Maxwell's Point (18 page)

‘But he should have gone back to the Levington Agency,’ Hall said.

‘I wouldn’t allow it. I wanted no truck with that revolting place.’ She looked up at him suddenly. ‘You know about them, obviously. Can’t you close them down?’

Hall looked at his watch. ‘I suspect my colleagues in the Met are doing more or less that now, Mrs Henderson.’ He was all formality and correctness again. ‘I think their books should provide some interesting reading.’

‘I insisted that Gerald went through with removing Juanita. Poor kid. I felt sorry for her that night I caught them together.
I felt even sorrier for her afterwards. But the couple who answered the ad, the Maxwells, they seemed very nice.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they are,’ Hall said. He was smiling inside.

‘One thing is certain, Chief Inspector,’ Fiona Henderson said, more at peace with herself than she’d been for months. ‘Whoever killed Gerald, it had nothing to do with Juanita Reyes.’

‘Right,’ Maxwell had finished the washing up, put the baby to bed, read him a story of crushing banality and was just rounding off on the hundred and one things that
house-husbands
like him do, day after day, without prompting, without complaint. ‘You were asking me about golf.’

Jacquie frowned at him. ‘Was I? Good God, Max, that was nearly twenty-four hours ago. Try to keep up, there’s a good chap.’

‘I must confess,’ he said pompously, hauling off his pink rubber gloves and untying his pinnie, ‘it is not, as you know, my natural game. I’m more of a rugger man. But I’ll give it my best shot.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It probably originated in Holland, although the first records seem to show a game played with a curved stick and a ball in Flanders (that’s more or less Belgium to you) in 1353. Of course, in Gloucester cathedral…’

‘Single Stableton,’ she interrupted, cradling her coffee with both hands.

‘Sorry?’

‘You told me you didn’t know how to use the Net,’ she bridled. ‘I leave you alone for one day and you’re out there on the Information Superhighway.’

‘Bollocks, darling heart,’ he bridled right back at her. ‘I have
a book on golf I didn’t know I had stashed away in the attic, along with
A Thousand and One Things to Do With a Split Condom
and an early venture by Enoch Powell,
Send the Black B—s Home
. Neither of them made the bestseller list.’

‘So your little book didn’t tell you about a Single Stableton, then?’

‘Must have been in a later volume,’ Maxwell bluffed. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, that’s just the point; it doesn’t exist. I made it up. The actual term is a Single Stable
ford
; a golfer would know that.’

‘As opposed to…’ Maxwell had to admit he’d lost track of the conversation.

‘As opposed to Leighford’s answer to
Gardener’s World.
Chester Harris, as well as being a flasher, pervert and general purpose weirdo, is not a golfer.’

‘Well,’ Maxwell tutted, finding stirring his own coffee quite a trick after the day he’d had. ‘In a busy life…we can’t all be good at everything.’

‘Yet, he’s a member of a golf club,’ she told him.

‘Well,’ Maxwell said. ‘Perhaps he just goes for the…social life.’

She was nodding smugly.

‘Woman Policeman, you are nothing short of a genius. Chester Harris spies on courting couples and suggests they join him at a party at the golf club. So this golf club…’

‘Wilbraham,’ she filled in the details, ‘Rather like the Levington Agency…’

‘…is not a golf club at all. Or if it is, it’s a front for something else.’ He kissed her on the nose. ‘Brilliant. And it gets even better.’

‘It does?’

‘It does,’ Maxwell sipped his coffee. ‘Think back. Our little visit to the Hampton School, to see Rodrigo Mendoza.’

‘Hm,’ Jacquie smiled, curling her toes.

‘Stop it!’ he growled. ‘You’re dribbling.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Mendoza said he took Juanita to a party, not at school because English schools are not places you want to have parties. They went to a party at a local golf club. And what’s the betting that’s the Wilbraham?’

‘My God.’

‘And who did Mendoza say got them in because he was a member?’

‘Oh God, Max,’ Jacquie whined. ‘I don’t know.’ She flapped her hands uselessly. She’d been doing so well. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Exactly,’ he beamed, and that’s why I’m a Detective Sergeant and you’re a mere Head of Sixth Form at a
bog-standard
comprehensive. Oh, no, wait a minute…’

‘Who is it, you shit?’

‘My old sparring partner, Aaron Felton, that’s who.’

In the olden times, Peter Maxwell would have thrown caution to the winds and cycled out to Littlehampton. It was twelve miles from Leighford as the crow flies, but as the A259 went, considerably further. But there was no use deluding himself; he was not a young man any more and Surrey’s saddle seemed to be evolving into some sort of Inquisition torture implement. So, he chickened out and took the train.

There was a lethargy about the Hampton School on this,
the last day of term that he knew would be happening over at Leighford High by now too. Just how many times could Seven Gee be shown that episode of the Simpsons where Ned Flanders has a fling with Marge? And how many more Personal Statements could Year 12 write in preparation for their university applications?

Maxwell caught a cab from the station and found himself reporting to Reception like the upstanding citizen he was, rather than skulking in the shrubbery ready to pounce on some unsuspecting girl blossoming into Year Ten. Last time he’d snuck in the back way, but last time he’d had the law with him. Now, he was on his own.

‘Mr Mendoza.’ He saw his quarry emerging from the Modern Languages Block, a young man in a hurry. ‘
Buenos dias
.’

‘
Señor
Maxwell,’ the man smiled. ‘What is the cliché you English have? “What are you doing here?”’

‘That’s right,’ Maxwell shook the man’s hand. ‘That’s the line we usually say in thrillers just before the victim gets his.’

‘Gets his?’ Mendoza frowned.

‘Is killed by the villain,’ Maxwell clarified.

‘Oh, yes,’ he laughed. ‘Yes, it is very similar in Spain.’

‘Rodrigo,’ Maxwell became confidential. ‘Look, I’m sorry to appear like this, out of the…unannounced. You’ll be going home, soon, I suppose. Back to Spain?’

‘Yes,’ Mendoza told him. ‘I have booked my flight one week today.’

‘Well, I wanted to clear something up before you went. About Juanita, I mean. And I didn’t want to do it over the phone.’

Instinctively, the two men wandered away from the buildings, towards the perimeter hedge. Lessons of a sort were still going on and the sun was relentless on the iron-brown of the playing fields.

‘I know why she left,’ Maxwell said.

Mendoza stopped walking, looking at the older man. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We talked before. She stole. It was embarrassing.’

‘No, Rodrigo.’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘Juanita didn’t steal anything.’

‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘She did. Did not Carolina tell you this? Carolina Vasquez at your school?’

‘Yes, she did,’ Maxwell conceded.

‘Well, then…’

‘That was just the story you gave her,’ Maxwell said. ‘The story you and Juanita put about. When did you find out she was a prostitute?’

The Spaniard’s head came up and he stared hard at his man. He muttered something in Spanish that Maxwell couldn’t understand and he guessed it was as well he couldn’t.

‘How did you find out?’ Mendoza asked.

‘It’s a long story,’ Maxwell said. ‘When she worked for me, I assumed she was an au pair. When she worked for Gerald Henderson, she was something else.’

Mendoza nodded. ‘She did not like the life particularly,’ he said. ‘But she needed the money for back home.’

‘The Levington Agency were presumably taking a cut?’ Maxwell asked.

‘A percentage of her income, yes. We talked about it and she said she had to go home. We…er…concocted? Concocted the story about her stealing and she drove to some place and
left her car. Then she flew home. She feels very bad, Max, about leaving your baby. In fact, it was because of him that she left.’

‘Because of Nolan?’

‘Yes. You and your partner and the little boy. She has a little brother back home. It reminded her of the life she once knew, before she sold herself. She was disgusted. But her parents are good people. They would never understand. She wanted to go away. Away from Menorca, perhaps elsewhere in Spain. She said she could not face them. I persuaded her that everything would be all right.’

‘But it wasn’t all right, was it, Rodrigo?’ Maxwell said. ‘Because somebody killed Gerald Henderson.’

Mendoza shook his head. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it could not have been Juanita.’

‘Why not?’ Maxwell asked.

‘Because she had gone home by then,’ he told him. ‘By the time Henderson’s body was found, Juanita was back in Sant Lluis. We had prepared another story for her parents. We have both been to confession about this, Max. I don’t know how much it helps. It was the way we were brought up. Are you a religious person, Max?’

‘Me?’ Maxwell smiled. There was a time perhaps, when he had been. Before his wife and little girl were killed, for no reason, for no point. But he had a new family now, a new wife in all but name and a little boy. They weren’t replacements for those he’d lost. But he’d lost too much to believe in a God who wasn’t there. ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I’m not.’

‘That,’ said Mendoza, ‘is a pity.’ He patted the man’s
shoulder. ‘I will tell Juanita,’ he said, ‘that you know. It will make her feel that little bit better about herself. And she will light a candle for you.’

A candle for Maxwell? That would be a first.

It wasn’t until nightfall that it hit him. Peter Maxwell, the Head of Sixth Form at Leighford High School was under suspension. Oh, the charges were nonsense, of course, but mud had a tendency to stick. He was staring retirement in the face anyway, but he hadn’t planned to go like this.

He sat late that night in his Inner Sanctum, the War Office at the top of the house with his curmudgeonly cat and his plastic miniature Light Brigade and he brooded. He’d missed the end of term bash, which wasn’t much of a bash, really, but it was a chance to say goodbye to a few people who were moving on, moving up, moving out; people, in fact, you’d probably never see again. There was a bloke on the staff, a reasonable cartoonist, who did farewell cards for those he reckoned; Peter Maxwell would have secretly liked one of those.

He looked at the plastic
Chasseur à Cheval
still in its wrapping on the table in front of him. He would make this one into…well, a Hussar, obviously, by virtue of the braided jacket. Douglas’s 11
^th
or Shewell’s 8
^th
? And if so, who? He was about to consult the oracle, Canon Lummis’s list of those who rode the Charge of the Light Brigade, when he suddenly thought, ‘Bugger and poo!’ and threw the book across the room.

Metternich didn’t even flinch. It was just the old git in a bad mood again. In the floor below, Nolan turned in his sleep, dreaming whatever nearly one-year-olds dream of. Jacquie was fully awake, sitting up in bed, reading. She heard the book. She knew the signs. It wasn’t something she could help with. Maxwell just had to ride it out, like the 54 millimetre soldiers he was creating. She’d wait for him to come down, in a lifetime or so.

The people who work at County Hall, like those of the Abyss, don’t work on Saturdays and Sundays. On both blistering days, as the youth of Leighford ran amok through the town screaming ‘Yippee, the hols are here!’ Maxwell took Nolan out on a hike. He’d normally have strapped the wee lad onto that contraption behind Surrey’s saddle, but the heat seemed to have warped one of the uprights, so it was the bus and Shanks’s pony.

The boys were out on the uplands skirting the golf course and they picnicked in the shade of the Leigh’s oaks. Maxwell had a ploughman’s, Nolan something gooey and indescribable concocted by his mother. Even so, he found his dad’s lunch infinitely more engrossing, especially the bottle of Bud which seemed to have his name written all over it. One sip, however, and his face told the whole story.

‘Well, there you go,’ Maxwell said. ‘You wouldn’t be told, would you? Oh, dearie me, no, not you as would. I said you wouldn’t like it. Mind you, I can remember my first snorter like it was yesterday. I didn’t care for it either and now I’m proud to say I’m a full-blown alcoholic. Bottoms up! No, no, not literally!’ The wee lad had flopped
sideways, what with the exhaustion of the carry, the excitement of the bus ride and the rather acute angle of the hillock he was sitting on and rolled quietly away. His father reached out with an expert hand and just saved them both from a fate worse than death – Nolan Maxwell rolling through a cowpat.

The next day that County Hall didn’t work was Sunday, but Maxwell knew that the library did. He’d been baulked of his prey here once before, but the old dragon Edna Roxbury was deep in conversation about the merits of Harry Potter, so he snuck past her. He knew, of course, that by definition the conversation wouldn’t last long, so he had to work fast. He dodged behind the Mills and Boon, out beyond Occult and was through the door into the secret garden before you could say Frances Hodgson Burnett.

‘Can I help you?’ a doddery voice made him turn. ‘Members of the public aren’t allowed in here.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’ Maxwell was on his best public school form. ‘Edna’s tied up at the moment and said it would be all right, since it was me.’

‘Did she?’ a startling set of teeth appeared over a pile of books with an elderly woman attached to them. ‘That’s not like her.’

‘Ah, but this is an emergency, you see,’ Maxwell gushed. ‘I understand that many of the books on local history have been transferred to Public Records?’

‘That’s right,’ the teeth told him. ‘All of them, in fact.’

‘That is a pity,’ Maxwell said. ‘In that case, do you have any older books on the Balearic Islands? Menorca in particular?’

‘Well, most of that category will be out on the open shelves. Numbers 910 onwards.’

‘Sadly,’ Maxwell shook his head, ‘not what I’m looking for. Anything else – in here, I mean?’

‘Well, let me see.’ Maxwell was delighted that the old girl didn’t rush to a computer to check, but wrinkled up her nose and turned east. Ah, a true librarian. Once upon a time, they were all trained to track down a book by sense of smell. He followed her through a rabbit warren of metal shelving where dusty volumes were on their way to the library books’ graveyard. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘
Rambles though Minorca.
Oh, is that the place you mean?’

‘It is indeed,’ Maxwell smiled, noting the author. ‘And if it was good enough for Sir Compton Mackenzie, it’s good enough for me.’

‘I’m afraid you can’t borrow it,’ the old teeth told him.

‘No, that’s fine,’ Maxwell said. ‘May I crouch here, in the corner, and dip? I promise you won’t know I’m here.’

‘Well, I’m not sure…’

‘Edna will be so grateful to you for helping me.’

‘Oh,’ the teeth preened her iron-grey hair. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I know it,’ Maxwell beamed, ready to vomit at his own nauseatingness. Still, all in a good cause.

It must have been all of ten minutes later that the door crashed back and a stentorian voice bellowed, ‘There’s a man in here.’

Maxwell looked up and placed a solemn finger to his lips. ‘Ssh. Please, Ms Roxbury, this used to be a library.’ He was already on his feet and sliding past the speechless old besom.
He tapped the Mackenzie book and placed it carefully in Edna Roxbury’s hand. ‘Your colleague over there has been an absolute brick. If only all librarians were like her, eh?’ and he tipped his hat. ‘Good morning, ladies. Don’t trouble – I’ll see myself out.’

He didn’t sleep that night. For all he tried to make light of it to Jacquie, Monday was weighing heavily on his mind. Jacquie knew of course and she made light of it too. But she held him tight as the dawn came up like thunder over Leighford gasworks and another week creaked and groaned into life.

‘I’ll take you,’ she said, supervising as Nolan smeared his egg yolk over most of his face.

‘No, no, I’ll take Surrey.’

‘I thought you said he was playing up.’

‘Bit of a rattle, that’s all. Like the rest of us, he’s getting on.’

‘I’d rather take you,’ she said.

He looked at her and smiled. The honest, trusting face, the caring eyes. He reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘I know you would,’ he said, ‘and I know why. But you know why I’d rather go this one alone. Besides,’ he reached for his toast, ‘you’ve got a killer to catch.’

‘I meant to ask you about that,’ she said, glad for the moment that he’d changed the subject. ‘The library visit. Any luck?’

‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘It was always going to be a long shot. Oh damn – oops,’ he covered the boy’s ears – ‘I’m late, family. Got to pedal!’ and he kissed the one small bit of Nolan not yellow with egg and grabbed his bow tie. Jacquie stopped him
at the door and kissed him long and hard before holding him close. ‘Knock ’em dead, Max,’ she said.

He smiled at her. ‘That
is
my intention, dearest.’ And he was gone.

The spire of the Norman cathedral was visible long before Maxwell’s train rattled into Chichester station. He got off, got his bearings and walked through the city to find County Hall. The Romans had laid this place out with their usual uncompromising grid mentality and the Normans had built a church there, clattering along the Pallant in their mail with their harsh Viking-French voices and their dreadful haircuts. Assorted louts loafed on the steps of the market cross, chewing gum and swilling lager, though the Sussex sun was scarcely yet over the yard arm. Maxwell sighed; he just hoped they were up to date with their coursework, that was all. Pan pipes incongruously assailed his ears as a little Peruvian band entertained or annoyed passers-by, depending on their musical persuasion.

The clock was striking eleven over the Sixties monstrosity that was West Sussex’s County Hall as Maxwell sprinted up the steps. In the curious twilight world that was local education, it might have been striking thirteen. He followed signs to the Education Department, up two flights past
fierce-looking
paintings of fierce-looking Council Chairmen of yesteryear, whose names were, even today, still carved with civic pride into the foundation blocks of public conveniences throughout the city.

‘Are you Peter Maxwell?’ a square, solid-looking man in a suit met him at the top of the stairs.

Was this a trick question, Maxwell wondered. Best not be
too
paranoid. ‘That’s me,’ he said.

‘Bob Wentworth, regional NUT.’

‘Ah, the Seventh Cavalry.’ Maxwell was genuinely glad to see the man. He didn’t know Wentworth personally, but the man was legend in West Sussex. He was Clarence Darrow, George Carman and Michael Mansfield all rolled into one. He hated Headteachers with a passion as people who had sold out to the enemy. And as for the top brass at County Hall, Wentworth took a personal delight in scraping them off his shoe.

‘Were you expecting me?’

Come to think of it, Bob Wentworth
did
have the look of the Spanish Inquisition from the old Monty Python joke of the same name, but Maxwell didn’t want to go there. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘You
are
on my side, I assume?’

‘On the side of the angels, Mr Maxwell,’ Wentworth winked. ‘Have you met Alex Morrow?’

‘The CEO? Yes; bit of a shit, I thought.’

‘That goes double for their lawyer, James Timmins. The dealings I’ve had with your Chair of Governors – Inkester, isn’t it? Complete tosser. As for Diamond, well, the least said.’

‘This is going to be a piece of cake, then.’ Maxwell was walking with the man, matching him stride for stride down the darkened corridors of power.

‘All in a day’s work,’ Wentworth chuckled. ‘How much do you want to keep your job?’

‘Bugger the job,’ Maxwell told him. ‘I’d like my reputation back.’

‘Oh, you’re going for the innocent ploy?’

Maxwell stared at him. ‘What?’ he asked, straightfaced.

‘Just joking,’ Wentworth winked. ‘I think we can promise you that. It’s whether or not I can get Diamond on malicious intent – that’s always a tricky one. All Heads lie like sleeping dogs, it goes with the territory; it’s
proving
they do, that’s the problem. Here we are.’

Wentworth led Maxwell into a panelled room. There was a desk on a raised dais at the far end and if Maxwell recognised the feel and smell of his first tribunal, the small-fry, hole-
in-corner
version in Diamond’s office at Leighford High, he recognised this as something altogether grander, more intimidating. He could just hear the ranting of yesteryear echoing over the microphones – ‘Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?’

Wentworth checked his watch against the clock above the dais where a coat of gilded royal arms shone bright in the late morning sun. ‘We’ve got a couple of minutes before Judge Dredd turns up. Evidence.’ He sat down and started rummaging around in his briefcase.

‘Have I gone through some sort of time warp or is this Number One Court at the Old Bailey?’ Maxwell asked. He could almost catch the distant clang of St Sepulchre’s bell tolling for him.

‘What’s the evidence against you?’ Wentworth asked.

‘Um…I don’t know,’ Maxwell was trying to focus. ‘Tittle tattle. A letter.’

‘This one?’

Maxwell looked at the paper the man passed to him. ‘Yes, I…Holy Mother of God.’

‘Have you seen this before?’ Wentworth asked. ‘It’s a photocopy, of course.’

‘I have,’ Maxwell nodded, still a little non-plussed by what he’d just read. ‘All except the signature.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Wentworth smiled. ‘Don’t like to let you know who your accusers are, do they? Why?’ He suddenly caught the look on Maxwell’s face. ‘Do you know the name?’

‘The Christian name not at all,’ Maxwell said. ‘But the surname is definitely ringing bells.’

The door clicked open to one side of the dais and four suits walked in. The Four Just Men. Nods were exchanged all round and the Chief Education officer took his seat on the dais. He appeared to have forgotten to pack his wig, though no doubt he had a black cap somewhere. Were this a court martial, Maxwell knew, his sword would be lying sheathed on the desk in front of him.

‘This is a preliminary hearing,’ the Chief Education officer began, ‘to decide whether Mr Peter Maxwell, Head of Sixth Form at Leighford High School in this Education District, has a case to answer concerning an accusation of gross indecency with a minor and a student of sixteen years. Neither of the students’ names may be used in the course of this hearing. We need to decide whether this is a matter for the police.’

‘Alex,’ Wentworth was on his feet when everyone else was sitting down. ‘I don’t want to take up the tribunal’s time unnecessarily. For the record…’ he glanced at one of the suits who was busy taking all this down in shorthand, ‘my client denies any wrong-doing and has substantiated evidence in support of his claim.’

The NUT man pulled out a sizeable sheaf of paper from his briefcase and separated out smaller batches, placing them in front of each man in the room. ‘I apologise that I have not had
time to get this documentation to you all before,’ he said, ‘but the hearing
was
convened rather hastily and of course, County Hall doesn’t work weekends, does it?’ He smiled broadly.

‘What is this, Mr Wentworth?’ the CEO was formality itself. ‘Can you give us the gist?’

‘Certainly.’ Wentworth could patronise for England, or at least West Sussex. Made Maxwell glad he was on his side. ‘What you have before you, gentlemen, are four documents. The first is written by Child A who did indeed consent to meet my client at the area of common land known as The Dam at Leighford on Saturday last. As you see, she makes no comment on any impropriety whatsoever. Indeed, she thanks Mr Maxwell for protecting her from what I believe she refers to as ‘an old pervert’ by whom she felt threatened. The second is written by Child B who was also at the place, time and date in question and her testimony matches that of Child A in every particular. The third and fourth documents are from the parents of Children A and B confirming as far as they are able the gist of events in their children’s testimony. Neither child was in a distressed state when they came home from The Dam nor subsequently, and they express their total support of my client who they believe – I think they actually use the word “know” – to be of upright and utterly reliable character.’