Maxwell's Chain

by M. J. Trow

  ‘No, it’s quite all right, Helen,’ Hall said. ‘I’ll pop round myself. It’s on my way.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Henry Hall waited in the foyer of the Leighford Multiplex with gritted teeth while a school party milled around him. He was useless these days at guessing children’s ages, but from the height of the line of snot and ice-cream dribble gradually building up on his jacket, he thought they were probably around about seven. He looked with admiration at the teachers shepherding their charges and wondered that they looked so well on it, though one did seem to have quite a serious tic under one eye. He couldn’t move through the tide of little sweaty, screaming people, so decided to just ride it out. Actually, it could have been worse. What he was witnessing was Year Five of Tottingleigh School getting their reward for a recent Ofsted success. Had the virus not been stalking the land, their numbers would have been greater.

  He closed his eyes, to make the time pass more quickly. That way, he couldn’t see the tired décor, the only slightly bent life size figures of stars of forthcoming attractions. Tobey Maguire swung above his head, sadly just within the reach of the passing wag who had adorned his black spider suit with an extra willy made of half-chewed gum. He made a note to get the speech bubble which was written on the Drew Barrymore figure wiped off – the community police officer would be on to that first thing tomorrow. Spelling was pretty good, though. If you vandalised something today, thank a teacher. On the other hand, he could definitely get the manager under the Obscene Publications Act. The tide of children swept round him and down the stairs, the sound of their chatter dying away like a radio with its battery fading. Then, suddenly, it was cut off by the final closure of the swinging exit doors. Henry Hall heaved a sigh and turned towards the deluxe screen doors. There was a God.

  ‘Henry Hall! Well, swipe me pink,’ said a familiar voice just near his left shoulder. It might have been the late, great Tony Hancock, but it wasn’t. Hall hadn’t expected the day to get worse and yet, somehow, it just had. He turned, pasting on a smile.

  ‘Hello, Mr Maxwell. Jacquie. Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘No, no, we’re always here,’ said Maxwell. ‘Film Buffs Are Us and we thought we’d celebrate the return of Mrs Troubridge by a visit to the cinematographic emporium.’

  ‘Umm…how appropriate,’ said Hall.

  ‘It is,’ said Jacquie, feeling the need to fill in the detail. ‘She’s our babysitter.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ That made some sort of sense. What made no sense was the fact that a deranged old lady, newly returned from the Missing Persons List, was deemed by these otherwise intelligent people to be suitable for looking after their child. ‘Here for a bit of Hugh Grant, then?’ Henry Hall tried to make light conversation when he could. He’d get the hang of it one day. Also, he was trying hard to avoid the question he knew was lurking on Maxwell’s lips – ‘what are you doing here?’ He wasn’t to know that was a question rarely asked Chez Maxwell/Carpenter without laughter and collapsing. It was always followed in the TV cop shows by a grisly murder, thereby implying, with all the subtlety of Charlotte Church, that the victim knew his killer.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ Maxwell said, chuckling. ‘We don’t do the Hugh Grant thing, do we, Jacquie?’

  ‘No,’ she said, looking a little crestfallen. ‘No, we don’t. Not really.’

  Maxwell gave her a sideways glance. ‘Well, perhaps later. On DVD, dear. Where I have the option to take the cat for a nice, long walk or start reading War and Peace to Nole.’ He smiled at Hall, man to man. ‘No, no, we’re here to watch Hot Fuzz. Came out last week and we fancied a laugh, after the last few days.’

  ‘So…watching a police film is relaxation, Jacquie?’ Hall suddenly felt lonely, here in the giant foyer with the unlikeliest and yet the happiest couple in Leighford and surrounding area.

  ‘Hardly police, guv!’ Jacquie laughed.

  ‘I watched Shaun of the Dead with much enjoyment,’ said Maxwell, ‘and so did all my zombie friends. Anyway,’ Here it comes, thought Hall, ‘that’s enough about us. What are you doing here?’ For a reason Hall did not understand, Maxwell raised a hooked finger and pointed it at him, with a recoil effect. Hall remembered doing something similar in the long, long ago, when playing cowboys and Indians with his sisters; never a very fulfilling game, as he spent a lot of the time tied to a tree. Jacquie grinned and nudged Maxwell.

  ‘Oh, you know, just booking a seat at the deluxe.’

  ‘Deluxe? Ah, I see – Hugh Grant. Are you a fan, then, Henry?’

  ‘No. It’s Mrs Hall,’ he lied, without compunction.

  ‘Lovely,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before we have to go in. We’ll tag along. Then, perhaps you’d like to join us for one of the scrummy three squillion varieties of ice cream served by a surly Leighford Highena in this very foyer? With average luck it’ll be Wonky Wendy tonight, class of ’97.’

  Henry Hall briefly felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights, then mentally shook himself. ‘That sounds a very attractive proposition,’ he lied. ‘But after booking my seat, I really must get along home.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jacquie. ‘And we must go and get to our seats. See you tomorrow, guv. Come along, Max, we’ll be late.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Plenty of room in the one and nines. We’ve still got…’

  ‘Really, Max. We’ll be late,’ and she dragged him off through the turnstile that led to the Seats for Common People. Henry Hall slipped through the door for the Posh.

  ‘What’s he really doing here?’ Maxwell hissed in her ear.

  ‘He’s really booking seats in the deluxe,’ Jacquie said. ‘Really, Max, you must get out of the idea that Henry lives at the police station. He actually does have a life outside, you know.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Maxwell, perfectly echoing any one of Ten Eff Zed when asked if they knew any History, any History at all. ‘He’s on to something and I’m going to find out what.’ He pulled against his captor but she was trained in safe restraint and her grip was fierce on his sleeve. She pulled herself up so her nose was as near to his as she could get it without stepping on his toes.

  ‘Listen to me, Peter Maxwell,’ she hissed, menacingly. ‘We are going into that cinema now, we are taking our seats. We are watching a film. If you do not laugh in the funny bits, I will know you are thinking about Henry. If you laugh when no one else does…all right, I’ll give you two of those, but if you do it repeatedly, I will know you are thinking about Henry. If you think about Henry, you will get a pint of ice cold Coke in your lap and half a ton of popcorn up your nostrils – and that’s for starters. Understand?’

  ‘I love it when you’re strict with me,’ he put on his best pervert smile. ‘And yes, I do understand.’ He knew when the end of her tether was in sight. They gave in their tickets to yet another surly Highena; Zoë Bigtits, class of ’94. ‘She’s a policeman,’ he said by way of explanation to the spotty girl as they went into the dark. The usherette wasn’t surprised. The only surprising thing was that, having arrested the mad old sod for nameless crimes, she was taking him to the pictures.

  Maxwell sat through the adverts. He sorely missed Pearl and Dean and their slightly out of focus, slightly too loud ads for things no one could ever want. He wriggled only slightly when being admonished to turn off his mobile phone or have his nuts put in a vice by a rather scary woman dressed in bondage wear. He watched patiently through the forthcoming attractions, none of which he wanted to see particularly, because they were not attractive and probably not very forthcoming. Especially not a special-edition-digitally-remastered-extra-CGI-with-knobs-on edition of The Da Vinci Code. He’d guessed it was dear old Ian McKellen the first time. You don’t get a Knight of the Theatre and give him a bit part these days. He did a bit of generic glaring when there was some crackling of paper to his left, unnecessary throat clearing to his right. Whenever Jacquie caught his eye, his expression was truly beatific. Finally, the film began and he gave less of his brai
n to the question of what Henry was doing; sometimes as little as ninety-nine percent.

  After a while, he leant over to Jacquie and whispered, ‘Sorry, sweetness, but that pint of ice cold Coke is taking its toll. The one I drank, not the one you threatened me with, obviously,’ he clarified.

  ‘Max. Your bladder’s like a carrier bag. Don’t tell me you’re going to the loo, because I won’t believe you,’ she hissed back.

  ‘No, really, I do need to go. Even carrier bags have a limit and I didn’t go before we came out.’ He sounded like something out of the old Zafira ad and pulled a rueful face. ‘Sorry. Plus, don’t forget I’m at a funny age.’

  She turned to look at him. He looked quite genuine, but this was Mad Max and who could tell? He wasn’t in catheter country yet, but still, she weighed up the options and came to a decision. ‘All right. But come straight back.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ He sketched a salute and was gone, loping up the stairs all of one at a time and out through the curtain at the back. He stopped to check for Hall. There was no sign, so Maxwell slid through the doors of the Deluxe. Sure enough, a current Highena sat behind the desk, but, Saints be praised, one of the more intelligent this time. Well, in this job, you had to write, so if it wasn’t an Oxbridge hopeful the whole system would crash and burn.

  ‘Hello, Sophie,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’

  ‘I don’t do many hours, Mr Maxwell,’ she hurriedly told the Head of Sixth Form. ‘Just two nights and I don’t go out otherwise. I…’

  ‘Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,’ Maxwell shook his head in sorrow. ‘I’m not here to check on you, dear me no.’

  ‘Oh…right. Sorry, Mr Maxwell. Only…’

  ‘Only what?’ He smiled encouragingly.

  ‘We’ve all heard that story of you and that girl behind the till in Waitrose.’

  ‘Well, she had been warned,’ he said. ‘And she would do it. And anyway, she gave me the wrong change. So she wasn’t concentrating on her maths, either. That’s a really old story, though, Sophie. Just how old you might guess from the fact that the wrong change she gave me was eight and sevenpence three farthings. Ah, the dear, dead days. I’m much more mellow now, as you probably have noticed.’ Another smile and she still wasn’t convinced. However, she had a job to do…for now.

  ‘So, how can I help you, sir?’ she said, singing from the Multiplex hymnbook. It was not the ‘sir’ of the classroom and corridor, but the ‘sir’ of customer relations.

  ‘Well, as you probably know, Sophie, my other half is a policeperson.’ He waited for her nod. ‘And her boss, Mr Hall, was in here just now. Well, I’m afraid that DS Carpenter was supposed to get her own copy of the…thing you gave him. But she forgot. She’s out there now, terribly upset, because she will get into trouble. So, Sophie, can you help me out?’

  The poor girl looked from side to side but there was no help to be found. ‘Ummm, Mr Maxwell, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t do this.’

  ‘Oh, but, Sophie. DS Carpenter will get into such trouble. You’ve met our little baby, have you, little Nolan? Quite big, nowadays, toddling. Saying words.’ He looked up from under his lashes. ‘We sometimes need a babysitter, of course. Nice job. Good pay. Wall to wall DVDs.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Maxwell. There’s no need for bribery,’ she said. He was proud of her for spotting it. He’d brought her up well. She reached under the desk. ‘Here you are. I printed two by mistake.’ She winked at him. ‘Your…policeperson…might as well have the spare.’

  ‘Sophie, you are a marvel,’ he breathed. ‘Thanks.’ Time was marching and he had to be back in his seat pdq or there would be trouble. He shoved the paper into his pocket and dived back through the door and spun round the corner, through the curtain, down the stairs and into his seat with hardly a pause for breath.

  Jacquie looked up. ‘That was quick,’ she said, feeling bad that she had doubted him. ‘Better now?’

  ‘Much,’ he said, nestling down into his seat, aware as if it was on fire of the paper in his pocket. ‘What’ve I missed?’

  ‘You’ll soon pick it up,’ she said and turned her concentration back to the screen and her popcorn.

  And pick it up he did. Almost as soon as Simon Pegg blasted the entire auditorium with his Uzi. It kept his mind off the two nagging itches in his head. One; what was on the paper? Two; he really needed a pee.

  The paper in Henry Hall’s pocket was also almost on fire. Outside the Mulitplex he paused irresolute. Home or office? Office or home? He was still dithering there, indecisive, when his phone beeped at him. It was his wife, who had mastered texting with the alacrity of a teenager. Bring milk and bread. Well, that was one decision made for him; he turned his blank glasses in the direction of his parked car and headed back to the office.

  At that time of night, Alan Kavanagh was in the canteen as Hall popped in for a coffee and something sustaining. He hated cross checking lists; Jacquie was the woman for that task, but she was tucked up in the cinema with Maxwell. He couldn’t disturb her, could he? It hardly seemed fair.

  ‘Hello, guv,’ Kavanagh’s space invader approach meant that the simple phrase was threateningly near his ear. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘No. I was planning on an earlyish finish tonight, Alan. I might say the same of you – surely it’s not usual for you to be here this late?’

  ‘Oh, I often stay late. I nip down to records, or to the library.’

  ‘We’ve got a library here?’ Hall was puzzled; he thought he knew this building inside out.

  ‘No, no. I mean the library. The one down the road. Leighford Library. I get out a few legal books and then come back here to read them in peace. It’s a bit loud at home.’ He saw Hall’s blank look. ‘I share,’ he said. ‘With two junior doctors and a professional musician.’

  Hall looked suitably sympathetic and almost managed to mask his surprise.

  ‘Anyway, guv, perhaps I could help you with whatever it is that has brought you back.’

  Hall mulled it over. He would have to drag Jacquie away from her film and he had run her a bit ragged lately. Plus, if he used Kavanagh, he would keep Peter Maxwell out of the loop for just that bit longer – perhaps a vital bit longer. He looked up at Kavanagh, still looming over him and made a decision. ‘All right, Alan. We’ll go up to my office and do a bit of name crunching, shall we?’

  Alan Kavanagh almost burst with excitement. ‘That would be great, guv,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go and finish my sardine and onion sandwich and I’ll be right with you.’

  Hall got up and went over to the machine in the corner. Two packets of extra strong mints should do it. No, wait, better make it three.

  Up in his office, Henry Hall arranged the chairs to give himself the maximum space between his nose and Kavanagh’s sardine breath. It was a fine balance between being as far as possible and not having to shout. Finally, the chairs were arranged to his satisfaction and he spread out his files on the two cases and gave Kavanagh the list from the deluxe.

  ‘Right, Alan,’ he said. ‘We are looking for two things and I want you to decide on some kind of code system to tell them apart on the list.’

  ‘Sorry, guv. I don’t get you.’

  Hall sighed. Jacquie always knew what to do. She used ticks, crosses, asterisks and initials to tell one category from another. He didn’t have to tell her or explain and at the end, by glancing down the list she could, sometimes seemingly miraculously, tell him what he needed to know. Patiently, he explained the principle to Kavanagh and eventually he got it. Suddenly, Hall knew why they’d invented computers.

  ‘Oh, I see, guv. What you want is for me to put, say, a tick against anyone who appears on the list and in the file on Lara Kent. Then a cross on anyone who appears on the list and in the file on Darren Blackwell. Then… something else against…’

  ‘I think you have the basics there,’ said Hall. ‘Shall we get on?’ he glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting late. Even for me. Mrs Hall will
have died of thirst or hunger, depending on the state of the fridge.’

  Kavanagh nodded and bent his head to the list, pen enthusiastically at the ready. ‘Right, guv,’ he said.

  ‘This may be a slow process,’ said Hall. He waited but Kavanagh didn’t speak. ‘Ummm…Alan, can I have the first name?

  ‘Sorry, guv. I thought you would give me a name and then I’d do my ticks and that.’

  ‘No, Alan. You give me a name and then I tell you if I have it in my files. That’s the quickest way.’

  ‘Oh, right. Let’s see…Mrs Smith.’ Kavanagh looked up brightly, waiting.

  Hall slammed shut the file in front of him and, taking off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t think this is going to work, Alan. Do you?’

  ‘Why not, guv? We’ve only just started.’ Kavanagh was wounded.

  Hall replaced his glasses and gave himself a shake. ‘Sorry, Alan. It’s been a long day. Let’s try a few more. After Mrs Smith, who do we have?’

  ‘Mr N Leopold plus one.’

  ‘There now, that’s better, isn’t it? A nice unusual name. It’s not in my files, but perhaps we can look it up to see if he has a phone. There’s only a mobile number here in the contacts column. So, Alan,’ Hall was watching Kavanagh’s pen and it didn’t seem to have done anything. ‘Are you going to put a mark of some kind?’

  ‘What shall I put, guv? We didn’t have a category for checking numbers.’

  ‘Let’s just write “check”, shall we? It doesn’t have to be a symbol.’ His voice sounded strained, coming as it did from behind clenched teeth.

  Kavanagh wrote the word and inwardly seethed. Why did things always have to be so difficult? It might be years before he made DCI at this rate. And he had planned to be there before Christmas.

  ‘Let’s just do a few more,’ Hall said, ‘Then call it a day. I think I’ve got a headache coming on.’

  Kavanagh snorted quietly down his nose. It was time these old fogies got out of his way. He could go all night, ticking, crossing, finding murderers. What could be easier? ‘Adair plus one.’