Maxwell's Island (12 page)

‘I think I could give him a few years,' Maxwell said, quietly. ‘Thick I will grant you.'

‘For goodness sake, Max,' she relaxed into crossness to hide her confusion. ‘You know what I mean. He is old; a million years older than you. He can't remember … well, anything. Izzy's first husband was older, from what I can gather, but unless she has a really bad case of gerontophilia, then I can't see that Jim would attract her.'

‘Gerontophilia. Coo.' Maxwell was impressed;
it wasn't a word one had much opportunity to use. ‘I'm so proud.'

‘Look, you old git,' she said tartly. ‘It's something I could easily be cured of, so watch your step. But Barton Joseph, now, that is interesting.'

‘Yes, I agree, in that they are more of an age. But they don't seem to have had much to say to each other. And he is an Islander and I don't think she is.'

‘Tom said they had come from Northampton,' Jacquie volunteered. ‘But that might just mean most recently. But surely, he would have known if she came from the Isle of Wight? Wouldn't it have been mentioned, for example, when Jim was getting lost?'

‘Yes, it would, but not if she was trying to hide it, prior to running off with Barton.' Maxwell clutched at an invisible straw that blew past on the light wind from the sea. ‘I agree it sounds a bit improbable.'

‘The whole thing is improbable,' Jacquie said. ‘On a school trip, isn't it more usual to lose one of the kids?'

Maxwell sat bolt upright and cocked his head, as if to listen. ‘Don't even say it,' he whispered. ‘It's bad luck. Like saying “Macbeth” in a theatre. Just say “lose a Scotsman”, anything but … what you said.' He shuddered. ‘Ooh, I can practically hear the wolves in the undergrowth. Dhuh!' He shuddered again and settled back in his chair. ‘Again, I must ask. Where was I?'

‘Improbably running away with Barton or Jim,' she again gave him the gist.

‘You know, you're almost as good at this as Metternich,' Maxwell complimented her. ‘Yes, I think it is too unlikely. But that doesn't mean to say she hasn't run off.'

‘No.' Jacquie had intended her tone to convey agreement, that of course she had just run off, to buy time to empty the current account at least before clearing off with her new love, for a life of idleness in Brazil. But somehow, she didn't quite pull it off and Maxwell was on it like a dog on a bone.

‘But you don't think she has run off.' In the dark, he couldn't read her face in detail, but if ever a man knew his wife's body language, that man was Peter Maxwell. ‘You think she has been abducted.'

‘Or something like that, yes,' she agreed.

‘Something like being abducted? Is there anything else like being abducted?'

‘Yes.' Jacquie's reply was blunt, short and to the point. ‘I think that the thing like being abducted is being set upon whilst having a bedtime stroll and being killed. It just remains to find out where it happened, who did it and where the body is. And if you think I'm being melodramatic …'

‘Which I don't, by the way,' Maxwell thought it wise to add.

‘Thank you. But if you did, I would reply that I have been in the police for a very long time. I think
I can recognise a fishy situation when I see one.'

‘As always,' Maxwell said, ‘I bow to your experience.' He suited the action to the words.

‘Also,' Jacquie said, ‘I've got a bad feeling about this. That's talking as a woman now, not a woman policeman. Something just feels wrong, somehow. Like a dream.' She finished her drink in one. ‘And now I'm going to bed.'

Maxwell stood up and pushed back his chair. Southern Comfort was not for chugging back in one; he raised his glass to her to show how much he had left and waved it to the edge of the decking. ‘I'll just watch the sea for a minute, in case it does something exciting,' he said. ‘Then I'll be up.' He leant down for her kiss and watched her pick her way through the tables to the door. Somehow, he just wanted to see her safely inside.

He wandered over to the rail and, leaning on it, watched the waves lap the sand. Very few people were still out and about; those who were were walking to their cars or watching the sea, like Maxwell. In the light from the street lamps and the moon, he could see half-submerged sandcastles, soft and blurred by the action of the water. Dotted along the Esplanade were booths which during the day sold candyfloss, ice cream, buckets and spades. In the daylight, they were brightly coloured, flags flying from their roofs and every possible beach commodity hung from the walls. Now, in the dark, their colours were bleached and the shadows they
threw across the sand were black as pitch – a small army could have hidden there, having crept along in the lee of the sea wall, and they could be ready to leap any moment at an unsuspecting teacher finishing his drink all alone.

Or there could be a body concealed there, wrapped in canvas, under a pile of waiting deckchairs. Or it could be curled up, stiff with rigor, in a cardboard box which had once held several gross of brightly coloured buckets, spades or inflatable ducks.

A spiteful little wind came dancing along the Esplanade, driving discarded chip wrappers before it. Sand devils rose and fell as it passed. It reached Maxwell and lifted his hair and raised goosebumps on his arms. He shivered and muttered to himself as he turned for the shelter of the hotel.

‘Something wicked this way comes.'

As Sylvia Matthews boarded the coach outside the hotel on Friday morning, all boxes ticked, all kids stowed, all luggage present and accounted for, she couldn't help but scan the sky for signs of showers of frogs, pigs flying in tight formation or other unnatural phenomena. True, a member of the party had disappeared. Twice. But it wasn't a child; it wasn't even an actual member of staff. And Sylvia comforted herself with the thought that the woman was probably no better than she should be and had simply taken herself off because she wasn't getting on with her husband. She settled into her seat and leant forward to tap the driver into action. Beside her sat an excited Nolan, travelling with the big children at last. He had scarcely acknowledged Jacquie's goodbyes as he took his place in the queue to get on the coach and was solemnly ticked off the list by Sylvia.

Maxwell had finally cracked and told Pansy to
ring Leighford High. He was fully aware that James Diamond, Bernard Ryan and their small army of flying monkeys couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery, but at least he could say, hand on heart, ‘But I
did
inform you of the missing staff member, Headmaster, technically while we were still on the Isle of Wight.' He gave Pansy clear instructions that, should the Headmaster wish to speak to him personally, he was incommunicado, as they called the toilets on the Red Funnel ferry service.

Without Barton Joseph riding shotgun, Jim the driver wasn't quite so confident, but even so, they reached the ferry in plenty of time and suddenly Year Seven, tired of being angels, scattered from the coach like ants from a poked nest, and so the leaving of East Cowes was not the sophisticated affair they had planned, involving as it did running, shouting and threats. The crossing was no better and it was only after Maxwell had held them and assorted passengers spellbound, if a little queasy, with his graphic reconstruction of keelhauling that order began to be restored.

And all too soon, for Year Seven, but not half soon enough for their minders, the coach was on its way to the paradise that was Leighford, no doubt, to paraphrase G.K. Chesterton, by way of Kensal Green. Maxwell looked around for the ginger kid. Although his money was on him for the last to be collected, he would have chosen Jazmyn, given first pick. He must therefore pounce now,
while the pouncing was good. He ambled up the coach, making random small talk with various Year Seveners until he got to his target, his sunburn now beginning finally to subside in a riot of freckle and peel.

‘Budge up,' he said in a friendly tone and the child and his seat companion squeezed as far in towards the window as they could. ‘So,' Maxwell said, chattily, ‘have you enjoyed yourselves?'

‘It was great, Mr Maxwell,' the non-ginger kid said, breathlessly. ‘I had a brilliant time. I never knew red squirrels were real, but I saw loads.'

‘I saw one squashed on the road,' said his carroty companion. ‘It was …' he leafed through his trusty notebook, ‘on Thursday.' He held the book out to Maxwell. ‘Look.'

And there, in glorious Technicolor, was a drawing of a red squirrel, tongue and giblets lolling out, a tyre mark across its little white chest. Beside it was written, ‘Red sqiruel. Sqassed nere our hotel. 15.45.'

Maxwell smiled and took the book from the lad. ‘Accurate,' he said. ‘I like that. Can I have a look?' and he flicked through. Not everything was illustrated in quite such detail, but almost every event of the holiday was there. Including, right at the beginning, something that made his knuckles whiten.

‘Wensdy. 23.04. I had chips and a baterd sosage today for my lunch and I shud hav et my
sandwiches becuz it disagred with me. I got up to the toylit and wen I looked out uv the windo I saw Mrs Medlycoat in the street. She wuz talking to sumbodi and was pointin.'

Maxwell turned the book over to read the name on the front. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Your notes are very thorough, Gervaise,' he said, smiling.

The ginger kid looked frantically from side to side. ‘Don't call me that, sir. Not doing vat “jjjuuurrr” thing at the front. It's gay, vat is. My mum calls me Jarvis. Like Cocker, you know what I mean?'

Obviously, Maxwell had no idea what he meant. To him, Cocker was a spaniel, but he gave a small mental salute to Mrs – he turned the book over once again – Potter, to hear the name ‘Jarvis' and spell it the way she had. The woman had class, to go with her basic illiteracy. ‘All right, Jarvis. Sorry. My mistake. So, as I say, your notes are very thorough.' He flicked through a few more pages. ‘But I notice you don't say anything about where Mrs Medlicott went next.'

‘Well, I wen' back to bed, dinn' I?'

‘You weren't curious, at all? Wondered why she was there?'

‘Na.'

And that was it. A simple denial. All adults were boring and that was the way of the world. Gervaise went back to his other hobby of investigating his nostril.

‘Do you have your other notebook on you, Jarvis?'

‘Yeah.' The child foraged in his bag and brought out a woefully stained and crumpled book. He handed it over trustingly to Maxwell, who tucked it into the other and rose to go.

‘'Ere,' Gervaise complained. ‘I need vat. For ve test.'

Maxwell leant down. ‘Well, I'll let you into a little secret, Jarvis.' The child looked up so trustingly that Maxwell suddenly didn't have the heart to tell him that the test had always been a work of fiction. ‘I have been so busy, what with one thing and another, I forgot to take any notes. So, if I may borrow yours, to mark the others' work, if you see what I mean, I'll let you off the test. Is that all right?'

‘Yeah!' Gervaise bounced in his seat, nudging his companion. Then his brow furrowed. ‘I get a mark vo?'

‘My dear lad, of course,' Maxwell said, patting his shoulder. ‘An A, I shouldn't wonder.'

Gervaise Potter was completely happy. He sighed and sat back in his seat. An A! His mum would be so proud. If she remembered to pick him up this time, his day would be complete.

Maxwell made his way to the front of the coach. He really had to let Jacquie know this development as soon as possible. It would make a huge difference to what she had to tell to the Island police. He went and sat next to Sylvia, hoisting Nolan, to his chagrin, onto his lap to make room.

The boy wriggled down. ‘Dads,' he hissed. ‘Don't forget I'm a big boy now.'

‘Sorry, mate. I forgot. Why don't you go along down the coach and sit with one of the girls. Camilla, she's a nice girl, isn't she?'

Nolan wasn't that sure, now that all of the Maltesers had been eaten, but he was an amenable child and trotted off down the coach to cries of delight from the more maternal little girls. Sylvia craned round the side of the seat to watch him safely stowed.

‘That child is a delight, Max,' she said. ‘If you could have put in an order for what you wanted, you couldn't have done better.'

Maxwell allowed himself a small preen before giving Jacquie all the credit. ‘Genetics, Sylv, and a sensible mother. That's all it takes. But, look at this.' He gave her Gervaise's notebook and pointed to the relevant bit.

She read it incredulously. ‘We must let Jacquie know at once,' she said. ‘Where's your phone?'

‘Don't be silly,' he said. ‘It's at home. Why would I carry a phone when I'm on holiday with Jacquie?'

She looked at him with her eyebrows raised almost into her hair. ‘How about because you are running a school trip? For goodness sake, Max. You don't surprise me often, but, when you do … Never mind. Use mine.' She leant over and pulled hers from her pocket. ‘Oh.'

‘Oh?' Maxwell was intrigued. She sounded at a bit of a loss and that wasn't like his Sylvia.

‘I've never seen that before,' she said and held out the instrument. The screen was cracked clear across the middle. Above it was a swirling pattern resembling the Northern Lights. Below it was just plain. She leant across again. ‘I think I know what caused it,' she said, holding out a small pebble with one perfect ammonite, tiny as a baby's fingernail, embedded in it.

‘I suppose they aren't built to withstand fossils,' Maxwell said knowledgably, and not only because he was one. He couldn't help but feel a touch smug. ‘I expect Guy has a phone?' he asked.

‘Well, yes,' Sylvia said. She called down the bus to her husband and he made his way towards her, hand over hand as the coach racketed along the A27.

‘Yes, Ms Matthews,' he said, formally. ‘Can I help?'

‘Have you got your phone?'

He held it out. ‘What's wrong with yours?' As he spoke he caught sight of it in her hand. ‘I've never seen that before,' he said. ‘What did that?'

‘A fossil,' Maxwell said, happily. ‘We need to get in touch with Jacquie urgently. Can you give her a call?'

‘Sure.' He raised the phone to prepare to dial. ‘What's her number?'

Maxwell looked blank. ‘I have no idea? Sylv?'

She gestured helplessly to the phone in her hand. ‘It's in here,' she said.

‘Oh, Sylv,' Guy said. ‘How many times have
I told you to write them down as well. Do you remember when you lost it and—?'

‘Yes, yes, that's enough.' Sylvia, famously organised school nurse as she was, could see her reputation being in tatters by the end of this episode. ‘Never mind, I expect I have the number here, on my list.' She scanned down it. ‘No. Just yours, Mr Maxwell.' She turned to glare at him as if it was his fault.

‘What about Tom Medlicott?' Guy was definitely on song today.

Maxwell clicked his fingers. ‘Of course. Do you have his number?'

Again, Sylvia scanned the list and slammed her hand down in frustration. ‘No,' she sighed. ‘Just the dratted school mobile number. And I know the battery on that old piece of rubbish died on Tuesday with no hope of recovery.'

‘So,' Maxwell said, just to be clear, ‘We can't get in touch with either of them?'

‘Looks that way,' Sylvia said. Then she suddenly held up a finger. ‘Darling,' she turned to Guy with a wheedling smile. ‘Will your phone take my SIM?'

As far as Maxwell was concerned, she might just as well have started to recite ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep' in Turkish, for all the sense it made, but Guy seemed to understand.

‘Sorry,' he grimaced. ‘Locked to any other provider. I said when you took out that new contract—'

‘Yes, yes,' muttered Sylvia. ‘Is there anyone
more annoying than the person who says they told you so?'

Both men knew better than to reply, so stayed silent.

‘Phone the police station?' Guy suggested at last.

‘I want to talk to Jacquie personally,' Maxwell explained. ‘It's not the kind of thing I can leave as a message.'

‘Well,' Sylvia said soothingly. ‘We'll be back at Leighford shortly. Guy can take you home while I count them off the premises and you'll probably catch her before she gets on the ferry. I'll hang on to Nolan, if you like. I know you of old and you can't gallivant off after white elephants with a little boy with you. Though, I suppose Jacquie would say that would be a good thing.' She looked round at him. ‘It's no good pulling that face, my lad,' she said, to the joy of Jazmyn, earwigging from the seat immediately behind them. ‘We'll have to make the best of a bad job, that's all.'

Maxwell knew she was feeling cross with herself for letting him down, even though none of it was her fault. So he smiled and squeezed her arm and they sat watching the road getting more and more familiar until, with a triumphant and slightly surprised squeal of brakes, Jim pulled up outside Leighford High School.

Had the plan of Jacquie's morning been laid out alongside that of Maxwell, Sylvia and the rest,
hers would, on first glance, have appeared to be much easier. Get Tom Medlicott up and dressed. Encourage him to have breakfast. Go to police station to report his wife missing. After that, the plan consisted of a row of dots. Getting Tom up was not so difficult. She had shoved him into the bathroom and firmly shut the door. She had sorted out one complete set of clothes, packed the rest and removed the suitcase to the car before he came out, rightly guessing that making a decision on what to wear might be a bridge too far. She had then gone back up the stairs to meet him and get him down for breakfast. All this was carefully timed so as not to coincide with the movements of the mass of Leighford High School. It would be bad enough for him to go back to school anyway, as go he must, without the memory for Year Seven of him being led by the nose by Mrs Maxwell.

He ate a good breakfast, everything being taken all in all. Whether he tasted any of it or not was another matter, but as far as Jacquie was concerned it was fuel, and it would come in handy later on if he could go through an interview with the police without fainting.

It seemed strange to walk out of a hotel without checking out and Jacquie briefly felt like a conman as she walked Tom Medlicott down to the car as though walking him to the gallows. He sat beside her, silently. It wasn't that he was thinking deeply, or sulking, it was just that he could no longer be
bothered to speak. She tried small talk. She tried the radio. In the end, she relied on the satnav for conversation.

‘In one hundred yards, bear left. In fifty yards, bear left. Correcting route. Please turn round when it is safe to do so.'

Poor thing, it had never really recovered from apparently driving on water. She almost replied to it, just to comfort its poor little silicon brain.

Suddenly, he spoke. ‘Is that the police station?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she said, reversing deftly into a parking space. She glanced up at the sign. ‘Have you got any change? It's pay and display.'

‘Surely I don't have to pay,' he said, in dead tones. ‘My wife is missing.'

‘Well, yes,' Jacquie conceded. ‘But that might be a little difficult to convey in a note to the traffic warden. Never mind, I've got some.' She put in the maximum amount, although surely, she thought, this won't take two hours.