Maxwell's Inspection Read online

  A couple of miles away, across town, the black and white killing machine that was Metternich the cat crashed through the flap and took the stairs to the kitchen four at a time. Bugger! Nothing in the food tray again! Was the old duffer doing it deliberately? All right then; Plan B it was. He spun on his pads and thudded back down again, driving his bullet head through the Perspex. God help the rodent that looked at him funny tonight.

  Ever mindful of the Celtic past of the area and of the tribe that once lived there, Maxwell had rather set his heart on the Full Atrebates for breakfast. He was up with the lark, but alas, later than George, still on duty and still on top of the world, who greeted him heartily as he entered the Mock Tudor dining room. Was every hostelry in Leighford designed by some Elizabethan ancestor of Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen? ‘Morning, Mr Maxwell. Coffee or tea?’

  ‘Coffee please, George.’ Maxwell noted that the sleeping policeman of the night before had been replaced by an altogether more awake one. ‘And white toast, before you ask.’

  A couple of reps were sitting opposite each other in the far corner, where the sun streamed in through the morning patio, both on their mobiles and slurping coffee. An elderly couple were arguing over their kippers, as they had probably argued over them for the past forty years. Of the Ofsted team, Maxwell’s quarry, there was no sign. He helped himself to orange juice, vaguely aware that he’d worn the same shirt now for twenty-four hours, give or take a few. But no one other than George would know that and George, when all was said and done, was wearing the same gear too.

  ‘Ah, Ms Meninger.’ Maxwell had not yet returned to his table. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ Even Mad Max was allowed the occasional cliché. ‘May I?’ and the Head of Sixth Form had swept her chair out for her as he had learned to all those centuries ago when the world was young and politeness ruled O.K.

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she smiled at him. ‘This is a … surprise. Bob, this is Mr Maxwell, Head of Sixth Form at Leighford.’

  ‘Bob Templeton,’ the suit with her shook Maxwell’s hand. ‘Don’t tell me you’re the last of the breed that actually lives in a hotel?’ He was a lantern-jawed sort of man with a mane of tawny hair. In a bad light people could have mistaken him for Michael Heseltine or almost anybody out of the cast of the Lion King.

  ‘Er … no. Bit of a DIY crisis last night.’ If you’re going to tell a whopper, Maxwell always reasoned, stick to it. ‘Popped in here as less hassle than disturbing friends and neighbours. Look, I’m most terribly sorry about Alan Whiting.’

  ‘It’s outrageous,’ Templeton hissed. ‘Look at this.’

  The Mail in his hand had banner headlines for the second day running, this time with Inspector Murdered – How Safe Are Our Schools?

  ‘How safe indeed?’ Maxwell murmured.

  ‘Apart from the rubbish they’ve spouted about Alan, what does it do for the cause of education? Where do they get this stuff? God, it’s put Ofsted back ten years.’

  ‘Have the papers been on to you?’ Maxwell sipped his orange juice, making a mental note to buy a stash of Dailies later.

  ‘We aren’t allowed to talk to anyone,’ Sally Meninger said pointedly. ‘Anyone at all.’

  ‘Well, they’ve got it from somewhere.’ Templeton was tucking in noisily to his cornflakes. ‘You’d think these people would have something better to do than turn over rocks.’

  ‘It’s what they’re paid for, Bob,’ Sally reminded him and noticed the ever-jovial George hovering, pen in hand, at her elbow. ‘Just coffee, thanks.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Templeton wrestled with a mouthful of cereal. ‘Full English, please. No hash browns.’

  ‘Are you sitting over here now, Mr Maxwell?’

  ‘If I may?’ Maxwell’s question had not yet been answered.

  ‘Well …’ Sally was a little guarded.

  ‘Of course.’ Templeton waved for the man to stay put. ‘Come on, Sally, we’re all in this together, you know. After all, Alan was killed in Maxwell’s school. Ah, Malcolm. How’s it hanging?’

  Maxwell had seen Liar! Liar!. He knew the correct answer to that one, à la Jim Carrey, was ‘small, brown and always to the left’ but he somehow sensed that Malcolm wasn’t a Jim Carrey fan. He had the appearance of an old walrus, with a ludicrous toothbrush moustache whose bristles he had allowed to run riot over his upper lip and some of his lower. Were it not for the fact that he was bald, he would have put Maxwell in mind of the late and not very great Harold Macmillan, but not so lively.

  ‘Hmm,’ was Malcolm’s welcome to the day.

  ‘Malcolm, this is Peter Maxwell, Head of Sixth Form at Leighford.’ Templeton was doing the honours now. ‘Malcolm Harding, Science and Maths.’

  What a ghastly combination, Maxwell thought, but he smiled sweetly and took the man’s peremptorily-offered hand. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Have you seen the Mail, Malcolm?’ Templeton asked.

  ‘No. I only read The Times. And then only the Foreign Section. You can’t trust British papers to report their own affairs properly.’

  That logic escaped Maxwell, but he had more important topics to debate. ‘Have the police talked to you all?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Templeton said, sliding his cereal bowl away. ‘I had a young Detective Inspector, name of Bathurst, I think. Seemed reasonably efficient. Who did you have, Malcolm?’

  ‘Just mineral water, please.’ Harding was talking to the oft-returning George. The man was a martyr to dyspepsia and the sudden death of a colleague didn’t help matters. ‘I had a woman. Can’t remember her name or rank. Auburn hair. Quite feisty.’

  Maxwell smiled. Her name was Jacquie Carpenter and she was a Detective Sergeant. He was in love with her.

  ‘Didn’t you have the top man?’ Templeton asked Sally.

  The woman was clearly reluctant to engage in conversation of this type with Maxwell, of all people, sitting there. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘DCI Hall. I couldn’t help him.’

  ‘David.’

  The last male member of the Ofsted team had joined them now, the Lay Inspector whose responsibility covered extra-curricular stuff and those odds and sods schools did which didn’t fit easily into a classroom. He was tall and rather stooped, with wild, wispy hair that seemed to have a life of its own. His eyes were coal-black and piercing.

  ‘This is David Simmonds,’ Templeton said. ‘Peter Maxwell…’

  ‘Head of Sixth Form. Yes, I know. Your fame precedes you, Mr Maxwell.’

  ‘Does it?’ Maxwell groaned. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Does the name Selina Barrington mean anything to you?’

  ‘Selina?’ Maxwell repeated. ‘Indeed. One of the finest historians it’s been my privilege to teach. Left us four years ago. Oxford. Trinity, I believe.’

  ‘That’s very impressive,’ Simmonds had shaken his head and sat down. ‘I’ll just have some toast, please,’ he nodded to George, who was actually itching to get rid of the kipper plates of the old couple. ‘But no more than I’d expect. Selina’s my niece. Spoke very highly of you.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice of her,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘And what a small world. Tell me, Inspectors, do you get any choice in the schools they send you to?’

  ‘No, no,’ Templeton told him. ‘We just go where we’re sent.’

  ‘Will the Inspection go ahead?’ Maxwell asked. It had been two days now since any of the team had been seen in school.

  ‘On hold,’ Harding said. ‘And in the meantime, we’re cooped up here.’

  ‘Apparently, we’re to wait until tomorrow,’ Simmonds said. ‘Orders from Head Office. Personally, I’m in Wiltshire week after next.’

  ‘I’ve got Basingstoke,’ Harding rumbled.

  ‘Oh, bad luck, Malcolm,’ Templeton grinned at him. ‘Still, you can get cream for that these days.’

  ‘And where are you off to, Ms Meninger?’ Maxwell asked her.

  ‘Yorkshire.’ She was on her feet. ‘The Dales. Skipton, to be precise. Should be rather pleasant this
time of year, don’t you think? Look, I’m going to dig Paula out. The police are coming back for a second interview with all of us this morning, Mr Maxwell. Paula’s on first,’ and she was gone, swaying her way across the dining room in a pale reflection of her performance at the Vine on Monday night, the routine she’d gone through with the late lamented.

  ‘So,’ Maxwell waited until she was out of earshot. ‘People, tell me about Alan Whiting …’ and George returned, carrying Maxwell’s Full Atrebates on a plate.

  Thursday was a relatively civilized day for Peter Maxwell. He had a free third period which meant that he could get down to the dining room ahead of the hordes and get the lovely Sharon to flambé his crepes to perfection; either that, or he’d be in with a chance on the pizza and chips. Before that, he had a double helping of European History with Year Twelve, discussing the nuances of Napoleon III’s waxed moustache and whether therefore there was any consequential link with Nietzsche, David Lloyd George and Adolf Hitler.

  But today was no ordinary Thursday. The police tape still closed the Aitch Block corridor; Dierdre Lessing was less than enchanted that Henry Hall had commandeered her office to have a base on site and half of what was formerly Fleet Street had camped out along Wellington Road where they’d built the school back in the sixties. Kids of all ages were being seduced into sound-bites despite the oft-assured integrity of members of the Fourth Estate. Carrying skateboards and wearing their baseball caps backward, they were a credit to their school and their generation. Maxwell of course would have summarily hanged a couple in the quad each morning, to encourage the others. It would be wonderful how, quickly after that, the skateboards and the baseball caps would disappear and there would be an instant return to the Good Old Days. But Peter Maxwell was a dinosaur, you couldn’t get a Lottery grant for the erection of gallows and the Good Old Days had gone for ever. Even so, the collective inside knowledge of Years Seven, Eight and Nine could only fill a book of postage stamps, Year Ten were habitual fantasists and Year Twelve, Maxwell’s Own, were following their Year Head’s directive not to talk to the Press. And the Fourth Estate itself, of course, had to tread warily. They had, astonishingly, a code of conduct, and parents sued these days.

  Be all that as it may, Leighford High was experiencing something of a siege mentality. Inside, the foreign legations tried to behave as if nothing was wrong while at the gates of the Forbidden City, hordes of fanatical Boxers screamed and bayed for a story.

  On his way in, Maxwell had risked being scraped all over the town’s one way system by carrying an armful of dailies. The Mail said that Alan Whiting was married, with three kids. The Express said he was a single gentleman. The Daily Sport said he’d had sex with three kids, but it was not clear whether they were his own or somebody else’s. The consensus in the less silly papers was that the dead man’s wife’s name was Pamela and that she was staying at a hotel in the area pending police investigations. The fact that DCI Hall had made only the briefest of banal comments implied he’d made virtually no headway at all.

  Someone who may have got somewhere however was slamming her window shut as Peter Maxwell popped his head around the door.

  ‘Matron mine,’ he smiled. ‘Got a moment?’

  There was a time when Sylvia Matthews had had endless moments for Peter Maxwell. But time and the hour had torn them apart and now they were comfortable with that. He would go through the shredder for her and she would walk over hot coals for him. She was still a stunningly attractive woman, with a warmth that could heat the Centre Block, but on this particular morning, the room was suspiciously empty.

  ‘I saw you crossing the quad,’ she said, putting on the coffee and pre-empting his question. ‘So I gave the walking wounded their hobbling orders. I reckon we have about … ten minutes before Fat Josh arrives with his Off Games excuse-me pains.’

  ‘Legs cancelled the Heaf tests, then?’ Maxwell moved the well-chewed copy of Seventeen off the chair and collapsed against the wall.

  ‘Didn’t want any strangers on site,’ Sylvia said. ‘You know what maniacs work for the NHS.’

  Maxwell did, but both of them knew in their heart of hearts that this was actually one of Diamond’s better decisions. ‘I’ve had no chance to touch base with you, Sylv. What news on the Rialto?’

  ‘Olly Carson saw an unidentified man on the premises minutes before the fire-alarm went off on Monday.’

  ‘Olly Carson?’ Maxwell grimaced. ‘Isn’t he our unofficial Leighford UFO spotter?’

  ‘Well … yes,’ Sylvia had to concede. ‘You should be proud of him, Max. He writes very long, detailed articles on crop circles and animal mutilations. He’s shown me a few. They’re not at all bad.’

  Maxwell sighed, gratefully sipping from the mug she’d passed him that said ‘Nurses Do It In Order To Catch A Doctor’. ‘Has it never occurred to you, dear Matron, that at dead of night, the weird little alien making those crop circles and mutilating said animals is Olly Carson?’

  ‘Oh, now, Max. He’s odd, I’ll grant you; strange even, but he’s not dangerous.’

  ‘All right,’ Maxwell knew a straw when he clutched at it. ‘What did Olly say he saw?’

  ‘Chap in a boiler suit.’

  ‘Not silver, was it?’

  ‘Max,’ Sylvia growled. ‘I didn’t actually ask him. I just let him go off on one, you know, like he does.’

  Maxwell knew. ‘Where was this chap of the boiler suit?’

  ‘Well, that’s the pertinent thing.’ Sylvia gave Maxwell a Chocolate Chip Cookie to dunk. ‘Heading for Aitch Block.’

  ‘Was this before or after the alarm went off?’

  ‘Before.’

  ‘How long before?’

  ‘Christ, Max, I don’t know,’ she said, a little riled by his attitude. ‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, for God’s sake.’ She’d long been a Python fan.

  ‘They do in my classroom,’ he smiled.

  ‘Minutes; I just don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maxwell sucked his teeth. ‘I was afraid you’d say that. I’m just not sure I have the intellectual stamina.’

  She scuttled round to her side of the desk and did incomprehensible things on the keyboard, checking today’s attendance records on the System. ‘Your luck’s in,’ she told him. ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Ah, one of the Withdrawn, eh? I get the distinct impression we’ve lost quite a few over the last couple of days.’

  ‘I get that impression too,’ she said.

  ‘All right,’ he leaned back against her height chart. ‘Back to Olly. Did he give you any sort of description of this intruder?’ He bit his lip rather than add, four feet high with grey skin, no ears or mouth and large, limpid eyes.

  Sylvia was shaking her head. ‘Nothing. Just your average Joe.’

  ‘Joe?’ Maxwell sat up.

  ‘Just a figure of speech, Max,’ she said. ‘Olly had no idea what his name was.’

  ‘No, no,’ Maxwell was looking into the middle distance. ‘There’s another anonymous bloke that keeps turning up in this case. Thirty-fivish, dark hair. Wore a black leather jacket when I saw him and carried a hold-all. The question is, is Olly’s Joe and mine one and the same?’

  ‘Where did you come across him?’

  ‘In a toilet, Nurse Matthews.’ Maxwell finished his coffee just as Fat Josh, punctual as ever, put his less-than-engaging head round the door. ‘And my private life is my private life. Love you to bits.’

  He glanced down at the reptilian creature whose bulk he squeezed past in the doorway. ‘You too, Josh,’ he said.

  ‘Umbrella Man, Count,’ Maxwell was tying his tie in front of his bedroom mirror. The cat was sprawled on his dressing table, casually licking the talcum powder off his paws. ‘Badge Man, Black Dog Man, the Baboushka Lady. What do they all have in common, I hear you ask. Or do I hear you ask your altogether more frequent question,’ he turned to face his silent inquisitor. ‘Has the old buffer finally flipped his lid?’ He
turned back to the matter in hand. ‘Well, possibly by feline standards,’ he said, ‘No, all the above were bystanders/co-conspirators/assassins in or around Dealey Plaza on November 21st 1963 when one or more of them put several bullets into the body and head of the late JFK. Then there was the mysterious lady in the polka dot dress involved in the shooting of his kid brother, Bobby. There was Mr Kipper who murdered Suzy Lamplugh, and a vast range of oddballs standing sweating in dark suits in Gowan Avenue the day Jill Dando was killed. Well, we’ve got one now – Boiler Suit Man. Oh, the sighting isn’t impeccable, I’ll be the first one to admit. Olly Carson; no, you wouldn’t know him. In Year Ten. Bit of a UFO freak. Apparently he saw the boiler-suited gentleman on the premises minutes before Whiting died. You see, whoever set the fire alarm off killed the Inspector and he had to move quickly before Whiting did the obvious and vacated his office. So it was the fire alarm in Aitch Block or my name is not Ozymandias.’

  The bow round his neck was perfect and Maxwell was pleased with himself. ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Oh bugger!’

  There was that shattering ring and Metternich waited for the inevitable. Yep. There he went. Old man Maxwell picking up that plastic thing again.

  ‘Max?’

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Does this mean you’re not coming over?’ he wailed in his best Jewish.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said.

  ‘Do I smell crisis, Woman Policeman Carpenter? That you should go to these lengths to miss Luigi’s Cannelloni, specially hand-rolled for you all the way from Perrugia?’

  ‘God, Max, you booked.’

  ‘Thursday, sweets,’ he reminded her. ‘You have the world and his wife beating a path to Luigi’s of a Thursday – ever since we started the trend, that is.’