by M. J. Trow
‘Hec. Don’t be silly. Jacquie is in bed, but she would say the same. Come through into the sitting room. If I can work it out, the sofa turns into a bed. You can have that and we can put Alana to bed in the spare room. Actually, belay that. There’s another flight of stairs up to the spare room. You can have that, and we’ll pop her on the sofa.’
‘Don’t worry about the spare room, Max. I don’t want to leave her. She might … well, I don’t know. Choke, or something.’
‘Do you want to ring Camille to tell her where you are?’
‘No. She’ll have taken her tablet and we won’t get anything out of her until ten tomorrow. If I could just borrow a comb tomorrow and perhaps a quick squirt of deodorant …’
‘Of course. We probably have some new toothbrushes somewhere. Jacquie is very organised on the personal-hygiene front. Well,’ Maxwell looked at them, the semi-conscious woman and the slight, slightly dishevelled man. ‘She’s lucky to have you for a son-in-law,’ he said.
‘I hope she makes the most of it while it lasts, then,’ Hector said. ‘Goodnight, Max. Thank you.’
‘Goodnight,’ he said, and closed the door gently behind him. It wasn’t until later that he realised what the exchange teacher had said and wondered how Camille the Cougar would take it. ‘Gentlemen of Leighford, now abed,’ he muttered to himself, paraphrasing as he went, ‘shall think themselves accursed that she is here. And hold their manhoods cheap …’
Jacquie turned over. ‘Max?’ she muttered. ‘What’s going on? Is someone here?’
He leant over and in the dark kissed what turned out to be an eyebrow. ‘I’ll tell you in the morning. Sleep tight, sweetheart. Sleep tight.’
‘Hope the bugs don’t bite,’ she said, adding a little yelp as he put his cold feet on the backs of her nice warm thighs.
And with a sigh, the Maxwells were asleep.
Someone was singing. Not totally in tune, although that was just a guess, as it appeared to be no tune known to man. It was something very modern, with a contrapuntal harmony in the tenor. Jacquie was impressed, even as she slept. ‘Contrapuntal’ was not a word she used too often when she was awake. As soon as she realised she was dreaming, it disappeared like a soap bubble in the sun and she was awake.
She poked Maxwell in the ribs.
‘Max, Max, wake up,’ she hissed. ‘There’s somebody in the house.’
‘Just us chickens, chicken,’ he murmured, pulling the quilt over his head.
‘Someone’s singing. Listen.’
He uncovered an ear and did as he was told. She was right. Someone was singing. Unless he missed his guess, it was ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, but sung very, very slowly and rather flat. Someone was talking as well. It sounded like a very small gospel choir being led by a very hesitant and rather secular minister. Then the previous evening came back to him and he rolled over to face his wife, her eyes shining in the faint light of the clock numbers which glowed from his side of the bed. He knew his face would be in deep shadow and so all he had to control was his tone of voice. He opted for lightly jocular.
‘Not exactly Judy Garland, is she?’
‘No.’ The reply was very flat. ‘But if not Judy Garland, then who?’
‘Alana.’
Jacquie was bolt upright with the light on in seconds. ‘Alana? What on earth is Alana doing here? And where is she?’ She looked wildly round as though the woman might suddenly pop out from behind the wardrobe, shouting ‘Banzai!’.
‘She’s in the sitting room, on the settee. Don’t worry, Hector is with her.’
‘So, let me get this straight. A woman, the wife of a man currently helping the police – that would be me, by the way – is sleeping with her son-in-law in my sitting room.’
Maxwell mulled it over. ‘Quite correct. Except that when you say “sleeping with” that is more in the way of being watched over by her son-in-law to prevent her choking on her own vomit. Not,’ he raised his hand quickly, ‘that she is vomiting as such, but these things happen. He had to take her to the hospital and they said she is on a knife-edge, essentially. He couldn’t bear to take her home to Camille, so he came here.’ He paused and looked searchingly at her. ‘Quite sweet, I thought. That he came here. Isn’t it? Quite sweet?’
Jacquie snapped her light off and lay back with a sharp exhalation. ‘Peter Maxwell, if I live to be a hundred you will never stop surprising me.’
After a suitable pause, he asked, ‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
He sounded so like Nolan in the dark she couldn’t stay even mildly annoyed. She reached out and stroked his cheek. ‘A very good thing,’ she said softly. Then, a littler sharper, ‘What’s the time? No, don’t rear up like that, I’m trying to see the clock. Oh, damn and drat. Half past three. I hate it when it’s half past three.’
‘It’s when most people die, or so they say.’
‘Always a mine of curious and uplifting facts. Thank you, dear.’
‘No problem. Any time. At least we know Alana isn’t dead.’
‘That’s true,’ she agreed. ‘She’s on “Candle in the Wind” now. We’ve just got “My Way” to go and then she will have treated us to all the karaoke favourites.’
‘At least she sings them slowly. Let’s pretend they’re lullabies.’
She turned over and nestled back into his body, already in the spoon position to receive her. He kissed her shoulder and they let the lullabies claim them for the last few hours of the night.
Jim Astley should have retired years ago. He already played golf, so you’d think, wouldn’t you, that he’d want to spend still more time on the links. That’s what Donald thought, certainly, but Donald had failed to factor in the Marjorie Dilemma. Marjorie was Jim Astley’s wife, survivor (somehow) of too many lost weekends. She had a season ticket to rehab and a wagon parked behind the house off which she’d fallen more times than Jim Astley had carried out post-mortems. So, all in all, Astley had elected to overlook the creaking hips and tired eyes that the years had bequeathed him and continue to spend time with the dead, as opposed to the not-very-quick.
Alison Orchard was a different kettle of fish. Dr Astley wasn’t sure he really approved of women in mortuaries and knew that between them Silent Witness and Bones had a lot to answer for. For her part, Alison saw herself as a budding Emilia Fox but nobody else did. She was a head shorter, with dark frizzy hair (which Astley insisted she tie back) and a rather irritating falsetto laugh. Not even Donald fancied her, and bearing in mind his usual proclivity for anything with a pulse, that didn’t say an awful lot for Alison Orchard. Still, her mummy loved her and her daddy and all the other little Orchards, so there probably was a God.
That morning, God was gowned up but taking something of a back seat watching Alison go through her paces over the last mortal remains of Sarah Gregson. Pinned to the wall to Astley’s left were the police photographs of the crime scene: the body in situ, looking like a discarded shop window dummy; the blood which had pooled beneath the head and started to run into the gutter before the frost had seized it; and white tents with dates and times that marked the hour, should Henry Hall be sharp enough to get this one to court.
Astley listened impassively as Alison spoke into the microphone hanging down from its fixture on the ceiling. Sarah Gregson had been measured, weighed and photographed. Her clothes had gone to the lab for checking, where Angus would do what Angus did best – search for telltale fingerprints, fibres, alien saliva, sweat or blood; anything that would underline yet again the famous dictum of the great Edmond Locard – ‘Every contact leaves a trace’. The removal of the organs would come later – Astley would do that, it was beyond the remit of the student in front of him. She was focusing, rightly, on the head, shattered as it was where Sarah Gregson and the pavement had met at a terrifying gravitational speed.
‘Cut to the chase, my dear,’ Astley advised. He could patronise for England and time, as always, was of the essence. Sarah Gregson wasn’t going anywhere b
ut everyone else connected with the case was. And her murderer, if there was one, might have gone altogether. ‘Cause of death?’
‘Er … massive trauma to the occipital—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Astley cut the girl short. ‘She went off the roof face forward. Whether she jumped or was pushed, she’d have turned once before she hit the deck. A longer drop would give more turning time, but this is … what … three storeys. Donald?’
The big man was used to carrying all of Astley’s knowledge inside his own head. He thought of himself as a kind of external hard drive, where all the important stuff was stored in case the mainframe went down. ‘Thirty-seven feet, four and a half inches.’ Donald knew his man – Astley had never really embraced metric.
‘So,’ Astley continued, ‘in a nutshell, Ms Orchard, did she fall, did she jump or was she pushed?’
‘Urm …’ It wasn’t Alison’s day, but in a macabre sort of way, it was Sarah’s.
Astley got up and peered closely at the measurements in the photographs. He smiled and tapped the one taken from the south, in line with the kerb, that showed the position of the body in relation to the building.
‘Learn,’ he said to the girl without turning to face her, ‘and prepare to be amazed. If the deceased had fallen from the balcony up here,’ he waved in the general direction of the third storey, ‘she’d have landed not more than ten feet six inches from the building.’
Alison did a lightning calculation in her head to translate the distance into modern-speak; three point two metres.
‘If she had jumped, the distance would have been fourteen feet.’
Four point two metres, Alison calculated silently.
‘But if the SOCO boys have got it right, and I’m sure they have because I believe that Donald himself was on tape measure duty yesterday, then this young lady landed head first, sixteen feet from the building. That makes it murder.’
Alison Orchard was so impressed that she didn’t even bother to calculate the distance in metres.
‘Now, if young Angus does us the courtesy of finding a fingerprint or two, we can all go home and yet again Henry Hall will get his collar at our expense. The drinks that man owes me.’ He tutted and laughed at the same time.
Alison Orchard had her mouth open behind the green mask. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. Iris Seager had died in similar circumstances in Baltimore, Maryland in the early seventies when Jim Astley was approaching his first mid-life crisis. Alison Orchard wasn’t even born then. True, the Seager case was in all the textbooks, but Alison hadn’t got to those chapters yet. Had she looked more like Emilia Fox, Donald would probably have tipped her off, but her genes had been against her from the start when it came to getting any help from that quarter. So, yet again, it was Dr James Astley, one; rest of the world, nil.
The Maxwell temporarily extended family were in the dining room that morning, being too numerous to fit around the kitchen table. Alana looked surprisingly well for someone who had been knocking on heaven’s door the night before, although mercifully the song of the same name was not in her repertoire. It was Hector who looked as though he had been through the wringer, though only to someone who was familiar with his usual high level of immaculacy. Nolan was delighted to have a new audience and Jacquie and Maxwell were running back and forth with toast and Coco Pops, throwing remarks to one another as they ran.
‘I have to get to work, Max. Hector can take you and Nole if that’s OK, but what about Alana?’
The next time they passed in the doorway, Maxwell asked, ‘Could you not pretend it is Take Your Drunk To Work Day and take her with you?’
‘Flippancy will get you nowhere,’ she said, a rack of toast later. ‘She can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’
Because Maxwell had thrown the remark to her as he ran for the boiling kettle she had time to consider her reply, but it still struck her as a little lame. ‘Because she can’t.’ What a mistress of wit and repartee.
They finally both arrived at the table together and sat down to a hurried breakfast. Alana was speaking, in her careful way, tasting and weighing each word before she let it out of her mouth to make sure it would give no offence.
‘How is your lovely neighbour, Jacquie?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Troubridge. She sent us such a lovely greeting card for Christmas, didn’t she, Hec? I really loved meeting her at your Christmas soirée.’
Maxwell smiled at Jacquie, the smile of a man who has just been given the answer to his problems on a plate. ‘She gets lonely, Alana,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ll tell you what, why don’t I run down now and see if she’s in today? I’m sure she would love your company.’
He suited the action to the words and soon the sound of delighted twittering echoed up the stairs as Mrs Troubridge said that indeed she would love to have Alana as her guest for the day. And so, as is often the case with important things, it was decided in an instant and that was how Alana O’Malley, Californian drunk, became the house guest of Mrs Jessica Troubridge, possibly the most unlikely rehab facility proprietor in the world.
* * *
‘So, do you think he did it?’ The question was not unreasonable, but Maxwell was surprised nonetheless to be asked it so bluntly. He was still trying to buckle himself into the Mossmobile and they had been driving for ten minutes.
‘I don’t think Jacquie thinks so,’ he hedged.
‘But do you?’ Hector swept the Mosses’ car into a space very deftly. He turned off the ignition, but made no effort to get out.
Maxwell pondered for a moment. With the involvement of Mrs Whatmough this case was a lot more complicated than it first appeared and he had a feeling he was just skating over the surface. He just had to hope that the ice didn’t get too thin. ‘Well, I hardly know the man …’
‘You don’t have to know Jeff to know what he is,’ Hector said, dismissively. ‘He might as well have a neon sign on his head flashing “asshole” in big red letters. Even so, though,’ and he looked thoughtful, ‘I don’t think he would murder a woman.’
‘He isn’t exactly what you would call in touch with his feminine side, though, is he?’ Maxwell pointed out.
‘No. And that’s what I mean. Apart from Camille, who I think he loves just because she is half of him, not for any other reason, he doesn’t think women are worth anything. That’s why he wouldn’t risk the chair for one.’
‘We don’t have capital punishment in England,’ Maxwell pointed out. ‘We haven’t executed anyone since 1964.’
‘Ah, Max,’ breathed Hector. ‘A mine of information. But perhaps I should have made myself more clear. That sign I mentioned? It should read “stupid asshole” to be totally accurate. Jeff O’Malley has never sought a piece of information in his life if it doesn’t immediately result in more money or power for himself. His whole world has a population of one – well, two when Camille is in sight, otherwise I don’t think even she crosses his mind very much.’
‘What will he do when he finally gets home and finds Alana gone?’
‘A lot will depend on how soon he notices. He’ll notice when he goes to bed, I guess.’
‘Oh, so they do still—’
‘Jeff does, certainly. I’m not sure Alana is often there in spirit, though. Oh, yes …’ Hector trailed off, his cheeks faint pink at the memory of the embarrassing nights in the Moss house, just one wall away from his rutting father-in-law. Then he gave himself a shake. ‘Well, for good or ill, Max, all that seems to be changing. So, here’s to change.’ They clinked invisible glasses. ‘Let’s see what today brings at Leighford High School.’
Some distance away, across the still-frozen grass, knots of schoolboys (and girls) crawled unwillingly to school, although there wasn’t a satchel between them. Rona Whatserface was holding court already at the centre of a gaggle of Year Nine girls and mobile phones were flashing in all directions. There was some talk of new governmental powers being drafted in to allow teachers to take such time-wasting trivia away from students; whic
h struck Maxwell as rather odd because he already had a drawerful and added to it every day.
Maxwell unbuckled his seat belt – having only just managed to do it up – and slid down out of the high passenger seat. The weekend had held surprises enough and he doubted that even Leighford High could top it. The place had not burnt down and there were no red crosses on the doors. No doubt Legs Diamond was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
He was still only halfway through the side door when a panting Pansy Donaldson rushed up to him and hauled him bodily into the foyer.
‘Mr Maxwell, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, shaking him by the arm as a terrier would shake a rat. Noticing Hector Gold, she gave him a smile and a nod. He couldn’t help noticing she was checking out his footwear, for suitability. Turning her attention back to Maxwell, she gave him a final shake which dislodged his hat finally and he caught it with an unusual display of manual dexterity.
‘Mrs Donaldson,’ he said, equably, twitching his sleeve back into place. ‘How can I help you?’ He was secretly glad that the kids weren’t allowed to come through this way and that the usual daily haul of wearers of trainers and denim had not yet built up in the hinterland to Pansy’s domain.
‘I have an urgent email which needs your attention.’
Maxwell had been under the distinct impression that Pansy was on the wagon, but this seemed not to be the case. Why otherwise would she be asking him to deal with one of her emails? ‘I don’t quite understand what I can do for you, Mrs Donaldson,’ he said reasonably.
She turned her back on Hector Gold and waggled her eyebrows furiously at Maxwell. Hector Gold had not been an O’Malley in-law for nothing, and with a flash of a smile at Maxwell, he turned down the corridor which housed the History Department. Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell sauntered Hector Gold. Soon, he could be heard telling a kid its fortune and Maxwell sighed the sigh of a proud parent.
