Authors: M. J. Trow
‘I told you …’
‘Alec Crossman recommended you,’ Maxwell intervened. A seventeen-year-old wasn’t much of a name to drop in the scheme of things, but it opened the oddest of doors.
‘Young Alec?’ The balding man smiled. ‘Jonathan’s boy?’
‘That’s right,’ Maxwell bluffed, not knowing the elder Crossman from Adam.
‘Well, that’s different, Mr … er … I didn’t catch your name.’
That was because Maxwell hadn’t yet thrown it in. ‘Maxwell’ – he extended a hand – ‘Peter Maxwell.’
‘Mr Maxwell,’ the balding man gripped him fiercely with both hands as though he’d just found the lost tribe of Israel. ‘I’m Douglas McSween. My friends call me Dee.’
‘Do you know,’ Maxwell was at his most affable, ‘I had no idea you were here.’
‘Ah, we’re new’ McSween took him by the arm and led him into a backroom stuffed full of metal film cases. ‘Only been here a couple of months. Now, Peter, there are various formalities.’
‘Of course, Douglas,’ Maxwell smiled broadly.
‘That’s Dee, remember. Have a seat.’
‘Thank you. That’s Max.’ Maxwell filled in a form, giving all but his inside leg measurement. When he’d finished, McSween popped out, taking the paperwork with him. Maxwell checked the corridor. Empty. He rummaged through the cans on the shelving around the room. Now Peter Maxwell had been a film fan all his life. He was a Saturday matinee kid, along with Methusaleh, and if Peter Maxwell didn’t know the title of a film, that was because no one had made it yet. But to his growing discomfort, he didn’t know any of these. Many of them were in Dutch, some appeared to be in Urdu. There was no
Thirty Nine Steps
, no
Maltese Falcon
, not even a decent editing of
Citizen Kane
. But before he could delve further, McSween was back.
‘Sorry about that,’ he beamed. ‘Now, this shouldn’t take too long. Three or four days at most. Oh …’
McSween’s bland face had darkened, and his eyes flickered up to
Maxwell’s, then down to the form again. ‘Is there a problem?’ Maxwell asked.
‘I see you’re a teacher.’ McSween had not read the small print.
‘Don’t tell me that’s a bar to my eligibility?’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘Teacher blackballed! What a headline!’
McSween looked increasingly uncomfortable by the moment. ‘I’m sure you understand, Max, that we do not deal in headlines here.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Maxwell frowned, nodding solemnly.
‘It’s just that, well,’ – it was McSween’s turn to chuckle – ‘you’re a lucky sod in some ways, aren’t you?’ and he elbowed him in the elbow.
‘Well, there are the holidays, I suppose,’ Maxwell acknowledged; ‘the apples my pupils bring me every day, the joy of marking! Yes, come to think of it, you’re right.’
For a split second, confusion crossed Douglas McSween’s face, then he guffawed, nudging his man in the ribs this time, and said, ‘I expect you’re looking forward to the new Jeremy Irons, eh? I’ll see you out.’
‘Rather!’ winked Maxwell in return. ‘And thanks!’
‘How are you on films, Ronnie?’ Maxwell plonked an omelette down on the table in front of the boy.
‘I like Quentin Tarantino,’ the lad confessed.
‘Yes,’ Maxwell sighed, sliding his own chair back, ‘I’m more of a
Quentin Durward
man myself. What about Jeremy Irons?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Well,’ Maxwell reached for the salt as they both tucked in, ‘that’s the end of that little conversation.’
‘Look, Mr Maxwell …’ Ronnie was fidgeting with his fork.
‘Not enough tarragon there for you, Ron?’
‘What? Oh, no, that’s fine. You’re a great cook, Mr Maxwell, for a bloke, I mean. No, it’s just … well …’
‘Spit it out, Ronnie,’ the Head of Sixth Form insisted, suddenly hoping the boy wouldn’t take him seriously.
‘Well, look, I’ve got to go. I mean, you could get into a lot of trouble with me here. It was on the local news again at lunchtime. Local youth sought in murder enquiry. They think somebody’s shielding me, Mr Maxwell, and somebody is – you.’
Maxwell sighed and slid his plate away. ‘You’re right,’ he nodded, ‘not enough tarragon. If you leave here, Ronnie, will you go to the police?’
‘No way.’ Ronnie shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘Home, then?’
‘No.’ Ronnie was pale, on his feet suddenly, staring hard at Maxwell. ‘I told you, I’m never going back there. Never!’
‘All right, all right,’ Maxwell said softly, raising both his hands to calm the boy down. ‘If you won’t do either of those things, then just sit tight here, just for a day or two. I need the time to think.’
Ronnie sat down again. ‘You won’t … you won’t turn me in, Mr Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘Over to the law, I mean? I ain’t done nothing, you know that.’
‘Yes, Ronnie,’ Maxwell nodded, looking the frightened boy in the face, ‘I know that.’
Peter Maxwell was vaguely surprised that Ronald Parsons senior had an answerphone. When he rang the number that Thursday, he understood the reason. The man’s monotone spoke of building jobs. He wasn’t in at the moment, but the caller could leave a message after the tone. The caller didn’t. He told Ronnie junior to stay away from the window, saddled White Surrey and pedalled into the gathering gloom.
All day he’d seen them – the photocopies of Ronnie’s last school photo. Plastered all over town – ‘Missing. Ronnie Parsons. If anyone has any information on this boy’s whereabouts …’ The eyes in the photo burned into his, like those of Carly Drinkwater and Georgianna Morris and Alice Goode and Jean Hagger. The eyes of the dead and the damned.
He rang the doorbell at Rondo. There were lights on in the living room and the kitchen at the side. There was a rattling of lock. A solid, swarthy face peered around the door. ‘Yes?’
‘Peter Maxwell, Mr Parsons. Can I come in?’
Parsons scanned the road. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Just a word.’
‘I’ve had bloody coppers here all day. Not to mention the fucking press. I’d like a bit of peace now, if it’s all right with you.’
‘Do the police know where Ronnie is?’ Maxwell was prepared to slog it out on Parsons’ front doorstep if he had to.
‘If they did, they wouldn’t be asking us, would they?’ the man snarled.
‘Is your wife in?’ Maxwell tried another tack. Ronald Parsons was a brick wall, but Dorothy was the chink in it.
He watched Parsons’ face darken. ‘Piss off!’ the builder growled and he started to close the door. Maxwell was faster, for all his aches and pains, and his foot stopped it. ‘Why did you beat Ronnie up, Mr Parsons?’ he asked loudly. ‘Not just once, I mean, but systematically?’
Parsons opened the door again, straightening. ‘Who says I did?’ he wanted to know.
‘Ronnie does.’ Maxwell removed his foot from the builder’s doormat. He stepped back and tipped his hat. ‘It’s been … an experience, Mr Parsons,’ he said.
Ronnie was still asleep in Maxwell’s spare room the next morning when the doorbell rang. The rain was drifting in from the west, as Suzanne Charlton had predicted it would, with the aid of several million pounds of sophisticated equipment and a bit of seaweed. The face under the rainhat was a picture of fear and grief. Dorothy Parsons.
‘I can’t stop, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, ‘I’m on my way to work. Ron doesn’t know I’m here.’
Maxwell opened the door for her and she stood awkwardly, dripping onto his carpet. ‘Let me take your coat,’ he said.
‘No, really. I’ll be late. And … I don’t want Ron to know I’ve been here. He’d … well, he wouldn’t like it.’
‘At least come up,’ Maxwell offered, ‘into the lounge.’
She climbed the stairs, but wouldn’t take the seat he proffered.
‘Last night,’ she said, ‘when you called, I was there. I wanted to talk to you, but … Is there any news, Mr Maxwell? Have you heard anything? Anything at all? Every night, I just sit by the phone and cry. Ron’s sick of it. He just goes out. Goes to the yard. Or his club. Oh, the police are as kind as they can be. But … well, this other teacher, this Mrs Hagger. They think Ronnie’s involved in that. But he can’t be. I’ve told them he can’t be.’
‘Who have you been dealing with?’ Maxwell asked her. ‘In the police, I mean?’
‘Urn … there’s an Inspector Hall who’s leading the case apparently, but we’ve had most to do with a Sergeant Hennessey and a policewoman.’
‘Jacquie Carpenter?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s her. She’s ever so nice. Tells us not to worry and that. But that’s easier said than done, isn’t it?’
Maxwell heard a click upstairs. Damn. He knew all too well what that was.
‘Would you excuse me, Mrs Parsons? Sounds like my cat’s up to no good again. I shan’t be a moment.’
Metternich hadn’t heard the slander, because he was still asleep in the bathroom linen basket. But it wasn’t the bathroom Maxwell was making for. It was Ronnie’s room. But Ronnie wasn’t there. The bedcovers were thrown back, the curtains flapping wide in the unseasonable weather. Maxwell grabbed the window catch so that the whole thing wouldn’t crash back in the wind and shatter glass. There was no sign of Ronnie Parsons. The sprinter had gone, out onto the silver birch branch of Mrs Troubridge’s tree, down over her hedge and snaking off down Columbine Avenue, through the still-waking estate, making for anywhere, nowhere.
‘Shit!’ Maxwell hissed, bolted the window and rejoined the boy’s mother.
‘Sorry about that.’ He did his best to smile. Difficult when your heart’s on the floor.
‘I just wondered if you’d heard anything.’
For a moment he couldn’t look the woman in the face. He’d never been, by grace of God, a mother. He’d only been a father briefly. What right had he to lie to Dorothy Parsons, whose only fault was that she loved her son? For a moment, he felt his nerve slip, his resolve buckle, then he tossed the moment aside. ‘No,’ he looked at her again. ‘No, not a word.’ And the lie hung between them like poison on the morning air.
‘Mr Maxwell?’
The Head of Sixth Form didn’t recognize the voice over the phone.
‘Dave Freeman, here, Mr Maxwell. Hamilton’s Coaches.’
‘Mr Freeman. How are you?’
‘Fine. Fine. How’s yourself?’
‘Been better actually.’
‘Right. Yeah. I was just wondering if you’d taken in the cinema club in Henshaw Street yet?’
‘Yes, I did, thanks. McKellan’s
Richard III
. Excellent.’
There was a pause. ‘Oh, you went on Wednesday. No, you want to join the club, if you can. Go on Thursday, Mr Maxwell. I think you’d learn something to your advantage.’
‘Would I? Hello. Hello. Mr …?’ And Maxwell put the phone down. ‘We can’t go on meeting like this.’
There was usually a small queue outside Mad Max’s door at Leighford High. Not the brave band of paparazzi who still waited in the drizzle beyond the school gates for any word. More of them beseiged Bishop Billington Junior School where Jean Hagger had recently taught. Phone calls from there and from Leighford to County Hall in Winchester had elicited a measured and careful response from the Chief Education Officer, requesting respect, forbearance. Sadly, they were not words in the vocabulary of the media. And the paparazzi stayed.
But there was no one outside Mad Max’s office on this Thursday morning. Only a man inside it, chain-smoking. He leapt up at the Great Man’s arrival.
‘Mr Maxwell?’ he inhaled savagely before extending a hand. ‘DS Hennessey,’ and he flicked open his warrant card, ‘I couldn’t find an ashtray.’
‘That’s because I don’t smoke.’ Maxwell took the hand and invited the detective to resume his seat. He passed him a particularly revolting yucca, complete with plastic pot. ‘Feel free to flick in there,’ he said, edging himself into his chair. Peter Maxwell had invented body language and he loomed over the detective, across the safety barrier of his desk, across the vantage of the years.
‘Er … the young lady on the desk showed me up. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. What can I do for you, Mr Hennessey?’
‘Well,’ the copper reached into his back pocket for his notebook, ‘I’m following up an incident in Soho earlier this month.’
‘This is astonishing,’ Maxwell smiled.
‘What is?’ Hennessey was smiling too.
‘Your inter-force after-sales-care service. I thought you blokes were overworked.’
Hennessey chuckled, flicking the notebook shut. ‘Oh, we are, sir. We are. It’s just that … well, the officer who took your details thought you might have been a little … shall we say overwrought? Didn’t get all the information at the time and when you discharged yourself … well, it was really down to us then.’
‘I see.’ Maxwell clasped his hands across his chest. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Well,’ Hennessey was still smiling, ‘for a start what the fuck do you think you’re doing with Jacquie Carpenter?’
‘Tut, tut,’ Maxwell shook his head slowly, ‘and I thought that sort of language went out with the Sweeney.’
‘You know she’s under suspicion, don’t you?’ Hennessey asked.
Maxwell was more inscrutable than the corpse of Mao Tse Tung, when he wanted to be. Only his fingers tensed. Only his knuckles whitened. His heart and head were screaming. He just hoped Hennessey couldn’t hear. ‘Jacquie Carpenter?’ he said. ‘That’s DC Carpenter?’
Hennessey leaned forward in the soft plastic chair, one of those salvaged from the sixth-form common room before the neurotic bastards had started pulling the stuffing out of it. He wasn’t smiling now. ‘Look, Maxwell, I know. All right? I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve got a lot of time for Jacquie. She’s a sweet kid, but she can’t take the flak. She lets things get to her. Now she’s cracked, basically. Gone under. Another WPC found her crying in the ladies’ at the nick. Not like you cry when you’ve caught your finger in the door or your budgie dies. The DCI sent her home. Then he sent me round to talk to her. And she told me. She told me all about you.’
‘I see.’ Maxwell unbuckled his fingers. ‘So the follow-up from the Met was just a front, then?’
Hennessey leaned back. ‘It’s all bound up, isn’t it? All part of the same story.’
‘You tell me.’ Maxwell could evade with the best of ’em.
‘You know,’ Hennessey said, ‘Jacquie speaks highly of you. And that’s the only reason we’re doing this here rather than down the nick. At the very least you’ve been wasting police time. But I think there’s more to it. I think you know something. Something about Alice Goode.’