Maxwell's Revenge (25 page)

The spokesperson turned to Maxwell. ‘Thank you for your warning, Mr …’

‘Maxwell,’ he said, redoffing his hat.

‘Maxwell. We will share out our sandwiches to avoid this lunatic.’

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Ladies …’ He stood aside as they streamed past him.

‘What a nice man, in the end,’ he heard one of the tail-end Charlenes say, ‘even though he does seem to have cereal in his hair.’

Maxwell raised his hat again and investigated. Sure enough, one small Coco Pop was nestling
there. He removed it and threw it to a grateful seagull.

Nolan, who had remained silent throughout the experience, now spoke. ‘Dadda,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want sweetie.’

‘Good boy,’ Maxwell said and shooed him back to his grandmother.

‘I didn’t want sweetie,’ he said again.

Ah, the repetitive stage. Goodie. ‘That’s great, old chap,’ said Maxwell, absently.

‘I didn’t want sweetie,
becos
,’ he insisted, ‘the nasty man is over there.’

Maxwell’s head snapped up and he instantly regretted it. ‘Where?’

Nolan’s little finger waved vaguely towards the shops, where the sea defence ended and the normal-width pavement began. The twitchers had gathered there and seemed to be planning a route, with much random pointing going on.

‘I can’t see him, sweetheart,’ he said, bending down. ‘Point for me again.’

The child was getting testy. ‘
There
,’ he said, pointing in a stabbing motion. ‘With the ladies.’

Betty Carpenter was standing behind them, shading her eyes with one hand and scrabbling in her bag for her distance glasses with the other.

‘Ninja,’ Nolan was tugging on her jacket. ‘The man.’

Finally, she had her glasses on and looked hard at the group. Suddenly, she grabbed
Maxwell’s shoulder with surprisingly strong fingers. ‘My God, Max,’ she whispered. ‘He’s right. It is the same man. Well, it’s a man who was there at the time.’

‘And only Nolan knows which one gave him the lolly.’ He squeezed his son hard and kissed the top of his head. ‘Well done, mate,’ he said, quietly. ‘A chip off the old block.’ He stood up.

‘Yes, but which block?’ Jacquie’s mother said. Maxwell glanced at her and saw that she was smiling.

He smiled back. ‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Look, Betty, stay here with Nole. If I don’t come back in, let’s say half an hour, ring Jacquie. Tell her I’m after Oliver Lessing. Have you got that?’ She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you here. I’m going to go and speak to the rancid old bugger. I had him in the frame all along, you know.’

‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow and her daughter flitted across her face. ‘Who did you tell?’

‘Er … just Metternich.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ she said. ‘At least there’s someone who can bear you out. Look,’ she suddenly pointed at the group, ‘he’s off.’

And indeed he was, running along the promenade towards the shops of the Sea Front, leaving behind the Tottingleigh Townswomen’s Twitchers gesticulating wildly.

‘Stay with Nolan, Ninja. Stay with Ninja,
Nole,’ said Maxwell, or something very like it. Neither of them would have stirred anyway; though exciting, this was also quite scary. Maxwell hared off after the fleeing poisoner, jinking, dodging and diving through the scattering women.

‘He ran off when we told him about you.’ The spokesperson’s voice Dopplered as he hurtled past.

I bet he did, thought Maxwell, gathering speed. Lessing had an odd run, knees together and a strange gait; essentially, the quickest hobble in the world, like Mad Vince Price in the
House of Wax.
He covered the ground, though, and Maxwell, anxious not to lose him, wasn’t looking at his feet, but ahead, so stumbling was the order of the day. Add to that the pounding in his head every time a foot hit the floor and he soon began to drop behind. In the maze of footpaths crisscrossing the small park between the Sea Front and the High Street, he lost him altogether. He gave up the chase reluctantly, coming to a halt in a series of long but ever slower strides. He bent down to catch his breath and put his hands on his knees. Through the blood pounding in his head, he could just hear the slap of flat feet, running in an uneven stride through the park.

He walked back to where he had left Nolan and his Ninja. His breathing became easier as he walked and, by the time he reached them, it was
impossible to tell that he had been gasping for oxygen not ten minutes before.

‘D’you catch the nasty man, Dadda?’ Nolan asked.

‘No, mate, sorry. He got away.’ He looked at Ninja, willing her to comment about ancient men outrunning him, but she was silent. She was privately very impressed that he would just run off like that, following into who knew what. She began to realise what her daughter saw in him. She smiled.

‘Bad luck,’ she said. ‘But he surely couldn’t have got far.’

‘I should think he was just about at the end of his run,’ Maxwell said. ‘But the little paths through the park are tortuous and he could have gone anywhere. I’ll just have to get on to Jacquie and they can pick him up at home.’

But Jacquie’s mother was not her mother for nothing. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, briskly. ‘With all this poison talk, I don’t expect the folk of Leighford are exactly out and about taking the air and a coffee and cake this morning. Let’s walk on into town and see if we can pick up his trail.’

‘My word, Ninj,’ Maxwell said, impressed. ‘Let’s do it. Come on, Nole, best foot forward.’ And off they strode, the Three Musketeers, to catch a murderer. A small niggle in the back of Maxwell’s mind was trying to get his attention,
to tell him that Jacquie would have his nuts in a vice for this. He beat it down and tried to ignore it. If all else failed, he could always blame her mother. Or, at a pinch, the kid.

As they approached the recoalesced twitchers, the women backed away. It was all very well and exciting and all, but who was going to take them twitching, now that this madman had frightened away that nice Mr Lessing? Never mind, before he had run off, he had given out bottled water all round, so at least they wouldn’t get dehydrated when passing the sandwiches. They twittered greetings, Maxwell doffed his hat to them one last time, and they went their separate ways.

The walk into town wasn’t long, but before it was half over, Nolan was on his father’s shoulders, with very explicit instructions not to hold on to ears or hair, his usual favourite balance aids. He settled instead for the collar which was only marginally more comfortable and caused momentary choking sensations every few steps.

‘You really don’t seem very comfortable there, Max,’ Ninja observed after a while.

Maxwell struggled for breath and pointed to his collar, squeezing tight against his Adam’s apple.

‘Don’t pull Daddy’s collar, darling,’ his
grandmother admonished. ‘It hurts. And he’s turning a funny colour.’

‘I want down,’ Nolan whinged. It wasn’t like him to be miserable and it dawned on Maxwell that it had been a bit of a twenty-four hours for the poor little chap.

‘Look, Betty, why don’t you take him home?’ Maxwell suggested. ‘I can take it from here. I really don’t want him any more involved, anyway.’ That little niggle was gaining ground.

‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘But I can’t leave you. Jacquie would never forgive me.’

Maxwell swung Nolan back to the pavement while he gathered his thoughts. There seemed no way forward except to call Jacquie and have her take over. He looked at his watch; she would be heading towards the Vine by now. He could catch her there, but then he would have to explain and, with Hall there, it was always hard to nudge them off the straight and narrow police procedure. Hell. He looked up and for a frantic, heart-stopping moment couldn’t see his son. He grabbed Betty’s arm and got an unpleasant handful of Bingo wing. He let go hurriedly.

‘Ow,’ she said, rubbing her bicep. ‘Don’t worry. He’s over there, with that little girl.’

‘Ooh,’ Maxwell’s schmoozing muscle gave itself a bit of a flex. He recognised the child as one from Nolan’s nursery. He had often seen her and Nolan in sticky confabulation at the end of
parties and the like. He headed towards them, hat at the doff, smile at the ready. The girl’s mother, sitting on a nearby bench, looked up from her Sunday supplement.

‘Hello,’ she smiled. She looked past him. The woman she saw gave her a turn. It looked as though Jacquie had been left in the oven too long.

Maxwell followed her gaze. ‘Jacquie’s mother, Mrs Carpenter,’ he said. He made no attempt to introduce them further, as he had no idea what the other’s name was.

She was an understanding soul. She reached out her hand and said, ‘Miranda, Mrs Carpenter. How are you? Down for a holiday?’

Before Ninja could start, Maxwell dived in. ‘We’ve hit a bit of a snag, Miranda, in fact. Betty, Mrs Carpenter, isn’t feeling too well, are you, Betty?’

She opened her mouth to speak but he was too quick for her.

‘No, not well at all. But it’s a bit difficult, with Nole, he’s so excited at having his Granny down, isn’t he, Betty?’

Again, he beat her to it.

‘Never mind, eh, Betty? Let’s get you home so you can have a rest.’

Miranda cut in this time. ‘Oh, Mr Maxwell, don’t worry. You know how well Nolan and Florence get on together. I expect Jacquie’s
working, is she?’ She looked sympathetically at Maxwell. She had always rather fancied the look of him; old, certainly, but at least he had the advantage of being
here
. Florence’s dad was more of a serving suggestion, these days, access arrangements notwithstanding. And there was no telling where a favour might lead. If she scratched his back, who knew where he might scratch back.

‘Mmm,’ Maxwell said, ambiguously.

‘Well, what if I have Nolan for the afternoon? We’d all enjoy it, I know.’

Maxwell feigned surprise. ‘Miranda! That would be wonderful. Wouldn’t it, Betty?’

She nodded. She had fallen in with the plan at last.

‘Can we fetch him later? Jacquie will be back at home this afternoon. She’ll call you.’

The woman stood up and called her daughter. ‘We’re taking Nolan home to play, Flo,’ she said and the little girl jumped up and down. ‘Won’t that be fun?’ She turned again to Maxwell. ‘Does Nolan have any food fads?’

‘Not really,’ Maxwell said. ‘But, you won’t give him anything …’

‘Poisoned?’ she said. ‘No. We’re eating from the freezer and the cupboard at the moment. Like everyone else in Leighford, I should think.’

Maxwell smiled in relief. At last, someone who watched the local news. ‘That’s fine, then,’
he said. ‘Thanks so much, Miranda.’ And he leant forward and gave her a kiss on each cheek. ‘You are a star.’

‘Really, Max,’ Betty said, as they walked away towards the High Street, turning to wave at an oblivious Nolan every few steps, ‘I’ve never seen a performance like it.’

Maxwell looked contrite and was about to apologise.

‘Well done,’ she added and rubbed her hands together. ‘Let’s catch the bastard.’

‘Betty!’ he said. ‘I’m shocked.’

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Nolan isn’t the only chip off the old block, you know. I didn’t read all those Agatha Christies for nothing.’ And off she went, setting a cracking pace, towards Oliver Lessing, Nemesis in crimplene.

Jacquie and Hall had found Leighford nick the easy way. As they turned into the road which ended in its car park, their attention was inevitably drawn to the crowd of thousands of Leighfordians, and their noise. The flaming torches and pitchforks were missing, but they otherwise were very clearly a Mob, with a capital ‘m’.

Jacquie let Hall’s muttered expletive go unremarked, but explained the situation anyway, if only to clear it in her own mind. ‘I expect stories of a poisoner on the loose have been somewhat exaggerated in the telling, guv,’ she said.

‘What do they want to exaggerate for?’ he asked, reasonably. ‘When I last counted, six people are in hospital, three others have had lucky escapes and one person is dead.’

‘Let’s check,’ said Jacquie and stuck her head out of the window. ‘Er, excuse me,’ she said to
the nearest yelling woman. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s this poisoner, ennit?’ the woman said. Seeming glad to stop yelling for a moment, she leant down and looked in through the window. ‘There’s hundreds in hospital, I heard twenty people dead. They’re flying casualties off all over. The General can’t cope, they say. It’s terrible.’

‘It sounds awful,’ said Jacquie. ‘On the news, it just said …’

‘Huh!’ the woman sneered. ‘The news. What’s that got to do with it? They only say what they’re told to say. To stop panics and that.’

‘But it hasn’t stopped it, has it,’ said Jacquie, sweetly. ‘There must be over a thousand people here.’

The woman looked at Jacquie with suspicion. ‘If you’re not here to complain, why are you here?’ she said. She screwed her head round and looked inside the car. The walkie-talkie was in full view, as was Hall’s police pass, left out on the dash. ‘You’re bloody police, aintcha?’ She straightened up. ‘Hey, everybody. Over here. Rozzers. Senior, too, I reckon. Quick.’ But Jacquie had the window up as Hall reversed, for once without his usual caution, tyres snarling.

‘Careful, guv,’ Jacquie said, clutching the dash. ‘You’ll run someone over.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Hall through gritted
teeth as he reached the road. He screeched round and hared off in the direction of the town centre car park. ‘This is Leighford, not Paris. We don’t do mobs here.’

‘I’d have thought not, guv,’ said Jacquie, looking back over her shoulder. ‘But that looked quite convincing to me.’

‘Better radio in,’ he said. ‘See how they are in there.’

She picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the button. ‘Alpha Charlie Two, over.’

‘Come in, Alpha Charlie Two,’ said a harassed-sounding voice.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘To hell with all this “over” nonsense. Just the facts.’ Maxwell would have applauded Jacquie’s
Dragnet
’s Joe Friday, but the similarity hadn’t occurred to her.

‘We’re trapped,’ the voice came back, testily. ‘Was that you reversing out just then?’

‘You bet,’ Jacquie said. Hall nudged her. ‘Hold on, DCI Hall wants a word.’

He leant in closer to the radio. ‘Have you rung the media?’

‘God, no,’ crackled the radio.

‘Do it. They won’t be able to resist a man and a microphone. It’ll take the pressure off. Put it out on all points. I want squad cars and a chopper in the air, just in case. Who’s on duty?’

‘DC Illingworth, guv.’

‘Patch me through.’

Static crackled through Hall’s car and Hall’s head.

‘Guv?’

‘Rob. Looks like you’ve got Fort Apache, the Bronx on your hands.’

‘You know how it is,’ the DC told him. ‘A couple of loudmouths in the front office asking what they’re paying their taxes for, and suddenly you’ve got fucking anarchy. ’Scusing my French at all times.’

‘Bill’s calling for back-up,’ Hall said.

‘He’s done that already. We’ve got teams coming over from Pompey and Littlehampton.’

‘Mark out a perimeter for them,’ Hall ordered. ‘Er … Castle Street, the Park, Della and Mapleton. Pull the cordon in. Coordinate with the chopper which should be on its way. Any actual heads broken yet?’

‘No, guv.’ He could hear the chuckle in Illingworth’s voice. ‘We’ve got it covered.’

‘You’re sure, Rob?’

‘I’d rather they were here than at Leighford General. At least we can contain them.’

‘OK. Keep in touch.’ He sat straight again and concentrated on the turn into the car park.

‘Right oh, guv.’

‘It’s me,’ said Jacquie. ‘Can I have Bill back, please?’ She waited. ‘How are the fingerprints coming along?’

‘Bad news, Jacquie. Just nick personnel.’

‘Bugger. Never mind, it was always a long shot. Thanks. We’ll check back in later. Alpha Charlie Two out.’

‘Roger, Alpha Charlie Two.’ The crackling died abruptly as the radio went dead.

Hall pointed. ‘Isn’t that your car?’ he asked.

Jacquie looked in the direction of his finger. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. That means Max has actually done as I asked him and taken Mum and Nole shopping.’

‘That’s good, then. We know where they are. I’m always a bit suspicious when your … Max is on the loose.’

‘That makes two of us, guv. But he won’t do anything when he’s got Nolan with him, at least I can be sure of that.’ She looked around at the almost empty car park. There was a minibus parked up near the sea defence, her own Ka and five other vehicles. Other than that, it was deserted. ‘You can’t usually get in here on a Sunday morning as sunny as this. Where is everyone?’

‘Outside the nick, threatening mayhem,’ Hall said, switching off the engine. ‘Rob will be all right. If anyone can talk sense to the great British public, he can. Even so, I’m not straying far from the radio.’ He got out and stretched. ‘God, Jacquie, it’s been a long few days, hasn’t it?’

‘It certainly has, guv,’ said Jacquie. ‘It’s hard to believe that all this kicked off last Thursday.’

‘I almost didn’t respond, you know, to the call from Leighford High. Well, to be accurate, I didn’t respond. Bob Davies took it into his own hands.’

‘You would have got involved eventually,’ said Jacquie, comfortingly.

Hall snorted. ‘We haven’t come out smelling of roses as it is, Jacquie,’ he said. ‘Imagine if we had taken longer even than we did. The press and that mob would have a field day.’

‘We’ll sort it, guv,’ Jacquie patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry.’ She knew he was thinking of Margaret, still in hospital but out of danger. He was thinking of the murdered Mel Forman, cut down because she had a weakness for prawns and an allergic teaching assistant. Randomness was the policeman’s enemy; there was nothing to get a hold of, nothing to follow. Perhaps Angus would have something for them that didn’t end in a no-through-road sign.

They fell into step, walking in the wake of her family, had they but known. They were West Sussex police persons, not Tonto, so they didn’t know what all the signs, written clearly in the sand, meant. There was the skid mark where Maxwell had shot straight off the blocks to stop an innocent old lady giving Nolan a sweet. There was the clean area near the end of the sea defence where a flock of twitchers had milled around, waiting for their guide. There were the
flat-footed, pigeon-toed marks of Oliver Lessing, approaching his ladies. Then, the spiral ground deep into the verge of his turn and flight. The marks of his passage were obliterated by the deeply marked spoor of a running man, running to save more people from death or disaster. Oblivious of the historical record being scuffed aside by their own feet, they walked along the Front and crossed the road into the park.

‘We might bump into them while we’re in town,’ said Jacquie, for something to say.

‘Hmm, yes,’ said Hall absently. He was many miles away and in many different directions. He was with Margaret in the hospital, he was behind his desk, about to be crushed by teetering paperwork, he was facing a murderer, reading him his rights. Above all, he was with Rob Illingworth in Fort Apache, wondering how ugly the situation might become. The trouble was that, on the murderer front, the man had no face, no voice, nothing he could get a hold on. He was as insubstantial as air.

Jacquie knew better than to try and drag him back. When there wasn’t a case to work on, he could be like this for days. But somehow, he always came out the other side, fresh and enthusiastic, as far as anyone could tell, ready for the next challenge. The thing with this case was that it was happening so fast. It was like being bombarded with missiles, each one from an
unexpected direction. Some of them were
ping-pong
balls, others bags of shit. And, possibly, the next one could well be a grenade with the pin missing.

As they walked through the deserted town centre, they fell naturally into the regulation two and a half miles an hour, measured, automatic. Her eyes swept from side to side, taking in everything, sifting, discarding, the gaze of a policeman on the beat. Out of the left-hand corner of her eye, she saw something familiar. She looked again, but it was gone. She couldn’t be sure what had caught her attention; old habits died hard.

They both heard the broken rattle of a police helicopter, droning in the distance. There was no siren to announce the reinforcements snarling into Leighford from east and west. Softly, softly, the DCI would have told them. Form your circle, park in side streets, wait. A few quiet words might still do the trick.

Maxwell and Betty Carpenter hastened through the deserted town centre, the speed as near to a run as two people who will never see fifty again could maintain. They scanned constantly, turning their heads this way and that, jumping at every blowing newspaper, dashing off in pursuit of every shadow. The helicopter drone they barely noticed. It was probably a coastguard sweep.
Routine. They were certainly unaware of the squad cars prowling past the Flyover. They were alone, apart from the occasional hardened drinker heading towards the Vine, the only pub which had bothered to open in what had rapidly become a siege town. News travels fast. Bad news travels faster and the growing crowd at the police station were sending out signals on every frequency. Leighford was battening down its hatches. They could hear a measured tread behind them, but knew it wasn’t their quarry. For a start, they reasoned, he was ahead of them. And his flat feet would flap on the paving stones of the pedestrian precinct they were now in like gunshots.

Maxwell suddenly stopped and triangulated like a hound on the scent. ‘Betty,’ he whispered. ‘Can you hear that?’

She came and stood alongside him. ‘Footsteps,’ she said. ‘Behind us.’

‘No, not that. That other sound. It’s got an echo; it’s hard to make it out.’

She listened harder, funnelling a hand to her ear. It made her look as if she was auditioning for a role in
Macbeth
. She bent her head and closed her eyes. Then, suddenly opening them wide, she turned to Maxwell. ‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘That way.’

They dashed off down the alleyway to their left, chasing the dark elusive butterfly of death.

All too soon, Jacquie and Hall were at the Vine. No one knew how the pub had managed to survive, taking up valuable wine bar space in the middle of Leighford Town Centre. But there it was, large as life and twice as smelly. Mad Artie was noticeable by his absence. His ancient mother, who kicked him out every morning to give her space to ply her dwindling trade, had a lie-in on a Sunday, so the air in the lounge bar was merely noisome, rather than noisome and blue. The police persons walked in gingerly. It certainly wasn’t wise to stand still for too long; the legend went that people who stood on one spot could be seen to sink into the soggy carpet, until they were beyond human aid.

A wordless shout called them over to the bar. Angus lounged there, with a half-drunk pint in front of him. The barman was leaning close by, fidgeting with an empty glass, its froth-flecked sides still wet with condensation.

Hall and Jacquie made their way from the door, with that sidelong look adopted by the approacher to the approachee; it was not appropriate to wave, and yet some kind of greeting was needed. Thank goodness it was a small room, thought Jacquie. There was no need to call back.

‘Angus,’ Hall said, shortly. ‘Are we on the clock?’

‘Mr Hall,’ Angus said, stirring himself rather
more than was usual. ‘I’m not in this game for the money, you know. I’m in it for the cause of justice.’

‘If you say so,’ Hall said. ‘Do you have the remastered voice tape?’

‘Tape?’ Angus laughed and moved his gum to the other side. He took another swig of his beer. ‘CD-ROM, you mean.’

‘For God’s sake, Angus,’ Hall exploded. ‘What’s the point of that? We need to hear it now.’

‘And so you shall,’ Angus said, reaching down to the side of his stool. ‘I’ve got my laptop with me. I’ve come more or less straight from that shop where the poisoner was caught. Well, nearly caught; how is Mr Maxwell, Jacquie?’

‘That’s DS Carpenter, to you,’ snapped Hall.

Oh, great, thought Jacquie. Years of schmoozing gone West. She gave Angus a rueful smile.

The boffin looked at Hall with just a hint of annoyance. Angus was not easily moved, to anger or anything else, but Hall got right up his nose. He waved a plug aimlessly in the air. ‘I’ve had this running on battery almost all night. Jeff, have we got an extension lead we can use?’

‘Is it hot in here?’ the barman said, a propos of nothing.

‘Not especially,’ Angus said. ‘Do you have an extension?’

‘No,’ the barman said, swatting a fly only he could see. ‘It is hot in here.’ He threw his arms around madly, and twitched his head. ‘Get off,’ he cried, and fell suddenly to the floor, the thud accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.

Angus reacted with lightning speed. He leapt to his feet and put his hands on the bar, launching himself over, kicking over the glasses and a bowl of peanuts as he did so. Hall and Jacquie were both impressed and amazed and, with deference to their age and rank, dashed for the flap at the end, to let themselves through. When they reached the other side, an unexpected and unpleasant sight met their eyes. The barman, Jeff, was half sitting, half lying in a pool of alcopop, which fizzed and spluttered in a desultory way. On top of him lay Angus, retching and heaving as his system tried to rid itself of the poison inside.