Maxwell’s Match (29 page)

‘Ditto,’ Maxwell said. ‘But then, that applies a lot of other people at Grimond’s, doesn’t People sleeping alone in their beds. It’s a sad, sad world, my masters.’

‘Sure,’ she conceded. ‘Except that most of the kids sleep together in dormitories, a lot of the staff are offsite and you have a reputation for getting involved in other people’s sudden deaths.’

‘Should I cancel my foreign holiday, then?’ he asked her.

‘What you should do, Mr Maxwell, is stop being so fucking flippant and consider your options. DCI Hall might think you’re as white as the driven, but you and I don’t go back aways. Tomorrow morning, I would like you to present yourself for an official interview in the Head’s outer office. Would nine-thirty suit?’

‘Wonderful,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘Should I have my solicitor present?’

She stubbed her cigarette out in the empty cup. ‘Do you have one?’

‘No,’ he told her.

‘Then the question, like you, is academic.’ She passed him the cup. ‘Thanks for the coffee. You have a good night’s sleep now, y’hear?’ And she slammed her way out as John Selwyn was beginning his nightly rounds, Ape and Splinter at his elbows.

‘Everything all right, Mr Maxwell?’ he popped his head round the man’s still partially open door.

‘Just a little run-in with the law, John,’ Maxwell joined the Captain of Tennyson and his henchmen as Denise McGovern disappeared down the spiral stairs. ‘Thank you for asking. What time tomorrow?’

‘Kick-off’s at two. It’s good of you to stand in like this.’

‘No problem. Now, you are going to be gentle with me, aren’t you?’

Ape and Splinter sniggered.

‘Don’t you worry, Mr Maxwell. Playing rugger’s a bit like falling off a bike, isn’t it?’

‘What? You mean it hurts like hell? Yes suppose you’re right.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Maxwell,’ the three chorused.

‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’

Peter Maxwell locked his door. He’d taken doing that since the death of Tim Robinson who was Andy Love. He shivered the curtains aside to watch Denise McGovern striding for the car park. She’d have to knock up Parker at the lodge and fight her way through the diehard rear-guard of the paparazzi still camped at the gates, hungry for a story. She’d probably run over three or four of them on the way.

He punched out the number on his mobile. ‘Hello, Count.’ He was talking to the cat. ‘Pick up if you’re there, will you? Blast. Out on tiles, eh? I’ve just had a visit from a horrid policewoman who really wasn’t nice at all. In the mean time, they’ve found Tubbsy’s car, but not him. And Jacquie’s met some very nice people at the Incident Room. Your Master’s playing rugby tomorrow, so this might be the last time you hear my voice. Give a message to Mrs B for me, will you, you old bastard? Tell her, haemorrhage and traction permitting, I shall be back at Columbine tomorrow night. Missing you already.’ And hung up.

It must have been nearly one-thirty when he heard it. It was a bell. Slow and solemn. And it only tolled three times. Even so, it woke him up and groggily, he made his way to the window. Below, in the silver moonlight of the quad, a uniformed detachment was making its way again, berets dark and backs ramrod straight as they carried the flag-draped coffin. There was no sound of their boots on the tarmac, no muffling of drums, just the ghastly, sad ritual of the slow march.

‘Ask not to know,’ he whispered in the shadows, ‘for whom the bell tolls, Maxwell. It tolls for thee.’

17

‘Here,’ he thrust a small folded wad of notes the boy’s hand. ‘That’s for you, son.’

‘Thanks, Dave.’ The lad tilted his baseball back into position and clambered out into night.

Dave watched him go, fastening his jeans belt as he dashed away across the car park. He rummaged in his glove compartment and hauled out the cassette recorder. ‘Not bad,’ he croaked into it. ‘Uses the handle “Janet”. Sixteen or so claims. Seemed to like the porn. I’ll probably use him again. Not sure he’s your type, though.’

He flicked out the tape and slipped it into an envelope. Then he stuck a row of stamps on it in the dim light and hit the ignition. This wasn’t his own patch and he moved warily. Didn’t want come to the notice of the law parked in their out-of-the-way places. He drove slowly, but not too slowly; with care, but not with paranoia. He knew the game. Too fast and they’ll pull you over, too slow, the same. And the stash of mags in the well of the back seat would take too much explaining.

The black excrescence of the Tricorn Centre loomed to his right as he waited patiently for the lights. A white patrol car was prowling the roundabout and tucked in neatly and noiseless behind him. There shouldn’t be any trouble. He knew his rear brake lights were in order and his tax disc in date. He waited for the emerald flash before cruising forward, keeping at a steady twenty nine miles an hour.

He was already out on the M275 and purring north when the patrol car swung off to the left on the brave bend that led to Portchester, Henry Plantagenet’s castle black against the purple of the night sky. He pushed his foot to the floor and drove for home.

‘I’m up before the beak this morning,’ Peter Maxwell was tucking into his scrambled egg.

‘DCI Hall?’ Tony Graham asked.

‘Worse. His new henchwoman, Gauleiter McGovern.’

‘Tut, tut,’ Michael Helmseley scolded him over his full English. ‘What a chauvinist remark.’

‘I had the delightful DS Carpenter,’ Graham smiled. ‘Oh, not in the pejorative sense, of course.’

It was Saturday and Grimond’s seemed more relaxed than it had for days. Spring was springing in the grounds outside, the daffodils nearly over and the buds bursting on the limes. Before too long, it would be the cricket season and David Gallow would come into his own again, leather on willow on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Graham was helping himself to more coffee, ‘I passed Richard Ames on the way up to hall this morning. How do you feel about playing Second Row, he asked me to ask you?’

‘Did he now?’ Maxwell swallowed hard. ‘Where will you be, Tony?’

‘Fly half, as usual.’

Maxwell nodded. ‘Who’s hooker?’

And both men glanced up at Cassandra James who was sidling past, as if on cue. They both a their heads and looked away, slightly ashamed of themselves.

‘Anybody hear the bell last night?’ Max asked, happy to change the subject.

‘Bell?’ Helmseley repeated.

‘Hmm,’ Maxwell munched. ‘The school bell. About one, half-past.’

‘What, in the early hours, you mean?’

‘Yes. Or perhaps you saw the burial detail?”

‘Max,’ Graham frowned. ‘I’ve heard of the odd hallucination after a game of rugger – concussion, that sort of thing. But never before. Perhaps you’d better have a little lie down.’

‘Yes,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Perhaps I should.’

‘Please state your name for the record.’ The tape was whirring.

‘Peter Maxwell.’

‘Address?’ Denise McGovern was asking.

‘Thirty-eight, Columbine Avenue, Leighford, West Sussex.’

‘Interview in the presence of DCI Henry and DS Denise McGovern, Saturday, 4 April.’

The tape was still whirring. ‘Why are you here at Grimond’s, Mr Maxwell?’ It was Hall posing the question now.

‘An exchange of sorts,’ the Head of Sixth Form told him. ‘This school and mine.’

‘And you’ve been here since … ?’

‘Two weeks tomorrow.’

‘Did you know the deceased, William Pardoe?’

‘I spoke to him, yes. I’d only been here for a day and a half when they found his body.’

‘Did you form any opinion of him?’ It would not have been allowed in a court of law, but police interviews, Maxwell knew, had different parameters.

‘He seemed a decent sort,’ Maxwell shrugged.

‘Apart from the porn addiction, you mean?’ Denise McGovern chipped in for the first time.

‘I didn’t know about that,’ Maxwell reminded her. ‘Still don’t.’

‘Still don’t?’ Denise frowned. ‘You were not aware that Pardoe regularly received pornographic material in the post?’

‘I regularly receive offers from Saga Holidays,’ Maxwell said, leaning back in his chair. ‘That doesn’t mean I actually go on them.’

‘Did you know Tim Robinson?’ Hall moved the matter on. He knew that Mad Max could fence with this woman all day.

‘No,’ Maxwell looked levelly at him, each knowing what the other knew. ‘No, I didn’t know Tim Robinson at all.’

‘You didn’t talk to him?’ Denise followed up.

‘Briefly,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘During a practice fencing bout in the gym.’

‘How did he strike you?’ Denise took a leaf from her new boss’s book.

‘Not much of a fencer,’ Maxwell confessed.

‘Sorry?’

‘He mixed up his foil strokes and his sabre cuts.’

‘Hush my puppies.’ Denise was shaking her head.

‘You asked,’ Maxwell shrugged.

‘Thank you, Mr Maxwell,’ Hall said. ‘Interview terminated at nine-thirty-eight.’ And he switched off the tape.

There was a pause. ‘Is that it?’ Denise was only just reaching for her ciggies, preparing for quite a session.

‘For now,’ Hall turned to her for the first time.

‘Mr Maxwell,’ Denise shot forward in her chair, her cigarette hand poised over the ash-tray, ignoring the DCI’s decision, ignoring the switched off machine. ‘When do you plan to leave Grimond’s?’

‘Tonight,’ he told her. ‘Pretty soon after the match.’

‘Do you not find it odd,’ she leaned back, ‘that two deaths should have occurred in the very twelve days you’ve been here?’

‘Extraordinary,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘I’ve always thought somebody should do some serious research into synchronicity, serendipity, call it what you will. Although there’s probably a Chair of it in some South-Western American University.’

‘Thank you, Mr Maxwell.’ Hall slid back his chair and stood up. ‘That’s all. Enjoy your game this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hall.’ Maxwell bowed low while he still could and winked at Denise, before exiting left, out into the echoing main corridor of old Jedediah Grimond’s house.

‘That bastard’s insufferable,’ the DS growled, flicking ash all over George Sheffield’s carpet, too furious to watch him go.

‘Isn’t he, though?’ Hall was changing tapes ‘But take a tip from me, Denise. Don’t go head to head with men like Peter Maxwell. He’ll have you every time.’

No one at Grimond’s had seen Peter Maxwell’s knees before. Nor anyone at Leighford. It had been quite a time since Peter Maxwell had. When other foolhardy colleagues had had their legs waxed for charity some years ago, Maxwell had stumped up a small fortune not to roll his trousers up. They were nevertheless on display at a little before two o’clock by the sun on the First Fifteen pitch. Quite a crowd had gathered, stomping and whistling along the touch lines and on the makeshift terraces on the slopes that led up to the hallowed turf of the First Eleven Square and Jedediah Grimond’s great house beyond.

Maxwell saw George Sheffield at his French windows, looking at the field of battle below him. The Headmaster would normally have been present at this annual event, presenting a cup at the end. But George Sheffield, it had to be said, was not the man he used to be. He felt alone, vulnerable, the precursors of full-blown paranoia. Scarves flashed everywhere on the field and the impromptu cheerleaders of Junior Austen were urging on the objects of their pubescent desires in the First Fifteen back line. Why was it, Maxwell wondered again, as he had as a boy, that girls never fancied the pack? Was it their knuckles dragging on the ground, the shaking of the earth when they moved, or the rather unflattering scrum caps half of them wore these days?

A rather surreal episode had transpired in the changing rooms when referee Richard Ames had tried to force Maxwell to wear a gum shield. They didn’t have them in Maxwell’s day, when me. shorts reached their knees and Billy Webb-Ellis didn’t know the rules. ‘Thank you, no, Richard. I’ll stick to my jock-strap.’ And before he felt turf springing beneath his studs, that’s exactly what Maxwell was doing.

John Selwyn, scrum half and First Fifteen Captain, won the toss and David Gallow marshalled his team. It was the closest the staff at Grimond’s would ever come to a group hug. They huddled in a tight circle.

‘Counting on you, Jeff,’ Gallow nodded solemnly to one of the Science staff. ‘Remember, it’s only thirty minutes each way. And watch the offside rule. Ready, Tony?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Graham said.

‘How’s your boot, Eric?’

Eric glanced down. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he grinned.

Across the turf, the First Fifteen were doing same. Selwyn, Ape, Splinter, other hearties Maxwell had met in the days that had gone, were psyching themselves up for the fray.

‘Are you ready, staff?’ Richard Ames had his whistle in his left hand, his right hand in the air.

The Fifteen’s full back had his ball in his hand and the crowd set up a roar as his boot collided with it and it sailed high over upward-looking staff heads. There was a thud as it was taken cleanly by Number Twelve and the whole line moved forward. John Selwyn was quicker however and his pack charged the staff. Maxwell had forgotten the pace of all this. He was the wrong side of fifty, hell, the wrong side of fifteen large, fit young men, all of them hurtling for him. His lungs felt like lead and already he couldn’t feel his feet.

He saw David Gallow flash across him, sliding the ball into his hands. Maxwell grabbed it instinctively, dummying to one side and swerving round their Number Eight. Number Two caught him full in the ribs and he twisted free before thudding into Grimond’s mud.

‘Get off it, staff!’ he heard Ames roar and tried to roll clear, but the weight of bodies held him down. The whistle blasted. ‘Scrum down,’ Ames shouted. ‘Fifteen ball.’ And as the ref passed the dazed Head of Sixth, Maxwell heard him mutter, ‘You’ve got to get off it, Max.’

‘That’s another new rule since 1823,’ the Second Row wheezed, his vision reeling.

An arm hooked around his waist and Ronald from Geography had him fast. Bugger, Maxwell groaned internally as his head clamped between the buttocks of the Hooker and the Tight Head Prop. He could see the chewed Grimond’s turf looking up at him, soon to be strewn, no doubt, with blood and teeth. He heard the wheezing of the less-than-fit pack all around him and felt his ears crush against somebody’s loins. Much more of this and he’d be sporting cauliflowers.