Maxwell's Chain (9 page)

‘Oh, close that up,’ he said, waving a hand under his nose. ‘Where was that?’

‘In the washing basket.’

‘Best place for it. What makes you think it is Lara Kent’s?’

The policewoman took a deep breath, tucked the bag under her arm and started to tick the points off on her fingers. ‘First, it’s really dirty and this house is really clean, so I can’t imagine it belongs to Mrs Lunt. I say
Mrs
because it is very much a woman’s scarf. Second, it seems to have sand in it and I know the body was found in the dunes. Third, it’s got… well, fleas, sarge, and I know the dead girl had a
dog. So…well, I just thought it might be hers.’

He took the bag from her. ‘Well done, Brady, well done. We’ll make a copper of you in twenty years or so. I’ll label this and get it to forensics. Keep searching.’

And search and search and search they did, but found nothing else. Tony Deacon may have looked an idiot, but that was just a front, really, to lull the guilty into a false sense of security. Bill Lunt was a photographer, so Deacon had brought the SOCO cameraman along, just to check out the man’s darkroom. The usual – chemicals, film,
infrared
, a bit of dark; all very disappointing, really. Nothing sweaty whatsoever. They impounded Bill Lunt’s computer just in case and asked his wife about his mobile phone. She just gave a snort. The man who didn’t do digital really
didn’t
do digital. When it came to mobile phones, Bill Lunt’s degree of revulsion made Peter Maxwell look like he could text for England. They didn’t tidy up after themselves as they had implied they would. And they didn’t get even a cursory goodbye from Emma when she slammed the door behind their retreating backs. And all the time, she was wondering and worrying about what they’d taken away in the black bag.

Thirty-eight, Columbine was drenched in the sort of silence that you only get when the baby is fed, bathed and asleep. Nolan lay in his dreams, the pale stars and moons of his nite-lite twirling overhead and the room filled with his soft snoring. The cat had gone out, to paint Leighford red with the blood of rodents. The official Man of the House had done the washing up without being asked to and therefore the official Woman of the House had made the coffee and poured the drinks. Metternich being absent, it was left to Jacquie to purr softly as Maxwell rubbed her feet. When the phone rang it was as if the air was being sliced into by a circular saw at the business end of a megaphone.

They turned their heads to look at it but neither of them moved.

It rang and rang and rang and the battle of wills went on on the sofa. Maxwell continued to rub Jacquie’s feet. She continued to nurse her glass and look inscrutable. The ringing finally stopped. Several minutes went by.

‘Well,’ said Maxwell, in his best behaviour voice. ‘Who could that have been, I wonder?’

‘Who indeed,’ countered Jacquie. ‘We will have to wait now until tomorrow, as per our agreement earlier.’

‘Our agreement as to…?’

‘You can’t fool me like that any more, Peter Maxwell,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the playground and I won’t fall for your tricks. Seven Eff I ain’t.’

‘Fine,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t care who it was. They’ve rung off now, anyway. But I wonder, Woman Policeman, that you don’t worry that it might be…Work.’

‘They’d use my mobile,’ she said smugly. ‘So I know it’s not.’

‘In that case,’ he said, triumphantly, giving her foot a final squeeze, ‘our agreement isn’t an issue.’

‘Why not?’ she said, guardedly.

‘Because, if it was…our embargoed subject… that that call was about, then it would be on your mobile. Since it wasn’t, it could be anyone. Your mother, for example, hanging by her fingernails on the edge of a precipice. A colleague of mine wanting to know a vital date or other piece of information, like the ALPS data on Thirteen Bee One. It could be someone wishing to sell us some lovely double glazing. Or that call from the Palace about my K which is so long overdue.’

‘Don’t touch the phone, Max,’ she warned, her eyes scary slits.

‘Or a conservatory, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be nice? You know, that nice Mr Cameron.’

She swung her legs over and stood up. Her feet
were tingling deliciously, but she really needed the loo and had to use them to get there. ‘While I’m gone, don’t touch the phone.’

‘No, dearest. I won’t move from this spot.’

‘Make sure you don’t.’ She left the room, doing a double take round the door, to be sure. He hadn’t moved, although he was secretly flattered that she seemed to think he could move that fast.

Thirty-eight, Columbine having been built, like all its neighbours, out of ticky-tacky (they all looked just the same), he could clearly hear her cross the landing and the snick of the bathroom door. Only then did he think it safe to creep over to the phone and pick it up gingerly. He pressed the green button and listened. Just the dialling tone, so no message. He scrolled down through the missed calls. Luckily for him, Jacquie was pretty sure this was beyond his technological grasp. He chuckled to himself – after all, his generation had put a man on the moon. He recognised the number, although there wasn’t a date of anything important embedded within it. The Lunts. Hmm. He replaced it carefully. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wasn’t completely Lunted out at present. He was back in exactly the same position as before when Jacquie came back into the room, cradling the Southern Comfort and staring into where the embers of the fire would be if the
Carpenter-Maxwells had such a thing. She curled up in the chair and stared at him for a long few minutes. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘Who was it, then?’

‘Who was what?’

‘Max, please! Not only have I known you for a frighteningly long time, but I am a trained police person. I
know
you’ve checked who that was.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ he said, chuckling silently. Yes, she was a trained police person, but he had been outwitting kids for more years than she had been alive. So he was going to win this one. Slam dunk, whatever that might mean. ‘That phone has not been touched.’ He smiled at her and reached for the local
Advertiser
. The front page carried the story of Darren Blackwell. He brandished it ostentatiously in her face. ‘Oh, dear and lawks a mussy.’ It was Cleatus from the
Simpsons
, all in-bred and cornpone. ‘Look what’s in this paper. I can’t read this. We’re not allowed.’ He threw the
Advertiser
aside and got up. ‘I’ll go and get a book, I think. Something light like Isaiah Berlin on
Historical Inevitability
. Anything you’d like while I’m on my feet? Haunch of caribou? A damn good throttling?’

‘A few nibbly bits if you’re passing. A few crisps, the odd olive, any little cubes of feta that come your way. Anchovies.’

‘Tapas, in short.’

‘You’re so good to me,’ she smiled. There was nothing short about tapas and it would take him ages. She could check the phone while he was gone.

‘I know, but you’re worth it,’ he smiled back, a perfect cross between Charlize Theron and Jane Fonda. Then he would have won; if not the war, then at least this battle. The moral high ground always had the finest view.

She heard him clattering loudly in the kitchen and slid over to pick up the phone. She too recognised the number. She didn’t have to use a date mnemonic. She just had that sort of mind; one that picks up the important stuff. The Lunts. She replaced the phone and tapped her teeth thoughtfully. After a moment, she picked the phone back up and pressed the green button. She scrunched down into the chair as it started to ring, as if that would minimise the sound. It was answered. ‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘This is Jacquie Carpenter. You, know, kind of Mrs Maxwell.’

The reply was soaked up by the bones of her skull and, despite the fact that, from his vantage point of a partially open kitchen door Maxwell had stopped banging saucepan lids together, he couldn’t hear a thing.

The morning dawned grey and miserable, just to remind everyone that it was still February and Ten Ex Four had double History at nine ack emma sharp. As Maxwell shepherded his little family down the path on their way to their respective places of employment that morning – Jacquie to right wrongs, Nolan to finally sort out the baby with one eyebrow which every small child has in its life and Metternich to reduce the local volage (his day job) – he was given a rather cold shoulder by Mrs Troubridge. Her response to his cheery ‘Good Morning’ was a loud harrumph and a slammed door. The woman had to be Methuselah’s auntie, but she could be found gardening and homing in on the local goss in all weathers. Today seemed a little different.

‘Have we done something to annoy Mrs
Troubridge?’ Jacquie asked as Maxwell belted himself into her passenger seat. He liked Tuesdays; Jacquie had a standing arrangement that, come hell or high water, she started later on that day and so he got a lift and White Surrey got the day off, stamping and snorting in the garage that passed for the rolling meadows.

‘Well,’ she said, pulling away from the kerb, ‘I haven’t. Have you, Nole?’ She turned to smile at him and he shouted ‘Nonononononono!’ his newest and most favourite and therefore most nerve-shattering response. She turned back to Maxwell and said, ‘No, we haven’t done anything? You?’

He thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No. Must be Metternich. She’s been off hooks with him since he took her that mouse. She trod on it with a bare foot. Apparently, if feels much like treading on a large and hairy grape. And I quote.’

Jacquie shook her head. ‘She inhabits a strange world, that one. Has her sister arrived yet?’

‘Sister? I didn’t know she had one.’ He wondered again how she got these titbits. The woman worked all hours and then had Nolan and himself to fend for; when did she find the time? There again, she did put the multi into tasking.

‘Yes.’ There was a pause while Jacquie concentrated on changing lanes on the Flyover.
There was a rumour that the man who planned roads in Leighford didn’t drive. Jacquie thought it was far more likely that due to his severe agoraphobia he hadn’t actually left the house in years so had no idea of the chaos he had caused with his imaginative road markings. He knew perfectly well that if he did leave it, someone would lynch him.

Safely on the right path for Leighford High School, she had some brain spare to continue. ‘Yes. She’s coming to stay.’

‘I’d worked that out,’ Maxwell said, rummaging behind his seat for his briefcase full of unmarked marking. There didn’t seem to be anywhere else for the conversation to go on this one, so he let it die a natural death. He patted his pocket. ‘Oh, bum. I’ve forgotten my wallet. I was planning to take young Gregory Adair out for a pot of tea and something crumby this afternoon. He’s close to failing his NQT year and that would be a shame. He knows his stuff, he just seems to lack concentration. Do you have any wherewithal?’

‘I have wherewithsome,’ she replied. ‘My bag is by your feet. Have a scrabble.’

He did so and unearthed a rather dog-eared tenner. ‘May I borrow this?’

‘Borrow?’

‘Well, have, I suppose I mean.’ He still
sometimes had to pinch himself to remember that this lovely, funny woman lived with him and was his love. Wherewithsome – for goodness’ sake; that would keep him going all day, in the face of Eight Pee Oh! And the tragedy was that there wasn’t one of his colleagues who would get it. Even so, he’d put on a brave face and claim it as his own.

‘Of course. What’s the problem with Adair?’

‘Mind not on job. Always chronically short of dosh, more so than he ought to be, I mean. Looks a wreck most days.’

She tapped him on his disreputable hat, pulling a face at the paisley bow tie. ‘We can’t all be fashionistas, Max.’

‘I think sometimes that Mussolini was right.’ As far as the confines of the Ka would allow, he struck the Il Duce pose, chin out and fist across chest. ‘No, all joking apart. He needs a fatherly word.’

She drew up outside Leighford High School with a flourish and leant over to kiss his cheek. Children were crawling, those who could still crawl with all that whatever going about, towards the gates, goaded by parents with whips and red-hot pincers. ‘And, if I may speak for the little man in the back there, you are just the man to provide it.’ He leant in for a moment, storing up the scent of her hair and the petal of her cheek, against the day.

On cue, Nolan sang out, ‘Dada!’ His parents beamed with pride; that kid had timing that any actor would give his right arm for. Even so, Maxwell didn’t care for his choice of artist.

The Head of Sixth Form bounced into school almost bursting with pride. His grin in her direction gave Dierdre Lessing quite a turn. She scowled at him from her eyrie and her scrawny old neck bent low over her slaughtered chicks. She’d be circling the skies again come lunchtime.

Once ensconced in his office, Maxwell leant back and closed his eyes. It would be all of fifteen minutes before the first skirmishers of Ten Ex Four, the Forlorn Hope, would dribble into his classroom next door. He spent the time picturing Jacquie’s drive to work, via the childminder. He pictured her walking out, down the path, checking her watch as she went. He pictured her driving, very carefully, to Leighford nick, parking, tripping up the stairs into the office she shared with a gazillion other detectives, just outside the bigger, emptier office of Henry Hall. In his mind’s eye she took off her coat, brushed her hands quickly over her hair and sat down at her desk. Although the slower start on a Tuesday was nice on the home front, he knew she hated anyone stealing a march on her. He pictured
her leaning her head towards the computer screen, doing things on keyboards he could only wonder at. He dialled her number.

‘Carpenter.’

‘Hello, Carpenter. Maxwell here. So, what did the Lunts want?’

‘Whatever do you mean, sir?’ she said archly.

‘Come on, don’t shilly your shally at me, Woman Policeman. I know you rang them last night. I meant to ask you in the car.’

She blew out in exasperation. ‘I can hardly tell you that from here, can I, Max?’ she said, tightly.

‘Email me.’

She held the phone away from her ear and looked at it in amazement. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, restoring it to her ear. ‘I thought you were Peter Maxwell, dinosaur of Thirty-eight Columbine and Leighford High School, not necessarily in that order.’

‘The same.’ He bowed low in his chair.

‘Well, you just used the “e” word at me. What were you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking I want to know what you said to whichever Lunt you spoke to last night and that this may be the only way I get to know before the end of today. And I’m morbidly curious. And I have a lovely Teaching Assistant here who is dying to teach
me how to use the email system, when she’s not tearing off my clothes, of course.’

Jacquie ignored the last part. ‘It will be rather private for that, Max.’

‘I can read, you know. I just can’t pick up emails. At the moment. How hard can it be? Bernard Ryan sends them all the time. And he’s a vegetable.’

She was still in shock but heard herself say, ‘I don’t even know your email address. Do you?’

‘Naturally not. But I know a woman who does.’ The phone went quieter and he heard a shouted, but muffled conversation. ‘Apparently, it is maxwep at lfdhgh dot sch dot gov dot uk. Have we all gone completely mad?’

She scribbled furiously. ‘Yep. Got that. Not that I will necessarily send you this email, mind you. And if I do, it may not contain what you want it to, so be prepared.’

‘Maxwep?’ she heard him say. ‘What kind of email address is that? I want to be crimeaman at Sebastopol dot co dot uk dot and carry one or something. Maxwep?’ She pictured him looking round the room helplessly. She heard another conversation, less muffled. Then he was back on the line. ‘Apparently, it is the first five letters of my surname followed by my initial and then the rest of the gobbledegook is which school etc. God, the
world is absolutely barking. Anyway, bye. Look forward to receiving yours electronically of today inst.’ As the phone went down, she heard a final and distant cry of ‘Maxwep?’

Sighing, she turned to her computer and logged on. Finally the ancient thing groaned into life and she began composing her email.

Max, I don’t see why this can’t wait until tonight, but here goes. Yes, all right, you win, I did speak to Emma Lunt last night. As I thought they searched the place and took away his computer. I asked about his mobile phone and, as I’m sure you already know, he doesn’t have one. They also took something from the laundry basket – she wasn’t very clear really but I think she thinks it was a scarf. But they didn’t take any other clothes. Anyway, good news is – we didn’t arrest him or anything, but we have made an appointment for him to come in and see us today to make a revised statement. OK, now? You do realise that I will be emailing you all the time from now on and you’d better answer. J. She pressed ‘send’ and sat back. There was no chance that he would get that, she thought. He’s still looking for the crank handle to start his laptop. But no; apparently not. She Had Mail.

J (how formal) you dark horse. You never said a word and I was sure you would have. Well
done! But what’s this about no mobile phone? I was sure I heard his go beep on the dunes. Well, it was probably a rare seabird like the Lesser Spotted Wheebling Gannet or something. Got to go. I quite like this means of communication, by the way. Why have you been keeping it from me, all of you? It’s a conspiracy. That’s my theory, anyway. M.

Bless his little heart, thought Jacquie. Although getting him to carry a mobile phone was like pulling hen’s teeth, he always assumed everyone else had one. It probably was the Lesser Spotted Whatsit, but even so, it was something to mention next time she saw Henry Hall.

A shadow fell across her desk. She looked up and saw Henry Hall. She cocked a Maxwellian eyebrow at him. ‘Is there anything I can help you with, guv?’ she asked. It wasn’t like Henry Hall to loom.

‘Yes. I need you to do a bit of sleuthing for me.’ The man, unusually for him, had taken off his blank glasses and was cleaning them. He had eyes, after all.

‘Errrm. Isn’t that my job? As a detective, am I not supposed to sleuth pretty much nine to five?’ And often much more, a tiny voice added in her head.

‘No, I mean
sleuthing
. The kind of thing Maxwell does. A bit of covert activity. You know the sort of thing.’

‘I haven’t caught it off him. Perhaps he could do it for you.’

Henry Hall heaved a huge sigh, crossed his fingers behind his back so the next bit didn’t matter and said, ‘You can take him with you if you like.’

Jacquie knew what was happening now. She should have known before. First, Maxwell asks her to send an email, then Henry Hall asks her to work with Maxwell. Clearly, this being Tuesday and her only late start, she was still in bed and dreaming. She gave herself a sneaky little pinch under the desk. Ow! No, she was awake.

‘Are you totally sure, sir?’ she stammered. ‘I mean…’ how could she put this without being disloyal to the man she loved? ‘…you know how Max can be.’

Henry Hall did indeed know. But occasionally, even a sensible policeman, steeped for years in hatred of the amateur detective, can see who the best man for the job must be. Maxwell wasn’t a fictional detective like Sherlock Holmes or Mike Hammer. He was real, for Christ’s sake and he got results, even if some of his students didn’t. ‘I basically need to get a bit of info on some kids. There have been several reliable sightings of some hooded types in the area of both murders. I thought that Maxwell would be the one to ask. About a kid-related problem, that is.’

‘He’d be great if we had the kids banged up. He could tell you everything you would need to know, down to their ingrowing toenails and what their dad said to the school nurse in 1982. But even he doesn’t know random kids in hoods. There are other schools in Leighford, you know. As well as buses into Leighford, visitors to Leighford…’

‘If you don’t want to do it, Jacquie,’ he said, the light sparking off the glasses, shining again to mask his face, ‘you just have to say so.’

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’ll
do
it. It’s been a strange enough day already so far. I might just as well let it have its head.’

‘Anything strange that I ought to know about?’

‘Yes and no. The no bit is that Max asked me to send him an email. You may not realise how odd that is…’ she paused.

Henry Hall did not know Maxwell that intimately, but he had never had him down for a technical type. ‘Assume I do. So what else is strange?’

‘It may be nothing. Tony Deacon took a computer from the home of Bill Lunt last night. The lads checked for his mobile, of course, standard, but he doesn’t have one. But Max says he heard a phone beeping as they walked over the dunes on the night they found the body.’

‘Beeping?’

‘You know, that beep they make when the battery is low or when a text comes in.’

‘He’s sure?’

‘No. That’s the problem. He’s not exactly a phone expert. He has one, but it doesn’t get many outings. It’s for emergencies, he says, though the emergencies that are likely to happen to him while standing in the hall next to the table would be fairly few, I should think. He’s better at carrying it now we have Nolan; he always has it then.’

‘So, it might not have been a phone?’

‘He said it might be the Lesser Spotted Wheebling Gannet, but it’s more likely to have been a phone.’

‘Carried by Bill Lunt?’ Hall didn’t have time for Maxwell’s inanities and if he had, he sure as hell wouldn’t smile about them.

‘I don’t think he actually gave it that much thought. He naturally assumed…Oh, I see. You think it might have belonged to Lara Kent?’

‘Yes, I do.’ He picked up the phone and stabbed at the numbers. ‘I think we’d…Oh, hello? Tony? I need to get some men down to the dunes. SOCO for preference. Yes. Nearby, basically. A phone. Mobile. No idea. How many mobile phones can there be buried on the dunes? Point taken, but…
OK. Well, as soon as possible, by which I mean immediately. Who knows what will happen to it after a few dunkings in the sea? Oh, really. Well, I don’t have much time for walking, personally.’ He slammed down the phone. ‘Know-all,’ he hissed uncharacteristically, and went back into his office and slammed the door. Seconds later, he opened it again. ‘Jacquie,’ he said. ‘Sleuthing. Get the details from Alan Kavanagh,’ and he waved in the man’s general direction. The door shut again and she got up and put her coat back on. The place was humming already, like Bedlam in slowmo. Phones rang, keyboards clacked. From everywhere the clatter of heels and the grinding scream and slam of filing cabinet doors.