Maxwell's Inspection (27 page)

‘Of course. And I'm sorry, Henry. It's not like me, I think you'll agree.'

‘I think I will,' Hall nodded and rang off. He leaned over and ringed the date on the calendar. And, careful that no one in the outer office could see, he smiled.

‘Who in their right minds lives in Basingstoke?' It was a question Peter Maxwell had asked before and he was slogging round to Leighford Station that Monday
afternoon
in order to find an answer all over again. The sound of a horn made him turn. Was it John Peel with his coat so gay? No, it was a white van with three of the Great Unwashed in it and the badly painted Yawning Hippos motif on the side.

‘Mr Maxwell,' Duggsy leaned out of the window. ‘Getting anywhere with that photographer bloke?'

‘I've made a start, Matthew, thanks,' the Head of Sixth Form said.

‘Going to the station?'

‘To Basingstoke, actually.

‘Well, hop in. We'll give you a lift.'

‘What? To Basingstoke?'

‘Yeah, we're doing Reading this year. Oh, not playing, you understand. Just crowd-surfing. Although, this time
next year …' It was pure Del Boy Trotter and just as believable.

‘Oh, I couldn't impose.' Maxwell shook his head.

‘No imposition, Mr Maxwell, is it lads, eh?'

Iron Man grunted something from behind the wheel and there was a squawk from Wal in the back. Time was when Peter Maxwell wouldn't be seen dead getting into a white van, especially one belonging to a struggling Rock band. But that was before they privatized British Rail and the country's transport system had started going
backwards
. Now, needs must when Iron Man drove.

‘You're on,' Maxwell said and clambered in the back. The thing was roof high in gear; tops, bins, poles, even the odd rod and perch. There were drum cases everywhere and a crate of Stella. The whole van smelt of stale beer, old ciggies and a strange, sweet assortment of illegal
substances
. If Johnny Law decided to pull this lot over, he'd have a field day.

‘Don't mind sitting on the coffin, Mr Maxwell?' Wal asked him.

‘Coffin?' Maxwell paused on his way in.

Wal tapped the long black box under him. ‘Iron Man's gear. I can guarantee a numb bum by the time we're out of Tottingleigh.'

‘I thought you guys weren't playing,' Maxwell said.

‘You never know,' Iron Man was looking for a gear – any one would do, ‘when you might get lucky.'

‘Counting Crows need a support band,' Duggsy enthused. ‘I've got a feeling about this summer, Mr Maxwell. I think we're standing on the threshold of a dream.'

Maxwell stared at the back of the lad's head. He
appeared neither moody nor blue. Perhaps he was older than he looked.

‘Now, as your official Irregulars, Mr Maxwell,' the lead singer half turned to him. ‘What can you tell us about that photographer bloke?'

‘It's not him,' Iron Man said, crashing through his gears as the van snarled out of the station car park.

‘Yes, it fucking is, Iron,' Duggsy insisted. ‘You tell him,

Wal.' ‘Well, I don't know.' Mr Bassman was sitting on the fence as well as the coffin.

‘I don't know who you guys did or didn't see in the Vine car park.' Maxwell played the arbiter as usual. ‘But he sure as hell is the one I saw in the gents earlier in the evening. And he sure as hell is the photographer found done to death in his own studio. Now, I call that a
coincidence
, don't you?'

You couldn't love Basingstoke. At least, Peter Maxwell couldn't. He'd harboured a grudge all these years, because a long, long time ago when marriage was still an institution and BBC newsreaders had been to Public School, young Peter Maxwell had visited Basingstoke and had walked slap into a brick pillar in the town centre. He was delighted to find the brick pillar gone now and
muttered
‘Nah nah de nah nah' as Iron Man's van screeched around the corner. On the other hand, he was a bit miffed not to find a blue plaque commemorating the occasion.

‘Ease up, Iron,' Duggsy warned. ‘Last thing we want is the Filth pulling us over with our particular cargo.'

The Romans had come this way, up from Bohunt with the sun on their backs and their leather boots crunching through the heather. They'd extended the old Celtic town to the north and called it grandly Calleva Atrebatum. To the west was the magic-moated castle of Odiham, square and solid and proud above its lily pads. Old Basing House, once the largest in England, was knocked about a bit by Oliver Cromwell and lay to the east of the town. But the centre itself was just like any other – W.H.Smith's, Next, phone shops and HMVs without number. Maxwell felt the old headaches coming back and the sting of the graze on his cheek.

‘Better wait here, guys,' he told the Band. ‘I don't want to frighten our friend from Ofsted.' So the Irregulars
settled
down in a car park to a couple of Stellas and some KFC; Maxwell was paying.

Staystill House was a damn sight quainter than the Cunliffe. It boasted its position as the oldest inn in Old Basing and you couldn't get much older than that. Unless of course you were the old bastard casually sauntering through the foyer that sunkissed Monday evening. The bar was already humming with the chatter of a
convention
. Glasses clinked and the only sound other than forced laughter was the soft thud as long-bladed knives hit the MD squarely in the back. Sunlight streamed in through the leaded window onto the copper and brasses that ornamented the reception counter.

‘Hello, may I help you?' a four-year-old girl tried to look grown up and efficient for Maxwell's benefit.

‘I'm looking for Malcolm Harding.' He tipped his hat.

‘Is he a guest?'

‘In a manner of speaking,' Maxwell said.

‘I'm afraid we can't …'

He flashed his NUT card inside his wallet, leaning towards her like a Cato Street conspirator. ‘It is a police matter,' he confided.

‘'Oh.' The four-year-old looked suitably impressed and thought of the hotel's reputation. ‘Room
Twenty-One
, sir. Up the stairs. Turn left.'

Maxwell did, bounding two at a time. He was
conscious
that the Hippos had a tent to go to and copious quantities of ganja to get through before cockshut time. More importantly, his home town was littered with dead people and he wanted some answers.

‘Mr Harding.' He doffed his hat to the incredulous occupant of Room Twenty-One. ‘Remember me? Peter Maxwell, Leighford High. How's the Inspection
business
?'

‘What are you doing here?'

Maxwell sidled past the pompous windbag and into the room. ‘Hoping to avoid clichés like that for a start.'

‘Mr Maxwell,' Harding followed him into the centre of the room. ‘This is very irregular. I'm inspecting another school.'

‘I know,' Maxwell nodded, admiring the four poster bed and the incongruous wide-screen TV. ‘How're they shaping up? Beacon of our education system or
God-awful
crap? And by the way, after the death of Alan Whiting, you're talking to me about irregular?' He turned to face the man squarely, scowling at him, cheek by jowl.

‘But why are you here?'

‘James Diamond was arrested last week.'

‘Diamond?' Harding found himself turning away to close the door.

‘The Headmaster of Leighford High. Oh, Headmaster is too grandiose a term, I'll grant you – that's why I use it. But he's all we've got, poor bugger and he's as likely a murder suspect as Mother Theresa. It's my job to prove it.'

‘
Your
job?' Harding was trying to make sense of all this as Maxwell sprawled on the bed, bouncing to check its springs.

‘Not bad,' he nodded, flicking the chintz of the
curtains
. ‘You didn't like Alan Whiting, did you?'

‘How did you know that?' Harding snapped. ‘I only told the police that in confidence…' Not much of a poker player was Malcolm Harding.

‘Yes, well,' Maxwell sat on the edge of the tester. ‘Nothing's sacred now, is it? Half the Catholic church are off like rats up pipes out of the Confessional to kiss and tell to the Sunday newspapers. The world and his wife
can read their confidential references. MI5 advertise in the
Times Ed
– although why they should imagine they can recruit Intelligence among teachers is beyond me. Why didn't you like him?'

‘If you must know,' Harding eased himself into the armchair, ‘he stole a job I was after.'

Maxwell shrugged. ‘All's fair, surely,' he said.

‘There was
nothing
fair about Alan Whiting, believe me.'

‘Was he a womanizer, would you say?'

‘Alan?' Harding thought for a moment. ‘He fancied himself, certainly. That was all part of his arrogance. No woman could resist the charms in his trousers and no man the keen thrust of his mind. ‘Course, it could have been the other way round.'

‘So Whiting and Sally Meninger?'

‘An item?' Harding looked at him solemnly. ‘It's
possible
. Certainly, I heard rumours.'

‘From whom?' Maxwell may have been up to his elbows in murder, but the syntax must serve. There were, after all, standards.

‘Well, Paula Freeling, for one.'

‘Paula Freeling told you?' This was a new direction.

‘I'm surprised your police colleagues didn't tell you that, Mr Maxwell,' Harding said archly.

‘Yes,' Maxwell frowned. ‘So am I.' He'd give Jacquie a good talking to when … but there wouldn't be any
talking
any more, would there? Good or otherwise. Just the long silence that was called moving on.

‘Pretty observant old bird was Paula,' Harding
murmured
. ‘Now, there is a mystery.'

‘What is?' Maxwell asked.

‘Why anyone would want to kill her,' Harding shrugged.

‘You've answered your own question,' Maxwell told him. ‘The old bird was
too
observant, I suspect. Look,' he fumbled in his wallet, ‘I don't usually carry these things, but,' he handed him a card, ‘if anything occurs to you, anything at all, give me a ring, will you?'

And he made for the door.

‘Just a minute.' Harding stopped him. ‘How did you know where to find me?'

‘Basingstoke!' boomed Maxwell in his best
Ruddigore
. ‘You told me yourself. I'm off to Basingstoke you said when we had breakfast together at the Cunliffe. They're very helpful at the Bishop Latymer School, aren't they? When I told them I was your flatmate and that you'd left the iron on, they fell over themselves to give me your accommodation address. Lovely name, isn't it, Staystill? Unfortunately,' he beamed, tipping his hat again, ‘that's one thing I can't do. Oh, by the way,' in the door he turned, apart from the lack of mac and two good eyes, a dead ringer for Lootenant Columbo, ‘there's just one more thing. Sally Meninger.'

‘Oh, yes,' Harding's face darkened. ‘She's trouble, that one.'

‘Oh? In what way?'

Harding got up and closed to his man. ‘A liar, a schemer, a tart, will that do for openers?'

‘Come along now, Mr Harding,' Maxwell chuckled. ‘Come off the fence. What do you
really
think of Sally Meninger?'

And he was gone.

‘But how did you know I was at the Bishop Latymer
School?' Harding called after him. Answer came there none.

‘Lads.' Maxwell tapped on the van's side window and Duggsy nearly choked mid-puff. ‘Thanks for the lift. But you boys have to be elsewhere and so do I.'

‘Where's that, Mr Maxwell?' Duggsy wanted to know.

‘Wiltshire. Devizes, to be precise.'

‘Well, that's it, then.' Duggsy said, nudging Iron Man who kicked over the ignition. ‘Should make it by
nightfall
.'

‘Whoa, hang on.' Maxwell stopped the headlong rush to judgement. ‘Look, guys, I'm grateful for the lift, but I can't impose …'

‘We've been talking it over, haven't we Iron? Wal?'

‘Yeah,' came a confident voice from the darkening bowels of the van.

‘We're unanimous, Mr Maxwell,' Duggsy said.

‘Yeah, we all are,' chimed in Iron.

‘We're your Irregulars, remember?'

Maxwell laughed. ‘But that was on home turf, lads, back in Leighford. Now, you did me a good turn the other day by recognizing Craig Edwards, but this is different.'

‘Mr Maxwell,' Iron Man leaned across, looking up at the man who was never
his
Head of Sixth Form. ‘You're going it alone, right? Looking for the bloke what iced this Whiting bloke and that old broad and now the
photographer
?'

‘That's right,' Maxwell was patience itself. He'd been talking to younger Iron Men all his working life; just
talking
to, never down.

‘Who'd you talk to in there?' the drummer asked.

‘Malcolm Harding, one of the Ofsted people.'

‘He your bloke, d'you reckon?'

‘The killer?' Maxwell shook his head. ‘No chance. Malcolm's too full of himself. I'm looking for a loner, somebody who'd blend in a crowd. Mr Opinion in there couldn't keep his mouth shut for long enough.'

‘There you are, then,' Iron Man shrugged, his piercings rattling, ‘If it ain't him, it's one of the others. You look like you need a bit of protection.'

Both Wal and Duggsy had seen Mad Max in action, as much a master with a piece of chalk or with a well-aimed door. But Iron Man was older than they were; perhaps he sensed a vulnerability the younger ones didn't.

‘All right,' Maxwell agreed. ‘But I'm a teacher, men; I can't afford five star for us all.'

‘Christ, Mr Maxwell,' Duggsy was appalled. ‘We're rock stars, man, living out of guitar cases. Apart from the vans, everything Iron owns is in that coffin, ain't it, Iron?'

‘Yeah,' Iron conceded.

‘Look, Mr Maxwell,' Duggsy clambered out of the vehicle. ‘You'd better ride up front. Wal was on the chilli burgers earlier and it ain't going to be no pot pourri back there; get the picture?'

Maxwell did and belted up next to the drummer as the Hippos and Mad Max drove south west.

They rattled down the dear dead days of the Vale of the White Horse, where iron warriors had long ago rattled in their chariots, praying to Taranis, the thunder god, and wearing their swirling torcs of gold.

‘Look at that,' Iron Man pointed to the ghostly
silhouette
of Silbury Hill. ‘Christ, I could tell you some stories
about that place. And Henge, of course. If only I could remember them.'

Maxwell could as well, but they would be altogether more historical than Iron Man's fume-fuddled
fondnesses
. He knew that to their right, on the star-jewelled Wansdyke, the battlefield of Roundhay Down lay in the summer darkness, the clash of its Puritan steel echoing across the years. Behind them, vanished warriors of another time still lay in the rich, brown earth near the
ransacked
barrows of East and West Kennet and the canal, with its ramshackle warehouses and breweries ran gleaming into sleeping Devizes.

‘Have you any idea of the bloody time?' David Simmonds was not best pleased. Peter Maxwell had posed as his brother in the reception area of the Bear Hotel, come with some dreadful family news. It made him sound like something out of Dickens and he'd tried the same story in three other hotels already, but this time, he struck gold.

‘It's half past midnight, Mr Simmonds,' the Leighford man told him, checking his watch in the quiet corridor. ‘How's the Inspection business?'

‘What are you
doing
here?' Simmonds was beside
himself
and threatening to wake the entire floor. ‘This is a fucking outrage.'

‘Tsk, tsk,' Maxwell oozed past the quivering inspector into his room. ‘Such language from the uncle of Selina Barrington, late of Trinity, Oxford. And that's before we get on to the reputation of the Bear Hotel.'

‘My niece may have thought highly of you, Maxwell,' Simmonds snapped. ‘But I don't have to. How did you find me?'

‘Process of elimination,' Maxwell said. The Bear wasn't as ancient as Staystill House, but its architecture was impressive nonetheless. ‘You gave me Wiltshire. Aphone call to Ofsted HQ gave me the rest.'

Simmonds blinked in disbelief. He was looking at Peter Maxwell, but he was hearing Malcolm Harding. ‘This is surreal.' He shook his head. ‘You actually
pretended
to be Malcolm Harding on the phone to HQ?'

‘And you,' Maxwell smiled. ‘Not to mention Bob Templeton. Even I baulked at taking off Sally Meninger however – it needs work, I must confess.' He helped
himself
to a chair. ‘And speaking of surreal, so is an Ofsted inspector being skewered to death in a room not a million miles from my teaching base. We have unfinished
business
, Mr Simmonds, you and I.'

‘Look,' the Ofsted man subsided. ‘I told the police …'

‘That Whiting was a sex maniac. Yes, I know.'

‘How …?'

‘I have my little ways,' Maxwell told him, wondering how his little way was now. She'd be snug in her bed, the bed she'd shared with him. Or bent double over a
computer
looking for clues to murder on the superhighway. Perhaps she was looking up at the stars, as he had been on the Plain with Duggsy and Wal snoring softly in the back, a dreadlocked head lolling on a dreadlocked shoulder. ‘You implied that Whiting went for anything in a skirt.'