Maxwell's Academy Read online

  ‘Bye,’ he called and went back in to fish White Surrey out of the garage. It was cold for riding a bike, but it would soon be spring. If he said it often enough, it might be true. Jamming his hat on his head and giving his scarf an extra turn, he pedalled up the hill to the main road.

  DI Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell, as she became moments before she walked into Leighford Police Station every morning, was surprised to see what looked like a pile of old clothes in the corner of the foyer as she signed in and she raised an eyebrow at the desk sergeant, all squeaky clean and alert at the beginning of his shift.

  ‘Mr MacBride,’ he said, reading her eyebrow like the pro that he was.

  ‘Still?’ She leaned over and checked. Yes, definitely MacBride, if a little more dishevelled than one normally saw him, leering out of the pages of the Advertiser. ‘Shouldn’t he have been sent home last night, with an appointment for today? His wife has just died, you know – he has children.’

  The desk sergeant picked up a post-it and showed it to her, stuck to the end of his forefinger.

  ‘GM came in stone cold sober,’ it read. ‘Went to sleep and so left him there. PS He clearly did it – put me down for a tenner.’

  ‘Would you like to explain that last bit?’ she said, icily.

  The desk man turned it round and blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Oh, I think that is ... ooh, what’s her name, you know, whatsit, in the office, pregnant. We’ve got a bit of a book on when it will be born.’ He smiled, but without much hope.

  ‘“He clearly did it”?’

  ‘Oh. Ha ha. That’s a bit of a joke, we’ve been joshing her, you know how you do. Her old man ... he clearly did it. Hah.’

  ‘And the date?’

  ‘What date? I think she’s married. It wouldn’t be the date ...’

  ‘The date of birth?’

  He knew he had lost but for some reason carried on regardless. ‘I think he must have already filled that in. I don’t expect he had put down the bet.’

  ‘Well, do him a favour,’ Jacquie said. ‘Don’t put the bet on. Tanya had a lovely little boy Wednesday before last.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Tanya did. But what about ...?’ The hope died in his eyes and he looked down, beaten. ‘Sorry, guv.’

  ‘Yes, well, let’s pretend this never happened. But what about the sober? What does that mean?’

  The desk man nodded over her shoulder and as she turned around, the old pile of clothes became more recognizably JP, councillor and school governor extraordinaire, Geoffrey MacBride. ‘His excuse was he was drunk,’ he hurriedly said, ‘when they found him in a hotel. But his level was zero.’

  She nodded and patted his hand, still stuck to the post it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Useful. Get rid of the post-it, there’s a good sergeant.’ Then, pinning on the smile, she turned to where Geoff MacBride was unravelling himself from his slumped position. ‘Mr MacBride,’ she said, advancing with her hand extended. ‘Thank you so much for coming in.’

  ‘I didn’t so much come in as was dragged,’ he said, running his tongue over his teeth. ‘My mouth is like the bottom of a budgie’s cage,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose that’s the drink,’ she said, still with a smile.

  He looked at her, assessing, deciding whether she would be susceptible, even though he was unshaven and rather tousled. He knew this woman. She was married to that mad old bugger Maxwell, from up at the school ... sorry, Academy. She was probably ripe for a bit of a tumble, he had to be over the hill in that way, surely. And she was a tasty bit of ...

  ‘I said,’ she spoke slowly and clearly, ‘I suppose that’s the drink.’

  ‘Sorry.’ MacBride had messed up already and he had only been awake two minutes. This was no time to lay on the charm. Denise was dead. God knew where the kids were. He had been caught out in a lie. And he knew that Fiona Braymarr would not be giving him an alibi any time soon. He decided to fall on his sword. ‘The drink was a lie. I was ... I’m not proud of this, erm ...’

  ‘DI Carpenter-Maxwell,’ she told him, although she knew he was perfectly well aware who she was.

  ‘DI Carpenter-Maxwell. My wife is ... was ... a lovely woman in many ways, but we didn’t get on, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Shall we go through into an interview room?’ Jacquie interrupted. ‘This isn’t really a conversation for the foyer, is it?’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’ MacBride collected his overcoat which he had been using as a pillow and allowed himself to be ushered through the door. ‘But ... well, long story cut short, DI Carpenter-Maxwell, my wife didn’t understand me. I was with ...’

  ‘Interview room,’ Jacquie said, shortly. ‘Please, Mr MacBride, don’t make me ask again.’

  She opened another door, showed him in and stood in the doorway. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you. Coffee, black, one sugar.’ He ran a hand over his hair. They always came round in the end. She was bringing him a drink. He was home and dry.

  ‘I’ll send it in,’ she said and closed the door behind her. If there was any possible way she could avoid doing the first interview with the slimy little toad, she would take it. She was just making for the foyer for a token for the machine when, with a clatter of feet, Rick Shopley appeared in the bottom of the stairwell.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, with a nod. ‘Seen your old man today? We met last night.’

  Jacquie had heard the truncated version – no doubt there would be more detail that evening. ‘So I understand. Umm, Rick? Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘I was up all night, guv,’ he whined. ‘With that little toe ... lad who knifed his mum. Might have knifed his mum.’ The correction was swift and seamless.

  ‘I was also up for much of the night,’ she told him, ‘but of course, if you need to get off home, I do understand. I can find someone else.’

  Shopley could hear the edge in a voice as well as the next man. Rumour had it that this tart was a bit of a favourite with Old Man Hall, so best play nice. ‘No, no, I can help. What’s the problem?’

  ‘In there,’ she jerked a thumb at the interview room, ‘is Mr Geoffrey MacBride, widower of this parish. He became a widower last night because his wife took a header onto a Renault Megane, low mileage, one careful owner. Have a word with the desk, then have a chat with him. Oh, and can you take him a tea. White, three sugars? Thanks, Rick. I owe you one.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, to her retreating back. ‘It’s a pleasure.’ At least that was his good deed done early – he could be as much of a bastard as he liked now for the rest of the day, no harm, no foul, no Karmic damage. Lucky, lucky Geoffrey MacBride.

  Peter Maxwell walked into the foyer of his place of work humming a little tune. He had remembered to remove his cycle clips two days running and so far the day hadn’t hit him round the back of the head with anything unpleasant. True, the night’s traumas had left his eyes a little baggy, but he still had a spring in his step as he put his foot on the first step of the stairs to his mezzanine eyrie.

  ‘Mr Maxwell.’ A crisp voice behind him made him pause, but when nothing else came, he lifted the next foot.

  ‘Mr Maxwell. Could you step into my office for a moment, please? I think we could take this chance to place our meeting in the schedule, if you have a moment.’

  ‘Mrs Braymarr.’ Maxwell delayed turning round. He could feel the chill already, as the Ice Giants moved out of their usual home of Niflheim and had taken up residence in Leighford High. ‘How can I help you?’ He turned and was again surprised to see an attractive woman standing there, rather than the Medusa he had feared.

  ‘By stepping into my office. Did I not make myself clear?’ He realised what was odd about her. She moved very little, like a reptile conserving energy on a sunless day. ‘I have you at the top of my list for meetings and there’s no time like the present.’

  The historian in Maxwell might have disagreed with her, but he chose to let it go. ‘Indeed not.’ Maxwell looked with extravagant over-acting to right
and left. ‘I do seem to be free as it happens. Where is your office?’

  She gestured to James Diamond’s door.

  ‘Legs not here today, then?’ Maxwell said, blandly.

  ‘If by “Legs” you mean Mr Diamond – an amusing epithet, I should say, Mr Maxwell – then he is away today, yes. He is looking around other schools in the academy family here in Leighford, to see if anything suits.’

  ‘Ah. Family; that sounds warm and fuzzy enough, I suppose. Let’s have this meeting, then, Mrs Braymarr. Why put off until tomorrow what we can do today, hmm? Lead the way.’

  Fiona Braymarr pushed open James Diamond’s door (as Maxwell promised himself he would always call it) and walked around and sat behind the desk. It was James Diamond’s room and yet it wasn’t – the walls were the same, Maxwell was pretty sure, but after that, it was moot. The desk was now angled so that the daylight made a nimbus around Fiona Braymarr’s head, making it hard to see her expression. All of the pictures had gone, to be replaced by charts and calendars in various colours. The desk was bare. Diamond had always kept a small amount of chaos on his desk, just enough to make it look as though he was working. Now, all it held was a tablet, angled just so to prevent anyone reading it upside down, and Fiona Braymarr’s hand, one finger tapping as she looked at Maxwell with her head on one side.

  ‘So, Mr Maxwell ... may I call you Peter?’

  ‘Well, you can,’ he conceded, ‘but no one since my mother has called me that. Everyone calls me Max.’

  ‘I see. A nickname.’ She tapped on the tablet and frowned slightly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t really approve of that kind of thing, Mr Maxwell. So we’ll keep it formal, shall we?’

  ‘Perfect.’ It wasn’t like Maxwell to use one word where a thousand would do, but this woman was beginning to rile him.

  ‘I had you at the top of my interview list for several reasons, Mr Maxwell and I think it only fair that we take them one by one, so you can explain or rebut as you think fit.’

  A smile was all he could manage. Peter Maxwell was that unusual man, a multi-tasker, but even he found it hard to make polite noises whilst imagining beating someone around the head with a frying pan.

  ‘Firstly, I have got the impression that you are somewhat of the school clown.’

  In the silence, Maxwell lifted his chin to let the metaphorical bow tie whizz round and shifted his feet slightly in his size 26 shoes.

  ‘Do you have any comment?’ Her smile was acid.

  ‘I lighten the mood if I can,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it makes the world spin a little easier. But clown ... no, I take exception to that. Wit. Raconteur. But not clown.’

  ‘I understand you leapt upon Mr Diamond a week or so ago. In your office.’

  ‘A misunderstanding.’ How in heaven’s name had she got hold of that? It wasn’t Sylv, and he knew it wasn’t Helen. It could only be Diamond. The stupid man had surely not entered it in the accident book, had he?

  ‘I read the details in the accident book.’

  Bingo.

  ‘It could have been very serious.’

  ‘Can we just say,’ he said, still just keeping the frying pan out of sight, ‘that it was not intentional, and leave it at that?’

  She tapped her tablet again and peered at it. ‘The next thing I need to raise is exam results.’

  His hackles rose so high he felt that he must look like a cockatoo. ‘My results are the best in the school,’ he pointed out as calmly as he could. ‘Always have been. Always will be, while I am here.’

  ‘There has been no improvement,’ she said coldly, ‘as laid down in the action plan. Can you explain?’

  Maxwell looked at her in stunned disbelief. He was not exactly a byword where statisticians gathered, this he knew, but he felt he was on safe ground. ‘How can I improve on best?’ he asked. ‘And besides, I don’t think in terms of results; it’s the kids who count, surely. If they do their best, how much more can we expect? You get good years, you get great years. I’ve never really known how that works, but every teacher will agree that that’s the way the cookie crumbles.’ He had hoped that appealing to her inner teacher might help, but she didn’t seem to have one.

  ‘It isn’t the position which needs improvement,’ she said, ignoring him almost entirely, ‘but the number of As and A stars. There are a number of fail grades, which need attention.’

  Maxwell mentally added her hazy grasp of grammar to his reasons to hate the woman with a passion. ‘Fail grades?’ He cast his mind back. ‘Three. In the whole GCSE cohort. None at A level. Are you seriously expecting one hundred percent success?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘It is that attitude, Mr Maxwell, that has brought Leighford High School to the state it is in. However, if we can't reach consensus on this point, I will move on.’ Again, she tapped the tablet and read her notes. ‘Ah, yes. Your popularity with the student body.’

  Maxwell shrugged. He had never gone out for popularity. He didn’t want to be friends with the kids. They were just ... well ... kids. He wanted to do his best for them. He wanted them to do their best for him. If that ended up with them liking him, that was a bonus. If they didn’t, it was their loss. ‘Is that a question?’

  ‘Apparently, they have names for you that they use quite openly. Mad Max, for example.’

  ‘Bound to, really, wouldn’t you think? Especially with the new franchise.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She leaned forward, a pained, eager to understand smile on her face. Now he knew who she reminded him of – Maggie Thatcher at the height of her powers. And she was as dangerous.

  ‘Mad Max. Beyond the Hippodrome – sorry, Thunderdome, I should say. Mel Gibson. Tina Turner. Now repackaged with Tom Hardy.’

  She shook her head. Perhaps she was confusing the actor with the author of Wessex or the captain of the Victory. Then again ...

  ‘Charlize Theron.’ He waited for a response. ‘Well, not to worry. You clearly aren’t a film fan. But yes, they call me Mad Max. But it could be worse.’

  Again, the tap. Then she raised her head and leaned forward, pushing the tablet aside and lacing her fingers together as though in prayer. ‘I’m glad you mentioned films, Mr Maxwell, because it brings me on to my final point. I have been looking around the premises and I notice you have ... personalised your office. With film posters.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘They will have to go.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Mr Maxwell, there is no room for individuality in my academy.’

  ‘Your academy?’ This was clearly not a slip of the tongue. Maxwell doubted that Fiona Braymarr ever made one of those.

  ‘My academy. I am a reasonable woman, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, with what Maxwell considered was an admirably straight face, ‘so I will give you until the end of term to remove them. But if, at that point, they are still present, they will be removed and destroyed.’

  ‘I will send the bill,’ he said. ‘Some of those posters are worth rather a lot of money.’ As soon as he said it, he knew he had made a tactical error.

  ‘In that case,’ she smiled, ‘all the more reason to remove them. Along with the posters, you will also remove your kettle and all coffee and tea making paraphernalia. All foodstuffs. All non-regulation furniture. In fact, all items which were not issued by the education authority are to be gone by the end of term. But before, if possible.’

  ‘And if they are not gone by then?’ He knew the answer.

  ‘Frankly, Mr Maxwell, I don’t expect that to be an outcome. Besides, the whole thing may be moot anyway.’ She stood up and walked round him to open the door. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to leave your valuable belongings behind. And at current showing, I somehow doubt you will still be here after Easter.’

  Maxwell had seen a lot in his millennia of teaching, but this took the biscuit – banned from the premises though they were. ‘A threat, Mrs Braymarr?’

  ‘A promise, Mr Maxwell.’ Ah, the dependable cliché. She left the door open
and went back to her desk and looked out of the window. Without turning round, she said, ‘Please close the door on your way out.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Geoffrey MacBride peered into the khaki liquid in the police polystyrene.

  Rick Shopley looked at him. He thought this man was a JP, car showroom owner and all-round smartarse. Rather an odd question, but maybe it was the shock of the night’s events. ‘It’s tea, sir.’

  ‘But ... oh, never mind. Who are you?’

  ‘DS Shopley, sir.’

  ‘Where’s DI Carpenter-Maxwell?’

  ‘Called away, I’m afraid.’ Rick Shopley’s smile was like the silver plate on a coffin, but he could lie for England. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.’

  Geoff MacBride doubted that. Shopley’s flat delivery sounded so much like every US cop show going, except that this sneering sergeant didn’t exactly have the curves of Marissa Hargitty from Law and Order SVU. Shopley reached over and switched on the tape recorder. ‘What are you doing?’ MacBride asked, suddenly alarmed.

  ‘Just routine, sir,’ Shopley smiled thinly.

  ‘I’m a fucking JP, sergeant,’ MacBride reminded him, ‘and it’s not routine at all. Unless, of course, I’m a suspect ...’

  ‘Like I said, sir,’ Shopley said, in a tight voice around his tight smile, ‘just routine.’

  MacBride folded his arms and sat back. ‘If I am a suspect,’ he said blandly, ‘I’d like my solicitor present.’

  The sergeant’s smirk gave way to a proper smile and he flicked the machine off. ‘All right, sir,’ he said sweetly. ‘No need for us to get heavy. Just a few points – for the record, you understand?’ He pulled a notebook from his pocket and clicked his biro. ‘When did you see your wife last?’