Maxwell's Mask (22 page)

‘Detective Sergeant Carpenter, West Sussex CID,' Jacquie said, looking the woman straight in the eye. ‘You are?'

‘Helen Burden,' the Gibson girl blinked, taken off guard. This was an
unheard
of way to get into Oxford. 

‘Is Professor Usherwood in?' Jacquie was in work mode. The ground shook.

‘Yes, yes of course. I'll tell him you're here.'

‘Thank you.'

The secretary hurried to her intercom and pressed it. ‘Professor, there are some police officers to see you.' A pause. ‘Do go through. First door on the left.'

‘Looks like I should have won the toss after all,' Jacquie whispered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘We wasted three or four minutes there.'

‘I've got to get one of those.' Maxwell pointed to the warrant card disappearing into Jacquie's handbag and did a double take at the door. ‘Oh.'

Professor Paul Usherwood sat in his
oak-panelled
study, decorated with wall-to-wall leather volumes that Laurence Llewellyn Bowen would not have remotely understood. He was seventy if he was a day and he was sitting in a wheelchair.

‘Police,' the man was beaming. ‘How very exciting. Do, please, have seats.' He pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Coffee, please, Helen. Now, how may I help?'

It had taken Gavin Henslow nearly three weeks to sequester the bank records of the late Daniel Bartlett. The Nat West had been forthcoming; so, astonishingly, had Lloyds TSB. Jowetts were a little more obstructive, muttering pompously about client confidentiality. How tin-pot little firms like these had survived the Bank Charter Act of 1844 
men like Peter Maxwell didn't know. Men like Gavin Henslow, for all his fast-track insidery, had never heard of the Bank Charter Act of 1844. The Swiss banks, all of them allegedly run by gnomes, were silence itself, until the oddly quick-witted Henslow breathed the word ‘Interpol' in his phone conversation, and then they thought they might just be able to find a way to cooperate.

‘He's skint, guv,' was the financial whizz-kid's summation of his inquiries. ‘Next time his wife comes in asking who's nicked that bloody Sheridan copy, the answer is likely to be nobody. He hocked it himself.'

Henry Hall nodded, trying in his own mind to see how this related to anything. ‘So what's he spent it on?' he thought aloud.

‘If you mean the paltry sum he paid me in alimony, yes, I suppose it was enough, just.' Carole Bartlett had indeed called in again, late that afternoon, to check on how Hall's team were pursuing their inquiries. She was sitting in Hall's Interview Room Number One. And she hadn't even mentioned the Sheridan when the DCI was asking questions of his own. ‘But don't let the amount fool you,' she snarled. ‘The bastard owed me every penny for the mental cruelty he put me through.'

‘You took him to the cleaners,' Hall observed.

Carole Bartlett was, momentarily, stuck for an answer. ‘I hope that's not some sort of chauvinist 
rallying of the ranks,' she said eventually. ‘The financial arrangements I had with my husband are no one's business but our own.'

‘Normally, I would agree with you,' Hall said. ‘But murder has a habit of publicising a lot of things that would ordinarily remain private.'

‘I see.' Carole Bartlett was needled, pursing her lips and flashing daggers at Hall and the squat figure of Jane Blaisedell who sat beside him. ‘So having made no progress at all on this case, you are now falling back on the tired old nonsense about spouses being the most likely killers of their husbands, hmm? Tiresome and hardly progress.'

‘The statistics lean that way,' Hall nodded. Such things were his bread and butter.

‘I would hardly kill the golden goose, would I?' the woman snapped.

‘That's just the point,' Hall said. ‘Your husband wasn't golden anymore, was he? There are other motives for murder.'

Carole Bartlett was on her feet, the tape still whirring in the corner. ‘Are you sitting there, in your bare-faced incompetence, and accusing me of murdering my husband?'

‘No, no.' Hall shook his head. ‘There is a form of words for that, Mrs Bartlett, and rest assured, had I intended to charge you, I would already have used them.'

‘That's outrageous!' she blurted. ‘You will be hearing from my solicitor.' 

‘Can't wait,' said Hall. ‘Could you see yourself out?'

‘Floosies.' Carole Bartlett stopped in mid-fume. ‘The many little trollops who have crowded, inexplicably, into my husband's bed.
That's
where his money has gone. You mark my words.'

As they heard her heels clatter away down the Leighford nick corridor, Henry Hall turned to Jane Blaisedell. ‘Have we marked her words?'

Jane was getting back to something approaching normal now. She still had nightmares when the night came cold and gusting from the north. And she still didn't like flat, dimly lit areas because they reminded her of the stage where Gordon Goodacre died. And soft, padded carpets scorched black that marked the end of Dan Bartlett and the old-lady smell of the house of Martita Winchcombe. But worst of all she didn't like the bad breath of
middle-aged
men and their sweaty fingers…

‘Jane?' Hall noticed, and not for the first time, the faraway look in the girl's eyes.

‘Sorry, guv,' she flustered. ‘What was the question?'

‘Floosies.' Hall repeated the widow's words. ‘How many of Dan Bartlett's little trollops have we found to date?'

Geraint Horsenell's musicians moved into the Arquebus that night. If anything, Ashley Wilkes was a little more heartened by this lot than he was by Deena Harrison's cast.

‘Girls with cellos, eh, Geraint?' Maxwell beamed at his colleague, unwrapping himself of scarf and hat.

‘Don't knock it till you've tried it.' The Head of Music winked, struggling at the theatre's side door with a bass drum.

‘Are you talking about the cellos now or the girls?' Maxwell asked.

‘You dirty old bastard,' Geraint snorted. As heads of Music go, Horsenell was one of the more congenial. In Maxwell's experience, they were either up-themselves no-hopers, bitter because they were not concert pianists and with egos the size of the Albert Hall, or they were social misfits who thought that bashing the furniture with bits of wood passed for percussion. Mercifully, Geraint
Horsenell was somewhere between. Besides, he was refreshingly human, told a darned good
knock-knock
joke and mixed Martinis drier than his native west Wales used to be in the Good Old Days of a Sunday. ‘This is nice.'

He was looking at the orchestra pit, streets ahead of the corner of Leighford High's hall where they usually put him and his motley crew, to punctuate passably good drama with a bit of terpsichore.

‘Christ, is that Benny Barker?' He caught sight of the techie flashing past in the dim light swathed in cables.

‘Hello, Mr Horsenell,' the lad waved.

‘I've lost count of the microphones that bastard buggered up for me at school. Not to mention the PA system lovingly bought by the Friends of the School when we all thought we were going to perform at the Dome.'

‘Ah, heady days,' Maxwell remembered. ‘Still, I'm sure he meant well.'

‘Don't tell me somebody's let him loose in the real world? God, the place will be devoid of apparatus by Christmas. Talking of which…'

‘No.'

‘Oh, come on, Max.'

‘No, Geraint.' The Head of Sixth Form was adamant, helping Davinia Whatserface up the steps with her French horn. He knew exactly what was coming and refused to give an inch.

‘But your Twelve Days of Christmas are 
legendary,' Horsenell pleaded, arms outstretched.

‘Agreed, and that's
is
legendary, by the way. It's a single piece. Let one of the youngsters have a go, Geraint. Christ, man, I shall be ninety next birthday. Why don't you make the Christmas concert more modern this year? What about this new sound? What's it called? Jazz?'

‘Oh, hah! Murphy, will you watch it with that bassoon? I assume you know, from the hunted look on your father's face in the car park just now, how much these things cost. Well,' Horsenell became conspiratorial, whispering in Maxwell's ear, ‘is she here?'

‘Who?'

‘Who, he says. Who? Deena Harrison, that's who. I couldn't believe it when Diamond told me she was directing
The Shop
. One or both of you must be barking.'

‘Are you talking about me and Diamond, now? Or me and Deena? Either way, you may have a point.'

The cast were in the Green Room, along the corridor and down the stairs from the stage. Only David Balham was in the wings, emoting inside the full size Audrey II and pulling cords like a maniac to get the thing to open its throat and swing its tendrils. Nobody told him when Mrs Carmichael did the casting that he'd need muscles like Arnie Schwarzenegger for the role. The night they brought the band in was always a break in service 
in any production. The orchestra had to acquaint themselves with the lighting, the seat distribution, the acoustics of the theatre. It took over an hour for Geraint Horsenell to set up the speakers and his own podium and he felt sure that Benny Barker was fighting him every inch of the way, with insucks of breath and tuts and ‘Well, I don't know, Mr Horsenell.
You're
the expert, of course.'

Of Deena Harrison, there was no sign. And that was a pity, because Maxwell particularly needed to speak to her.

‘Mr Wilkes.' The Head of Sixth Form had left the squabbling musos to it and bearded the Theatre Manager in his lair, the soundproofed control box high above the gods. From here, Maxwell could see Audrey II's tendrils vibrating as David Balham got into his stride and Geraint Horsenell fussing like the old Welsh hen he was, clucking from one muso to the next, endlessly pandering to their little peccadilloes. These were the pampered few, the last of a dying breed – the children of grammar school children, to whom the piano, along with elocution, ballet and the gymkhana, were still the arbiters of breeding. Everything else was a sop to the masses, the great unwashed.

‘Oh, evening, Mr Maxwell. It's coming on, I see.' Wilkes was nodding to the scene below.

‘Indeed,' Maxwell nodded, finding a swivel chair alongside an instrument panel that appeared to have been borrowed from NASA. ‘Talking of 
coming on, how are things with Deena?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You might well be,' Maxwell nodded. ‘Many of us might be, in all sorts of ways.'

Wilkes hauled the headphones from around his neck. ‘What are you talking about?' he asked.

Maxwell was gazing around him. ‘You've got some woofers and tweeters here, haven't you? Do your own wiring? I mean, you are familiar with electrics?'

‘Maxwell.' The ‘Mr' had gone. It's always the first thing to disappear when people are rattled. ‘I think you'd better explain what you're talking about.'

Maxwell leaned towards his man. ‘About you raping Deena Harrison.'

The Theatre Manager blinked, swallowing hard. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Violation, Mr Wilkes, the taking of virginity in some cases, compromising a lady's honour. I could be more graphic, but I went to a good school and I'm sure you get the drift.'

‘It was consensual,' Wilkes blurted. ‘The lying little bitch…'

‘You needn't bore me with positions,' Maxwell said. ‘But I will need other details.'

‘Details?' Wilkes frowned. ‘You fucking weirdo. That's what this is all about, isn't it? That's how you get your kicks.
Hearing
about things. I've read about teachers like you. Well, I'm not playing your perverted games.' 

‘Oh, there's nothing perverted about catching a murderer, Mr Wilkes.'

‘A m— Now, wait just a minute…'

‘What happened with Deena?' Maxwell was shouting.

Wilkes licked his lips. The odd man in the bow tie and the tweed jacket was staring at him. There was no escape, no compromise, no middle ground. Just Peter Maxwell, the one the kids called Mad.

‘She…came on to me.' The Theatre Manager was calmer now, trying to compose himself. ‘Giving me a sob story about how messed up her life was.'

‘And you took advantage of her?' Maxwell's voice was steady, like the turns of the rack. Regular. Slow. Relentless.

‘No, I…well, I suppose, in a way. Look, Maxwell, we're all human. She's an attractive girl, for God's sake. We're consenting adults.' He stopped for a moment, thinking. ‘Is she saying I raped her?' His voice was rising again.

‘She is,' Maxwell nodded, ‘to some people. And yet not to others.'

‘What? You'll have to pass that by me again.'

‘She told Patrick Collinson you raped her. She told me you didn't.'

‘Then why…'

‘Because there's something wrong with Deena, Mr Wilkes. And I had to be sure before I go further.'

‘Be sure about what?' 

‘That what she told Collinson wasn't true. And what she told me was.'

‘So you believe me?'

Maxwell let the man sweat a little before nodding. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think I do. About Deena, I mean.'

‘So what's all this about murder?' he asked.

‘Ah, well.' Maxwell was on his feet, making for the door. ‘That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it? If I were you, Mr Wilkes, I'd make very sure I wasn't alone with Deena again.'

Where was Anthony Wetta when you needed him? Actually, it was just as well the lad wasn't with Maxwell that Thursday night. After all, it was one thing to shop him to the law for his night-breaking activities – that was merely what a responsible and caring teacher would do, impossibly pulled as he was between duty to his charges and duty to society. But to encourage the boy to hone his skills on the Harrison household, with said charges pending, might have been considered criminal conduct unbecoming.

Maxwell leaned Surrey against the hedge and peered in through the darkened windows. He'd been here before, of course, but only once and it took him a while to get his bearings. He rattled locks and checked window catches at the front, well screened as he was by the high privet. Thank God for the Englishman's obsession with his castle 
and the privacy it brought. He was wearing the hoodie and trainers he'd worn in his little night raid with George Lemon. He'd half-inched them from Lost Property at school. Not only did he look the part of a congenital waste of space; he smelt like one too.

‘Shit!' He stubbed his toe on a roller someone had left lying about behind the house. Hard, aren't they? The garage to his right looked deserted, abandoned. No Deena. And he needed to talk to Deena. The kitchen door was locked too and none of the ways in had those little catches he knew how to force. If he wanted entry this time, it would be an elbow through the glass or a brick against pane. And anyway, what could he learn? Nothing he didn't already know, thanks to the nice man from Oxford, the one in the wheelchair. He checked his watch by what light there was. Half-ten. His Jacquie would be asleep now. She'd have waited up as she always tried to do, but would be quietly snoring in the crook of the sofa. Time to bounce ideas off his other companion of a mile. The black and white one.

‘Now, you're not going to accuse me of anything, Max, are you?' Patrick Collinson held up both hands in something approaching alarm. He was sitting in his office again, Doris primed for action in the ante-room as before.

Maxwell laughed. ‘I think I've made enough of a 
fool of myself for a while,' he said. ‘I was hoping you had a minute.'

‘As it so happens,' Collinson said, ‘my ten o'clock cancelled earlier. Just as well; he doesn't need an accountant, he needs a miracle worker. Grab a seat.'

Maxwell plonked himself down in Collinson's comfortable armchair. The man was doing all right for himself, despite the rather ghastly wallpaper – still, there was no accounting for taste.

‘What can I do for you?'

‘Martita Winchcombe,' Maxwell said.

‘Ah, yes.' Collinson's face fell a little. ‘Tell me, are the police making any progress?'

‘If they are, none of it's come my way,' the Head of Sixth Form said. ‘You must have known her quite well. What sort of woman was she?'

‘I thought you were concentrating on Gordon Goodacre.' Collinson leaned back in his chair behind the enormous desk.

‘I was,' Maxwell admitted. ‘But the trail's gone a little cold there. If there was a trail at all, of course.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning, what if Gordon were just an
old-fashioned
accident, after all? Nothing to do with what happened to Martita?'

‘Helluva coincidence, isn't it?' Collinson frowned.

‘It happens,' Maxwell said. ‘Remember when Jill Dando was killed?' 

Collinson did.

‘She was on the front cover of the
Radio Times
the previous week. And on the back of said magazine was an ad for whodunits, some book club or other. The word at the top, in bold red type, was “Murder”. If you opened the mag out and read, as we Europeans are wont to do, from left to right, the sentence was a clear instruction. “Murder Jill Dando”.'

‘My God,' Collinson muttered. ‘So you mean, that was some sort of divine message for a nutcase?'

‘No.' Maxwell shook his head. ‘I mean it was a coincidence. You want another one? Seven Seven. Suicide bombers on London streets. The Number Thirty bus in Tavistock Square. Know what was advertised on the side?'

Collinson didn't.

‘“The Terror”,' Maxwell quoted. ‘“Bold and Brilliant”.'

‘Well, I didn't see anything bold or brilliant behind that. Act of appalling cowardice.'

‘That's because you aren't a Muslim fanatic with jihad on your agenda and paradise in your sights. Let's get back to Martita. How long had you known her?'

‘Ooh, let's see. Ever since I moved to Leighford.'

‘When was that?'

‘Twenty years ago – give or take.'

‘You knew her via the theatre?'

‘Not at first, no. She was a client.' 

‘Was she?'

‘Uh-huh,' Collinson wagged a finger at Maxwell. ‘I'm not going to lecture you on client confidentiality. Let's just say the old girl's house was in order.'

‘Did she have any family?'

Collinson shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘Nobody.'

‘I heard there was an indiscretion years ago,' Maxwell said.

‘Indiscretion?' Collinson repeated. ‘Martita? Ooh, how juicy.' He was chuckling.

‘And the indiscretion led to a child, a son.'

‘Well,' Collinson sighed. ‘There's nothing in the old girl's paperwork to that effect. I've shown the police, of course. They do seem to be quite thorough.'

‘Who did you have?'

‘Hmm?'

‘Who interviewed you?'

‘Oh, Lord,' Collinson frowned. ‘Now you've asked me. They all look alike, don't they? In our day, Max, a copper was about forty with shoulders like tallboys. Now they're children who weigh about six stone dripping wet. Look…I don't want to labour the point – about Deena I mean. But I don't mind telling you, that whole business shook me up a little. I even confided in Doris, I was so shook up. I mean, why would she invent things like that?'