy. Did they know each other? I wonder. One not local, one as local as they come, one of My Own. Cause of death? Were they the same? Motive, I hear you ask? Well, there you have me, Count. I have no idea what the motive could be. There was no theft, although apparently the girl had money on her. There didn’t seem to be a fight or anything going on. Nothing sexual. Apart from being dead, there’s nothing suspicious about either of them. No drug involvement, except for a bit of weed on the girl, which, begging the Mem’s presence, isn’t what even an old fart like me would call much of a crime. I should think it probably makes the long night shorter. Or at least a touch more colourful.’

  He glanced at the cat, who was sitting up now, all attention.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, please. I was young once.’

  The cat stalked off in the direction of the kitchen, probably to seek a second opinion of that last comment. His eyes may be vacant, but the ears were razor sharp and they had, in fact, detected the faint clink of the business end of a tin opener making contact with the edge of a tin. Even if it should transpire that only beans were involved, he was probably all right for a titbit if he went through what he fondly believed to be his cute routine, namely placing his bum on either foot of the nearest human.

  Maxwell rolled upright with that surprising energy he normally reserved for a blitzkrieg attack on the smokers behind the Sports Hall. He leant back against the chair and gazed at the ceiling. He’d just have to talk to himself, then. It was Eight See all over again.

  ‘It’s clear to me that Bill Lunt is as innocent as the day is long. There was no need for him to draw attention to the murder; it would have gone undiscovered for ever if it weren’t for his photos. Yes, I agree that the…’ there was a thud on the cushion of the chair behind his head. Metternich was back. ‘Oh, beans, was it? Or just a can of worms? Well, I was just saying Bill Lunt didn’t do it, whatever the profilers might think.’

  The kitchen door swung open and shut, leaving Nolan on the other side of it. His face screwed up and he started to cry. Jacquie’s head poked round the door.

  ‘Max, can you just keep Nole in there for a moment? You know the rules, no s-e-x, no politics, no religion, no murder in front of the boy.’ Her head disappeared and the three Maxwell Men heard the murmur of her voice through the door.

  Stymied, Maxwell and Metternich’s conversation stuttered to a halt and the three chatted about this and that.

  ‘Did I ever tell you guys about Muffin the Mule?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘What did I tell you about s-e-x?’ Jacquie’s voice came through from the kitchen.

  ‘Ears like a bat, your Mummy,’ Maxwell pretended to snatch Nolan’s nose – the game of the month. Even Metternich was impressed. Although when he removed noses, the whole thing was rather bloodier.

  Jacquie came back in and replaced the phone on its station. She threw herself down on the sofa and held out her arms to whoever got there first. Nolan won, by a short head. Maxwell swerved onto a chair and Metternich hadn’t even heard the starting pistol.

  ‘Henry says thank you,’ she said over the boy’s head to Maxwell.

  ‘He does?’ Maxwell was frankly astounded.

  ‘Not as such, but he was grateful nonetheless. I’m afraid that means a search warrant and a fairly unpleasant night for the Lunts, Max. I’m sorry.’

  Maxwell grimaced but nodded slowly. She was right; coincidence could only stretch so far. Still and all, he hoped they would understand that he had to do it.

  ‘What did Henry think when you mentioned s-e-x on the phone just now?’

  Nolan turned at that moment to his mother. He’d been wondering that too.

  ‘I put my hand over the receiver,’ she said. ‘Like what they taught us in the Police Academy.’

  Maxwell nodded. He’d seen all those.

  ‘He said what?’ Emma Lunt exploded in the policeman’s face.

  ‘Just that your husband had been sleeping out in the woods last night, madam,’ said DS Tony Deacon, unperturbed. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but I’m sure you understand that it would be better in the long run for your husband if you stood aside and let us in.’

  Emma squared up to him, for all the bloke was built like a brick Shi’ite temple. ‘Have you got a warrant?’

  Deacon sighed. He did so wish that people wouldn’t watch all those police dramas on the telly; the procedurals were usually rubbish. ‘Yes, madam, we have a warrant.’ He brandished it under her nose. ‘We don’t do searches without warrants in real life.’

  ‘Well, don’t leave the place in a mess.’

  ‘We’ll be as neat as possible, madam, commensurate with a thorough search.’ He turned and called down the path, ‘OK, you lot. Let’s get in and search, the lady says don’t make a mess.’

  The six police officers marched through the door in single file, chuckling as they went, but each one careful to wish Emma Lunt a cheery good evening. Six of them, she noted. God knew what real crime was going on undetected in Leighford while these flat foots ruined her shagpile. They dispersed up stairs and through into the kitchen. Deacon went through into the lounge. He was a bit of an amateur psychologist who was creating a mental dossier on guilt or innocence based on the size of the television screen in suspects’ houses. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, he thought. We have a right one here and bang to rights. The telly was the size of the windscreen of a moderately sized family car, black and slick as a puddle of oil. The innocent ones tended to have either a small flat screen or an old-fashioned fat telly with no gadgets to speak of. This one had extra speakers, SkyHD – the lot. Guilty as sin.

  Smirking to himself Deacon went through into the kitchen, just in time to meet one of the policewomen coming out of the utility room. She was carrying a bag, heavy with some fairly bulky contents. His smirk widened.

  ‘Well, Brady,’ he said. ‘Bloodstained clothing?’

  ‘Not as such, sarge,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it either is or it isn’t,’ he said, slightly testily.

  ‘Yes, sarge. It is bloodstained and I suppose it’s clothing. I don’t think it belongs to Mr Lunt, though. I think it may belong to the first victim.’ She opened the bag and he peered in. At the bottom lay a grubby scarf and in the confined space of the bag-mouth, he could tell it was none too clean. In short, it sta
nk to high heaven.

  ‘Oh, close that up,’ he said, waving a hand under his nose. ‘Where was that?’

  ‘In the washing basket.’

  ‘Best place for it. What makes you think it is Lara Kent’s?’

  The policewoman took a deep breath, tucked the bag under her arm and started to tick the points off on her fingers. ‘First, it’s really dirty and this house is really clean, so I can’t imagine it belongs to Mrs Lunt. I say Mrs because it is very much a woman’s scarf. Second, it seems to have sand in it and I know the body was found in the dunes. Third, it’s got… well, fleas, sarge, and I know the dead girl had a dog. So…well, I just thought it might be hers.’

  He took the bag from her. ‘Well done, Brady, well done. We’ll make a copper of you in twenty years or so. I’ll label this and get it to forensics. Keep searching.’

  And search and search and search they did, but found nothing else. Tony Deacon may have looked an idiot, but that was just a front, really, to lull the guilty into a false sense of security. Bill Lunt was a photographer, so Deacon had brought the SOCO cameraman along, just to check out the man’s darkroom. The usual – chemicals, film, infrared, a bit of dark; all very disappointing, really. Nothing sweaty whatsoever. They impounded Bill Lunt’s computer just in case and asked his wife about his mobile phone. She just gave a snort. The man who didn’t do digital really didn’t do digital. When it came to mobile phones, Bill Lunt’s degree of revulsion made Peter Maxwell look like he could text for England. They didn’t tidy up after themselves as they had implied they would. And they didn’t get even a cursory goodbye from Emma when she slammed the door behind their retreating backs. And all the time, she was wondering and worrying about what they’d taken away in the black bag.

  Thirty-eight, Columbine was drenched in the sort of silence that you only get when the baby is fed, bathed and asleep. Nolan lay in his dreams, the pale stars and moons of his nite-lite twirling overhead and the room filled with his soft snoring. The cat had gone out, to paint Leighford red with the blood of rodents. The official Man of the House had done the washing up without being asked to and therefore the official Woman of the House had made the coffee and poured the drinks. Metternich being absent, it was left to Jacquie to purr softly as Maxwell rubbed her feet. When the phone rang it was as if the air was being sliced into by a circular saw at the business end of a megaphone.