Maxwell’s Match (28 page)

‘Nothing from airports? Ports? Eurotunnel?’

‘Nothing, as yet, guv.’ Denise was warming her new DCI already. ‘Course, he could have done a Lord Lucan.’

‘Car at Newhaven?’ Hall outlined the case with her. ‘Lying doggo with the help of his friends? New identity in El Salvador? Shacking up on a farm in Kenya? Except that Tubbs hasn’t got any friends. Do me a favour, Denise; find out who vouched for him at Grimond’s, over that girls-in-the-flat business. That may have been good old fashioned charity, but it may be he’s the only guy who knows where he is.’

‘Mr Graham?’

‘Yes.’ The new Head of Tennyson was hanging his gown on a hook at the end of another long morning.

She flashed her warrant card. ‘DS McGovern. Hampshire CID.’

‘Sergeant.’ He shook her hand. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Jeremy Tubbs,’ she said.

‘You’ve found him?’ Graham asked.

‘No, sir. I wondered if you knew where he was.’

‘Me?’ Graham frowned. ‘You’d do better asking over in Geography or in Kipling House.’

‘It was you who stood by him six years ago, sir, over an incident involving schoolgirls.’

‘Oh, good Lord,’ Graham laughed. ‘Do you know, I’d forgotten all about that. Yes, that was a little embarrassing at the time.’

‘According to our information, you were a character witness for him.’

‘That’s right. I’d only just joined Grimond’s. Jeremy sort of latched on to me. I don’t think he had many friends.’

‘Were you involved with these girls?’

‘Involved … ? Oh, no,’ Graham laughed. ‘There was no “involvement” as you put it, Denise; it was all totally innocent. You’d have to be a teacher to understand.’

‘Would I?’ she arched an eyebrow at him. He’d picked up her Christian name. Here was a man who read warrant cards with great care.

‘Look,’ he took her gently by the arm. ‘Won’t you join me for a spot of lunch? Mrs Oakes’ cottage pie is to die for.’

‘Are you sure I’d be welcome?’ she asked, suddenly rather flattered by this man with intense eyes and the cool charm.

‘You’re with me,’ he linked arms with h patting her hand. ‘Besides, talking of welcome, we’ve already got Peter Maxwell!’ and he winked.

‘Who ordered the cheese and pickle?’ Ste Chapell wanted to know.

‘That’ll be me.’ Pete Walters was waving a hand in the air, left ear cradling a phone and his face glued to a computer screen. Friday lunchtime at the Selborne Incident Room was the most cursory of culinary delights.

‘Who’s your money on, Jacquie?’ DI Sandy Berman was well into a turkey salad baguette.

‘Sir?’

‘Look,’ he smiled with a face full of lettuce, ‘I told you, if we’re going to “Sir” and “sergeant” each other all over the shop, we’re not going get very far, are we? It’s Sandy.’

‘Sandy,’ she smiled, chasing the last of her pasta salad around the plastic tub perched on her knees. ‘What are you talking about?’

There were sniggers all round. ‘I’m often confused about that,’ somebody shouted.

‘The murder at Grimond’s.’ The DI waved couple of fingers in the shouter’s general direction.

‘Murder? Or murders?’ she asked.

Berman looked around at the others. ‘The smart money here,’ he confided, ‘is that Pardoe topped himself while the balance of his mind – and indeed his balance – was disturbed. We’re only looking for one killer here – whoever finished off Tim Robinson.’

‘DCI Hall and I have interviewed all the staff,’ she said. ‘Strictly speaking, no one has a cast-iron alibi for the night of his death. Wives who live in have told us their husbands were with them, but then they probably would, wouldn’t they? I think we can rule out outsiders, though. Whoever killed Robinson must have known the place pretty well and must have hidden the murder weapon pretty effectively.’

‘That’s the oar?’

‘Probably.’

‘I still say we should drag the lake,’ Steve Chapell said.

‘Where?’ Peter Walters was shouting, clicking his fingers to attract everybody’s attention. ‘Right. Got it. I owe you one, Jim, and I want to marry you and have your children – oh, by the way, love to Rita and the kids.’ And he threw down the phone. ‘Tubbs’ car. Portchester.’

‘Yes!’ the team roared as one. They were on their feet, giving each other high fives and slapping each other’s backs. A breakthrough at last.

Jacquie was less impressed. She alone stayed in her seat, part of the team, yet detached from it. She knew what Henry Hall’s response would be. Since when did officers applaud a mistake? There was a car, but there was no driver. So where was Jeremy Tubbs?

The sun kissed the mellow stone of Henry Plantaganet’s keep at Portchester, and crows flapped their raucous way from the tall cedars to the corbelled crevices. The curtain wall was amazingly geometric for a medieval castle guarding England’s south coast, but that, as Peter Maxwell could have told anyone who asked, was because it was once a Roman fort and the Romans knew a right angle or two.

In the visitors’ car park where Henry V ha once marshalled his bowmen on their way to Barfleur, Harfleur and the immortal glory of St Crispin’s Day, a little yellow MG sat motionless, neglected near the rustic fence as other vehicles came and went; an ice-cream van, dog walkers castle explorers and people busting for a pee. Fo five hours, DS Steve Chapell and WPC Lynda Reader, who didn’t usually get out much, sat in their unmarked car and watched the MG. By then, they’d both lost the will to live.

‘Nothing,’ Jacquie told Maxwell over the phone from Barcourt Lodge. ‘They waited there’til six then jemmied the MG and gutted it.’

‘Anything useful?’

‘The usual crap people collect in their cars – crisp packets, parking tickets, supermarket receipts. Nothing to tell who owned the thing, never mind any hint of guilt. But it’s Tubbs’ car all right. It’s in the pound at Portsmouth now. Forensics will take it apart in the morning. Apparently, heads are rolling in Pompey.’

‘Whose?’ Maxwell was sprawled on his narrow bed under the Tennyson shingle. ‘Why?’

‘Some poor anonymous bastard of a PC should’ve noticed it. The fact is, of course, it wasn’t there.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Come on, Max. A yellow MG must be one of the most easily spotted cars in the world. Routine patrols would pick it up. The PC swears it wasn’t there at nine o’clock this morning; by eleven, it was.’

‘So which way did Tubbsy run from there?’

‘Chapell and his WPC searched the grounds of the castle, the pubs nearby, the waterfront.’

‘Nothing?’

‘You guessed it, darling heart,’ she said. ‘There’s an awful lot of coastline around Portchester. Maybe the tide will wash him up.’

‘Maybe he’s in France.’

‘They’ll be checking the harbour first thing tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’ Maxwell was thinking aloud. ‘It could all be a feint.’

‘What?’

‘Tubbsy abandons his car on the coast. What are we supposed to think?’

‘He’s drowned or shipped out.’

‘Whereas?’

Jacquie had caught Maxwell’s drift. ‘He could have gone inland.’

‘And now he’s lost the car, he won’t be so easy to find. A fat, balding Geography teacher is by no means as conspicuous as a yellow MG.’

‘Tell me about it. We had six sightings before lunch yesterday – anywhere from Wilmslow to Pitlochry. You don’t disappear if you’re bland; you turn up all over the place.’

‘“I think there be six Richmonds in the field”,’ Maxwell quoted. ‘How were West’s people?’

‘Not bad, actually,’ Jacquie sounded brighter than she had for days. ‘Devoted to Henry as I am, we were getting into a bit of a rut at Grimond’s.’

‘Wonder how he’s making out with DS McGovern?’

‘I hope you mean that figuratively, you suggestive old stirrer.’

‘Madame,’ he purred. ‘I have the wooden spoon to prove it. Get any vibes?’

‘As to who our paedophile link is? No. Sandy Berman’s the vice officer. Seems a pretty straight sort of bloke, friendly enough. Bit too matey, in way. Steve Chapell’s a bit intense, workaholic type. He’ll burn out by thirty-five. Pete Walters keeps himself to himself a little, although he got the break – if that’s what it was – with Tubbs’ car. He’s got a sense of humour. The others … well, we’re assuming our man
is
a man.’

‘You tell me,’ Maxwell said. ‘Do women get involved in paedophile rings?’

‘It’s been known,’ Jacquie told him, ‘but usually because they’re inveigled into it by the man their life.’

‘
Folie a deux
,’ Maxwell nodded.

‘Absolutely. They’re useful, though.’

‘Useful?’

‘Myra Hindley, Rose West. Useful for the bloke to pick up innocents. Who’d suspect a man with a woman in the car? Even so, there aren’t many women in the team – they’re not exactly DCI West’s bag, if I may use a sexist pun.’

‘Pun away,
anima divida mea
.’

‘WPC Reader hasn’t got the imagination for it – no offence. Mind you, Denise McGovern’s different kettle of fish.’

‘You’ve met?’

‘Ships in the night,’ she said, ‘but her reputation goes before her – and in every other direction.’

‘Ah, a medal-hunter,’ Maxwell mused, familiar with the obsessions of the late Sir Winston Churchill.

‘And pushy with it, apparently. Sharp, though. And damned good at her job, by all accounts.’

‘Not our link, then?’

There was a sudden knock on Maxwell’s door, sharp, staccato.

‘Darling, I have to go. My time’s up. Sweet dreams, heart. Talk to you tomorrow,’ and he heard her blow him a kiss.

‘Mr Maxwell?’ A straw-haired woman was standing on the landing in front of Maxwell’s open door.

‘Ms McGovern?’

‘Denise,’ she held out a bony hand. ‘Do you know me?’

‘I saw you at lunch,’ he reminded her. ‘You were with Tony Graham at the other end of High Table from me. What can I do for you?’

She looked along the lonely semi-dark of the corridor. ‘Perhaps I could come in? I know it’s a little late.’

‘They’ll have locked the gates,’ Maxwell invited her inside. ‘How many hours do you people put in?’

‘I thought you knew all about that,’ she smiled. ‘Word is your partner is a copper.’

‘My partner?’ Maxwell beamed. ‘No, I have a whist partner once in a blue moon and even more rarely a dancing partner when I can’t find the escape route in a night club. But a partner?’ h shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t got one of those.’

‘I’ve been misinformed,’ she smiled.

‘Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?’ he asked her. ‘Look,’ he closed the door, ‘would you like truly awful cup of instant coffee?’ Parker had come up trumps and the supplies had got through.

‘I’ve actually been on the go since eight this morning. Right now, coffee would be fantastic.’

‘You’re working with Henry.’ Maxwell rummaged in his cups. He knew he had a spoon somewhere.

‘I understand you’ve done some of that. Smoke?’ She thrust a ciggie at him.

‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘Along with work, I gave it up a long time ago.’

‘You don’t mind if I do? As I said, long day.’

‘No, please.’ He ferreted around for an ash-tray.

‘So what’s a comprehensive teacher from Leighford doing at a place like this?’ Her face glowed briefly in the lighter flame.

‘I bet you say that to all the suspects,’ Maxwell drawled, swaying from side to side like an embarrassed hillbilly.

‘Do you think that’s what you are?’ Denise drew forcefully on the cigarette. ‘A suspect?’

‘You tell me.’ He waved a packet of sugar at her and she shook her head.

‘Well,’ she said, narrowing her eyes beyond the curling smoke, ‘things started jumping, if that isn’t too sick an observation, when you arrived. Has DCI Hall interviewed you?’

‘I’m sure you know he hasn’t.’

‘No milk either, thanks.’ Denise leaned back on both elbows on Maxwell’s bed. ‘Why is that, do you think?’

Maxwell paused in mid-pour. ‘Why hasn’t Henry interviewed me? I really don’t know. You’d have to ask him.’

‘I have,’ Denise said. ‘They call you Mad Max, don’t they?’

‘Only behind my back.’ It was a perfect Mel Gibson.

‘And you’ve been interviewed by DCI Hall before.’

He passed her the cup. ‘Denise,’ he sat down slowly in the chair opposite her. ‘I hope you aren’t implying any impropriety on Henry Hall’s part. It’s true that he and I have met professionally before, several times. He’s a damned good copper. And he’s straight as the Dardanelles.’

The historical allusion was lost on Denise McGovern; at school she’d opted for Business Studies instead. ‘I’m not implying anything,’ she shook her head, ‘but DCI Hall did say you have something of a reputation, Mr Maxwell.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Let’s see.’ Denise sat upright, flicking her ciggie ash into her saucer and fixing the Head of Sixth Form with a stare that could have turned a lesser man to stone. ‘You’re a Cambridge graduate – Jesus College. You’re an Historian. Been teaching since …’

‘… before the flood,’ Maxwell smiled.

‘And one of your own sixth form was murdered a few years back. You’ve seemed to have a penchant for it ever since.’

‘The only game in town?’ Maxwell raised eyebrow. ‘Unlike you, I’m not paid to solve crimes,’ he said. ‘But if they happen on my doorstep – and that has, literally, happened before now, by the way – I can’t just walk away.’

‘You’re an amateur, Mr Maxwell,’ Denise told him. ‘You do incalculable harm. Here’s an analogy you might understand. An archaeologist, right? A bloke trained to know about the buried past, post-holes, soil composition, pollen grains, Christ knows what. That’s us. The law. The professionals. The experts. You, you’re the metal detector anorak crashing about over our valuable evidence, destroying everything the rest of us trying to get right. Murder isn’t a game, Mr Maxwell. It’s not a toy you can play with and throw away when you’re bored.’

‘So this isn’t a social call, then?’ Maxwell ask.

‘Fucking right it’s not,’ she snarled. ‘Where were you on the night William Pardoe died?’

‘Here,’ Maxwell told her. ‘Or rather, there,’ pointed at the bed.

‘Alone?’

‘Home alone,’ Maxwell confirmed, but it wasn’t his best Macaulay Culkin.

‘No alibi then?’

‘None.’

‘What about the night Timothy Robinson killed?’