Maxwell's Crossing (4 page)

Jacquie looked at her neighbour quietly for a few seconds. Her gossip-gleaning skills had been honed
for years on the grindstone that was the life of Peter Maxwell. She didn't miss much. ‘Thank you, Mrs Troubridge,' she said. ‘I'll bear it in mind.'

The general hubbub across the landing reached a kind of crescendo and Nolan came into the kitchen and leant nonchalantly on Mrs Troubridge. ‘The Count has brought a vole in,' he remarked. ‘He gave it to Meal.'

‘Meal?' Mrs Troubridge asked.

‘Camille,' Jacquie told her, in an aside. ‘And that's Mrs Gold to you, young man.'

‘S'right, Meal,' said Nolan, intent on the story. ‘She is screaming quite a bit, so they are all going home. Dads said to come and say.'

‘And of course we must go and say goodbye,' Jacquie said, scooting round the table and heading for the door.

‘Yes, indeed,' said Mrs Troubridge, adding to Nolan as he helped her up, ‘before they change their minds.'

The silence was so profound that the Maxwell family could almost feel it still ringing in their ears. Mrs Troubridge had left with the Gold O'Malley brigade, helping Alana down the stairs and quietly removing the almost empty sherry bottle which she had secreted in her bag. Mrs Troubridge had identified a troubled soul and she and the American woman had bonded in the silent fellowship of lonely people everywhere. Although Mr Troubridge had been noted for his quiet elegance and self-effaced courtliness, his widow could still feel some fellowship with Alana O'Malley; years of lonely nights, knitting furiously and pretending that you didn't care
that he hadn't come home. Mrs Troubridge had had no children; Alana had had Camille, but she was so much a daddy's girl that it was doubtful that she had helped the loneliness much. At least when Mr Troubridge did get home from his absences, he could give his attention to his wife – Mrs Troubridge blushed to even think the word ‘attention' with its attendant implications – but she imagined that in the O'Malley household it would be difficult to get a sheet of paper between Camille and her father, let alone a whole wife, no matter how thin. So she had seen them off at the door with an understanding pat on Alana's shoulder, and had then gone back to her own house. Apart from anything else, she suspected the sherry had run out apart from the dribble in the recovered bottle and there was also the risk of washing up.

Maxwell looked around and could hardly believe that a room could empty so quickly. He gathered up a few glasses and made a cursory search for the sherry bottle, which appeared to have gone missing. Nolan was taking plates out to the kitchen, one by careful one. Jacquie was out in the garden, disposing of the vole. Maxwell turned as he heard footsteps on the stairs. Something about the combined voices of Jeff and Camille had made him jumpy.

‘Oh, it's you,' he said to his wife as she came in, voleless.

She couldn't be bothered to do the murder mime they usually did in honour of the television crime cliché that normally preceded ‘What are you doing
here?' and a knife/axe/bullet to the head. Instead, she settled for, ‘Who else were you expecting?' She went over to the fire and rubbed her hands together in front of the flames.

He shrugged. ‘Who knows, after this afternoon? That was a strange experience and no mistake. Have you seen the sherry?'

‘Mrs O'Malley put it in her bag,' Nolan informed him from behind the sofa.

‘Quisling,' Maxwell muttered, but he was proud of the boy's observational powers nonetheless.

‘Ah,' Jacquie said, with the air of someone putting two and two together.

Maxwell cocked an eyebrow at her and then looked at Nolan, in a significant sort of way.

Jacquie sighed. There was little her son didn't spot; she sometimes suspected he might have the house comprehensively bugged. She sat down and hauled her son onto her knee. ‘I sometimes think we put too much on this child.'

Maxwell looked round the room, spinning round and looking under clocks, table mats and behind the curtains before asking, ‘What child is that?'

Nolan laughed like a loon and flung himself back onto the sofa. Jacquie made his hysteria worse with some well-aimed tickling. Eventually, they all calmed down and Nolan, slipping two fingers into his mouth and squeezing his ear lobe, said solemnly, ‘I think I'll go and have a bit of a quiet moment,' and left the room heading for his bed, followed by the cat.

They watched him go and Maxwell re-raised his eyebrow.

‘Mrs T seems to have taken to Alana,' Jacquie told him, ‘and heard her make a sarky comment when Jeff and Camille were talking about when he retired.'

‘I can't see how a comment, be it ever so sarky—'

‘Yes, I'm with you there,' Jacquie agreed, ‘but I must admit I have my doubts about Jeff O'Malley, Police Loo-tenant. He seems a bit like a character from a sitcom.'

‘Heavy on the sit, fairly light on the com, I think, don't you?'

‘They're horrific. Hector seems all right, though. And can't stand his father-in-law.'

‘He told you that?' Maxwell had heard that Americans could be rather blunt about things, but on a very short acquaintance it seemed a bit much, even for an American, and a Minnesotan at that.

Jacquie blushed and told him about her little faux pas. ‘But he really didn't seem to mind, Max,' she said. ‘I mean, I hope you would at least pretend to stick up for my mother …'

‘Dearest heart, I
would
stick up for your mother. I
do
stick up for your mother.' There was a brief silence as they both remembered the incident at Jacquie's cousin's wedding the previous summer. And he
had
put in a good word for her at the Nuremberg trials. ‘Did he not, then? Hector? Not stick up for your mother, obviously, but I'm sure you catch my drift.'

‘No,' she said. ‘He said, “We all hate Jeff,” and then just asked me to call him Hec.'

‘Hmm, apparently everybody does.'

‘He seems a genuinely nice chap,' she said.

‘He is. And Alana seems nice as well. We mustn't judge her just because she nicked the sherry. She deserves it, in my opinion. And Mrs Troubridge has taken to her, you say?'

‘So it seems. So, as I said, she was sitting next to her through all the retirement conversation when she heard her mutter to herself and I think she got the impression that the retirement was not quite all that it seemed.'

‘Kicked out, you mean?'

‘Nail on head as always, precious,' she said, kicking off her shoes and curling her feet under her as she leant back. ‘Perhaps I'm just embroidering for the sake of it, but he really was a piece of work, wasn't he? Thank goodness we won't have to meet him ever again.'

‘I must say, I'm hoping not,' Maxwell agreed. ‘But I have a horrible feeling that they might turn out to be the kind of family that go around together in a flock, or pack, or whatever Attenboroughian phrase you like to use.'

‘Shoal.'

‘As in piranhas?' he asked.

She inclined her head with a smile.

‘Then we little sticklebacks must learn to hide in the weeds until they have passed by, mustn't we?'

Maxwell, Jacquie, Nolan and Mrs Troubridge sat back from the remains of the Christmas dinner and let out a collective sigh. The portions had varied, Mrs Troubridge eating a plate of food which would not have taxed the robin on the chocolate Yule log, but they had all had ample and just a tiny bit more and were, to quote Nolan, as full as eggs.

‘Darling, that was spectacular, as always,' Maxwell told his wife, then turned to Mrs Troubridge and risked what she would count as a slightly risqué sally. ‘Darling, so was your contribution,' he told her. Mrs Troubridge had provided the stuffing and the trifle, both home-made, both absolutely stiff with alcohol, much to Nolan's relief. He hated both stuffing and trifle and being forbidden to eat them was an extra Christmas treat.

Mrs Troubridge blushed coquettishly and gave
Maxwell what she considered a hefty whack on the arm. As a killer blow it left a lot to be desired, but he flinched theatrically and smiled at the old trout through the endorphin-fuelled haze of a huge meal. ‘Mr Maxwell,' she said, ‘you really are funny.' She looked round the table at them all and her eyes misted over. ‘I love you all, you know,' she whispered, then, taking herself in hand, scraped her chair back from the table. ‘I must be away, though, because Araminta is phoning from some
far-flung
outpost and I mustn't miss her call.' She dropped a kiss on Nolan's head, air-kissed Jacquie and fluttered her fingers at Maxwell before scurrying to the stairs. They all sat with bated breath until they heard the door slam at the bottom. She wasn't quite as steady on her feet as she had been, but their care had to be at a suitable distance. The tap on the wall on the landing told them that she had also negotiated her own stairs and normal service resumed.

‘May I get down, Mums?' Nolan asked, feet already on the floor and only the slightest sliver of bum still in contact with the chair.

She nodded and he was off like a greyhound. The mound of presents from under both the Maxwells' and Mrs Troubridge's trees had resolved into his favourites and the rest. One of the topmost favourites had been a rather scary battery-powered hamster, which would by definition be somewhere under the sofa, mauled by Metternich by Boxing Day, so he was making the most of it while the going was good. Soon, distant chuckling could be heard from his bedroom and his parents could relax.

‘Mrs Maxwell,' the Head of Sixth Form said, ‘you do
a mighty fine Christmas.' It was Alan Ladd out of
Shane
and not at all like Jeff O'Malley.

‘Even without apple pie?' she asked. She didn't get all of his film references, but this one had been with her, constable and inspector, for long enough now for it never to be missed. It wasn't a very good Jean Arthur, but you couldn't have everything.

‘I couldn't eat an apple pie right now for ready money,' Maxwell told her. ‘For a start, I am drunk as a skunk on the trifle.' He lowered his head and looked sideways along the table. ‘Look, if you line it up against a light background, you can see the fumes.' He looked up at his wife and cocked his head on one side. ‘Have you had anything to drink with the meal?'

‘No. I didn't fancy it.'

He straightened up. ‘You're on call, aren't you?'

She lifted one shoulder and avoided his gaze. ‘I might be,' she said.

‘Might be?' he asked. ‘How long has this hypothetical situation been the case?'

‘A few days,' she said. ‘Henry rang while the O'Malley lot were here.'

‘The Gold lot,' Maxwell corrected.

‘That's not how it felt,' she said, ‘but then, yes. Did I not mention it?'

‘Not really,' he said.

‘It probably slipped my mind. Anyway,' she went on hurriedly, ‘it's nearly half past three and I'm only on until nine. Then one of the others takes over. Bob Thorogood, I think.'

Maxwell knew the rules about tempting fate, but he did it anyway. ‘Let's hope there's no murder and mayhem today, but if there is, let it be at one minute past nine,' he said.

‘If I had a drink, I would drink to that,' Jacquie said, raising an imaginary glass.

‘Clink,' said Maxwell, waving his real glass at her. ‘Scrabble?'

‘Don't mind if I do,' she said and they pushed back their chairs and went across the landing to the sitting room. ‘No proper names, nothing foreign and absolutely
nothing
historical. You cheated last time with “defenestration”.'

‘Only because I inadvertently put two effs in it.'

Metternich listened carefully from under Mrs Troubridge's abandoned chair for the faint pop as the gas fire was lit, then crept out stealthily. He was allowed a lot of leeway, he realised, especially now he had experienced Happy Paws cattery and all that that had entailed, but he knew that even he would be pushing his luck if he licked the gravy off the plates in full view of everyone. So he waited a while longer and then, when the tiles had been shaken out and Jacquie had let out her usual wail when Maxwell could get rid of all seven letters on the first go, he sprang onto the table and started with the dregs in the gravy boat. Ah, the hint of turkey!

It was eight fifty-nine and the Maxwell house was quiet. Nolan had gone to bed without a problem, clutching his hamster to his chest, and Maxwell had done the
washing-up while Jacquie dozed in front of
The Sound of Music.
She couldn't stand the film, but Maxwell hated it with a mad passion, so it amused her to watch at least the beginning whenever it was shown. The Scrabble had been a rout as usual, the cold turkey and bubble and squeak a mere formality as they were all so full still, and so Christmas Day had wound its usual uneventful way down to night, sleep and Boxing Day.

Maxwell was sprawled on the sofa, with Jacquie sprawling the other way, so that he could massage her feet and she could refrain from tickling his. Metternich was tucked neatly in where their bodies crossed in the middle and something totally mindless was happening on the television. God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. They both tried not to look at the clock.

Nine o'clock, and all was well. Jacquie heaved a sigh of relief and Maxwell wordlessly passed her the gin and tonic, poured while he was last on his feet, against the day. She raised it to her lips and muttered, ‘Cheers.' He raised the amber glass of Southern Comfort.

Then three things happened, so close together that to a casual observer they all seemed to happen at once.

The phone rang.

Metternich leapt out from his cosy nest, severely clawing both Maxwell and Jacquie in his passage.

And Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell, Detective Inspector with the Leighford Police, said, ‘Bugger and poo – what's the matter with them? Can't they tell the time?'

She scrambled off the sofa and reached the phone by
lying on the floor and pulling it off the coffee table. ‘Yes? What? But I'm … Now, just hang on … Well …' She frowned at Maxwell and ran a finger across her throat. ‘I think I should ring DCI Hall … Oh, is he?' This time she sighed. ‘I'm on my way.'

She rang off and rolled over, lying on the rug with arms splayed out to her sides.

Maxwell wasn't sure what the correct length of pause was in situations like these, but after what he judged to be the right length and time, he said, ‘Problem?'

‘Yes. A shooting, out on the Barlichway.'

‘Of course there is,' he said. ‘It's Christmas, the time of peace, goodwill to all men and getting tanked up and taking a potshot at the neighbours. Why do they need you? More to the point, why have they called you? It's gone nine.'

‘Two reasons. Bob Thorogood “forgot”,' and Maxwell could clearly hear the quotation marks as she spoke, ‘that he was on call after nine and is lying insensible in the remains of the Christmas pudding, according to his wife. The other reason is that the shot man is an old friend of mine, well, ours actually, as he went to Leighford High. Henry and I had him in court finally last October; you may remember the case, it was in the
Advertiser.
We finally had enough on him for child abuse, mental, physical and sexual – a horrible case, but he got off on a technicality.'

‘A technicality?' Maxwell was appalled all over again.

‘His wife was the main witness, and she changed her testimony. We had no other witnesses, the medical
evidence was a bit equivocal and so the case was thrown out. I have rarely seen Henry so mad.' She was gathering herself together, running her hands through her hair and generally checking her clothes for gravy dribbles and chocolate smears. She held out her arms and faced Maxwell. ‘Do I have to get changed?'

‘You're fine,' he told her, ‘although you might want to take off the Santa earrings. So, the wife did it?'

‘Who knows. I would if I was his wife. I've been tempted married to you, so I can only imagine what she must be feeling. Her children have been taken into care and she had to choose between him and them. Not a choice I would care to make, especially at Christmas.'

‘If the case failed, though …'

‘Social services work independently of the police and the case is still ongoing. They have a child protection procedure underway, and until it has gone through all the stages, it can't be stopped. Like us they are sure of their ground, although there is no longer any corroborating evidence, so they are dragging their feet on this. The children are quite little, so they can't be witnesses, but if they are away from their father for long enough without showing any signs of bruising or anything, that will mean that the chance of accidental bruising becomes less and non-accidental more.' While she was talking, Jacquie was scrabbling under the sofa for her other shoe. ‘I hope it isn't her, I have to say. She seemed a nice enough woman, just very weak.'

‘So, she probably hasn't done it, then, this Mrs …?'

‘You don't catch me like that,' Jacquie said. ‘Even the
Advertiser
understood the need for anonymity. So do I.'

‘An old Leighford Highena, though …'

‘Yup.'

‘I can't think who …'

‘A lot can go on between GCSE and … however old this man became before tonight.' She grabbed her bag and left the room, blowing a kiss as she went. ‘I don't expect I'll be long. Henry's meeting me there.'

‘Henry is? He was having Christmas off, I thought?'

‘Yes. That's why I took the days on, really. It's the first Christmas with the boys back from university and I think Margaret wanted to do the family thing. She's a bit empty nest, love her.' Jacquie spoke with the confidence of one whose empty-nest days were long in the future.

‘So …'

‘He felt it badly, like I did. Those kids were covered in bruises and cowered whenever he came into the room. He is built a bit like their dad, same colouring as well. They are totally traumatised.' She coughed to cover a sob. ‘We couldn't help comparing …'

‘I know, sweetie. Sooner you're gone, sooner you're back. Love to Henry.' He waved her off and listened as her footsteps went the wrong way along the landing, to Nolan's room at the foot of the second flight of stairs. She just had to do it, he knew. Having their son was the best thing they had ever done, but it didn't make her job any easier.

She blew another kiss into the sitting room as she passed the doorway, ran lightly down the stairs and in no time he heard the car start and she was gone.

Detective Inspector Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell, with her glug of gin in mind, drove sedately across the Dam, heading for the Barlichway Estate. It glowed faintly in the distance, pulsing slightly as the million Christmas light bulbs flashed on and off, the Barlichway version of kneeling before the radiant boy. She glanced down at the GPS screen and saw that the address she needed was at the far side of the estate, through the rabbit warren of affordable housing and burnt-out garages that a large proportion of Leighford's population called home. She turned down the volume on her Christmas CD which Nolan and Maxwell insisted on having permanently installed in the car for the whole of the season and squared her shoulders. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone,' she mouthed along with Shakin' Stevens as she took the slip road, away from Christmas and into hell.

Henry Hall looked up as she drew up outside the house. No Christmas lights here, making it look like a black hole in comparison with the condensed Blackpools on either side. The door stood open and faint light spilt down the path, giving the DCI a halo as it caught in his hair. There was a sprawled shape on the path, with a dark pool at the end where the head had so recently been. On the snow to either side was a spray pattern, looking dark in the faint light but, Jacquie knew, in the arc lights the forensics boys were setting up it would look an eerie grey and red with sparkling spicules of white bone. Hall was wearing white coveralls and latex gloves and looked like a snowman from a horror movie, flanked as he was with piles of grey scraped-up snow
from the greasy road. His usual immaculate three-piece was hidden away under that lot but he didn't look out of place. For both Henry and Jacquie this was gear they both wore all too often. He raised his hand in greeting.

She got out of the car and stood on the pavement until one of the forensics team standing at the back of their van handed her a coverall. Hall wandered over to her as she struggled into it. She looked up at him and saw her expression mirrored in his face. That he had an expression at all was a surprise and showed how this case had affected him. It was unfair – and inappropriate – to liken the DCI to something out of
I, Robot
but there were those who did. ‘Merry Christmas, Henry,' she said, softly. There was a faint question in the statement.

‘I think so, yes,' he said. ‘I don't want to speak ill of the dead,' he said, ‘but I'm certainly not sorry to see this today.'