Maxwell's Retirement (10 page)

Bernard Ryan was the first on his feet. He didn’t want the police trampling through the school again. Sometimes it seemed as though all they had were police enquiries. In these days of falling rolls and parental choice, these things were best avoided. ‘Perfect, Max. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that we will happily leave it in your capable hands.’ He hoped that Maxwell didn’t hear Mrs Donaldson’s snort. No point in antagonising him unduly. And, in Bernard Ryan’s sterile little world, if the police had to be called in, Jacquie Carpenter, or Maxwell as he tried not to think of her, was at least rather more attractive than Andy Dalziel.

The meeting seemed to have ended, so Maxwell drifted away. Baulked of his Pot Noodle, his stomach began to growl. He thought he ought to appease it, if only with Helen’s BLT. But it was not to be. As he passed the door to Sylvia Matthews’ domain, she poked her head out and hissed at him.

‘Max. Can you come in here a minute?’

‘Matron.’ An impeccable Kenneth Williams would usually have her in stitches, but not this time.

‘Be serious, Max. What we were talking about earlier.’

‘Yes.’ It could be any one of a number of things, but he knew which one it was.

‘I think you should come into my treatment room and have a word with Alice.’

‘Alice. Any particular one?’ It had been a popular name circa 1993 and the Sixth Form seemed stiff with them. Not one of them knew Christopher Robin.

‘Alice Thistlewood.’

‘Any relation to the Cato Street Conspirator of the same name?’

‘Alice?’

‘No. Arthur. And now who’s being frivolous?’

‘Sorry. It’s just something you do to people.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Alice came to me very upset. She’s been here since the middle of the morning, having a lie down and a bit of a cry. She’s on the verge of quite a serious bout of anxiety and depression, Max. Because of these dratted texts and so on.’

Maxwell stuck his head round the door, and in the subfusc lighting of the treatment area, he could see a girl lying precariously on the narrow bed, covered with a single off-white cellular blanket, medical treatment rooms the world over, for the use of. Her back was turned and at first she seemed to be asleep. But then he heard the tiny sobs which went with the subliminal shudders
of her bony shoulders and he realised that she was softly crying. He nodded over his shoulder to Sylvia and crept into the room.

‘Alice?’ he said quietly. ‘Alice? It’s Mr Maxwell.’

The girl didn’t turn to him, but he heard, thick with tears, her answering whisper, ‘Hello, Mr Maxwell. Sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for, Alice? You haven’t done anything.’

‘Sorry for crying. Sorry for being a nuisance.’

He checked behind him that Sylv was within sight and risked a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘A good cry does the world of good. I often treat myself to one when the going gets tough.’

The girl gave a tiny laugh and half turned round. ‘I can’t imagine you crying, Mr Maxwell. When did you last cry?’

‘Yesterday,’ he said promptly. ‘When I saw my little boy with bruises and stitches in his chin.’

‘He’s all right, though?’

‘Yes, he is. I shed a few tears because I realised that I won’t always be able to pick him up and dust him down. He’ll have to do that for himself one day. But for now, he comes to me or his mum when he is hurt or sad. It’s always better to share.’

‘S’pose.’

‘You know it is. Have you told anyone else about this texting thing except Nurse Matthews?’

‘No. Some of the other girls are getting them as well.’

‘I know. But in that case, why didn’t you tell them? Someone?’

‘Mine are different. He knows things about me. Things I’ve done.’

He looked down at the girl. She was a stringy little thing, not six stone wringing wet, with fine mousey hair pulled back in a brutal pony-tail from her sharp little features. Whatever could she have done to get her in this state? But there were no words to frame the question which wouldn’t demean her and make the situation much worse. Somehow, ‘You’re a flat-chested and not particularly attractive girl, Alice. What do you think you would have had the opportunity to do that someone would be interested in?’ didn’t quite fit the bill.

He decided not to pursue it. He patted her shoulder again and backed out of the room. Once outside, he said, ‘Look, Sylv. This has gone far enough. I’m sure there are all sorts of data protection, human rights and goodness knows what other bills passed through the European Parliament to prevent me, but I have to make this public. I want names, I want details and most of all I want this … I’m lost for words, Sylv … this
shit-head
found before someone gets hurt.’

The nurse looked at the closed door as if she could see the sobbing girl behind it. ‘Or hurts themselves, you mean?’

‘That too,’ he said. ‘Entrails or not, I’m ringing Jacquie.’

‘Entrails?’

‘It was you who brought them up. She might be up to her knees in entrails, you said.’

‘Oh, yes. I think that it was this kind of entrail I had in mind.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll ring her from my office, I think.’ He tossed his head towards the treatment room. ‘I wouldn’t want Alice to overhear anything. Make matters worse.’

To her own surprise, Sylvia Matthews reached up and planted a kiss on Maxwell’s cheek.

‘Sylv!’ he said, looking down at her. ‘That was nice, though possibly a tad ill-advised within snooping distance of the main office. What was it for?’

‘Oh, just. Because we all should do that more often. To whoever needs a kiss, a hug or a quick pat. We’ve become too self-contained, too
self-centred
to notice when people need our help, need our thanks. So, that was for all the times in the past and all the times still to come when you deserve a kiss. Tell me when my credit runs out and you can have another.’

He gave her a squeeze. ‘It’s hard to do that in a text, I’ll agree. I’ll send regular statements in future.’ He brandished his phone at her. ‘Off now to ring the little policewoman. Look after Alice …’ And he was gone.

On his way down to the foyer, Maxwell’s mind was whirring. Phoning Jacquie was still a bit of a one-way street. What on earth could she be doing? But he still had myriad choices when it came to the rest of the afternoon: he could go and see Jacquie in person; he could track down some of the other text victims, such as Julie or Leah; he could go home and, although this went seriously against his grain, do some research on the Internet to fill in the gaps in his knowledge, which were not so much gaps as huge fissures; or, and this was the least appealing what with everything else that was going on, he could do a bit of light teaching, like what they paid him for.

But whatever choice he made – and he knew that it would never be the last one, with so much going on – he first had to negotiate the reception desk. Security had never been lax at Leighford, but then again, it had never reached the
CIA-compliant
standards of some other schools. But, in accordance with County policy, now no one got in without signing in, no one got out without giving their inside leg measurement and three forms of ID – ‘Even I have to follow this procedure,’ Legs Diamond had said in one staff meeting, as if Zeus had come down from Olympus. Pansy Donaldson had embraced these tactics to the manor born and no one was exempt. Maxwell had often derived innocent pleasure from the sight of Legs trying to think of a reason for bunking off early. The fact that the man was often still in his office at ten o’clock at night didn’t wash with Pansy. In the phrase ‘flexible working practices’ she recognised all of the words as English. She recognised ‘working’ as an all-round good thing; she recognised ‘practice’ as a useful precursor to effective working; what she didn’t have in her vocabulary was ‘flexible’.

He planned his body-language strategy as he went down the stairs. Was he to wander out casually, as though going to check on the status of White Surrey, languishing alone in the staff bike shed? Would a better plan be to jog vigorously to the door and, flinging it open, hail the sun, flap his arms around, rip off his clothes, breathe in deeply through his nose three or four times and then just leg it? Or should he go in to the office, like an honest citizen, and sign out, looking Pansy and Thingee Two square in the eye?

In the event, he opted for Plan Z
₂
. He lurked round a corner until the office staff were all looking the other way and then, collar up and hat pulled way down, like Flash Harry in the St Trinian’s films, he just ran like mad down the drive and didn’t stop until he reached the pavement. A goodish plan as far as it went and it certainly saved him the third degree. But he didn’t have his bike and, he discovered after patting his pockets feverishly, he didn’t have his wallet, either. But, to his amazement, he did have his mobile phone. He pressed a button. And it seemed to have battery still left. And … what did this mean? There was a rather small and faint picture of an envelope flashing in one corner. He cast his mind back to his lesson of the night before. Easy – he had mail. Tentatively and with the phone held at arm’s length to accommodate his rather unreliable focal length these days, he pressed some buttons. He could hardly suppress a little whoop of joy when text appeared on the screen. A woman walking her peke, who happened to be within earshot, rapidly crossed the road. What was the world coming to when drunks had mobile phones? Shouldn’t they be spending their money on drink?

‘The ancient work will be accomplished,’ the message said. ‘And from the roof evil ruin will fall on the great man. The girls will get it now, Maxwell.’

He stared at it for a moment, amazed. Everything seemed to have gone into slow motion. His vision was through a tunnel, the walls of which were multi-coloured and black, swirling away to an infinitely distant vanishing point. The rushing in his ears filled the world. It was a text. A threatening text. Someone, somehow, knew not only that the girls had been in touch, but what his mobile number was. Hell, he didn’t know himself what his mobile number was.

The world came back, rising out of the maelstrom, and he looked again at the screen, willing the words to have disappeared. But no; although they had gone darker (to save the screen, Jacquie had explained) with a click of the elusive ‘any’ key, he could bring them back. Now, whatever she said, no matter how busy she might be with any amount of entrails, he must get Jacquie. After only a few moments fumbling and trying to get rid of the text, whilst not getting actually
rid
of the text, Maxwell was listening to Jacquie’s answerphone message. Jumping from foot to foot with frustration, he left a short message after the beep, remembering to speak clearly.

‘Hon, petal, listen, are you there? No, of course not. Oh rats, bugger and poo. I’ve had one. I’ve had a text. Ring me – no look, I’m on my way. I don’t have Surrey. I’ll get a taxi. I’ve got no money, so someone at the nick will have to help
me out on that one. How long is a short message? I was going to try and forward it to you but, look, hon, I might lose it doing that so … anyway, I’m on my way. I hope you’re there. At the nick, I mean. See you soon. Abyssinia.’

Jacquie had switched her phone off. She was glad that Maxwell had embraced a tiny corner of cyberspace, and she would get back to him and pat him on the back – one day soon when she had time. But just now, she felt that this case had exploded in her face. And it wasn’t even a case, not really. A few disparate examples of kids getting texts, which hadn’t seemed too desperate in the scheme of things, had suddenly grown tentacles reaching far and wide. She had left Yvonne with Henry Hall, to plan the next few moves. Not freaking out her daughter was her main aim, but she had gone beyond frightened to furious and so that might not actually happen.

Meanwhile, Jacquie had places to be. Daisy and Maisie. Oh, boy. She wasn’t looking forward to this at all. She got in the car and switched the phone on. She only intended to make a quick call, but she had messages and it wasn’t in her nature to ignore them. One was from her mother, asking whether she thought that petunias would look a bit common on the front border. Delete. Another was from the garage, asking if she was happy with the car. Happy? As in delirious or in
not standing on a hard shoulder in the dark in the pouring rain with a smoking engine? Either way, they wouldn’t be getting an answer. This was customer care gone mad. The third one was from Maxwell.

‘Hon, p … sen, are you there? No … Rats, bugger and poo. I’ve had one. I’ve had … … Look, I’m on my way. I don’t … Surrey. I’ll get … … so someone at the nick will have to help me … How long is a short message? I was going to try and forward it to you but, look, hon, I might lose it … anyway, I’m on my way. I hope you’re there … … you soon. Abyssinia.’

Where was he when he sent that, Jacquie wondered? It could actually be Abyssinia, to judge by the reception. It was really hardly any use at all as messages went. He was on his way to somewhere, but where to and where from? Why was he on his way anywhere at this time of the afternoon? He should still be at school. She stabbed the return call button and waited while it connected.

‘Hello?’

‘Max? Where are you?’

‘Did you get my message?’

‘In a way,’ she said. ‘I have no idea what it was about. More than half of it was missing.’

‘I’m in a taxi, on my way to the nick. I need to speak to you.’

‘What about? What is so urgent that you have left school?’

He sounded puzzled, even over the flattening effect of mobile phone technology. The explanation was so obvious that he didn’t waste airtime.
Anything
was urgent enough for him to leave school! ‘I just needed to show you something. But I haven’t got any money.’

Jacquie rummaged for her purse. ‘What are you – the queen? I’ll leave some at the desk,’ she said. She opened the door and stepped out, reaching behind her to stow her bag. ‘How much do you think it will be?’

‘Four pounds twenty-five, heart,’ said Maxwell’s voice in her ear. ‘Plus a tip, the man’s been very helpful.’

She straightened up and found herself nose to nose with her husband, who was ringing off with a flourish. ‘God, Max! You’ll kill me one day, doing that.’

‘Boys will be boys,’ he said. ‘Shall we make it a fiver?’

She handed it over and he leant in the window of the taxi parked alongside. The driver made a half-hearted turn to look through his change bag – aren’t they good at that? – but Maxwell brushed it aside. The driver threw the car into reverse and screeched off. He didn’t like to linger in the car park of the nick.

‘Excellent timing,’ Maxwell beamed at Jacquie.

‘Well, not really,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m just off to interview someone.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘No. It’s a mother and daughter. I’ve spoken to the mother already and I think it is going to be a bit of a mission, to be honest with you. She’s her daughter’s best friend, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Oh, dear. Called Jane and Janet? No, no, too old-fashioned. Hold on, Amy and Mamie?’

‘Close. Daisy and Maisie and that’s more than I should tell you.’

‘Oh, snookums. You can’t go to interview the terrible twins on your own. Why isn’t Henry going with you? You know he loves your driving.’

‘I’ll have you know,’ she bridled, ‘that Henry has actually gone to sleep in my car before now.
That’s
how relaxed he is when I am driving. In fact, he is going off with a colleague to interview her daughter.’

‘Ouch. Shoplifting?’

‘No. Another text victim, we think. Look, Max,’ she got in the car and closed the door firmly. Through the window he could just hear her say, ‘That’s enough. I can’t tell you any more.’

He pulled the door open again. ‘But I have got things I need to tell you. I’ve had a text. I told you in my message.’

‘Of which I heard one word in five.’

‘All right, all right. That’s technology’s fault,
that is, not mine.’ When the moment arose, Maxwell could be petulant for England.

‘Interesting.’ She chewed her lip, always a sign that she was close to caving in. ‘But even so, you can report that inside.’ She pointed at the nick.

‘But who to, petal? Look at the state I’m in,’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘To whom? To whom should I report it, dear Liza, dear Liza?’ His Harry Belafonte was lost on the woman.

‘The desk,’ she said. ‘They’ve had lots of reports coming in. They will know what it’s about.’

‘They’ll think I’m crackers.’

‘They already think you’re crackers, Max.’

‘Oh, come on,’ he wheedled. ‘What if you take me home and I’ll tell you on the way?’

‘It’s in the opposite direction.’

‘Not if you go round the pretty way,’ he smiled. ‘Or, better yet,’ he held up his finger as if to point at the twinkling light bulb above his head, ‘why don’t I just come with you and I can tell you all my news, like my text and,’ and he lowered his voice and waggled his eyebrows, ‘Julie going missing.’

‘Julie is missing?’ Jacquie was aghast. ‘Max, this is no time to be frivolous.’

‘Oh, no, really,’ Maxwell said. ‘She is missing in that no one knows where she is. But she isn’t
missing
. It’s only since this morning. She was registered first lesson. Then she missed an outside
appointment and we’re not sure where she is. But, after what she told us, love, I don’t expect she is in the habit of going home early.’

‘No,’ Jacquie agreed. ‘But, even so … hang on a minute.’ She got out of the car and trotted in that girlie way of hers, knees together, feet splaying out to each side, back into the nick. After a minute or two she was back.

‘Pee?’ Maxwell enquired in a friendly enough tone.

‘No. I’ve left a message with the desk. If any parent, or anyone at all really, phones in with a missing teenaged girl, he rings me straight away.’

‘Makes sense. Well, now you’ve done that, I don’t expect you’ve got time to take me home or to the bus station or anywhere, have you? So I’ll just come with you, shall I?’

‘Smashing idea,’ Jacquie said. ‘Jump in.’

Maxwell was in the passenger seat before he realised his mistake. ‘Umm, where are you taking me?’

‘Bus station. Look in my bag and you’ll find my purse. Help yourself to a tenner and get yourself home. I can’t take you with me, Max.’ She didn’t look at him – she knew that to do so would be to lose her advantage.

‘But I’ll stay in the car,’ he whined. ‘I will. I won’t be a nuisance. And I will be company on the journey.’

‘It’s ten minutes.’

‘I know. But there might be traffic. Your satnav might not be working.’ He flicked it with a finger. ‘Look, nothing.’

‘It isn’t switched on. I know where I’m going.’

‘In that case,’ and he pressed a button, ‘let’s confuse you and use the computer, eh? I’m trying to embrace technology.’

‘Don’t be silly. Even
I
don’t embrace satnav. I want to get to where I’m going.’

Maxwell smiled and leant back in the seat, eyes closed. This was nice. Doing a bit of sleuthing with his wife, bunking off school on a nice spring afternoon, the long-suffering Helen Maitland no doubt holding the Sixth Form hordes at bay.

‘Don’t you go to sleep on me, now,’ she said, poking him in the ribs. ‘You’re supposed to be providing entertainment on the journey.’

He straightened up and, adjusting his tie, burst suddenly into song. ‘Daylight. See the dew on the sunflower. And a rose that is fading. Roses wither away.’

‘How do you know the first lines of that? No one knows all the words of “Memory”.’

‘And rightly so. But the Count is rather fond and so I have seen the video rather a lot of times.’

‘Cats don’t necessarily like
Cats
.’ She knew he was just giving her a little light relief before Daisy and Maisie.

‘No, indeed. And, again, rightly so. But the Count likes a little musical theatre as you know.
For some reason, management prefers not to sell him one of the better seats, so he watches at home.’

She laughed. ‘Max, what would I do without you?’

There was no answer. She glanced sideways and wished she hadn’t spoken. There was a spectre at their happy feast and that was the age gap, of which she was scarcely aware. But she knew and he, the historian, knew even better, that their days together would not be too long in the land. Nothing like long enough. She took his hand and squeezed it and he squeezed back. ‘Historians can do it for ages,’ he laughed and salvaged the moment. ‘But, listen, let me tell you about my—’