Maxwell's Island (16 page)

A sudden knock on the door made Jacquie jump and she crossed the hall to open the door to the looming blue shape through the dimpled glass. The Seventh Cavalry, here at last.

Had David Attenborough had the foresight to set up a hide at Leighford High School that afternoon, he would have got loads of footage on the stalking behaviour of that dangerous pack of predators, the Senior Leadership Team. They came out of their various lairs and spread out to close in on the small gaggle of pupils left waiting for parents in a corner of the car park.

The coach and driver had gone as soon as the
suitcases were unloaded. Jim was incandescent, as far as his virtually comatose personality allowed, at the complete lack of tip which had been forthcoming as he waited ostentatiously by the door of the coach. That mad old git had driven away with the rather handsome bloke, leaving the fat drunk and the scary nurse behind. The scary nurse had glared at him and the fat drunk had looked him up and down as if he might be a welcome snack, and he had eventually given any cash up as unlikely and had driven away, crashing the gears and turning left instead of right out of the school gates.

But the prey had smelt the SLT on the wind and by the time they got there, thirsting for blood – Maxwell's blood for preference, anyone's at a pinch – Sylvia had very cleverly brought in reinforcements and a rather nice and inoffensive member of the Science faculty was in place with the clipboard, ticking off for the use of. Of Pansy and Sylvia there was no sign. As the SLT snorted and pawed the ground in frustration the final parent drew up and collected their child. The charity box would be gaining this year, as the temporarily abandoned offspring was none other than the delightful Camilla, whose mother had been held up tending to a wounded blue tit brought in by the cat, thus proving that nobody is ever quite perfect.

‘Can I help you, Mr Diamond?' the chemistry teacher asked, clipboard stowed neatly under his arm.

‘No,' Bernard Ryan snapped, before the Head
Teacher could so much as open his mouth. ‘We were looking for the staff who took this trip.' The years had not been kind to Bernard Ryan. He had expected a headship long before this, followed perhaps by the papacy and then a godship. Somehow, it just hadn't happened and he was too old now. Instead, he'd just take it all out on hapless young teachers his boss had appointed.

The chemist looked around vaguely. ‘Well, they were here. I was just asked to help tick the children off.' He chuckled. ‘Not
tick
them off, as in annoy them,' he said. He chuckled again. ‘Nor as in tell them off. No, I mean—'

‘We know what you mean, Roger,' growled Ryan. ‘Don't you have something to blow up somewhere?' This last was a nasty jibe relating to an incident in the man's first term and was a gross calumny. There had been some smoke and a little flame – there was never, of course, one without the other; not in Leighford High. And the child's eyebrows had soon grown back, so no real harm done. But it had been said now and the chemistry teacher drew himself up and, with a last injured glance at Ryan, stalked back up to the school.

‘That was a little harsh, Bernard,' Diamond remarked. ‘Roger hasn't done anything. In fact, none of them have, really.'

Ryan was aghast. Not
done
anything. Overspending. Changing the itinerary. Overspending. Losing a member of staff, not once, but twice. Driving
home with not enough adults to child, ratio-wise. Overspending. What part of overspending did James Diamond not understand?

Diamond took advantage of the man's temporary catatonia and turned back to the school building. ‘I have things to do, Bernard,' he said, mildly. ‘I know you want to rip Maxwell's head off and I will of course, when the time comes, hold your coat. But there's no need to get aerated.' And leaving his deputy fuming in his wake, he went back up the drive, through the foyer and into his office to take another of those lovely pills he had got from the doctor.

Hidden in her office, Sylvia Matthews lost no time in catching up with phone calls. She liked to have a plan and often had them, carried in her head, up to and including Plan Z, which was pretty much the one she was using now. Sitting Nolan down with a pad and some pens, she rang Guy first, and told him to take Maxwell home via Happy Paws and then come and fetch her and Nolan. Then she rang Jacquie to ask if it was all right if she and Guy kept Nolan overnight and to tell her that Maxwell would be at home with a more or less irate cat.

That done, she filled the kettle for a nice cup of tea, collared a passing child to fetch Nolan a bottle of juice from the machine in the foyer and finally, for what seemed the first time in a week, sat back and closed her eyes, completely, both of them at once.

Happy Paws Cattery (or ‘Kattery' as the sign had it) was not the place it had once been. That is, the place it had been before Metternich Molestrangler Sherpa Tenzing Maxwell, to give him his full name, had come to stay. Several of the staff had gone off sick with stress, having approached the rather lovely black and white animal in the Executive Suite believing in the old adage of ‘handsome is as handsome does'. Metternich had a technique with his claws of picking up just a thin layer of skin and hanging on for grim death. In the case of an unsuspecting rodent the death was theirs and grim indeed, involving a lot of throwing up in the air and mock escapes – he had in a previous incarnation been thrown out of the SS for being too unpleasant. In the case of cattery operatives, it involved crying and a lot of Germolene.

The owners had taken comfort in the fact that the invoice would be huge, involving extras they
rarely had to invoke. When presented with the bill, Maxwell had smothered a small scream. Had he, Jacquie and Nolan actually managed an island break somewhere warm and sunny, the total would have been similar to this, but smaller. He paid and left with Metternich in a cardboard box, from which he escaped while Guy Minter was still reversing out of his parking space. Guy had never had to drive while a stone of irate fur rampaged round and round his car at head height but by the time he reached Columbine he was used to it, and almost missed it as he drove away, waving in his mirror to Maxwell, standing on the pavement while Metternich ripped one of his trouser legs to ribbons.
There will be blood,
Maxwell mused. He hadn't seen the film, but assumed it was about an oil tycoon and his cat.

Jacquie met Guy as he turned out of and she turned into Columbine and they waved to each other in passing. At the kerb outside Number 38, she leapt out of the car and scooped Metternich up and hugged him furiously. The great beast went all limp and purry, turning his head to kiss her on the nose. Maxwell looked on in disbelief; he had known that cat for years, kitten and behemoth, and yet still he could be amazed by him. Putting the cat down, Jacquie turned to Maxwell and hugged him too. Apart from the purring, Maxwell behaved the same as the Count and realised in that moment why Metternich loved her so much. Being enveloped in her hug was like being wrapped in cotton wool, but with a layer round you
that the world couldn't break in through. A bit like the velvet hand inside a steel glove.

Finally, she let him go and burrowed under his arm to lead the way to the front door. ‘Ooh, that's nice,' she said, snuggling in. ‘What a day! Isn't it good to be home? Let's get the kettle on, shall we?' She unlocked the door.

He unlooped his arm from round her neck. ‘We're a bit prattly, aren't we, Woman Policeman Carpenter-Maxwell? Is there something you would like to tell me?'

‘No,' she said, her voice a bit muffled as she made her way up the stairs. ‘Poo, it's a bit stale, isn't it? Shall we open a window?' She went into the sitting room and cracked open the fanlights. The cool September afternoon air swept in. Jacquie never opened the casement, afraid that Metternich might leap out. Maxwell had tried to tell her that he was more likely to leap out of an open window by mistake than was the cat, but she decided to err on the side of safety. She turned to face him. ‘Well? Would you like some tea?'

He flopped into his chair. ‘I'm not talking to you until you stop wittering and tell me what's going on. I haven't seen you since this morning and at that point you were about to take Tom Medlicott to report his wife missing to the Island police. So why don't we—?' He looked round. ‘Where's Nolan?' A sudden thought struck him. ‘Should I know where he is?' Terror, momentarily, clawed at his heart.

‘Well, I should hope so, just as a matter of
principle. But in fact, no, Sylvia and I did the arranging. He's staying with them tonight – possibly longer. You know how hard it is to separate Sylvia and Nole once they get together. But I must say, I don't envy them. He's going to be totally hyper without thirty kids to bend to his will.'

The same could be said of Maxwell. ‘I see,' he said. He sat for a moment, gazing at nothing. ‘So this means you'll be working.' It was almost a question, but mostly a statement.

‘Not working as in going in to work, no,' she said and bustled off to the kitchen. He could hear her, still waffling. ‘What a good job milk has such a long fridge-life these days.' She appeared in the doorway, brandishing a flagon of milk. ‘I said, what a good—'

‘I know,' he said, shortly. ‘Wonderful. Where would we be without it? And don't say “drinking your tea black” because it won't wash. I've known you for … well, a long time, and you can't fool me. Let me see if I can guess what the problem is … Yes, I have it.' He sat up straight, fixing her eyes with his. ‘Something has come up with the case, you've been in touch with Henry and he has said that I'm not to have anything to do with it or your promotion is history. Normally history is no bad thing, but perhaps in this case, not so much.' He tilted his head. ‘Am I right?'

‘In the essentials,' she said. ‘Oh, Max, I don't know what to do!' She took a step into the room and then stopped. ‘I actually
do
want a cup of tea.
Come and talk to me while I make it.' She went back into the kitchen and he heard a tap running, splashing into the kettle.

‘Righty-ho, woman policeman.' His voice was suddenly loud, just over her shoulder. She jumped and slopped water on the worktop. ‘Oh, sorry, sweetness,' He ruffled her hair. ‘Did I startle you? So, what did Henry have to say?'

She turned to him, brandishing a tea bag. ‘Max, do you not even hear what
you
are saying, let alone anyone else? I can't tell you what Henry has to say. I can't talk about this case. For one thing, it involves police forces from other places—'

‘Places? Interesting.'

‘Max! I might be putting in red herrings, so don't jump to any conclusions. Where was I?'

‘Places.'

‘What? Oh, yes. It
may
involve police forces from other places and it is still very much a hunch of Henry's. I …' she knew as she spoke that it was a stupid question, but she asked it all the same. ‘Did he tell you anything?'

‘Don't be a silly billy,' he wasn't sure whether that was Denis Healey or Mike Yarwood
doing
Denis Healey. This was no time to decide. ‘I told him something, though, which—'

‘Max! You know you're not supposed to talk to Henry about cases.'

‘But—'

‘Enough, already. Anyway, I don't really know
the details myself. Henry is coming round later, for a takeaway and a chat.'

‘Is Margaret coming? I only ask, so that I'll have someone to play with while you police beings get down to the nitty-gritty.'

‘Margaret is at her mother's. Something about a quad.' Jacquie was mashing the tea bag down in the water with some venom. Maxwell wondered if she had given it a name, as he knew she often did to relieve frustration.

‘Margaret's had quads?' Maxwell knew that medical advances were coming thick and fast, but surely Margaret, though as well preserved as all get-out, was a little mature to be having quads.

‘Don't be silly.'

‘Her mother's had quads?' Now that really was taking science too far.

‘Max. Stop it. Her mother fell off a quad bike and broke her arm.' She suddenly saw the funny side and laughed, poking him in the ribs with her teaspoon.

‘Ow. That was sharp and,' he paused and rubbed his side, ‘hot. So, I'm up in the loft, am I, making plastic history? Downstairs in the garage rubbing WD-40 on Surrey's lumbago?'

‘Anywhere would be good. Because Henry has made it crystal clear that you won't be within earshot. Why don't you take the opportunity to visit Mrs Troubridge? I'll drop you off and you can get a cab back.'

‘I'll miss the takeaway,' he whined.

‘Point taken. In that case, get a cab there and I'll fetch you. How about that?' She handed him his tea and a packet of chocolate digestives and ushered him through into the sitting room. ‘Now, let's go and have a sit-down and not talk about missing people, dead people or anything else like that. Who won the Last Kid Standing pool?'

‘No one, I don't think. I definitely saw the parents of our choices there when the coach pulled in, at any rate. What do you mean, dead people?'

She sipped her tea and looked up, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘I don't think I did say “dead people”, did I?'

‘Yes, you did. You said blah blah “not talk about missing people, dead people or anything else like that”.'

‘What is this?' she asked crossly. ‘This conversation may be recorded for training or other purposes?' She always forgot until it was too late that Maxwell had honed his memory for the spoken word on the hard whetstone of Five Zed Nine and their ilk for more years than he cared to remember. He could usually recall off the top of his head at least the last twenty minutes of conversation. If he was really trying, he could do the last few hours. Sometimes the odd bit of editing took place – for example, he could delete any number of expletives without missing a beat – but the accuracy was alarming, as James Diamond had often discovered to his discomfiture, in staff meetings and out.

‘Slip of the tongue,' she said, grumpily.

‘Slip of the tongue? “Queer old dean”, that's a slip of the tongue. “Dead people”, that's not a slip of the tongue. That's just you knowing there is a dead person in this case.'

She looked into her cup, as if the tea and not its leaves held news of her future. Then she looked up at him. ‘Right. I shall say this only once.' It spoke volumes for her sincerity that she didn't even bother with a Froglish accent. ‘Yes, there is a dead person. I don't know the dead person. It may or may not have a bearing on this case. If, when Henry comes over, you let slip, by word or deed or, in fact tongue, that you know, I'll kill you. Is that clear?'

‘But who is it?' He thought one more question was worth a punt.

‘Is that clear?'

‘As crystal, my love,' he said meekly and subsided into his chair, thoughtfully dunking his biscuit. This would take cunning, the very lowest of low cunning and he needed to plan his next move. He glanced up just in time to see Jacquie's half-full mug start to tilt as she finally let sleep take her. With a speed and agility which surprised him and amazed Metternich, watching from his lounging spot on the window sill, he saved it from tipping and watched fondly as she slept. ‘Well, Count,' he whispered. ‘I hope you've got your thinking cap with you? I think we'll be needing it later on.'

Henry Hall had been beautifully brought up, years before, by his parents, Mr and Mrs Hall. True, they'd named him after a Thirties bandleader, but after that, had hardly put a foot wrong. It was difficult to think of Henry as a child; the Maxwells always imagined that he had probably spotted trains, or mothed, or had some other solitary and pernickety hobby that didn't make him blind. But the side effect was that, invited for a meal, he always came armed with wine, chocolates, flowers and a small something for Nolan. On this particular evening, he had added a catmint mouse for Metternich, because he still felt strangely guilty about putting him in a cattery when it was obvious to everyone, or at least to Metternich, that the correct approach would have been to move in and care for him at home until such time as Jacquie and Maxwell returned. Maxwell took the mouse with trepidation. Like Hall, the Count had been well brought up but had never been very easy to buy for; Christmas was always a nightmare. But tonight, he was feeling magnanimous. Guilt had guided Jacquie's hand when dobbing out the Whiskas and so, pleasantly full, he lay on the hearth rug and tossed the offering between his paws before tucking it under his head and going back to sleep.

‘I'm glad he likes it,' Hall said. ‘I did wonder after I had bought it whether it might be a bit beneath him.' Jacquie, with the fervour of the adopted parent, often filled Hall in on Metternich's latest when they
were driving or had stopped for coffee. The Incident had kept him – silently – amused for weeks.

‘No, no,' Maxwell said. ‘He loves his catmint. Especially when still growing in neighbours' gardens, unfortunately. It will be nice for him to have some handy without going out equipped with a spade.'

There was a silence. All three of them were willing the takeaway to arrive and fill in the gap for a bit. It was hard to make small talk when Izzy Medlicott was also metaphorically in the room. Jacquie excused herself and went to tinker with cutlery in the dining room.

‘How did you find Mrs Troubridge?' Maxwell asked Hall. Asked the same question, Maxwell would have almost certainly mentioned going in at the main gate and turning left. Not so Henry Hall.

‘Not very well, Max, to be honest. I haven't seen much improvement, but the nurses say she is a lot better. Fighting them off, that sort of thing.'

Maxwell smiled. ‘That certainly sounds like her,' he said. ‘She's not one to take things lying down. I hope she's all right, though. It would be a shame if she … well, you know, didn't make it, just when her sister is starting to really get somewhere with the family research.'

Hall grabbed on to the subject. ‘Ah, genealogy. Margaret does a bit of that. Very interesting. Does a lot online. Um …' He looked furtively at Maxwell.

‘It's not an illness, Henry,' Maxwell said. ‘It's a choice. And anyway, I'm not that bad. I
am often online. I just need someone to put me there. But I would imagine that any serious family searches would be very expensive without the computer to help in the first place. Millie – that's Mrs Troubridge's cousin goodness knows how many times removed – has been all over the place, looking in paper records and things. Very pricey. And you have to spend a lot of time sitting cheek by jowl with some very unsavoury chaps.'