Maxwell's Inspection (33 page)

‘You'll find the skewer somewhere over there,' Maxwell said, only now realizing that the front of his shirt was soaked with blood. ‘With a bit of luck, it'll be the one that killed Craig Edwards.'

‘You're nicked,' the DI said to the drummer,
summoning
two uniforms to his side.

‘Sorry about all this, Mr Maxwell,' Iron Man said. ‘But you know, I'm sort of glad it's turned out like this.' He winked at the Head of Sixth Form. ‘'Till next time, eh?'

‘Oh, there won't be a next time,' Bathurst assured him.

‘Won't there?' Iron Man asked him. ‘Trial is … what… eighteen months' time at Winchester Crown Court? Know it well.' He winked again at Maxwell. ‘There's lots of back ways out of there.' And he was gone, his head ducked down into the black interior of a squad car that purred away into the night.

‘Are you all right, Mr Maxwell?' Bathurst was
checking
that order was being restored to the scene. Three or four Bikers were being rounded up into cars, muttering and grumbling, ready to follow a killer to the station. ‘We got a station call about the Bikers' antics. Didn't realize you were in the thick of it.'

‘It's nothing that several stitches won't cure.' Maxwell's fingers were sticky with his blood.

‘Look, I'm grateful to you for the info on Mrs Whiting, but this … You took a hell of a risk. He could have killed you.'

‘I wasn't sure it was him,' he croaked, the exhaustion of the last half hour taking its toll and the shock beginning to kick in. ‘And I didn't expect him to find me so quickly. Man's like a bloody will o' the wisp.'

And Peter Maxwell never fully understood why Philip
Bathurst seemed to wobble up there on that gorse-strewn hillside overlooking the sea and why he became so very small and blurred and so very far away …

He passed the battlefield again the next morning, like Napoleon's grumblers, marching back over the frozen wastes of Borodino. There was no ice, of course and no bodies to speak of. Just crushed and trampled gorse
bushes
, churned up grass and a lot of tyre tracks. A police
pickup
truck was about to tow away the Yawning Hippos' van and two rather sorry-looking rock stars sat
disconsolately
by the kerb.

‘'Morning, lads,' Maxwell eased the brakes on Surrey and straddled the crossbar.

‘Have you heard about Iron, Mr M?' a bewildered Duggsy asked.

‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact.'

‘Iron, a hitman.' Wal was shaking his head. ‘Sort of shakes your faith in human nature, don't it?'

‘It does, William,' Maxwell nodded.

‘Defies belief,' Duggsy agreed. ‘The real bitch of it, though, is that we're booked to play the Leighford Festival week after next.'

‘Well, that's gone, ain't it?' Wal muttered. ‘Without a drummer.'

‘What about a different drummer?' Maxwell asked.

Duggsy looked up at him. ‘Do you know anybody, Mr M? somebody at Leighford maybe?'

‘In a manner of speaking,' Maxwell said.

‘Who?'

‘Peter Maxwell.'

‘Fucking A,' Wal murmured.

‘I don't want to be personal, Mr M,' Duggsy cut in, ‘but … you?'

The Great Man leaned forward over the handlebars of Surrey. ‘At Cambridge I was known as the Buddy Rich of Jesus College.' He fluttered his hands in the air like a true professional. ‘Anyway, one way or another, I owe you guys.'

‘OK,' Duggsy nodded slowly. ‘We'll give you a try. No promises, mind.'

‘Maxwell appears to be wearing a white cravat.' Dierdre Lessing was sorting her papers prior to her day spent sorting papers. She hadn't been known to
teach
for years.

Bernard Ryan, the Sir Mordred to her Morgan le Fay peered out of the window from her office. ‘At least he's here. I don't see anybody's head on a plate.'

‘That man could hyperbole for England.' Dierdre always was rather hazy on her nouns and verbs. ‘More importantly, Bernard, there's talk in the staffroom that James is back too. You'd think he'd see us first, wouldn't you? There goes your promotion down the Swannee.'

‘Can't say I'm sorry,' Ryan said, folding his arms as he watched Maxwell park his bike. ‘Dead men's shoes,' he shook his head. ‘Don't like ‘em, Dierdre.' He could go back to being Deputy Head again – everybody's
punch-bag
. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Peter Maxwell walked into the dining room where the Breakfast Club were just finishing up. Gary Spenser and Tony Weatherall were there as usual, wondering what colour Miss Greenhow's knickers were today. Was it them, or was the old bugger hobbling a bit? Still, he cycled in every day and had to be a million, so it wasn't
surprising, was it?

‘Pale blue,' he leant over the lads.

They looked askance.

And he tapped the side of his nose, before throwing a wave to Sally Greenhow.

‘Hello, Mr Maxwell.'

He half-turned, staring in astonishment. There,
beaming
at him under her silly white cap, with toast crumbs all over her fingers, stood Sharon. Silent Sharon. Sharon who had never, until now, had the nerve to talk to the man she'd adored from afar for years.

‘Hello, Sharon,' he said. ‘How are you today?'

And she grinned, bright crimson and dashed into the kitchen to get on with the next phase of her life. Maxwell let it go. He had just witnessed a miracle.

‘I've resigned, Max.' Another miracle at Leighford High sat behind his desk, twiddling his fingers, a white enveloped letter on the empty desk in front of him.

‘Is that strictly wise, Headmaster?' the Head of Sixth Form asked.

‘Max,' Diamond got to his feet. ‘I confessed the day before yesterday to a murder. Well, actually to three. Could I be taken seriously ever again if I stayed on here?'

‘Nothing has changed, Headmaster,' Maxwell said.

‘What?'

‘Why did you confess?' Maxwell asked.

‘Oh,' Diamond was pacing his office, ‘I don't know. You see, I thought Sally had done it. Killed Whiting and the others. I was … being stupid, I suppose.'

‘Does she mean that much to you?'

Diamond looked at his man, ‘No,' he shook his head.
‘No, she doesn't. It was a ludicrous gesture. I was just
trying
to help her out of a jam, that's all. I wasn't thinking rationally.'

‘Well,' Maxwell sighed. ‘We've all been there.'

‘I think the police intend to prosecute me for wasting their time. Hence the resignation. I'm a laughing stock, Max.'

‘Surely not, Headmaster,' Maxwell frowned. ‘Although it sure beats life imprisonment, doesn't it? Is that your resignation?' He pointed to the envelope.

‘Yes. Why?'

Maxwell took it and tore it up in one fluid movement. ‘I expect in these days of computers, that you've got this on a disk or a floppy drive or whatever, but if you want my advice, you'll forget all about it.'

‘Max,' Diamond stood there blinking. ‘What's
happened
? Have the police …'

‘I promised Bernard I'd bring him a murderer's head on a plate,' he told him. ‘Well, that was a little politically incorrect of me, wasn't it? They just don't make hacksaws like they used to. But if you care to read tomorrow's Dailies, I think you'll be satisfied with the outcome.'

‘You've done it, haven't you?' Diamond said. ‘You've solved it.'

‘With a little help from my friends,' Maxwell smiled.

Diamond reached out suddenly and grasped Maxwell's hand in both of his. The Head of Sixth Form froze. He didn't know the man was capable of emotions like this. ‘Thank you, Max,' he said. ‘For my job, for my life. Thank you.'

‘All in a day's work, Headmaster,' and Maxwell pulled gently away.

‘By the way,' Diamond said. ‘The neck. Did that have anything to do with …?'

‘Oh, this?' Maxwell touched the bandages gingerly. ‘No, no. Cut myself shaving.'

‘Coffee, Max?'

A slightly chipped mug appeared under Peter Maxwell's nose. He was used to the mug. He was used to the awful coffee. He was even used, chauvinist pig that he was, to Helen Maitland making it for him. What he was not used to, at this time of the morning and in this
particular
office, was the voice.

He stood up quickly. ‘Jacquie?'

She stood by his desk, smiling, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘They said you'd been hurt,' she said, her words thick, her lips trembling. Her fingers reached out, carefully, so carefully, to touch his neck.

‘You should see the other guy,' he smiled.

‘I did,' she sniffed, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. ‘He's implicated Pamela Whiting up to her murderous little neck. Chief Inspector Hall would like to see you.'

‘Would he now?' Maxwell raised an eyebrow. ‘What for, I wonder? To arrest me for helping police with their enquiries or to give me the George Medal? No, don't help me.' He held his hand up. ‘I think I know the answer. How are you, Jacquie?'

‘I'm fine,' she said.

‘Is that why you came?' he asked. ‘To give me Henry's summons?'

‘No,' she sniffed. ‘When you were at mine the other day, I think you left something behind.'

And she held up a key. Her house key; the one that usually lived in his pocket. They fell into each other's arms and he cradled her head, smaelling her hair, stroking away the tears that splashed onto his shirt.

‘Oh, Max,' Bernard Ryan popped his head round the door. ‘Oh, sorry…'

‘Not now, Bernard,' Maxwell didn't bother to look up and Jacquie didn't bother to move. ‘I'm sure whatever it is can wait.'

‘Oh, absolutely,' Ryan smarmed, embarrassed as only Deputy Heads can be. ‘Absolutely. I just thought you'd like to know.' He was holding a sheet of fax paper in his hand. ‘It's just come through, the date of the rescheduled Ofsted Inspection.'

M.J. T
ROW
has recently retired as a history teacher – he has been doubling as a crime writer for twenty-three years. He is the author of the Inspector Sholto Lestrade series, the Peter ‘Mad Max' Maxwell series, and fifteen non-fiction books.

T
HE
P
ETER ‘
M
AD
M
AX'
M
AXWELL SERIES

Maxwell's Match

Maxwell's Inspection

Maxwell's Grave

Maxwell's Mask

Maxwell's Point

Maxwell's Chain

Maxwell's Revenge

Maxwell's Retirement

Maxwell's Island