Maxwell's Return (18 page)

‘Something came up?’ the woman screeched. ‘
I
came up. All the way here, to be precise. How dare she?’

‘I can arrange for someone to take your statement, ma’am,’ the desk man said blandly. ‘If you would just like to take a seat over there for a moment…?’

‘No, I would
not
like to take a seat over there, you moron,’ the woman spat. Now he came to look at her, the desk man could see she was in a bit of a state. Been crying, for sure. He couldn’t smell drink but who knew, these days. She could easily be on something else. He took another surreptitious sniff. Not weed. Something else, then. She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Did you just
sniff
me?’ she shrieked. ‘Did you just bloody
sniff
me? You pond life. How dare you? I want to speak to your superior.’

‘Well…’ the desk man took his time. This couldn’t last much longer and he wanted to make the most of it. ‘I’m afraid my actual line manager is off sick at the moment, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Stress, or so I believe. Would you like to speak to someone else?’

‘Yes,’ she hissed, through gritted teeth.

‘Let me just look through my sheet, please, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Protocol, I’m sure you understand.’ He turned his back on her and started
leafing through a file, checking the hierarchy. What he found pleased him more than anything had pleased him for months. Very slowly, he put the file back in the right place on the shelf and turned back to the now incandescent woman. ‘I can make you an appointment to speak to my next available line manager, ma’am,’ he said, placing both hands on the desk in the time honoured manner and leaning forward with a friendly smile. ‘I’m sorry it can’t be now, but I’m afraid that Detective Inspector Carpenter-Maxwell isn’t here right now. Something has come up, apparently.’

And it wasn’t until that moment that Caroline Morton hit him, but she gave it all she had and he went down like a pole-axed steer, files and shelves cascading down over his prone body. In a cacophony of sirens and alarms, the night staff came running, one over-zealous policewoman rugby tackling the solicitor to the ground where she lay, unprotesting.

‘Can I see DI Carpenter-Maxwell now?’ she asked, from under thirteen stone of policeness.

But it was morning before she finally got her wish.

‘Toast?’

‘And peanut butter? And jelly?’ Nolan was still in American breakfast mode. He had stopped using American words when he
remembered, but American breakfasts, as far as he was concerned, were here to stay. ‘Are we having pancakes?’

‘Not today, Nole,’ his mother said. ‘Back to school today, remember?’

The boy looked down at his bare knees, below new and rather stiff shorts. He felt the weight of the new shoes on his feet, saw through the kitchen door the new Mrs Whatmough-issue duffle coat hanging on the hook. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘Can’t we ever have pancakes again?’ He turned his eyes to look into his mother’s face, pleading.

She planted a kiss on his nose. ‘Weekends,’ she assured him.

‘And holidays?’

‘Of course.’

‘Birthdays?’

‘Don’t push it.’

There was a sudden scuffling noise and a stifled curse as Maxwell fell over the cat at the foot of the stairs and then he was in the kitchen, looking over his shoulder at a black and white streak heading off and out as fast as he could. ‘I will swing for that animal,’ he said, taking his seat and looking round. ‘No pancakes?’

‘Don’t start,’ said his wife.

‘Weekends, holidays and birthdays,’ Nolan told him, bringing him up to speed.

‘That sounds fair,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘Toast it is, then.’ Jacquie
rescued a piece from the toaster and sat down.

‘Thank you for letting me sleep last night,’ she said. ‘I was exhausted.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the Head of Sixth Form said. He too was kitted out for school, in a jacket that had begun to long for better days and his pre-cycle-clip-creased trousers. The Jesus scarf would not kick in until after half term. ‘Are you feeling a little more rested now, Sleeping Beauty?’

Nolan rocked in his chair in silent laughter. ‘Dads, you called Mummy Sleeping Beauty.’

‘Indeed I did,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘But now she’s awake, perhaps just Beauty would be better.’ He raised an eyebrow at his son, but he needed no hints.

‘Yes,’ Nolan said and his smile was smeared with peanut butter. ‘You look beautiful, Mummy.’ Then, compliment forgotten, he bent to his toast.

Jacquie looked at them, her men, like two peas in a pod in some lights and muttered a little thank you to the sky, just for luck. She glanced at the clock and jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, chaps!’ she said. ‘Look at the time. I must be off.’ Nolan puckered up and she planted a kiss on a peanut butter-free area. To Maxwell, she sent a kiss through the air. ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ and in a flurry of bags and coat, she was gone.

The two sat in silence for a moment, then Nolan broke it.

‘Wasn’t Mummy taking me to school this morning?’ he asked, a touch plaintively.

‘Well, I thought so, mate,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘She seems to have forgotten. Never mind, perhaps we…’

There was a thundering of feet on the stairs and Jacquie barrelled back into the kitchen.

‘Sorry, Nole,’ she panted. ‘Can you get your coat on, sweetness? I’m dropping you at school, aren’t I?’ She wiped the peanut butter off his face and partly into his ear. Phlegmatic child that he was, he poked it out for himself and wiped it surreptitiously on the lining of her coat. ‘Got everything? Kiss Dads. ’Bye then. Let’s try this again,’ and the two of them went down the stairs, a little more carefully this time. It wouldn’t look good to deliver Nolan on Day One to Mrs Whatmough in a bent condition.

When the door had slammed, Peter Maxwell sat still for another couple of seconds, just listening to the house stop shuddering, then gave a little chuckle and got up to put the dishes in the washer. He wouldn’t go back to having a silent house for a million pounds. He had lived in one of those for long enough. But, he thought to himself, with a start like this morning’s, the rest of the day had better go smoothly, that’s all!

Henry Hall was at the coffee machine as Jacquie approached her office. He gave her a quizzical look. ‘I believe we have a friend of yours down in the cells,’ he said, with no preamble.

‘A friend of mine?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Caroline Morton,’ he said.

‘In the cells?’ Jacquie tried to think what she could possibly have said on the phone to come up with that result.

‘She laid out Sid Lewis last night. Right uppercut, by all accounts. He’s in hospital with his neck in traction. So she’s in the cells.’

Jacquie looked sheepish. ‘That might be my fault, guv,’ she said. ‘I agreed to meet her, but then… well, I was just so tired. I rang in and asked them to get a statement.’

‘Sid isn’t one of nature’s gentlefolk,’ Hall said. ‘He probably looked at her funny.’

‘Even so…’

‘And, it gets stranger than that.’

‘It does?’ She was pressed as to see how.

‘She asked for a solicitor, and when the next one on the list came, it was her old man.’

‘Odd. He must have known she was here, surely?’

‘It seems not. They have been separated for around six months, if her screams through the door have been accurately noted. I’ve got the night staff’s report in here, if you’ll just come through.’ He pushed open
the door to his office and ushered her in. He picked up the night file from his desk and riffled through the pages. ‘Blabla, hmm… No, here it is. “Mrs Morton was placed in Interview Room Three and charged with assaulting a police officer. She asked for a solicitor and…” hmm, where is it? Yes. This. “Mr Morton was shown in and Mrs Morton threw her handbag at him, saying that the bastard had left her for some slag from the Crown Court and he could…” oh, yes, well I’m sure you get the drift.’

‘She didn’t say they were separated when we spoke at the hospital.’

‘No?’

‘Now I think of it, she didn’t say they weren’t, but I just assumed they were together, from the way she spoke. Anyway, I suppose I had better go down and see her. She says she has information that may lead to Mollie’s… oh, hang on. She’s fingering the husband, isn’t she?’

Henry Hall closed the file with a soft snap and looked ruefully at Jacquie. ‘I’m afraid so. Good guess, by the way.’

She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I knew as soon as I forgot Nolan this morning that today wouldn’t go well.’

‘You
forgot
Nolan? You’ve had him a while, now, Jacquie. Surely you’re used to him by now.’

From anyone else, that would have been a joke. But as it came from Henry Hall, Jacquie knew it wasn’t. Shaking her head, she made for the cells, leaving him to smile to himself as he sat down. He only smiled when he was alone, and even then, they were strictly rationed, so there
would be no more for a week or two.

There was no need to ask which cell Caroline Morton was in, because the noise carried right along the corridor. Tired from screaming, she had settled for pounding rhythmically on the door. The flick of the grille stopped her and she raised a tear-stained face to look into Jacquie’s eyes.

‘Oh, so you’re here,’ she said, in a lacklustre voice. ‘Been busy?’

Jacquie spoke crisply and without emphasis. ‘Mrs Morton, do I need help to get you to an interview room, or will you be all right to come with me without an escort?’

The woman shrugged and stepped back to let Jacquie open the door. ‘I’ll come quietly,’ she said, then gave a mad little laugh. ‘Do you know, I’ve often seen that written down, but I’ve never had the need to say it myself. Silly phrase, really.’

Jacquie looked at the woman in front of her, a shadow of the person she had last seen at the hospital, weeping decorously into a handkerchief after identifying her sister’s body. She was wild-haired and wild-eyed, barefoot and dressed in jeans and a sweat-shirt, both looking the worst for a night in the cells. Her right hand was bandaged but was clearly swollen. She had really socked Sid Lewis good and proper, which was the best thing that could be said for the whole night’s work. Jacquie held out a
hand and took her by the arm, piloting her gently towards the interview room.

‘Did they tell you my bloody husband turned up last night?’ she said. ‘On bloody call.’ She gave another of her crazy laughs. ‘That put a spoke in his wheel. Him and his bloody tart.’ She turned to Jacquie and the tears began again. ‘He’s left me, you know,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I thought we were just giving things a rest, you know, before we got back together again. We see each other every day at the office. He’s never said. I expect everyone knows but me.’

Jacquie thought she was probably right, but she needed to get to the bottom of things, so shook her head. ‘You’re tired,’ she said. ‘Things are out of proportion. Let me get you a drink. Coffee – black, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘You remember,’ she said. ‘More than that dick ever does.’

Jacquie put her head out of the door and hailed a passing secretary who was only too glad of an excuse to have a few seconds in the room with the nutter who had given Sid Lewis his comeuppance and went off to get the drinks.

Jacquie clicked the switch on the recorder and made sure that the CCTV camera was aligned. ‘Mrs Morton,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you know that I must record everything in this room because you have been charged with assaulting a police officer, but this is not the reason for this conversation. I would like to discuss with you the subject you mentioned
on the phone last night.’

‘Who killed Mollie, yes,’ she said, rummaging in her pockets and coming up empty. Jacquie reached into a drawer and pulled out a pack of tissues which she pushed across.

‘That’s right. You said you knew who had done it.’

‘Yes, that’s it. I do.’

‘Would you like to tell me now?’

The woman shrugged and blew her nose, crumpling the tissue and stuffing it up her sleeve. ‘It’s no secret. My husband. He did it.’

Jacquie felt like getting up and walking out, but resisted the urge and continued speaking in a gentle, even tone. She had seen the Assistant DA in Los Angeles question a drug dealer for four hours without ever raising his voice and if he could do it in the room with a man later convicted of killing nine people, she could do it with this troubled woman.

‘Do you have proof, Mrs Morton, or is it just a suspicion?’

‘Proof? Well, I didn’t see him do it, if that’s what you mean. But he did it, I’m certain.’

‘There must have been something, though?’

‘Yes. He kept… looking at her. They would watch TV on the settee and if it was a comedy, well… they would laugh.’

‘Isn’t that the plan?’ Jacquie could see this keeping her cool thing might prove tricky.

‘Yes, but, you know what I mean. He would slap his hand on her leg, she would nudge him in the ribs. Touching, you know.’

Jacquie sat back and looked her woman in the eye. ‘May I ask how long your husband had known Mollie, Mrs Morton?’

‘All her life, more or less.’

‘So, could it be that he considered himself, well, a brother? A father figure, even? Sex isn’t the only relationship between two people, you know.’

‘I do
know
that,’ the solicitor snapped. ‘I do, it’s just that… having her in the house. It was a strain on us all and them being so friendly… Anyway, in the end, I asked him to give us a break. That Mollie needed to settle. He got a flat in town, but he still came round for meals. They would still laugh, joke. He would kiss and cuddle her… it wasn’t right.’

Jacquie pulled a piece of paper towards her and clicked her pen. ‘Could I have your husband’s name, please, Mrs Morton. Morton, obviously, but his first name, if you would. And his mobile number.’

The woman took a deep breath. ‘John,’ she said. ‘John Morton. Everyone calls him Jack. I can’t remember his mobile number. But he’ll be at the office this morning. They’ll be busy without… without me.’

Jacquie jotted down the details and looked over her shoulder, hoping to see the drinks miraculously appearing. But there was no one.

‘Mrs Morton, do you have any
other
reason to suppose that Mollie and your husband had a relationship other than a family one?’