Maxwell's Retirement (19 page)

‘What kind of things do they say?’ Jacquie asked.

‘Mostly they know what I’ve done, things like that. Well,’ the girl laughed, ‘they’ve chosen the wrong one with me.’

Jacquie laughed as well. It was doubtful there was much that Maisie hadn’t done and she couldn’t see her being ashamed of any of it.

The girl closed her mouth and pointed at Jacquie. ‘I know why you’re laughing. You’re thinking that I’ve done the lot, drugs, sex, you name it. Well,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘you’re
wrong, see. I dress like this to annoy Mum. That’s my hobby, you might say. But I don’t do drugs, I don’t do sex, I hardly do rock and roll. I prefer a nice bit of Mozart any day of the week. So whatever the sicko doing these texts says, I know he doesn’t know anything, because there’s nothing
to
know. So they really, really don’t bother me a bit.’

Jacquie leant back in the chair and as she fell back, hitting her head on the wall, she knew that was a bad idea. Maisie was on her feet and round behind the desk like lightning.

‘Don’t get up,’ she said, rather superfluously. ‘That was a really hard bang there. There’ll be feet on the stairs in a minute. They’ll think I’m knocking you about.’ Jacquie gave a small laugh and struggled to rise. ‘No. I’m a first-aider.’ As far as it was possible with her face against her own chest, Jacquie expressed mute surprise. ‘I’m a senior Girl Guide, actually, but if anyone finds out I’ll know it was you who told them. Now, can you wiggle everything?’ Jacquie dutifully wiggled. ‘Right, let’s get you up, then.’ With an expert heave, the girl had her on her feet. ‘Whatever happened to your chair?’

‘My husband broke it,’ Jacquie said, sitting on the edge of the desk, for lack of anywhere else.

‘Oh, the bloke who was with you at ours?’

Jacquie was staggered. ‘Ummm, no, that was—’

‘Well, let’s hope he is your husband,’ Maisie
said, straight-faced. ‘Or otherwise you’re playing away from home, DS Carpenter.’

‘He is my husband, yes, but how did you know?’

‘You straightened his tie before you came in. You don’t do that to just anyone.’

‘Have you ever thought of joining the police when you’re old enough?’ Jacquie said, impressed.

‘What, and blow my cover?’ the girl laughed.

‘I think your mother would hate you being a WPC,’ Jacquie said. ‘Think of how hideous the uniform is.’

‘You’ve got something there,’ Maisie agreed. ‘I’ll think it over.’

Jacquie cricked her neck back into place. ‘To get back to your texts, then. Are you on any networking sites?’

‘The usual,’ the girl said.

‘Any not usual?’

‘No, Facebook, Bebo, MySpace, all those. The school one.’

‘Your school has a chat room?’

‘Yeah. We’ve got a really great IT Department. They’ve set it up. You can only use it on the school intranet, but it’s great if you’ve missed anything, stuff like that. Good essays get put up on the noticeboard, it’s good.’

‘I thought you were a famous truant.’

Maisie laughed and ducked her head. ‘Part of the image. I’m there most days.’

‘And you can chat on the school site?’

‘Yeah. We’ve all got log-ins that disguise us. It’s fun, because you don’t know who anyone is. You can chat to someone in another year, that kind of thing, and no one knows. You can literally be chatting to the person next to you in class, and neither of you would know.’

‘Has anyone talked about the texts?’

‘No. I didn’t know anyone else was having them. It’s not like I’ve got loads of friends.’

‘Except in the chat room.’

‘Well, yeah. I’m good with words when I can write them down.’

‘What’s it called, this intranet site?’

‘It’s a bit naff, really. We log in to www.itsgoodtotalk.sch.uk. We can only access our own school, though.’

‘So other schools have these things?’

‘Never thought about it. Suppose.’

Jacquie made a note. ‘Well, thanks for coming in, Maisie. Keep in touch, I’ll—’ Jacquie’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me while I answer this. Carpenter, hello?’ She jumped down off the edge of the desk. ‘What? Oh, hello, Steve.’ She hoped she sounded calmer that she felt. ‘Yes, thanks for letting me know … yes. I’m on my way.’ She looked up at Maisie, her eyes dark with worry. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’ll have to go. I’ll see you out.’

The girl got up and reached out to touch her
arm. ‘DS Carpenter, what’s the matter? You look terrible.’

Despite the rings, swords and various other piercings, despite the laddered tights and the purple Doc Martens, Jacquie felt oddly at ease with this strange girl. ‘Um, I’ve had a bit of a shock. My husband was off paintballing today.’

‘Bit long in the tooth, isn’t he?’ The question was out before the girl realised how rude it sounded.

‘Yes, I suppose he is. He hasn’t noticed, though. Well, there’s a report of … well, of someone dead at Paintball Ltd.’ She suppressed a sob. ‘No details. I’m sorry, Maisie. I’ve got to go.’

‘I’m coming as well,’ the girl said. ‘My Quent works at Paintball Ltd.’

Jacquie was about to say – So? He’s not likely to have keeled over with a heart attack, is he? But something in the girl’s face made her stay silent. Here was someone who didn’t open up willingly. Her Quent must be something pretty special, Jacquie decided. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. But if anyone asks …’

The girl mimed zipping her lips. Or at least, Jacquie hoped she was miming. They made for the stairs and this time their feet drummed in perfect time until they reached Jacquie’s car. Maisie was still shutting the door as it barrelled away.

Up on his hill, Maxwell felt distanced from the hullabaloo below. He could see the cars and ambulances as they swept into the drive from the road, but they were invisible once they reached the car park. He wondered why they needed two ambulances; someone being over-zealous, he supposed. He noticed Henry Hall’s car, just a few minutes after the two squad cars. He had to chuckle – Henry would have jumped at this chance to get his teeth into a proper crime. He would have been chafing at the bit, following leads on the missing girls who Maxwell was still convinced were mislaid rather than missing. He could hear the car doors slamming and voices coming his way. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jacquie’s car taking the turn into the drive on what looked like two wheels. He was surprised to see her, especially with a passenger; surely, she was too busy for this. Never mind, she would doubtless tell him all about it later. He heard a shout.

‘Max? Mr Maxwell? Where are you?’

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Surely someone was bringing the police up to the spot? They couldn’t be that squeamish, not even Legs. ‘Up here. Follow the path round to the left. I’m at the top of the bank.’

Through the undergrowth came Henry Hall followed by a phalanx of policemen, in Indian file. They stumbled and crashed about as they came; Yul Brynner and Burt Lancaster they certainly
weren’t. It was as if a herd of elephants were drawing closer.

‘Over here,’ he waved and Henry waved back. Finally, puffing and panting, the police squad were lined up on the bank. ‘He’s down there,’ Maxwell pointed. ‘I kept people back as well as I could but I wasn’t the first on the scene, sadly.’

‘No,’ Hall said. ‘I’ve left someone down there interviewing her. She’s badly shocked. Well, they both seem to be.’

‘Both?’ Maxwell was pretty sure he hadn’t missed anyone, up here on the bank.

One of the policemen consulted his notebook. ‘Quentin Marjoribanks.’

‘That’s Marshbanks,’ Maxwell said automatically.

‘Oh, damn.’ The policeman scrubbed out the name with the rubber on the end of his pencil. ‘He spelt it for me as well.’

‘No, I … never mind.’ Maxwell decided that least said was soonest mended in this case. He turned to Henry. ‘Quentin wasn’t here at the time. How is he involved?’

‘Oh, I don’t think he is,’ Hall said. ‘He’s just got a bit over-involved.’

‘Yes, that’s Quentin,’ Maxwell said. ‘I’ll just go and join the others, shall I?’

‘Do you have any ideas?’ Hall asked. It sounded as though the words were being ripped out with red-hot pincers.

‘I can’t say that I do, no,’ Maxwell said. ‘Except that I don’t know him, which is unusual around here. Most locals his age have been Leighford Highenas at some stage in their school career.’

‘I take it you haven’t touched the body.’ The statement came out as more than half a question.

‘No, I haven’t. And you can take it that if I haven’t, then none of the other squeamish lot will have done. Although, if you’re thinking in terms of DNA, I wouldn’t be surprised if you find traces of Nicole Thompson’s. She was screaming and gagging fit to burst.’

‘Good point.’ Hall gestured for his note-taker to take a note. ‘Anyone else get near?’

‘Only to glance down and back away. But we’ve been all over these woods today, ducking and diving.’ He suited the actions to the words. ‘Some people may have been near without realising it.’

‘We’ll check for paint,’ Hall said. ‘That will help pin people down.’

‘It depends how long he’s been here, though, doesn’t it?’ Maxwell asked.

‘It’s the beginning of the paintball season,’ said Hall.

‘I have to interrupt you there,’ Maxwell said. ‘Do you mean to tell me paintballing has a season? Like grouse?’

‘I think it simply means that people don’t tend
to do it when the weather is cold,’ Hall said. ‘After Easter is when they get busy. So in fact, you lot are the first punters this week. And I’m sure your wide reading and even wider experience would have already told you that he wasn’t in place as early as last week, Wednesday to be precise, when the management level of Leighford Tyres were here on a team-building exercise.’

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ Maxwell muttered. ‘On another subject altogether, I’m surprised you’ve got Jacquie in on this one.’

Hall looked suitably bewildered. ‘I haven’t.’

‘I just saw her car,’ Maxwell said. ‘And if, as you may suspect, I am not too good on car makes and models, I would recognise my lovely wife’s driving anywhere.’

‘She does have a certain flair,’ Hall conceded. ‘But, really, I haven’t called her in on this one. She has enough to do on this … other matter.’ He suddenly realised that the rest of the team might not understand about Maxwell and exactly where they all stood, vis-à-vis him knowing every fart that flew.

As he spoke, there was a crashing in the undergrowth. ‘Unless we are having a spot visit by David Attenborough and a couple of rogue silverbacks, we will have our explanation in very few seconds.’

The bushes parted and Jacquie stood there, twigs in her hair and smears of various paint on
the front of her best jacket. ‘Peter Maxwell,’ she snapped as best she could when so out of breath. ‘I come over here, driving like a maniac,’ Maxwell and Hall exchanged a fleeting glance, ‘and I find you fit and well and talking to Henry. How dare you scare me like that? Well?’

The whole wood held its breath. The wrong word now could be fatal.

Maxwell stepped up to the plate. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry.’ He extended a hand and pulled her the last few feet up the slope. ‘It was thoughtless of me. I wouldn’t worry you for the world.’ He put his arm round her and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Look at you,’ he said fondly, ‘all painty. Shall we go back to the car park? Then perhaps I can cadge a lift with Sylv, save you dropping me off. Hmm?’

She fell into step as they slithered down the slope and onto the path.

The policemen watched them go. Then one of them let out a long-held breath. ‘God, he’s good,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen her reduce grown men to tears because they put sugar in her coffee. I take it all back, the things I’ve said about him.’

‘I wonder if he gives lessons,’ said the other.

‘I would imagine so,’ Hall said drily. ‘He’s a teacher.’

‘I mean in … whatever that was.’

‘I think you can either do that, or you can’t,’ said Hall. ‘Right, now. We’ll do what
we
do best, shall we? Where the hell are the SOCOs?’

On the short walk down the slope to the car park, Jacquie reflected on recent events. She accepted that she had over-reacted, that she shouldn’t have blamed Maxwell for something he hadn’t even known he had done. Hadn’t done, if she was being brutally honest. She knew that he knew that it was her fault for not checking first but the mad old bugger had put his life on the line before. He was a risk-taker and she had to live with it. The apology had been a calming-down exercise. She now had two options: she could yell at him for condescending to her and agreeing that he was in the wrong; or she could just pretend the last ten minutes had never happened and take it from there. By the time they were with the others, she had chosen Option Two and would stick to it through thick and thin.

One ambulance had discreetly withdrawn to the edge of the car park. It was unlikely to be
used any time soon; forensics would take ages. But ambulance drivers are used to being called by people who spent too much of their leisure time watching
CSI
and so took these kind of calls in their stride. The other ambulance was parked near the reception hut with its rear doors open. Nicole Thompson could be dimly seen, lying down on one of the beds. A paramedic was taking her pulse and a drip was being prepared; there was no doubt that she had had a severe shock. At the doorway, Quentin Marjoribanks was leaning against Maisie, looking pale and wan. He nevertheless was also looking smug. His woman had come running to his side; as far as he chose to understand it, she had hijacked a police car to achieve it. He was blessed.

Jacquie turned to Maxwell and he smiled down at her. He was ready to receive more lambasting or an apology – he wasn’t really fussy, he knew that both of them were the equivalent of being told she loved him. So, what she actually said was a surprise. ‘Well, I must be getting back, I suppose. Maisie had some quite useful information which I ought to follow up. Are all the schools in the area on development days today?’

Ah, he thought. We’re on Option Two. He went along with it; it was too tiring, especially on a day like this, to swim against that particular tide. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Mrs Donaldson would be able to help you on that.’
Before Jacquie could stop him, he raised his voice a notch. ‘Pansy?’ She turned. Many was the Greek warrior who saw that sight, his last on earth, as the basilisk turned him to stone.

‘Mr Maxwell?’ It was the first time he had heard his name used as a curse. She did it very well.

‘My wife would like a word with you, if you have a moment.’ She came over reluctantly. ‘Mrs Donaldson, Pansy, this is Mrs Maxwell, Jacquie, also known as Detective Sergeant Carpenter.’ He smiled benignly at them both. ‘I’ll just go and see what’s going on over there.’ And he wandered away. He hadn’t been keeping score, but he thought they must surely be at deuce right now.

He ambled over to where the ancillary staff had made a rather exclusive huddle. This was where the best gossip was to be found. ‘Hello, chaps and chappesses. How’re tricks?’

The disconcerting sight of both Thingees in one place made the universe spin. They usually only met in the car park as one left and one went in at lunchtimes, like the Weather Man and Woman in those old barometer toys of Maxwell’s childhood. Various Teaching Assistants stood around, paint caked and tired looking. Most of them had evening jobs to eke out their pathetic wages and were getting rather anxious that they would be late. It didn’t do to turn up for the night shift at Tesco with your hair thick with
multi-coloured goo. There was a general melee of greetings.

‘Did anyone recognise the chap, you know, the dead one up in the ditch?’ he asked.

Heads were generally shaken. But one person disagreed. ‘No,’ one of the dinner ladies said. ‘I’ve seen him before, but I’m blowed if I can remember where.’

‘In school?’ Maxwell asked.

‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of school
based
, but not in school, if you see what I mean.’

‘With someone from school, perhaps?’ the Great Detective probed.

‘Hmm, I really dunno, Mr Maxwell,’ the woman said. ‘It’s no good werriting it. I’ll never remember that way.’ She wandered off to get a bit of peace. Things often popped into her head if she did that. These days she found that she had to walk round the post office once or twice before she could remember her PIN.

‘Anyone else?’ Maxwell asked.

‘We didn’t really see him,’ said a Thingee. ‘We were already shot and down with Mrs Donaldson.’ She made it sound as if she had actually said ‘doing twenty to life at Parkhurst’. Maxwell could empathise. ‘She wouldn’t let us go, even when we heard Nicole scream. She hadn’t logged us in.’ The two receptionists exchanged glances. Life wasn’t the same, now they were ruled by Pansy.

‘But you saw him briefly?’ Maxwell checked.

Thingee Two giggled. ‘We managed to get away,’ she said. Then her face fell. ‘We didn’t know why Nicole was screaming. We thought … well, we thought that someone good had been shot. Like Mr Diamond.’

‘Or you, Mr Maxwell,’ piped up Margaret, from Reprographics.

Maxwell merely swept an arm down his immaculate person. As if he would have been shot, indeed. The very idea. He was a Superhero to the core. Perhaps not the Silver Surfer, but any one of the others.

‘So no one recognised him, except perhaps Doreen.’ No one stopped to marvel at Maxwell’s recall of names; it was just the way he was. If only Doreen’s memory was half as good.

With shaking heads, they moved away. Maxwell glanced across to the main crowd of people, over by the door of reception. Jacquie was talking to one of the uniforms and was making her preparing-to-move gestures. Patting her pockets, rummaging in her bag for her car keys. Maxwell could read the woman like a book. Finding them, she looked up and caught his eye.

‘I’m off now,’ she said. ‘Did you mean it about cadging a lift with Sylvia?’

‘She may be a while,’ he said. ‘A lot of people are feeling the after-effects and knowing Sylv, I don’t think she’ll leave until the last one is sorted.
I’ll get a lift with someone, though. I ought to pick up Surrey, while he still has wheels. You could take my knapsack, though, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course.’ They were still being a tad polite with each other. This would pass, when one or both of them forgot about it.

He went over to the pile of bags near the door and moved them aside until he found his. As he picked it up, he remembered the notebook he had found on the bus. ‘I suppose I ought to hand this in,’ he said to her, pulling it out of the front pocket.

‘What is it?’ She looked at it, albeit upside down. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘On the bus.’ There was just the tiniest hint in his voice that it was her fault he was on the dratted vehicle at all. ‘It was down behind a seat.’

‘May I?’ She held out her hand. The notebook was quite small, with a girly picture on the front of a kitten in a bow. The bow was attaching a label to its neck, and on the label someone had written in glitter pen, ‘Zee’. She pointed to the name. ‘Have you looked in here at all?’

‘I hardly looked at it,’ he said. ‘It was sticking in my bum and I hoiked it out. That’s it. Why?’

She pointed again, jabbing the cover of the book.

‘Zee.’ He looked at her. ‘Why does that ring a bell?’

‘Because Zee is what Julie’s friends call her.
Julie, who is missing.’ She flicked open the first few pages. ‘Julie who is missing, and seems to have left her diary behind.’

He reached out to take it, but she stopped his arm with her other hand. ‘Sorry, Max,’ she said. ‘This is evidence. I think we’ll be needing you to give a statement.’ She gestured to a policeman standing nearby. ‘Kevin, Mr Maxwell has found some evidence in the case I am working on. Have you been asked to take names from these people yet?’

‘Yes, DS Carpenter,’ the man replied. ‘I have a list, though. That … lady over there had one all made out, with times of arrival, times they were “shot”, everything.’ He waved a thin sheaf of paper.

‘Ah. Right. You’ve got a minute to take this down, then, have you?’

‘Yes, I should think so.’

Jacquie turned to Maxwell. ‘That’s best, then. You give Kevin your statement while it’s still fresh in your mind.’

‘I’m an historian. Everything is still fresh in my mind.’

Jacquie smiled and patted his arm. ‘Enjoy, Kevin,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you at home, Max. Nolan is sorted this evening.’

‘Spencer’s mum?’ Maxwell asked with trepidation.

‘No. Baby minder. Apparently, Spencer’s
mother has pollution issues. We’ll talk about that. Anyway, laters.’ And she was gone.

‘Shall we pop into reception, Mr Maxwell?’ asked the policeman. ‘Or shall we sit in the car?’

‘Car’s quieter,’ Maxwell said. And besides, there was often a police radio left switched on. It was wonderful how much information you could pick up that way.

Jacquie resisted the temptation to open the diary in the car. It really had to go to forensics. They had a way of opening books page by page, collecting anything that fell out. It was a moot point, though, whether it would be of any help. This notebook had been down the back of a bus seat, possibly for weeks, but hopefully only for one day. It had been in the front pocket of Maxwell’s knapsack for only an hour or two, but since his trusty bag had been with him since his, admittedly brief, Boy Scouting days, the DNA in there would be enough to tax Quantico. But, nevertheless, rules are rules and so it had to go to the lab. She found that she had taken the turn which would take her to Chichester and the main laboratory. She had to take a chance that the person left on duty when the team went out to Paintball Ltd would not be Angus.

‘Angus. Hello.’ Jacquie stood just inside the doorway of the laboratory looking with a sinking
heart at the long streak of piss that was the representative of God’s forensic scientist on Earth.

‘Jacquie. DS Carpenter. Mrs Maxwell.’ Angus always perked up when he saw Jacquie, although it would take another forensic technician to tell. He took casual to a new level. It would be interesting to pit him against Maisie, thought Jacquie, in a slumping contest. She wouldn’t care to bet on the ultimate winner.

Angus was a more than competent forensic scientist; he simply looked like a brainless moron and chose to sound pretty much like one too. His white coat and his PVC gloves were absolutely according to guidelines. His hair was pulled ruthlessly back in a scrunchie and the whole thing was covered with a white paper cap. He wore disposable theatre scrubs under the coat and on his feet he had a pair of Crocs, ultrasounded every day and encased in a fresh pair of paper slipovers. Despite this, had Jacquie been asked as she left the building to describe him, she would have been precise and to the point and, as far as her memory went, accurate. She would have said that he had curly hair falling all over his face. He was wearing a very old and rather grubby Soundgarden T-shirt, jeans with the knees out and motorcycle boots with the toes out. He was smoking the biggest joint she had ever seen. This was because Angus had a very strong self-image and, despite his white and clinical clothing, he still
felt
that he looked
like that, and belief can be catching. ‘Bones’ he was not.

‘DS Carpenter will be fine,’ she said crisply. ‘I have been handed this,’ she proffered the notebook, rather belatedly in an evidence bag, ‘by a member of the public. Can you go through it, please? We have reason to believe it belongs to a missing person.’

‘Right. Cool. As you see, I’m a bit understaffed at the moment. Body up at Leighford. Well, you probably know about that, eh?’

‘Um, yes. I’m on this different case, though.’ She tapped the notebook for emphasis.

‘Yeah, right, but a body, eh? Paintballing accident, they reckon.’ He rubbed his hands together. His eyes went misty. ‘I love a bit of paint analysis, me. Gas chromatography. Microspectrophotometry. Lovely.’ He smiled at the ceiling. ‘Loads of overtime.’ He came back to himself with a start. ‘Sorry. Went off on one there for a minute. Where was I?’

‘My notebook.’

‘Gotta requisition?’

‘Come on, Angus.’ Jacquie had learnt most of her wheedling techniques from Maxwell. ‘We understand each other, don’t we? We don’t need requisitions.’

‘Now, come on, DS Carpenter. You’ve got me in a lot of trouble in the past with this sort of behind-the-elbow sort of stuff.’

‘Behind the elbow?’

‘Erm … Dutch phrase. My girlfriend uses it. I like it. Did you know that you can’t kiss your own elbow?’

‘Dutch girlfriend? Goodness, Angus. You’ve become very cosmopolitan.’

‘We don’t get to see each other much,’ he confided. ‘She lives in Amsterdam. We met when I was over there last year. We talk a lot on the Net. Words like “dank u vell” and “slagroom”.’

For heaven’s sake, thought Jacquie. If I could just go one day without the dratted web getting in my way. ‘Lovely, Angus. But … my notebook?’

‘I’ll give it my best shot, DS Carpenter. But I can’t promise.’

‘Missing persons, Angus. Should take precedence over a dead body, surely?’ Jacquie leant over his countertop. She knew she was reaching in more ways than one.

‘Requisition, DS Carpenter. Takes precedence over you coming in here and trying to get round me.’

Jacquie straightened up, feeling a little ashamed that she had played the breasts card so blatantly. ‘Fair enough. I shouldn’t try to coerce you, Angus. It isn’t fair.’

‘No,’ he sulked. ‘It isn’t.’

‘But they’ll be a while, won’t they? Coming in with the clothes and everything? Can’t you get on with my notebook until they get here?’

Angus sighed. He really fancied this woman. And her old man was a good sort, despite what everyone said. ‘All right. I’ll give Donald a call and get him to give me a heads-up when they’ve delivered to him.’ The thought of Angus with a head up was rather amusing in itself. ‘Best I can do.’

Jacquie patted his gloved hand.

‘Oops,’ he said, sliding it off. ‘No touching, now.’ The pictures that went through his mind were best kept to himself.

‘Sorry, Angus,’ she said. ‘I’d better be off anyway. Give me a ring if anything turns up?’