Maxwell's Return (13 page)

‘The family tree has more branches than Sainsburys,’ Jacquie said. ‘I’ll jot it down for you when I confirm about Harrison.’

‘That would be a help. Thanks. Meanwhile, I’ll call Jason. Make sure he doesn’t tip Harrison off that we’re interested. Less he knows about how we’re thinking at this stage, the better.’ Hall looked up at the clock. ‘Once you’ve rung Mrs Morton, get off home. You’re not even supposed to be back until next week and here you are at all hours.’ He paused. ‘Is Max glad to be back?’ The question was delivered blandly as usual, but there were more layers in it than Nolan’s breakfast pancake stack.

‘Well, he’s not really back until next week,’ she hedged.

‘But he’s been in touch, of course.’ Again, the flat delivery, but there was no mistaking the question.

‘Of course. Sylvia and he go back years. And Helen, of course.’

‘And Bernard Ryan.’

‘Um… I’m not sure…’

‘Come on, Jacquie. Max must think he’s died and gone to heaven. Not back in Leighford five minutes and he discovers a colleague is a murder suspect. I assume you haven’t told him any details.’ How often, Hall wondered, had he heard himself saying
that
?‘It could make it very difficult for him at work. Is Ryan going back, do we know?’

‘I don’t know.’ That was the truth. Alibi or no alibi, Jacquie wasn’t sure whether Bernard Ryan could brazen it out or not. ‘I expect Max will tell me on Monday evening. He’ll know by then, of course.’

‘But that’s all he’ll know, hopefully.’ Hall took off his glasses and polished them carefully before replacing them. ‘Jacquie?’

‘Oh, sorry, guv. I didn’t know that was a question.’

There was a pause, prickling in the silence of the office.

‘So?’

‘Of course, guv. That’s all he’ll know.’ She also glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll see if I can catch Caroline Morton at the office, then I’ll be off if that’s all right with you,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘I’ll drop you an e about Harrison.’

‘Fine.’ Hall could do terse. It was one of his only two emotions.
‘See you Monday.’

‘Yes. See you Monday,’ and Jacquie left, trying hard not to slam the door. She couldn’t work out where the row had come from. One minute they had been pulling together and the next they seemed to be at the opposite ends of the universe. As always, the catalyst was Maxwell and as always, she promised herself she wouldn’t tell him about the latest developments. Ryan was off the hook and that was all he needed to know.

Back in her office, Jacquie took a few deep breaths and picked up the phone. Checking in the file, she dialled the number of Morton and Morton, Solicitors. A secretary answered and for once was both efficient and pleasant. In her current mood, Jacquie needed that. She was put through to Caroline Morton.

‘Detective Inspector,’ the solicitor said. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Something has come up in our investigations and I wonder if you could just confirm something for me. You mentioned when we spoke at the hospital that you were still in touch occasionally with your stepfather. Mike, I think you said his name was.’

‘That’s right.’ Caroline Morton’s voice was guarded and Jacquie was reminded again that the woman was a solicitor.

‘Could you give me a little more detail? Surname. Address,
perhaps.’

‘I don’t know where he lives right at the moment,’ she said. ‘He is a builder and tends to live in houses short term while he does them up prior to selling them on.’ Jacquie smiled and put a tick on her notepad. ‘His surname is Harrison but, look, Detective Inspector, what has this to do with anything? Why are you looking into Mike? He hardly ever met Mollie, if that’s where this is going?’

‘We just have to check every avenue, Mrs Morton,’ Jacquie said, adding another lavish tick to her page.

‘Yes,’ the woman persisted. ‘But why is Mike an avenue?’

‘His name cropped up in another investigation,’ Jacquie said, keeping her voice neutral. ‘You of all people must realise, Mrs Morton, that I can’t tell you more. Thank you for your help. If you remember Mr Harrison’s current address, could you let me know? You can leave a voicemail here or my email address is…’

‘Don’t worry, Detective Inspector Carpenter-Maxwell,’ the solicitor said crisply, giving equal weight to every single syllable. ‘I know your email address. And that of your immediate superior. And that of his, if you catch my drift.’ And with that, the phone went down with a loud click.

Jacquie put her phone down more slowly, and wiggled her mouse to bring her computer out of hibernation. She logged on and sent a brief email to Henry Hall. ‘Michael Harrison checks out – he is the stepfather.
See you Monday. Jacquie.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Sorry.’ After another pause she erased the last word and clicked send. She logged out, switched the computer off, grabbed her car keys and was gone, before anyone changed her mind.

‘Smells good.’

Peter Maxwell turned round from a basting session and saw his wife lounging in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hello, heart of darkness,’ he said. ‘You’re early. Nole and I were going to eat and run – he rather fancies a session with the scooter.’

‘Oh, has the box arrived?’ Jacquie looked around aimlessly, having forgotten what was in it and whether anything should be in the kitchen.

‘Yup. Nothing broken as far as we could see. All unpacked and stashed.’

‘The box?’ Jacquie knew the answer to this one.

‘In the garage, currently doing duty as Camelot.’

‘And King Arthur?’

‘Merlin,
if
you please!’ Maxwell said, affronted. ‘Why be just a king when you can be a magician?’

‘He can’t wander off, can he?’ Jacquie said, looking over her shoulder down the stairs to where the garage door was situated. ‘You did
lock the door?’

Maxwell bent to put his chicken back in the oven and then crossed to his wife and tucked her into the crook of his arm, where she fitted so well. ‘You’re getting confused, sweetness,’ he muttered. ‘It’s other people’s children who are lost, stolen or strayed. Ours is in the garage, or should I say in Lyonesse, where I believe the potatoes come from or have I got that wrong? Anyway, he’s away with the fairies, locked in the garage.’ He looked round into her face. ‘Don’t let the thought police hear that – I expect locking a kid in the garage is probably a Bad Thing. And there must be a Court of Human Rights issue in there somewhere. Anyway,’ he gave her a squeeze and let her go, ‘I’ve already lost one baby.’ There was a pause while he collected himself. ‘I have no intention of losing another.’ He kissed the top of her head and moved away. ‘Now, piss off, dearest, while I create culinary magic.’

Jacquie stood there, arms by her sides. ‘Max, I…’

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, not turning round. He gestured with one shoulder to the work surface under the window. ‘See that bath sheet?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Taliesin’s cloak of invisibility. You can have a lot of fun under that.’

She picked it up and went out onto the landing, looking back at her husband over her shoulder. They rarely talked of the time before. Before she and Nolan had come along to patch the hole left by Maxwell’s wife
and child, dead on a wet road years before. It was easy for her to forget sometimes that they were only just beneath the topmost layer of his skin and also, simultaneously, tucked beneath his heart. ‘Any special incantations,’ she said lightly, ‘spells, things of that nature?’

‘How about, “Merlin, come out of that castle or I’ll bite your bum”? That should do it.’ He turned round and smiled. ‘I’m all right. Really. Off you go. I’m doing sweetcorn fritters and bacon and spinach salad. If it sounds like a strange combination…’

‘And it does.’

‘. . . take it up with Merlin.’

‘Will do,’ and, swirling the rival magician’s cloak of invisibility around her shoulders, she swept down the stairs. Maxwell went to the door of the kitchen and heard her call out and Nolan’s shriek of delight. He shook his head and went back to the cooker. Everything he loved was under his feet, fighting for Camelot, aka a very tattered cardboard box. Metternich had done grudging service as the Beast Glatisant but was now sulking in the attic. There was only so much a cat could take.

Later that evening, with Merlin safely bedded down for the night, washing up stowed in the dishwasher and Metternich coaxed down with chicken skin and similar subterfuge, Detective Inspector Carpenter-
Maxwell and Head of Sixth Form Peter Maxwell sat opposite each other in the sitting room. They may have looked like Mr and Mrs Not Totally Average but in fact the atmosphere was similar to that reported a few minutes before the Earps destroyed the Clantons and McLowerys in a hail of lead down by the Corral. Jacquie had the sofa and therefore the cat – Metternich had gone through his usual evening routine of pressing with his feet on the arm and his head against the leg of whoever was trying to share the furniture with him. The plan was that the person in question would end up on the floor, leaving the cat in sole possession but Jacquie was in no mood to pander tonight and Metternich had given in gracefully. He was now curled up with his nose up his bum; a comfortable position enough, for those who were up to it. Maxwell had a glass of Southern Comfort in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was flicking through the channels one by one, staying long enough to hear a few words and then moving on.

‘Motion to suppress…’

‘See yadowna Vic…’

‘At the High Court…’

‘
There
goes Jensen Button…’

‘. . . to spend more time with his family.’

Finally, Jacquie had had enough. She reached over and knocked the remote from his hand, leaving them on a rerun of
Countryfile
. She switched the television off at the wall and turned to face him.

‘Are we going to sit like this all night?’

Maxwell glanced at the clock. ‘For another hour or so, I imagine,’ he said calmly, and foraged for a book stashed down the side of the chair for just this eventuality.

‘I know you want to talk about Bernard Bloody Ryan!’ she said, flinging herself back down on the sofa, narrowly missing the cat. ‘Sorry, Count.’ The apology was automatic. Without it, one could easily lose an arm.

‘I would quite like to,’ Maxwell said, with infuriating calm. ‘But I don’t expect you can, so I’ll just read my book. Look, why don’t you go and have a nice hot bath? Some of your nice aromatherapy stuff in it? I’ll light you some candles, if you like. Wine? Glass of wine? Cadbury’s Flake?’

She looked over at him and could have screamed. The casual observer would have seen a concerned husband, trying to help his wife over the stresses of her job. He had cooked dinner. He had played their child into docile exhaustion. He had read the bedtime story – naturally,
The Once and Future King
which probably no other father in the land would have had to hand on the day Camelot was rebuilt in a cardboard box in the garage. He was perfect. But behind that face, the eyes of a basilisk looked out and she suddenly felt an affinity with the thousands of voles who had come to an untimely end in the back gardens of Columbine.

‘Has anyone ever told you how alike you and the Count are?’ she asked, trying to keep it light.

‘Oh, yes. I’ve often been told I look like a large black and white cat,’ he smiled.

‘It’s something about the eyes,’ she said.

‘Mm hm,’ he said, his eyes already back on the book.

She gave him a few minutes to re-engage and then gave in. ‘Bernard’s in the clear.’

‘I think I knew that,’ he said, looking up.

‘Yes, but he really is. We’ve checked the alibi and it all makes sense. His boyfriend even has receipts. He scanned them and emailed them over.’

‘And you’re accepting that?’

‘The guy’s got too much to lose. He could easily have denied it. He seems genuinely fond of Bernard.’

‘Nice for Bernard.’

‘Max…’

‘Yes?’ He folded the book around one finger and looked at her. ‘What?’

‘Henry had a word today. The usual word. You know the score. I can’t talk to you about this case.’

‘Of course not. It isn’t fair of me to expect it.’

She bounced on the sofa in frustration. ‘But you
do
expect it!’

He stuffed the book down the side of his chair. He had been reading it upside down anyway. It was the only way to make sense of Isaiah Berlin.‘You know it won’t go any further. And it helps to talk, you know it does.’

‘I’ve got Jason… and Henry.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘I won’t be able to give you any details.’

‘Naturally not.’ He wriggled down into his chair so as to give her his full attention.

She blew down her nose like a racehorse. ‘Max, please don’t accidentally on purpose tell Bernard any of this, will you?’

‘Not a word, heart. He will hate me again as soon as he is reinstated. Do you know anything about that, by the way?’

‘That’s nothing to do with us. It’s Legs’ call, I would imagine. Or Legs and the governors.’

‘Right. Legs will go the way of least resistance, whichever that turns out to be. But you were saying.’

‘Without going into every detail…’

A few nerve endings in Maxwell’s brain all simultaneously signalled ‘Damn’.

‘I had an interview with the parents of the first girl today.’

‘That would be Josie Blakemore, Bernard’s tutee.’

‘Correct. They came in and, well, let’s just say that things in the
Blakemore home were not quite as they at first appeared.’

‘Homes are never quite as they first appear,’ Maxwell pointed out. ‘Many people, for instance, think that we are a perfectly normal family.’

‘Many?’

‘Some. A few.’

‘It turns out that Mrs Blakemore was having an affair with a rather dodgy character who also has a link to our second girl.’

‘Mollie Adamson.’

‘Again, correct. I had to have a word with her half-sister…’

‘Mrs Blakemore’s half-sister?’ He was just checking.

‘No, Mollie’s. Anyway, it turned out that Mrs Blakemore’s bit of rough, as her husband pleasantly called him at one point, was once married to her mother.’

‘Too many pronouns. Whose mother?’

‘Caroline Morton, Mollie’s half-sister.’