Maxwell's Crossing

by M. J. Trow

  His brain was buzzing a bit now. He turned to Spottiswood and crooked a finger.

  Without moving, Spottiswood said, ‘Yeah, Donald? What? You peckish?’

  Well, of course he was, but Donald knew a sarky bastard from a hole in the ground, so ignored him. ‘What’s the matter with Sandra?’

  ‘Sick, I should think,’ the constable replied, without looking at the woman, who was leaning on the wall at the end of the block, head back, eyes closed, breathing hard. ‘It’s Sunday morning. I’d bet most of us are feeling a bit fragile.’

  Fingers rose here and there from the team in silent agreement. Donald had never had a hangover either, but was prepared to believe them. ‘I think she’s a bit over the top, even so,’ he said. In his role as the pathologist Jim Astley’s assistant, he inhabited a hinterland between medicine and crime and sometimes medicine won. ‘I think you should go and check on her, see if she’s all right.’

  Spottiswood looked down at him for a full minute, but the big man’s gaze didn’t waver. Then the policeman straightened up from his habitual slouch and picked his way over the glassy pavement to where Sandra Bolton stood. Donald watched the conversation, but couldn’t hear what was said. But he did see Spottiswood reach into his jacket pocket and drag out his mobile. He jabbed one number and spoke urgently into the phone. The next thing Donald saw was the two hurrying round the corner to their cars. He smiled a small triumphant smile. Donald strikes again, he thought. I ought to get a consultancy fee, like Monk, or Patrick Jane on the telly. And they got all the smart totty. The rest of the morning passed in a happy mist, cold and wet notwithstanding, as Donald dreamt of a life in sunny California, as he impressed beautiful women and important men with his amazing feats of logic. His beatific smile was creeping out his colleagues, but that was nothing new, down among the dead men.

  At Leighford Nick, Henry Hall and Jacquie had shed what seemed like dozens of layers of clothes and were feeling more comfortable. The dead woman’s ex-husband was waiting in an interview room, but he was warm and in the dry so he wouldn’t suffer if they stopped for a cup of coffee, just to warm themselves up. Jacquie warmed her hands around the mug and she sipped it gratefully.

  ‘What do we know about this woman, then, guv?’ she asked Hall.

  ‘We’re working on the details, but her name is Sarah Gregson, she is separated but not divorced from her husband, Giles. Someone from uniform is looking into him as we speak. It seemed quite amicable, no domestics lodged, that kind of thing. She works as an unqualified teacher.’ There was a small question in Hall’s voice as he said the last sentence.

  ‘That is someone who has the initial qualifications, a degree in other words, but not a teaching one. There are quite a few at Leighford High because they’re cheap and Legs Diamond is on a cost-cutting mission.’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘She isn’t from Leighford High, is she?’

  ‘No,’ Hall’s response was fast and grateful. ‘She seems to teach younger kids … I can’t remember the school right now. It wasn’t where the boys went, I know that. Anyway, we’ll drag the Head out today if necessary, but if it has no bearing, we’ll leave it until tomorrow. She used to be a social worker, but got out before the stress got to her. That’s according to the door to door at her address. She hadn’t been there long, so there wasn’t much gossip. No men, by all accounts. Doesn’t go out all that much. I’ve only got notes on that so far, no details. I’m hoping the ex, if that’s what he is, can fill in the gaps.’

  Jacquie put down her mug, most of the coffee undrunk. The coffee at Leighford Nick was only good for warming your hands on; it wasn’t really meant for human consumption. ‘Let’s go down and see him, then, shall we?’ she said. ‘Or does it need both of us?’

  Henry Hall looked at his immaculate desk. He always left it on a Friday afternoon as if he would never be returning. There was just one very slim file on it, containing the notes from the door to door and a precis of the contents of Sarah Gregson’s handbag. ‘I’ll do it. Why don’t you go home, try and salvage something of your Sunday?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jacquie didn’t want to argue in case he changed his mind, but it seemed rude to leap up without at least a token resistance.

  ‘Yes, off you go. I’m sorry I called you, really, but I wanted to copy you in on the circumstances, give you a heads-up before tomorrow. I’ll let you know at home if anything dramatic turns up.’

  Jacquie was already in her coat and making for the door.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ Hall said.

  She didn’t turn, just waggled her fingers as she went through the door before he changed his mind.

  Henry Hall followed more or less in her footsteps, down to the interview room where Sarah Gregson’s husband was waiting. He pushed open the door and went inside, to receive rather a surprise. Sitting at the table, engrossed in a book which Hall quickly identified as the Gideon Bible from the window sill, left there some time before by a crusading special constable, sat the vicar of All Souls, the nearest church to the Halls’ house. Henry realised to his embarrassment that he didn’t know the man’s name and he certainly didn’t know he was married. Well, he knew his name now, of course, it was Gregson, but despite having been dragged along to Harvest Suppers and various other events, he had never logged his name in his head.

  ‘Reverend Gregson, hello. First of all, I would like to say how sorry I am for your loss.’

  The vicar stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Hall. I had no idea you were a policeman.’ He held out his hand to Hall, who shook it. ‘Dear me, that sounds rather insulting, I’m afraid. I certainly didn’t mean it to.’

  ‘That is perfectly all right, Vicar,’ Hall said.

  ‘And also, perhaps before we start, I should say that my name isn’t Gregson. My name is Mattley. Giles Mattley. Sarah went back to her maiden name when she changed jobs last year. We weren’t intending to divorce, or at least, that was my intention, but she wanted to … remove herself a little for a while.’

  ‘I see,’ said the DCI, pulling out a chair and gesturing for the man to sit. ‘Or rather, I don’t think I do see, not quite.’

  ‘Sarah and I separated quite amicably, Mr Hall. I still love her very much, but she had some personal demons which she needed to sort out before we could really progress at all and she preferred to do it alone. She had worked as a social worker in Brighton for some years, then moved to Leighford about eighteen months ago, to have less travelling to do. She had a very distressing case to work on and she became rather depressed, so I encouraged her to make a career move and last September she got a job as an unqualified teacher in the Reception class of a very nice little school not far from home.’ All this had come out in a torrent, but it was measured, controlled, as though the man had been rehearsing it for some time.

  ‘And then you separated?’ Hall wanted to get the details clear. This case wasn’t at all clear so far.

  ‘Um … no. We separated while she was still working in Children’s Services. That would be around Easter time last year. But, as I say, it was amicable and, as far as I was concerned, strictly temporary.’

  ‘I suppose your job would make it difficult to—’

  ‘My job, as you put it, DCI Hall, had absolutely nothing to do with it. I loved Sarah. I still do love her. I wanted our lives together to continue, and if she needed time, then that was fine by me. A year or two out of the marriage if it meant we would be together for ever was a small price to pay, to my mind.’ He looked down at his hands, still clasped around the Bible, as if he had never seen them before. ‘Of course, that’s …’

  To Hall’s embarrassment, a fat tear splashed onto the man’s hand and trickled down to stain the matte red leather of the book. Why had he sent Jacquie home? She was good when people cried.

  Then Giles Mattley pulled himself together and looked up at Hall, wiping away a lingering tear with the back of his hand. ‘I think I am supposed to think she is in a better place, DCI Hall. I know that is what I tell my parishioners
at times like this. As if there are times like this … I gather Sarah committed suicide. I had no idea she—’

  Hall was quick to cut in. ‘I don’t know where that idea came from, Reverend Mattley,’ he said. ‘Your wife didn’t commit suicide. My colleagues and I have very good reason to assume that she was murdered.’

  The man went white and swayed in his chair.

  ‘Are you all right, Reverend Mattley? Would you like a glass of water?’ Hall’s hand strayed to the buzzer on the table.

  ‘No, no, thank you. I’ll be all right in a second, but … murdered? Who would want to murder Sarah? She was the loveliest, the kindest of women.’

  ‘She had one thousand pounds in her handbag, Reverend. Can you explain that?’

  ‘A thousand pounds? In cash, you mean?’

  ‘In very used notes. It was neatly counted out, like they do in banks with all the notes facing the same way and the twenties, tens, the odd fiver all in stacks. We were wondering if you could shed any light?’

  ‘Why would …? Blackmail, are you saying?’ The Reverend Giles Mattley watched a lot of TV. ‘Sarah was being blackmailed?’

  ‘Or was blackmailing someone.’ Hall spoke without emphasis, but watched his man intently.

  ‘My Sarah? A blackmailer? Don’t be ridiculous. She didn’t even like to gossip. That’s what finished her in social work, in the end. She always believed the best in people. And almost always was let down, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Henry Hall had been a policeman for a lot of years. He knew what it was like to be let down. A bell rang in his head, way at the back, where all the most important bells hung out. ‘I don’t suppose you know what the case was, the one which made your wife leave social work?’

  ‘Confidentiality, DCI Hall. Confidentiality. You must know about that. Police. Church. Social workers. Teachers. The list goes on. All bound by confidentiality.’

  ‘I don’t expect names as such, Reverend Mattley. Just the gist.’ Henry Hall held his man’s gaze. ‘Didn’t she let you know even a hint, when she was so depressed?’

  Giles Mattley hung his head and it was a few seconds before Henry Hall realised the man was praying. Whatever guidance he received, it was in Hall’s favour.

  ‘She told me it was a man, not very old, who had been abusing his children, mentally, physically and sexually, since they were tiny. He had been abusing his wife for years, since they were at school, as far as she could tell.’

  Henry Hall sighed. ‘I know the case.’ He looked down too, but if he was praying it was to the God of Coincidence, who he knew to be a figment of his own imagination. He stood up. ‘Thank you, Reverend Mattley. We’ll be in touch, and again, I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘What about the thousand pounds?’

  ‘We will have to discover if it is …’ there was no good way to say it, ‘the proceeds of a crime. If it isn’t, then I would imagine it is yours, if you are your wife’s heir.’

  The man shook his head and turned for the door. ‘Have you ever lost anyone you love, Mr Hall?’ he asked.

  Hall swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘My mother,’ he said. ‘My wife, almost, once.’

  ‘Ah, and there you have the advantage of me,’ Mattley said and this time didn’t brush away his tears. ‘Almost, once. I have lost mine not once, but again and again and again. When you finally give her back to me, Mr Hall, please make sure it is for good.’ And he was gone, the door swinging behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  Jacquie Maxwell called from the foot of the stairs as she got in, stamping the snow from her shoes. There hadn’t been a winter like it for years, the Met Office kept assuring everyone, causing Maxwell to mutter darkly about the fiction that was Global Warming and wondering again how any of ‘those people’ slept at night. Nolan had done a project on Global Warming in his first few weeks at Mrs Whatmough’s estimable establishment, although to be fair, bearing in mind the age group, it had mostly been a collage of pictures of polar bears. Nolan had included a fairy in his, which his teacher had found quite endearing until he explained that his daddy thought the whole nine yards was just a fairy story to worry the readers of the Daily Mail. His teacher had given him a long look and written something cryptic in his permanent record which may or may not come back to bite him when he applied for his father’s old college in the years ahead.

  ‘Hello, chaps,’ she called. ‘Anyone in?’

  She was rewarded by scampering feet and her son’s head appeared around the corner at the top of the stairs. ‘Mums!’ he called. ‘That was quick! Did you catch the man?’

  What a lovely simple view her son had of her job, she thought, climbing the stairs towards him. He was, as always, gathering himself together for a leap into her arms. ‘Not till I’m on the landing,’ she said, raising a warning finger. ‘Remember what happened to Mrs Troubridge.’

  ‘I didn’t make her fall downstairs,’ Nolan said, outraged.

  ‘I know you didn’t, poppet,’ Jacquie said, scooping him up. ‘But she did fall down them, didn’t she? Stairs are dangerous if you don’t take care.’ And we have so many, she thought. We must be crazy, living in this tall house with a small child and a psychopathic cat whose newest hobby was waiting until you were halfway up or down a flight and then leaping out at you. He’d be sorry if his meal ticket broke its leg. ‘Where’s Dads?’

  ‘He’s making lunch,’ Nolan told her, squeezing round her neck with one arm and giving her a wet kiss on the cheek.

  ‘You’re very cuddly,’ Jacquie laughed. ‘I’m suspicious.’

  ‘You’re a Woman Policeman,’ Maxwell told her, appearing from the kitchen. ‘You’re meant to be suspicious. Come and join us. We are just about to sit down to lunch.’

  Jacquie sniffed the air. There was no smell of Sunday roast or anything approaching it. She went into the kitchen. ‘Pasta shapes on toast?’ she said, appalled. ‘Where’s the Sunday dinner?’

  ‘Still in the fridge,’ Maxwell said. ‘You caught us out. We were going to cook it later, so you could eat it with us properly, rather than heated up.’

  ‘And with the time we save,’ Nolan said importantly, sliding down his mother and climbing onto his chair, ‘we were going bogging.’

  ‘Bogging?’ Jacquie was confused.

  Maxwell was dividing the pasta-covered toast in front of him onto two plates. Pushing one of them towards Jacquie, he said, in explanation, ‘Tobogganing.’

  ‘Tobogganing,’ Nolan echoed. ‘What I said.’

  ‘Oh, sledging!’ Sometimes their geographical differences made all the difference.

  Maxwell smiled. ‘I suppose it depends on whether you use a sledge or a toboggan. As it turns out, we will be using a toboggan.’

  ‘We don’t have a sledge,’ Jacquie said, with a forkful of pasta halfway to her mouth. She had just realised she was hungry.

  ‘We do,’ Nolan said. ‘Hec … Mr Gold has got me one. He rang up this morning and said he hadn’t seen snow like this since he left …’ he glanced at his father for confirmation, who mouthed ‘Minnesota’ at him, ‘since he left where he used to live. So he got a boggan and we’re going to the Dam and going bogging. He’s checked and there is lots of snow and that’s where we’re going.’ He shovelled in another mouthful of pasta and started on the tomatoey toast. ‘Aren’t we, Dads?’

  ‘Indeed we are. Are you coming?’ he asked Jacquie. ‘It should be fun.’

  ‘Just Hector?’ Jacquie asked.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t think the Californians born and bred are very enthusiastic about this weather. According to Hector, it has seriously impeded Camille’s attendance at the nail bar. She likes to keep her nails maintained, apparently.’

  Jacquie looked down at her hands, her nails short, neat and clean but not what anyone would call maintained. She thought for a moment. ‘Let’s do it,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember the last time I went sledging. It was always a bit difficult when I was a kid. We didn’t really have ma
ny hills. My dad used to have to drag me along the road. It’s not the same.’

  ‘Tell me a story about my granddad,’ Nolan said. ‘Tell me the story about when he fell over on the beach and it looked like a monster had crawled out of the sea, you said. Tell me about when he used to try to fly a kite.’

  Sometimes, Maxwell found it sad that his little boy had started life with just one grandparent, although the redoubtable Betty was quite enough for any child all on her own. He had fond memories of his own grandparents and even a few hazy recollections of a sweet-smelling little old person sitting quietly in a corner who he realised later was his great-grandmother. Nolan would miss all that when he was older, a whole page missing in his family history. But for now, they were going bogging.

  ‘Talk while you eat, Mums,’ Maxwell said, suiting the action to the words. ‘Hector will be here in …’ he glanced up at the clock, ‘about three minutes and we’ve got to get our woolly combs on yet. Chop chop.’

  ‘Dads! That should be chomp chomp!’ Nolan could hardly eat for laughing.

  ‘Whatever,’ drawled Maxwell. He usually hated smart-arses but the fact that this one was his son just underlined the basic truth of genetics so he let it go. ‘Let’s just do it. We don’t want to miss an afternoon’s bogging, now do we?’

  Henry Hall was not much given to introspection, but his interview with the Reverend Mattley had made him thoughtful. He had come down without a notepad and fished in his pocket for a piece of paper. The man’s obvious distress and love for his wife had removed him from the list of suspects in Hall’s view, but he realised after the man had gone that he had not asked him the reason for their separation. To remind himself to ask these questions later, he wrote ‘demons’. Then, after a bit of thought, he underlined it and added a question mark.

  There was a tap at the door and Pete Spottiswood stuck his head round. ‘Guv?’

  Hall looked up. ‘Shouldn’t you be back at the scene? What are you doing here? Auntie’s dog been taken ill?’