Maxwell's Crossing (10 page)

‘Frozen? What, as in stored in a freezer?'

‘No, as in … Wait a minute. Remember my resolution?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Well, so do I. I'll be home as soon as I can. Make sure Nolan does his homework.'

There was a puzzled silence from the other end of the phone. Jacquie could almost hear the cartoon question marks growing and popping over her husband's head.

‘Sorry. You know. Just …' Sometimes she just hated her job and missed her boy more than she could say. At all other times she knew she would be a basket case if all she did was stay at home and dust. It just happened that today, she was in the missing mood.

‘Don't worry, petal. When you get home he will be done and dusted and ready to play. See you later. And … Jacquie?'

He didn't often use her name and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Yes?'

‘Be careful driving. It's a bit slippy today.'

‘I'll be careful,' she said. ‘I'm always careful. And then I'm a bit more careful, for you.'

She heard him chuckle. ‘Thanks. See you later. Bye.' And the phone went down. She put her mobile back in her pocket and took a last look over the parapet, at the hunched white-clad bodies beavering away below, then
walked very carefully across the half-frozen ruts of the car park, through the icy snow-carrying wind, back to the relative comfort of the staircase.

As Detective Inspector Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell drove away, she was watched out of sight by one of the SOCO team, one so large that he had his own personal stash of specially ordered coveralls in the back of his car. Donald, Jim Astley's gargantuan amanuensis, had carried a torch for Jacquie since way back when he only weighed a mere seventeen stone. He had pined quite badly for a while when she first married Maxwell and colleagues worried that he might never get back to his five-McDonalds-a-day norm, but after that one afternoon of being off his fodder, everything was back to normal. He sighed and turned back to the job in hand, cross with himself for missing an opportunity to exchange some witty banter. Angus, whom everyone secretly thought of as the
real
forensics guy, was trapped in Chichester by the weather so they had fallen back, metaphorically, on Donald. Falling back on Donald would have been relatively comfortable, but some of the sticklers in the team wished that he didn't shed crumbs all the time. It was going to screw up a case one of these days.

Pete Spottiswood, back from nursing his
mother-in-
law, followed the line of Donald's gaze and smirked, loudly. Spottiswood was one of the few people who could smirk audibly and Donald hated him with a passion. The big man knelt in the melting bloody slush and wished
him to hell. As for Sandra Bolton, she might just as well have not come. She had been heaving her guts out at the end of the road almost since she had got there. Donald had never been sick in his life. He had the constitution of an ox, and other things in common with the animal, like size and, some would say, thought processes. But he had occasional flashes of near-brilliance and for those the team liked having him on board. Angus might be better trained, but the THC was beginning to take a bit of a hold, and since that time he absent-mindedly ate a cake that was about to be entered as evidence in a domestic because he had the munchies, they had been glad to have Donald around.

His brain was buzzing a bit now. He turned to Spottiswood and crooked a finger.

Without moving, Spottiswood said, ‘Yeah, Donald? What? You peckish?'

Well, of course he was, but Donald knew a sarky bastard from a hole in the ground, so ignored him. ‘What's the matter with Sandra?'

‘Sick, I should think,' the constable replied, without looking at the woman, who was leaning on the wall at the end of the block, head back, eyes closed, breathing hard. ‘It's Sunday morning. I'd bet most of us are feeling a bit fragile.'

Fingers rose here and there from the team in silent agreement. Donald had never had a hangover either, but was prepared to believe them. ‘I think she's a bit over the top, even so,' he said. In his role as the pathologist Jim Astley's assistant, he inhabited a hinterland between
medicine and crime and sometimes medicine won. ‘I think you should go and check on her, see if she's all right.'

Spottiswood looked down at him for a full minute, but the big man's gaze didn't waver. Then the policeman straightened up from his habitual slouch and picked his way over the glassy pavement to where Sandra Bolton stood. Donald watched the conversation, but couldn't hear what was said. But he did see Spottiswood reach into his jacket pocket and drag out his mobile. He jabbed one number and spoke urgently into the phone. The next thing Donald saw was the two hurrying round the corner to their cars. He smiled a small triumphant smile.
Donald strikes again
, he thought.
I ought to get a consultancy fee, like Monk, or Patrick Jane on the telly
. And they got all the smart totty. The rest of the morning passed in a happy mist, cold and wet notwithstanding, as Donald dreamt of a life in sunny California, as he impressed beautiful women and important men with his amazing feats of logic. His beatific smile was creeping out his colleagues, but that was nothing new, down among the dead men.

At Leighford Nick, Henry Hall and Jacquie had shed what seemed like dozens of layers of clothes and were feeling more comfortable. The dead woman's ex-husband was waiting in an interview room, but he was warm and in the dry so he wouldn't suffer if they stopped for a cup of coffee, just to warm themselves up. Jacquie warmed her hands around the mug and she sipped it gratefully.

‘What do we know about this woman, then, guv?' she asked Hall.

‘We're working on the details, but her name is Sarah Gregson, she is separated but not divorced from her husband, Giles. Someone from uniform is looking into him as we speak. It seemed quite amicable, no domestics lodged, that kind of thing. She works as an unqualified teacher.' There was a small question in Hall's voice as he said the last sentence.

‘That is someone who has the initial qualifications, a degree in other words, but not a teaching one. There are quite a few at Leighford High because they're cheap and Legs Diamond is on a cost-cutting mission.' A sudden thought struck her. ‘She isn't from Leighford High, is she?'

‘No,' Hall's response was fast and grateful. ‘She seems to teach younger kids … I can't remember the school right now. It wasn't where the boys went, I know that. Anyway, we'll drag the Head out today if necessary, but if it has no bearing, we'll leave it until tomorrow. She used to be a social worker, but got out before the stress got to her. That's according to the door to door at her address. She hadn't been there long, so there wasn't much gossip. No men, by all accounts. Doesn't go out all that much. I've only got notes on that so far, no details. I'm hoping the ex, if that's what he is, can fill in the gaps.'

Jacquie put down her mug, most of the coffee undrunk. The coffee at Leighford Nick was only good for warming your hands on; it wasn't really meant for human consumption. ‘Let's go down and see him, then,
shall we?' she said. ‘Or does it need both of us?'

Henry Hall looked at his immaculate desk. He always left it on a Friday afternoon as if he would never be returning. There was just one very slim file on it, containing the notes from the door to door and a precis of the contents of Sarah Gregson's handbag. ‘I'll do it. Why don't you go home, try and salvage something of your Sunday?'

‘Are you sure?' Jacquie didn't want to argue in case he changed his mind, but it seemed rude to leap up without at least a token resistance.

‘Yes, off you go. I'm sorry I called you, really, but I wanted to copy you in on the circumstances, give you a heads-up before tomorrow. I'll let you know at home if anything dramatic turns up.'

Jacquie was already in her coat and making for the door.

‘Drive carefully,' Hall said.

She didn't turn, just waggled her fingers as she went through the door before he changed his mind.

Henry Hall followed more or less in her footsteps, down to the interview room where Sarah Gregson's husband was waiting. He pushed open the door and went inside, to receive rather a surprise. Sitting at the table, engrossed in a book which Hall quickly identified as the Gideon Bible from the window sill, left there some time before by a crusading special constable, sat the vicar of All Souls, the nearest church to the Halls' house. Henry realised to his embarrassment that he didn't know the man's name
and he certainly didn't know he was married. Well, he knew his name now, of course, it was Gregson, but despite having been dragged along to Harvest Suppers and various other events, he had never logged his name in his head.

‘Reverend Gregson, hello. First of all, I would like to say how sorry I am for your loss.'

The vicar stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Hall. I had no idea you were a policeman.' He held out his hand to Hall, who shook it. ‘Dear me, that sounds rather insulting, I'm afraid. I certainly didn't mean it to.'

‘That is perfectly all right, Vicar,' Hall said.

‘And also, perhaps before we start, I should say that my name isn't Gregson. My name is Mattley. Giles Mattley. Sarah went back to her maiden name when she changed jobs last year. We weren't intending to divorce, or at least, that was my intention, but she wanted to … remove herself a little for a while.'

‘I see,' said the DCI, pulling out a chair and gesturing for the man to sit. ‘Or rather, I don't think I do see, not quite.'

‘Sarah and I separated quite amicably, Mr Hall. I still love her very much, but she had some personal demons which she needed to sort out before we could really progress at all and she preferred to do it alone. She had worked as a social worker in Brighton for some years, then moved to Leighford about eighteen months ago, to have less travelling to do. She had a very distressing case to work on and she became rather depressed, so I encouraged her to make a career move and last
September she got a job as an unqualified teacher in the Reception class of a very nice little school not far from home.' All this had come out in a torrent, but it was measured, controlled, as though the man had been rehearsing it for some time.

‘And then you separated?' Hall wanted to get the details clear. This case wasn't at all clear so far.

‘Um … no. We separated while she was still working in Children's Services. That would be around Easter time last year. But, as I say, it was amicable and, as far as I was concerned, strictly temporary.'

‘I suppose your job would make it difficult to—'

‘My job, as you put it, DCI Hall, had absolutely nothing to do with it. I loved Sarah. I still do love her. I wanted our lives together to continue, and if she needed time, then that was fine by me. A year or two out of the marriage if it meant we would be together for ever was a small price to pay, to my mind.' He looked down at his hands, still clasped around the Bible, as if he had never seen them before. ‘Of course, that's …'

To Hall's embarrassment, a fat tear splashed onto the man's hand and trickled down to stain the matte red leather of the book. Why had he sent Jacquie home? She was good when people cried.

Then Giles Mattley pulled himself together and looked up at Hall, wiping away a lingering tear with the back of his hand. ‘I think I am supposed to think she is in a better place, DCI Hall. I know that is what I tell my parishioners at times like this. As if there are times like this … I gather Sarah committed suicide. I had no idea she—'

Hall was quick to cut in. ‘I don't know where that idea came from, Reverend Mattley,' he said. ‘Your wife didn't commit suicide. My colleagues and I have very good reason to assume that she was murdered.'

The man went white and swayed in his chair.

‘Are you all right, Reverend Mattley? Would you like a glass of water?' Hall's hand strayed to the buzzer on the table.

‘No, no, thank you. I'll be all right in a second, but … murdered? Who would want to murder Sarah? She was the loveliest, the kindest of women.'

‘She had one thousand pounds in her handbag, Reverend. Can you explain that?'

‘A thousand pounds? In cash, you mean?'

‘In very used notes. It was neatly counted out, like they do in banks with all the notes facing the same way and the twenties, tens, the odd fiver all in stacks. We were wondering if you could shed any light?'

‘Why would …? Blackmail, are you saying?' The Reverend Giles Mattley watched a lot of TV. ‘Sarah was being blackmailed?'

‘Or was blackmailing someone.' Hall spoke without emphasis, but watched his man intently.

‘My Sarah? A blackmailer? Don't be ridiculous. She didn't even like to gossip. That's what finished her in social work, in the end. She always believed the best in people. And almost always was let down, of course.'

‘Of course.' Henry Hall had been a policeman for a lot of years. He knew what it was like to be let down. A bell rang in his head, way at the back, where all the most
important bells hung out. ‘I don't suppose you know what the case was, the one which made your wife leave social work?'

‘Confidentiality, DCI Hall. Confidentiality. You must know about that. Police. Church. Social workers. Teachers. The list goes on. All bound by confidentiality.'

‘I don't expect names as such, Reverend Mattley. Just the gist.' Henry Hall held his man's gaze. ‘Didn't she let you know even a hint, when she was so depressed?'

Giles Mattley hung his head and it was a few seconds before Henry Hall realised the man was praying. Whatever guidance he received, it was in Hall's favour.

‘She told me it was a man, not very old, who had been abusing his children, mentally, physically and sexually, since they were tiny. He had been abusing his wife for years, since they were at school, as far as she could tell.'