Maxwell's Return Page 18

  ‘She’s discharged herself?’ Sylvia said. ‘But she was hysterical. Pregnancy may not be an illness, but surely suicidal ideation is.’

  The bantam pulled in her chin and looked at Sylvia down her nose. ‘I see someone has been checking online symptoms,’ she said. ‘Miss Wilson showed no signs of suicidal ideation, as you put it. She is just yet one more girl who has found it hard to part with a baby. Happens all the time. We can’t advise. Woman’s right to choose and all that. She’ll have to come back, though; she’s left her things.’ She turned on her heel and then stopped, speaking over her shoulder. ‘So I would ask you to leave my ward, or I will call security.’ And with that, she stepped smartly into her office and shut the door behind her.

  ‘Ah,’ Maxwell said, putting an arm round Sylvia Matthews’ shoulder, feeling as he did so that she was trembling with rage. ‘The caring profession – it’s a vocation, you know. Like teaching.’

  ‘Max, I…’

  ‘Let it go, Sylv. Nurses haven’t been the same since that nice Miss Nightingale retired. Let’s get back to the car and we’ll think where to go from here.’

  They stepped into the corridor again and were hailed by a familiar voice.

  ‘Mr Maxwell, Nurse Matthews. What’re you doin’ here?’ Mrs B managed to look as though she had a fag-end in her mouth even in this strictly no-tobacco environment.

  ‘Mrs B.’ Maxwell said, unsurprised. ‘I always forget that you work here.’ The woman held the cleaning monopoly on the South Coast.

  ‘Just onna bank, these days,’ she said. ‘Saving for Christmas, that kind of thing. Lots off sick, ’specially in this ward. That Sister, she’s a tartar.’

  ‘Is that the word?’ Sylvia asked. ‘I think she’s more of a…’

  ‘Sylv!’ Maxwell warned. ‘She probably has a heart of gold.’

  ‘Not really,’ Mrs B told him. ‘She’s a first class bitch and no mistake. Never mind, though, I’m mostly public areas on my shift. Don’t really have to have much to do with her. But what you doin’ here? Been visitin’? Mrs M’s all right, I hope. Nobody poorly at home? Can’t be Mrs Troubridge. I doubt she’s ever seen the inside of a nanti-naval ward.’

  ‘Errand of mercy, Mrs B,’ Maxwell replied. ‘Not really, no. She’s fine. No, all well. No it isn’t. I agree totally.’

  Mrs B grinned. Mr M was salt of the earth, but you had to trot to keep up with him. Sometimes it was hard to tell what the mad old bleeder was on about. ‘I best be off,’ she said. ‘I finish in an hour.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Mrs B,’ Maxwell said. ‘Up at the school.’

  ‘Right you are,’ she said, and, leaning on her trolley to give it momentum, wandered off up the corridor, singing under her breath.

  ‘I wonder when she sleeps?’ Sylvia asked, as they retraced their steps through the rabbit warren.

  ‘Mrs B? I don’t believe she does,’ Maxwell said. ‘Sleep is for wimps. She just hangs upside down in the wardrobe.’

  ‘Is there a Mr B?’ she asked. ‘I’ve often wondered.’

  ‘Mrs B’s family is very complicated,’ Maxwell said, ‘and to be honest, I’ve never been sure about Mr B or even if he has ever existed. I think it might be rather like film stars when one is more famous than the other. So husbands just end up being Mr Whatever, using the wife’s name.’

  ‘Like Brangelina,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘If you say so,’ Maxwell agreed, patting her. She was clearly tired. ‘Here’s the car. Let’s work out Plan B.’

  ‘Come back to ours,’ Sylvia said. ‘Guy is out at some team-building rubbish tonight. I have no idea when he’ll be back.’

  ‘I’ll just ring Jacquie,’ Maxwell said, producing his mobile with a flourish.

  ‘My word,’ Sylvia said. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Maxwell said, punching keys with aplomb. ‘If Jacquie ever finds out that I can use this thing, I’ll know it will be you who told her.’

  A tiny, tinny voice sounded from his palm and he put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Sorry, heart, what was that?’

  ‘I said,’ repeated his wife, ‘that you always forget that you have home on speed dial. It connects after the zero – no need for the other numbers.’

  ‘Ah. Well, that proves I can’t use it, I suppose. We have drawn a blank here. Old Thingee has discharged herself, so we need to find her. Sylv is a bit worried that she might… well, I don’t have Thingee down as the suicidal type, but I expect that’s what everyone says. I’ll let you know how we get on.’

  ‘Do you need any help? Shall I ring the Nick?’

  ‘No, I think Sylv has her address?’ He made it into a question and Sylvia nodded, turning the ignition key and reversing out of the space as she did so. ‘We’ll try there first and if no go, we’ll have a think. See you soon. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too. I’ll wait up.’

  ‘You’re an angel. Mwah.’ He pressed a key and put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Max,’ Sylvia said. ‘I can still hear your lovely wife.’

  Maxwell smiled happily. ‘I often hear her voice in my head,’ he said. ‘It’s nice it’s not just me.’

  ‘No, I think it’s coming from your pocket.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maxwell foraged inside his jacket and fished out the phone again. He held it gingerly to his ear. ‘I forget that every time, heart,’ he said to it. ‘Sorry. Mwah again.’ He looked at the phone and very deliberately pressed another button. He smiled at Sylvia. ‘Always doing that. Wrong button.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case,’ Sylvia laughed. ‘Do you want to try Charlotte’s house first? It’s further out than ours.’

  ‘No, let’s get back to yours. We can ring her from there. She might even ring you.’

  ‘True. I can’t think what the silly girl is doing. She seemed to have sorted everything out when we spoke yesterday.’

  ‘She’s in a fragile frame of mind,’ Maxwell said. ‘Changing the subject for a minute, how’s Guy’s new school panning out?’

  ‘It’s hard work, compared to his last place. It’s the kind of school that likes its pound of flesh. Lots of evening activities, that kind of thing. It used to be a Community School when that was trendy and for once it seemed to have worked. There are still a lot of things that the local people join in with; sports, drama, that kind of thing. Of course, Guy loves it. You know him and his rugger. He hasn’t had a team to coach for ages. Even the girls play.’

  ‘A whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor men,’ Maxwell said, somewhat enigmatically.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Women’s rugger. Not natural.’ Sylvia sketched a slap around his head. ‘Sorry, I know that sounds sexist, but it just isn’t right.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it shows they’re keen and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘I daresay Guy is a bit of a draw,’ Maxwell observed. ‘He is a bit of a hunk… by all accounts,’ he added hurriedly.

  Sylvia laughed. ‘He’s not bad, for his age,’ she conceded. No one except Sylvia and Guy knew quite what their age gap was, but they were such a perfect couple, after a while, no one noticed. On the few occasions that they and the Maxwell’s had been out together, they looked like two couples; just not the actual ones.

  ‘I’m glad it’s going well, though,’ Maxwell said. ‘Moving schools must be a headache.’

  ‘They’re all different,’ she conceded. ‘But whenever he moans, I just remind him his Head could be Legs and he backs down.’

  Maxwell snorted and settled back in the seat, bracing himself for the hairpin bend as they left Leighford Town Centre. Once that was over, it was just a couple of turns to Sylvia’s house, a drink and a think. He felt his eyes closing and woke up with a jerk outside her semi.

  ‘Come on, Max,’ she said, poking him in the side. ‘We’re here. Guy still isn’t back, so I’ll park on the road. We don’t want him boxing me in when he comes home.’

  ‘I wasn’t as
leep,’ he protested. ‘I was just resting my eyes.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s go in and try Charlotte’s number.’

  ‘It’s worth a go,’ he said. ‘And where will we start if she doesn’t answer?’

  ‘My guess would be Andrew Baines’ place,’ she said, grimly.

  ‘Which is where?’ He had finally struggled out of her Smart Car and was brushing himself down on the pavement.

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘I haven’t spent the last Millennium working with you without something rubbing off, Peter Maxwell,’ she said. ‘I jotted it down today, in the lunch hour. I just had a feeling I might need to know it.’

  He fell into step with her up the drive and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Sylvia Matthews,’ he said, ‘you are a marvel.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ she said, putting the key in the door. ‘You’re right, of course.’ She gestured to the sitting room, to the left of the hall. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll just put the kettle on, then we can phone.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The ringing phone woke her instantly, and DI Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell was in day job mode before the receiver reached her ear.

  ‘Hello. DI Carpenter-Maxwell speaking.’

  ‘Jacquie.’ Henry Hall never bothered identifying himself. There was no mistaking those clipped tones. ‘Kirsty Hilliard is awake. The hospital are being cagey, there doesn’t seem to be a very coherent memory there yet, but we need someone there, in case she remembers anything. I don’t want anyone messing up things by asking the wrong kind of question.’

  ‘Guv… Max is out and it’s a bit late for Mrs Troubridge. Can someone else go?’

  ‘I thought of that,’ Hall said. ‘Jason is on his way over. He can babysit.’

  ‘Jason? Babysit?’ The two words didn’t seem to belong in the same sentence.

  ‘I know he comes across as being a bit of a geezer, Jacquie, but Jason actually has a couple of kids of his own. He isn’t actually living with them at the moment, but he knows which end is up and anyway, as I remember it, Nolan sleeps like a poleaxed steer once he’s down. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes… but, guv…’ Jacquie ran through all the excuses but decided it was pointless. Henry Hall didn’t often come the heavy. As bosses went, he was always very reasonable and he had after all let her go to LA, leaving himself with a hornets’ nest of sickness, stress and mild incompetence. ‘That’s fine. I’ll get down to the General now.’

  ‘Thanks, Jacquie. Take a book or something. It may be a long night.’

  ‘Sounds enticing. See you in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Goodnight.’ And with his usual briskness, Henry Hall was gone. Jacquie was still fighting off the pins and needles in her leg as she got reluctantly up off the sofa when the doorbell rang. Mary Poppins had arrived.

  Maxwell was unsurprised to find that Sylvia Matthews had a phone and address book, kept meticulously up to date. That she had versions on her mobile phone, her tablet, her laptop and her PC he had no doubt, but thumbing through the pages felt a lot more natural to him and he quickly found Thingee’s number, although oddly, under the Ws rather than the Ts. There was just a mobile number listed and he rang it, wondering as he always did why an eleven digit number for a mobile should seem so cumbersome and be so impossible to remember, when an eleven digit number for a landline should stick in the mind for ever. Ah, for the days of ‘Press Button B, Caller.’ He listened as it rang and then went to voicemail.

  ‘The person you are calling is not available at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone. If you wish to rerecord your message…’

  He rang off and sat waiting for Sylvia to come in with the coffee. Perhaps she was just out of signal. Perhaps she had taken a leaf out of his own book and had left the dratted thing at home in a drawer, although even as he thought it, he dismissed it as impossible. No one under forty ever went more than a linear yard from their phone if they could help it. No, she was either avoiding answering or she couldn’t for some reason. He tapped his foot and tried to think things through rationally. Leaving suicide on the list of possible outcomes, but low on the list, there were a number of options. If he were in Thingee’s situation, unlikely though that clearly was, he would go… where? Apparently not home to mother. She had confided in Sylvia and yet she wasn’t here. So her own home would be the next place in line; the fact that she wasn’t answering her phone was probably just a red herring.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’ Sylvia put down the tray of coffee and broke into his reverie.

  ‘Sorry, Sylv. Just thinking about what to do next. She isn’t answering her phone.’

  ‘She may be asleep. She’s had a bit of a trying day.’ If there was one thing at which Sylvia Matthews excelled, it was seeing the bright side of things.

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t late late, is it?’ Maxwell looked at his watch. ‘Ten. That’s nothing. Ten is the new eight, or so I’m told.’

  ‘Even so… I may have over-reacted, Max.’ Sylvia had unleashed the dogs of war and didn’t even remember crying havoc.

  ‘No, no, you were right to call. You’re worried about her and no wonder. Where does she live? We’ll go round.’ He reached across and took a mug from the tray and took a swig. ‘God, Sylv! How do you make coffee so hot?’

  ‘Boiling water probably has something to do with it,’ she said. ‘Do you think we should check on her?’

  ‘Let’s make a plan and stick to it. If she isn’t at home, we’ll check on Andrew Baines’ place, just to be sure and if she isn’t in either place, we’ll call it a night. Jacquie can have a clandestine check tomorrow to make sure she isn’t in hospital anywhere, she can have a drive-past to see if there are signs of life at her house. If she doesn’t surface, I daresay there are things she can do relating to mobile phones – I can’t imagine what, but that always seems to work on TV.’

  Sylvia smiled across at him. He was the oddest mixture of calming omnipotence and total naivety but somehow, it worked. ‘Drink up, then,’ she said. ‘Sooner we’re gone, the sooner we’re back.’

  ‘I’ve never really understood that,’ Maxwell said, sipping gingerly at his drink. ‘Look, Sylv, this is never going to cool down. Let’s not drink it and say we did. Hmm?’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll just leave Guy a note to say what’s happening. The place looks like the Marie Celeste.’ She scribbled on the pad she kept on the coffee table for all such eventualities. She might not be at the cutting edge of health care any longer, but old habits die hard.

  Maxwell was already in the hall, opening the front door. ‘Do you need me to navigate?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Are you going to do a takeoff of the woman on the satnav?’ Sylvia asked, suspiciously.

  ‘I may do, I may do,’ he said. And he did, sort of – ‘Let go of the steering wheel when it is safe to do so.’

  ‘In that case, no. I’ll take my chances.’ She shooed him out and slammed the door behind her. ‘It’s not far. Let’s go.’

  They only took ten minutes and they were there, outside an anonymous block of flats with a keypad and buzzer at the door. ‘Wilson’ was marked as being in 302 and Sylvia pressed the relevant button. There was no reply.

  ‘We could press for someone else,’ Maxwell said, extending a finger to do just that.

  ‘No, we couldn’t,’ Sylvia pulled his arm down and held on tight. ‘That kind of tactic is best left to the police. We’ll try Andrew Baines first.’

  Jacquie opened the front door and let a slightly embarrassed Jason Briggs in.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind this,’ he said. ‘DCI Hall seemed to think it would be all right.’

  ‘DCI Hall was in as much of a cleft stick as I am,’ Jacquie retorted. ‘If he wants me at the hospital, I need a babysitter.’

  ‘I thought your husband…’

  ‘Yes,’ Jacquie again cut him off at the pass. ‘He isn’t under house arrest, though, and he
happens to have gone out.’

  ‘I didn’t mean any offence, ma’am,’ Briggs said, following her into the sitting room. ‘I just heard that he was… well, very good at looking after the nipper.’

  Jacquie relented. This situation was much worse for Briggs than for her. ‘None taken,’ she said. ‘And please call me Jacquie when you are here as a babysitter. I’ll just show you Nolan’s room. He sleeps through the night about 364 days a year, and hopefully this will be one of them. If it turns out to be the other one, then just read him something and he’ll soon drop off. Like a Gremlin, don’t feed him after midnight.’

  ‘Is your husband likely to be late back?’ Briggs asked. He had no particular plans for the evening, but he wasn’t sure how long he was expected to stay.

  Jacquie looked at the clock and shrugged. ‘He shouldn’t be, but his plans are really dependent on other people. Look, Jason, why don’t you stay over? I can’t expect you to stay up all night just hanging around. The spare room is next to Nolan’s. You could leave the door open – believe me, if he wakes up, the whole street knows about it. You won’t miss it, I promise.’

  Briggs perked up. He liked his bed and was good for nothing without eight hours shut-eye. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, leading the way along the landing. ‘This one’s Nole’s, this one’s yours. Family bathroom along there; spare toothbrush in the cabinet, still wrapped. Help yourself. There’s TV in the bedroom – no Sky in there, I’m afraid, but we do have films on demand so help yourself. Ummm – I think that’s it. How are you at waking up in the morning?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he grinned.

  ‘I’ll give you a shout, then,’ she said. ‘Call me if you run into any problems. Must go. ’Bye.’

  And she was gone. Looking around, Jason Briggs made a note to himself; become a DI asap. And marry a teacher. The moaning buggers clearly earned more than they were willing to own up to.

  Andrew Baines lived in an altogether more spacious house than Charlotte Wilson and it was easy to see why she would have wanted to bring up a child there rather than in her flat. It was a semi-detached, built between the wars and with a bow window, recessed porch and clearly a reasonably sized garden behind, judging by what they could see in the dark down the side alleyway between the house and next door. There was no garage, but half the front garden was given over to hard-standing and his car was there. Good news – at least he might be in.