Maxwell's Mask (8 page)

‘Usual,' she smiled. ‘Matches under the fingernails and twenty hours solid of past Eurovision Song Contest videos.'

The levity was wasted on Hall.

‘We had a mutual exchange of views,' Jane said, realising that flippancy was no way forward. ‘He's going to be in and out of somebody else's property all his life, but he's no killer. He's quite a nice kid, actually.'

‘No doubt that's what the magistrate's court'll decide too, after the social reports and the school… Goes to Leighford High, doesn't he?'

‘On and off,' Jane told him. She'd seen the boy's attendance record, those nasty little electronic printouts that Maxwell loved so much.

‘Do you happen to know,' Hall asked, hiding, as always, behind the blankness of his lenses, ‘who his History teacher is?'

‘Mad Max!' Jane Blaisedell called through her open window.

The Great Man half turned, peering through the driving rain into the interior of the girl's four-
by-four.
‘Was I speeding, Woman Policeman?' he asked.

‘No, no, sir.' She did a pretty mean George Dixon for a female who wasn't even a twinkle in her dad's eye when
that
particular copper walked Dock Green. ‘As long as you're pushing that thing, most of us are quite safe. 'Course, I'm not all that happy about your rear reflector.'

‘Nobody ever is,' Maxwell shook his head. ‘It has, I have to admit, blighted my life.'

‘For Christ's sake, Max, get in. Shove that rust heap in the back. You must be soaked.'

‘There, there,' Maxwell stroked Surrey's dripping framework as he hoisted the bike onto the rear seat. ‘The nasty lady didn't mean it. You just lie there for a bit, get your breath back. We'll have a nice cup of cocoa later.' And he hopped in alongside Jane Blaisedell, Jacquie's friend.

‘Mad as a tree.' She shook her head as he fumbled for the seat belt.

‘Kind,' muttered Maxwell, ‘kind. How goes it in the world of Mohocs, Coney Catchers and Cosh Boys, girl in blue?'

She slammed the vehicle into gear. ‘I don't know how Jacquie puts up with you,' she said. ‘I'd have had you committed bloody years ago.'

‘Ah, but she can't find the paperwork.' Maxwell tapped the side of his nose.

‘How is that woman of yours?' she asked, as they snarled towards the Flyover. ‘And how dare you stay out so late? Been on the tiles like that damned cat of yours?'

‘Do you know Mrs B?' Maxwell asked her. ‘Does for me up at the school and at home now that the Mem can't see her toes any more. She's prone to asking me questions in batches. I answer in similar vein; so, here goes: Bonny as all get out. I got a puncture somewhere along Bracken Avenue. The only tiles I've ever been on are those in my own kitchen, thank you very much. And as for my cat,
he has had no meaningful love life since 1996 when I shelled out a fortune to an overpaid veterinary surgeon to dampen his ardour somewhat, using two bricks. What's the score on the Winchcombe murder?'

She crashed her gears, whether by accident or design he couldn't tell. Jacquie often did the same, but that was usually when he was getting to her and her composure was slipping. Jane Blaisedell was an altogether tougher proposition.

‘The DCI was asking after you tonight.' She ignored his fishing expedition.

‘Really? Henry?' Maxwell smiled in the darkness. ‘How sweet. Long time no see,' he lied. ‘How is the old upholder of public morals?'

‘Infuriating as ever,' Jane told him. ‘And what makes you think the Winchcombe death is murder? The
Advertiser
didn't say so.'

‘The
Advertiser
didn't say diddly squat,' Maxwell said. ‘Because even an outrageous,
muck-raking
rag like that can't print what you don't tell them.'

‘I ask again,' Jane said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel at the slowness of the traffic lights. ‘What makes you think the old girl was murdered?' Jane Blaisedell's middle name was persistence.

‘Call it…male intuition,' Maxwell said.

‘Bollocks!' Jane snorted. ‘I hope you're not pestering Jacquie with all this.'

‘Now, would I?' Maxwell spread his arms for agony and loss. She flashed him an old-fashioned look he pretended to miss in the bad light.

‘The DCI told me
specifically
not to talk to you,' Jane said. ‘In fact, he went further. He said if I was to happen upon you with a puncture by the roadside, I was to drive my vehicle at and over you, reversing for good measure. I, of course, told him I couldn't do that.'

‘Really?' Maxwell chuckled. ‘Why, pray, Woman Policeman?'

‘Because, beyond all the laws of reason and good taste, you're shacked up with my bestest friend in all the world. And it wouldn't be fair to her.'

‘You say the nicest things,' he laughed.

And then they were there, the four-by-four grumbling alongside the kerb at Columbine. ‘Get out,' she said cheerily. ‘And don't forget that thing in the back.'

‘Ssh, Surrey, ssh.' Maxwell stroked the handlebars as he lifted the injured thing out of the back. He turned at the wound-down window. ‘Thanks a million, Jane.'

‘You're welcome, you mad old bastard.'

But his hand held the rising window. ‘We are talking murder, aren't we?'

Her face twisted into a smile. How long had Jacquie faced this? The disingenuous smile, those sad, gorgeous eyes? What, as Homer Simpson frequently asked rhetorically, are you going to do?

‘Oh, yes,' she told him. ‘That we are.' And he watched her tail-lights twinkle out of sight through the rain.

She sat cross-legged in the blaze of candles in the otherwise darkened room. She breathed in the scent, the smoke and let her hands hang loose, upturned on her naked knees. There was a jolt. A bump. A scrape as though something heavy hit wooden floorboards and the candle flames guttered.

There was a sigh, half human, half not. And a word. She listened carefully, cocking her head to one side, trying to catch it if it came again. It sounded like…but it couldn't be…it sounded like ‘Murder'.

‘Well, Donald.' Jim Astley hauled the green cap off his head and what was left of his hair sprang upwards. ‘Give me a masterclass in geriatric passing over.'

The heavy rain had driven Astley off the golf course late that Saturday morning. Had it not been for the weather, the inside of Leighford General's morgue would not have seen him in a month of Saturdays. As it was, no need to overtax himself. He was getting a bit long in the tooth for this job, rummaging about in dead people's insides all day. At least, as some Roman had observed a long time ago, the dead don't bite.

‘Run of the mill,' his assistant said, checking his notes and the naked, operated-on body that lay before him. ‘Half the conditions known to man, anything from osteoporosis on down.'

‘Except?' Astley sank into a chair, resting his glasses above his hairline.

‘Except this.' Donald had been Astley's mortuary
assistant now for years. He was bright and efficient in a paramedic sort of way; simply couldn't handle the pressure of being the man who made the decisions, called the shots. He was also the victim of too much linguine and found it a little difficult, if truth were told, to bend over bodies these days.

‘Go on.' Astley was resting his head against the wall, his eyes closed, his still-gloved hands clasped in his lap. He wasn't sleeping these nights. He and Mrs Astley hadn't shared a bedroom for years, still less a bed. Even so, her nocturnal rambles kept him awake too often as she rummaged in the empties, engaging in wild, hooting conversations in which she revelled the night away with imaginary companions. The Romans had a name for that too –
delirium tremens
. He knew he should have her committed, but there was still a tiny remnant of compassion in Jim Astley and he couldn't go through with it. The papers were in his study at home, second drawer on the left in his desk. One day…one day.

‘Cause of death is a dislocated vertebra,' Donald said, looking again at the odd angle of the neck above Astley's neat Y-shaped scalpel work.

‘Consistent with?'

‘Consistent with a fall,' Donald said. ‘There are no contusions on the skin.' He felt the scrawny neck with podgy, rubber fingers. ‘Nothing to suggest a scrap. No sign of fingermarks or ligature that might cause a break.'

‘So?'

‘So…' Donald checked his notes again, the mortal remains of Martita Winchcombe reflected in each of his glasses lenses, as if Nature had doubled death in some bizarre cloning experiment. ‘She fell down stairs.'

‘Bravo, Donald.' Astley clapped his gloved hands with mocking softness. ‘Thank God for police reports, eh? Look at her ankles, man.'

‘Ankles?' Donald was confused. He thought he was doing pretty well, really, all things considered. Violent death didn't come his way often, not in sleepy Leighford. He didn't want to be a full-blown pathologist, but he didn't want to be found wanting either. ‘Ah.'

‘Are you on the Damascus Road yet, Donald?' Astley asked. ‘Any blinding flashes of divine inspiration?'

‘Horizontal abrasions.' Donald had indeed seen the light. ‘On both shins.'

‘From which you conclude?'

Damn. Conclusions. Decisions. Not Donald's forte. These were the moments he hated. ‘Tripwire?' he ventured.

‘Bugger me sideways!' Astley opened his eyes and Donald hoped that wasn't an order. ‘Spot on. It's in the police report, of course.'

‘It is?' Donald blinked, riffling the pages on his clipboard. ‘Where?'

‘Here.' Astley picked up the single sheet on his
desk and waved it at him. ‘Well, you didn't think I'd leave it there, did you? That would make life far too easy. I wanted you to work for your money today. Yes, it's routine, all right.' He crossed to the body and stood alongside Donald. ‘Routine murder. Some sharp-eyed SOCO noticed Blu-Tack on each side of the stairs. He guessed – rightly – that the Blu-Tack held wire, strung across said stairs. It was high enough that the old girl wasn't likely to step over it and low enough for her not to notice it. You and I would have crashed through it, ripping it from the Blu-Tack, muttering something along the lines of “What the fuck was that?” and gone on our merry way. But Martita Winchcombe was seventy-nine and not that nimble on her pins. As you say – half the conditions known to man.'

He smiled down at the peaceful, sleeping, grey face of the old lady, the top of her cranium missing. ‘So, whoever did this to you, Martita, old thing, knew quite a bit about you, didn't they? They even wrapped you in a blanket. Why was that, I wonder? Did they think you'd catch cold? And they took away the wire, the murder weapon, but they left the Blu-Tack traces.' And he broke into an old song totally unknown to Donald. ‘A set of stairs that bears some Blu-Tack traces.' Yep, the old boy was losing it, all right.

Astley straightened and looked at his oppo. ‘Know what Henry Hall's looking for here, Donald?'

The fat man had given his decision for the day. He'd roll over for this one. He shook his head.

‘A beginner,' Astley told him. ‘A novice. Somebody who makes mistakes. And somebody with a peculiar streak of compassion that could land them in the slammer for the rest of their natural.'

He looked up at the grey, frosted skylight overhead. ‘Clean up here, will you? I think the rain's easing off.'

‘So what have we got?' the DCI wanted to know. Still no Incident Room. Still a wish not to frighten the natives. No panic in the streets. While Jim Astley braved the dying drizzle to get to the golf course and Donald put Miss Winchcombe away before trotting round to KFC for a Bargain Bucket, Henry Hall was marshalling his troops in downtown Leighford, within a walk of the sea.

‘Murder, by person or persons unknown.' DC Gavin Henslow chanced his arm. Someone had to open the bidding. Gavin Henslow was actually a bright young copper, but like all bright young people in any walk of life, he came across as a pain in the arse. Everybody knew that Henry Hall was university, fast-track, smartarsed, but he was also the guv'nor and that made it different. Henslow was still wet behind the ears, the ink not dry on his warrant card. Nobody intended to make life easy for him.

‘All right, Gavin.' Hall sat stolidly behind the front desk as his team had collected in front of him; all the usual suspects. ‘That'll do for the coroner's court. I think here at Leighford CID we need a
little
more.'

‘Suspect knows the victim.' It was Jane Blaisedell's turn. She sat in front of her VDU, her shoulders aching, her eyes feeling like gooseberries.

‘How do we know that?' Hall was putting them through their paces.

‘No sign of a break-in,' Giles Finch-Friezely came back, leaning forward in his chair, sipping a ghastly canteen coffee.

‘Not even when Batman and Robin tried to stage one.'

A chuckle ran round the room. The Batman that was Anthony Wetta had been in and out of Interview Rooms various at the nick so often in the last few months, DS Bill Robbins had considered charging the little bastard rent. It was Robbins who held the floor now. ‘Where are we on prints, guv?' Robbins was Tweedledum to Dave Walters' Tweedledee. In a bad light they could have passed for brothers, except that Robbins wore the suit and Walters didn't. They'd both cut their teeth back in the Miners' Strike, when King Arthur took on Queen Margaret and the result had been a foregone conclusion. And they were both, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, looking forward to imminent retirement. You could do that in these great
forty-three
police services of ours. Life was a bitch, but they let you out early for good behaviour.

‘Giles?' The guv'nor had been on advanced courses in deflection. There were times when the buck had to stop with him. Today was not one of them.

‘Well,' he sighed. ‘That's proving something of a long process, Sarge. We've eliminated the old lady's, of course, and the lads who found her – although they seem to have remembered halfway through to put their gloves on. Apart from that, we've got butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. Apparently, Miss Winchcombe had a friend who shopped on line for her, so deliveries came to the house.'

‘Was she a recluse, then?' Henslow had been to university and a relatively good school and liked using his extensive vocabulary. It wasn't Leighford High.

‘Certainly not,' Hall said, swivelling a little to look at the blown-up photo of the dead woman on the screen behind him. ‘She went out for coffee most days. Maisie's in the High Street. She took the odd walk along the Front and even on Willow Bay when the place wasn't too crowded. She was a stalwart at the Arquebus Theatre; Treasurer on their committee.'

‘Any motive there, guv?' Jane asked.

‘Bill?' Hall's superlative deflection yet again.

‘We're looking into it,' the DS told the
smoke-filled 
room. ‘But Treasurer is only a figure of speech, really. I spoke to…' he checked his notebook, ‘…a Mr Wilkes who manages the place. He said the last time she handled any money was about 1983. Ever since then, she's just sorted out cloakroom tickets and moved things of a light nature from A to B. I think we can assume she wasn't behind the Brinks-Mat.'

Guffaws all round.

‘Somebody,' Hall damped the levity down, ‘went to the lengths of putting a wire across the stairs in her home. Jim Astley gives us a possible time of death as Tuesday night, somewhere between nine and twelve. Anybody been to the house that day?'

‘Tesco's delivery late morning.' Jane Blaisedell had been on this one. ‘Delivery man checks out. Pure as the driven himself and the old girl probably went up and down the stairs half a dozen times after he left. He was in the house for less than five minutes according to a bloke painting his house next door and helped her put the shopping away. She was in fine spirits and his known movements match his timesheet exactly.'

‘Did anybody else call?' Hall asked. ‘Afternoon, evening?'

‘Somebody around three,' Jane told him. ‘The near neighbour, a Mrs Grannum, heard feet on the gravel and the old girl telling whoever it was to go away because she was watching
Murder She Wrote
.'

‘Very apposite,' Hall noted, wondering silently where Jessica Fletcher was at times like these. ‘But I think we're talking after dark here. Anybody know what time Miss Winchcombe went to bed?'

Exchanged looks. Shuffles. The odd phone ringing in a corner. Nobody did. It was just one of those little ironies in life. An old spinster, living alone, with no one to mark her comings and goings. No one to mark her passing. Or was there?

‘Right,' Hall said. ‘Jane, as of tomorrow I want you all over the late Martita Winchcombe like teenage acne. Concentrate on the niece, Fiona Elliot. I want to know the old lady's friends and enemies – especially her enemies. Anybody she'd spoken to recently. At the theatre, in the coffee shop, anywhere. Check out this friend who shops on line for her. Above all – and Gavin, this one's yours – I want her bank details. What's the house worth? How much has she got stashed away – and who gets it? The dogs' home or…'

‘The Arquebus Theatre.'

The sudden chill in the room could have left frost on the cut glasses and their companion decanter.

‘Say that again.' Fiona Elliot was sitting bolt upright in the offices of Digby, Lassiter and Lassiter along Quay Street. She was lucky to be there at all, in that place and at that hour. It was late on Saturday afternoon and the premises were normally closed. Old Mr Lassiter refused to open up for
anyone, no matter how insistent. But young Mr Lassiter was rather more of a soft touch and his social conscience had driven him, along with his vintage Daimler, in to work at an unlikely hour. The size of his fee would, of course, have to reflect this fact.

Young Mr Lassiter had a lot to live up to. His great-grandfather had founded the firm way back when, when some solicitors still accepted sides of beef in lieu of cash payment. His great-grandfather had represented Madame Fahmi, the wronged and abused wife of an Egyptian nasty into whose brain she finally placed a well-deserved bullet. His grandfather, by contrast, tried to defend one Neville Heath, an utter boundah and cad who specialised in torturing young women while pretending to be an RAF officer. Some the Lassiter family won; some it lost.

‘I'm afraid there's no doubt, Mrs Elliot.' Young Mr Lassiter was shaking his head. ‘Your late aunt's will is very clear. The sale of her house at Martingale Crescent and all its contents, as well as two ISAs to the value of eighteen thousand pounds and a bank draft of nearly three hundred, all goes to the theatre which, and I quote, “I have loved all my adult life”.'

‘Outrageous,' the woman grunted. Roger Lassiter swore he could see the steam hissing from her ears. ‘She has been coerced.'

‘Mrs Elliot.' The young Mr Lassiter may have had a social conscience, but a pussy cat he was not.
‘This last will and testament was drawn up by my father. It is accurate, I assure you, and there was no coercion involved.'

‘Is there no codicil?' she snapped.

‘Nothing,' the barrister told her.

‘When is it dated?' Fiona Elliot demanded to know.

‘The third of December, 2003,' he told her. ‘See for yourself.'

‘I don't doubt your end of this wretched business, Mr Lassiter. What I do doubt – highly – is that this decision was made of her own free will. You do know she should have been committed, don't you?'

‘Well,' Lassiter leaned back in his leather chair, sighing. ‘Which one of us can say hand on heart that we are fully sane?'

‘
I
can,' she assured him, standing up suddenly. ‘Is there any way I can contest this?'

‘Legally, no,' Lassiter said. ‘Oh, yes, you can go through the motions, of course, but it would be a delaying tactic only. Hate myself for saying it though I do, my father does not make mistakes.'