Maxwell's Retirement (18 page)

The scream seemed to hang in the air for far longer than normal physics would dictate. Depending on their personalities, the staff of Leighford High School either froze in their tracks or ran towards the sound. Maxwell dumped Mike unceremoniously and ran. Paul Moss was hurtling up from Pansy’s circle of shame. Bill Grogan, Action Man once more, was first on the scene.

Nicole Thompson stood rooted to the spot, on the edge of a shallow ditch, her mouth still open as if to catch its own echo. Her breath was coming in harsh gasps and her face was the colour of putty. She was pointing at the ground and, with every breath, they could hear a little whimper.

Paul Moss put his arm round her shoulders and tried to lead her away, but she just twisted in his arms as though she had been hypnotised by the thing at her feet. The men all looked down.
Even Maxwell, considered by most to be an old stager in the finder-of-dead-bodies stakes, felt the lurch in the pit of his stomach as he looked down at the face of a man so clearly dead.

He was quite young, not more than
twenty-five
or so, and a stranger to them all. Therefore not a Leighford Highena, therefore probably not local. He looked quite peaceful, and if it wasn’t for the beetle walking across his eyes, and the teeth marks around his ears, he could have been sleeping. Looking closer, Maxwell could see that his head was at a rather strange angle to his shoulders and guessed at the cause of death being a broken neck. He manoeuvred round between the growing crowd and the body.

‘Everyone back,’ he said. ‘Keep back. We need to stay away as much as possible. Forensics.’ He walked towards them, arms outstretched, a one-man cordon. The crowd, acting as one as crowds often do, decided to obey him. He was, after all, Police-by-marriage and so would do until the real thing arrived. Heads appeared above bushes and from behind trees as the tiny guerrilla army realised that, for them, the war was over.

Paul Moss passed the by now weeping and trembling Nicole into the care of Sylvia Matthews, who had made her way from the reception area in response to the screams. She and Maxwell stood out from the crowd as being the only people there, apart from the body, to have no paint on
them. She and Mike took the girl back to the safety of the hut, where Quentin was positively agog. He had put the kettle on when he heard the screams, having decided that it was probably safer to establish his role as refreshment guru, rather than hero.

‘Have you phoned the police?’ Sylvia asked the lad, rather tartly.

‘Um … no,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what was going on. We often have screaming, Mrs Matthews.’ He looked puzzled. ‘It’s a paintball event. People get excited.’ He had to admit to himself that this woman, quite tasty if a bit old for his own personal predilection, she must be all of forty-seven, didn’t look excited. In fact, she looked like shit. ‘I’ll phone now, shall I?’

‘I think you should,’ Mike said. ‘There’s a dead body out in your woods.’

‘Somebody’s died?’ Quentin was horrified. His heart was in his mouth and going nineteen to the dozen. In his panic, his brain was suffering from tunnel vision; did he get everyone’s signatures on the health and safety policy? Had they all signed their proper names? He knew what teachers were – had one of the buggers signed in as Mickey Mouse? Oh God, oh God, why had someone died on his shift?

‘Calm down, for heaven’s sake, Quentin.’ Sylvia Matthews could recognise incipient hyperventilation at a thousand paces. ‘It’s a
dead body. Not a dead punter. Unless, of course, he is from a previous group?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘We always count people in and out, Mrs Matthews. He can’t be left over from another time. And anyway, surely people would look for him … wouldn’t they?’ He was picking the phone up and putting it down in an agony of indecision. He should ring his boss first. But how would that look to the police? Would it look as though Paintball Ltd had something to hide?
Had
Paintball Ltd something to hide? Oh God, oh God … He felt the phone being taken from him and firm hands on his shoulders bent him over until his head was between his legs. He heard a voice from above his head.

‘Just breathe, Quentin. Nice deep breaths, now. One, two, three, four, five, go on, as slow as you can. That’s it. Now out, two, three, four, just keep going. That’s the ticket. Good chap.’ Sylvia remembered Quentin as a bit of a vomiter when he was in Year Ten, a veritable martyr to panic attacks. She could do without that right now. She turned to the IT bloke standing beside Nicole. ‘Mike, ring the police, will you?’

‘Nine nine nine?’

‘Hmm, good question. Where are we?’

‘Ah … Paintball Ltd?’ Mike didn’t know what else to say.

‘No, no. I mean, where
are
we? Are we still
nearer to Leighford than anywhere else? I’d rather keep it local, makes it easier for questioning afterwards.’

Mike wasn’t a Leighford Highena. He wasn’t even Leighford born and bred. Like many of his kind, he kept abreast of everything except what mattered, surfing, surfing, always surfing that net and yet missing the things which would affect him directly. So he had no idea how many times Sylvia Matthews had brushed shoulders with police procedure. He just assumed she was a bit of a
Midsomer Murders
fan or something. ‘We’re still closest to Leighford, I would have thought. Just villages for miles inland.’

‘Fine. Nine nine nine it is, then,’ she said brightly.

Nicole made a slight whimpering noise and jumped convulsively, and started to cry.

‘Ah, that’s better. She’s coming out of her shock. Perhaps we ought to have an ambulance as well,’ she said over her shoulder to Mike, who was giving directions to the emergency services.

‘That’s right,’ she heard him say. ‘Police and an ambulance. In fact, make that two ambulances.’ He put the phone down and came over, putting a hand on Nicole’s shoulder. He dropped his voice and mouthed to Sylvia. ‘I thought two; one for her and him, one for … well, you know.’

‘Good idea,’ said Sylvia. ‘Hold on to her. I’ll
check on Quentin.’ She felt like a ping pong ball, bouncing between the two. Who’d be a school nurse?

Maxwell and Legs Diamond were standing by the body, the Headteacher with his back resolutely turned, spattered with yellow paint as it was. Ryan and Paul Moss had marshalled the other staff back to the car park where they were standing in disconsolate groups waiting for the inevitable arrival of the police. From the high ground, it looked faintly like a fire drill at school. Some were so covered in paint as to be virtually unrecognisable and, standing around without the thrill of the chase, were beginning to realise just how painful paint pellets could be when they made contact with a delicate area. Personal scores had been settled, vendettas pursued and no teams whatsoever had been built. Maxwell, standing shoulder to shoulder with Legs, would have loved to take the opportunity to remark that, for the price of a Kit Kat and five minutes’ sit-down, he could have told him what the outcome would be, but it seemed inappropriate.

Diamond shuffled his feet in the damp grass, looking down at the crushed violets and primroses on the bank. ‘Do you recognise him, Max?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Maxwell said. ‘He’s not one of ours, if that’s what you mean.’

Diamond bridled. ‘I like to think I can recognise my own staff, Max,’ he snapped. ‘And the students. Especially by this time of the school year.’

Into Maxwell’s head came an unbidden picture; it was the entire cohort of Year Nine girls and they were all standing with their weight on one leg, with their arms folded at the waist and, with one voice, they were all saying, ‘Oh, purrllleeease!’ He shook his head to rid himself of it and smiled faintly at Legs. ‘Naturally, Headmaster. I wasn’t implying to the contrary. I think what I meant was none of ours in the past. As in, an alumnus of the school.’ His grin was an exact facsimile of the last thing many a solitary surfboarder sees on the Great Barrier Reef, just before being bitten in half. ‘No one would expect you to remember all of the students who have passed through.’

Diamond looked at him sharply. Maxwell was famous for never forgetting a face. What was the man saying, as such? He sighed and relaxed. What was the point of trying to second-guess Maxwell? It could only come round and bite you on the arse. ‘Sorry, Max.’ He passed a paint-encrusted hand over his face. He was probably the only person there that day who had every colour represented on his clothes and skin. Even, and perhaps especially, the colour of his own team. ‘It’s been a bit stressful, today, one way and another. And now, this … the police, the
missing girls, just everything, really.’ He paused and rather disconcertingly put out a hand and clutched Maxwell’s sleeve. In everything they had gone through together, there had been very few examples of actual
touching
and it showed perhaps more than anything else the depths he had plumbed.

Maxwell was surprised. It wasn’t often Diamond got to an idea before he did. ‘Do you think there is a link between him and the girls, then?’ he said.

Diamond shook his head. ‘No, no, of course there isn’t. I was just counting my blessings.’ He gave a short, mirthless laugh.

It was true that Legs Diamond was way down on the list of Maxwell’s favourite people. In fact, had that list been written down in five columns on a sheet of narrow-feint A4 paper, it was unlikely that he would be on the first page at all. But Maxwell’s sympathy button could be pressed by almost any of God’s creatures and so he said, ‘Look, Headmaster. There is no need for us both to be here. I don’t mind waiting by myself. Off you go and help with the staff. I expect they could do with a bit of guidance about now. The police will be here soon, anyway.’

It would have been nice if Diamond had at least made a pretence at wanting to stay. But he was off down the slope like Eddie the Eagle, calling over his shoulder, ‘Are you absolutely sure,
Max? That’s very good of you.’ In a matter of seconds, Maxwell and the dead man were alone together.

The Head of Sixth Form looked down into the dead face. ‘Who are you, I wonder?’ he said to it. He filled in time by practising his Sherlock Holmes techniques. He looked at the clothes. Chain store, cheap end he would guess, he who was by no means a fashionisto. The shoes were cheap as well, black trainers that could pass for smart footwear at a pinch. They were typical of someone wanting to look well turned out on little money. He could only see one hand, as the body was lying twisted round on one side, but the nails looked clean, trimmed and well looked after. The hair was auburn, short and neat, not tending to anything that could be called a style. There were no bruises or cuts on the face or hand, nothing that implied a fight or struggle. In fact, at a cursory glance, there didn’t seem any reason why he should be dead. Except that head, twisted round to an impossible angle.

Maxwell raised his head. Was that fairy music coming from the direction of The Dam? Or was it sirens? He would certainly prefer it to be sirens; it would mean he wasn’t going mad. Yes. He turned his head, triangulating on the sound; it was definitely sirens, the broken noise of ambulances and the higher-pitched wail of police cars. The Seventh Cavalry. They could always be relied
on. He moved away from the body, a little way down the bank, distancing himself from it and trying to stop caring about this dead man, almost a boy, really, lying there in the ditch, with beetles walking over his eyes.

At Leighford nick, Jacquie had the surprise of her life waiting for her when she signed in at the desk. The desk sergeant, in formal tones said, ‘Detective Sergeant Carpenter. You have someone to see you.’ He indicated, with the smallest imaginable nod of his head, the chair in the corner of the foyer. His eyes said – a bit of lowlife over there; do you want me to get rid?

Jacquie turned to follow his indication and saw, to her surprise and delight, Maisie, slouching in such a way as to show that she didn’t have to be there, she just thought she might drop in. ‘Thank you,’ Jacquie said to the desk man, ‘I was expecting Miss Wilkins. Maisie, would you like to come up to my office?’

‘Yeah,’ the girl said and, bending forward and not taking her hands out of her pocket, slumped herself upright and stood by the doors, waiting for Jacquie to be buzzed through. It was not a comforting thought that she seemed to know the drill. They climbed the stairs in silence, Jacquie’s court shoes tap tapping, Maisie’s Doc Martens shaking the building. Jacquie opened the door to her office, sniffing for lingering kipper, but
thankfully the plug-in air freshener had taken control.

‘’Snice,’ the girl remarked, flinging herself into a chair.

‘Thank you,’ Jacquie said. ‘I haven’t had it long. It’s nice to have a bit of privacy.’

‘Hnuh,’ snorted the girl. ‘You’re not wrong. She goes through my pockets, my bag, my phone, everything. She comes in while I’m asleep and just, you know, like,
looks
at me.’

Jacquie resisted the urge to ask how she knew if she was asleep. She wanted to tell her that all mothers looked at their sleeping children, whether they were one day, one year, ten or twenty years old. It was a comfort thing, that this human that you had made was still alive, still well, that you hadn’t broken it or mislaid it. It was an instinct that was as old as the first two cells that ever joined together, back in the primeval ooze. But Maisie wasn’t going to believe that. It was snooping, pure and simple.

‘It’s because she went through your phone that you’re here,’ Jacquie reminded her. ‘Other girls are in a bad way about this, Maisie. Two are missing, we think because of it. We’ve got to catch who is doing this texting, emailing and stuff because it will have serious consequences soon, if it hasn’t already.’

The girl looked thoughtful. When her face was in repose, and if you looked past the
piercings, the make-up, the residual truculent expression, Maisie was actually quite a pretty girl. She wouldn’t welcome that information, Jacquie thought, but she will be grateful one day, when she takes all the metal out and becomes a swan. Assuming the holes heal up and assuming she doesn’t leave it so late that all her tattoos have dropped with gravity and become a series of demented lines and whorls instead of the no doubt rather distressing images they were intended to be. She looked up. ‘OK,’ she said. Without the whine, her voice was quite pleasant and the intelligence shone through. ‘You can have my phone if you want. I’ll just need it back tonight, yeah, because my boyfriend will be ringing when he gets off work. I’m getting, like, twenty of these things a day. I just delete them. They don’t bother me.’