Maxwell’s House

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Thanks,’ and even to smile cost him dearly. ‘I’m a widower,’ he told her. ‘My wife and daughter … They were killed in a car crash before I came to Leighford. By a police patrol car chasing some tearaways. If she were alive today, my little girl would be twenty-two.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ever so sad,’ Janice said, her bright eyes like saucers. ‘What was ’er name? Your little kid?’

  ‘Jenny,’ he said. ‘It was Jenny.’

  ‘Mine’s Tracey,’ Janice beamed. ‘She’s two an’ a ’alf.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Lovely name. God …’ and the pain caught him again.

  ‘Look, Mr Maxwell, you oughter be in hospital. You could die, y’know.’

  ‘I could,’ he nodded. Secretly he thought he already had. ‘What time is it, Janice?’

  ‘Half-past two.’

  ‘Christ. Look, shouldn’t you be getting back? I mean, your baby …’

  ‘Me muvver’s looking after Trace. She didn’t expect me back for ages anyhow.’

  ‘What if someone saw you?’ Maxwell asked her, bringing his lolling head forward as quickly as he dared. ‘Coming here, I mean?’

  ‘Nah, it’s a nice place,’ she assured him. ‘Oh, I see. You mean, seen wiv you? I ain’t proud,’ and she was about to dig him in the ribs when she remembered his predicament. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m worried about you. Mean, you’re bloody knockin’ on, aintchya? Lie down.’

  ‘What?’ But even as he said it, she’d tucked his feet up on the sofa and had hauled up his shirt tails. ‘Bloody ‘ellfire. You’re all black and blue.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It goes with being a colourful character.’

  ‘No wonder they used to call you Mad Max. ’Ere, you got any cocoa?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’ He pointed vaguely to it. ‘The cupboard on the left.’

  ‘D’ya want anything in it? Brandy or somefink?’

  ‘What?’ Maxwell coughed. ‘And ruin a perfectly good cup of cocoa? No thanks. What I would like, Janice, are some answers.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ She peered oddly at him. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what Keith Miller’s got to do with girls like Jenny Hyde?’

  She got up and he heard her rattling the kettle, running the tap.

  ‘I’m not asking too much, am I?’ he called, but the pain was too much and he had to lie back, thinking of England the while, of course.

  She filled the doorway, leaning against the frame, hand on hip, the eternal piece of chewing gum rotating slowly around her mouth. Languidly she blew a bubble. ‘Nah,’ she said finally, ‘I was wrong about ’im. ’E ain’t a proper gent, ’e’s a proper shit.’

  Well, Maxwell thought; that at least was progress.

  ‘Mind you …’ She’d gone again, rummaging in his cupboards for cups. Metternich the cat had loped off upstairs to sulk. ‘I don’t know all the details.’

  ‘You must know some.’ Maxwell managed to raise his voice again. The beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

  ‘You’re runnin’ a temperature.’ She was next to him again, wiping his face with a tea towel. ‘Poor little bleeder. You know,’ she peered closely at him, ‘you’re smaller than I remember.’

  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ Maxwell reminded her.

  ‘That’s just as bloody well,’ Janice giggled. ‘’E’s ’ad a lot of girls.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kay. Look, I’m not proud. It’s not easy, y’know, bein’ a single parent family. Especially with what them bastards in the government are tryin’ to do. So I took up wiv Kay cos ’e’s a meal ticket. Y’know, the odd nosh, a few drinks at the bar. An’ if that means a knee-trembler now and then, well …’

  ‘I hope I haven’t spoiled all that for you,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘Nah.’ She patted his knee, probably the only part of his body that didn’t feel it had been squeezed through a mangle. ‘There’s plenty more where ’e come from.’

  ‘About the girls …’ Maxwell couldn’t leave it there.

  In a moment, Janice had gone away and come back again with two steaming mugs of cocoa. ‘Like I say,’ she flounced down again, smoothing her leather skirt over her solid thighs, ‘I don’t know all the details.’ She saw his crest fall and took pity on him. ‘But, yeah, I do know some of ’em,’ and she winked. ‘But first,’ and she clasped her hands on her knees, ‘I got to know why you want to know.’

  ‘Because I have to,’ Maxwell told her. ‘You’ve heard about Tim Grey?’

  ‘That lad what was murdered?’

  ‘One of my sixth form. At Leighford High. Before that, Jenny Hyde.’

  ‘She was done in months ago. Some maniac raped her.’

  ‘Well, not exactly, Janice.’ He sipped the cocoa but it hurt going down. ‘A maniac killed her, certainly, but she wasn’t raped.’

  She squinted at him over her nose. ‘How do you know?’

  He never remembered her arguing with him at school. But then she’d been five years younger and Maxwell had been on his own turf – the intellectual rigours of GCSE History. Now it was a different story.

  ‘I spoke to the doctor on the case. It was made to look like rape; that’s not quite the same thing.’

  ‘Why should anybody want to make it look like rape?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I was hoping Kay could tell me.’

  ‘Nah,’ she dismissed it. ‘’E’s’ not a killer. Oh, ’e’s got a foul temper, yeah – well, you saw that tonight. But ’e’s never knocked me around.’

  ‘How long have you been going with him, Janice?’

  ‘Ooh, about three months. Before that ’e used to ’ang around wiv a Chichester girl and then there was Lucy Somefink-or-other from Tottingleigh. You wouldn’t know her – she didn’t go to Leighford High. ’E just fancied ’isself, that’s all. His wife was always up the spout and didn’t come across. Always the headaches, y’know.’

  Maxwell knew as he forced his lips to the mug again. Maxwell knew.

  ‘I never heard ’e was with that Jenny Hyde. But I’m not sayin’ ’e wasn’t. I just don’t know. ’Ow’s your ’ead now?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve found it again,’ he said and flopped back on the settee.

  ‘I bet Maz’d know, though. ’E knows everyfink, does Maz. He’s a fuckin’ shit, mind. You gotta watch ’im.’

  ‘Maz?’ His head snapped forward again and he instantly regretted it.

  ‘Malcolm, then.’ She spelt it out. ‘Malcolm Whatsit … oh, I forget his other name. If it wears a skirt, Maz’d know all about it.’

  ‘Where do I find him?’ he asked.

  ‘Over at Barlichway. In a squat. I dunno the address. But it’s down by the railway. I could take you there.’

  ‘You’ve done more than enough,’ he said.

  ‘Nah. But look,’ she gulped down the last of her cocoa, ‘you’re all in. You need a bit of shuteye. D’you want me to put you to bed or are you all right down ’ere?’

  ‘Here will be fine,’ he said.

  ‘I’m on the social at the moment,’ she told him, ‘so I’m free in the mornin’, but I gotta take Tracey to the clinic. She’s got the squits somethin’ awful. What time d’you want me round? I’ll take you to Maz. You won’t be goin’ into school wiv ribs like that.’

  ‘No,’ he tried to chuckle, but soon regretted it. ‘I won’t be going into school tomorrow. Janice …’

  ‘What?’ She paused on his sheepskin.

  He reached out a hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You’ve made an old man tolerably happy.’

  She reached down and patted his crotch. ‘Yeah, well, I’d make you even ’appier, but I’m not sure you’re up to it. I’ll see myself out. Good-night.’

  The only sound at first was the clack of her platforms on the glistening pavement. Then, the growl of the car engine, snarling behind her, drowned out her footsteps. She walked faster, aware of the headlights, but it was too late.

  He woun
d down the window and leaned out. ‘You working, darling?’

  ‘Not for you, wanker,’ she sneered.

  The car screeched and jolted alongside of her. Two men got out, one at the front, one at the back and Janice Dodds disappeared inside.

  She did not come in the morning. She did not come at noon. Peter Maxwell had spent a horrendous night, of the sort you get once in a lifetime. He certainly hadn’t slept and Metternich the cat, sensing that the alien presence had gone, ignored his shattered master’s wounds and lay throughout the wee small hours on his chest. It felt like fifteen men, but Maxwell didn’t have the strength to boot him off and put all his concentration into breathing with the minimum of pain.

  ‘No pain, no gain,’ he muttered to himself as he watched the September morning climb the walls. It would soon be half-term in the world and he was an old man in a hurry. Somehow he lifted Metternich off and sat up. It was only then that he realized how much better he’d felt lying down. Steadying himself on the coffee table, he hauled himself upright and crawled along the furniture. He knew he couldn’t make the bathroom so he dabbed his burning face and bursting head with cold water from the kitchen tap and draped his jacket over one shoulder. He certainly couldn’t manage the other.

  ‘Very jaunty,’ he said as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. ‘Very gay hussar. Jesus, Maxie, is that you?’ He daren’t peer too close. He looked like Hurd Hatfield at the end of Dorian Grey, when the man’s sins had caught up with him. There was a purple ridge running from his hairline to his eyebrow and both his eyes were black. He fumbled for his wallet and his scarf. The hat he would leave behind as he wasn’t sure it would fit on his head. He would go to Barlichway. He’d catch a cab. Better still, ring for one. He’d knock on every damn door in the area if necessary, but he’d find Maz. But first he had to find the stairs.

  Chief Inspector Henry Hall didn’t like the way the wind was blowing. There were two men in front of him in his incident room office and he didn’t like either of them. What was worse, and this was an altogether new sensation, he didn’t trust them.

  ‘Well then,’ he said softly, his eyes cold behind the gold-rimmed specs, ‘this surveillance that I didn’t order; what fruit did it bear?’

  ‘Fruit, guv?’ DC Halsey chuckled, frowning at the same time.

  Hall leaned forward, the relaxed pose gone, the fist quietly clenched on the desk. Only the face remained unchanged; immobile. ‘I assume, Detective Constable, that you are an obnoxious shit by birth and inclination and not just putting it on for my benefit.’

  Halsey blinked, clearly dumbfounded. He cleared his throat. ‘I request a transfer, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent.’ Hall sat back again. ‘That’s four hours’ paperwork before it even reaches Mr Johnson here. I ask again, Dave – the surveillance?’

  ‘Maxwell was visited by a Mrs Sally Greenhow from Leighford High at twenty thirteen hours last night.’

  ‘Do we know her?’

  ‘She was interviewed by DC Carpenter earlier this month. Routine stuff. She’d taught Jenny Hyde at some time in the past, but had no known recent link.’

  ‘What’s her connection with Maxwell?’ Hall wanted to know.

  Johnson shook his head. ‘Colleagues,’ he said. ‘Both in the History Department. But she doubles up in Special Needs, whatever that is.’

  ‘A frequent visitor to his home?’

  Johnson shrugged again. ‘We don’t know,’ he said, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘Of course, if I’d been able to set up surveillance earlier …’

  ‘… I’d have been two men short earlier,’ Hall observed. ‘You’ve yet to convince me, Dave.’

  ‘It’s my guess there’s something going on between them.’ Johnson put his cards on the table.

  ‘Why?’ Hall asked.

  ‘How would you describe Sally Greenhow, George?’ Johnson turned to the constable.

  ‘Young, quite pretty. Quite … girlish, really.’

  ‘Pubescent.’ Johnson underlined it for his boss. ‘Slim. Little tits.’

  ‘So?’ Hall scowled. Johnson certainly had a way with words.

  ‘Well, don’t you see the pattern, guv?’ Johnson was exasperated, his hands outspread.

  ‘Not yet.’ Hall remained a wall of obstinacy.

  ‘Little girls,’ Johnson said. ‘Jenny Hyde. Sally Greenhow. Others we don’t know about.’

  ‘You’re reaching, Dave,’ was Hall’s comment.

  ‘They went out,’ Johnson continued, ‘Maxwell and Greenhow, at …’ he checked his notebook, ‘twenty-one sixteen hours. They got into her car and drove to Little Willie’s.’

  ‘Little Willie’s?’

  ‘It’s a night-club, sir,’ Halsey told his ultimate guv’nor.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Hall said, ‘I’m just wondering what a middle-aged man and his teacher-colleague were doing there. Not exactly hokey-cokey country, I wouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘Ah, but she didn’t go in,’ Halsey beamed.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Johnson took up the tale again. ‘Sally Greenhow just dropped him at the entrance and drove off. He went in alone.’

  ‘You followed?’

  ‘No; he knew us both, remember.’ Johnson had the humility to shift a little as he went on. ‘As you point out, guv, I didn’t have the green light on any surveillance, so I could hardly put in a new team. Halsey and I waited for him to come out.’

  ‘And when he did?’

  ‘When he did he was in a hurry. This was twenty-three thirty-eight hours. Little Willie’s has an extension licence until the end of the month. He was chasing somebody.’

  ‘Chasing somebody?’ Hall frowned. This didn’t sound like the Peter Maxwell he’d spent time with recently.

  ‘A girl,’ Halsey said. ‘A young girl.’

  ‘Anybody we know?’ Hall asked.

  ‘Janice Dodds,’ Johnson told him. ‘Twenty-one. Part-time prostitute. Works the Leigh vale area. Little Willie’s is a bit off her patch.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘George?’ Johnson passed the reins to the constable. ‘You’re more twenty-twenty than I am,’ he said.

  ‘This Dodds had a bloke in tow – boyfriend, pimp, we don’t know. He and Maxwell had a go at each other in the car-park.’

  ‘With what result?’ Hall wanted to know.

  ‘Maxwell got a smacking,’ Halsey said. ‘Had it coming, if you ask me.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Hall told him flatly. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you witnessed an affray and you just sat there?’

  ‘Couldn’t blow our cover, guv,’ Johnson explained.

  ‘You didn’t have a cover to blow,’ Hall reminded him. ‘How badly was Maxwell hurt?’

  ‘Oh, not bad,’ Halsey said. ‘Whoever the bloke was, he was pulling his punches, I’d say.’

  ‘You got the vehicle registration?’ Hall asked.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Tell me you got the registration,’ the Chief Inspector said. But neither of them did, because neither of them could. Hall sighed. ‘What about Maxwell?’

  ‘The girl helped him into a cab,’ Johnson told him. ‘Took him home.’

  ‘To Columbine?’

  The Detective Inspector nodded.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘They went inside.’

  ‘And?’

  Johnson shrugged. ‘And they stayed there. We had to break off before three. She hadn’t come out by then.’

  Hall pushed his chair away from the desk. He crossed to the wall where the smiling schoolchildren faces of Jenny Hyde and Tim Grey looked down at him. Every morning they did the same. And every evening they were still there. Well, they seemed to say, what’s the matter? Why haven’t you caught him yet?

  ‘Is there anybody on Maxwell now?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Johnson said, ‘but it’s easily managed. Just say the word.’

  Hall turned to face his inferiors. He felt vulnerable, alone. It was the p
rice of command and he paid it every day. ‘A middle-aged man is visited by a colleague and he goes to a night-club where he gets involved in a fight over a scrubber. It may not be very edifying gentlemen, but it’s not exactly criminal. And it’s light years away from murder.’

  Johnson got up too, leaving Halsey sitting by the desk, smiling, knowing the trump card Johnson had yet to play.

  ‘We’ve got a woman in the nick, sir,’ he said, ‘making a statement to DS Gilbert as we speak. She’s worth having a word with, I think.’

  ‘Why?’ Hall had a feeling he knew what was coming.

  ‘Because her name is Janice Dodds and she says that Peter Maxwell took her to his home last night and he raped her. That’s why.’

  Peter Maxwell didn’t remember much of that afternoon. He’d got into a cab, one of those roomy London types with the polished seats, and each corner saw him sliding about and groaning with pain. He didn’t notice the disapproving eye of the taxi-driver in the rear mirror. The man was a lifelong teetotaller of the Methodist persuasion way back and here was this piss artist not remotely in control of himself. And it was only two o’clock.

  The Barlichway estate was endless. It had grown like lichen over the brow of Barlichway Hill and the views were breathtaking. But the estate itself was a concrete jungle of flats and bungalows, with skate-boarding pavements and subway art daubed on every angle. People kept away from the badly lit underpasses, preferring to take their chances on the busy A31. At least if you were hit by an artic you wouldn’t know much about it, but a mugger’s knife … well, that was different.

  You never saw a policeman on the Barlichway estate. Not that this was a no-go area exactly. The Chief Constable had said there was no such thing. Really it was a choose-not-to-go-area, which amounted to the same thing. Supermarket trolleys lay broken in unweeded corners and kids who should have been at school wrestled each other on the sort of rope and tyre thing they give to pandas in zoos to play with. No one noticed Peter Maxwell limping through the walkways, peering over fences into people’s backyards. No one, that is, except the occupant of Patrol Car Bravo Delta Tango cruising the perimeter of the flyover area. The description over the radio had been clear enough. ‘Suspect wanted in connection with a rape in Columbine Avenue early this morning or late last night. Suspect answering to the name of Peter Maxwell, male Caucasian, aged fifty-two. Greying hair, side-whiskers, otherwise clean-shaven. Apprehend and detain for questioning.’