Maxwell's Chain (8 page)

‘Well, he seems to think he’s a suspect in a couple of murders, for a start.’

‘A
couple
of murders?’

‘Yes, well, there’s been another, but, that’s not the point, really.’

‘Not the point. A murder, not the point?’ This was déjà vu for Emma Lunt, née Watson. She could still remember all those times that Maxwell had returned A level essays to her, telling her, in the kindest possible way, that it needed beefing up or toning down or that her antithesis was not the point, really.

‘No. Emma, my dear, we all know Bill didn’t do anything. But he says you have gone back to your mother’s and also he seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that he is public enemy number one. Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, that sort of thing.’

‘Exactly,’ the word came out on a sigh. ‘That’s why I went to mother’s. Not because I think he murdered anyone. It wasn’t because I thought he would murder me in my bed; it was his impersonation of Richard Kimble that was wearing me down.’

Maxwell beamed. That’s my girl, he thought. Still a film buff, like so many of his ex-Own. They might forget the causes of the Crimean War, but they’d never forget a film. All right, so Emma’s version of Richard Kimble was Harrison Ford, whereas
everyone of Maxwell’s generation knew it was really David Jansen, but you couldn’t have everything. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Can you come and get him, there’s a good girl? The Mem is a bit aerated at having him here and he slept in the car last night, apparently. He’s a bit tearful and sorry for himself. He seems to have become unhealthily obsessed with badgers.’

‘Badgers?’ Her voice rose to a squeak.

‘Well, precisely. We all know what that can lead to, don’t we? Can you get here in, say, half an hour? Thirty-eight, Columbine. Lovely. Bye, then.’ He rang off before she could argue. The kettle had gone off the boil and so he addressed himself to the Maxwell Tea Ceremony again, all white face paint and excruciatingly small shoes.

When he went back into the sitting room a strange tableau met his gaze. Stretched out on the sofa was Bill Lunt, dead to the world. Looming over him and about to poke him with the business end of a mop was Mrs B. After all, she cleaned up at the school in the afternoon. For a moment, his world turned upside down.

‘Mrs B?’ Maxwell said. He thought she came to do for him in the morning.

Mrs B spun round with a shriek that could curdle milk, hands grasped to her chest, fag-end flying who knew where. Bill Lunt flinched in his sleep, then
subsided again. ‘Oh my gawd, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, the scream ending in a cough. ‘Oh, my gawd, what are you doing there? I nearly died. There’s a bloke on your settee. Did you know there’s been another one. ’Oo is ’e? Ain’t it terrible?’

Maxwell was used to the Thompson sub-machine gun that was Mrs B and he coped with it admirably. ‘I live here. Did you? Yes, there is. Yes, indeed. Mr Lunt, or Darren Blackwell, depending on whether you mean the bloke on my settee or the other one. Yes, it is. Don’t you usually come in the morning?’ It was a gentle reminder that most people asked one question at a time.

Still patting her chest, exhaling like there had never been a Clean Air Act, Mrs B nodded. Another fag-end, unlit but half-smoked at some previous, more accommodating venue, had materialised from somewhere in her pinny and was stuck firmly to her lower lip. ‘Yeah, Mr Maxwell, I do as a rule. But I got stuck at another job, din’t I? That’s how I know there’s been another one. I clean up at one of the shops in town and that lad what they found was the son of them as keep that chippie.’

‘And so that made you late because…?’ Maxwell drew out his question, hoping that might start Mrs B’s thought processes into something approaching coherence.

‘Well, because…’ Caught between a rock and a hard place, Mrs B could hardly admit that she had stood open mouthed in the doorway of the greengrocer’s, mop in hand, and watched as the police had arrived, knocked at the door and been admitted to the flat above the chip shop. How she had waited until that miserable bloke, that copper with the blank glasses, had come out and driv’ away, but not until he had hit the steering wheel, nasty temper that showed. How she had nabbed that woman, that one whose kid was up at the school, when she arrived and that was how she knew who it was what was dead and also why she was really late at Mr M’s.

He let her off the hook. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs B,’ he said, softly. ‘I think we’ll just let Mr Lunt sleep, if it’s all the same to you. Just do a bit extra next week, if you like.’

Mrs B drew herself up as far as she was able. ‘I don’t like to skimp, Mr Maxwell,’ she said, her voice tight with offence. ‘I like to do a good job.’

Struggling to keep the amazement out of his voice (he knew for a fact that there was a sixteen-year-old spiders’ web in the corner of his office), Maxwell said, ‘No, really, Mrs B, I’m sure we’ll manage. Nolan is getting a dab hand at mopping and, as you know, Metternich always does the drying up at the
end of the evening, mostly by rolling on the plates. You just run along now, or you’ll be late for up at the school.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ her eyes narrowed. ‘Why aren’t you there?’ she asked. ‘You bin suspended again? That Mrs Lessing, she ain’t no better than she should be. It ain’t fair they keep pickin’ on you, Mr Maxwell, it ain’t. Just ’cos you’re a bit strange.’

He was shepherding her down the stairs and he toyed with a sharp push in the big of her back. They’d see it as self-defence, surely, justifiable homicide. Maybe he’d get the George Medal. ‘I’m having a day off. No, I haven’t. No, she isn’t. No, it isn’t and,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose I am.’ By now they were in the hall and he waved her off without regret. ‘Bye, now. You have a nice day now, d’you hear?’ It was a pretty good Clint Eastwood, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

Mrs B, on the path now with her mop at a less than jaunty angle, turned away. ‘Poor old bleeder,’ she muttered to herself, as she walked off to mop aimlessly up at the school. ‘He’s really lost it, this time. As soon as you find blokes on their settees, it’s the end, that’s what it is. I read about that old poof actor; what was his name – Charles Laughton? Married to that Elsa Manchester. That poor policewoman and that little baby. What a carry-on.’

Mrs Troubridge, Maxwell’s neighbour, the wrong
side of eighty and mad as a tree, crouched behind her hedge giving her cotoneaster a right seeing to. She nodded sagely to herself. She’d seen it coming for years and now it was here. She was disgusted and appalled, all at the same time. How exciting!

Maxwell was stirring his tea and looking pensively at the sleeping photographer when he heard the car draw up outside Thirty-eight. By the time the door had slammed and purposeful feet had negotiated the path, he was at the front door, flinging it open to prevent the doorbell from waking Bill Lunt.

‘Mr Maxwell,’ Emma stood on the step and looked past him. She was a little heavier than Maxwell remembered her, a little less light of step, but running a photographic emporium and living with the man who invented neurosis couldn’t have been a piece of cake. ‘Where is he, then?’

‘Upstairs,’ Maxwell said. Seeing her surprised look, he elaborated. ‘Town house,’ he said, gesturing overhead. ‘That’s where the sitting room is. The estate agent described it as three up, three even upper, nothing down.’

‘Ah.’ She waited. ‘May I come in?’

‘Sorry,’ he stepped aside. ‘How rude of me. I just thought I’d warn you first. He’s a bit tired and depressed. This thing has been a bit of a shock.’

‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll just collect him though, if I may. I have to get back to the shop. The staff aren’t all that reliable, if you leave them on their own.’ She sighed. ‘Just youngsters, really. But they are the ones who know all about digital.’

Maxwell suppressed a smile. Emma wasn’t exactly a pensioner herself. He led the way upstairs and pushed open the door.

Hard Emma Lunt, proprietress of Lunt Photographic, disappeared before his eyes. At the sight of her husband stretched out on Maxwell’s sofa, one arm thrown across his eyes, the other protectively across his midriff, fist clenched, she had dissolved into wifely mush. She rushed across to him and threw herself across his torso.

‘Bill,’ she wailed. ‘Are you all right? I’ve been so worried.’

He woke with a start and had scrambled into a half sitting position in the corner of the sofa before he realised what was happening. Then, he recognised the arms around him, the head on his chest. ‘Emma?’ She snuggled up further on his chest and tucked her head under his chin. Everything became
a little incoherent and Maxwell withdrew into the less embarrassing realms of the kitchen, where he busied himself yet again with making tea.

When he came out, the image of a Jolyons nippy, were it not for the missing apron, frilly cap and air of resignation, they had gone.

He went over to the window and tweaked aside the curtain, in his best Mrs Troubridge style. Emma was tucking Bill into the passenger seat, making sure he was comfy and belted in before driving away. Well, thought Peter Maxwell, a sort of happy ending was beginning there at least. There would still be the police questioning, the paparazzi, the short-lived notoriety, which would either make or break Lunt Photographic. ‘’Ere, weren’t you that bloke wot found…’ – that sort of thing. The
Daily Mail
would throw in a dream cottage for the exclusive rights. Al Pacino would demand to play the photographer in the film.
Kill Bill
. Or had somebody done that already? But for now, they were driving off into the sunset on a second honeymoon.

A car was turning in to Columbine and missed the Lunt vehicle by a whisker. It was Jacquie, Nolan safely strapped in the back, home from the nick, via the childminder. Maxwell savoured the moment, watching unobserved as she pulled up to the kerb and switched off the engine. She turned to say
something to Nolan – whatever it was, he liked it; Maxwell could see his arms wave and could almost hear the gurgle. She got out and went round to the back, undid his harness and lifted him out. He was getting to be a bit of an armful now; he could walk, but, like Alan Bennett’s Lady Dundown, he didn’t have to.

Maxwell contrived to be sitting casually, two cups of tea waiting on the table, when Jacquie walked in. Nolan slid down her and toddled across to Metternich, who welcomed him with a yawn and a stretch.

‘Hello, Nole,’ Maxwell called, waving extravagantly.

Nolan waved and gave his attention back to the cat, who glanced at Maxwell over the boy’s shoulder with a triumphant gleam in his wicked yellow eye as if to say ‘Want me to lick him or eat him?’

Jacquie dropped into her usual seat on the sofa and reached for the tea. ‘For me?’ she asked. ‘God, my feet!’

‘Of course, Light of my Life,’ Maxwell said quickly.

‘Not made for anyone else, like…visitors, for example?’

‘No, no, just for you,’ Maxwell lied.

She aimed one of those tired feet at him, missing
him by miles. ‘Don’t give me that. I just saw the Lunts leaving. I am a trained copper, you know! They looked like love’s young dream, I must say.’

‘Yes, well, I admit I made it for them, but they’d buggered off by the time I came out of the kitchen. Gratitude, eh? There haven’t been any lips in it or anything.’ He pulled a face at her. ‘Except mine, of course.’

‘That’s all right, then.’ She held the mug to her face gratefully and swigged. ‘Oooh, that’s better. There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea.’

‘No. Except a cup of tea, of course.’

‘I won’t rise today. It’s been a shocker. Henry Hall was really quite upset after he visited the Blackwells. He took it hard. They didn’t realise the boy was sleeping rough. Thought he was with friends.’

‘Sleeping rough? What, really rough, as in in a cardboard box?’

‘A tent in the woods, actually.’

Maxwell put down his tea. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’ Jacquie knew that look.

Nolan was crouching by Metternich, trying to engage the black and white monster in something approximating to conversation. Metternich wasn’t having any, just lashing his tail. He wouldn’t hurt the Boy for all the world, but the only one who knew that for certain was Metternich. So Maxwell
kept an eye, just in case…

‘I’ll tell you now, save time,’ he went on. ‘Bill Lunt spent last night sleeping in his car. In the woods.’

She relaxed again. ‘There are loads of woods around here.’

‘Yes, but not many where you can park. For that I suppose it would have to be Silverdown Woods.’

‘Well, in that case, it is “Oh”.’ She put the cup down on the coffee table.

‘Did he die there?’ Maxwell asked. ‘It was in the park, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. But it is a bit of a coincidence that the man who found the first body…’

‘Me.’

‘Not you,’ she corrected him. ‘You were just there. Why is it always about you?’

He chuckled.

‘Where was I? Yes, the man who found the first body happens to spend the night in the same woods where the second victim has been sleeping out. Henry isn’t going to just let that one go. He can’t, Max. There are coincidences and there are coincidences.’

‘No, I suppose he can’t. But I still say Bill Lunt is innocent. Rather like his distant relative, Bill Stickers.’

Jacquie was a little young for that one. She didn’t know who Mr Chad was either. She reached for the phone. ‘I’m telling Henry, Max. Then, we’ll have something to eat, play with Nolan, give him a bath and watch some rubbish on the telly. And at no time during those activities are we going to speak of this case. Is that clear?’

‘As crystal, dearest,’ Maxwell said, and, putting his tea down first for Health and Safety reasons, he slipped down out of his chair and crawled over for a natter with his boy and his cat.

The boy took matters into his own hands by wandering off in search of his mother and food, though who could be sure they were in that order of importance.

‘That’s it, that’s it,’ Maxwell called after his receding heir. ‘Leave the old man sprawling like a prat on the mat.’ He bumped noses with Metternich. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

The cat stretched again and looked intelligent, not easy when all you have to work with are two big yellow eyes with slits for pupils and a set of white whiskers. Nonetheless, Maxwell settled in beside the animal and began the conversation. After all, he had whitish whiskers too and his pupils only differed from Metternich’s by one consonant.

‘Well, Count,’ he said, risking a clawing by
stroking him between the ears. ‘Where are we on this one? And I shall be asking questions later. Two youngsters, sleeping rough or at least homeless within the meaning of the act. One girl, one boy. Did they know each other? I wonder. One not local, one as local as they come, one of My Own. Cause of death? Were they the same? Motive, I hear you ask? Well, there you have me, Count. I have no idea what the motive could be. There was no theft, although apparently the girl had money on her. There didn’t seem to be a fight or anything going on. Nothing sexual. Apart from being dead, there’s nothing suspicious about either of them. No drug involvement, except for a bit of weed on the girl, which, begging the Mem’s presence, isn’t what even an old fart like me would call much of a crime. I should think it probably makes the long night shorter. Or at least a touch more colourful.’

He glanced at the cat, who was sitting up now, all attention.

‘Don’t look at me like that, please. I was young once.’

The cat stalked off in the direction of the kitchen, probably to seek a second opinion of that last comment. His eyes may be vacant, but the ears were razor sharp and they had, in fact, detected the faint clink of the business end of a tin opener
making contact with the edge of a tin. Even if it should transpire that only beans were involved, he was probably all right for a titbit if he went through what he fondly believed to be his cute routine, namely placing his bum on either foot of the nearest human.

Maxwell rolled upright with that surprising energy he normally reserved for a blitzkrieg attack on the smokers behind the Sports Hall. He leant back against the chair and gazed at the ceiling. He’d just have to talk to himself, then. It was Eight See all over again.

‘It’s clear to me that Bill Lunt is as innocent as the day is long. There was no need for him to draw attention to the murder; it would have gone undiscovered for ever if it weren’t for his photos. Yes, I agree that the…’ there was a thud on the cushion of the chair behind his head. Metternich was back. ‘Oh, beans, was it? Or just a can of worms? Well, I was just saying Bill Lunt didn’t do it, whatever the profilers might think.’

The kitchen door swung open and shut, leaving Nolan on the other side of it. His face screwed up and he started to cry. Jacquie’s head poked round the door.

‘Max, can you just keep Nole in there for a moment? You know the rules, no s-e-x, no politics,
no religion, no murder in front of the boy.’ Her head disappeared and the three Maxwell Men heard the murmur of her voice through the door.

Stymied, Maxwell and Metternich’s conversation stuttered to a halt and the three chatted about this and that.

‘Did I ever tell you guys about Muffin the Mule?’ Maxwell asked.

‘What did I tell you about s-e-x?’ Jacquie’s voice came through from the kitchen.

‘Ears like a bat, your Mummy,’ Maxwell pretended to snatch Nolan’s nose – the game of the month. Even Metternich was impressed. Although when he removed noses, the whole thing was rather bloodier.

Jacquie came back in and replaced the phone on its station. She threw herself down on the sofa and held out her arms to whoever got there first. Nolan won, by a short head. Maxwell swerved onto a chair and Metternich hadn’t even heard the starting pistol.

‘Henry says thank you,’ she said over the boy’s head to Maxwell.

‘He does?’ Maxwell was frankly astounded.

‘Not as such, but he was grateful nonetheless. I’m afraid that means a search warrant and a fairly unpleasant night for the Lunts, Max. I’m sorry.’

Maxwell grimaced but nodded slowly. She was right; coincidence could only stretch so far. Still and all, he hoped they would understand that he had to do it.

‘What did Henry think when you mentioned s-e-x on the phone just now?’

Nolan turned at that moment to his mother. He’d been wondering that too.

‘I put my hand over the receiver,’ she said. ‘Like what they taught us in the Police Academy.’

Maxwell nodded. He’d seen all those.

‘He said what?’ Emma Lunt exploded in the policeman’s face.

‘Just that your husband had been sleeping out in the woods last night, madam,’ said DS Tony Deacon, unperturbed. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but I’m sure you understand that it would be better in the long run for your husband if you stood aside and let us in.’

Emma squared up to him, for all the bloke was built like a brick Shi’ite temple. ‘Have you got a warrant?’

Deacon sighed. He did so wish that people wouldn’t watch all those police dramas on the telly; the procedurals were usually rubbish. ‘Yes, madam, we have a warrant.’ He brandished it under her
nose. ‘We don’t do searches without warrants in real life.’

‘Well, don’t leave the place in a mess.’

‘We’ll be as neat as possible, madam, commensurate with a thorough search.’ He turned and called down the path, ‘OK, you lot. Let’s get in and search, the lady says don’t make a mess.’

The six police officers marched through the door in single file, chuckling as they went, but each one careful to wish Emma Lunt a cheery good evening. Six of them, she noted. God knew what real crime was going on undetected in Leighford while these flat foots ruined her shagpile. They dispersed up stairs and through into the kitchen. Deacon went through into the lounge. He was a bit of an amateur psychologist who was creating a mental dossier on guilt or innocence based on the size of the television screen in suspects’ houses. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, he thought. We have a right one here and bang to rights. The telly was the size of the windscreen of a moderately sized family car, black and slick as a puddle of oil. The innocent ones tended to have either a small flat screen or an old-fashioned fat telly with no gadgets to speak of. This one had extra speakers, SkyHD – the lot. Guilty as sin.

Smirking to himself Deacon went through into the kitchen, just in time to meet one of the
policewomen coming out of the utility room. She was carrying a bag, heavy with some fairly bulky contents. His smirk widened.

‘Well, Brady,’ he said. ‘Bloodstained clothing?’

‘Not as such, sarge,’ she said.

‘Well, it either is or it isn’t,’ he said, slightly testily.

‘Yes, sarge. It is bloodstained and I suppose it’s clothing. I don’t think it belongs to Mr Lunt, though. I think it may belong to the first victim.’ She opened the bag and he peered in. At the bottom lay a grubby scarf and in the confined space of the bag-mouth, he could tell it was none too clean. In short, it stank to high heaven.