Maxwell's Point Read online

  ‘Said gentleman was prepared to drive the pair of them, but Louise especially, to said party the very next night.’

  ‘They didn’t go for it?’

  ‘No,’ Maxwell was wrestling with his left sock. ‘Louise just grabbed her bra and they did a runner.’

  ‘Did they recognise the man?’ Jacquie asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Maxwell said. ‘He’s in the Advertiser most weeks. It was Chester Harris, Leighford’s answer to Percy Thrower – if you remember him? By the way,’ he grunted hoarsely, having collapsed backwards on the bed, ‘want to know what I’m wearing?’ His voice returned to normal again. ‘A rather soggy pair of Y-fronts.’ But Jacquie had already gone.

  Juanita Reyes was a rather tricky one as international police protocol went. Rodrigo Mendoza had gone to see somebody – it turned out to be Sheila Kindling – to the effect that the girl was light-fingered and was to be found at her parents’ home in Sant Lluis on the island of Menorca. It was all highly embarrassing and could everyone please tread as softly as possible?

  The Menorcan police had emailed back, in a translation that left something to be desired, that the girl was indeed there. They found no sign of stolen goods, nothing from England except a photograph of a baby with a bloke with mad barbed wire hair and no evidence that the girl had fenced anything. Juanita’s people were honest, upright types, pillars of the local community and good Catholics. The good people of Sant Lluis were lining up to act as character witnesses for them and the local priest was so fulsome in his praise for the family that Leighford Nick was left wondering why there wasn’t a shrine outside the Reyes’ home and the odour of sanctity emanating from their outside loo.

  So all the girl had done, as far as actual facts were concerned, was do a runner back home, cause unknown. Yes, she’d abandoned the baby, which was hardly in keeping with the girl that Jacquie and Maxwell – and indeed the Hendersons – knew. But was it an indictable offence? No, the Menorcan police decided. It was a civil matter and up to the Maxwells to take whatever action against the girl they deemed appropriate. As for dumping the Hyundai, well, that was just common sense, really – the thing was a death trap, anyway. Goodbye, that’s all she wrote.

  Jacquie Carpenter was clicking on the tape recorder that morning in Interview Room Number One at Leighford Nick. Three miles away at Leighford High, the whole place was limbering up for its Sports Day, in other words, the annual skive. Who would do the running commentary over the tannoy now that Maxwell wasn’t available? Rumours of course abounded. He’d broken his leg, finally flipped and run along the seafront stripping off and shouting ‘Beecham’s Powders’ at the top of his voice. Nobody, but nobody, believed that concocted nonsense about the girls at The Dam.

  ‘DS Carpenter and DC Palister interviewing Mr Chester Harris and Mr Paul Barsdale, solicitor,’ she said.

  Harris could not have been more transformed from his usual appearance. The open shirt, bandana and fringed shorts had gone and in their place, he wore a dark suit and sombre tie. The brief looked like a hippy alongside that.

  ‘I must emphasise, Mr Harris, that this is merely a chat. When I asked you to come in this afternoon, I didn’t expect you to have representation.’

  ‘My client believes he has been maligned,’ Barsdale said. Jacquie had come across this man before. He was scrawny and off-hand, one of the all-coppers-are-Fascists school who’d come up the hard way via legal clerk. ‘And not for the first time.’

  ‘We’d just like you to tell us about your links with the Wilbraham Golf Club at Littlehampton, if you would.’

  Harris blinked. He looked at the brief. ‘Wilbraham?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ Jacquie said. ‘Are you a member?’

  ‘I am,’ Harris conceded. ‘What of it?’

  ‘When were you there last?’ Jacquie asked.

  ‘God, I don’t know. Three, four weeks ago. Why?’

  ‘Did you go to a party?’

  ‘I may have done,’ Harris shrugged. ‘I really don’t remember.’

  ‘Say, week last Thursday,’ Jacquie persisted.

  ‘My client has already answered that question,’ Barsdale countered.

  ‘Switch the tape off for a minute,’ Jacquie told Palister.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the brief snarled as the lad’s hand moved towards it. ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing here, detective sergeant, but there are rules, you know.’

  Jacquie laughed. ‘Well, that’s just it,’ she said. ‘It’s just one of those silly things about golf, talking of games. It’s got nothing to do with the interview. Something I thought Mr Harris could explain to me. What, in God’s name, is a single Stableton? I’ve often heard the expression and here you are, a golfer. I just thought that…’

  ‘I have some Botanic Gardens to run.’ Harris snapped. ‘Will you please get to the point.’

  ‘Why did you invite Louise Bedford and John Mason to a party at a golf club in Littlehampton?’ Jacquie wasn’t smiling now. Her grey eyes were cold and hard as she watched the veins throbbing in Chester Harris’s temple.

  ‘Er…’

  ‘My client knows no one with those names,’ the brief sensed Harris’s difficulty.

  ‘All right,’ Jacquie said. ‘Let me make it easy for you. The young couple you spoke to in the Gardens a week last Wednesday – that would make it July 2nd. Why did you invite them to a party?’

  ‘I am not in the habit of inviting strangers to parties,’ Harris insisted.

  ‘Are you in the habit of spying on strangers from bushes while masturbating?’ Jacquie asked, as if she was asking the price of a bus fare to the town centre.

  Both men exploded, the needle on the tape dial rocketing into the red. In the event it was the brief who was coherent first. ‘Are you actually accusing my client of committing an act of indecency?’ he asked.

  ‘Is he admitting to one?’ Palister countered.

  Then Harris was on his feet. ‘That’s it. That’s enough. I’m out of here.’

  The brief spun back to the police persons. ‘You will be hearing from me,’ he said.

  Jacquie nodded to Palister who spoke into the machine. ‘Interview terminated at the request of Mr Harris’s solicitor at…three-eighteen.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ muttered Jacquie.

  ‘London, Max? Why?’ Jacquie was back in the Incident Room, reading for the umpteenth time depositions from witnesses at all three murder sites, yards apart though they were.

  ‘I can hear the bloody tannoy,’ Maxwell told her from his end of the phone. ‘Oh, it’s coming and going, of course, but a) I don’t want to know who’s won the one hundred metres and b) it’s that joke Cole making the announcements. It’s all a bit raw at the moment, petal. I need a change of air. Somewhere where I won’t hear the name Leighford High School.’

  ‘All right, sweetheart,’ Jacquie said. ‘But London? Doesn’t it seem a bit extreme?’

  ‘Humour me. Can you pick up Nole?’

  ‘I’ll sort that,’ she said. And he was gone.

  The great thing about travelling by train in term time is that there aren’t many kids. There are some, of course, whose parents haven’t realised it’s been compulsory to send kids to school since 1886, or whose parents are too stupid to realise they’re being lied to, by said kids who could bunk for England. Of course, if you time it badly you end up in the same carriage as hordes of them, on their way home from said school.

  As it happened, Maxwell struck lucky. There was only one, very well-behaved nine-year-old (clearly the product of a private school) who added to the levity of the day by looking out at the Westminster skyline as the train rattled into Waterloo and shouting, ‘Look, Mummy. Big Dong!’ Maxwell had checked his clothing, just in case.

  He had forgotten just how hot London was in July. The sun burned off the pavements and reflected off the plate glass. You could probably have fried an egg on the MI5 building on the Embankment, and the old Scotland Yard, where the ghosts of Greeno and C
herill and Fabian and Charlie Artful still wandered, positively wilted in its red-brick heat. Happy holiday makers chattered and laughed on the bright pleasure boats slicing through the sparkling brown of the river and the queue for the Eye seemed to stretch forever into the hinterland that was Southwark.

  By the time he’d got to the Strand, Maxwell just wanted to lie down with the winos on the Embankment, drinking whatever they were drinking. His bow tie had gone. He’d left his jacket at home and cycle clips seemed odd on a train, so they hung with Surrey in his conservatory. As a concession to the demonic afternoon sun, he’d even left his famous hat behind. So no one at all would have recognised the glowing figure shambling into the Levington Agency, just off Villiers Street. Damn, was his first thought – no air conditioning.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A rather elegant, brassy woman sat poised at a computer. There was something of old-world charm about these offices, Maxwell thought – all wall-to-wall oak and leather and marble. He’d have preferred that the computer was an upright Remington or at a pinch an Olivetti, but he couldn’t afford to be choosy.

  ‘I hope you can,’ he beamed. ‘I’m in need of a girl.’

  The brassy blonde smiled. ‘Could you be a little more specific?’

  ‘Well, I had one from you before – Spanish girl, Juanita Reyes.’

  ‘Could I have your name, please?’ the secretary asked.

  ‘Maxwell,’ he told her. ‘Peter Maxwell.’

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard and a series of reflections flashed across her face as the screen jumped with images. She frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have that name on our books, sir. Good afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, how stupid of me,’ Maxwell said. ‘Henderson. Try Gerald Henderson.’

  The secretary’s eyes narrowed. Didn’t this man know his own name? Or was he just wandering through the phone book trying to strike lucky? She pressed an intercom button near her left knee. There was a click. ‘Mrs Pedersen, could you come out here, please?’

  Mrs Pedersen was probably the wrong side of fifty, but she carried it well. A tall brunette with a statuesque figure, she filled the doorway at the end of the marbled hall. ‘Can I help?’ she asked. Her accent was unplaceable – Uppsala meets Roedean, possibly – but Maxwell couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Peter Maxwell,’ he crossed to her and extended his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have rung ahead for an appointment.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Pedersen agreed. ‘Yes, you should. But since you’re here, Mr Maxwell, why not pop into my office? Can Ingrid get you anything? Iced tea? Perrier?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Maxwell smiled.

  Mrs Pedersen and Ingrid were alone for the briefest of moments while Maxwell settled himself into a huge leather sofa; but it was long enough.

  ‘Ingrid tells me there is some complication, Mr Maxwell,’ the boss-lady said, ‘in that you do not appear to be on our books.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ he said, ‘and I apologise for that. I think I’m guilty of an irregularity.’

  ‘Oh?’ She sat down behind her desk and, like Ingrid, went to work on her computer’s keyboard.

  ‘You see, I had one of your girls, Juanita Reyes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. The reason I am not on your books is that I found her via your actual client, Gerald Henderson.’

  There was a flurry of keyboard activity. ‘Could you give me Mr Henderson’s address, Mr Maxwell?’ she asked.

  ‘Tottingleigh,’ he said. ‘Near Leighford.’

  ‘And Mr Henderson’s occupation?’

  ‘Construction.’

  ‘And the girl’s name again?’

  ‘Juanita. Juanita Reyes. Lovely girl, from Menorca.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Mr Maxwell.’ Mrs Pedersen leaned back from her machine. ‘The girls of the Levington Agency are hand-picked and of top quality. It is understood that if contracts are terminated, either by the client or by the girl, we are to be informed immediately.’

  ‘Quite.’ Maxwell’s feigned embarrassment was legendary. ‘Hence my little irregularity. Innocent, I assure you, but Gerald was looking to downsize. I needed a girl. He advertised in the local paper…’

  ‘The local paper?’ Mrs Pedersen was aghast. ‘More than a little irregular, if I may say so, Mr Maxwell. Where is Juanita now?’

  ‘As I understand it, back home with her parents, in Menorca.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Pedersen looked less than pleased. ‘Well, I can appreciate that your involvement may have been innocent, as you say, Mr Maxwell. But the same cannot be said, I’m afraid, of Mr Henderson. He knew exactly what the rules were. He signed papers. He shall be hearing from us.’

  ‘Of course,’ Maxwell frowned, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less. Now…er…’

  ‘You require a replacement. Quite. Could I have a few preliminary details, please? You may have enjoyed the services of one of our girls, but, I fear, by default. As far as we are concerned, you are a new client. Very welcome, of course, but new, nevertheless. Name and address, please.’

  ‘Peter Maxwell, 38 Columbine Avenue, Leighford, West Sussex. Postcode…’

  ‘Niceties like that we can leave ’til later. Telephone?’

  ‘01903 618555.’

  ‘May I ask your age?’

  ‘Fifty-something,’ Maxwell smiled.

  Mrs Pedersen laughed and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Join the club,’ she said. ‘Mother’s maiden name?’

  ‘Hemmings.’

  ‘Now. To more pertinent questions. Is there a Mrs Maxwell?’

  ‘I have a partner,’ Maxwell admitted.

  ‘Disabled in some way?’ Mrs Pedersen was still poised at the keyboard.

  ‘Not noticeably,’ Maxwell told her.

  ‘Doesn’t understand you, though?’

  ‘Sometimes not,’ Maxwell chuckled.

  ‘Broad-minded, though.’

  ‘In her profession, she has to be,’ Maxwell conceded.

  ‘Oh, what is that?’

  ‘Um…teacher. Even in infant schools, the playground language these days…’

  ‘Shocking. Yes, I know. And your profession, Mr Maxwell?’

  ‘Chartered Accountant.’

  A warm smile spread across Mrs Pedersen’s face. ‘And your raison d’être?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Mrs Pedersen looked closely at the man. Perhaps his French wasn’t up to much. ‘Your reason…for wanting a girl. On paper, of course.’

  ‘Au pair.’

  ‘Huh, uh.’ The keyboard was in action again. ‘It hardly matters, but do you have children?’

  ‘One,’ Maxwell said proudly. ‘A boy.’

  ‘Oh, really? How old?’

  ‘Nearly a year.’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Pedersen’s eyebrows appeared above the rim of her spectacles. ‘Congratulations. Now, what sort of girl had you in mind?’

  ‘Well,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘It sounds corny, but I’d like Juanita back. We were very fond.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My partner and I.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Another knowing smile broke over Mrs Pedersen’s lips. ‘You both liked her. Well, I think we can accommodate. Obviously, all joking apart, Juanita is out of the question. I don’t know what made her leave the country, but, like Mr Henderson, I fear she’ll have some explaining to do. Do you particularly go for Hispanics? Eastern Europeans are cheaper, of course, but there’s often a language barrier – not that that presents an immediate problem, if you know what I mean. I could show you some photographs.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Maxwell said. ‘Tell me, are these girls available at once?’

  ‘Some are already in England,’ she told him. ‘Others will need to be sent for.’

  ‘So, immigration? Visas? Work permits? I don’t know much about it, really.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Pedersen said. ‘We do. Now, Mr Maxwell, I hate to raise it and I don’t know what sort of arrangement you and Mr Henderson came to, but…well,
not to put too fine a point on it – money. Would a deposit of, say, £5000 be in order? We take Visa, American Express,’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘Whatever you find most convenient.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘So you don’t want to know about the Levington Agency, then?’

  ‘I told you, Max, we’re not speaking.’

  ‘Not even the merest hintette?’

  ‘If I can’t trust you,’ she turned to him, all nobler than thou and hackles raised, ‘when you tell me you’re going somewhere and then you go somewhere else entirely, then I can’t see any future in our relationship. We’ve got a son now, for God’s sake.’

  ‘It’s a knocking shop.’

  ‘No!’ Jacquie was suddenly all ears, squeezing in next to Maxwell on the sofa. ‘You are having a laugh!’

  ‘Not at five grand a pop I’m not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what the late Gerald Henderson shelled out for Juanita.’

  ‘You mean he bought her?’ Jacquie checked. ‘That’s positively Dickensian.’

  ‘Well, W T Steadian, certainly. Dickens wasn’t allowed to write about such things. William Stead bought a girl for a fiver just to prove he could and that such things went on in Mr Gladstone’s England. ’Course, he did time for it.’

  ‘Nobody believed him?’

  ‘No,’ Maxwell said, ruefully. ‘They believed the girl’s mother – she who’d taken the fiver gleefully in the first place. As soon as Stead, who was a journalist, went to press with the story, the mother screamed Merry Hamlet, claiming she’d been duped.’

  ‘But she hadn’t?’

  ‘Did Disraeli have bad breath?’

  Jacquie didn’t know, but around Maxwell you didn’t challenge that sort of thing.

  ‘So, let’s get this straight. Juanita Reyes, the girl who was living with Mrs Troubridge, Puritan of this parish, that sweet, charming Catholic girl to whom we entrusted our son, is a whore.’

  ‘It’s an old-fashioned name for it,’ Maxwell said, getting outside his double Southern Comfort, ‘but yes.’

  ‘Max, we must have been blind,’ Jacquie was shaking her head.