Maxwell’s House (14 page)

‘No.’ Maxwell was serious. ‘See it from the point of view of the police. Two young people are dead. I knew them both …’

‘So did fifty other members of staff,’ Smith said. ‘Not to mention kids.’

‘A bike is seen propped up against the Red House on the night in question. I ride a bike.’

‘So do five thousand million Chinamen,’ Smith pointed out.

‘I’ve got no alibi for the night Jenny Hyde was killed.’

‘Yes, you have. You were in Cornwall. Or at least en route.’

‘Who says so?’

‘Er … you do.’

Maxwell shrugged with I-told-you-so sort of shoulders. ‘Maxie …’

‘No, Geoffrey,’ the damp man shook his head, ‘you’re not being objective, man. You’re looking at good ol’ Maxie whom you’ve worked with man and boy for … what is it … nearly twenty years. We’ve sat in staff meetings, we’ve caught smokers, we’ve gone on strike, we’ve trod the boards. Christ, we’ve even peed together, although that’s not something I’m proud of. Shall I tell you what the police are looking at? Peter Maxwell. An arrogant old shit of fifty-two – a funny age. A bachelor – one of those inexplicable people who are probably martyrs to self-abuse and have an inflatable woman in every room. And above all, an arrogant, peculiar old bachelor who has a diary belonging to a dead girl and doesn’t tell the police he’s got it.’

‘Yes.’ Smith’s face was darker. ‘I see what you mean. Still, I wouldn’t adjust the white hood just yet.’

‘That’s because you haven’t heard the bottom line.’

‘Oh?’

‘The diary’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘There seems to be an echo in here, Geoffrey.’

Smith looked confused. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘Nicked. Taken. Lifted. I don’t want to have to condescend to a literatus of your stamp, Geoffrey, by using the word “purloined”. Oh!’ Maxwell slapped his leg, ‘there, I’ve been and gone and done it.’

‘Where was it?’

‘The diary? In my loft.’

‘And now it isn’t?’

‘Hall insisted I show it to him so he accompanied me out of the police station.’ He clicked to attention.

Smith smiled. ‘That Jack Warner of yours is really coming on, you know. Just a little straighter with the finger for the salute.’

‘My place had been ransacked.’

‘Bugger me!’

‘Nothing else had gone. I had to wait while some copper who looked about six dusted everything down.’

‘Any prints?’

Maxwell shook his head. ‘Clean as a whistle, apparently. Chummie wore gloves.’

‘Is your cat all right?’ Smith suddenly remembered the beast.

‘Bless you for that, my darling.’ Maxwell’s Julie-Walters-doing-the-woman-who-played-Mrs-Overall-in-Acorn-Antiques was pretty convincing, all things considered. ‘The Count was asleep in his basket in the bathroom, no harm done.’

‘Now if he’d been a dog, Maxie …’

‘The poor sod might well be dead. As it is, a cat’s no threat to a burglar.’

‘So how did you part, then?’ Smith asked. ‘You and the police?’

‘Let’s just say I’m not yet under arrest.’

‘Oh, Maxie.’ Smith took the man’s glass. ‘It won’t come to that.’ He crossed to get a refill.

‘It might, Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘You see, there’s a sort of PS below the bottom line.’

Smith hesitated half-way across the carpet. ‘It must be my tonsure,’ he ran a hand over his polished head, ‘that I can play the Father Confessor so convincingly.’

‘I was there,’ Maxwell told him, ‘at the Dam. At the time when Tim Grey died. I was actually there.’

‘Shit a brick, boss.’ Smith nearly missed the glass with the bottle’s mouth. ‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’

Maxwell got up and squelched across Smith’s rug, the steam rising from his trousers. ‘Because I’m a stupid, interfering old bastard, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I know it’s laughable, but I was looking for that tall kid, the spotty one on
Crimewatch
that Jenny was seen talking to on the day she died.’

‘Did you see anything? At the Dam, I mean?’ Smith pressed a refill into Maxwell’s hand.

‘The odd bloke walking his dog. I heard a couple of kids.’

‘Kids?’

‘Yes. You know, those things their parents leave with us for the day.’

‘You … er … you didn’t see Tim, I suppose?’

Maxwell didn’t like the look in Smith’s eyes. Was even his Old Contemptible beginning to doubt him now?

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, of course not.’ He caught sight of the time on the wall clock. ‘I’ve got to go, Geoff.’ He downed his Scotch, though it burned his mouth. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’

‘Maxie.’ The Head of English gripped his man by both shoulders. ‘This is me; Geoff. What does it matter? Right now, I think you could use a friend or two.’

Maxwell looked him in the face. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Yes, I could.’ And he retrieved his scarf from the floor. ‘Keep me posted, Geoff,’ he said. ‘About school, I mean. Keep your ear to the ground.’

‘You’re still going on with this, aren’t you?’ Smith said. ‘Still sleuthing.’

‘It’s what your right arm’s for,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Give my love to Hilda,’ and he wandered into the night.

‘All right, Count.’ Peter Maxwell lay in his bath, his arms crossed over his chest like something out of Tutankhamun. The cat lay curled tightly on top of the wicker linen-basket and twitched an ear at him. ‘Let’s talk diary.’ He closed his eyes. ‘No, it’s not Sam Pepys this time, off to the Cheap for a quick one. It’s not even the Hitler diaries or Jack the Ripper’s, so I know that whoever stole the thing, it can’t be a
Times
journalist. Jenny’s diary. You know. Jenny Hyde’s. You must have seen it lying about. It was blue. A blue exercise book. Odd that, don’t you think? I mean, the sixth form use file paper. A4. Only the main school use exercise books. Oh God!’ He splashed through the suds suddenly and the cat quietly lashed his tail. ‘Listen to me. If somebody said “Good morning” to me now, I’d find it sinister; look for the hidden meaning. It’s funny. I never really believed in the conspiracy theory of History. Not until now, anyway. What did it say? Did you read it? I say,’ he called louder, ‘wake up. Look at me when I’m talking to you.’ He pretended to slide his glasses sideways in memory of the late, great Eric Morecambe. ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he chuckled softly to the cat. ‘As Geoffrey Smith would say, “Not your best Ernie Wise.” No, I distinctly remember. When I was reading the diary, you were looking over my shoulder. Yes, you were. Don’t deny it. Now, think. Think, damn you.’ He closed his eyes again.

‘She’d quarrelled with Tim. Well, it’s too late to ask him about that now, isn’t it? Then, she’d gone somewhere. Gone to K.’s. That was it.’ He began to see her writing in the steam. ‘Now, she found him lovely and K. loved her. K. Who’s K?’ He let his mind wander over the layabouts in the sixth form. ‘Ken Byfield,’ he said, then shook his head. ‘No, he’s sixteen stone and prey to nervous disorders. She wouldn’t have found him ‘lovely’, would she? Still, she saw something in Tim Grey, when all’s said and done. K? Oh, bugger!’ and he slapped the flat of his hand on to the water’s surface.

There was a pause. Beyond the wobbly glass of Maxwell’s bathroom window the first fingers of dawn were reaching out tentatively to push back the night. ‘If I hadn’t had you bricked, Count, you’d be out there now, wouldn’t you, rogering the entire neighbourhood. Life’s a bitch, all right. “P.”,’ he suddenly remembered. ‘“What shall I do about P?” the diary said. “Why do I always fancy the married ones?”’ He chewed his lip. ‘So Jenny was playing fast and loose with a married man, eh?’ He reached for the soap, ‘Not the sort of behaviour Mumsy would approve of. Maybe the sort of behaviour Anne Spencer knew all about, though? What d’you think, Count? How’s your female psychology? Was Anne so uptight because Jenny was playing around with the same bloke she fancied? The same married man? Oh, Count, what a tangled web we weave.’

He stood up suddenly and the noise of the Kraken waking caused the cat to lift his head. ‘It’s all right,’ Maxwell said, ‘I’ll get the towel myself,’ and he dripped all over the place as he wandered through into his bedroom. ‘I’ll say this for being burgled, Count,’ he called back through, ‘it rearranges the dust nicely. You should have seen old Geoffrey Smith’s place tonight. I could have written my name on the coffee table. Old Hilda’s not pulling her not-inconsiderable weight these days. Mind you, she’s older than he is, isn’t she? And a bit of a dog on the quiet. Oh, sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you. D-O-G.’

Metternich the cat looked up as Maxwell came storming back into the bathroom, one towel round his waist and another on his head. He looked like a bit player in Ali Baba. ‘That’s another thing the diary said,’ he told the animal. ‘Mad Max had a go at me over deadlines.’ He blinked at his pet. ‘What’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. I never had a go at Jenny Hyde in my life, over deadlines or anything else.’

14

The next day a letter arrived for Peter Maxwell. A buff envelope stamped with a reminder that the Local Education Authority had offered ninety years of service. Odd year to celebrate, but in John Major’s England no one expected the Local Education Authority to see its hundredth out. Perhaps they were quitting while they were ahead.

‘Black tie, do you think, Count?’ he consulted the cat. ‘Or hood and gown? What does one wear when one is on the carpet accused of gross moral turpitude? Well,’ he checked the date of the hearing again, ‘I’ve got a few days to decide, I suppose.’

He wasn’t ready for his visitor that night at all. It was a little after eight and he’d settled down to watch the video he’d treated himself to earlier in the day. Dame May Whitty was just writing her name – ‘Froy’ – in the dust of the train window prior to vanishing, when the door bell rang. It was a tall kid with blond frizzy hair and hideous, striped leggings.

‘Sally Greenhow,’ Maxwell said, ‘and I claim my five pounds.’

‘How are you, Max, you old shit?’ Never one to stand on delicacy was Sally Greenhow. She’d spent her entire career – all nine years of it – in the Special Needs Department. They didn’t just call spades down there, they ate with them.

‘All the better for seeing you, Sally, you ravishing creature.’

She looked at him through her owlish specs. ‘Well, if you’re going to talk dirty, I’m leaving.’

‘No, no.’ He opened the door fully. ‘There could be a drink in it for you.’

‘Southern Comfort,’ she ordered, brushing past him. ‘No ice.’

‘A woman after my own heart,’ he smiled.

And he followed her up the stairs. ‘And you can keep your eyes off my bum,’ she said without turning round.

‘Without wishing to be rude,’ he riposted, ‘that’s a little easier said than done.’

She stopped abruptly. ‘If I thought you were implying that my derriere fills your stairway …’ she scolded.

‘Oh, but it’s so delightful,’ he purred. ‘Metternich, get up and give the lady your seat.’ Maxwell threw the affronted animal off the settee. ‘He normally has the one by the fire,’ he said and poured them both a drink.

She patted the seat beside her and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind, Max? It’s been a bitch of a day and Alan’s out at the squash club. Or so he says.’

‘Oh.’

She caught sight of his face. ‘No,’ she laughed, blowing smoke to the ceiling, ‘it’s not like that. He’s no Keith Miller.’

‘How is Alison?’ Maxwell asked her.

Sally Greenhow shrugged. ‘Near the edge, I’d say.’

‘What is it, Sally? With Alison, I mean?’

‘Maxie, Maxie,’ she laughed, shaking her head. ‘For a middle-aged roué you’re bloody naive, you know.’

‘Oh,’ he nodded. ‘Woman’s trouble.’

‘If by that you mean a man, yes. It’s Alison’s misfortune to be between a rock and a hard place. She doesn’t like her job very much and she likes her home situation even less. She’s married to a shit and she hasn’t got the bottle to get out of it. Got an ashtray? Or can I throw caution to the winds and flick over your Berber?’

He rummaged in a drawer under the coffee table. She read the legend on the ashtray he found there – ‘Joe’s Bordello – Where the customer always comes first’. She looked at him with steady blue eyes. ‘Are you really a pervert, Peter Maxwell?’ she asked.

He burst out laughing. ‘But of course,’ he said. ‘Come and sit on my mac, little girl.’

She sighed. ‘Unfortunately, Max, it’s not something either of us can afford to joke about any more.’

‘Either of us?’ he frowned. ‘Don’t tell me you’re under suspension accused of gross moral turpitude too? Bloody school’s going to the dogs.’

‘It’s my lot in life to sink or swim with you, Maxie, as your professional association representative.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Maxwell clicked his fingers. ‘You’re here as my union rep. Yes, it all fits now. A sort of soldier’s friend for my court martial. The question is, will my sword-hilt be pointing towards me at the end or not?’

‘That’s up to you,’ she said. ‘I’m offering you my help, Max. I’m not a solicitor. I’m a colleague. And I hope a friend. But I’m far enough away to see you as you are. Sylvia Matthews is too close. So’s Geoffrey Smith. I can see you, warts and all. The fact is that Diamond played a bit of a blinder confronting you like he did, with Graham and the CEO. He ought to have wheeled me in as well. It’s not exactly wrongful arrest, but it puts them in a bad light.’

He looked at her. ‘What’s a bright young thing like you doing in Special Needs, Sally?’ he asked her.

‘Now, look …’ and he felt her hackles rise.

‘No, no,’ he laughed, holding his hands in the air. ‘Spare me the lecture! I know what Special Needs kids mean to you.’

‘Yes,’ she said levelly, ‘I know you do. And if you weren’t several miles to the right of Genghis Khan, you might be able to see it too – but tonight, this Pinko-Liberal has just galloped to your rescue. Take me or leave me.’

‘About now,’ he said solemnly, ‘I’ll take you, Sally; in the narrowest sense of the word, of course.’

‘Good.’ She slammed down the glass and stood up. ‘How long have you worked at Leighford High School, Mr Maxwell?’

He’d been doing role play, though they didn’t call it that then, when this kid was in nappies. ‘Who are you?’ he wanted to know first. ‘That Neanderthal Graham, that slime Jenkins or that dickless wonder, Diamond?’

She stood behind him and leaned over his shoulder. She felt his whiskers tickle her cheek. ‘Ve vill ask ze questions,’ she breathed.

‘All right,’ he said, smiling. ‘This is my twentieth year.’

‘And before that?’ She’d whirled away to the window.

‘Greylands Comprehensive.’

‘What is your present post?’

‘Head of Sixth Form … er … Years 12 and 13.’

‘Are you married, Mr Maxwell?’

‘No.’

‘You live alone?’

‘Apart from my cat, yes.’

‘Have you ever had sex with a minor?’

‘No,’ Maxwell said solemnly, ‘it’s the coal dust – I find it something of a deterrent. Plays merry hell with my asthma.’

‘Max.’ The voice was different, seductive.

He found himself turning round. The shapeless jumper had gone. The blouse was open to the navel. It was obvious that Sally Greenhow wore no bra. Maxwell could see her nipples in the half-light, jutting against the white material. Only now did he realize how short her skirt was and that she was standing with her legs apart.

‘Do you want to take me to bed, Max?’ she asked.

He turned away, slowly, sadly. ‘No, Sally,’ he said, ‘I want you to leave now.’

‘Good!’ The voice was crisp again, businesslike.

‘What?’ He’d turned back again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘teasing you like that,’ and the blouse was quickly buttoned again and the jumper was back on. ‘But I had to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘If that come-on was going to work. Not exactly conventional union rep stuff, is it? I’m not sure Doug McAvoy would approve.’

‘Wait until he’s asked, that’s what I say.’

She sat next to him again and took his hand. ‘Of course,’ she said, staring into his eyes, ‘it might just be that you’re a better actor than I give you credit for. That you turned me down just now because you saw through it.’

‘It might be,’ Maxwell nodded.

‘The point is, Max,’ she said, staring him in the face, ‘you could have had me.’

‘I could?’ His eyebrows lifted.

She nodded, closed her eyes and kissed him. It was a long, lingering kiss, the type that Barbara Cartland writes about. And it was a long time since anyone had kissed Mad Max like that. ‘But you didn’t,’ she said brightly.

‘So that means I’m not a child molester?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘No, but it does mean you’re a decent man who won’t take advantage of an available girl when she’s offered to you on a plate.’

‘That’s encouraging.’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose it’d impress anybody else – not Diamond or Jenkins et al. But it convinces me, if I needed convincing.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that if, Sally,’ he scolded.

‘Then there’s your basic intelligence,’ she said, returning to her drink.

‘Oh.’ He looked down at the carpet and hugged himself, swaying from side to side. ‘That little ol’ thing.’

‘If you won’t play along with me in the privacy of your own home, you’re certainly not going to risk all by trying to grope a girl in your office in the middle of Leighford High with the best part of fifteen hundred kids and staff dashing hither and yon.’

‘Ah,’ Maxwell wagged a finger at her, ‘but what if I was overcome with lust?’ he asked her. ‘If the sight of her little cleavage and daring hemline didn’t drive me into a frenzy? Sorry, do I sound a little Mills and Boon?’

‘Just a tad,’ she nodded. ‘Of course, it’s possible. But in that case I can’t help wondering why you haven’t been driven into a frenzy before, say at any time over the last twenty years?’

‘Compliant girls,’ Maxwell shrugged, ‘who kept their mouths shut.’

‘You’re not making this easy, Max,’ Sally told him.

‘And I don’t suppose my Inquisitors at the hearing will either, Sally,’ he said.

‘What actually happened in your office when you talked to Anne Spencer?’

He got up and wandered to the window. In the darkened street below he saw the arc light shine on the polished roof of Sally’s car. ‘I didn’t know you drove one of those,’ he said.

‘I don’t.’ She quaffed her Southern Comfort, ‘it’s Alan’s. He jogs to the club these evenings. Stop changing the subject.’

‘The subject?’ He frowned to help him remember it. ‘Oh, yes. I was asking Anne if she knew where Jenny Hyde had got to in the days she’d gone missing – the days before she died. She got snotty and ran out screaming. As God is my judge, I didn’t lay a finger on that girl.’

‘Just as well,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose her old man’s very likely to believe it, mind. Nor Maz.’

It was as though someone had just dropped an icicle down Peter Maxwell’s back. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘I said, “It’s just as well …”’

‘No, no.’ He’d crossed to the girl. ‘Maz. You said Maz.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Who the hell’s that?’

‘I don’t know. He’s just Maz. All the kids know him – the sirens of Years 10 and 11. He hangs out at the Dam.’

‘Is he tall? Fair-haired?’ Maxwell bellowed. ‘Acne?’

‘I don’t know, Max,’ she shouted back. ‘What’s the matter, all of a sudden?’

He broke away, confused, bewildered. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s a name that Tim Grey mentioned.’

‘Tim?’ Sally frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was Tim’s scene at all.’

‘A tall, fair-haired boy who hangs out at the Dam,’ Maxwell was pacing the floor, talking to himself, to the furniture, to the cat, ‘is the boy they’re looking for. On
Crimewatch
.’

‘“Sleep well,”’ Sally quoted Nick Ross. ‘“Don’t have nightmares.”’

‘But that’s exactly what this is, Sally.’ Maxwell was facing her again, his eyes bright. ‘How do you know about this Maz?’

‘Special Needs,’ she said proudly. ‘You know the sort of kids we get down there. I’m going to write a book one day.’

‘What do they say about him? Your kids?’

‘About Maz? Well, he’s not one of ours. That’s for certain. He’s in a squat somewhere, Barlichway way … that’s not easy to say, by the way.’

‘Sally,’ he was gripping her arms, shaking her, ‘this is important.’

‘OK, Max.’ She shook herself free. ‘I get the message. It’s all right. He’s …’ She scratched her frizzy head, searching for the words, summoning up all the jumble of gossip the kids threw at her. ‘He’s a sort of Svengali figure, or Rasputin; I don’t know. If this was London – or Brighton, even – he’d be a pimp or a pusher – I don’t know which.’

‘So the police must know him?’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘Except that the sort of kids he goes with aren’t likely to be into Neighbourhood Watch.’

‘Let’s get this straight.’ Maxwell blinked, trying to think it through. ‘This Maz shacks up with under-age girls.’

‘Under-age. Over-age. I don’t think he’s all that choosy.’

‘And he’s running around the place like bloody Chanticleer with his brood of hens and I’m out of a job because I raised my voice to a girl?’

Sally nodded. ‘Welcome to teaching, Max,’ she said sadly.

‘Bollocks,’ he growled. ‘I’m not taking any of this lying down.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ she smiled, eyes shining. ‘You’re Mad Max – Beyond the Hippodrome!’ and she brandished an invisible something in the air.

‘Where can I find him?’

‘Maz? I dunno.’

‘Oh, come on, Sally,’ he pleaded. ‘Do I have to stuff fivers down your brassiere?’

‘Maybe I was wrong about you,’ she said wistfully. ‘Maybe you are an old pervert.’

‘Well?’

‘I really don’t know,’ she assured him. ‘Why not try Humphrey’s or Little Willie’s? That’s where most of our riff-raff end up.’

‘Right.’ He had to concentrate to remember where these places were. ‘Right.’ And he kissed her hard on the forehead. ‘Thank you, Sally Greenhow,’ he said, wrapping his scarf around his neck and hunting for his jacket. ‘Thank you for what you’ve been.’

‘Max, you’re not going there? Not now?’

‘Why not?’ He frowned at her. Then he crouched and swivelled his hips. ‘I can still do the Twist, you know.’ He suddenly winced and straightened. ‘Just.’

‘Oh, God.’ Sally closed her eyes.

‘And,’ he plopped his hat on his head and trailed her down the stairs to the newly repaired front door, ‘they say the late Rudolph Nureyev had never seen a Mashed Potato like mine.’

And he waltzed her into the night.

‘Give me a lift in your husband’s automobile, you vixen. And I’ll see you in court next week.’

Big Willie’s it had been called in the ’80s, when Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister and people still wore open-necked shirts and medallions bounced on hairy chests. In the rather more self-effacing ’90s, what with the culmination of the AIDs scare and the arrival, from nowhere, of John Major at Number Ten, they’d changed the name to Little Willie’s. Well, size wasn’t everything.

Peter Maxwell had only ever crossed those hallowed portals once. One of the ‘characters’ of the sixth form you never seemed to get any more had held a ‘Vicars and Tarts’ party there a few years back. Maxwell, in his quaint and schizophrenic way, had gone as a Tarty Vicar, that being a slightly more likely persona than the other way around. The place was darker than he remembered, more claustrophobic.