Maxwell’s Flame (10 page)

‘Turn left!’ Maxwell ordered.

‘What?’

‘Left. The Green Man. They’re open.’

They were. Maxwell thanked his God for the new licensing laws and led the trembling girl into the cool darkness of the snug, out of the unseasonably fierce sun. She took off her dark glasses and when he’d got her safely sitting down, he ordered a Southern Comfort and a brandy and swigged one before he reached her. As he got there, she held out a piece of paper.

‘If this is an absence note from your mum,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I can accept it …’

‘I don’t know who it’s from,’ she whispered, though there was no one else in the bar to hear, ‘but I know who it’s to.’

‘To whom it is,’ he murmured, unable to stop himself, and he read the note with growing horror. ‘Where did you get this, Sally?’ he asked.

She took the brandy in both hands and buried her nose in the balloon. She pulled a face as it hit her lips. ‘You know, I don’t really like this stuff,’ she said.

‘Have a sip of mine.’ He held out the glass, his eyes still on the sheet she’d given him.

‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘I’m driving.’

Then Maxwell was reading the note aloud. ‘“Oops, got the wrong one there, didn’t you, old boy? Never mind, it’s business as usual for us after all. We don’t want little Jo to find out, do we?”’

‘What does it mean, Max?’ Sally asked him, scanning the Head of Sixth Form’s face.

‘That depends on where you got it,’ Maxwell said, smoothing out the paper’s folds and staring at it on the table.

‘Alan Harper-Bennet’s room,’ she said.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

Maxwell sucked in his teeth. ‘Sally,’ he said, ‘you must never go down to the end of town without consulting me.’

‘I know, Max,’ she mumbled. ‘After you’d gone last night, I was about to lock my door, like you said, when who should turn up but Harper-Bennet. He said he had something to show me.’

‘Did he now?’ Maxwell’s left eyebrow threatened to join his hair line.

‘It was in his room,’ she said.

‘You went to his room?’ Maxwell was incredulous.

‘Oh, Max, I know it was bloody silly, but … well, I thought it might shed some light on this wretched business.’

‘It might have got you killed,’ Maxwell growled, looking the girl hard in the face.

‘I know,’ she shuddered, ‘I know.’ She closed her eyes briefly, then took up the tale, ‘Anyway, I went. I thought of the old pervert pinching my knickers and I wanted them back. If I had the chance, I’d find them and confront him. He offered me wine.’

‘It was late.’ Maxwell was the voice of reason.

‘That’s what I told him,’ Sally said, ‘but he poured two glasses anyway. Basically, he took up where he left off the other day. Did I believe in open marriages? How did I know I could trust Alan – my Alan, that is – and so on.’

‘So he didn’t have anything to show you?’ There was a twinkle in Maxwell’s eye for all his concern.

‘It didn’t get that far,’ Sally assured him. ‘I “accidentally” spilt my drink and while he’d gone for a cloth, I took a butchers in his drawers.’

‘You feisty little minx!’ Maxwell rolled his eyes. ‘And found the knickers?’

‘No. I found that.’

‘Why did you take it?’

‘Stupidity,’ Sally moaned. ‘Sheer bloody stupidity. Don’t the police call it tampering with the evidence?’

‘Do they?’

‘Don’t you see, Max, if I’d left it there, in the drawer, where he’d put it, the police would have found it this morning and Mr Harper-Pervert would be helping them with their enquiries.’

‘That’s assuming it
is
evidence,’ Maxwell said.

‘What? Well, surely

‘What do you suppose it is?’ he asked her.

She picked it up as though it had poison smeared over it. ‘Well, it’s a blackmail note, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, Maxie!’ she shrieked, then, quieter, ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t be so bloody obtuse.’

He smiled. ‘Obtusian is my middle name,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Sal, just playing devil’s advocate.’

‘And are you winning?’ she asked, straight-faced.

‘No,’ he admitted, taking the paper off her, ‘no, I’m not. “… got the wrong one” – that’s Liz Striker. “Never mind, it’s business as usual for us after all” – that means the blackmail money continues to be passed in the same way. “We don’t want little Jo to find out …’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘Obviously a Bonanza fan.’

‘Whoever little Jo is, he’s obviously the innocent party. It’s because of him or rather his need to be kept in the dark that Liz Striker died. By mistake. She wasn’t the blackmailer. Somebody else was.’

‘That’s one interpretation,’ Maxwell nodded.

‘Max, it’s the only interpretation.’

‘Where exactly was the note?’

Sally screwed up her face with the effort of remembering. ‘Top drawer, opposite the bed.’

‘Was Harper-Bennet’s room the same plan as ours?’

‘Yes, but a mirror image. Bed on the other side.’

‘So the drawer you found that in was the first one you’d come to – from the door, I mean?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And it was on top? You didn’t have to rummage?’

‘No. I intended to, but he came back pretty pronto. Max, you’ve got that funny look on your face again. What are you thinking?’

‘If I was a murderer,’ Maxwell said softly, ‘and I’d just killed the wrong person and I’d received a blackmail note from the real person, the last thing I’d do is keep it. And the last place I’d put it is in the first place anybody would look.’

‘You’ve lost me.’ Sally shook her head. ‘Are you saying Harper-Bennet put the letter there deliberately, knowing I’d find it?’

‘Well, he did take your knickers and he did invite you to his room. What happened after he’d cleared up the drink, by the way?’

‘I made my excuses and left,’ Sally told him. ‘By the way, whatever record Sally Gunnell holds now, I broke sprinting back along that corridor. This time I did take your advice and I locked the door. I didn’t get much sleep, Max, trying to work out that note. Oh, I feel so guilty. I should have left it there. I feel such a shit. So … ashamed.’

‘Now, now,’ he patted her hand, ‘there’s no need for that.’

‘It was what you said clinched it. When you made me realize a few minutes ago that Harper-Bennet was trying to put the finger on Dr Moreton.’

‘I’m not sure he was,’ Maxwell mused.

‘What?’

‘Harper-Bennet came by car. He probably assumed Moreton was with the others in the bus because that was the original plan. There’s no reason for Moreton to have told Harper-Bennet about his interviews, is there?’

‘We’ve got to go back, Max.’ Sally was gathering up her bag.

‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Where’s the fire?’

‘Max, we must,’ she said, but she did as she was told.

‘No, we mustn’t,’ he said, ‘the fuzz must have had their reasons for detaining Moreton.’

‘But if I’d left this bloody note where it was, they’d have had reason to detain Harper-Bennet too.’

‘Possibly,’ Maxwell agreed, ‘but we mustn’t jump to conclusions.’

‘Do you … do you recognize the writing?’ Sally asked him.

Maxwell shook his head. ‘Not joined up,’ he thought aloud. ‘Could be anybody’s.’

‘The police can analyse it, Max,’ she said, ‘make comparisons.’

‘So can we,’ Maxwell said.

‘We?’ Sally frowned at him.

‘It’s a common enough word, Mrs Greenhow,’ the Head of Sixth Form said. ‘The plural of I.’

‘Oh, no,’ Sally was shaking her head, ‘no, no, Max. If you don’t think it’s right to go to the police, then I’ll hold off – for now, that is. But I’m going home now.’ The girl was on her feet again. ‘I need a shower, a stiff drink, the arms of my loving husband and a good night’s sleep. In the morning, I’ll decide what to do.’

‘A minute ago you were all for going back,’ he reminded her.

‘A minute ago,’ she told him, ‘I’d forgotten how much I need a shower, a stiff drink and all the rest of it.’

‘You don’t fancy going the pretty way, I suppose?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Via Luton?’

Sally’s eyes widened. ‘It’s taken me a while,’ she said, ‘but I finally know why the kids call you Mad Max. It’s because you’re stark staring bonkers, isn’t it?’

‘The simplest explanation is always the best.’ Maxwell winked at her. ‘Can I keep this?’ He held up the blackmail note.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I’m trusting you, Max, not to lose it. It’s got the murderer’s prints all over it.’

‘And yours,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘and mine. I hear Holloway is particularly lovely at this time of year.’

‘Max,’ Sally was serious, ‘Max, you know I love you dearly, don’t you? That you’re like a sort of dad to me?’

‘Now, Sally,’ Maxwell sighed, ‘it’s not pay-day for another fortnight yet …’

She waved the comment aside. ‘I’ve got to ask this, Max,’ she said. ‘Is that … Could that be … Rachel’s writing?’

Maxwell put the note in his inside pocket without looking at it again. ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘it isn’t and it couldn’t be. Harper-Bennet got it wrong twice.’

Terry Malcolm was known universally as Bum-Bum in the McBride household. It wasn’t meant to be offensive – though neither was it a term of endearment. It just happened to be the closest little Sam could get to pronouncing the name when he was younger. But then, for the ’90s, Sam was a surprisingly deferential little kid – it was always Mr Bum-Bum.

Mr Bum-Bum was the tallest copper John McBride knew. And one of the least pleasant. Just as Stony Warren never smiled, so Terry Bum-Bum never swore. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it all. That and a curiously rich vocabulary, for a copper, that is. And if there was one thing Superintendent Bum-Bum didn’t like, it was cock-ups by his team.

He got to Carnforth a little before lunchtime, just as Sally and Maxwell were roaming their way along the A259 in a homewardly direction. Malcolm called his team together in the incident room, gave them a pep talk and then got down to cases.

‘John, isn’t it?’ The cold eyes searched the open, honest face of Inspector McBride, sitting across the table in the interview room.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You can drop the sir,’ the Superintendent told him. ‘Mr Malcolm will be fine. Does your girl do a decent tea?’

‘Er … WPC O’Halloran? Fair, Mr Malcolm.’

‘Right. I take mine black. With one sugar.’

McBride relayed the order over the intercom, and his finger was no sooner off the button than Malcolm hit him straight between the eyes with his next question. ‘What exactly was your part in the termination of Miles Warren’s career?’

‘Sir?’

Malcolm looked under his eyebrows at the Inspector. ‘I thought we had an understanding,’ he said.

‘Sorry.’ McBride looked uncomfortable. ‘Mr Malcolm,’ he corrected himself. He hadn’t felt like this since the promotion board to Sergeant.

‘Would you like me to repeat the question?’ Malcolm asked him.

‘I’d like you to rephrase it,’ McBride said. ‘I’m not sure what it means.’

‘Very well.’ Malcolm turned to the window. The blinds were up now and the midday sun was gilding the Carnforth roses. ‘Forced,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’ McBride wasn’t with him.

‘Those roses.’ Malcolm pointed to them. ‘Forced. What I mean is, whose idea was it to use this place as an incident room?’

‘Mr Warren’s.’

‘Too incestuous,’ Malcolm said, taking in the cedars at the end of the lawns. ‘We should stay close, but not too close. Whose idea was it to keep the suspects here?’

‘Mr Warren’s, but –’

‘That was a wrong ’un,’ Malcolm said, ‘and if that “but” of yours was an attempted stab at loyalty, Inspector, I’d advise you to keep schtum. I’ve known Miles Warren for sixteen years. And I’ve known him to be a good copper. But he’s blown it this time, lad. He’ll be on his way to the coppers’ graveyard. If you don’t want to see it happen, keep your nose out of tomorrow’s papers.’ He turned to face McBride. ‘And if you don’t want to join him, let’s have no more “but”s.’

McBride fell silent.

‘Whose idea was it to hold off the use of search warrants?’

‘That was mine,’ McBride said.

‘Oh?’ Malcolm raised his head.

‘Mr Warren had gone to Bournemouth, to St Bede’s School to ask around. In his absence I decided to wait. Was I wrong?’

Malcolm smiled. ‘That’s one of those imponderables, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It may have been a mistiming, perhaps. At the moment, I’m inclined to be charitable.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Oh, WPC O’Halloran, is it?’ Malcolm said.

‘Yes, sir. Where would you like your tea, sir?’

‘Down my throat, dear, in the fullness of time,’ he smiled. ‘But for now, I’ll settle for the table. Aren’t you joining me, Inspector?’

‘It’s almost lunchtime, Mr Malcolm,’ McBride reminded him.

‘So it is.’ Malcolm checked his watch. ‘Do a mean buffet here, do they, at the Carnforth?’

‘Antonio’s pretty good,’ McBride said.

‘WPC, order an egg and cress sandwich, would you, from this Antonio. White bread. Diet Clover. Anything for you, Inspector?’

‘Er… no, thanks. I’ll get mine later.’

‘Right you are. Have we got any “Do Not Disturb” signs, WPC?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Then put one on the door, there’s a good girl. Leave my sandwich outside on the nearest filing cabinet. Mr McBride and I are in conference.’

10

Superintendent Malcolm was eating his egg and cress sandwich, slowly chewing each mouthful with the deliberation of a prize Guernsey. In his hand were the forensic photographs of Rachel King nee Cameron. She lay face down on her bed, her hair matted with blood, her shoulders and the right sleeve of her powder blue nightdress saturated. A trail of blood spots led from her body across the mat and carpet to the door, where it ended abruptly. Mrs King was still wearing her watch. The hands had stopped at nineteen fifteen.

‘Right.’ Malcolm finished his lunch. ‘What have we?’

‘If you’d come to see the scene of the crime …’ McBride suggested.

‘Who’s SCO?’ the Superintendent asked.

‘DS Latymer.’

Malcolm nodded. ‘Good man, Dave Latymer. He won’t have missed much. Are there any more photographs?’

‘No, that’s it,’ the Inspector told him. ‘Shall we look at the room?’

‘In the fullness of time, yes,’ Malcolm said. ‘Now, you’ve talked me through the death of Mrs Striker. Talk me through the death of Mrs King.’

‘Dr Anderson’s preliminary report –’

‘Anderson?’ Malcolm interrupted him. ‘Is he that foul-mouthed geriatric?’

McBride smiled, not something he felt able to do often in Malcolm’s company. ‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘His preliminary report gives the time of death as between nineteen and twenty hundred hours.’

‘Do you mean seven and eight o’clock?’

‘Yes, Mr Malcolm.’ McBride began wondering how old his new boss was. ‘The watch narrows it down still further.’

‘Probably,’ Malcolm nodded, ‘but I’m far from convinced about such things. I broke my watch the other day. As you see, I am still walking around. Was there a date on Mrs King’s watch?’

‘No.’

‘Was the glass shattered, by which I mean were there pieces missing? Out of the case?’

‘No.’

‘Then she could have broken it that morning or the previous evening. Go on.’

‘From the state of the room, there was a struggle. The door hadn’t been forced, so whoever her murderer was, we assume Mrs King let him in.’

‘You’re presuming a male perpetrator?’

‘With the sort of force involved, yes. A woman might be capable, but no one on the course here at the moment, I wouldn’t think.’

‘All right.’ Malcolm would accept that for the moment.

‘The first blow, Anderson says, was delivered at the foot of the bed. There are blood spots on the carpet at that point. This came from the front and broke the victim’s nose. There would have been profuse bleeding. She fell backwards, probably rucking up the mat as she went down.’

‘Damage to fingernails? Debris?’

‘None. But the knuckles of her right hand were grazed.’

‘Implying?’

‘That she punched him.’

‘You didn’t see any obvious signs, I suppose, on any of the guests?’ Malcolm asked. McBride shook his head.

‘Well, that was a bit too much to hope for,’ the Superintendent said. ‘What then?’

‘The second blow was delivered as she lay on the bed, face up. It shattered the front of the skull – these are the later photographs you have there. At this point she’d have been virtually unconscious. Her killer either rolled her over or she rolled by herself and two more blows were delivered, probably in quick succession, destroying the back of the skull.’

‘So Anderson thinks four blows in all?’

‘Yes. And of course we have the murder weapon.’

‘Of course,’ Malcolm smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing that. Where is it now?’

‘At the lab.’

‘Photographs?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You’ll have to tell me, then,’ Malcolm shrugged.

‘It’s all in the report,’ McBride told him.

‘I know it is, John,’ the Superintendent smiled. ‘I’ve read it. But I’d still like to hear it from you.’

‘An iron pipe, wrapped in tape.’

‘Lord Lucan,’ Malcolm said.

‘Sorry?’

‘There’s no need to be sorry, lad,’ the Superintendent said. ‘I was just reminiscing. Before your time, that one. Lord Lucan’s children’s nanny, Sandra Rivett, was bludgeoned to death with a pipe wrapped in tape. Why the tape, do you suppose?’

‘To give a better grip,’ McBride guessed.

Malcolm nodded. ‘And that’s all the better for us, because it screams premeditation. We don’t have the situation where our hot-tempered friend just grabs the nearest blunt instrument in the heat of an argument. You don’t tend to find iron pipes lying around in conference centre rooms and even if you do, they’re not usually wrapped in adhesive tape for a better grip. Do we know where he got it from?’

‘It’s a section of scaffolding,’ McBride said. ‘Conventional stuff, but I had the lads combing the site yesterday. It didn’t come from here.’

‘So he brought it with him. The lab is sure about the weapon, of course?’

McBride nodded. ‘Eight of Mrs King’s hairs found clinging to the tape. And two of Mrs Striker’s. All genetically matched.’

‘The labs are excelling themselves,’ Malcolm nodded. ‘I didn’t think old Collins had it in him. Can’t have much on at the moment.’

‘Mr Malcolm, I’d like to get back to my interrogation of the prime suspect as soon as possible.’

‘Ah, yes, Dr Moreton. Where is he now?’

‘At the station.’

‘Has he had his phone call?’

‘He has. Solicitor was supposed to be on his way.’

‘Right.’ Malcolm slid back his chair. ‘We’ll need to move out by tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Oh, I know it’s inconvenient,’ Malcolm waved his hand, ‘but on my way in this morning, I had my ear bent by Mr Leonard, who in turn is being badgered by his managing director who had already put in a timely call upstairs. See it from the Carnforth Centre’s point of view. One death is bad for business. Two might put them out of business.’

‘Or it might increase it,’ McBride was cynical enough to observe.

‘It might, John, it might.’ Malcolm nodded at the door. ‘But that would be openly pandering to the sanguinary tastes of Joe Public, wouldn’t it? It’s a brave conference centre manager who’ll do that. Now, we’ve got our marching orders. We’ll set up back at the nick. Anyway, there’s not much more we can learn here. The birds have flown.’

‘We’ve got our man, Mr Malcolm,’ McBride said.

‘Have we, John?’ Malcolm asked, allowing the Inspector to open the door for him. ‘I wonder. I tell you what, you try and convince me of that on the way, will you?’

Sally and Maxwell had timed it badly. Lunch hour at Leighford High was a euphemism for hell. Upwards of seven hundred delinquents, all of them at varying stages of adolescence which involved zits, hormones, anti-establishment attitudes and fantasies about Michelle Pfeiffer – the boys were worse – milled in the three classrooms that did double duty as a dining-hall.

Peter Maxwell hadn’t had a school lunch in nearly twenty years. It was to that sole fact that he attributed his longevity. Merely padding through the dropped chips in the corridor was enough –secondary eating – and it was here he found Paul Moss, the Head of History, on duty.

‘Max! You’re back!’

‘What’s the matter with it?’ The Head of Sixth Form tried looking over his shoulder. With colleagues like his, he was fairly adept at that.

‘I thought you were off all week. Year 13 historians will be ecstatic’

‘Calm them down, Paul. I’m just passing through.’

‘Ah, forgot your pen?’

‘Something like that. Seen Legs?’

‘It’s lunchtime, Max,’ Moss chided him. ‘He’ll be hiding in his office.’

‘Of course.’ Maxwell clicked his fingers. ‘It’s been so long.’

‘Oi!’ Moss bellowed at a weasel-eyed boy who had just dropped an empty Coke can at his feet.

‘What?’

Now Paul Moss was fast. He was thirty-something, genial, good-natured, one of the new school, but his heart was in the right place. But Peter Maxwell was one of the old school and he was faster. His right hand snaked out and caught the litter lout by his ear.

‘Ow!’ he wailed. ‘Get your hands off me!’

‘Mr Moss, are my hands on this boy?’

‘No, Mr Maxwell,’ Moss beamed. ‘Merely your thumb and index finger.’

‘As I surmised. McDevitt, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ The kid tried to shake himself free, but the pain was too much.

‘Do you know the film,
The Dirty Dozen
, McDevitt? Lee Marvin, Telly Savalas and Co, where a bunch of misfits like yourself are trained for a suicidal wartime mission?’

‘Yeah.’ McDevitt frowned, not quite sure where all this was leading.

‘You remember that scene, McDevitt, where Lee Marvin – that’s me, by the way – takes aside malignant dwarf John Cassavetes – that’s you – and says, “March, you little bastard, or I’ll kick your head in”?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, this is an action replay, McDevitt. Pick up that can, you little bastard, or I’ll kick your head in.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ McDevitt asked.

‘Er … yes,’ Maxwell beamed, ‘I believe I am.’

‘Oh. Right,’ and McDevitt bent to pick up the can, grateful the ear was still attached to his head.

‘Have a nice day, Mr Moss,’ Maxwell said.

‘Thank you, Mr Maxwell. You too.’

Along the corridor, McDevitt was hailed by two cronies who’d witnessed his come-uppance. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Den, that was a close one.’

‘Yeah,’ said the other, ‘that’s Mad Max. He killed a kid last year. Just for looking at him.’

‘Fuckin’ hell.’

‘Yeah?’ McDevitt tried to swagger, which was difficult with a throbbing ear. ‘Well, he don’t scare me.’ And he dropped his Mars Bar wrapper carefully in the next litter bin.

Maxwell never actively sought the company of Deirdre Lessing. She was the Morgana Le Fay to his Arthur, the fly in his ointment. And she was the last person he wanted to see ensconced in Legs Diamond’s office that Wednesday lunchtime.

‘Max,’ the Headmaster said, ‘you’re back.’

Maxwell only did the back joke with them he reckoned. And Jim Diamond wasn’t one of them, so he just said, ‘Yes,’ and left it at that.

‘Aren’t you a trifle early, Max?’ Deirdre asked. As Senior Mistress, Deirdre had the broadest shoulders in the school and no one seemed to have told her that power dressing like that had gone singularly out of fashion. She also had legs which would put a gladiator to shame. Probably, under that mantle of pure bitch, there lurked a remarkable body. But Peter Maxwell would never find out.

‘Ah, Deirdre, you trifle with me at your peril,’ he beamed. ‘Might I have a word, Headmaster? Alone?’

Diamond glanced hopefully at Deirdre, who for once played the white woman and got up. ‘Ah, well,’ she smiled acidly at Maxwell, ‘the sixth form needs me for something again.’

Punch-bag practice, Maxwell assumed, but he was too much of a gentleman to say so. When she’d gone, in a vapour trail of Dune, Maxwell took a seat.

‘I thought I caught a glimpse of Sally Greenhow a few minutes ago,’ Diamond said, ‘but I thought I was seeing things. What’s happened, Max? GNVQ course not going well?’

‘Sort of, Headmaster,’ the Head of Sixth Form nodded. ‘We’ve had an incident. Well, two, actually. Two course members have been murdered.’

‘Murdered? Oh, my God, the Carnforth Centre.’

‘I wondered whether you’d heard.’

‘Well, I don’t take a daily, but I did catch it on
South Today
a couple of days ago. Do you know, I didn’t connect the two. How stupid of me.’

The grey suit, the gold-rimmed specs, the attempt to juggle all the balls that were Education Now. No wonder Jim Diamond was losing his grip.

‘How awful. What happened? Two women, I think, the telly said.’

‘Liz Striker and Rachel King,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Battered to death by persons unknown.’

‘Good God. Have there been any developments? I mean, I haven’t heard for a day or so.’

‘A man, I think you’ll find, is helping police with their enquiries.’

‘Who? Er … I mean, you can’t tell me, of course, I understand that.’

‘I don’t,’ Maxwell said. ‘His name is Dr Andrew Moreton – no relation – and he didn’t do it.’

‘How do you know?’

Maxwell crossed his legs as far as his male anatomy would allow. ‘Call it female intuition,’ he said.

‘Good God. Um … Sally. How’s she taking it?’

‘Like a man,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘But I’m afraid I shall need compassionate leave for a day or two.’

‘Compassionate …? Really? Oh.’ Diamond took off his glasses and twirled them around for a while. ‘Oh, really? Well, that’s not like you, Max.’

‘You do have supply cover for me until Friday afternoon?’

‘Well, yes, we do, but –’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Maxwell was on his feet. ‘I just called in to apprise you of the situation. I’d hate to muck up Roger’s supply arrangements. See you Monday, Headmaster.’

‘Max …’

But Max had gone.

In the corridor, Jim Diamond bumped into Sally Greenhow, nipping back to the Learning Support Centre with a pizza and chips. ‘Sally,’ he hailed her, ‘I’ve just seen Max. He’s talking about taking the rest of the week off. Compassionate leave. That’s not like him. Is he all right?’

‘What did he tell you?’ the tall kid asked her headmaster.

‘Only that two people had been murdered. Of course, I knew that from the news coverage anyhow.’

‘One of them Max knew personally,’ Sally said.

‘Really?’

‘Rachel King was an old flame. Now, I don’t really think the corridor is the place to discuss this, Headmaster. I do have a number of things to do.’

‘Oh, quite, Sally, quite,’ and Jim Diamond did what he did best in life. He beat a hasty retreat.

The interview room at Ashford nick was altogether more austere than the improvised one at the Carnforth Centre. More purpose-built. More permanent. The walls were painted brick, the solitary light bulb harsher than Carnforth’s spots and strips. In the centre, in time-honoured tradition, was a table, with three chairs. Only the recording apparatus placed it squarely at the back end of the twentieth century. Otherwise, Haigh, the acid bath murderer, would have felt at home here. So might Dr Harvey Hawley Crippen.

But a different doctor sat in the limelight now. A Doctor of Biology, confused, lost, out of his depth. Behind him, in the murky half-shadows, his brief stood, looking for a fourth chair. He found one and pulled it alongside Moreton’s as the investigating officers came in.