Maxwell’s Ride (20 page)

‘A fix,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to help kill you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there, done that.’ And he stood up.

‘It was a woman,’ she told him quickly with more power in her voice now. ‘Last night. Late.’

‘A woman?’ Maxwell was crouching again, fingering the card with its curious verse. ‘What did she look like, this woman?’

The girl’s hand came out, tentatively, touching his knee, the bony fingers running along his thigh. He caught them, holding them gently. ‘The woman,’ he said.

‘I didn’t get a good look,’ she pulled her hand away. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters,’ he said. ‘And that’s all that matters. Are you going to tell me or not?’

‘Small change,’ she repeated.

The tenner was in his hand again. ‘Promise me,’ and he took her hand again, ‘promise me you’ll buy some food with this.’

She blinked at him in the shadows. A June lunchtime in the capital of the sun and they might as well have been on the polar icecap. ‘I promise,’ she said.

He opened her tightly clenched fingers gently and put the note there, closing her fist again.

‘She was tall,’ the girl told him, ‘with dark glasses and a headscarf. She didn’t see me. She was scared. Sort of … sad . . but scared. I could tell that.’

‘Did she have a car?’

The girl shook her head. ‘She come down the hill. Over there. Went back the same way.’

‘To the Strand?’

The girl nodded. ‘That’s all I know. Who was he, mister? The bloke what died here?’

‘He was just a boy,’ Maxwell said. ‘Somebody sent him to do a man’s work.’ He stood up, looking down at the wreck of humanity at his feet. ‘I sent him.’

Henry Hall didn’t enjoy Incident Rooms. He’d seen too many of them and they always meant the same thing. Tragedy. Hopefully, if you got the breaks, you got the man, solved the case, tidied the whole thing up – until the next time. But the victim was just as dead, other lives just as broken. There was no mending any of that, no turning back the hands of time.

‘Astley thinks the same gun,’ the DCI told his team. It was a Saturday night. Blokes who should have been down the pub, out with the missus, sat in front of him, shirt sleeves rolled, eyes tired; estimated concentration span – ten minutes. ‘Frank.’ He motioned to Bartholomew, who got to his feet brandishing a rifle.

‘This,’ he said, ‘if you’ve not seen one before, is a Ruger KM77 Vt Mark Two .308 calibre hunting rifle. Hendon have come through with the same weapon for both the Warner and Logan killings. It’s a specialist weapon, people. Bolt action as you see, with a 26-inch barrel, sights and silencer. It weighs nine and a half pounds.’

‘And,’ Hall added, ‘and, it’s not available in this country and it doesn’t belong to Neil Hamlyn.’

There were murmurs around the room.

‘At least, he’s not registered as its owner. And bearing in mind how meticulous he was about the Ruger Mini Fourteen that surprises me. Anyway, the bottom line is that Hamlyn was in custody when Christopher Logan was killed. Unless he’s Harry Houdini he’s in the clear.’

‘Guv,’ a voice came from a smoke-filled corner. ‘I don’t understand. Are we talking copy cat?’

‘It’s possible,’ Hall nodded. ‘The papers carried the Warner thing. And of course our friends the television people had their cameras up …’

‘… our arses.’ Bartholomew was quick to pinpoint their exact position. Nobody laughed.

‘But we believe Logan was killed inside and since nobody has reported anything it looks as if this was a solitary hit – no witnesses. Nothing flash.’

‘Different purpose then, sir?’ It was Jacquie Carpenter who wanted to know.

‘Sorry?’ It had been a long day for them all.

‘If it’s the same finger on the trigger, why is one indoors and apparently in secret and the other one in front of hundreds of would-be witnesses? Is it because the killer was making a statement with Warner? A sort of exhibition kill? Whereas Logan …’

‘Had stumbled onto something.’ It was Hall’s turn to finish the sentence. ‘Yes, Jacquie.’ He was thinking, sitting forward in his chair, staring at the rifle cradled in Bartholomew’s arms. ‘Yes, that’s good. What did Mr Maxwell tell you?’

Jacquie felt every pair of eyes in that room burning into her. She felt naked in the spotlight. ‘Not a lot,’ she said, hoping that her voice was steady. She saw Frank Bartholomew sit down, resting the Ruger against a filing cabinet. ‘He and Logan were working on the case.’

There was a ripple of hubbub and one or two guffaws. What’s this then?’ somebody wanted to know. ‘Fucking Holmes and Watson?’

‘Well, Watson’s dead,’ Bartholomew answered. ‘Maybe Sherlock’s next in the line of fire.’ He was looking at Jacquie as he said it.

‘What did Logan find out?’ Hall asked.

‘Maxwell doesn’t know. He – Logan – intended to visit Anthony LeStrange, the magician, in London. Had his phone number.’

‘Intended to?’

‘He never got there. At least, that’s what LeStrange says.’

‘Who is this Maxwell, guv?’ somebody else asked.

‘Frank?’ Hall glanced sideways.

‘I was going to ask DC Carpenter,’ Bartholomew said. There were a few sniggers.

‘And I was asking you, Frank,’ Hall persisted.

‘He’s a teacher. Up at the High School,’ the Detective Sergeant did the honours. ‘We caught him snooping round Logan’s flat last Wednesday. Claims he taught him.’

‘He did,’ Jacquie confirmed, staring at Bartholomew.

‘Who’s been covering the
Advertiser
today?’ Hall thought it best to change tack.

‘That’s me, guv,’ Ray Sounness was on his feet. ‘I can confirm the LeStrange connection. A colleague of Logan’s …’ he checked his notebook, ‘Keith Kershaw … had the phone number. I rang it and got LeStrange’s secretary. The magician himself wasn’t available, but the secretary handles all appointments and had never heard of Christopher Logan.’

‘Did you buy that?’ Hall asked.

Sounness shrugged. ‘Over the phone, guv. I don’t know.’

Hall nodded. It was an unfair question. He was grasping at straws and he knew it, floundering in the sea of blood that swamped his darker dreams. ‘Get back to him tomorrow, Ray, first thing. Get me an appointment with Mr LeStrange. And Jacquie …’

‘Sir?’

‘First thing tomorrow – you get me one with Mr Maxwell.’

‘Well, come along, Count,’ Maxwell rolled sideways a little on his bed. ‘You either recognize it or you don’t.’ He was waving the card in the air, the one that had accompanied the rose left where they’d found Chris Logan. The rose left there by the woman in the headscarf, the woman in dark glasses.

The cat didn’t even look up, just curled tighter on the television base and let a leg dangle over the video front, just in case the old bastard wanted to use his remote. Maximum annoyance; minimum support – the way of the cat.

‘Well, I thought Housman,’ Maxwell explained his reasoning, adjusting the pillows against the headboard. ‘I even toyed with Betjeman – and that’s not something many can claim. I asked Annette Richardson, though I should have known better. She’s only the Head of English after all – I mean, be fair. Know what she said? “Could be Housman. Could be Betjeman. Have you thought of Philip Larkin?’” Maxwell flopped back on his pillows like the Death of Chatterton. ‘Who the hell thinks of Philip Larkin? But more to the point, Count, who is the dark lady who left it? The dark lady of the sonnet? Girlfriend? He didn’t seem to have one. Mother? Hardly. Wife? He wasn’t married. Admirer? What, a
Sun
journalist? But that might be it, though.’ The Great Man was thinking again. Metternich could always tell. The old duffer’s eyes narrowed and he set his jaw, standing, or in this case lying, like an ox in the furrow. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll go and see Mr LeStrange again. And then, Icarus that I am, I’ll go to the
Sun
.’

Monday, Monday. Hate that day. There was always something that the weekend had thrown up, some ghastly trauma that only a man like Maxwell could sort out.

‘Gutteridge,’ he stood looking up at the ghastly trauma in question. Six foot three of uncoordination. ‘Did you or did you not encounter Mr Holton, the Head of Science, on the Seafront on Saturday?’

‘Yeah.’

Well, that was something. At least Gutteridge wasn’t pleading the fifth. ‘And did you cross the road in order to engage him in conversation?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Had you or had you not been imbibing at the time?’

‘Eh?’

‘Having a jar?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘At an establishment of ill repute called The Coach and Horses?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where you are unable to acquire alcohol legally on account of your being under-age but that didn’t stop you because the bar man is either a mate or an idiot or both?’

‘Uh … yeah.’

‘And did you, having downed an unknown quantity of said alcohol, proceed to tell the aforementioned Mr Holton to – and I quote “sort out [his] fucking life” or words to that effect?’

‘No.’

‘Gutteridge, Gutteridge,’ Maxwell circled the overgrown oaf, standing as he was in the centre of his Head of Sixth form’s carpet, ‘Taking a GNVQ course does not entitle you to lie through your teeth. Now would you like to reconsider that answer or do I have to put my career on the line by beating you to a pulp?’

Gutteridge looked down at the man. He was six inches taller, two stone lighter, with all the youthful advantages of reflex and speed. On the other hand, the other guy was Mad Max and you didn’t push your luck with Mad Max.

‘All right, yeah.’ Discretion was ever the better part of Gutteridge’s valour.

‘Excellent!’ Maxwell slapped his arm. ‘A right decision if ever I heard one. Now, you will take yourself off to the Science Department, you will find Mr Holton, you will apologize to him. You will, if he so orders it, kiss his backside and above all, you will be grateful that I don’t end your career here and now. Am I communicating with you, Gutteridge?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Maxwell frowned. ‘I believe there’s a word missing there. It’s quaint, old-fashioned, even a little eccentric perhaps, but it is only one syllable. Try it for me, there’s a good lad.’

‘Yeah, sir.’

‘Stout fellow.’ And Maxwell saw the shambling oaf out, just before his telephone rang.

‘Mr Maxwell? This is DC Jacquie Carpenter, Leighford CID.’

‘Woman Policeman.’ Maxwell knew that police switchboards, like walls, have ears.

‘I wonder if you’d mind coming down to the station, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Hall would like a word.’

‘Delighted,’ Maxwell said. ‘But the National Curriculum is an exacting beast, Woman Policeman. I simply cannot spare the time at the moment.’

‘Shall we say the end of the day?’

‘The end of the day,’ Maxwell complied. ‘No, ’fraid not. What about a working lunch? Neutral territory. Er … the Seafront, why not? Will you act as his second or mine?’

But duelling wasn’t Jacquie Carpenter’s bag. ‘Tomorrow then?’ she asked, her voice still crisp as a Brannigan’s. ‘Twelve thirty?’

‘Better say twelve thirty-five,’ he suggested.

‘Twelve thirty-five,’ and he could, just for a moment he landed, hear the smile in her voice.

‘Irwin,’ Maxwell was already unshackling White Surrey from that rusty bit of iron that jutted from the Design Block wall.

‘Mr Maxwell,’ the handsome lad broke away from his companion of a mile. ‘If it’s about the phone calls …’

‘Phone calls?’ Maxwell’s eyebrow reached new heights.

‘Er … oh, nothing.’

‘Am I right in remembering that your good father is a lecturer in English at that Godless institution known as Southampton University?’

‘He is indeed,’ Irwin smiled.

‘Excellent. If he has a moment, could he locate this for me?’ He handed a transcript of the elusive poem to the boy.

‘It’s Rupert Brooke,’ Irwin told him. ‘“Dining-Room Tea”, I think it’s called.’

Maxwell’s mouth didn’t hang open very often, but then he didn’t hear a miracle every day. ‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘Irwin, I’m humbled. How did you know?’

‘Yes, yes, quite. But how … ?’

Mark Irwin laughed, hauling his holdall onto his shoulder. ‘Rupert Brooke happens to be my dad’s favourite poet – after Philip Larkin, of course.’

‘Of course!’

‘Each of us sprog Irwins had to learn bits of poetry. I got Rupert Brooke – “Dining-Room Tea” and “Kindliness”. Party pieces, really – to impress aunties and make them give us money.’

‘Oh, excellent young man,’ beamed Maxwell. ‘Were it not for the impropriety of the thing and the risk of being struck off, I’d kiss you.’

‘May I say, sir,’ Irwin asked, ‘you’re not my type.’

‘Very glad to hear it. Oh, by the by …’

‘Sir?’

‘About those phone calls.’

‘Um?’ For an intelligent lad, Irwin did a good line in vacant.

‘The ones to Tiffany – no problem. As many as you like.’

Peter Maxwell didn’t like bothering Deirdre Lessing. But he needed one teensie bit of information from her and he needed it today. She wasn’t in her usual lair, her office on the mezzanine floor, strewn as it was with the bleached bones of lesser men. Undeterred, Maxwell held his metaphorical polished shield in front of him and swept in, batting aside the writhing serpents she’d left there to guard her ghastly secrets. He checked her desk – little bouquet of spring flowers in a glass, cutesy bunny pen holder, a ‘thank you’ from some sad, deranged girl and – ah, a filofax. All right, so she’d probably wound a single mousey hair across the catch so that she’d know later if it had been opened. There was probably a CCTV camera on Maxwell as he spoke, cunningly disguised as a rubber plant. But he was so far steep’d in blood. He checked the addresses, committed the one he wanted to memory and was gone.

There was a magic about Lammas Court on Sydenham Hill. They’d moved the mighty Crystal Palace there after its debut in Hyde Park, until that fateful night when a fag-end put an end to an era. Now, as Maxwell found the place, the houses glowed in the mist-shrouded hollows and the lights that twinkled and flickered like King Henry’s army before Agincourt couldn’t possibly be shining from anywhere as prosaic as Penge.