Maxwell's Chain

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Oh, a student? Lovely. What of?’ Jacquie asked.

  ‘History, as a matter of fact,’ said Hall, a little crossly. ‘With Archaeology, though,’ as though that made it all all right.

  ‘Historians usually make excellent witnesses,’ said Maxwell. ‘But if he has only just started at university, perhaps he hasn’t had the Observation Lectures yet. Where is he?’

  ‘Bath Spa.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘I thought you said university.’

  Hall grunted and they continued down the list. Finally at the bottom, they all folded their respective pieces of paper and sat back, expectant. It was Hall who broke the silence. ‘Well, any other thoughts?’

  ‘Not really, Henry,’ Maxwell said. ‘Either it is Crown or Blackwell, though my money is not on Blackwell. I doubt the parents were at the cinema the night after their eldest son was murdered. In fact, I think if it were possible to check this list, it would turn out that Blackwell Junior wasn’t there either. He certainly hasn’t been in school this week. Although with the plague running wild, who knows? So, if my theory won’t hold water, then it has to be Crown, and the victim has to be one of the female names on this list. Or, of course, one of the females not on the list but represented by “plus one”. I do think, though, that anyone who takes someone to the cinema and then carelessly lets them get murdered by another member of the audience is actually a little remiss. Not much of an evening out, is it?’

  ‘So, if it is Crown we’re talking about, and if it is a named woman, then it has to be…’ Henry ran his finger down the list, ‘either N Leopold, who doesn’t have a sex allocated…’

  ‘…but was with someone,’ Jacquie pointed out.

  ‘…but who was with someone, or…’ he looked up, beaten. ‘Or, Dierdre Lessing.’

  Maxwell tried not to look triumphant.

  Jacquie leant forward and looked Hall straight in the glasses. ‘Please, can’t you get in touch with Chichester, guv? We’ve got school photos here, you could email a scan of one. Just to put our minds at rest.’

  Hall hesitated. He didn’t want to spin the case out. But if he did this he was helping Helen Marshall solve her case and probably not getting on much with his. Unless it was Crown, of course, in which case he was dealing with a random nutter, in which case…if the case wasn’t spinning, his head certainly was. ‘All right, Jacquie. Just to put your mind at rest.’

  Maxwell looked at Jacquie and said, with little conviction, ‘Can I help at all? With the…scanning and things.’

  She patted him on the shoulder. ‘No, Max. Don’t try and fool Henry that you know a scanner from a fountain pen. Just pour some drinks and hang on for a bit.’ To Hall, she said, ‘I’ll just ring the nick, guv, and get the email for Chichester. Won’t be long. Amuse yourselves for a bit, won’t you?’

  The two men sat looking into the space over each other’s left shoulder. The room was so quiet that Metternich’s breathing was the loudest thing. Occasionally, one of them would stir, as if to speak and then subside again. Their minds were nests of similar scorpions, writhing and twisting with all the possibilities of the situation. Almost on the edge of hearing, they could hear the soft whine of the scanner, the tap of keys.

  They heard Jacquie go up to Nolan’s room, on the floor above, heard her softly cross the bedroom floor. Only Maxwell knew when her footsteps stopped that she was hanging over the cot, softly stroking one soft cheek with one soft finger. Then, they heard her come back down the stairs in response to the soft beep that said ‘you’ve got mail’. The wait seemed endless until she came back into the room, but neither man felt inclined to discuss the weather.

  ‘I’ve heard back from Chichester,’ she said, her voice strained and quiet. Neither man really needed to ask her what the answer was, but it had to be said out loud.

  ‘And?’ Maxwell asked; his voice sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a well filled with jelly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max,’ she said and a tear slid down her cheek. ‘It’s Dierdre. I’m just so sorry,’ and she knelt at his feet and buried her face in his lap.

  Hall cleared his throat. ‘Were you close friends?’ he asked Maxwell.

  ‘Not in the least. In fact, over the years, she has been a thorn in my side so huge and embedded she has nearly been the end of me. But…in recent years, we had developed a modus vivendi, shall we say. We rubbed along. But I’ll miss her, I’ll admit that. And no one deserves this. Murdered, dumped, unidentified. No one knew she was missing. No one tried to find her. Even the Troubridges looked out for each other and they hadn’t spoken in decades. What’s the world coming to, Henry?’

  Henry Hall, who had seen first hand what the world could do, could only shrug. Maxwell was right after all, but Hall knew it would give him no pleasure. He had been involved in the case from the beginning and had obviously been bending his mind around it. But now it was personal. Now he was going to get results.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peter Maxwell was helping the police with their inquiries. Not, this time, in the comfort of his sitting room, in the company of his cat and his policewoman, his baby son asleep upstairs. This time, he was in Interview Room Two, a stony faced Henry Hall across the table from him, a noticeably snide DS Bob Davies at his side. Peter Maxwell was not under caution. There was a tape running, but only because it had to be, courtesy of the politically correct brigade and a galaxy of smart lawyers back in the eighties who knew lucrative human rights lawsuits when they saw them. The sad fact was that, in all the world, Peter Maxwell knew more about Dierdre Lessing than anyone else the police could find.

  ‘I still can’t believe that her neighbours wouldn’t help you,’ Maxwell said to Hall.

  ‘Apparently,’ Hall said, ‘she liked to keep herself to herself.’ That wasn’t quite what the neighbours had actually said, but as he saw it, there was no need to burden Maxwell with the actual wording. She lived on the new executive development off the Littlehampton Road, known to the hoi-polloi as Fort Rich Bastard. Dierdre, of course, must have had family money; there were plenty of bastards in the teaching profession, but none of them was rich. The women of Fort Bastard had been a little more blunt than the men, but it boiled down to the fact that, although Dierdre hardly had the time of day for the people who lived nearby, her bedroom door had been a revolving one. Henry Hall was old-fashioned enough to think that a senior teacher, and one who was looking retirement squarely in the face, should have a little more gravitas. But that said more about the teachers he had had in the long ago classroom than about any moral stance he chose to take. They lived in cupboards then and the raciest of them went to the yet-to-be-exploited Tenerife for their holidays.

  ‘The Dierdre I knew was a bit more complicated than that,’ Maxwell said. ‘She was a martinet at school, but by all accounts she could give most men a run for their money in her day. Even now, she could usually catch them, however fast they were running. We had a conversation at school the other day and she…implied, shall we say, that she saw Gregory Adair when she – and he – were both out on the town.’

  ‘Did she have anyone regular? A man in her life?’

  ‘These days, I think not. Dierdre was, in the hackneyed phrase, a bit needy on the emotional front. She pushed people away, but was always looking for affection. When she got it, she didn’t know what to do with it. She has caused a lot of unpleasantness over the years; she was the queen of innuendo and ill founded gossip.’

  Peter Maxwell was being as honest, but as kind as he could. He didn’t mind speaking ill of the dead; as an historian he’d been doing that for years. But Dierdre and he went back a long way, sparring partners in the ring of nastiness that was a school staffroom. He had always said that her office was littered with the bones of the lesser men she had chewed up and spat out. Now, she would soon be bones herself. And he thought of all the little moments when he should have been more generous, more chivalrous, behaved more like the public schoolboy he was. Now, as he saw it, he h
ad a job to do – to help Henry catch her killer. But even as he sat facing the man, Peter Maxwell was a little ashamed. Perhaps he always would be.

  Davies piped up. ‘But you, Mr Maxwell, can’t be a stranger to that sort of thing.’ He tapped a thick file in front of him on the desk. ‘This is all about you, you know. Suspicion. Rumour. Innuendo, as you say. You can’t blame people for beginning to think there may be something in it.’

  ‘All those pages,’ Maxwell beamed mischievously. ‘Well, it’s nice to know I’ve made an impact.’

  Hall turned to his DS, then spoke to Maxwell over his shoulder. ‘Excuse us a moment, Mr Maxwell, would you?’

  The chairs scraped back and they were gone. Maxwell sat for the required moment. He would have loved to have flicked through the file on the desk, but he knew that eyes would be watching behind the two-way mirror. And he wouldn’t put it past Hall to leave the thing there as a trap for the unwary. Next, Maxwell toyed with performing a series of antics in front of said two-way mirror, culminating in a sign originated by the archers of Agincourt and made famous (the wrong way round) by Mr Winston Churchill. But that would have been childish. In the end, he just sat.

  In the corridor outside, the DCI lowered his voice, but just a touch. ‘Look, whatever your personal beliefs may be, Mr Maxwell is here of his own free will to help us get some kind of handle on the victim. He was a colleague. He is upset. We will not be doing any bullying.’

  ‘At this time,’ added Davies.

  Hall closed to his man, the blank glasses inches from Davies’ nose. ‘Or at any time. Please bear that in mind. Peter Maxwell could have you for breakfast, Davies. And if he doesn’t, I’ll have you for lunch.’ He led the way back to the interview room. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Maxwell. You were saying?’

  ‘Well, Detective Chief Inspector Hall. I really was just saying that hardly any of us knew Dierdre on a social footing. She said she saw Gregory Adair out in Leighford with someone she considered unsuitable. He took offence when it was raised but we don’t know who this unsuitable person was or where they met. It may have been a random sighting in the street. This is a small town, as they go.’

  ‘What do you think of Mr Adair?’

  ‘Well, I hardly know him, either. As I told you earlier, he lost his rag when I asked him about what Dierdre had seen. I saw him myself as well, on another occasion, but couldn’t see who he was with. Teachers have to be careful, but he’s young, not much older than the Year Thirteens he teaches. I don’t think the sky would fall in if he mixed with them socially. Anything more, of course, would be different.’

  ‘You’d say he has a hot temper?’

  ‘Well, he’s rather moody,’ Maxwell mused. ‘But I don’t think he would hurt Dierdre. Let alone kill her and transport the body to leave it on some disused railway line. And if you’re trying to link the three killings together; well, what would be his motive for Lara or Darren?’

  Davies snorted. ‘Well, it’s that bleeding photographer, innit, for those two? It’s just pinning it on him.’

  Hall, without turning, spoke. ‘Davies. Get out.’ All the finesse had vanished now. He’d given the man some rope and now he’d hanged himself; there was nothing to do but wait the statutory hour of old to make sure that death had occurred and cut the moron down. ‘We do not “pin” things on people. Mr Lunt has spoken to me at length and I am confident that he is not the murderer. Or an accessory.’ He had seen, out of the corner of his eye, Davies open his mouth to interrupt. ‘Please send Alan Kavanagh in.’ The detective sergeant made no move to go. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’ There was a gravel in Hall’s voice that Maxwell hadn’t heard before. He was impressed; maybe he’d be able to handle Eight Eff after all.

  Davies stamped out and Hall and Maxwell yet again were left facing each other, an awkward silence blossoming out from their closed mouths, palpable as a fog, mixed as a metaphor.

  Finally, they both spoke together.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind…’

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind…’

  ‘No,’ said Hall. ‘Please. You first.’

  Maxwell inclined his head. ‘Thank you. I hope you didn’t mind me half-inching that list. I did it by stealth, you know. It wasn’t Sophie’s fault.’

  ‘I had no doubt that she was Maxwelled into it,’ Hall said. ‘And how can I mind, when without your meddling we would still be no further forward in identifying the…sorry…Dierdre? Chichester are very grateful, even if it has made further investigations much more complex. I was going to say I hope you didn’t mind my calling you down here, on a school day and everything. It’s just that you seem to know her best.’

  ‘No problem,’ Maxwell said. ‘And it isn’t a school day, as it happens. The school is still closed, due to so much staff absence. Viruses. Death, I suppose. Possible absconding, we have to allow for. They never tell graduating students school could be this interesting. I’m sure they’d have more recruits if they did. Stuff the golden hello – just tell them it’s like an episode of The Bill and they’ll be queuing round the block to sign up. At last there would be a reason to be a teacher other than long holidays, the undying gratitude of generations of talented children and their parents, the phenomenal pay and no heavy lifting.’

  ‘You’re taking this very well. I know it’s just your way, but it’s also why DS Davies and the others think you’re…well, they often think you did it.’

  Maxwell laughed. ‘And one day, I will have done. Just as I long for the day when Angela Lansbury becomes the mad axewoman of Cabot Cove and Peter Falk says “Just one more thing” before arresting himself. Your problem, Henry, will be to know when that day comes.’ They were silent again for a moment, then Maxwell added, ‘And thank you for noticing. I’m never happy when someone dies. And I’m very sad for Dierdre. It’s the thought of her all on her own, over in Chichester. What was she doing there? Not even a local end.’

  ‘We’re all on our own in the end, Max,’ Hall said. It was hard to say which was the more surprising; that Hall had used Maxwell’s name or that he had feelings on life’s transience. Fortunately, before any further cliché could be added, Kavanagh walked in on a wave of last night’s garlic and chilli.

  ‘Did you want me for something, guv?’

  ‘DC Kavanagh. Thank you for coming in. We are interviewing Mr Maxwell, not under caution, but simply because he was a colleague of the victim of the Arundel killing.’

  Maxwell looked down at the pitted table top and traced a long gone coffee cup’s memoir with his finger. Already it was ‘was’. Poor Dierdre. He had spent years trying to work out what made her tick and now he probably never would. Unless the identity of her killer gave that final clue which made it all plain. Hall was filling Kavanagh in.

  ‘We may be looking for one Gregory Adair, who was known to have some animosity towards Ms Lessing.’

  Kavanagh looked blanker than Hall’s glasses. ‘Pardon, guv?’ He reached for the safety of a chair.

  ‘Adair. Didn’t like Miss Lessing.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, I just didn’t…hear.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Hall sighed, wondering anew what the hell they were doing in training these days. Maxwell knew perfectly well; he’d seen all the Police Academy films. ‘Do try to keep up. Could you go and see if you can get Mr Adair’s address from the school, or from County Hall if the school is completely closed?’

  ‘Yes, guv.’ Kavanagh was still looking at Maxwell with the stare that said ‘you’ve done something and I’ll get you for it’.

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind. Also, while you’re checking with the school, can you see if you can find out what days Adair and Miss Lessing worked this week. Whether they were off sick or anything.’ Kavanagh still stood there. ‘Now.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’ The policeman seemed to come to and stepped smartly out into the corridor. He glared back at Maxwell through the viewing panel in the door.

  Maxwell stared right back at him and the man turned sharply
and was gone.

  ‘He doesn’t like me, Henry.’ It was a pure statement of fact.

  ‘No. He does like Jacquie, though.’ Fact again.

  ‘Oh. The young lion wanting to rip the old one’s throat out.’

  Hall looked at him. Yes, he could see what Jacquie saw; an interesting, funny, intelligent and caring man. He also could see what his entire detective force saw; an irritating old git who had snared the best bit of tottie in the station. His casting vote was still officially an ‘undecided’. ‘A bit like that, yes. But more of a young lion wanting to bang the old one up for anything he can lay his hands on. However, we have gone off the point. You don’t think Adair could have done it?’

  ‘No. He would have stoved her head in and left her in her office. He is quick-tempered, but he’s your spur-of-the-moment rocket man, not intrinsically nasty. What did he do? Kill her in a lay-by somewhere, take the body to Arundel, just to muddy the waters? Or was she killed there? Of course…’ Maxwell was uncharacteristically coy.

  ‘Come on now, Max,’ Hall said. Having said the name and not had the heavens fall, he was getting more comfortable with it. Maxwell noticed and hoped the next stage would not be ‘snookums’ (they were both at a funny age). Not for a while, at any rate. ‘Of course what?’

  ‘It was a badly kept secret that Dierdre rather liked male company. She was very discreet, never brought anyone to staff do’s or anything like that, but she certainly had been round the block a few times. And she preferred them young; by which I don’t intend to imply anything that would be incompatible with her teaching position, but…well, I’m not much of a one to talk, am I?’

  Hall inclined his head in agreement.

  ‘She didn’t tend to keep her golden lads long though. They turned to dust quite quickly. I think she liked the novelty of the chase and just found the whole thing a bit boring when she had them in her clutches.’