Maxwell's Crossing (16 page)

Alison Orchard had her mouth open behind the green
mask. It wasn't exactly rocket science. Iris Seager had died in similar circumstances in Baltimore, Maryland in the early seventies when Jim Astley was approaching his first mid-life crisis. Alison Orchard wasn't even born then. True, the Seager case was in all the textbooks, but Alison hadn't got to those chapters yet. Had she looked more like Emilia Fox, Donald would probably have tipped her off, but her genes had been against her from the start when it came to getting any help from that quarter. So, yet again, it was Dr James Astley, one; rest of the world, nil.

The Maxwell temporarily extended family were in the dining room that morning, being too numerous to fit around the kitchen table. Alana looked surprisingly well for someone who had been knocking on heaven's door the night before, although mercifully the song of the same name was not in her repertoire. It was Hector who looked as though he had been through the wringer, though only to someone who was familiar with his usual high level of immaculacy. Nolan was delighted to have a new audience and Jacquie and Maxwell were running back and forth with toast and Coco Pops, throwing remarks to one another as they ran.

‘I have to get to work, Max. Hector can take you and Nole if that's OK, but what about Alana?'

The next time they passed in the doorway, Maxwell asked, ‘Could you not pretend it is Take Your Drunk To Work Day and take her with you?'

‘Flippancy will get you nowhere,' she said, a rack of toast later. ‘She can't stay here.'

‘Why not?'

Because Maxwell had thrown the remark to her as he ran for the boiling kettle she had time to consider her reply, but it still struck her as a little lame. ‘Because she can't.' What a mistress of wit and repartee.

They finally both arrived at the table together and sat down to a hurried breakfast. Alana was speaking, in her careful way, tasting and weighing each word before she let it out of her mouth to make sure it would give no offence.

‘How is your lovely neighbour, Jacquie?' she asked. ‘Mrs Troubridge. She sent us such a lovely greeting card for Christmas, didn't she, Hec? I really loved meeting her at your Christmas soirée.'

Maxwell smiled at Jacquie, the smile of a man who has just been given the answer to his problems on a plate. ‘She gets lonely, Alana,' he said. ‘In fact, I'll tell you what, why don't I run down now and see if she's in today? I'm sure she would love your company.'

He suited the action to the words and soon the sound of delighted twittering echoed up the stairs as Mrs Troubridge said that indeed she would love to have Alana as her guest for the day. And so, as is often the case with important things, it was decided in an instant and that was how Alana O'Malley, Californian drunk, became the house guest of Mrs Jessica Troubridge, possibly the most unlikely rehab facility proprietor in the world.

‘So, do you think he did it?' The question was not unreasonable, but Maxwell was surprised nonetheless to be asked it so bluntly. He was still trying to buckle himself into the Mossmobile and they had been driving for ten minutes.

‘I don't think Jacquie thinks so,' he hedged.

‘But do you?' Hector swept the Mosses' car into a space very deftly. He turned off the ignition, but made no effort to get out.

Maxwell pondered for a moment. With the involvement of Mrs Whatmough this case was a lot more complicated than it first appeared and he had a feeling he was just skating over the surface. He just had to hope that the ice didn't get too thin. ‘Well, I hardly know the man …'

‘You don't have to know Jeff to know what he is,' Hector said, dismissively. ‘He might as well have a neon sign on his head flashing “asshole” in big red letters. Even so, though,' and he looked thoughtful, ‘I don't think he would murder a woman.'

‘He isn't exactly what you would call in touch with his feminine side, though, is he?' Maxwell pointed out.

‘No. And that's what I mean. Apart from Camille, who I think he loves just because she is half of him, not for any other reason, he doesn't think women are worth anything. That's why he wouldn't risk the chair for one.'

‘We don't have capital punishment in England,' Maxwell pointed out. ‘We haven't executed anyone since 1964.'

‘Ah, Max,' breathed Hector. ‘A mine of information.
But perhaps I should have made myself more clear. That sign I mentioned? It should read “stupid asshole” to be totally accurate. Jeff O'Malley has never sought a piece of information in his life if it doesn't immediately result in more money or power for himself. His whole world has a population of one – well, two when Camille is in sight, otherwise I don't think even she crosses his mind very much.'

‘What will he do when he finally gets home and finds Alana gone?'

‘A lot will depend on how soon he notices. He'll notice when he goes to bed, I guess.'

‘Oh, so they do still—'

‘Jeff does, certainly. I'm not sure Alana is often there in spirit, though. Oh, yes …' Hector trailed off, his cheeks faint pink at the memory of the embarrassing nights in the Moss house, just one wall away from his rutting father-in-law. Then he gave himself a shake. ‘Well, for good or ill, Max, all that seems to be changing. So, here's to change.' They clinked invisible glasses. ‘Let's see what today brings at Leighford High School.'

Some distance away, across the still-frozen grass, knots of schoolboys (and girls) crawled unwillingly to school, although there wasn't a satchel between them. Rona Whatserface was holding court already at the centre of a gaggle of Year Nine girls and mobile phones were flashing in all directions. There was some talk of new governmental powers being drafted in to allow teachers to take such time-wasting trivia away from students; which struck Maxwell as rather odd because
he already had a drawerful and added to it every day.

Maxwell unbuckled his seat belt – having only just managed to do it up – and slid down out of the high passenger seat. The weekend had held surprises enough and he doubted that even Leighford High could top it. The place had not burnt down and there were no red crosses on the doors. No doubt Legs Diamond was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

He was still only halfway through the side door when a panting Pansy Donaldson rushed up to him and hauled him bodily into the foyer.

‘Mr Maxwell, Mr Maxwell,' she said, shaking him by the arm as a terrier would shake a rat. Noticing Hector Gold, she gave him a smile and a nod. He couldn't help noticing she was checking out his footwear, for suitability. Turning her attention back to Maxwell, she gave him a final shake which dislodged his hat finally and he caught it with an unusual display of manual dexterity.

‘Mrs Donaldson,' he said, equably, twitching his sleeve back into place. ‘How can I help you?' He was secretly glad that the kids weren't allowed to come through this way and that the usual daily haul of wearers of trainers and denim had not yet built up in the hinterland to Pansy's domain.

‘I have an urgent email which needs your attention.'

Maxwell had been under the distinct impression that Pansy was on the wagon, but this seemed not to be the case. Why otherwise would she be asking him to deal with one of her emails? ‘I don't quite understand what
I can do for you, Mrs Donaldson,' he said reasonably.

She turned her back on Hector Gold and waggled her eyebrows furiously at Maxwell. Hector Gold had not been an O'Malley in-law for nothing, and with a flash of a smile at Maxwell, he turned down the corridor which housed the History Department. Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell sauntered Hector Gold. Soon, he could be heard telling a kid its fortune and Maxwell sighed the sigh of a proud parent.

‘Right, Pansy. He's gone. We're alone. Whatever is this email about?'

‘You'll have to come and see,' she said, pulling on his sleeve again. It looked like the Queen Mary towing the Isle of Wight ferry.

It was easier to go than resist and Maxwell followed her into her office, passing the morning receptionist on the way.

‘Morning, Thingee,' he cried as he was carried away on the tide.

‘Morning, Mr Maxwell,' she carolled back, deftly handling the myriad flashing lights of the switchboard already and it wasn't even nine o'clock.

‘I wish you would learn the names of my staff, Mr Maxwell,' Pansy Donaldson snorted. ‘It's very rude otherwise.'

Maxwell turned as she pressed him down into the chair in front of her monitor. ‘Mrs Donaldson,' he said. ‘I not only know Emma's name, but I also know the name of her hamster. I used to know the name of her goldfish, which sadly died during last half-term. I know
that she doesn't like cheese but she does like Marmite, I know that—'

‘Yes, yes.' Pansy Donaldson was testy. She didn't like to be upstaged. ‘Just look at this email. Look away first, though, while I enter my password.'

It amused Maxwell, sitting there, pressed to one side by Pansy's encroaching bosom, that she should feel it necessary to hide a password from him. He had to have his own password written on the inside of his desk drawer in his office and had begged IT to remove the necessity, but it was apparently impossible. Finally, the login was accomplished and he could sit up again, bosom-free.

The email was on the screen and he read it through quickly once and then, an icy hand around his heart, again, more slowly.

‘Mrs Donaldson,' he read. ‘I have sent this to you because I know Mr Maxwell rarely opens his emails and I didn't want to trouble him with this at home. Max – sorry to dump this on you, but Manda and the kids, and me as well, I suppose, all want to come home. It really isn't turning out as well as we had expected and everyone is very homesick. Manda is worrying about the house, you know how house-proud she is. The place here was a tip and we got the impression it had been tidied up a bit, so she is beside herself wondering what they are doing to our place. The kids are hating school, they are way ahead of the others and are bored to sobs. Tell Hector that I am very impressed with his classes, by the way. They are the best in the school, even if they are a little confused over the causes
of the American War of Independence. If it was just the homesickness and the mess and the boredom I think we'd still stick it out. The weather is fabulous, of course, and the kids are really enjoying the beach, which is a completely different experience from the beach at home. The teaching is fine, I'm really enjoying it and mainly the kids are OK. I have a few reservations about the whole system out here, but I can't change that, so not to worry. But it all took a bit of a nasty turn this weekend …'

Maxwell turned to Pansy. ‘Have you read this?' he asked.

‘I caught the odd word,' she admitted, meaning that she had avidly taken in every sentence.

‘Well, please treat it as confidential and don't tell a soul. And that means not telling Legs Diamond or Bernard Ryan, despite the fact that they have no souls.' He screwed his head round to look at her. ‘Seriously, Pansy. This is me talking – I am being serious and you know how serious that is.'

‘But—'

‘But me no buts, Pans,' he said. ‘Hector has had a horrible weekend and his week is going to get worse. He doesn't need this. He's happy here.' He played his trump card. ‘He really likes you, you know.'

Pansy Donaldson allowed herself a small preen. ‘He's a very nice man, Mr Maxwell,' she said. ‘I won't tell anyone.' She caught his eye. ‘I promise. I really do.'

‘Thank you, Pansy. You are a wonderful woman.'
Whatever the others say,
he added silently in his head.
‘Shush now, while I read the rest of this.' He turned back to the screen.

‘But it all took a bit of a nasty turn this weekend. We were in bed on Friday night and the kids were finally asleep. This house is on quite a main road – all the roads are main around here, no one walks anywhere, they all drive – and they have taken a while to get used to the noise. There was a tremendous banging at the door and voices shouting for us to come out. Max, you see it on the telly, but having it happen to you is terrifying. I went down and opened the door and there were these men, in bulletproof vests and helmets, all down the drive and running round the house. One burst in through the back door while I was at the front. They were looking for Jeff O'Malley. Something about information from some bloke. I tell you, Max, we have got to come home. The Principal is finding us a new house, but I can hardly get Manda to go in the garden, let alone to the shops, and the kids were freaked out by it as well. They say they don't want to go to school tomorrow and who can blame them. Can you sort it at your end, and I'll see the Principal first thing Monday? Tell Hector I'm sorry to let him down, but you can see how I'm fixed, I hope. Love to Jacquie and Nolan. Paul.'

Maxwell sat for a moment and then turned to Pansy, still at his elbow. ‘Can you forward this to my wife?' he said. ‘I think this may well have a bearing on something she is working on.'

‘Confidentiality,' sniffed Pansy.

‘Mrs Donaldson,' Maxwell said. ‘My wife is a
detective inspector of the West Sussex CID. I think that she knows more about confidentiality than you have had hot dinners. Her email address is secure; it goes straight to her desk and nowhere else. I'll phone her to let her know it's on its way, if that helps.'

‘Can she unzip?' the woman asked, mystifyingly.

Maxwell blinked. ‘I must assume that you are talking about something computer-based,' he said, ‘since otherwise that question makes no sense and may even be construed as offensive.'

‘Encrypted files. Can she unzip them?'

‘Again, I am at a loss. Why don't you just forward it as it is, there's a good manager? It's come all the way from California without self-combusting. I'm sure it can make it across town without further harm. Or, if you like, I can print it out. Well, clearly I mean that
you
can print it out.'