Maxwell's Crossing (13 page)

Henry Hall was a methodical man above all else and he sorted out his desk before he headed off to 38 Columbine. As is always the way of it, this meant that he got caught by umpteen people who had been trying to catch him all week, and so it was gone seven by the time he rang the bell. Jacquie opened it, on a waft of roast chicken. Hall was not a policeman for nothing, and noting the smell and the small drool of gravy on her chin, he apologised at once.

‘You're eating. I'm sorry; I'll come back later.'

‘Don't talk rubbish, Henry. We've saved you some. I rang Margaret and said we'd feed you, if that was all right with her.'

‘And was it?'

‘Yes. Apparently she had already had a low-fat cauliflower surprise.' Jacquie paused halfway up the stairs and looked back at him. ‘It sounds delicious.'

‘Does it? Well, now, that's something I suppose.' Hall realised that he had had nothing except chocolate since a snatched breakfast. ‘Do I smell stuffing?'

‘Of course. Here at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, all the trimmings means exactly that. Having only thrown the turkey out last week I think it may be a little soon to have poultry again, personally.'

Henry Hall had learnt in what he called the Diet Years, in other words every single day that had passed since his youngest son was weaned, that it was never too soon for
stuffing and followed her gratefully up the stairs. At the kitchen table there was a fourth place set, with wine glass already half filled with a thoughtfully parsimonious half a unit of wine. Wouldn't do for a detective chief inspector to be breathalysed by One of his Own. Nolan was leaning on his elbow at one of the other places and seemed to be asleep halfway through a Brussel sprout.

Jacquie picked him up and removed the speared Brussel from his unresisting hand. ‘Get Henry's dinner on the table, would you, sweetheart?' she asked Maxwell. ‘I'll just put Sonny Jim to bed.'

Maxwell sketched a kiss at his son who waved a tired hand in everyone's general direction.

‘Night night, Nolan,' Hall said. He had forgotten, through all the spotty teenaged years of his own boys, how endearing they had looked at Nolan's age. He sat down to his dinner, freshly out of a warm oven. ‘Max, you're a lifesaver. I didn't know I was so hungry.'

‘You're in luck,' the Head of Sixth Form-turned-Masterchef said. ‘We usually eat at lunchtime on a Sunday, but we went out instead.'

‘Yes,' Hall said, slicing into a chicken leg. ‘Jacquie said you had been out at the Dam.'

‘Yes, we went with Hector Gold, our exchange teacher. American, but very nice chap. He and Nole get on like a house on fire.'

If Maxwell noticed Hall pause in his chewing, he gave no sign.

‘Jacquie did say you had an exchange teacher. Who is he in exchange for?'

For the briefest of moments, Maxwell saw a grim black-and-white Fifties noir moment, of spies passing each other on bridges somewhere in central Europe. The reality was a little less colourful. ‘Paul Moss. I think you've probably met him from time to time.' Both men knew that this meant from the occasional murder case, but they were still too deep in social mode to say so.

‘History,' Hall said.

‘That's right. Hector is a very good European historian as it turns out, bearing in mind his colonial pedigree. It's a shame. His family are the in-laws from hell, so we won't be seeing much of him. His wife is a panther, or some such feline.'

Jacquie came in at this point. ‘I think you must mean cougar,' she said, sliding back into her seat.

‘That's the critter. Anyway, she is a bit older than Hector.' He paused in a gentlemanly way to give Jacquie time to snort.

Jacquie snorted. ‘A bit!'

‘She is older than Hector by a fair old margin and that's all you're getting out of me. His mother-in-law is more or less permanently drunk as far as I can tell. She pinched the sherry when they came over before Christmas. Mrs Troubridge did some detecting and found out for us. The father-in-law … Well, I'll let Jacquie take over on this one.'

‘Yes. Hector's father-in-law. Where to begin? We'll leave out any personal prejudices I may have and just say that he is a sexist bully. He was a police officer in the
States, but was removed from his post for various as yet unspecified misdemeanours.'

‘Malfeasance,' muttered Maxwell.

‘Mr Maxwell,' Jacquie explained to her boss, ‘has taken the opportunity to do lots of take-offs of Francis McDormand in
Fargo
. I must apologise. Where was I?'

‘Jeff O'Malley,' Hall prompted.

‘That was clever.' Maxwell was on him like a ninja. ‘I don't remember telling you his name.'

‘I'm sure Jacquie mentioned it,' Hall said, smoothly imperturbable as always.

Maxwell narrowed his eyes, but gestured to Jacquie to continue.

‘His son-in-law obviously hates him and quite rightly. When Mrs Troubridge took me into the kitchen to tell me about where the sherry went …' she raised an eyebrow at Hall to see if he was with her so far and he nodded, ‘Hector just let it drop in conversation that everyone hates Jeff. His wife – Jeff's wife, that is – was similarly indiscreet when Jeff claimed to have retired. That's really the only reason I think he was removed, that and the fact that I don't like him. But why are we having this conversation? We thought you were here to ask about Mrs Whatmough.'

‘Who on earth is Mrs Whatmough?' Hall asked, genuinely confused.

‘Nolan's Headmistress,' Maxwell said. ‘We thought you might have her in the frame for Sarah Gregson's murder.'

‘How do you know who has been murdered?' Hall said, glaring at Jacquie.

‘Not from me,' Jacquie said. ‘It was Mrs Whatmough. Who told him, I mean. I don't think she did it.'

‘You've said she's strict,' Hall said, ‘but surely not as strict as that.'

‘She's being blackmailed,' Jacquie said. ‘And Sarah Gregson had a thousand pounds on her. But then it turns out that Mrs Whatmough had lent her five hundred only last week. She thought that Sarah Gregson was being blackmailed as well. We can't decide for sure, because she came over all unnecessary and left, but we thought perhaps that she was afraid that the blackmailer might be the same one.'

Hall looked at the two, so different and yet, at this moment as they looked at him eagerly over the wreck of a Sunday dinner with all the trimmings, they could have been Tweedledum and Tweedledee. ‘I will ignore the use of the word “we” in this conversation and if I have to repeat it I will change it to “I”,' he said, dryly. ‘So she's afraid that the blackmailer would be coming for her next. That's an unusual view of blackmailers. They usually like to keep the golden goose alive and laying.' He could hardly believe his own ears. Every time he came into this house he sounded more and more like a Grimm Brother.

‘No, no,' Jacquie said. ‘You really need to know Mrs Whatmough before you understand this, but we think it is because she doesn't want him found. Or at least, not before she has found him. Or her.' Discretion stopped
her from telling her boss that the Headmistress had come to 38 Columbine to secure the services of Maxwell, PI. ‘She knows that if you find him, you'll find out what she's being blackmailed about, and that is more than she is going to put up with. She is quite a forceful lady.'

‘I see. Does she gamble, do you know?'

‘
Gamble?
' Jacquie said.

‘
Mrs Whatmough?
' Maxwell added.

‘Well, Sarah Gregson did,' Hall told them. ‘That's where the thousand pounds came from. And so does—'

‘Jeff O'Malley.' Maxwell finished his sentence for him. ‘Sarah Gregson was playing cards with Jeff O'Malley. Bingo.' He stopped to listen to what he had just said and regretted it. The others didn't even hear it as the potentially tasteless joke it could have been in other hands and so he let it pass.

‘That's right. Sandra Bolton also played …'

‘Sandra from the nick?' Jacquie asked. ‘But she was at the scene. Why didn't she say anything?'

‘That's for another day,' Hall said. ‘There were a couple of others there, but this O'Malley is where my interests lie at the moment. We're tracking the others, but I just wanted to sound you out about O'Malley. This Mrs Whatmough has rather muddied things, though. You see, before I spoke to Sandra, and now you two, I had had an interview with Sarah's husband. He's the vicar of our nearest church, in fact, so I know him slightly. You know, bazaars and similar. He's absolutely not in the frame, of that I'm sure, but he did say she used to be a social worker.'

Jacquie was all attention. ‘You mean, this could be linked with the Hendricks killing?'

Maxwell looked at Hall. Surely coincidence had not entered his life at this late stage.

‘I thought possibly, because of the way Hendricks died. It was an execution, as far as we could tell. But this isn't that kind of killing, and anyway, she wasn't even working for social services by the time it came to court, so I think that is just a red herring. I think that O'Malley was so wild that he had lost for once, he just tossed her over the parapet. Big guy, I gather.'

‘Enormous,' Jacquie said. ‘Run to fat a bit, but still very strong. And angry. Aggressive. I can see him hitting first and thinking later.'

‘Right.' Hall drained the dregs from his glass and pushed himself back from the table. ‘Thanks, people. It has been very useful.' He turned to Maxwell and forced out two words. ‘As always.' Maxwell acknowledged them with a nod. ‘But I think I have some work to do tonight before I go to bed. Thanks for dinner.'

Jacquie stood up as well. ‘I'm coming, guv. Let me get my coat.'

Hall looked at Maxwell, then turned to Jacquie. ‘Not on this one,' he said. ‘It might be … awkward. With his son-in-law, and everything.'

‘Don't worry about Hector,' Maxwell said. ‘If he has time, he will arrange a ticker-tape parade to see him off the premises. And anyway, I think Alana might need a friendly face. She has had enough trouble being married to Jeff O'Malley as it is. This might be the straw that
breaks her back. I suppose there is one saving grace, though.'

‘Which is?' Jacquie said, muffled by the scarf she was winding round her face.

‘That at least it won't drive her to drink. She's already parked the car in the car park and gone inside.'

The plate flew across the dining room and shattered on the wall, drooling melted cheese and tomato down Manda Moss's immaculate decor. A shard of fried tortilla took out a small figurine of a teddy bear holding a chocolate in a winsome way and the guacamole made interesting patterns on a lampshade. Apart from a slow drip as pieces of cheese lost their grip one by one and fell to the floor, the room was silent.

Alana O'Malley started to get up, eyes downcast, in order to clear up the mess.

‘Sit down.' The order from her husband was not a command. He seemed to be able to make any words sound like a threat and he did so now. ‘Don't anybody move.' He was carrying his head low and his eyes flicked from side to side. Then, almost as if nothing had happened, he said, ‘With all those cooking programmes
on the TV, why can't you cook anything else but chimichangas?'

His wife looked wildly at her daughter, who avoided her eye. ‘You don't like anything else I cook,' she said. This was bold for her and Hector narrowed his lips slightly, ready for the storm to come.

‘That's because everything you cook tastes like shit,' her husband said. If an eavesdropper whose native tongue was not English had heard it, they would have assumed it was an endearment, so at odds was the tone with the content. This was O'Malley's way of making the perp feel confused. It broke men in custody within hours. Alana O'Malley had heard it daily for forty years and the fact that she had not totally broken yet was a credit to her. But if not broken, she was tired out by it and most days hung on by a thread and a bottle or two of vodka. All she could do after her initial bravado was shrug.

Camille had been a witness to her father's behaviour all her life, so for her it was the norm. The buffeting of life with Jeff O'Malley had left her perhaps the most damaged of them all, but she didn't seem to know it. She looked up from pushing a salad around her plate. These days she just didn't seem to find food very tasty. A tomato was plenty for an evening meal for anyone, she felt. Why her family seemed to insist on more was a mystery to her. But this was a conversation about food, which seemed to matter to other people, so she thought she might just as well join in. They seemed to expect it.

‘The food's OK here, Dad,' she said. ‘I found a great smoothie place down by the nail bar in town.'

‘That's great, kitten,' O'Malley purred. ‘That's swell.' It was as if a tiger had come in and sat down at the table and decided to behave itself for a minute or two before it ate everyone. ‘But,' and his fist crashed down, making the crockery jump and breaking a glass, ‘but I'm talking about the food I get
here. That
food tastes like shit!'

He looked around the table, and being a man ruled by his emotions, his face showed what he thought of his family as his eyes settled on them one by one. For Hector and Alana, there was naked contempt, although for Hector he added a sprinkling of pure hatred. When he thought of all the great guys his little princess could have had it tore at his guts that she had ended up with this little weasel. He didn't like to think about what went on between them. Man and wife. It was an atrocity he could hardly bear. The veins stood out on his neck and his anger was fuelled by Hector's look of calm acceptance. His wife just got the contempt; she wasn't worth anything else, the dried-up, drink-soaked old woman. How come he was married to an old woman? He was in the prime of his life and he could name a dozen women who would tell him so. But for Camille, his little princess, he managed a smile. Only he and Camille would recognise the love in it. To everyone else, it looked like the smile on the edge of a razor. He drew a breath to tell his wife just what he thought of her damned cooking, but was stalled by the doorbell ringing.

Camille got up. She was always expecting the call from Hollywood, no matter where she was at the time. She knew she could be a star and she had heard so often that when opportunity knocked, you had to be ready to let it in. In her nail bar, back home, she had done the nails of many stars; well, not necessarily the stars themselves, but people who knew the stars, and they all said the same. As if echoing her thoughts, there were three sharp raps on the door and another ring of the bell.

‘Sit down, sugar,' O'Malley said, flapping a hand at his daughter. ‘Sounds a bit rough to me. I'll get it. It's probably some—'

A muffled voice from outside drew everyone's attention from what he had been about to say. It was English, it was polite, but it brooked no argument. It was Henry Hall at his most impressive. ‘Mr O'Malley. If you are in the house, could you please come to the door? This is important and we would like to speak to you.'

Everyone inside looked at everyone else. Alana, three parts drunk and four parts dispirited, turned her haunted eyes on her husband. It was all happening again, or was it? Was she dreaming this, or was it real? It wasn't quite like the last time. The voice outside was polite, there didn't seem to be guns. She wasn't spreadeagled against the wall, with the hot breath of a policeman on the back of her neck and the cold muzzle of a Glock tickling her ear. But in most other ways, it was the same as had happened before. And don't forget the time before that. A tear stole slowly down her cheek.

Camille used the look she had once used when she had been caught out in a childish misdemeanour. It had worked on her father since time immemorial. It had worked on teachers, employers and then, eventually, Hector and his many predecessors. But time had not been kind to Camille's signature look and now it was as though a small and bewildered child, none too bright but horribly cunning, looked out through the eyeholes of a beautifully painted but rather grotesque Halloween mask. She couldn't understand why men kept coming to find her father. These cases of mistaken identity really should be clamped down on. Even the girls at her nail bar back home sometimes said bad things about him, but she had the answer to that. They had their marching orders PDQ and no mistake. No one worked for Camille O'Malley Gold for long if they said bad things about her father.

Hector just looked smug. He'd been here before and he expected to be here again. But each time it happened, he got a tiny excited glow inside a happy bubble just behind his ribs that told him that perhaps
this
time, they could make something stick.

The knock came again and Hector pushed back his chair. ‘I'll go, shall I?' he said and walked off down the hall and opened the door.

The waiting O'Malleys held their collected breath.

‘Oh, Jacquie,' they heard him say and they let their breaths out, prematurely, as it turned out. ‘Or should I say Detective Inspector Maxwell? Since you are here on business, am I right?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid so. May I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Hall? DCI Hall, Hector Gold. I think I may have told you, he is a colleague of my husband.'

God
, thought O'Malley,
these Brits are really stiff. If it was a bust of mine, I would have been in here with nightsticks by now, making them assume the position and talking Mirandas. There they are, chatting like at a tea party.

‘May we come in?' The man spoke, and he was still polite, but somehow it didn't sound quite like a question.

‘Of course.' Hector stood aside and let them in. He turned and led the way to the dining room. ‘Folks,' he said, and Jacquie would have sworn he became more Minnesotan with every syllable, ‘it's Detective Inspector Maxwell and Detective Chief Inspector Hall. I assume they are here to see you, Jeff. Would you like to see them in here or through in the family room?'

Jacquie looked around and was aghast. She had been to many a dinner here, exquisitely cooked and prepared by the immaculate Manda Moss. The Gold-O'Malley ménage had been in charge here for less than a month, and yet the place was a wreck. Every surface had at least one glass-ring on it, there were clear signs that someone was smoking heavily in there; it didn't take a detective inspector to work that out, with laden ashtrays everywhere, which on closer inspection turned out to be saucers from Manda's prized wedding present tea service, the remains of which were leaning drunkenly in the leaded glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. But the
pièce de résistance
of the O'Malley redecoration scheme
was the striking mural of tomato and cheese decorating one wall. She hoped that O'Malley didn't choose to go through into another room. The least she knew about the devastation of Manda's pride and joy, the better.

O'Malley leant insolently back in his chair, which creaked protestingly. ‘What I have to say to these people, I can say here,' he said.

‘That's thoughtful of you, Mr O'Malley,' Hall said, smoothly. It was the first time he had spoken since he had been on the other side of the door and Camille pricked up her ears. He was old, of course, old for a woman with her tastes and obvious charms, but he was a man and she automatically preened herself. But he was a gentleman, and that was what had attracted her to Hector Gold, in the days when she was attracted to Hector Gold. Henry Hall was saying more stuff and she forced herself to listen.

‘—but I'm afraid we won't be interviewing you here. We would like you to come down to the station with us, if you would? We have a few questions we would like you to help us with.'

O'Malley leapt to his feet. ‘You arresting me, fella?' he growled.

‘No, not at the moment,' Hall said. ‘We would just like you to come down and be interviewed. You will be under caution, but not arrested.'

‘What kind of guff is this?' O'Malley said, looking round his family for support. ‘I done nothing. I've been here all day. Stuck in this stinking hole because Hector here needed the car.'

‘There are two cars here,' Jacquie pointed out. She was trying hard not to judge this man before she had the facts. But if ever she had wanted someone to be guilty, that moment was now.

‘Call that a car?' O'Malley cried, incredulous. ‘That thing, I could put it in my pocket. It's only got two doors, for one thing.'

Jacquie had sold her beloved Ka to Manda as a runaround and felt very protective towards it, but it was quite true that O'Malley would have been hard-pressed to even get inside. She damped down the mental picture that she had of him looking like Fred Flintstone in the vehicle and turned to Hall.

‘It isn't necessarily today we want to speak to you about, Mr O'Malley,' Hall said, smoothly. He looked at Hector, who he had rightly identified as the only normal one of the family. ‘Could you fetch Mr O'Malley's coat, please, Mr Gold?' he asked him. ‘There is another sharp frost tonight and it is very cold outside.'

Hector Gold almost skipped down the hall to fetch his father-in-law's coat. He had been waiting for this moment practically since the day he first met Jeff O'Malley, and even if they didn't lock him up and throw away the key, he was enjoying all this immensely.

Not so Camille, who hurled herself into her father's arms, weeping extravagantly. He unwound her gently and said, ‘It's all right, kitten. These hick coppers will soon realise they have the wrong guy. I'll be back before you know it. And with the money I get when I sue their asses for wrongful arrest, we'll go on a vacation, huh?
Just you and me. Somewhere nice and warm, with none of this cold and wet. Huh? OK, kitten?'

The sight of a woman who wouldn't see forty again nodding like an appeased child was somewhat stomach-churning, but Hector Gold was back with the coat, and the tableau broke up, much to everyone's relief. O'Malley shrugged into the windcheater and growled at his wife.

‘I'll be back sooner than you think, so get some decent food for me then. These people,' with a glare at Jacquie and Hall, who both returned his stare impassively, ‘will arrange my transport, so don't worry about that, everybody.' He turned to Hall. He had decided to ignore Jacquie as being beneath notice. ‘Shall we go? Sooner we get there, sooner I can start suing your ass.'

‘Indeed,' Hall said and gestured to the door. ‘After you.'

O'Malley stamped down the hall and flung open the door. If he was surprised to see the police van backed into the drive, complete with flashing blue light and two policemen in Kevlar jackets standing shotgun on either side of the open doors, he didn't show it. With admirable aplomb, he walked up to it and climbed inside. He turned to the policeman on the right. ‘Call this a police wagon?' he said. The policeman turned and closed the door in his face.

‘Straight to the station, guv?' he asked.

‘Straight there, yes,' Hall said. ‘We'll be along shortly. Put him in … well, put him in whatever cell someone was sick in last.'

The policeman smiled. ‘Will do, guv. I'll phone ahead
and call off the cleaners,' and he sprinted round the side of the van and jumped aboard. The van screeched off, siren wailing. It wasn't strictly necessary, but it made Jeff O'Malley feel at home.

Hall turned back to the house, to find Hector Gold standing right behind him. Jacquie knew how he felt; the man could creep up on you quieter than Metternich. ‘I'm terribly sorry, sir,' Hall said. ‘That was unprofessional of me.'

Hector Gold punched him lightly on the arm, an expression of extreme delight, because Hector didn't go in much for physical contact these days. Camille had pretty much knocked that trait out of him. ‘Don't mention it, Mr Hall. Don't even give it a second thought. Umm … I don't know how to phrase this, but … how long are you planning on keeping him? What's the rule here? I know you can ask for longer, for example, but longer than what?'

He was clearly trying to keep the glee out of his voice and Jacquie smiled at him, a smile he returned in his usual dazzling camera-flash style.

Hall looked at him for a long minute. ‘I'm not sure what our timescale is, Mr Gold,' he said at last. ‘Enjoy your evening. Please say goodbye to your wife and to Mrs O'Malley for me. Thank you.' And Henry Hall walked down the drive to his car, parked on the road outside.