Maxwell's Chain (17 page)

‘Mr Maxwell,’ Araminta said with a sigh. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Of course that wasn’t how it was.
I
stopped speaking to
her
! I was affianced to Mr Troubridge first, you see. Then, my sister came home from spending some time abroad and he took one look and fell in love. Well, she was the elder by seven minutes and that will always tell, don’t you think? So like Victoria and Albert, only in reverse. She couldn’t resist and the rest you know.’

Mercifully for Maxwell’s future sleep patterns, he didn’t know and didn’t want to – there were limits, after all, even to encyclopaedic knowledge such as his. ‘How…sad. But you have forgiven her, Araminta?’

‘At last. After all, life is short.’ The twins smiled at each other and, reaching across, took each other’s hand and clasped it warmly.

A distant whistling brought Maxwell down to earth. ‘I’ll make the tea,’ he muttered and went gratefully into the normality of his kitchen. Cups, plates, the toaster – all the outward trappings of sanity. But round and round in his head went the question – who is the body and is there still a link? Suddenly, the phone rang, almost in his ear.

‘War Office.’

‘Max,’ came Jacquie’s voice. ‘You’re at home.’

‘I don’t want to carp,’ he said, ‘but today is very strange. If you didn’t expect me to be here, why have you rung? Metternich isn’t taking calls. And anyway, it’s his day off.’

‘I rang to leave you a message,’ she said. ‘For when you got back from Arundel.’

‘Arundel? I’m not in Arundel.’

‘No, but…’ she had the grace to sound embarrassed and he had the sense to keep quiet about his thwarted travel plans. ‘Never mind. It was just to say that we don’t know yet if the body is… you know, Mrs Troubridge.’

‘I do.’

‘You do what?’

‘Know if it’s Mrs Troubridge.’

‘We’re not talking hunches, Max, or making me feel better. We’re talking about a murder.’

‘I’m talking about Mrs Troubridge and also Miss Troubridge who are both sitting large as life on our sofa.’

Jacquie went silent for a second then, ‘What? Are you all right, Max?’

‘I think so. Admittedly, I had a bump on the head playing silly mid-off for Jesus all those years ago, but it is all making sense in a very Troubridgean sort of way.’ He filled her in on the bus-station meanderings, trying to keep the element of farce to a minimum. ‘I think you need to be here to get the real impact. For now, perhaps you could pass the news on to Henry. It might help.’

‘Umm, yes. I will. And it might. I’ll see you later, Max.’ A pause. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Positive. But you might like to see if you can find out who the body is. Because, now, we’re looking for someone who
isn’t
missing, if you catch my drift. And as I am sure you know, yin of my yang, that is always so much more difficult, rather like meeting a man who wasn’t there. See you later.’ And Maxwell put down the phone, suddenly full of foreboding. Pulling himself together, he assembled the tea, broke open the Tesco’s Finest Hob Nobs and made the best entrance he could muster into
the sitting room. ‘Hob, Miss Troubridge? Nob, Mrs Troubridge?’

The sisters twittered and giggled like girls and Maxwell, recovered now from the virtually heart-stopping shock they had given him, smiled benevolently. Having a missing Mrs Troubridge was one thing – quieter for a start and less confrontational. Having a dead one would have been much nastier and he was glad that moment was staved off until the next time he felt tempted to push the old trout down the stairs.

Jacquie flicked her phone shut with a thoughtful expression on her face and went back into the office where Henry Hall was waiting.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked. He knew her looks of old, the slight, imperceptible swings of mood that made for good days or better days. Henry Hall – and Peter Maxwell, come to think of it – had never had it so good.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In fact, I think this is where I say there is bad news and good news. Which would you like first? In fact, if I give you the good news, you will be able to guess the bad, I think.’

‘Go on, then,’ Hall said, clasping his hands in front of him like a Victorian schoolmarm. ‘Please don’t keep us in suspense.’

While Jacquie had been in the corridor on the phone, Hall had been bringing his opposite number up to speed, especially on the Troubridge connection. Helen Marshall and Hall went back a bit. In fact, despite her husband and family, she had always carried a bit of a torch, being a sucker for the strong, silent type. Well, the silent type. He, safe behind his blank lenses, had always been unaware, much to the amusement of everyone else, who could tell at a thousand paces. She lived with it these days and even had a laugh sometimes. Looking at him now, she still wanted to smooth that little wrinkle between his brows, brush the piece of lint off his jacket. That didn’t stop her from wanting to beat him at every turn, of course, just to prove that she could. She settled for getting him a cup of coffee and a piece of shrink-wrapped carrot cake. Where was Jamie Oliver when police canteens needed him?

‘The thing is, Helen, our missing person may well be Jacquie’s next door neighbour.’

‘That’s a bit of a co…’

‘Don’t say coincidence, please,’ he warned her. ‘There’s no such thing.’

‘OK, then. I won’t. But it is, don’t you think? And, don’t I remember hearing somewhere that her other half’s a bit too involved sometimes? He’s not like one of those nutters who phones it in when
he’s done it, is he?’ Helen Marshall had known men like that – and it
was
always men, funnily enough, for whom the lure of fifteen minutes of fame was too great. They weren’t all serial killers with more previous than Harold Shipman, they were just sad old misfits who wanted the world to notice them, just once. She demolished half her cake in one bite.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There was a time when I thought so. There are staff in my nick who wish it were so. But…no. He’s just a bit too nosy, a bit too easily able to get Jacquie to tell him everything. And a bit too right, for some people’s taste. But,’ he could almost feel his throat closing over as the next words took shape, ‘his heart’s in the right place. He’s very,
very
bright and he knows almost everyone in Leighford and their cat. So, he’s got a bit of a march even on us. And, before you ask, it’s not him.’

‘Right. That’s one we can tick off. Just a couple of hundred thousand to go, then.’

‘Why stop there,’ he asked, dryly. ‘The population of the country is…let’s say sixty million, to keep the maths simple. Half women, so thirty million. Half too old, fifteen million. Half of that too young, seven and a half million. Most of those not related to the first victim. Make that one. Mike Crown.’

Helen Marshall screwed up her face. Henry Hall could whittle down the wind in terms of suspects, but she wasn’t happy. ‘I don’t like it, though, Henry. He’s a nasty piece of work, I’d be the first to agree. But…he’s too selfish to be a killer, if you know what I mean. He would only do it for gain, and there doesn’t seem to be any. We don’t even know who she is yet.’

‘Mrs Troubridge, Jacquie’s neighbour.’

‘Perhaps. I’m not sure she fits the description that well, but…well, we’ll soon see. The PM will give us chapter and verse.’

‘Has Crown seen her?’

‘No. He was too squeamish to look closely after he tripped over her. All he did was call it in and then wait for us. When we went to the location, he was at the end of the path, green as grass and shaking.’

‘Perhaps he should.’

‘Have you gone all medieval on me, Henry? Do you want to see if the wounds bleed?’

‘Surely they’ve stopped bleeding by now.’

‘I was just speaking metaphorically, Henry. They used to see if the presence of the killer…You know, in Chaucer’s time – “Murder will out”…Oh, never mind.’ Sometimes she thought she might have had a lucky escape.

The door opened and Jacquie came in.

‘Go on, then,’ Hall said. ‘Please don’t keep us in suspense.’

‘Well, the good news is that Max is at home, entertaining.’

Hall looked blanker than ever. A blow by blow account of her partner’s social life he could do without. And of course there were those in Leighford nick who didn’t find Peter Maxwell entertaining at all. ‘So, he’s not snooping around at the scene of the crime, then,’ said Hall. ‘That
is
good news, but not earth shattering, Jacquie.’

‘That’s not the news. The news is, he’s entertaining Mrs Troubridge.’

‘What?’ Hall and Helen Marshall said together.

‘Yes, quite,’ Jacquie said. ‘And also her sister. Apparently, she was expected the other night and wandered off for a coffee or something and confusion ensued. Max was a little incoherent, with mixed annoyance and…well, being thoroughly Troubridged, I should think. I’m sure I’ll get the details tonight.’

‘Have I missed something?’ Helen Marshall asked. Like all attractive women, she was always on the alert when there was another one, a younger one at that, in the room. ‘What’s the bad news. She’s not suddenly died has she? Poisoned coffee, something like that?’

Jacquie could also be arch. ‘Mrs Troubridge only
drinks tea,’ she said. ‘No, the bad news is that now we have absolutely no idea who our body is. We’re back to minus square one on that one, guv.’ She addressed herself exclusively to Henry Hall.

He was not the most sensitive of men, but even so, he wished it would stop. Not for nothing did the police service delay the introduction of women officers for as long as it could. ‘I think it’s time we interrupted the forensics team,’ he said to the DCI. ‘We need to get a photo of the victim to Mike Crown and watch very carefully as he views it. And we need to have a look ourselves.’

‘That won’t help, though, Henry, will it?’ Helen said. ‘There’s now no earthly reason why she should be known to you. The Leighford connection was always fragile. Now it doesn’t really exist, except between Crown and his stepdaughter.’ She stood up and extended a hand. ‘I’m afraid I must go and get ready for the press conference,’ she said, looking briefly at her watch but not really focusing. ‘We’ll be in touch if we think you can help us further. Henry.’ She shook his hand briefly and then sat back down. ‘Detective Sergeant.’ She nodded at Jacquie. ‘Can you find your own way out?’ and she bent to the paperwork littering her desk.

Hall stood in the corridor wondering what had gone on in the last few minutes. He asked Jacquie.

She patted him on the shoulder. It was more than she would usually do, but she had watched this man sleeping and that gave a woman leeway. ‘Guv,’ she said. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t possibly tell you,’ and chuckling quietly, she made her way to the stairs. Turning her head, she threw back one last remark. ‘Our good news is her bad news. And that sounds good to me.’

Henry Hall, still puzzled, followed her down to the car park and they soon were driving through the February day back to Leighford. Back to the safe ground. All in all, it was probably a woman thing.

The forensic team in Chichester toiled on, unaware of the politics in the air. They had found a well nourished female of indeterminate age, certainly well cared for, lifted, tweaked and enhanced in various subtle ways. They had scanned her for DNA, of which they had found an ample quantity, in fact, an unusually large amount. They assumed she worked in an environment where she came up against a lot of people. But one set of DNA was there in particularly copious amounts. The lab boys differed in their opinions. One said it was only to be expected, as there had clearly been reasonably close proximity, if only for a brief moment. Hairs fell, spit flew, it was fair enough. The other said that that
was all very fine, but it was the places that the DNA was found that clinched it for him. Under the skirt waistband. Under the bra strap. Under her nails. It would have had to be a pretty comprehensive trip for Mike Crown to have left his DNA all over the victim’s body. In the mental list the lab tech carried in his head, he put a big tick against him – they had the killer. All they needed now was the name of the victim. He picked up the phone and dialled. It was time Mike Crown was confronted with what he had done. They might have this sewn up by teatime at this rate. Job done.

The Troubridge sisters had gone home by the time Jacquie arrived later that Thursday afternoon. Maxwell still had the habit of closing one eye and looking askance, as if recovering from a blow to the head. Johnny Depp had picked that one up from him to play Jack Sparrow. After he gave Jacquie all the details of his surreal encounter, sounding like something scripted by Mervyn Peake for Gormenghast, he waited with breath well and truly bated for her recital of her morning.

‘Nothing doing, Max,’ she said. ‘It’s got no link to Leighford any more. It’s the job of the Chichester police to sort it out.’

‘
Mi casa, su casa
,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘Not only are
all you boys wearing the same blue, but it’s the same police authority, damn it. And anyway, it was the stepfather of our victim…’ Maxwell’s sentence had become plaintive. He and Nolan often exchanged notes on how to get their own way, updating at regular intervals. Currently, Nolan had it all to do when it came to wheedling. But he had a cuter nose than his dad, so it was even stevens really.

‘Firstly,’ Jacquie said, as severely as she could, ‘what’s with the “our” victim?’ Conversations like this always had an air of déjà vu about them. She and Maxwell had been there and got all the T-shirts. ‘Secondly, despite what Henry says, I don’t think the guy did it. He’s truly horrible, preying on ladies who need a bit of reassurance, shall we say, to be kinder than he was about them. But I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he genuinely did trip over a body. It must happen all the time, taken all in all.’

Maxwell’s eyebrows rose into his hair. ‘All the time? In that case, I really must jog more. Well, all right, jog. But, in
that
case, if it’s nothing to do with our victim,’ he persisted in his description; he had taken ownership, as he was constantly being told to do by the SLT, ‘you can tell me everything, can’t you? It can’t possibly matter. Eh,’ he nudged her, ‘Eh, go on, you know you want to. Eh? Eh?’
Maxwell’s Eric Idle was not totally lost on Jacquie, although she barely remembered the original.

She sighed and sat down heavily. ‘Max, today has been a bit of a rollercoaster. When I went to work, I thought Mrs Troubridge was dead.’

‘And now we’ve got two for the price of one,’ Maxwell remarked.

‘Yes, that’s right. I also thought we had found our murderer.’

‘And now you discover you’ve just got a really clumsy jogger,’ he added.

‘If you say so.’ She suddenly grinned. ‘It was quite funny, though,’ she said, snuggling up. ‘The DCI at Chichester really fancies Henry.’

‘Does he now?’ Maxwell said, wondering what part of the bland policeman could attract anybody. ‘I suppose that’s all right among today’s PC PCs, is it? Gaily speaking?’

She swiped him round the head in a playful sort of way. ‘The DCI at Chichester is a woman, you sexist pig. DCI Marshall, God rot her, has smashed her way through the glass ceiling.’

‘Ah,’ Maxwell caught just a tiny flash of green in his love’s grey eyes. ‘Does Henry know this woman has the hots for him?’

‘No, that’s the best bit. She wears it like a badge. Doesn’t like me at all.’

‘Of course she doesn’t.’ Maxwell chuckled, ‘Successful women never do like other women. Look at Dierdre Lessing, for instance. I believe she sticks pins in wax images of all the other women on the staff if they are younger, more attractive or more intelligent than her.’ He was silent for a while, then, ‘She gets through a lot of pins.’

Jacquie chortled at the thought. ‘Even so, it was a bit annoying, you know. She kept calling me Detective Sergeant, like it was an insult.’

‘So, if she was so horrible, why not tell me all about the case?’

‘Nothing to tell, Max. Stop it, now. Mike Crown fell over a body. They are working on ID as we speak.’

‘And this Amazon will let Henry know who it is?’

‘Unlikely. She really froze him out, at the end. Gave us the bum’s rush, in fact.’

‘So,’ he leant back, hands behind his head. ‘That’s it then, is it? Our little bit of excitement all over?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, is he the guy? Do you think he killed his stepdaughter, Darren Blackwell and this unidentified woman? He must be a random nutter, if so.’ Maxwell was fully up to speed with current psychological jargon.

‘Why?’ Jacquie asked. ‘He seems almost too down to earth. He just wants money, that’s all.’

‘Well, there’s no link, is there?’ Maxwell reasoned, wrestling with it all out loud. ‘Two young victims, one older. Two women, one man. Two in Leighford, one in Arundel. Has to be random.’

‘I don’t know about this last one, but apparently Lara Kent had Darren Blackwell’s brother’s number on her mobile.’

Kerching! Maxwell looked slyly at her. She was sipping a coffee and had her nose in the cup. She couldn’t see him coming, prowling up through the Serengeti grass. In a minute, his teeth would be in her throat and Metternich would be proud of him. ‘That’s odd,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Still, I expect they just met at a club, or something.’

‘Isn’t Darren Blackwell’s brother still at Leighford?’ Jacquie asked. ‘A bit young for a club?’

‘Bless your little heart,’ he smiled. ‘Without under-age drinkers, there wouldn’t be a single viable licensed premises in the whole town. And your oppos in uniform would be out of a job come chucking out time. Yes, Kevin is still at Leighford High and no, what we need is to find out who this third body is and link it with the other two.’ As he spoke, he knew his mistake. He had said the dreaded ‘w’ word. ‘We’; drat it, now he would have to start
stalking all over again. It could take hours.