Maxwell's Island (15 page)

Fran fell head first into the trap. ‘But, isn't that just a coincidence, sir?'

Thorogood closed his mouth, he was that shocked. Hall narrowed his eyes and said, without turning his head, ‘Explain, Bob.'

Bob was only too happy. ‘DCI Hall, and in fact all of the detective plain clothes,' and he managed to put just a tad more emphasis on the last two words, ‘force, don't believe in coincidence, Fran.' He had been on his man management course and knew that adding a Christian name at the end of any kind of reproof softened the blow. But Fran Brannon was still crushed.

‘But … I don't understand,' she said. ‘Just because this man who fell from … where did he fall from, sir?'

Hall consulted the paper. ‘Umm … a ladder. Apparently, he was repairing a window.' He looked again at the page. ‘Do you repair a window from the outside?' With unconscious sexism, he directed the question at Thorogood.

Fran was single-handedly renovating a sixteenth-century cottage on the coast road out towards Brighton, but suddenly felt no need to help them out. Men!

‘Anyway, yes,' Hall continued. ‘He fell off a ladder.'

Fran picked up her point. ‘So he fell off a ladder in …?'

‘Adstone, it says here. Not sure where that is …' Hall turned the page over, hoping for more details. ‘It's from Northants police, so presumably Northamptonshire.'

‘So,' Fran was so scared she could practically see her life flashing before her eyes, but she soldiered on. ‘So, a man fell off a ladder and died in another county.'

‘Yes.' Hall was smug.

‘And he's an art teacher.'

‘Yes. Like the husband of the missing woman.'

‘So,' she was scared and confused now. ‘So, that makes it important?'

Bob Thorogood took up the tale. ‘It is important because of the total. He fell from a height and died. This links with Mrs Troubridge, and scores one. She is a neighbour of the Maxwells, who were on holiday with a woman who goes missing who is married to an art teacher. That scores two. That isn't much, but Jacquie Carpenter, who is a darned fine detective, thinks that her disappearance is suspicious. The missing woman is not local to here, so she may come from somewhere in the vicinity of where the man died. If so, that would give us three …'

Hall held up his hand. ‘The score just went into the high double figures, Bob,' he said.

‘Why?' The detective tried to screw his head round to read what the DCI was reading. He had never quite mastered the upside-down reading
knack and this had slowed down many an investigation. It also quite possibly ended any hope of promotion.

‘Because here it links next of kin.'

‘Not bloody Maxwell?' Thorogood exploded.

Hall sighed. ‘It isn't
always
Maxwell, Bob,' he said, patiently. ‘It just sometimes seems that way. No, the man had no family. It took the locals a while to find anything out about him. Finally, they went to the school and got some bits out of his file. But the gossip was most useful and that was that his recently ex-wife remarried a colleague. Another art teacher. An art teacher called Tom Medlicott.'

The other two looked expectant, waiting for the punchline.

‘Tom Medlicott is the new Head of Art at Leighford High School. He has just come back from a school trip to the Isle of Wight, though, sadly, without his wife.'

It was while she was still on the ferry that Jacquie remembered another large fly in the increasingly sticky ointment. Maxwell didn't have a key to get into the house. The only one with them was the one on her key ring, currently on the grubby, stained table in front of her along with her phone and a cup of rapidly cooling coffee.

She was just running through a silent list of imprecations, some of which would have made even whiter the hair of the little old ladies who seemed to surround her on every side, had she said them out loud. Tom Medlicott sat slumped in his seat like a puppet with its strings cut. She could tell by the condescending looks and nudges that the old dears had decided she was his minder. And, in a way, she had to admit that she was. She turned to check the view out of the window, which wouldn't have helped her much as she had no idea of how long Southampton Water was or whereabouts the ferry
terminal was. But it beat staring at Tom Medlicott.

Her phone rang, the jaunty tones of what Maxwell chose to call ‘The Bum of the Flightlebee' making the witches' convention shudder and bridle.

‘DS Carpenter.' She couldn't quite make out who was on the other end, but he seemed to be calling her darling. ‘Darling?' Jacquie held the phone away from her head to check on the incoming number. ‘Guv, are you all right?' Henry Hall didn't use endearments, even
in extremis
and he didn't sound as if he was
in extremis
.

The voice identified itself as her husband, and added, ‘I'm using Henry's phone.'

‘I can see that. Or hear, perhaps I should say. Why are you on Henry's phone?' A small creeping sense of foreboding made its way down Jacquie's spine. ‘Where are you, Max?'

‘I'm in Henry's office, precious. But I had to get in touch with you, it's really important, and I couldn't get into the house and … well, it was very difficult. I needed to get in touch with you before you caught the ferry.'

‘Too late,' she said, shortly. ‘As you can probably hear from the combined noise of about a dozen school parties, all worse than ours, and a million old ladies complaining about the cost of tea and a cake, I am on the ferry. I'll speak to you when I get home.' And she cut the connection.

She threw the phone down on the table and, true to form, the back fell off and the battery dropped
out. She picked it up as it was and shoved it into her pocket. Tom Medlicott gave her a look but said nothing. She knew he would be worrying about being out of contact, but she was tired of communication. She just wanted to go home and have a nice quiet weekend with just her family, no phones, no missing people popping up all over the place. Although, a nice popping-up Izzy would be a good thing, she supposed. Glancing out of the window again, she spotted a distant white building with once-golden lions on the parapet. The ferry terminal was in sight and without speaking to Medlicott she stood up and made for the stairs. She sensed rather than saw him follow her. At the head of the stairs their progress was barred by a red rope, which she promptly undid.

‘You can't do that,' someone said in truculent tones.

She looked down to see a child of about ten, snot encrusting his nostrils, glaring at her accusingly. According to his shirt, his name was Beckham, but she somehow doubted that. On the other hand, with some of the names she had had to learn in the past week, perhaps it was.

‘I'm a policewoman,' she snarled. ‘I can do what I like.' Stepping down a step, she let Tom Medlicott through and then rehung the rope.

As she went down the short flight to the car deck, she heard the little herbert say to an invisible parent, ‘She's a p'liceman and she's arrested that man.'

‘Disgraceful,' came the reply. ‘Letting criminals on public transport.'

‘Hmmph,' Jacquie heard another voice. ‘Criminal? I'll tell you about criminal. Did you try to buy a cup of tea on your holiday? What a price? Isn't it disgraceful?'

How lovely, Jacquie thought. What fragrant memories the collected coven will be taking back to Wigan. She smiled briefly and a hand squeezed her heart as she heard Maxwell's voice correcting her ‘Wigan' to ‘Wiccan'. He just wouldn't have been able to stop himself.

Jacquie had attended all of the first aid courses and had reasonable recall of most of the main points. She knew what to do in cases of electrocution, falls, breaks, choking, heart attack. She was finding herself a little stumped by Medlicott's complete shutdown. She couldn't help but feel that she ought to get him to a hospital, but knew that he would cut up rough at the mention of any delay, so she just got herself onto the motorway and headed east. He sat next to her but only his body was there; his soul was far away and she could tell, by the fleeting snatches of expression that scudded across his face, that he was reliving the best bits of the time since he met Izzy. She reached out and squeezed his hand. It felt like a glove full of jelly and sticks and he gave no answering squeeze.

The journey was a whisker under fifty miles, on a good day an hour, hour and a quarter. But Jacquie had known from the start that this was not a good day. There were roadworks just before they got in to Chichester and from then on the journey was a
nightmare. It didn't help that when Tom saw the first road sign to Leighford, he began to whimper, a tiny, desolate sound somewhere in the back of his throat. Jacquie was a compassionate woman and had discovered wells of patience since marrying Maxwell that she never knew she had. She loved him dearly and every day was a new pleasure, but sometimes she, like everyone else who knew him, had to fight down the urge to hit him round the back of the head with a spade. What she would have given for that spade to be in the boot now.

Before she spoke to Medlicott, she tried each sentence in her head first. She knew that he could go critical at any moment and someone deep in stress, as he was, could do anything – lash out, try and leave the moving car – she had seen all the options, often from the sharp and bloody end. As they reached the outskirts of Leighford, threading through the one-way system on their way to the Medlicotts' home on a new development in Tottingleigh, she had to finally speak.

‘Do you want to go home, first, Tom, or to the police station?'

He turned hollow eyes on her and stared disconcertingly. She wished that she had paid more attention to the zombie movies which made Maxwell laugh so much; she might know what was coming next.

‘Home?'

‘Yes.' She only just stopped herself from calling him ‘dear'. ‘Just to see if, well, you know, if Izzy has come back early.'

‘She hasn't got a key,' he said, as though turning home the final screw in the lid of a coffin.

‘Don't you keep a spare?' she asked. She felt she had no room to talk, with her son and husband wandering homeless throughout Leighford. At least, she hoped just her husband. Surely, he hadn't taken Nolan sleuthing with him? She felt the little knot of frustration and annoyance unravel just a little and start to cast on and knit a few rows.

‘Under a pot,' Medlicott said.

‘Well, there you are, then,' she said, with false bonhomie. ‘She'll have used that.'

‘It's not there,' the man said, infuriatingly. ‘Her mother took it with her when she went back the other week.'

Mother? Had he mentioned a mother? ‘Did you mention a mother, Tom?' Jacquie knew she sounded like a playgroup leader, but couldn't help herself.

‘Well,' he said, after a long pause. ‘They're not close. When her parents divorced, Izzy floated a bit, but when her dad died and she had to deal with the house, her mother was in touch. She just wanted a few things, you know, from the house.'

I bet she did, Jacquie thought. She still had nightmares over the appalling behaviour her relations had shown at her grandmother's funeral. She just said, ‘I see. So, she won't have gone to her mother's then?'

‘Doubt it,' he said, leaning his head against the
window. Suddenly, he sat up and pointed. ‘Number 6, Craftcarn Avenue. This is us.' He gave a dry sob at the use of the objective personal pronoun, ungrammatical as that use had been.

Jacquie drew up outside a detached house, standing neatly at the rear of a square of paved drive. There was one car on the drive, but this gave no clue as to whether Izzy was inside or not; she had driven them both to Leighford High to start the trip and her car might or might not still be there. Jacquie made a mental note to ring and check as soon as possible. Before she could so much as pull on the handbrake, he was out of the car and running across the drive, rummaging in his coat pocket for the key, which he then tried to get into the lock, but his trembling hand outsmarted him. Slowly, Jacquie got out of the car and joined him, gently taking the key from him and turning it. The door swung open and before they even stepped inside, Jacquie knew that the house was empty.

She would not have classed herself as a sensitive woman, although Maxwell would have argued that one. But she was very aware of the spirit of places, and this place had had no one in it since the Medlicotts had walked out of it, probably hand in hand unless she missed her guess, just over a week ago. She imagined Tom taking the suitcases to the car and stowing them carefully in the boot. She could see Izzy giving a last wipe round the sink and spreading the cloth to dry over the tap. She knew without
asking that Tom would have got in the car and then immediately got out again to check that the gas was turned off properly. She could see Izzy pop her head round the sitting room door, to check that the SkyPlus was set to record all their favourite shows. The house made her feel sad, as it rose about her, holding its breath, waiting for its heart to come home.

She turned to face Tom Medlicott and quickly turned away. The naked hope, followed by grief on his face, was not for public consumption, not even for her, who had shared so much in the last twentyfour hours and more.

‘She's not here,' he whispered. ‘She hasn't come back, has she Jacquie?'

‘No,' she said, and took him in her arms and held him as though he was her child. ‘Let's go and sit down for a minute, then I'll phone my boss. He will know what to do.'

Henry Hall did know what to do, but he wanted to tell Jacquie face to face. He wanted to make it clear that this could be bigger than a missing wife, it could be a conspiracy, or a suicide, or a politic disappearance, depending on who turned out to be the murderer of Izzy Medlicott's first husband, the choices on the table being a cunning murderer, Tom Medlicott or Izzy herself. Not knowing the woman, he was tempted to put Izzy in pole position.

‘So, where are you, Jacquie?' he asked.

‘I'm still at the Medlicotts',' she said, as quietly
as was compatible with being heard. ‘Tom is in a terrible state, and I don't really want to leave him. But I must get home; Max and Nole are locked out with Mrs Troubridge in the hospital. I've got to get Metternich, before he takes us to court for wrongful imprisonment.' Her voice wobbled a little. ‘I'm quite tired, Henry, to be truthful. This last day and a half has been quite full-on, plus I had absolutely no idea how exhausting a million kids can be.'

‘A million?' Henry asked. ‘That was a very big school trip.'

Jacquie smiled at the phone. Humourless bugger he might be, but he understood her almost as well as Maxwell did. ‘OK, thirtyish. But it felt like a million, most days.'

Henry Hall tapped his pencil decisively on the desk and then jotted down a few notes. ‘I'll tell you what,' he said. ‘If you can stay a few more minutes, I'll get a car out to you. Address?' She gave it. ‘Then, Mr Medlicott can choose to answer a few questions at his home, or come in here.'

There was something about his tone which made the hairs stand up on her arms. ‘That sounds a bit serious, guv. He's in no state for the third degree.' They both knew, of course, that he could request his lawyer to be present, but, unless he was an actor par excellence, Jacquie didn't think he was thinking straight enough for that.

‘Perhaps not. That may turn out to be a good thing. I can't tell you now, Jacquie, but this thing
has blossomed a bit.' Hall was good at the teasing statement.

Jacquie dropped her voice even lower. ‘Oh, God, guv, they haven't found her, have they?'

‘No,' he told her. ‘I really can't tell you any more while you're standing feet from the man but, trust me on this one, won't you, Jacquie? Someone is dead, but not, as far as I know, Izzy Medlicott. As soon as the car gets there, get off home, let yourselves in and have a cup of tea. Get Metternich, give him my regards and tell him I'm healing nicely. Then, when we've all had a rest and a think, I'll give you a ring. Or I might pop round later. Margaret's at her mother's, mad old trout has broken her arm.'

‘Not another one falling downstairs?' Jacquie asked. There seemed to be some kind of epidemic.

‘No. She was out on a quad bike with the Over Seventies Friendly Club. There is talk of a breach of Health and Safety, apparently.' The incredulity was evident in his tone. ‘They were on an activity weekend. She'd already done the zorbing and the artificial ski slope, but the quad proved the last straw.'

Had Jacquie not been standing only a few yards from a weeping man, she could not have helped adding, ‘The straw that broke the camel's arm.' As it was, she would have to save it for later, when telling Maxwell about her day. ‘Thanks for the car, guv. I'll be off home as soon as it's here, then I'll see you later, shall I? Takeaway all right? My Tesco delivery won't have come without Mrs T to let them in.'

‘Takeaway's fine. Thanks. And, Jacquie … about Max …'

‘I'll send him out for a ride on his bike or something. Don't worry, Henry. He's not getting involved in this one.' She cut the connection, with fingers crossed to cancel out the lie and leaned against the immaculate cream-painted wall in the Medlicotts' hall. She closed her eyes and wondered where this one would end. Living with Peter Maxwell meant, almost by default, that some cases came very close to home, but not as close as this. She felt so sorry for Tom Medlicott, without really liking either him or his missing wife particularly. It was something about sharing breakfast, and gin and tonic on a darkening evening, and hauling Pansy to her feet and counting heads and …