by M. J. Trow
‘You won’t get away with it, Mr Chambers. The police are on their way.’
‘Oh, yes, they always are, aren’t they? Do you know, I even lost my job today – the day job, that is. That stupid bastard Bob Thorogood said I was too … what was the word he used? “Overzealous”, that was it. He didn’t actually fire me. I resigned. Told him where he could stick his bloody job.’ His face relaxed from the mask of fury to a self-satisfied smile. ‘No, I have a permit for this,’ he waved the gun again, ‘and the mood of the country is at last starting to swing my way. It will be self-defence. Intruder. Dead of night. An Englishman’s home is his castle and all that. I called out to you, Mr Maxwell. I said, “Who’s there? I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”’
The lights suddenly went out. There were two shots in the blackness, blasting as one, and the roar and flame of a pair of .44 Magnums briefly illuminated the landing. When the lights came back on again, Jeff O’Malley was slumped against the wall, his hand on the light switch, the other still holding the gun but with blood dripping off his fingers and along the barrel. At the top of the stairs, inches from the crouching Maxwell, Mark Chambers lay face down, a dark stain spreading from his side, out across the carpet and down the first riser.
‘Sonofabitch,’ O’Malley muttered and Maxwell gingerly took the gun from his hand.
They heard the police sirens wailing in the distance and both men sat down while Maxwell checked Chambers for signs of life. There were none.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jacquie Maxwell looked out of the kitchen window. ‘It’s hailing,’ she said. ‘Makes a change.’
Maxwell glanced over his shoulder and through the kitchen door – across the landing he could see out of the sitting room window. ‘It’s snowing out the front,’ he remarked.
There was a silence. A perfect Saturday morning in 38 Columbine. Another piece of toast popped up and Jacquie caught it deftly. Maxwell was treating himself to a croissant.
Eventually, he spoke again. ‘Where’s Hec?’
‘Seeing Camille off at Heathrow. She flies this afternoon, but she wanted to be there in plenty of time. Also the press might catch her if she gets there early.’
‘Surely you mean the press might miss her?’
Jacquie smiled at him indulgently. ‘Max,’ she said. ‘It’s Camille.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘It’s snowing out of this window now,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired of this weather.’ She buttered and jammed her toast. ‘I had an email from Harry last night.’
‘That’s an odd coincidence. I had an email from Paul yesterday afternoon.’ Sounds of spreading, tearing and munching according to their season filled the kitchen. Metternich’s purr was almost the loudest thing in the room. ‘Did he have anything exciting to say, Harry? Bet he was pleased we got Jeff O’Malley on something concrete.’
‘Yes, he was. Er … as a matter of fact, he had a proposition to put to me.’
‘What a very odd coincidence,’ Maxwell said, wiping jam off his chin. ‘Paul was also talking propositions. I don’t usually enjoy being proposed to by my colleagues – not the male ones anyway. He has met Harry, by the way. He popped in to apologise for the raid.’
‘He seems very nice,’ Jacquie said.
‘Paul? Of course he’s nice.’
‘Max! I mean Harry.’
‘Paul seems to like him, from the sound of it.’ Maxwell got up and went to his wife, still staring pensively out at the snow. ‘If you want to go, I’ll give it a try, you know,’ he said.
She turned in his arms and looked into his eyes. ‘Try what?’ she said, trying to sound light and unconcerned.
‘The sabbatical year in LA. Teaching at the university. Giving seminars on British police procedure. All that.’
‘How long have you known?’ she asked him, poking him in the chest.
‘Since Paul’s email arrived.’
‘Pig! You didn’t say a thing.’
‘Nor did you,’ he pointed out, ‘until just now. And then it was only when I said it first.’
‘But … but … it’s abroad. It’s full of Americans, talking with accents, with funny grammar. Think of the spelling!’
‘It’s near Hollywood. The West, or what’s left of it. Disneyland for Nole. Skunks for Metternich to play with. Sun. Lots of sun.’
‘They don’t walk anywhere, they only drive.’
Neither of them had mentioned that mad Night When Maxwell Drove. He had just handed Jacquie her keys and the whole thing had never happened.
‘All the more pavement for me,’ the eternal pedestrian said. ‘Look, you won’t put me off now,’ he said. ‘I’ve already told Bernard Ryan. He’s started the paperwork.’
‘My God! What did he say?’
Maxwell looked down. ‘He seemed rather pleased, as a matter of fact. Asked how soon we would be going. I told him it was up to you. You can expect the bunch of flowers any day now, I should imagine. When will you tell Henry?’
It was Jacquie’s turn to look down. ‘I spoke to him yesterday, when I got the email.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He wasn’t as pleased as Bernard, perhaps, but he was supportive. He’s thinking of a sabbatical himself, trying out retirement, I think. Margaret’s idea. I give it a week, myself, but we’ll see. This O’Malley case has given him a lot to do, of course. The blackmail victims run into the hundreds. Mrs Whatmough was the tip of the iceberg.’
‘Well, that’s it, then. We’ve just got to tell Nole.’
‘Mrs Troubridge.’
‘Metternich.’
‘He knows,’ Jacquie said. ‘He’s been under the table listening all the while.’
‘Your mother.’
‘Do we have to? Can’t she just find out?’
‘Come here, you clever girl. Need any pointers for the lectures?’
‘I was hoping you’d be giving most of them.’
‘Try and stop me.’
It wasn’t exactly spring when Henry Hall drew up outside 38 Columbine, but it wasn’t as bone-freezingly cold as it had been for the last two months. The tableau in front of him could only be happening there. Mrs Troubridge, all of a tremble, was hugging the Maxwells one by one, even Mad Max himself, and then passing them on to Alana for a hug, as though on a conveyor belt. Hector Gold was standing in the doorway of Number 38, dapper in an apron and slippers, passing out the Maxwells’ luggage. Metternich was in a large and palatial cat carrier on the path, the label clearly showing that he was travelling with the people, not the luggage. A phase of Henry’s life, a long phase, a happy phase, was laid out in front of him. He had loved Jacquie Maxwell as Sylvia Matthews had loved Maxwell all those years, as a good thing in his life, someone to make him keep on trying. Margaret and the boys were his world, but Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell was his star.
Hector stepped forward and everyone feared there may be a speech. ‘Thank you for entrusting your home and dear Mrs Troubridge to me,’ he said to Maxwell, meaning every word. ‘I feel privileged to live here and before I go I will apply to the appropriate office in government to make sure there is a plaque on both your houses.’
Maxwell stepped away from his front door, content. He had passed the mantle of Leighford and Columbine into the right, if rather zany, hands. The Sixth Form had given him a laptop, their way of trying to drag him into their century. But they all knew it wouldn’t work.
Blowing kisses, Henry drove them away, Metternich spitting just for the look of the thing. Everyone was quiet on the drive, even Nolan appreciating that, however huge the ice creams were, he was going to miss Mrs Troubridge, Plocker and even Mrs Whatmough. He pressed his nose to the window and committed his world to memory.
At Heathrow, Jacquie and Maxwell hugged Henry Hall with equal fervour. Nolan was swung round and Metternich given a tentative stroke before he was borne away by a besotted air hostess, who would be bleeding profusely before she got beyond the g
ate.
Maxwell looked at Henry. This was a seminal moment in their lives. Something memorable must be said. ‘I’ll be back,’ Maxwell said, in a perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Hall stepped back, waving, as the little family went through the gate marked ‘Departures’.
‘Yes, indeed you will,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You’re my star witness – I’ll see you in court.’
And his Raymond Burr was flawless.
About the Author
M.J. TROW has recently retired as a history teacher – he has been doubling as a crime writer for twenty-six years. He is the author of the Inspector Sholto Lestrade and the Kit Marlowe series and twenty-one non-fiction books. Maxwell’s Crossing is the seventeenth novel featuring Peter ‘Mad Max’ Maxwell.
By M.J. Trow
THE PETER ‘MAD MAX’ MAXWELL SERIES
Maxwell’s Match
Maxwell’s Inspection
Maxwell’s Grave
Maxwell’s Mask
Maxwell’s Point
Maxwell’s Chain
Maxwell’s Revenge
Maxwell’s Retirement
Maxwell’s Island
Maxwell’s Crossing
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
13 Charlotte Mews
London W1T 4EJ
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2012.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2012.
Copyright © 2012 by M.J. TROW
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1211–3
