by M. J. Trow
‘Well, that’s a pity, Neil, because it’s secrets I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve got the file I mentioned on the phone?’
‘The Edwards file. Sure. Not that there’s much in it yet.’ He hauled a manila folder out of his briefcase.
‘You’re writing a piece, though?’
‘Yes, but,’ Henslow’s eyes burnt bright above the table cloth and the doilies. ‘The editor said it was time I won my spurs.’
‘Excellent!’ Maxwell beamed, pleased with the historical allusion and trying not to look too eager. ‘A sound fellow. May I?’ He eased the folder round to his side of the table and opened it.
‘This never happened, of course,’ Henslow said.
Maxwell looked at him. Perhaps the lad wasn’t quite the ingénue he appeared. Maybe there was hope for him after all. ‘Of course not,’ his old Head of Sixth Form said. ‘It would be most improper. Well, well,’ he’d flipped open the cover and a face grinned up at him. ‘Joe Public.’
‘Sorry?’
The floozy arrived with the coffees and passed the bill to Maxwell. He waited until she’d gone. ‘Nothing,’ he smiled at Henslow. ‘Tell me about the murder of Craig Edwards.’
The pieces were beginning to fall into place, Maxwell thought to himself as he pedalled along the High Street in the Monday morning traffic, weaving past the buggies and babies and avoiding the old people at the kerb, who had grown old waiting to cross the road. The man with the black bag at the Vine, the man in the leather coat in the pub’s gents, had smiled up at Maxwell from Neil Henslow’s file. The man seen by the drummer of the Yawning Hippos having an upper and a downer with Sally Meninger in the pub car park. The man Peter Maxwell had christened Joe Public. That man was dead. The police had released no details to the Press as to the cause of death yet, but that was irrelevant. Peter Maxwell knew that it would be a skewer to the throat, delivered, like Kenneth Connor’s funeral services in ‘Allo! ‘Allo!, swiftly and with style.
And he was the photographer at the Grad Ball. Shit! Why hadn’t Maxwell been more observant? He lashed Surrey to the usual rail and pointed at a hapless lad scurrying about the school buildings. Instinctively, the lad tucked in the tails of his shirt and checked that he wasn’t wearing trainers.
‘Kelly?’ the Great Man had swept like a galleon in full sail through the school and was at his desk and on the phone in a twinkling of an eye. ‘Peter Maxwell, from Leighford High School.’
Kelly was still in bed, the prerogative of ex Year 13 students whose exams are over, before the grey, gritty reality of shelf-filling at Tescos kicks in. She sounded dazed, confused. Certainly, she’d never had a phone call from Mad Max before. ‘Oh, hello.’
‘You were on the Grad Ball committee? Right?’ Her already ex-Head of Sixth Form cut to the chase.
‘Yes.’
‘The photographer, Craig Edwards. Who hired him?’
‘Well, I did, I suppose,’ the bleary-eyed girl told him, sitting up in bed and trying to focus. ‘The first bloke we got pulled out. Mr Edwards had done my mum’s wedding. So I knew he was all right. As it turned out, he was late.’
‘Yes,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘That seems to have been a failing of his. Although two days ago he may just have been too early. Who knew you’d hired him?’
‘Um … only a couple of us on the committee.’
‘No staff?’ Maxwell checked. ‘No adults?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Oh, Mrs Maitland knew.’
Yes, Maxwell smiled to himself. His Number Two, Helen Maitland. How did Assistant Heads of Sixth Form amuse themselves other than by slaughtering people with skewers? Kelly had got it in one. ‘Thank you, darling,’ he said. ‘And for the rest of your life, may God keep you in the hollow of his hand.’ And he hung up.
Bugger! Look at the time. Peter Maxwell was hurtling along the corridor past Aitch One, opened again now and a classroom once again, the swivel chair in which Alan Whiting had died only a Leighford memory and under plastic in the regional crime lab. No enterprising Year Ten kid had yet thought to make a few bob by opening the room to the public; but it was early days. In ten minutes, he had to cast pearls before swine again in the unforgiving white heat of history. Time was of the essence.
‘Headmaster,’ the Head of Sixth Form had not waited to be asked in to James Diamond’s office. He was a middle-aged man in a hurry and he’d long ago stopped looking at the bad artwork and indescribable sculpture that littered the Head’s surfaces. His desk, of course, was empty. ‘How’s it hanging?’
Diamond looked terrible. His usually crisp shirt was unironed, his hair a tangled mess. Maxwell could believe that Margaret had ironed her husband’s shirts, but surely, he combed his own hair? ‘I’m here, Max,’ Diamond said, as if that was an achievement in itself. ‘I’m not going to let this thing beat me.’ But he didn’t sound sure on that score.
‘Indeed not, Headmaster,’ the Head of Sixth Form patronized. ‘And to that end, I need the addresses of the Ofsted team who’ve just left.’
‘Max …’
‘I know you have them, Headmaster.’ Maxwell stood his ground as he had so often before Legs Diamond, his legs astride, his shoulders set, like an ox, as the late Rudyard Kipling described the Saxons, in the furrow. ‘All you need do is tell me where. Oh, and give me two days off.’
‘Max …’
The Head of Sixth Form closed to his man, leaning over his desk, hands spread on his mock-wood surface. ‘Let me take the gloves off, Headmaster,’ he grated. ‘I don’t know how the Governors are reacting currently to your being under police suspicion for murder. Or how the gentlemen of the Press will portray you when they finally tie it all together, which, by my reckoning will be about …’ he checked his watch, ‘half past two this afternoon – which is your good side, by the way?’
‘Max …’ the Head was particularly articulate this morning.
‘Give me the addresses and two days, James, and I’ll give you the murderer’s head on a plate.’
James? Maxwell had done it again. Used the Christian name, the ‘J’ word. If James Diamond didn’t think things were serious already, he knew they were now.
‘Reception will have them,’ he said. ‘Ask Emma. Two days, Max? Can you deliver in two days?’ Diamond had a look of desperation on his face.
The Head of Sixth Form stood up. ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods, Headmaster?’ he asked. And neither of them had an answer to that.
That Monday was a mad house at Leighford nick. Phones rang off the hook, VDUs flickered, faxes poured in and fans blasted sheets of paper all over the place. There was no natural breeze. The trees on the Dam hung heavy and still in the summer heat and the kids at Leighford High were extra-tetchy or extra-listless depending on their natural proclivities.
Henry Hall was sifting through his paperwork. On the Paula Freeling enquiry, house to house had turned up nothing. Of the hundred plus garages and lock-ups in the area, not one of them had so far yielded any links to the dead woman at all. In the Craig Edwards murder, no one had so far admitted to seeing anybody arriving at the photographer’s studio on Saturday morning. No milkmen, no paper child, no postman had seen a damned thing. Indeed no one had seen the photographer until the police had carried him out in a body bag. It was part of the culture of the twenty-first century. No one looked out for anybody any more. John Donne was wrong – every man is an island.
‘Henry.’ It was Jim Astley’s voice at the end of the endlessly ringing phone.
‘Jim.’ The DCI tucked the receiver under his neck as he sorted yet more files, hands full, brain whirling.
‘You won’t hear me say this often, so I’ll come to the point and make it brief.’
‘I wish you would.’ Hall was a man in a hurry.
‘I missed something on the Paula Freeling case.’
‘What?’ Hall stopped shuffling papers. This was indeed a moment to cherish. When Jim Astley admitted a mistake, you knew the writing was on the wall.
‘I said
…’
‘No,’ Hall interrupted. ‘I mean, what did you miss?’
‘You know there were microscopic particles of alloy on the skin and clothing?’
‘I do,’ Hall confirmed.
‘And something else too, largely in her hair and on her stockings.’
‘Pieces of a black plastic bag, yes?’
‘Black plastic, certainly. Bag – no. They’re hard; the chemical consistency is totally different. Any help?’
‘Hard plastic? I don’t know,’ Hall frowned. ‘Can you fax over the specifics, Jim?’
‘Of course. And I’m sorry, Henry. It’s not like me, I think you’ll agree.’
‘I think I will,’ Hall nodded and rang off. He leaned over and ringed the date on the calendar. And, careful that no one in the outer office could see, he smiled.
‘Who in their right minds lives in Basingstoke?’ It was a question Peter Maxwell had asked before and he was slogging round to Leighford Station that Monday afternoon in order to find an answer all over again. The sound of a horn made him turn. Was it John Peel with his coat so gay? No, it was a white van with three of the Great Unwashed in it and the badly painted Yawning Hippos motif on the side.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Duggsy leaned out of the window. ‘Getting anywhere with that photographer bloke?’
‘I’ve made a start, Matthew, thanks,’ the Head of Sixth Form said.
‘Going to the station?’
‘To Basingstoke, actually.
‘Well, hop in. We’ll give you a lift.’
‘What? To Basingstoke?’
‘Yeah, we’re doing Reading this year. Oh, not playing, you understand. Just crowd-surfing. Although, this time next year …’ It was pure Del Boy Trotter and just as believable.
‘Oh, I couldn’t impose.’ Maxwell shook his head.
‘No imposition, Mr Maxwell, is it lads, eh?’
Iron Man grunted something from behind the wheel and there was a squawk from Wal in the back. Time was when Peter Maxwell wouldn’t be seen dead getting into a white van, especially one belonging to a struggling Rock band. But that was before they privatized British Rail and the country’s transport system had started going backwards. Now, needs must when Iron Man drove.
‘You’re on,’ Maxwell said and clambered in the back. The thing was roof high in gear; tops, bins, poles, even the odd rod and perch. There were drum cases everywhere and a crate of Stella. The whole van smelt of stale beer, old ciggies and a strange, sweet assortment of illegal substances. If Johnny Law decided to pull this lot over, he’d have a field day.
‘Don’t mind sitting on the coffin, Mr Maxwell?’ Wal asked him.
‘Coffin?’ Maxwell paused on his way in.
Wal tapped the long black box under him. ‘Iron Man’s gear. I can guarantee a numb bum by the time we’re out of Tottingleigh.’
‘I thought you guys weren’t playing,’ Maxwell said.
‘You never know,’ Iron Man was looking for a gear – any one would do, ‘when you might get lucky.’
‘Counting Crows need a support band,’ Duggsy enthused. ‘I’ve got a feeling about this summer, Mr Maxwell. I think we’re standing on the threshold of a dream.’
Maxwell stared at the back of the lad’s head. He appeared neither moody nor blue. Perhaps he was older than he looked.
‘Now, as your official Irregulars, Mr Maxwell,’ the lead singer half turned to him. ‘What can you tell us about that photographer bloke?’
‘It’s not him,’ Iron Man said, crashing through his gears as the van snarled out of the station car park.
‘Yes, it fucking is, Iron,’ Duggsy insisted. ‘You tell him,
Wal.’ ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Mr Bassman was sitting on the fence as well as the coffin.
‘I don’t know who you guys did or didn’t see in the Vine car park.’ Maxwell played the arbiter as usual. ‘But he sure as hell is the one I saw in the gents earlier in the evening. And he sure as hell is the photographer found done to death in his own studio. Now, I call that a coincidence, don’t you?’
Chapter Fourteen
You couldn’t love Basingstoke. At least, Peter Maxwell couldn’t. He’d harboured a grudge all these years, because a long, long time ago when marriage was still an institution and BBC newsreaders had been to Public School, young Peter Maxwell had visited Basingstoke and had walked slap into a brick pillar in the town centre. He was delighted to find the brick pillar gone now and muttered ‘Nah nah de nah nah’ as Iron Man’s van screeched around the corner. On the other hand, he was a bit miffed not to find a blue plaque commemorating the occasion.
‘Ease up, Iron,’ Duggsy warned. ‘Last thing we want is the Filth pulling us over with our particular cargo.’
The Romans had come this way, up from Bohunt with the sun on their backs and their leather boots crunching through the heather. They’d extended the old Celtic town to the north and called it grandly Calleva Atrebatum. To the west was the magic-moated castle of Odiham, square and solid and proud above its lily pads. Old Basing House, once the largest in England, was knocked about a bit by Oliver Cromwell and lay to the east of the town. But the centre itself was just like any other – W.H.Smith’s, Next, phone shops and HMVs without number. Maxwell felt the old headaches coming back and the sting of the graze on his cheek.
‘Better wait here, guys,’ he told the Band. ‘I don’t want to frighten our friend from Ofsted.’ So the Irregulars settled down in a car park to a couple of Stellas and some KFC; Maxwell was paying.
Staystill House was a damn sight quainter than the Cunliffe. It boasted its position as the oldest inn in Old Basing and you couldn’t get much older than that. Unless of course you were the old bastard casually sauntering through the foyer that sunkissed Monday evening. The bar was already humming with the chatter of a convention. Glasses clinked and the only sound other than forced laughter was the soft thud as long-bladed knives hit the MD squarely in the back. Sunlight streamed in through the leaded window onto the copper and brasses that ornamented the reception counter.
‘Hello, may I help you?’ a four-year-old girl tried to look grown up and efficient for Maxwell’s benefit.
‘I’m looking for Malcolm Harding.’ He tipped his hat.
‘Is he a guest?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Maxwell said.
‘I’m afraid we can’t …’
He flashed his NUT card inside his wallet, leaning towards her like a Cato Street conspirator. ‘It is a police matter,’ he confided.
‘’Oh.’ The four-year-old looked suitably impressed and thought of the hotel’s reputation. ‘Room Twenty-One, sir. Up the stairs. Turn left.’
Maxwell did, bounding two at a time. He was conscious that the Hippos had a tent to go to and copious quantities of ganja to get through before cockshut time. More importantly, his home town was littered with dead people and he wanted some answers.
‘Mr Harding.’ He doffed his hat to the incredulous occupant of Room Twenty-One. ‘Remember me? Peter Maxwell, Leighford High. How’s the Inspection business?’
‘What are you doing here?’
Maxwell sidled past the pompous windbag and into the room. ‘Hoping to avoid clichés like that for a start.’
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Harding followed him into the centre of the room. ‘This is very irregular. I’m inspecting another school.’
‘I know,’ Maxwell nodded, admiring the four poster bed and the incongruous wide-screen TV. ‘How’re they shaping up? Beacon of our education system or God-awful crap? And by the way, after the death of Alan Whiting, you’re talking to me about irregular?’ He turned to face the man squarely, scowling at him, cheek by jowl.
‘But why are you here?’
‘James Diamond was arrested last week.’
‘Diamond?’ Harding found himself turning away to close the door.
‘The Headmaster of Leighford High. Oh, Headmaster is too grandiose a term, I’ll grant you – that’s why I use it. But he’s all we’ve got
, poor bugger and he’s as likely a murder suspect as Mother Theresa. It’s my job to prove it.’
‘Your job?’ Harding was trying to make sense of all this as Maxwell sprawled on the bed, bouncing to check its springs.
‘Not bad,’ he nodded, flicking the chintz of the curtains. ‘You didn’t like Alan Whiting, did you?’
‘How did you know that?’ Harding snapped. ‘I only told the police that in confidence…’ Not much of a poker player was Malcolm Harding.
‘Yes, well,’ Maxwell sat on the edge of the tester. ‘Nothing’s sacred now, is it? Half the Catholic church are off like rats up pipes out of the Confessional to kiss and tell to the Sunday newspapers. The world and his wife can read their confidential references. MI5 advertise in the Times Ed – although why they should imagine they can recruit Intelligence among teachers is beyond me. Why didn’t you like him?’
‘If you must know,’ Harding eased himself into the armchair, ‘he stole a job I was after.’
Maxwell shrugged. ‘All’s fair, surely,’ he said.
‘There was nothing fair about Alan Whiting, believe me.’
‘Was he a womanizer, would you say?’
‘Alan?’ Harding thought for a moment. ‘He fancied himself, certainly. That was all part of his arrogance. No woman could resist the charms in his trousers and no man the keen thrust of his mind. ‘Course, it could have been the other way round.’
‘So Whiting and Sally Meninger?’
‘An item?’ Harding looked at him solemnly. ‘It’s possible. Certainly, I heard rumours.’
‘From whom?’ Maxwell may have been up to his elbows in murder, but the syntax must serve. There were, after all, standards.
‘Well, Paula Freeling, for one.’
‘Paula Freeling told you?’ This was a new direction.
‘I’m surprised your police colleagues didn’t tell you that, Mr Maxwell,’ Harding said archly.
‘Yes,’ Maxwell frowned. ‘So am I.’ He’d give Jacquie a good talking to when … but there wouldn’t be any talking any more, would there? Good or otherwise. Just the long silence that was called moving on.
