Maxwell's Chain Page 5

  And if Saturday was a nice thing, Saturday morning was the nicest bit. There were no kids in town to negotiate; they didn’t surface until well into the afternoon, when exasperated parents kicked them out. Maxwell could browse the shops till Nolan got cranky and then they could go home, via the park for a little light swinging. There’d be no shouts of…

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Take no notice,’ Maxwell urged Nolan. Over the years, he’d preferred the ‘straight ahead’ look. ‘They probably don’t mean me, anyway.’

  ‘Sir! Mr Maxwell!’

  ‘Oh, poo, Nole. They’ve got me…unless of course, it’s that other Mr Maxwell, my doppelgänger,’ Maxwell muttered, turning round with a smile as big as the great indoors. ‘Hellooo…Oh,’ his smile broadened and fixed. ‘Hello, gentlemen. What a surprise. I thought you two were on a trip up the Limpopo or something similar.’

  The two lads in question grinned. ‘No, Mr Maxwell,’ one of them said. ‘We’ve been working in Nigeria for two months, digging wells.’

  Maxwell could believe it. These were Old Highenas of recent origin and life in the great outdoors had seen them fill out, pick up some muscle and street cred since they padded the corridors of Leighford High.

  ‘I knew it was something to do with water,’ the Great Man agreed. ‘Was it fun? Well digging?’

  The bigger, dark-haired one answered for them both. ‘It was OK,’ he said. ‘No women, but otherwise OK.’

  His smaller, blond, more handsome companion said, ‘Actually, Mr Maxwell, it was a real eye-opener. I’m really glad we went. I’ll appreciate uni much more, now I know a bit about life on the larger scale.’

  ‘Well said, Nick,’ Maxwell said, patting him on the arm. Even as he did so, he could hardly believe that here was one of His Own, not a year out of school yet, and he had already forgotten that you could not fool Mad Max, not even for a moment. ‘Back for long, are you?’

  ‘Well, Mr Maxwell,’ said Nick, ‘I’m off to London for a bit, staying with my sister. I’m going to Goldsmith’s, anyway, so it will be nice to learn my way around. You remember Kelly, don’t you?’ Maxwell nodded. He’d known dozens of Kellies in his time. Why did people call their daughters after rather ghastly Irish towns? There again, wasn’t she from the Isle of Man? ‘She works for Gordon Ramsay, well, not actually for Gordon Ramsay, more like in a restaurant he used to own. But he still pops in. She hasn’t actually met him or anything, but it’s quite exciting, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mmm, yes, yes, I suppose it is. He might be swearing at her any day now. I didn’t realise you were interested in cooking, Nick. Had you down for a bit of a boffin.’ To Maxwell’s permanent disappointment, Nick, who had the GCSE grades to be anything, had for some reason fallen among scientists and was lost to History as a result.

  ‘Oh, yeah, man, Mr Maxwell,’ said the other. His name was Richard, but for some reason lost to time he was always known as Lobber. ‘His prawn Creole’s a legend.’

  Nick blushed. ‘It’s not that good, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘But I do like to cook, yes. Lob’s just exaggerating, as usual.’

  It was called Kid Creole in Maxwell’s day; he was a different generation.

  ‘And what’re you doing, Richard, after this gap year?’

  ‘Well, I’m not on a gap, not as such.’

  ‘I thought you got in on clearing?’ Maxwell prided himself on keeping up to date and he always remembered the frantic days in August when the results were known and the Daily Mail told the world how rubbish they were. Phones rang off hooks and computer keys were red-hot with emails. ‘Didn’t I hear something about a Foundation in Media somewhere up north?’ Personally Maxwell couldn’t imagine anything worse. Foundation? Media? North? He was describing the end of the world.

  ‘Yeah, well, in the end I din’t really fancy it. It looked a bit…poncy, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Well, not really,’ Maxwell had to concede. He’d only just got used to ‘gay’ meaning homosexual. Already it meant something totally different. God alone knew what ‘poncy’ meant by now. ‘But if you didn’t want to go, then I’m glad you didn’t bow to peer pressure. What are you doing, then?’

  ‘I’m working in a shop in town. Get every fourth Saturday off. That’s today,’ he added, so Mad Max didn’t think he was bunking off. Old habits died hard.

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you, then,’ said Maxwell. ‘Don’t want to waste your day off nattering with me.’ On cue, Nolan began to whimper. ‘Oh, the little bloke’s off on one. Better get him home. Bye then, lads.’

  ‘Is he…er…your grandson?’ Nick ventured.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Maxwell smiled. Surely, the lad knew? Hadn’t everybody at Leighford last year heard and expressed amazement that the old bugger could still manage it?

  ‘Well, bye, Mr Maxwell,’ Nick said. ‘See you around before I go, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ lied Maxwell.

  ‘Seeya, Mr M,’ said Lobber.

  ‘Hmm,’ Maxwell agreed through clamped lips. He didn’t like lying twice in a row in front of Nolan. You heard such things about early influences creating axe murderers and such. When they were safely round the corner, well away from the Early Learning Centre, Maxwell let out his breath in a huge sigh.

  ‘Nole, my little mate,’ he said, peering over the buggy so that he was disturbingly upside down to his son and heir. ‘What you have just witnessed is not to go any further. You have just witnessed your daddy fibbing like anything, pretending to be glad to see those two. I can’t remember two kids giving me more trouble than they did when they were two of My Own. Always up to juvenile rubbish, peeping at the girls in the shower, taking the handles off doors, letting tyres down. I bet those wells they dug never fill up with water because they’ve filled them with clingfilm or something. Still,’ he started bouncing the buggy to make Nolan laugh, ‘No one else will be up this early. I promise you, we’ll have no more…’

  ‘Coo-eee. Sir!’ This time the call was much shriller and accompanied by giggling. He didn’t have to turn. It was Year Nine. Probably Eff Why. And either Abi Buildingsociety or Chloe Oojar. Either way…

  ‘Hang on, kid. We’re in for a bumpy ride.’ And, against all sense and reason, Maxwell broke into a run. And that was something else the kids at Leighford High didn’t think Maxwell could do.

  Saturday morning at Leighford nick was not so carefree. Saturdays followed Fridays with monotonous regularity it was true, but with not even a dream of a day off to comfort the murder team. They sat in rows, resignation etched on every face. The more hard-bitten among them didn’t really see why they were losing good lie-in time on the random death of some homeless kid. The newer ones, who hadn’t grown those essential extra skins yet, were waiting for Henry Hall to tell them more, to assign them jobs, to tell them what to do. The ones in between were waiting for him too. They were waiting for him to stick his head round the door, say it was all cleared up, no problem, that weedy photographer did it or failing that, the boyfriend, don’t worry, everyone, you can all go home. Oh, and by the way, this is no longer a smoke-free zone. Bonuses and George Medals all round.

  The door opened and Henry Hall entered, followed by Brian Meredith, the SOCO team leader, looking a shade more normal out of his white suit, and a trolley load of paperwork. A small but audible groan rose from the serried rows.

  ‘We’re here this morning,’ Hall began, as usual without too much preamble or time wasted on greetings, ‘to continue the investigation into the death of Lara Kent, an erstwhile Big Issue seller. Some of you may have seen her around,’ he gestured to her picture, blown up big and pixelly from her ID card on the board behind him. ‘She had a dog, a greyhound-Airedale cross, I am reliably informed.’ Odd glances were exchanged, but nobody said anything. ‘You may also remember this. We’ve had some bits of luck in this case already. I’ll pass you over to Brian, who can fill you in on the forensics.’ He stepped aside, perching on the edge of the table.

  Meredith stepp
ed up to the plate and cleared his throat. He hadn’t chosen to be a back-room boy for nothing; he hated holding forth, but he tried his best. ‘We were able to more or less clear the site last night, ermm, that’s down on the dunes, for those of you who weren’t there.’ Several heads turned to look at Jacquie. They all knew who was there. Jacquie looked up to meet the stares before they burnt into her scalp. ‘A Mr…Lunt and a Mr…Maxwell,’ said Meredith on cue, by way of confirmation, ‘found the body last night and called it in. A long story cut short, we found the ID card close to the body. Alyson found her dog buried not far off.’ He raised his head from his notes to look for Alyson in the room. She was conspicuous by her absence. Not the stuff, perhaps, that SOCO specialists were made of. ‘The dog seems to have blood around its mouth and a scrap of fabric in its teeth. We’re having both of those analysed. Dr Astley’s assistant identified the dog’s breed but, more importantly, he alerted us to a microchip in his neck.’

  A wag at the back of the room called out, ‘I didn’t know Donald had been chipped!’ and was rewarded by laughter.

  Meredith looked annoyed and Henry Hall tapped his biro menacingly on the palm of his hand. He understood why policemen laughed when sudden, gruesome death was in the air. It was the actual laughter he didn’t quite cotton to. There was a time for it. And a place. But not here. Not now.

  ‘To a microchip in the dog’s neck,’ Meredith continued. ‘We have had it scanned and have been in touch with the company who manufactured it. This means we have an address for Lara, so no real need in the first instance for door to door.’

  There was a faint but collective sigh of relief.

  Hall stepped forward again. ‘This may sound like a lot at this stage of the investigation, but in fact all we know is the name and hopefully, a previous address for our victim. We have a potential time of death, taking the photographs which started all this into account. We may have the DNA of the killer, which is pretty much useless until we have our killer in custody. I know lots of you think we may have a suspect, but Mr Lunt, whilst not completely in the clear, would seem to be a very unlikely choice for our killer.’ Jacquie smiled inwardly. Perhaps Maxwell’s support of the man had hit home with the DCI. ‘What we don’t have,’ Hall went on, ‘is a motive, a murder weapon, or a murderer. So, the book is still pretty empty. Let’s try and fill in the gaps. I think most of you have assignments. Jacquie, a word. Brian, can I leave you to carry on leaning on Jim Astley for a bit more detail?’

  ‘Delighted,’ said Meredith. He might not do Front of House very well, but leaning on Astley was always a pleasure.

  Hall raised his voice a little. ‘Is everyone clear on what they’re doing?’ There was a generalised murmur of assent. ‘Good. Anyone unclear, check with Brian. I’m sure he’s got lots for you to do. Jacquie and I will be back later and we’ll call another briefing in… what shall we say? Five hours?’

  Another Saturday afternoon gone west. Never mind. Leighford FC weren’t very cheering to watch anyway. Not now they’d sold Beckham, Ronaldo, Owen and Rooney. Better off racking up the overtime.

  Jacquie shrugged into her coat and fell into step beside Hall, making for the side door that led to the nick’s car park.

  ‘Guv…’

  ‘Jacquie, if you are going to apologise for Maxwell again, please don’t.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Jacquie lied. ‘I was just going to ask what we’re doing.’

  He looked at her, and grunted. For all he was a copper of the new school, he hated being second guessed by an inferior. ‘We’re going to Arundel,’ he said finally.

  ‘Arundel?’ she repeated. ‘That’s a bit posh for a Big Issue seller, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose that was a deliberate career choice, Jacquie,’ Hall said. ‘Anyway, we’ll soon know.’ He tossed her his car keys. ‘You can drive. I’ll close my eyes for a bit, if you don’t mind.’ It had been a long day’s journey into night so far.

  Jacquie was startled. Henry Hall never showed his human side. In fact, most people didn’t know he had one. As they drove out of Leighford over the Dam, making for the Flyover, she risked a sideways glance and her face softened at the sight of her boss with his glasses slightly askew and a little bubble growing and shrinking at his lip as he breathed in and out. Suddenly he gave a snort, straightened his glasses and wiped his mouth.

  ‘I’m not asleep,’ he said, testily. ‘I’m just resting my eyes.’

  ‘Of course, guv,’ Jacquie agreed quickly. A few more miles went by. Hall must have been tired. She’d crashed her gears six or seven times and he hadn’t said a word.

  ‘If anyone finds out about this,’ he said in a mumble, ‘I’ll know where they heard it.’

  This time she allowed herself a little chuckle. ‘It’s not going any further, guv,’ she said.

  He snuggled a little down in his seat. ‘Good,’ he muttered, and rested his eyes some more, fully aware he’d hate himself later when he tried to stand upright again after even the briefest of dozes in that position.

  Jacquie thought to herself, if I wasn’t going to possibly tell a parent their daughter is dead, if I wasn’t going to have to keep Max out of this at all costs, if I wasn’t going to be out all weekend away from the baby, then I’d be having a good time.

  Chapter Four

  Maxwell sat with his feet up in his first-floor sitting room, back at Columbine, book open on his lap, watching Nolan sleep. He was much more picturesque at ad hoc naps than Henry Hall; for a start, he didn’t have a pair of glasses digging into his cheek, just a dimpled fist lightly placed against his chin, where it had landed when the fingers he sucked to help him drop off had finally slipped from his mouth. He gave a little sigh from time to time, twitched his leg and carried on sleeping. Maxwell turned to Metternich, stretched at ease on the chair. At least he knew the Boy wasn’t dreaming of eviscerating rodents as he slept.

  ‘Two things, Count,’ he began, giving up on the The God Delusion for the eighth time, ‘Firstly, you know you’re not supposed to be on that chair.’ The monstrous black and white beast flicked a dismissive ear. Was he bothered? ‘Fair enough. Just checking. Secondly, I wondered if you had any thoughts on the events of last night. Not the trouble with the Mem, I don’t mean. All that frostiness is just her way of saying “I love you”. I mean the body that poor old Bill and I found on the dunes. In the dunes, perhaps I ought to say. I didn’t see anything, just the hand, but I’m sure it was a girl, and young, too. Jacquie says she wasn’t one of mine and I hope she’s right.’ He sipped his coffee. The cat licked a paw, tongue searching between his toes. Fingers, since it was his front paw. ‘It’s odd that I haven’t heard from Bill, though, don’t you think?’

  Metternich turned his head and stared at that plastic thing in the corner, silent now, but the blasted thing had been ringing all morning. It had almost driven him to getting up and moving somewhere quieter. But not quite.

  ‘Hang on.’ Maxwell had had a thought. ‘I haven’t checked for messages. I am a fool.’ He put his mug down and got up with that strange silent grace that parents adopt when they are trying not to waken a child. He crept across the room and picked up the phone. The fractured dial tone told him the story. He had a message. He dialled 1571; the year of Lepanto, when Don John of Austria had kicked seven kinds of shit out of the Turks and set his people free. Without that fortuitous aide memoire, Maxwell would never pick up messages at all.

  ‘This is BT One Five Seven One. You have,’ minute pause, ‘fifteen new messages. First message. Message received at today at ten oh seven hours.’

  ‘Max, Max, this is Bill. Are you there? Is this one of those phones where you hear who’s on the other end? Max? Max? Mr Maxwell? Perhaps not. Well, if you’re there or when you get this message, can you give me a ring? Please, I mean? Only, I’ve had the police round. They seem to think I did it. The…you know, the…thing. Murder. They haven’t arrested me or anything but, well, Emma’s in a bit of a state. Well, so am I as a matter of fact. So…um,
yes, if you could give me a ring. That’s Leighford 879621. Umm…right, then.’

  ‘End of message. To hear the message again, press one. To save it for thirty days, press two. To delete it, press three. Next message. Message received today at ten fifteen hours.’

  ‘Max, Max…are you there…?’

  And so on, thirteen more times, getting more and more frantic, more high pitched and desperate. And the electronic woman who punctuated them must have had a sore throat by now. Maxwell slowly replaced the phone. Why would he want to keep all that lot for thirty days? As a classic example of mounting hysteria, however, the messages had merit. Perhaps he’d pass them on to the psychiatric unit at Leighford General as a learning tool for their students. In any event, he was aware that he had just witnessed the unravelling of Bill Lunt. Surely, the police couldn’t seriously suspect the man? He had been practically catatonic at the murder scene. And he wasn’t that good at acting. In fact, Maxwell would have taken bets that he wasn’t any good at acting at all.

  Taking the phone with him, he went back to his seat, and his conversation with Metternich. ‘So, as I was saying, Count. I have in actual fact heard from Bill, only not really because we haven’t spoken. So I haven’t checked what he remembers about last night. I admit I wasn’t really concentrating while we were walking towards the sea. I was just watching my feet. He didn’t say anything, but I think he got a message on his phone; I think I heard that beep beep thing you get. You know the one.’

  Metternich did indeed know the one. It got right inside his head, like a fly buzzing round in there. He remembered the good old days, when people had left messages on bits of white stuff lying around. When he was a kitten, in those far off days before he had responsibilities – like His Nibs here, asking him stuff all the time and That Woman moving in, upsetting the male balance of nature and The Boy to be watched – he occasionally used to cut out the trip to the litter box and wee on the messages. That was fun! But wait, the mad old duffer was still whittering on.