Maxwell's Mask (3 page)

He smiled. ‘Careful,' he said, ‘is my middle name.'

‘It's a little late for you, Henry,' the man in the white coat said. He checked his watch. ‘Come to think of it, it's a little late for me.'

‘Sorry, Jim.' DCI Henry Hall emerged in the pool of light that flooded the stainless-steel heart of the mortuary at Leighford General. In
Morse
or
Midsomer Murders
those places were always dark, mysterious, like the doings that were investigated in them. In reality, they were neon-stripped,
chemical-coated
, like slightly upmarket abattoirs. ‘I was just on my way home.'

Jim Astley chuckled, the bow tie wobbling under the once-firm chin. ‘If you're going to get all
busier-than-thou
on me, I'm out of here now. In the comparative stakes, pathologists' hours versus policemen's, I'm not sure which one of us would come up smelling of roses. I was off to the George. Time for a quick one?'

Jim Astley didn't offer to buy a round often. He had too many Porsches to run, his wife's habit to control and probably Scottish blood in his veins a few generations back. So it hurt like hell for Henry Hall to have to pass it up. ‘Not tonight, I'm afraid. I was wondering if you'd made any progress with Gordon Goodacre.'

Astley hauled off his coat at the end of another long day, throwing it vaguely at some hooks. ‘You know what they say,' he said, ‘about miracles taking longer?'

‘Sorry,' Hall shrugged. He and Astley went back
a few years. They'd come to know each other pretty well. Astley was a vain prig whose orifice housed the rising sun. Long years ago he'd opted for that branch of medicine where the patients don't talk back. And in these litigious days, he was increasingly grateful for that. Hall was an unfathomable bastard, the consummate professional with no smiling muscles at all, a thinking machine in a grey three-piece who hid his hard eyes behind curiously opaque glasses. Jacquie Carpenter had never seen another pair like them. Hall could see out; no one could see in. What else was there to know?

‘I can confirm my preliminary verdict.' Astley hunted for his coat in the bowels of his office off the morgue, realising again what a slob his assistant Donald was. ‘The skull was fractured in two places, both occipital, by a blunt instrument, viz and to wit, a ladder. Death would have been virtually instantaneous. Routine one, this, Henry. Unless…'

‘Unless?'

Astley pushed the man gently aside so that he could close the door and lock it. ‘Unless your nose tells you something else.'

‘Should it?' Hall was as impassive as ever. He let other people do the sniffing around. The wait was usually worth it.

‘It's half past nine, Henry,' Astley told him. ‘You're a detective chief inspector and it's Friday. A man died last night at about eleven o'clock in what
has all the appearances of a tragic, but not unusual, accident – shall I quote you the ladder death stats? So why the interest? Unless…'

There was a slight twitch to one side of Henry Hall's mouth. It would be the nearest he was likely to come to a smile, at least this side of Christmas. ‘You're right, Jim,' he said. ‘I don't get out enough. Love to Marjorie.'

‘And to Margaret.
A bientôt
, Chief Inspector.'

Peter Maxwell went to the Arquebus Theatre that night. He saddled his bike, White Surrey, named for the charger of England's most maligned king, Richard III (Henry VII did it, by the way), and pedalled through the mizzle over the Flyover and down the maze of streets that led to the Quay.

The building itself still retained an exterior that spoke of grander days, when Leighford had been a minor port on the south coast and sugar and rum and slaves and molasses had come creaking in under full sail with the smell of hemp and tar. The old pulley was still there, high above its column of doors on four storeys and the forecourt where timber was piled and manifests checked now housed the ghastly new glass entranceway.

Maxwell remembered the Arquebus as a row of warehouses, derelict, rat-infested, open to the weather and the winos. In a glass case by the front door, a rather long-in-the-tooth Matilda Goodacre smiled at him, wearing a ludicrous wimple
à la
the
redoubtable Eleanor of Aquitaine. Other faces, the grave old plodders and gay young friskers of Leighford's am dram community, he didn't know. He tethered White Surrey to some railings with his trusty padlock – this
was
downtown Leighford of a Monday night, after all, and you couldn't be too careful. Then he pushed the glass door and he was in, his damp feet on plush red carpet in the refurbished atrium. Dim lights revealed the ticket office and the stairs curving to left and right. As he read the notices, he heard the rain start with a vengeance, bouncing on the glass roof of the portico and running like tears down the high windows.

‘Hello. Oh, it's cats and dogs out there!' The wrinkled little woman in the Fifties pac-a-mac shook her tousled hair in the doorway. ‘You are?'

‘A little drier than you, it seems. Luckily, it was fine when I arrived. I'm Peter Maxwell.' He held out a hand.

She took it in the bird-like, fragile way that women do, limp and not quite real. ‘Maxwell. Maxwell. Now, I know that name.
Ring of Bright Water
chappie. Any relation?'

‘Er…I don't think so.'

‘Probably just as well. That whole episode put the cause of wildlife back by a generation, I always thought. I'm Martita Winchcombe, the Arquebus Treasurer. Are you the new lighting man?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. I'm with Leighford High.'

‘Oh.' The Treasurer's face fell a little. ‘Can I be frank, Mr Maxwell?' The old girl wrestled to close her umbrella.

‘Please,' the Head of Sixth Form suggested. A woman with dentures as ill fitting as hers surely had the right to be anybody she wanted to be.

‘Well, children nowadays are a pretty unruly bunch, aren't they? I mean, I'm sure they mean well, but their manners…'

‘Ah, sign of the times, I fear, Ms Winchcombe.'

‘Miss,' she corrected him tartly. ‘Miss Winchcombe.'

Yes; Maxwell thought it might be.

‘And I have to say that teacher person, what's her name? Mrs Carbuncle?'

‘Carmichael.'

‘Yes, I knew it was some sort of car. Heart's not in it. Too self-absorbed if you catch my drift.'

‘You mean pregnant?'

Miss Winchcombe looked up at the man. The bow tie, the tweed jacket. Seemed acceptable enough. And that, surely, was the scarf of one of the more reputable universities around his neck? Still, you heard such stories about teachers these days. ‘That's not a word we bandied about in my youth,' she told him crisply.

‘Quite,' Maxwell nodded, straight-faced. How old was this woman? ‘Well, Mrs Carmichael has had to bow out, as it were, from this production.'

‘Oh, so you're her replacement?' She peered at
him more closely. ‘I thought there was another girl I met. Oh well…I suppose you'll do. Come on up.'

‘Thank you.' Maxwell followed her up the velvet-carpeted stairs as the old girl flicked lights on in all directions. On the first half-landing, she stopped. New-smelling parquet floors led off in what seemed all directions, some ending in closed doors, others extending around the auditorium to culminate in gantries with lanterns and cables and all the other inexplicable gadgetry of theatre land. ‘Wait,' she all but shrieked. ‘How did you get in?'

‘Through the door,' he told her slowly, as though feeling his way through a trick question.

‘I see. Well, that must mean Patrick's around somewhere. Was that
your
bicycle I almost fell over outside?'

‘Probably,' Maxwell confessed. ‘Whitish frame? Two wheels? Racing basket?'

‘I didn't look that closely. Ah, Patrick. There you are.'

Ahead of them on the upper landing, at the end of one of the narrow, darker corridors, a large crimson man in a cravat was carrying a large bundle of scripts.

‘This is Mr Marple. He's producing the musical whatnot.'

‘Not exactly,' Maxwell said, but the old girl was already dripping her way to the next landing, rattling keys as she went and opening doors, apparently at random.

‘You'll have to forgive Martita,' said the crimson man. ‘She was Treasurer here when this place was still an indigo warehouse or whatever it was. Patrick Collinson. I'm Theatre Secretary, moonlighting from the day job. And you're not the producer.'

‘No,' Maxwell chuckled. ‘And I'm not Mr Marple, either. Maxwell. Peter Maxwell.' He shook the man's hand.

‘You're from Leighford High, aren't you?' Collinson pointed at him. ‘I caught your Spartacus lecture at the Historical Association last year. Masterly.'

‘That's very kind.'

‘Look, you'll have to forgive us. I'm afraid there's no rehearsal tonight.'

‘Really?' Maxwell frowned. Legs had sold him a pup yet again. Perhaps his assumption of a Monday start was a little premature.

‘Cancelled at the last minute. We had a bereavement last Thursday.'

‘A bereavement?' Maxwell had long ago learned not to let anything slip he heard from Jacquie via police sources.

‘Down there,' Collinson pointed to the dimly lit stage, below them and to his right. ‘Gordon Goodacre, poor chap. He was working on the set and a ladder fell on him. Couldn't have known what hit him.'

‘Will the production go ahead?' Maxwell asked.

‘Lord, yes.' Collinson ushered the man along the
corridor and down again to the back of the auditorium. ‘Matilda insisted on it.'

‘Matilda?'

‘Confusing, isn't it? Martita, Matilda. Worse last year; we had a Martina as well, but mercifully she moved to Glossop.'

Maxwell breathed a sigh of relief.

‘No, Matilda is Gordon's wife – widow, I suppose now. She's Chairperson for the duration. Life and soul of the Arquebus Committee. She's called an Extraordinary Meeting tonight which is why Martita and I are here. Ashley'll be along presently and the whole motley crew.'

‘Well, I'll take my leave…' Maxwell said.

‘Nonsense!' Collinson insisted. ‘Now you're here, you might as well meet everybody. You are going to be part of the family for a while, after all.'

‘Well, all right.' They both heard the rain thundering on the skylights. ‘It's a filthy night… If you're sure I won't be intruding.'

‘Dear boy, think nothing of it. Come and have a coffee. I'd offer you something stronger, but we're only licensed during runs. You look like a b and s man.' Collinson looked him up and down.

‘Southern Comfort.' Maxwell knew the mantra from his AA days.

‘Good lad.'

Collinson led him into the newer part of the theatre. Maxwell had seen the odd production at the Arquebus. He'd been dragged, against his will,
to see
The Boyfriend
and had nodded off in
Death of a Salesman
. He'd left
A Streetcar Named Desire
at half time; they were showing
The Quatermass Experiment
on the telly and he'd forgotten to set his timer; a man had his standards, when all is said and done. But this was a part of the building he'd never seen before. Some schizophrenic architect had had a field day with the Arquebus. The stage, auditorium and foyer were pure Grand Guignol, with a proscenium more arch than Eddie Izzard. But the Green Room, rehearsal units and offices were Nineties Noir, all harsh light, dark brickwork and stark angles. Bewildering.

‘Take a pew, Mr Maxwell. May I call you Peter?'

‘Max will do.'

‘Max it is.'

The door swung open behind them. ‘Well, well.' Collinson's beam froze like a rictus. ‘Dan Bartlett. Artistic Director. This is Peter Maxwell.'

In a weaker light, Dan Bartlett could have passed for a rather seedy Bill Nighy. His dark hair hung floppily over his forehead and ears and he wore a long coat over a crisp white shirt and a pair of leather trousers. His skin was the colour of David Dickinson and you just knew the tan was courtesy of the sunbed at Chez Paul, the beauty parlour in Wellington Road. He had an empty pizza box under his arm.

‘From Leighford High.' Maxwell shook the man's hand.

‘You're working on this disaster, are you?' Bartlett asked. Emerging into the light, he looked like Nosferatu.

‘Not that bad, surely?' Maxwell tried to lighten the moment.

‘If you've only just joined, then you'll find out soon enough. What time is this thing likely to wind up, Patrick? I've another engagement.'

‘How long is a piece of string, old boy.' Collinson was hunting in MFI-fronted cupboards, looking for coffee. ‘I thought Ashley was going to lay all the refreshments out.' He raised his eyes heavenwards and tutted. ‘You just can't get the staff. Same for you, I expect, Max, at the High School?'

‘Don't get me started on that one.'

‘Christ, it's pissing down.' Another new arrival crashed his way into the boardroom. This man was about a thousand years younger than anyone Maxwell had met so far. His thick thatch of hair curled over his upright collar and he dripped onto the cord carpet. There was a hint of corpulence about the man, although he was wrapped against the elements and it was difficult to tell.

‘Ashley,' Collinson put out another cup. ‘We're honoured. This is Peter Maxwell, overseeing Leighford's production. Our theatre manager, Ashley Wilkes.'

‘Ashley…?' Maxwell paused before he took the man's hand.

‘Yes, I know.' The Theatre Manager raised his
head in an acknowledgement born of years of resentment. ‘My mother had this thing for Leslie Howard. Please don't tell me you're a film buff, Mr Maxwell.'

‘I dabble,' Maxwell shrugged. ‘And don't worry. My mother was frightened by the burning of Atlanta while she was carrying me. Just as well, or I'd have been called Vivien.'