Maxwell's Retirement (24 page)

In the kitchen, Henry Hall clattered the mugs, but not so much as to be unable to hear what Maxwell was doing. He smiled secretly to himself – the only type of smile he ever allowed – when he heard the relatively swift footfalls on the stairs. It was what he would have done himself; grabbed a chance to read the email before anyone else. A horrible thought struck him; were he and Maxwell becoming more alike? He suppressed a small shudder and got on with making the tea.

In the study, the computer had gone to sleep. Maxwell knew, from what others said, that their computers did this and a light tap on any key had them buzzing and alert again. Maxwell’s computer needed banging, shouting, pleading and cajoling, but eventually it woke up and he found that the email page was already there. There were two unopened messages for him, both from unknown senders. He clicked on the first one.

‘The ancient work will be accomplished,’ it said. ‘And from the roof evil ruin will fall on the great man.’ He recognised this for two reasons. It was the wording of the text. And it was a quatrain he frequently quoted to his classes when they were discussing the Kennedy assassination. But it was only half of the verse. He racked his brain for the other half. He would have to look it up. He clicked on the other message. He had hesitated before doing it, because this was marked
in the subject line – ‘For Henry Hall’. Even so, he wanted to see it first.

‘They will accuse the innocent, being dead, of the deed. The guilty one is hidden in the misty copse.’

This was the second half of the quatrain. Century 6, if he recalled it right. But that didn’t really matter. It was how it impinged on now that counted, not what some mad French pot-head wrote years ago. He was shocked he could even think that, it was an insult to history, but it was sadly true.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and Henry Hall came into the study carrying a tray. The mugs matched. There was sugar in a bowl, milk in a jug. This domestic angle was a new side to the DCI and Maxwell was impressed. Still holding the tray, Hall looked over Maxwell’s shoulder.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Maxwell said. ‘There are two. You need to see them in the right order.’ He clicked on the first and then, glancing over his shoulder with some difficulty to check that Hall had read it, clicked on the second.

Hall put the tray down on the window sill and pulled up a stool. ‘Put the first one up again,’ he said and Maxwell obliged. ‘I don’t want to worry you, Max,’ he said, ‘but I would advise you not to go out … well, until we’ve caught this joker.’

‘Why ever not?’ Maxwell was astounded. As a rule, Hall could be relied upon to down
play drama and excitement. And here he was recommending a virtual house arrest, however much it was self-imposed.

‘Well, read it. “The ancient work will be accomplished.” That’s history, surely, ancient work. “And from the roof evil ruin will fall on the great man.” Now, I don’t want to make you big-headed, Max, but you know that is one of your nicknames at school. And no doubt in other places as well.’ Although not where I work, he added silently to himself. Different nicknames there altogether.

‘Henry. I’m blushing. Do you mean … well, I assume you mean someone will, what, throw something at me from a roof? Drop something on my head?’

‘Yes, I do. I do mean exactly that.’

‘But, why?’

Hall prepared to count on fingers, but first he said, ‘I know that lots of these things were not planned, Max, it’s just the usual case of you being in the right place at the wrong time, but our murderer doesn’t know that. Our murderer, and our texter, I’m beginning to think.’

‘Really? One person?’

‘One person or one group of people.’ He held up his thumb. ‘You have been approached by a couple of the girls involved, who then disappeared.’ Index finger. ‘You turn up at the paintballing, when the body is found.’ Little finger;
Maxwell found it quite endearing that DCI Henry Hall, Leighford nick supremo, couldn’t count on his fingers sequentially. ‘The girls turn up, at or near your house.’ Ring finger. ‘Your cleaning lady turns out to be related to the dead man.’ Middle finger. ‘Actually, I don’t have anything for that finger, but you see where I’m going with this.’

‘Let’s recap, Henry.’ Maxwell’s thumb went into the air. ‘Of course I was approached by the girls. I am approached by girls, and may I add here for completeness, and to avoid any charges of sexism – or worse – by boys as well, all the time. It is my job.’ Index finger. ‘I was at the paintballing with the entire staff of Leighford High School, all four thousand of us, against my will.’ Middle finger, triumphantly held up. ‘I didn’t know the girls were next door for almost twenty-four hours and anyway, isn’t that just more of the thumb point?’ Ring finger. ‘I know my cleaning lady is related to the dead man, but I had to be told by a dinner lady from the school.’ Pinky. ‘And I do have something for this finger – someone is having a bit of a poke at me, because I stick my head over the parapet. I don’t know who the murderer is, I don’t know who the texter is, if they are one and the same or not. But I do know who is sending me these emails and it is someone at Leighford High School who wants rid of me for her own twisted purposes.’

‘She?’

‘Yes. I’m almost certain it is either … well, I’ll get a bit more certain than almost before I name her, if that’s all the same to you, Henry. But I’m being very uncivil. Let’s drink our drinks and you tell me who
you
think it might be.’

Hall passed him a mug of perfectly brewed tea. It would be a cold day in Hell before he confided fully in Peter Maxwell. But he was prepared to humour him up to a point. Maxwell took a sip and raised an eyebrow in praise. ‘Well,’ the DCI said. ‘I think that the whole thing is linked because Colin Russell was a computer geek and the texter is a computer geek.’

‘Why?’ Maxwell thought he knew, but wanted to make sure that Hall was on the same track before making a complete idiot of himself.

‘It’s just a feeling I have,’ Hall admitted. ‘It’s not easy to get phone numbers – mobile phones, that is. These girls are giving out their numbers in some kind of forum where they are accessible, if not to all, then to someone who can get deeper into the records than the users expect. A mediator in a chat room, someone like that. Someone who has greater access.’

Maxwell was impressed. ‘My word, Henry,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Thank you.’ Hall sipped his coffee. ‘Unlike you, I don’t think your emails and … one text, was it?’ Maxwell inclined his head. ‘Yes, I don’t think they are unconnected. I would be interested
to know who you think it is, for that reason.’

‘We’ll have to agree to disagree, Henry. Let’s just stick to the emails, shall we? Perhaps we can dig something out using those.’

Hall recognised a brick wall when he walked into one. ‘Right. Can you click on the first one? I need to get it absolutely right.’ The mail appeared on the screen and Hall leant forward, pulling on his lower lip and humming quietly. ‘I just can’t …’ Suddenly he sat back and almost fell off his stool, coffee slopping everywhere. ‘Sorry, Max. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.’

Maxwell was patting at the coffee pools on the essays waiting to be marked on his desk. It had probably improved them; he just hoped Eleven Jay Ell Vee would agree.

Hall pointed at the screen. ‘What is Colin Russell’s hair colour?’

‘Well, poor lad. Ginger.’

‘The red one.’

‘Ah. And “red red ones”?’ Maxwell needed more confirmation.

‘You won’t know this, but … did Jacquie mention a colleague whose kids are getting texts, well, the girl is?’

‘She did say … Yvonne Thomas, is that right?’

‘Yes.’ Hall didn’t even bother to take up this blatant case of breach of confidentiality. ‘Twins, they are. A boy and a girl. Josh and Amanda. Nice kids on the surface, but a bit weird, like
twins sometimes are. Josh would do anything for Amanda. Especially if Amanda is being targeted by some bloke, possibly with paedophile tendencies. He’s a big lad. Sporty. Strong.’

Maxwell took a deep breath. ‘Red hair?’

‘Red hair.’ Hall chugged back his remaining coffee. ‘I’ve got to go, Max. I’ve got to get on with this now I’ve thought of it. I hope you don’t mind; I’ll probably have to bring Jacquie in on this. You didn’t have plans?’

‘You know better than that, Henry. The Maxwells don’t have plans when the game is afoot.’

‘Umm …?’

‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Maxwell helped Hall out of his confusion. ‘Don’t you worry. You go off and arrest the children of the damned. I’ll see Jacquie when I see her. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t see you out. You could be here for hours.’

Hall was already halfway down the stairs. Seconds later, Maxwell heard a distant slam as he left the house. Twirling gently in his old swivel chair from side to side, Maxwell clicked from one email to another. ‘Henry, my old mucker,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I really, really think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

Saturday night in Columbine. The sun had just gone down on a pretty average, warmish, dampish, cloudyish, sunnyish British spring day. Nolan was in bed, full of more E numbers than he had eaten in his whole life until this day. Metternich was having a last-minute groom before going out on what he euphemistically called ‘the Town’ – in fact, the overgrown bit along the footpath behind the houses, where the valley voles were fatter. Mrs Troubridge was also in bed; girls’ nights in were all very well, but at her age, a few went a long way, so Julie and Leah were watching television in her retro lounge. The television had the tiniest screen and the worst reception that they had ever seen, as well as for some reason only receiving five channels, more BC than BBC. They knew that next door, just through the wall, Maxwell was stretched out in front of a
flat-screen
, HD-ready, Sky-receiving TV and wished
they had the nerve to go and hijack it. But they had known Mad Max now for over five years and knew their boundaries.

Maxwell was loyally waiting up for Jacquie. He was doing it in the comfort of his own bed, though. He hadn’t spent many nights in a chair, and he had no intention of scoring two in a row. Possession was nine-tenths of the law. These things could become a habit.

He was not the kind of father who ignored his child and so, even though his mind was full of other things, he had fed, amused, bathed and bedded his one and only. He had closed the door of the boy’s bedroom with the feeling of a job well done. What Jacquie would say the next day when she found that Nolan still had his trainers on, he would discover when the time came. Until then, he was satisfied with a job well done.

He heard a click two floors below. This must be Jacquie, home from the daily grind. Her footsteps on the stairs were slow and dragging and Maxwell suddenly felt bad about being in bed while she had been working all day. He leapt gingerly to his feet and ended up meeting her on the landing. ‘Good day, hon?’

She shrugged. ‘So-so. Put a child molester away, I hope. First stages of, anyway. Bad side of that, I’ll have to tell Julie that I know what’s in her diary and her family has been ripped to shreds. Henry has got the Thomas twins in a
council facility, notionally accused of murder. Their parents are in shock. Yvonne is on a million prescription drugs, just to stop the screaming, really. If I never see anything like that again, it will be too soon.’ She sat on the bed and covered her face with her hands. He sat beside her and rubbed her back. There was nothing he could say, not really. Telling her that he thought Henry was wrong wouldn’t help at all. ‘I kept seeing Nolan, that’s the thing.’ She raised her head. ‘Our little bloke, innocent as the day is long, banged up for something he couldn’t possibly have done. Because, they haven’t done it, Max. Those kids wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

He let out a long breath. Thank goodness for that. Now he could speak without getting the flak. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I see why Henry might jump to that conclusion, but I think he’s being led that way by the real killer.’

She looked up at him and scrubbed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked like a tired and slightly grubby schoolgirl. ‘How do you mean?’

Maxwell gave her a kiss on the nose. ‘I’m going to run you a bath. You go and get a couple of drinks and I’ll meet you in the bathroom in a minute.’

She sighed and stretched. ‘That sounds lovely. Candles?’

‘I’m afraid you’ve been reading too many
lifestyle magazines. And what that bugger Johnny Depp aka Inspector Abberline was doing, soaking thus in
From Hell
as he pursued Jack the Ripper, God only knows. Candles are rubbish in a bathroom, the steam puts the flames out and since I will be sitting on the loo in lieu of anywhere else, the only place to put them will be the window sill, in which case …’

‘I get your drift. Southern Comfort?’

‘As big as the great outdoors, if you would. Just as you Mounties like them.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Train of thought. See you in a minute.’ He went into the en suite bathroom, as being further away from Nolan and less likely to wake him up. He loved his son, but tonight was no time for playing Sink the Bismarck, no matter how much Metternich would approve.

When Jacquie was ensconced in the bubbles and they had chinked glasses together, she got back to the point. ‘So you think Henry is wrong?’

‘I think I’m prepared to go further. I
know
Henry is wrong. What happened was, he got so excited about the red red ones, that he ignored the other two emails I showed him.’

‘You’ve had more? He didn’t say.’ She sank lower and her breasts disappeared at one end as her knees appeared at the other. It looked like a Paul Daniels trick for the late night cabaret circuit.

‘Yes. Well, one really, in that they are the two halves of one quatrain. And very lazy. I use it quite often at school.’

‘You teach Nostradamus? Don’t you get complaints?’

‘I would if I did, but I don’t. It crops up when we cover the Kennedy killing. When I debunk the coincidence theories and other stuff that the kids get off the net and trot out at me.’

‘Well, go and get them, then. You open the mail, click the printer icon …’

‘If you please, madam, I am quite capable of printing an email. Quite often, anyway. But I don’t need to. I know it. The first half says, “The ancient work will be accomplished and from the roof evil ruin will fall on the great man”.’

Jacquie surged up out of the water, a mini tsunami flowing in all directions. ‘Max! Surely, that’s a direct threat to you! Is Henry doing anything? Protection?’

‘Darling, darling, calm down. You weren’t this interested when I got this as a text.’

Jacquie had the grace to look contrite. He had certainly tried hard enough to tell her about it. But stuff, police stuff, important stuff kept getting in the way.

Maxwell patted her and then dried his hand on her hair. ‘Don’t fret, heart. Back in the water this instant or you will chap. Yes, Henry sees it as a threat. No, he isn’t doing anything because it
would be stupid. And he also isn’t doing anything because he thinks he has his killers. So, stop it. The second half, which came as another email says, “They will accuse an innocent, being dead, of the deed. The guilty one is hidden in the misty copse”.’

‘And what do you take that to mean?’ She sipped her drink.

‘Well, what I’m
supposed
to take it to mean is that the twins – who have already been set up in the first email, don’t forget – will put the blame on Colin Russell, the man in the ditch. He was, after all, found in a copse – although it wasn’t misty when he was found, it no doubt is at dawn or thereabouts.’

‘“Supposed to mean”? So you don’t think that it is what happened. That the twins will try and blame it all on Colin?’

‘What’s to blame? Colin was guilty, if he was guilty of anything, of taking money that wasn’t his. I don’t think he is behind the texting and emails and how can he be guilty of the only other crime – his murder? It’s hard to break your own neck and leave yourself in a ditch, no matter how determined you might be.’

‘It isn’t Melkins, either. He’s a nasty piece of work, but he definitely hasn’t done anything except molest Julie.’ She took a big gulp of her drink. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever hear myself say that.’

‘I know what you mean, sweetness, don’t worry. No, I think a lot of hares have been started today and I just hope Henry can put things right with the twins’ parents. It’s not the sort of thing that goes towards good staff relations, is it?’

‘Their dad’s a copper as well.’

‘Henry really knows how to do it – he doesn’t often mess it up, but he certainly doesn’t do things by halves when he does.’ He leant forward to turn on the hot tap for her. ‘I’m assuming you are at home tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ she said, with no room for quibbling. ‘I’ve done no shopping. There’s absolutely no food in the house.’

‘Why don’t we take Mrs Troubridge and the girls out for a Little-As-You-Can-Eat-
Carvery-Only
-£3.50 at the Weasel and Ferret? I think we all deserve a treat.’

She flicked some foam at him. ‘I think we all deserve more than a piece of string and a plastic Yorkshire pudding at the Weasel and Ferret, but I agree with the principle. That would be good. But a lie-in, first, please.’

He stood up and reached into the airing cupboard for a big, fluffy towel – one of the
forty-two
she owned – and held it up for her to step into. ‘Your wish is my command, oh best beloved.’ He wrapped the towel round her. ‘I would carry you to the bedroom, but you have to remember my Old Trouble.’

‘I can walk, just,’ she said, just making it to the bed. ‘Swing my legs up for me, there’s a thing.’ He did as she asked and went back into the bathroom for their glasses. ‘I’ve put your jamas on the towel rail,’ he said. ‘They’re nice and warm.’

But answer came there none. DS Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell was fast asleep.

Maxwell counted them in at Columbine and he counted them out at the Weasel and Ferret. They made a strange-looking family group, but Maxwell was strangely proud of his little brood as they trooped into the Family Dining Area. Mrs Troubridge was twittering with pleasure; it was years since she had had Sunday lunch anywhere other than in front of her own television and her festive mood had somehow rubbed off on everyone. If anyone noticed that Jacquie was watching the roofline with more than usual zeal, they were too polite to comment. Six roast dinners – left-overs in a moggy bag for the Count – followed by six really-still-half-frozen toffee puddings later and they were on their way back home. Scrabble for six, won inexplicably by Nolan and with no help from anyone, except possibly Maxwell, followed and a perfect Sunday was complete. No one mentioned phones or emails or anything electronic or otherwise cyber. Not even Jacquie had noticed the car trailing
them at a discreet distance. Not even Metternich had noticed the bushes rustle down on the footpath behind the houses. Maxwell officially absolved Leah and Julie from school the next day.
Midsomer Murders
on the telly in the bedroom, Maxwell spotting that the antique dealer did it within minutes of the opening credits finishing, brought the day to a proper close. Jacquie closed her eyes on her world with a feeling that, if she hadn’t taken any steps forward, at least she hadn’t taken any steps back.

‘Nolan!’ Jacquie was calling from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Don’t make me come up there.’

‘All right,’ he called back. ‘I won’t.’

‘You asked for that one,’ Maxwell remarked, from his place at the kitchen table. ‘You have to learn to stay one step ahead, don’t ask any closed questions and always be prepared for the answer you don’t want.’

‘All good interviewing techniques,’ she conceded.

‘And also damned fine strategy for dealing with Year Ten,’ he said. ‘I’ve always said we do the same job.’

‘If I did your job, I’d be in a strait-jacket. And if you did mine, you would have retired by now.’ The words were out before she heard them coming.

Maxwell took another bite of toast and
chewed thoughtfully. ‘Ah, the R word. It seems to be spinning around in the air at the moment. Whenever I see Legs I always feel it is what he wants to say next. I know Pansy and Nicole would like me gone.’ He gave her an assessing look. ‘And what about you?’

She considered lying and then decided that would be counterproductive as well as pointless. ‘I worry about you.’

‘I know that. But do you want me to retire?’

‘May I plead the Fifth on that?’

‘No.’ A one word answer was so rare from her husband that she had to take notice.

‘All right. Since you ask. I would love to have you at home. I know you have a million things you’d like to do – writing, modelling, gardening.’ The last was just a hopeful addition, but it didn’t get past him.

‘They say everyone has one book in them, so that might be true of me. The modelling can always do with a bit more time. I’ve ignored the gardening crack – you will have your little joke. But, would you like me to retire?’

‘Oh, Max. Give me a break. It’s Monday morning. Nolan is still in bed—’

‘No, I’m not,’ came an irritated voice from behind her. ‘I’m here, waiting for my breakfast.’

She spun round. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. You came in very quietly.’

‘Metternich’s teaching me,’ the boy said,
reaching for his milk. ‘He’s very good at it already.’

‘I understand the second lesson is how to lick your own—’

‘Max! That’s enough. You can’t retire, anyway. You’re only four.’

‘And a half.’ The Head of Sixth Form laughed and stood up from the table. ‘Can’t wait for you two today. I need to be at school early.’

‘I was going to drop you today,’ Jacquie said. ‘Because of … well, you know. Your back.’

‘Fit as a flea,’ he replied, doing a few running steps on the spot. ‘I only missed doing the Marathon because I’m so busy with marking. Anyway,’ he kissed his wife and son on their respective heads, ‘time’s a-wasting. Abyssinia.’

‘’Sinya,’ Nolan called, Coco Pops going everywhere.

‘Love you,’ Jacquie said, but quietly. ‘Take care.’

Maxwell had made the same journey on the same bicycle, give or take the odd spare part, for nigh on a century, or that was how it felt. He no longer took any notice of his surroundings and often got to Leighford High wondering if he had, perhaps, run down and slaughtered whole squadrons of small children, old ladies, or it might even be missionaries going about their lawful business in his path. He had discussed this one morning
with another cycling teacher, a nice lad from the Geology Department, and had been reassured that he was not the only one to worry. The thing to keep in mind, he had been told, was that should he in fact decimate whole swathes of Leighford’s population, he would certainly notice, if it was only because of the blood on the mudguard.

He was quite glad, therefore, to discover from first-hand experience that this was true. Except that he was the potential victim, not the slaughterer. He was swinging wide on the final turn as he so often did, coat flying, hat on his head by sheer willpower alone, when he heard an engine behind him. An SUV of unnecessary size and horsepower was coming up behind him on the turn and it was only by a mad twist of the handlebars and a flying leap onto the verge that he wasn’t squashed like a bug. The vehicle, having turned into the drive of the school, did a screaming U-turn on its handbrake and sped off the way it had come.