Maxwell's Crossing

by M. J. Trow

  ‘I’ll pass, I think. Are there any other flavours?’

  ‘Broccoli and stilton. They tend to build up a bit. Helen brings in the mixed boxes but she only likes pea.’

  ‘What a strange life you lead, Mr Maxwell, when I’m not here to see.’ She flicked the switch on the kettle and tore the top off a sachet. ‘I’ll join you in a mulligatawny after all, I think.’ She stood at the worktop with her back turned. ‘I must ask you not to share any of this, Max,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘What, that you drink mulligatawny soup?’

  ‘No, idiot. What I am about to tell you. It involves … well, people.’

  ‘No, tell me it isn’t so. A crime, involving people. Surely not. Now, stop stirring that soup to death and come and sit down.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘Not even Sylv.’

  ‘I don’t tell Sylv much. She usually tells me things.’

  ‘Fair enough. OK.’ She took a deep breath and a sip of soup. ‘The other murder, the one I heard about this morning first thing.’

  ‘Yes. When you were on the phone to me. What about it?’

  ‘It didn’t seem at first to be connected, although it would seem odd not to be, coming so soon after the others.’

  ‘So you are linking Hendricks and Gregson?’

  ‘I don’t even know that, yet. It could be the gambling connection. We haven’t been able to speak to Linda Hendricks yet, but if ever there was someone who liked to gamble, it would be her husband. So there might be a link there. Also, Sarah Gregson was a social worker at one time, so she might have known Hendricks.’

  ‘It’s unlikely she would have played cards with him if she knew his history, surely?’ Maxwell slipped into the role of devil’s advocate with hellish ease. You could almost smell the brimstone, although it could have been the soup.

  ‘True. As I say, everything is very tentative at the moment. Then this morning, the victim was a Jacob Shears, a solicitor in town.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘No.’ She sipped her soup again and tried to forget the charnel-house interior of the solicitor’s office.

  ‘Thrown from a high building?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Stabbed and then … disembowelled, rather thoroughly.’

  Maxwell knew his serial killers. He had a working knowledge of all of them, and a specific knowledge of some. He was still undecided about the infantile arson, the bed-wetting and the cruelty to animals, but he was clear on one point; they all had a method they liked and stuck to it. ‘So … with three different MOs, why are you guys treating it as a series?’

  ‘We’re not. But it is.’

  ‘Precious Bane, we have been together now, Teacher and Woman Policeman, for a lot of years, taken by and large.’

  ‘I didn’t like you for some of them,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Nonsense. It was love at first sight.’

  ‘No. You misheard me at the time. “Loathe”, I said. Not “love”.’

  ‘Well,’ said Maxwell, ‘I’m with Christopher Marlowe on this one. Love at first sight it was. But, I digress. We’ve been together now a long time but I am totally confused. Why is it a series? Before you answer, I should say that I agree with you, but I know my reasons. I need to know yours.’

  ‘First,’ Jacquie said, holding up a thumb, ‘Matthew Hendricks was killed by having his head blown off by a .44 Magnum.’

  ‘The most powerful handgun in the world,’ Clint Eastwood said, through the medium of Peter Maxwell.

  ‘Yes. An American gun.’

  ‘Most are,’ Maxwell remarked, mildly.

  ‘An iconic American gun,’ she added, ‘to be precise. Number Two,’ and she held up her forefinger, ‘Sarah Gregson was thrown off a multi-storey car park—’

  ‘Definitely thrown?’ Maxwell thought he would check.

  ‘Yes. So everyone says. Where was I? Yes, thrown off a car park after playing poker. Three,’ she held up her middle finger, ‘Jacob Shears is killed in his office.’ She sat back. ‘Shall I tell you the link, now?’

  ‘If you would,’ Maxwell said mildly.

  ‘Hendricks, American gun. Gregson, played cards with an American. Shears, an American chocolate wrapper was found alongside the body, covered in blood.’

  ‘American chocolate is hardly a clincher,’ Maxwell thought he should say. ‘They have Reese’s Pieces in the vending machine at the bus station …’ He caught her eye. The healthy eating New Year resolution had not really taken hold as she would have liked. ‘… I would imagine.’

  ‘This was a much more unusual one, available only in America or online. We have someone checking availability back at the nick – the first two websites we tried don’t have stock. So it is likely that it is only an American who would have one.’

  ‘Would you stand and eat a chocolate bar while you disembowel someone? I mean, there is casual and casual, surely.’

  ‘I agree that it isn’t usual, but what is usual about stabbing an innocent man and spreading his intestines all over the place? His liver was in a filing cabinet.’

  ‘Nasty.’ He put down his mug. He seemed to have lost his appetite. ‘Apart from the chocolate wrapper, is there any other link with the other two?’

  ‘No, not that we can see at the moment. He has lots of files around the office and some of them are a bit …’ She settled for ‘difficult to decipher. We’ll have to check what he was working on. His secretary is in shock. She found him.’

  ‘Poor thing. Young?’

  ‘Yes. One of yours, inevitably. Tia Preese.’

  ‘I remember her,’ he said, pointlessly. He remembered everyone he had ever taught. Sometimes all it took was that he had met them in the corridor, but that was only if they had a noticeable feature, like one eye in the middle of their forehead, something like that. ‘Business Studies.’

  ‘Well, that would make sense. She was the only secretary working there and her office was impeccable. He was a bit of a slob, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Enough of a slob to leave chocolate wrappers around?’ he asked, but she ignored him. ‘It’s lovely of you to share, Inspector,’ he went on, after a pause, ‘but why are you telling me this? I know that I would have wheedled it out of you in the end, but it isn’t like you to just tell me straight out like this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said and bravely drank the sludge at the bottom of the mug before putting it down on the coffee table between them. She suppressed a shudder and he was impressed. Most people screamed at that point as they got all the curry in one hit. ‘I am getting round to it, but slowly. I don’t want to say it, that’s why. It sounds too silly.’

  ‘Try me. I specialise in silly.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Too right,’ she told him. ‘When the Magnum was used, I just thought it was an unusual choice. When Sarah Gregson was killed, I must admit I fastened on Jeff O’Malley with the feeling that it was case closed. Then when Shears was killed, I knew it wasn’t him, but I had made the American connection. I don’t want to let it go.’ She stared at him, willing him to understand.

  ‘When did Shears die?’ he asked.

  ‘Between ten and one last night. Give or take half an hour, although Donald says no leeway. That’s just the pathology lot, though. There’s always a bit of space on either side.’

  ‘So after you had Jeff O’Malley at the nick.’

  ‘Exactly. Which leaves three other Americans unaccounted for. Alana and Hector were at the hospital, or so he says. Camille was home alone.’

  Maxwell knew what had happened when Cauley McCulkin, or whatever the ghastly child was called, had tried that, but it was hardly the same. He considered the theory with more gravity than it deserved. ‘Alana could hardly toss a fully grown woman off a car park, let alone disembowel a solicitor. Camille could probably do the throwing, if she took a run at it, but I can’t see her getting messy with a nasty bit of intestine rearranging. She might break a nail.’

  The silence started at
that point and grew until Jacquie cracked. ‘And Hector?’ Even as she said it, it sounded unlikely. ‘No,’ she got up and reached for her coat. ‘Sorry, Max. I don’t know what I was thinking. He could no more murder someone than fly.’

  Maxwell looked grim. ‘Sit down, Inspector. I think I may know something that you don’t.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell had known longer days, but looking back as she sat at six that evening, with the phone in her hand, she could hardly believe that it was that morning that she had been standing in Jacob Shear’s office, trying to avoid standing on anything slippery. Her last hour had just been frustrating, trying to get the Communications Department to OK what could turn out to be a very long phone call to California. Eventually, she had got clearance, got the number and was waiting for someone to answer.

  ‘–nth Precinct. Help you?’

  Oh, rats! She hadn’t been concentrating. What number had he said? ‘Could I speak to the senior officer, please?’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell,’ she said, ‘Leighford Police. England.’

  ‘Nice to speak to you, Detective Inspector,’ the voice informed her. ‘But I mean, the name of the person you wish to speak with. We got lots of seniors here. We got Homicide. We got Drugs. We got Vice. We got Traffic. Which d’ya want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jacquie had to admit. ‘I don’t even know if I have the right Precinct. I want to speak to someone who knows about Jeff O’Malley. He used to—’

  ‘Oh, we all know about Jeff O’Malley,’ the voice said, dryly. ‘And we all know what he used to do. I tell you what. I’ll put you through to Lieutenant Schmidt. Harry, he likes to be called, but let him say it first. I’ll put you through. If I lose this call, just ring back and ask for Harry.’ The phone went dead, apart from a plangent beep every now and again to tell her that someone still cared.

  ‘Schmidt.’

  ‘Lieutenant Schmidt, I am Jacquie Carpen—’

  ‘Yes. Front desk told me. You want to know about Jeff O’Malley. Why?’

  Obviously Schmidt was a man of few words. Also, Jacquie realised she had no idea whether he was a friend of O’Malley’s or not. He sounded too young to have worked with him, except in a more junior capacity, but it was never wise to judge. ‘I am just finding out some background,’ she said. ‘He is … helping us with our enquiries,’ she began.

  The man on the other end of the phone laughed. He had a nice laugh and Jacquie reassessed her mental picture of him. He turned from Telly Savalas’s Kojak to Tom Selleck’s Magnum PI in a winking. ‘If it’s the Jeff O’Malley I know,’ he said, ‘he won’t be helping anyone with anything. The only person Jeff O’Malley helps is himself. So, what’s he “helping” you with? Blackmail? Extortion? Bribery? Gambling?’

  ‘Murder,’ Jacquie said, shortly. The blackmail and gambling areas interested her. Bribery and extortion didn’t really fit, but anyone who had dabbled with them would be someone that would interest the police of any country.

  There was a silence on the line, longer than could be explained by the distance.

  ‘Lieutenant Schmidt?’ She hoped Maxwell never heard her saying ‘lootenant’. He would divorce her on the spot.

  ‘Sorry. Jacquie, did you say your name was? May I call you Jacquie? Please call me Harry. Murder, you say? I can’t say I am surprised. It’s a surprise he’s taken this long. Who was it? Bookie?’

  ‘No. It was … it’s a bit difficult to explain, really. There’s no real link that I can see between O’Malley and the victims …’

  ‘More than one? All at once? Driving, was it? Hit and run, that’s his style.’

  ‘No. Three separate incidents. Two we could link to gambling, but we’re still working on the third. It’s just that … well, I know him personally.’

  ‘Oh.’ In that single syllable, Jacquie could hear Harry Schmidt close down. ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Let me explain. His son-in-law is working with my husband, on an exchange.’

  ‘I know about that. We had that poor guy who is living at O’Malley’s in here the other day. There was a raid … do you know about that?’

  ‘Yes. Paul Moss …’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the guy.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, Paul emailed my husband at school and said about the raid. He was upset. He wants to come home.’

  ‘Don’t blame him. Why’re they at O’Malley’s anyway? Shouldn’t he be at Camille and Hector’s? More usual, surely?’

  ‘They were told that Camille and Hector’s house wasn’t big enough for the family. That’s why Jeff and Alana came along, so that Paul Moss and his family could have their house.’

  Another laugh. ‘Still up to his old tricks. Couldn’t have got a visa on his own, shouldn’t wonder. Had to pickaback on poor old Hec. No, Camille’s condo is big enough. Got a pool, everything. The kids would have loved it and … Paul, is it? Yeah, Paul could have walked to school. No, Jeff wanted out and he didn’t care who he left holding the baby. Just classic Jeff. Sorry you’re stuck with him. Tell me about these murders.’

  ‘Can I email you the details? It’s rather complicated.’

  ‘If Jeff’s involved, it’s probably simple. Jeff just wants money. And power, of course, but he has Alana for that. But you’re right, an email would be simpler. Unless you got a webcam? It’s easier to Skype.’

  ‘This is a police station,’ Jacquie said. ‘It’s a wonder we’ve got phones.’

  ‘We just got ourselves a new commissioner,’ Harry Schmidt told her, with the laugh in his voice. ‘He’s buying friends right now. Everyone of my rank and above has got an iPad for us to work on at home. Jeff would have sold his. Not only is he a dinosaur, he’s a greedy one. T Rex, I guess. Anyway, got a pen?’

  ‘Yes. We do have those.’

  ‘I like you, Jacquie. You have a sense of humour. Not like Morse. That’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘You watch Morse?’ Somehow it didn’t fit the picture she had of him.

  ‘Got them all on DVD. Box set on eBay. Got to relax sometime.’

  ‘Well, we’re not all like Morse, thankfully.’ Jacquie was more of a Lewis girl herself, and not just because of Laurence Fox. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘OK. Send the details to schmidt h – that’s all one word – at precinct 9 – that’s all one word as well, nine as a number not a word – calif police. Do I need to say that is all one word? Dot com. That’ll get me day or night. On my iPad.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She read the address back to him. ‘But before you go, Harry, why were Paul and Manda at the sharp end of a police raid the other day?’

  ‘Got into a bit of a habit, here in Precinct 9,’ Harry Schmidt told her. ‘If there’s anything going on that’s a bit shady, where no one’s talking, we shake down Jeff. We haven’t got him yet, not since the day we threw him out. But we’ll get him one day. If you don’t get him first, that is. Look forward to your email. Bye Jacquie,’ and with a click and a brrrr he was gone.

  Jacquie opened her emails and read through the few that had come in. One was an invitation to Bob Thorogood’s leaving party. Not that he was going anywhere specific, just down the road, but he was making a point. She wondered how many people would attend and already knew she would be one. There had to be someone there to raise a glass, even if it turned out to be the smallest leaving party in the world. Then she settled down to send the email to Harry Schmidt, or Magnum as she already thought of him. It was going to have to be a miracle of not putting words into his mouth, and yet complete in the detail. She wasn’t sure on how much of this was legal, but the clock was ticking and if she wasn’t careful, O’Malley would be on the streets before she got any details back. She wasn’t sure how to start the email. Dear Harry? Hi Harry? Dear Lt Schmidt? She settled for no salutation at all and plunged right in and soon she was in full flow.

  At 38 Columbine, things were not quite as usual. Hector had spoken to Maxwell in his usual
diffident way and Maxwell, in his usual hospitable way, had invited him back, for supper at least, to stay if he wanted. The most important thing was to make sure that Mrs Troubridge and Alana were all right and that would take some doing. As a believer that chatting round the table was the best way to resolve anything, Maxwell had also invited the two women to supper. That just left the question of Camille and Maxwell insisted that there Hector had to do his own dirty work. He was accordingly closeted in the study, making the call.

  Nolan, a host to his little fingertips, was laying the table. He was laying for six, with an optional set of cutlery to one side, in case Camille arrived against everyone’s wishes. Since he privately called her ‘Meal’, he was smiling with secret pleasure at the pun. Meal, coming over for a meal. He giggled softly and Maxwell stuck his head round the door.

  ‘OK, mate?’ he asked.

  ‘Just thought of something funny, Dads,’ he said. ‘It made me giggle outside when I meant it to stay in.’

  As someone who often giggled on the outside, Maxwell understood completely. ‘How are you getting along?’

  ‘Are we having seconds?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Mate, I don’t even know if we’re having firsts yet. I’m trying to see what we’ve got to eat that will feed six.’

  ‘Or seven.’

  ‘Or seven, yes.’ Privately, Maxwell wasn’t expecting Camille to arrive. He knew a daddy’s girl when he saw one and felt that it was more than likely that she would wait at home for O’Malley’s return or until hell froze over, whichever was the sooner. But it wouldn’t matter anyway. She clearly never ate anything.

  ‘Betty Getti? That always goes down well.’

  Maxwell was startled. It was as if his mother-in-law had walked in. Nolan’s gift was not for mimicry, but for choosing the very phrase that conjured the person up. Betty Carpenter was not an adventurous cook, but her gregarious daughter had created a skill in her for stretching meals to their utmost when she came home with half a dozen ravenous and unexpected guests. Betty Spaghetti was famous wherever two Carpenters were gathered.