by M. J. Trow
Mrs Lunt, Kavanagh didn’t know at all. She was one of Maxwell’s Old Highenas; that much he did know. But they bred a funny lot at that school. What would she be? Bonnie Parker, Ma Barker and Old Mrs Bender all rolled into one, as handy with an iron bar as she was with a Thompson sub-machine gun? Again, it seemed unlikely. And yet… and yet…Alan Kavanagh should have called for back-up.
He left the car in a side street, his head whirling with ambigrams. Could it be Bill Lunt after all, trying to divert attention by putting himself in the frame at first, then distancing himself and killing Darren Blackwell and Dierdre Lessing with impunity? But Alan Kavanagh wasn’t focusing so much on Bill Lunt as the long words he’d used to himself in the time since he’d parked the car. Predilection. Impunity. Good, good. Just use those in the nick now and then, and in front of that old bastard Maxwell, and in the press conference when he took the credit for catching…
There were no lights on Chez Lunt. Nobody home. His breath snaked out on the night air and he pulled his coat round him as a car snarled past and the first of the evening’s revellers were on their way to a piss-up. He’d try the back. There was a gate, flimsy, wrought-iron, leading to a passageway, totally black. Shit! He’d left his torch in the car, but he wasn’t going back for it now. He eased the gate open, heard it screech slightly on its hinges and vanished in blackness.
Jacquie’s Ka bounced to a halt outside Terry’s Burger Bar and Maxwell dashed in. All should be simple; ask Terry Nick’s address, get address, go to address. No problem. He had it all mapped out in his mind as he crossed to the counter, wading through the wall of grease and squelching on those hideous little packets of tomato ketchup.
The spotty child in the unfortunate cap approached from the greasy depths beyond the fryers. ‘HowmayIhelpyou?’ Clearly, Terry spared no expense when it came to customer service. This was not a Highena, old or current. There was no glimmer of recognition in the dull, dead eyes.
‘Is Terry in?’ Maxwell felt like a runner for the Krays, delivering the line from the corner of his mouth.
‘Who?’
It was destined to be a long night. ‘Your boss? Terry?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Is he ever here?’
The lad thought for a while, then said, ‘No, not really.’
Maxwell counted under his breath until he felt calmer. ‘May I speak to the person who is in charge tonight, then?’
‘Yes.’
Feeling as though he may be trapped in some kind of hidden camera reality TV show, Maxwell gave the lad a wintry smile. ‘I’m guessing that’s you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who’s cooking, then?’ He daren’t ask ‘what’.
‘My mum. She helps out sometimes. But I’m in charge.’
Very tribal, thought Maxwell. Here he is, the man, the mammoth slayer, the hunter. Mum’s out back, picking berries and sewing skins together. That’s progress for you. ‘So, again I’m guessing, Terry is your dad.’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, let’s cut to the chase, Terry Junior. May I call you that? Do you have a record of the address of Nicholas Campbell, who was working here until very recently?’
‘He works in the deli now.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Maxwell’s patience was now paper thin and cracks were beginning to appear. ‘But it’s shut, being nearly nine o’clock and all. And I really need Nick’s address now. It’s really, really urgent.’
‘We don’t keep records here. We keep them at home.’
‘Above the shop?’
The boy bridled. ‘Certainly not. We live out beyond the Dam. Four bedrooms. And a hot tub. Waiting on fries,’ he called to a woman jostling at Maxwell’s elbow.
If only he got to use it once in a while, Maxwell thought. But he said, ‘How lovely. So,’ he turned to go, ‘you can’t help me on Nick’s address, then?’
‘Oh, yes. I know where Nick lives.’
Maxwell turned back, grinning like a death’s head. ‘Could you tell me, please?’
‘Why?’
It was that tone. That single wheedling word guaranteed to get right up the nose of any teacher the length and breadth of the land. Maxwell’s answer was usually ‘because I say so, you snivelling little toad’ but it would have been syntactically unsound here, as well as unhelpful. ‘Because…I used to be his teacher and I want to ask him something. Something about…cooking.’ It was desperate, but it was all he had left in his armoury other than pulling young Terry across the counter and battering him to death with a fish slice.
‘Yeah, he’s a good cook, Nick. Anyway, I ‘spect you’d like to know his address.’
‘Please. If you would.’
‘Some of us are waiting for food, y’know,’ the woman at his elbow said.
‘Why are you here, then?’ Maxwell felt constrained to ask. He wasn’t usually so blunt, but he had a killer to catch and even being in a fast-food outlet made him deficient in attention.
‘It comes free with a Terry’s Mega-hot Burger.’ What a salesman this guy was.
‘If it must.’ Maxwell reached for his wallet. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘D’ywanna drink with that?’
‘Umm, yes, I suppose so.’
‘What?’
‘Diet Coke with Lemon.’ Mad Max was a man of the world.
‘We only do Pepsi.’
‘A Diet Pepsi with Lemon then.’
‘They don’t do with lemon.’
Maxwell’s teeth were nearly welded together with the pressure. ‘Diet Pepsi.’
‘Regular or large.’
‘Regular.’
‘The address only comes with large.’
‘Large, then.’
‘That will be six pounds ninety-five, please.’
Maxwell handed over a ten pound note. ‘Please keep the change.’
‘Yeah, I was gunna. Anyway, Nick lives in Albemarle Road. Number forty-seven.’
‘That’s pronounced Aumerle, Terry Junior. And don’t you forget it.’
Maxwell ran out of the shop like a rat up a pipe, to where Jacquie was waiting, engine revving like she was a getaway driver. The lad called after him plaintively.
‘Don’t you want your burger?’ The only reply was a swinging door. ‘It’s mega-hot.’
‘I’ll have it,’ said the woman.
Terry looked her up and down. ‘We’re waiting on fries,’ he reminded her.
Back in the car, Jacquie had been wondering where he was and said so, in no uncertain terms. ‘Carrying out a health and safety inspection, heart?’ she asked.
‘Aumerle Road. Forty-seven.’
‘I don’t think I know where that is,’ she told him.
‘What? Call yourself a woman policeman?’
‘No, not as a rule. That’s what you call me.’
‘Oh, God. You probably pronounce it Albemarle. Does no one have any culture any more? You know, Cholmondley is Chumley, Featherstonehaugh is Fanshaw.’ She looked at him gone out. ‘No time to argue. I know where it is. Just go that way.’ He pointed in the general direction of Brighton.
‘Is it in the one-way system?’
‘How should I know? When you are on foot or on a bike it doesn’t matter whether it is left, right or straight up in the air. Let’s hope not. Haven’t you got one of those flashing light thingies you stick on the car roof?’
‘No,’ she told him. ‘Nor a can of Mace, an American nightstick or a Glock. Just little ol’ me.’
He tutted. ‘It’ll have to do.’
In the darkness, Alan Kavanagh’s eyes took a while to cope. There was a wall to his left and right and another wrought-iron gate ahead. He glanced backwards, checking for the normality of the night. The street lamp lent its usual orange glow to Windermere Avenue. An old boy wandered past, walking his dog. Kavanagh eased open the gate. Now he was in a yard, half covered by a corrugated plastic roof and there seemed to be a bike leaning against a far wall. Beyond that the
garden was huge and tree-ringed and black.
This had to be the back door. He tapped on the glass gingerly. There was no bell. It swung inward, beckoning him in and he felt the warmth of central heating in the hall. He could make out the orange street light at the end of a long passageway – Windermere Avenue again and he’d got his bearings. What was it now? Nine? Half past? It couldn’t be more. Nobody the right side of eighty would be in bed yet. But if the Lunts had gone out, why leave the back door open? An oversight. We’ve all done it. He’d noticed, trained snooper that he was, a burglar alarm on the front wall. Either it was a faux or defective; whatever, it wasn’t working. Thoughts whirled in Kavanagh’s brain. He ducked right, into the kitchen. In the pale light of the electronic gadgetry, he read the time. Nine twenty three. The fridge sighed as inanimate objects will when left to their own devices and Kavanagh moved on. Ahead of him, to his right, a dining room, its six chairs like sentinels around an expensive circular table. He couldn’t make out the décor, but there were clearly photographs on the walls. And a very nasty wallpaper, swirls and circles. All the garish opulence of the nouveau trend.
There were two more rooms on the ground floor and he eased himself into the lounge. He could have put his shared flat down in one corner of it. At the far end, brightly coloured fish darted with neon stripes through the electric blue of their environment. There’s a pretty castle. There’s a pretty castle. Then he was back in the hall, with just the stairs to go…
It was Maxwell’s turn to wait in the car. They’d tossed a coin earlier (not the famous double-headed zloty), as the Ka purred through the one-way system beyond the Flyover and Maxwell had lost. Jacquie was right though. If Maxwell had gone to number Forty-seven, it would have been a chorus of surprise to see Mr Maxwell there, a trip down Memory Lane from the Campbells and confirmation that Nick had always liked Mr Maxwell; in fact, he’d made him what he was today. Then it would have been some vague, uneasy lie why Mr Maxwell wanted to speak to their Nick and why it had to be now. As it was, Jacquie flashed her warrant card and asked the bewildered parents a straight question. And she got a straight answer, in a quarter of the time it would have taken Maxwell. All right, so Nick Campbell’s parents were worried. But perhaps they had every right to be.
‘He’s in Leighford General,’ Jacquie said as she slammed the car door and buckled up. ‘Visiting a sick friend.’ And they roared into the night.
He counted the treads, trying to place his weight evenly so that the boards didn’t creak. There’d probably be a bathroom, straight ahead, he reasoned – yes, there it was. Now, to the left, along the landing, two bedrooms. And, around the corner, the third and fourth. The first one would be small, box or guest, call it what you will. And the second…A sudden scream literally threw Kavanagh back against the wall. He bounced off it, kicking in the second door with a well-aimed boot and fumbling for the light switch.
A woman with dark hair sat on the bed with her back to him. Her head was thrown back and her legs were parted. Bill Lunt was lying under her, thrusting away for England.
‘Oh God,’ the woman wailed, coming down from the high of her orgasm. ‘Yes, yes, Bill,’ she flopped forward so that her dark hair cascaded over his face. ‘Darling, that was amazing.’
Alan Kavanagh shuffled out backwards. As awkward entrances go, that had been one of his best.
The woman screamed again, realising suddenly that the bedroom light was on and that Bill’s ardour had equally suddenly disappeared. He looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. She rolled over, snatching the duvet up to cover her embarrassment. ‘There’s a man!’ she shrieked, pointing through the door.
‘Not really, Emma,’ said Bill Lunt between clenched teeth, snapping out of his frozen mood and suddenly furious. ‘That’s DC Kavanagh from Leighford Police Station. And he’d better have a bloody good reason for being here.’
It was nearly chucking out time at Leighford General. Jacquie squeezed the Ka into a handy little place she knew between the ambulances outside A&E. It was one of the perks of the job – a stone’s throw from the front door and it avoided parking charges.
There was no need for coin tossing now. The Campbells hadn’t known exactly who their boy was visiting, so Maxwell took the male wards and Jacquie the female. They were unaware that, behind the scenes for months, a battle royal had been fought among the hapless members of the National Health Trust to keep the wards that way. It was all about dignity and decency and standards. Had Maxwell known he would have approved – perhaps there was a God after all. The problem was that each of the consultant surgeons who flitted in and out of Leighford General thought that was him.
Knots of visitors were drifting down stairways and staggering out of lifts, most of them as decrepit as the poor souls they were visiting. Maxwell manoeuvred swiftly round a wheelchair and padded along a corridor festooned with signs without number. Princess Anne had opened a new wing apparently in 1991 but not this one. This was opened by Edith Cavell before the Germans shot her and there was much tutting in The Advertiser about demolishing the place and starting again. Even so, every ward in the hospital carried the Princess Anne photo and there she was on the wall with the Hospital Manager (since then, Maxwell remembered, struck off for embezzlement), the Lord Lieutenant (now in rehab) and other Great and Good of the County.
Jacquie opted for the stairs, only too aware that Campbell might have slid past her in the lift and flashed her warrant card at the cluster of nurses at their station.
Without a warrant card, Maxwell’s progress was inevitably slower. ‘I’m afraid we’re about to close to visitors,’ a large Jamaican nurse told him.
‘I’m not staying,’ he called. ‘Visiting a visitor.’
‘You still have to wash your hands.’ She effectively blocked the doorway with her bulk. ‘Infection,’ she pointed to the various MRSA warnings that littered the wall.
‘Madam,’ he said. ‘If Florence Nightingale had worried about little things like viruses, do you think any of our brave boys in the Crimea would have come home?’
‘Infection,’ she repeated, the mantra of the NHS.
‘Of course,’ he beamed and squeezed the smelly jelly over his hands. Old boys without number lay propped in excruciating-looking beds on both sides of the ward, the Catheter Brigade. Dotted among them, younger blokes with splints and plasters and there, at the far end, his quarry, young Nick Campbell emerging from behind a glass partition, about to go.
‘You don’t have to leave on my account,’ Maxwell said, barely faltering at all when, looking round the screen, he saw who was lying on the bed. ‘Gregory,’ his smile was like the silver plate on a coffin, ‘I heard you were laid low.’
Gregory Adair looked like shit, to use correct medical terminology. Maxwell had had pneumonia as a child and he still remembered the delirium it brought. Always, when he relived it in his dreams, he was walking up an endless Escher staircase, around the four walls of his room, on and on, towards a dim light in the distance. And it stayed in the distance, no matter how many stairs he climbed. Rationally, the light had to be his parents’ room and the stairs represented the intolerable loneliness and isolation of his illness, ‘splashed’, as GK Chesterton had once written, ‘with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl’.
Looking at the grey pallor of Gregory Adair, it all came flooding back. The man’s face was drawn, his eyes sunken, a plastic mask over his nose and mouth. But he recognised Peter Maxwell and half-extended a hand. Maxwell caught it, patting it with his other hand. ‘You hang on in there, Greg,’ he said, softly. ‘You can send your cover work in later.’ And he winked.
‘Er…I’ve got to go, Greg,’ Nick Campbell said, checking his watch and sensing the hospital staff massing at the ward entrance. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ His hand lingered a little longer than Maxwell expected as the boy took his farewells. Maxwell tactfully turned his back and didn’t see the soft kiss Nick planted on Greg’s forehead. Kismet, Hardy. By the time the pair were
rinsing their hands in goo again, under the watchful gaze of Mrs Seacole, tears were filling Nick Campbell’s eyes.
‘He’s not going to make it, Mr Maxwell,’ he trembled. ‘He’s not. I know it.’
Maxwell looked at the boy. He was a wreck. He put his arm around him, like the father he was and led him down the stairs. He was still leading him through the hospital when Jacquie turned a corner into view. Maxwell saw her and shook his head. She nodded, realising the moment and gesticulated that she’d be in the car.
Maxwell took the boy out by the side door, past smokers’ corner where the more addicted hospital staff gathered to indulge their disgusting, sordid habit, dragging on the ciggies that New Labour now only allowed them to smoke on alternate Fridays if there was an ‘r’ in the month and then only strictly to the south-west of the Town Hall. The night air hit crisp as the pair shambled up the grassy rise to the lily pond. Ducks bedding down for the night looked at them through beady eyes under beak-enfolding wings. No, there’d be no bread from these two. Over the years the hospital duck population had learnt to recognise mean buggers when they saw them. One of them quacked in disapproval.
Maxwell sat the boy down on the park bench that had been erected in memory of Arthur and Elsie Hudson who, against all the odds, had loved this spot, Maxwell having the presence of mind to remove the pigeon-poo first. ‘We need to talk, Nick,’ he said softly.
Nick Campbell had heard those words before. The first time he was eleven and it was his very first encounter with Mad Max. He’d been sliding down the banisters at Leighford High, a little prank he’d learnt at junior school and happened to collide with the brick wall that was the Head of Sixth Form. Nick didn’t slide down banisters after that.
‘I’ve caught you at a bad time,’ Maxwell said.
Nick just nodded. ‘It’s just a bug,’ he said, ‘that’s going round. Everybody’s got it.’
