Maxwell's Crossing (20 page)

‘Well, that would make sense. She was the only secretary working there and her office was impeccable. He was a bit of a slob, by the looks of it.'

‘Enough of a slob to leave chocolate wrappers around?' he asked, but she ignored him. ‘It's lovely of you to share, Inspector,' he went on, after a pause, ‘but why are you telling me this? I know that I would have wheedled it out of you in the end, but it isn't like you to just tell me straight out like this.'

‘You're right,' she said and bravely drank the sludge at the bottom of the mug before putting it down on the coffee table between them. She suppressed a shudder and he was impressed. Most people screamed at that point as they got all the curry in one hit. ‘I am getting round to it, but slowly. I don't want to say it, that's why. It sounds too silly.'

‘Try me. I specialise in silly.'

She smiled at him. ‘Too right,' she told him. ‘When the Magnum was used, I just thought it was an unusual choice. When Sarah Gregson was killed, I must admit I fastened on Jeff O'Malley with the feeling that it was case closed. Then when Shears was killed, I knew it wasn't him, but I had made the American connection. I don't want to let it go.' She stared at him, willing him to understand.

‘When did Shears die?' he asked.

‘Between ten and one last night. Give or take half an hour, although Donald says no leeway. That's just the pathology lot, though. There's always a bit of space on either side.'

‘So after you had Jeff O'Malley at the nick.'

‘Exactly. Which leaves three other Americans unaccounted for. Alana and Hector were at the hospital, or so he says. Camille was home alone.'

Maxwell knew what had happened when Cauley McCulkin, or whatever the ghastly child was called, had tried that, but it was hardly the same. He considered the theory with more gravity than it deserved. ‘Alana could hardly toss a fully grown woman off a car park, let
alone disembowel a solicitor. Camille could probably do the throwing, if she took a run at it, but I can't see her getting messy with a nasty bit of intestine rearranging. She might break a nail.'

The silence started at that point and grew until Jacquie cracked. ‘And Hector?' Even as she said it, it sounded unlikely. ‘No,' she got up and reached for her coat. ‘Sorry, Max. I don't know what I was thinking. He could no more murder someone than fly.'

Maxwell looked grim. ‘Sit down, Inspector. I think I may know something that you don't.'

Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell had known longer days, but looking back as she sat at six that evening, with the phone in her hand, she could hardly believe that it was that morning that she had been standing in Jacob Shear's office, trying to avoid standing on anything slippery. Her last hour had just been frustrating, trying to get the Communications Department to OK what could turn out to be a very long phone call to California. Eventually, she had got clearance, got the number and was waiting for someone to answer.

‘–nth Precinct. Help you?'

Oh, rats! She hadn't been concentrating. What number had he said? ‘Could I speak to the senior officer, please?'

‘Name?'

‘Detective Inspector Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell,' she said, ‘Leighford Police. England.'

‘Nice to speak to you, Detective Inspector,' the voice informed her. ‘But I mean, the name of the person you wish to speak with. We got lots of seniors here. We got Homicide. We got Drugs. We got Vice. We got Traffic. Which d'ya want?'

‘I don't know,' Jacquie had to admit. ‘I don't even know if I have the right Precinct. I want to speak to someone who knows about Jeff O'Malley. He used to—'

‘Oh, we all know about Jeff O'Malley,' the voice said, dryly. ‘And we all know what he used to do. I tell you what. I'll put you through to Lieutenant Schmidt. Harry, he likes to be called, but let him say it first. I'll put you through. If I lose this call, just ring back and ask for Harry.' The phone went dead, apart from a plangent beep every now and again to tell her that someone still cared.

‘Schmidt.'

‘Lieutenant Schmidt, I am Jacquie Carpen—'

‘Yes. Front desk told me. You want to know about Jeff O'Malley. Why?'

Obviously Schmidt was a man of few words. Also, Jacquie realised she had no idea whether he was a friend of O'Malley's or not. He sounded too young to have worked with him, except in a more junior capacity, but it was never wise to judge. ‘I am just finding out some background,' she said. ‘He is … helping us with our enquiries,' she began.

The man on the other end of the phone laughed. He had a nice laugh and Jacquie reassessed her mental
picture of him. He turned from Telly Savalas's Kojak to Tom Selleck's Magnum PI in a winking. ‘If it's the Jeff O'Malley I know,' he said, ‘he won't be helping anyone with anything. The only person Jeff O'Malley helps is himself. So, what's he “helping” you with? Blackmail? Extortion? Bribery? Gambling?'

‘Murder,' Jacquie said, shortly. The blackmail and gambling areas interested her. Bribery and extortion didn't really fit, but anyone who had dabbled with them would be someone that would interest the police of any country.

There was a silence on the line, longer than could be explained by the distance.

‘Lieutenant Schmidt?' She hoped Maxwell never heard her saying ‘lootenant'. He would divorce her on the spot.

‘Sorry. Jacquie, did you say your name was? May I call you Jacquie? Please call me Harry. Murder, you say? I can't say I am surprised. It's a surprise he's taken this long. Who was it? Bookie?'

‘No. It was … it's a bit difficult to explain, really. There's no real link that I can see between O'Malley and the victims …'

‘More than one? All at once? Driving, was it? Hit and run, that's his style.'

‘No. Three separate incidents. Two we could link to gambling, but we're still working on the third. It's just that … well, I know him personally.'

‘Oh.' In that single syllable, Jacquie could hear Harry Schmidt close down. ‘That's different.'

‘Let me explain. His son-in-law is working with my husband, on an exchange.'

‘I know about that. We had that poor guy who is living at O'Malley's in here the other day. There was a raid … do you know about that?'

‘Yes. Paul Moss …'

‘Yeah, that's the guy.'

‘Hmm. Well, Paul emailed my husband at school and said about the raid. He was upset. He wants to come home.'

‘Don't blame him. Why're they at O'Malley's anyway? Shouldn't he be at Camille and Hector's? More usual, surely?'

‘They were told that Camille and Hector's house wasn't big enough for the family. That's why Jeff and Alana came along, so that Paul Moss and his family could have their house.'

Another laugh. ‘Still up to his old tricks. Couldn't have got a visa on his own, shouldn't wonder. Had to pickaback on poor old Hec. No, Camille's condo is big enough. Got a pool, everything. The kids would have loved it and … Paul, is it? Yeah, Paul could have walked to school. No, Jeff wanted out and he didn't care who he left holding the baby. Just classic Jeff. Sorry you're stuck with him. Tell me about these murders.'

‘Can I email you the details? It's rather complicated.'

‘If Jeff's involved, it's probably simple. Jeff just wants money. And power, of course, but he has Alana for that. But you're right, an email would be simpler. Unless you got a webcam? It's easier to Skype.'

‘This is a police station,' Jacquie said. ‘It's a wonder we've got phones.'

‘We just got ourselves a new commissioner,' Harry Schmidt told her, with the laugh in his voice. ‘He's buying friends right now. Everyone of my rank and above has got an iPad for us to work on at home. Jeff would have sold his. Not only is he a dinosaur, he's a greedy one. T Rex, I guess. Anyway, got a pen?'

‘Yes. We do have those.'

‘I like you, Jacquie. You have a sense of humour. Not like Morse. That's one of my favourites.'

‘You watch
Morse?
' Somehow it didn't fit the picture she had of him.

‘Got them all on DVD. Box set on eBay. Got to relax sometime.'

‘Well, we're not all like Morse, thankfully.' Jacquie was more of a
Lewis
girl herself, and not just because of Laurence Fox. ‘I'm ready.'

‘OK. Send the details to schmidt h – that's all one word – at precinct 9 – that's all one word as well, nine as a number not a word – calif police. Do I need to say that is all one word? Dot com. That'll get me day or night. On my iPad.'

‘Thanks.' She read the address back to him. ‘But before you go, Harry, why were Paul and Manda at the sharp end of a police raid the other day?'

‘Got into a bit of a habit, here in Precinct 9,' Harry Schmidt told her. ‘If there's anything going on that's a bit shady, where no one's talking, we shake down Jeff. We haven't got him yet, not since the day we threw him
out. But we'll get him one day. If you don't get him first, that is. Look forward to your email. Bye Jacquie,' and with a click and a brrrr he was gone.

Jacquie opened her emails and read through the few that had come in. One was an invitation to Bob Thorogood's leaving party. Not that he was going anywhere specific, just down the road, but he was making a point. She wondered how many people would attend and already knew she would be one. There had to be someone there to raise a glass, even if it turned out to be the smallest leaving party in the world. Then she settled down to send the email to Harry Schmidt, or Magnum as she already thought of him. It was going to have to be a miracle of not putting words into his mouth, and yet complete in the detail. She wasn't sure on how much of this was legal, but the clock was ticking and if she wasn't careful, O'Malley would be on the streets before she got any details back. She wasn't sure how to start the email. Dear Harry? Hi Harry? Dear Lt Schmidt? She settled for no salutation at all and plunged right in and soon she was in full flow.

At 38 Columbine, things were not quite as usual. Hector had spoken to Maxwell in his usual diffident way and Maxwell, in his usual hospitable way, had invited him back, for supper at least, to stay if he wanted. The most important thing was to make sure that Mrs Troubridge and Alana were all right and that would take some doing. As a believer that chatting round the table was the best way to resolve anything, Maxwell
had also invited the two women to supper. That just left the question of Camille and Maxwell insisted that there Hector had to do his own dirty work. He was accordingly closeted in the study, making the call.

Nolan, a host to his little fingertips, was laying the table. He was laying for six, with an optional set of cutlery to one side, in case Camille arrived against everyone's wishes. Since he privately called her ‘Meal', he was smiling with secret pleasure at the pun. Meal, coming over for a meal. He giggled softly and Maxwell stuck his head round the door.

‘OK, mate?' he asked.

‘Just thought of something funny, Dads,' he said. ‘It made me giggle outside when I meant it to stay in.'

As someone who often giggled on the outside, Maxwell understood completely. ‘How are you getting along?'

‘Are we having seconds?' the boy asked.

‘Mate, I don't even know if we're having firsts yet. I'm trying to see what we've got to eat that will feed six.'

‘Or seven.'

‘Or seven, yes.' Privately, Maxwell wasn't expecting Camille to arrive. He knew a daddy's girl when he saw one and felt that it was more than likely that she would wait at home for O'Malley's return or until hell froze over, whichever was the sooner. But it wouldn't matter anyway. She clearly never ate anything.

‘Betty Getti? That always goes down well.'

Maxwell was startled. It was as if his mother-in-law had walked in. Nolan's gift was not for mimicry, but
for choosing the very phrase that conjured the person up. Betty Carpenter was not an adventurous cook, but her gregarious daughter had created a skill in her for stretching meals to their utmost when she came home with half a dozen ravenous and unexpected guests. Betty Spaghetti was famous wherever two Carpenters were gathered.

‘Betty Getti it is. What a brilliant child you are.'

Nolan beamed. His Dads was not quite like the other dads, but he was glad he was his. Plocker's dad only came home at weekends and then was always playing golf. In the recent snow, he had played golf with orange balls, so they showed up. What kind of Dads was that?

‘Can I watch some telly, Dads?' Nothing like striking while the iron was hot.

‘Done your homework?' Maxwell could hardly believe he was saying that to a child this age, but Mrs Whatmough ran a tight ship.

‘No. It's reading. I've got to read a page to you and then you have to say I've done it.'

‘Come and read to me now, then. While I start the Betty Getti.'

‘Dads,
' Nolan whined. ‘Can't I do it at bedtime?'

Maxwell had a feeling that by Nolan's bedtime the house might be full of very worked-up people. Although it was tempting to give himself an excuse to get away, it wouldn't be fair. Jacquie had had a bad enough day already, without being lumbered with unknown quantities of Golds and O'Malleys.

‘I'll hear him read.' Hector Gold had appeared in his usual flannel-footed way at Maxwell's elbow. ‘What's he on?
War and Peace,
perhaps?'

‘Don't joke,' Maxwell said. ‘That's next term, I gather. He's reading
Magnus Powermouse
at the moment, limbering up for some Tolstoy. You'll have to excuse him if he does all the voices; we've been reading it to him since he was tiny and he knows it off by heart.'

‘Then why does he have to read it to you?' Hector Gold was not a stupid man, but he wasn't a parent either.

‘Because we have to sign to say he's read it.'

‘I know, but—'

‘And so if we sign when he hasn't read it, that would be lying. And Carpenter Maxwells don't lie, you see.' Maxwell winked at him. The boy was still in earshot.

Gold looked suitably abashed. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I think I've been an O'Malley by marriage a bit too long.'

‘I understand,' Maxwell said. ‘Perhaps the O'Malleys could try being Golds by marriage for a change.' This reminded him and he said, ‘I'm sorry, Hec. How did the call to Camille go?'

‘Depends on your point of view.'

‘From your point of view, then.'

‘I told her that I wanted a divorce. That if she wanted, she could go back to LA whenever she liked. So, it went quite well, in that I told her what I wanted to tell her.'

‘I sense a but,' Maxwell told him.

‘Yes, big but, so to speak, excuse the non-pun. No big butts in our family, except on Jeff. She doesn't want a divorce. Hates my guts, but is so famous among her
friends for still being married after all this time, she isn't going to let that go. So, she isn't going back, she isn't going anywhere without Daddy and I can go to hell – as long as I stay married to her. No problems there. Being married to her
is
hell. But, don't worry about me, Max. I'll survive.'

Maxwell looked at the man before him, as meek and mild a man as you would meet in a day's march. And yet this very morning he had used the ultimate forbidden word in one of his lessons and for a moment had a look of a man who in two seconds could be ten dress sizes bigger and bright green. The Incredible Hector, straight out of Marvel Comics. He would survive, because Jeff O'Malley would not try too hard to keep him married to his little princess. ‘I'm sorry, Hec. It's all gone wrong for you and that wasn't what this year was supposed to be about. Let's put it behind us, shall we? Jacquie will be home shortly and Mrs Troubridge and Alana will be here soon as well. Quickly listen to Nolan's reading and sign his sheet for me, would you? I'll get the Getti on and we'll be eating in no time.'

Hector Gold had quickly learnt that Peter Maxwell always talked sense, even if it sometimes didn't sound like English. He called through to Nolan who rushed off to get his reading book to share with his new best friend. He had been working all day on a new voice for Magnus Powermouse's father and it would be good to try it on a new audience.