Maxwell's Grave

by M. J. Trow

  By the end of that Saturday, Martin Toogood wasn’t sure he wanted to be a copper any more. All day, he’d been driving east, talking to a dead man’s colleagues. Now, as the sun flushed before setting, one ironic burst of gold after a long, grey day, he’d talked to a dead man’s wife.

  Susan Radley was a beautiful girl with coal black hair cut short at her cheek and shaved behind. Her eyes were dark circles of loss and bewilderment and despair. She’d sat, with her mother on one side and her father on the other, trying to make some sense of it all. She’d known David Radley since they were kids. To her, he’d been ‘Boo’ after the sinister, sad and, in the end, sweet character in To Kill A Mockingbird. And Boo Radley had come out, with her, while they were in the sixth form. University had been tough, because he’d gone to Oxford and she was at Reading, but they’d kept together through hideous phone bills and frantic car dashes and keeping focused on each other. Their wedding, six years ago, was all lace and froth and flowers – Toogood had been shown the photographs. They’d planned…oh, they had such plans. He was 32, a professor already. There were books, a television series in the offing. It was a fairytale.

  Now, the fairytale was a nightmare, and a darkly handsome young policeman coming to invite her to look at her husband’s corpse on a mortuary slab. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be a reason.

  Martin Toogood shoved his car into reverse and his wheels spun on the gravel. Saturday night and he had a body.

  Chapter Five

  Monday’s child wasn’t fair of face or anything else as Peter Maxwell wheeled into Leighford High. A soggy Saturday had given way to a sunny Sunday and the weather men had promised faithfully, running their seaweed worry beads through their hands, and in the name of Michael Fish, that things would stay that way for at least, ooh, 24 hours. After that, what with global warming, greenhouse gases, genetically modified foods, the transit of Venus, who the hell could say?

  But Leighford High wasn’t worried about the weather. The Tower Block always leaked, even, mysteriously, when it wasn’t raining; they’d all, over the years, got used to that. No, what exercised the minds of Senior Management that Briefing Day was the absence of Annette Choker. Nobody knew quite who’d invented Briefing. Some schools, of course, had one every day, which seemed rather over-kill. Perhaps ‘over-kill’ was an unfortunate phrase to use in the case of a missing schoolgirl. But at least Briefing gave the staff a chance to look all their colleagues in the face and wonder ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Taken Study Leave early, surely?’ Simon Pendlebury was the new bug in charge of the Art Department, all flowery shirts and home-made shoes.

  ‘You’re a Curriculum Manager, for Christ’s sake,’ Bernard Ryan, who happened to be standing close, hissed in his ear. ‘Act like it.’

  Peter Maxwell caught most of that and nearly had time to sit down when he realized, for the first occasion in their brief lives together, he actually agreed with something the Deputy Head had said. Ranged before him in the staff room were the motley misfits who were his colleagues – the dirty six dozen who’d somehow offended, upset the gods on high Olympus, drawn the short straw, whatever analogy appealed. And now, they were paying the price – doomed forever to face Satan’s legions across some fated classroom in the name of education, education, education.

  ‘No, it’s not that simple, Simon.’ James Diamond was the Headteacher of Leighford High School. Not its Headmaster – that post had been abolished when Political Correctness was born in the days when a spade was still called a spade. He was the wrong side of forty-five now, a whizz kid promoted way above his abilities because he had no whizz at all. A good classroom practitioner, an average Head of Science, he had been elevated to management by someone whose grasp of essentials had been very basic. He’d ridden it out now for too many years to turn back. And people snapped at his heels. Young climbers like Simon Pendlebury. Old bastards like…

  ‘With respect, Headmaster,’ all eyes turned to Peter Maxwell slouching in the corner. ‘Would you like to tell us all how complicated it actually is?’ This was pure theatre which everyone except the Senior Management Team loved. Heather Mortimer, Head of Drama, might as well forget The Rocky Horror Show and just charge admission to watch Mad Max in action. She’d have cleaned up.

  ‘I don’t think this is the time or place, Max,’ Diamond was feeling fairly prickly this morning. And it was never the time or place to tangle with Mad Max.

  ‘Again, with respect, Headmaster – and I choose my words carefully – bollocks. Annette Choker is a student at this school. We need to be told – the truth and all of it.’

  There were ‘hear hears’ and a muted ripple of applause around the room. Diamond knew when he was outgunned as he was every time against his Head of Sixth Form. He glanced hopefully at his Deputy, Bernard Ryan, but Ryan had tangled too often with Maxwell before and he still had the scars. Dierdre Lessing was his Senior Mistress, that quaint old phrase that had survived the ravages of time. She would have loved to have chewed up Peter Maxwell and spat him out, but she didn’t want an audience for that. She fought dirty and the glare of the staff room on a Monday morning was not the place to do it.

  ‘All right,’ Diamond said, alone in the solitude of command. ‘Annette Choker went missing from her home on Thursday night. She’d taken clothes and a sum of money. She hasn’t been heard of since.’

  ‘Any word on the streets, Sally?’ Maxwell called across to the tall, frizzy-haired girl who now wore the brief mantle of Year Head to Year Eleven. If anybody could pick up the goss, it was Sally Greenhow, one of the few good appointments Diamond had made.

  ‘Nobody’s talking,’ Sally said. ‘But if anybody does know anything…’ She looked expectantly around the room.

  ‘…They are to come and see me.’ Dierdre Lessing was keen to stamp her authority again; it had been slipping for some minutes. ‘This is now a police matter.’

  ‘It is a police matter,’ Diamond emphasised. ‘That’s what makes it all rather sub judice,’ and he glowered at Maxwell, hoping that a sense of decorum would quieten him, and that his lofty grasp of Latin would impress everyone else. ‘But, as Dierdre says, anything you may overhear in the course of the day…’ That man could repeat for England. ‘Any other announcements?’

  Yes, thought Maxwell; to John and Eleanor Fry, a bloody awful mess.

  ‘Just little Robbie Wesson,’ Sally Greenhow reminded everyone. ‘He found a body last Thursday. He’s a bit shaken up.’

  And it was typical of Simon Pendlebury that he was the only one laughing out loud as he left the staff room.

  ‘Max,’ Diamond caught the Great Man’s eye. ‘Could I have a word?’ He was being particularly sotto voce.

  ‘Headmaster?’

  ‘You used the word “bollocks” just then – I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘Headmaster,’ Maxwell was the epitome of concern. ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean everybody isn’t out to get you. You have a nice day, now, d’you hear?’

  On the way along the corridor, Peter Maxwell all but collided with Sylvia Matthews. ‘My place, Nursie,’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Two minutes.’

  She nodded and he bounded up the stairs. ‘Keep to the right, Barton, if you want to see another lunchtime.’

  Barton did and he complied pronto.

  Mad Max was in his Heaven again and all was right with the world.

  Twelve Bee One were already waiting as he hurtled in, ‘Good morning, boys and girls,’ he boomed.

  There was a twitter of response. ‘Not hearty enough,’ he shouted. ‘Good morning, boys and girls.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Maxwell,’ the unison was impressive. Not quite Greek chorus, but it would do.

  ‘Better, better. Now, work on that. Get yourselves into groups – God, how educationally switched on is that? Why is there never an Ofsted inspector around when these flashes come to me? Ponder this one; Uncle Joe Stalin, man or myth? You’ve got five minutes to exe
rcise your little grey cells,’ – it was pure David Suchet – ‘while I brew something hot, wet and brown next door and then I shall expect your words of wisdom – got that, Janet?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Maxwell.’

  ‘Good,’ and he winked at her, slapping her shoulder with the utmost tenderness as he left. ‘Oh, and Jeff?’ He paused at the door.

  The lanky lad at the back looked up. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Love you!’ and he blew him a kiss.

  Twelve Bee One fell about. Monday morning. Mad Max. An unbeatable combination.

  The kettle was already thundering to a crescendo in the Head of Sixth’s office when a panting Sylvia Matthews appeared.

  ‘Late, Nursie,’ he chided her, checking his watch. ‘I’m on my fourth cup.’

  ‘Sorry, Max.’ She flopped onto his indescribably uncomfortable furniture. ‘Three Morning Afters and a Possible Impetigo and it’s only…’ she checked her watch, ‘…twenty-past nine.’

  He passed her the steaming mug – as predicted: hot, wet, brown. ‘I feel I’ve slept through an entire day,’ he said. ‘Annette Choker. What news?’

  ‘The police were here on Friday.’

  ‘The police are always here.’

  ‘Jacquie…’

  ‘Jacquie?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen her?’

  ‘Since Friday, no.’ He closed the door and sat opposite her, mug in hand. ‘I rang her a couple of times over the weekend. No reply. It’s like that when she’s on a case.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t here about Annette. She was here about Robbie and finding the body. But you know all about that, surely?’

  ‘I do,’ he told her. ‘I was there too. That’s common knowledge, presumably.’

  ‘Well,’ she leaned back, raising an eyebrow. ‘Of the twelve or so people from Leighford High who were at that dig, only one of them has any sense of discretion – and that’s you, Max. Year Twelve have got verbal diarrhoea, Paul Moss is including it in his memoirs and Robbie…well, no, actually, Robbie’s pretty quiet. But he will talk about it. He’s talked to me. He’s talked to Sally. He’s talked to Jacquie.’

  ‘What about Annette?’

  ‘Friday afternoon we had another visit from a DC McCormick, pretty little kid, not long out of nappies…’

  ‘Why didn’t I know about any of this?’ Maxwell wanted to know.

  ‘Perhaps you were busy teaching, Max,’ Sylvia suggested. ‘I believe it’s what they pay you for.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ The Head of Sixth Form took a sip that scalded his mouth.

  ‘She talked to Sally, as Annette’s stand-in Year Head. And her Form Tutor.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Simon Pendlebury.’

  ‘God help us!’

  ‘Quite. She also talked to me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Maxwell looked at her. This was more promising. ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Max, I didn’t know what to say. And all weekend I’ve been agonizing about it. I picked up the phone to you more than once.’

  ‘What did Guy say?’

  ‘Talked me out of it.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What does “hmm” mean?’ Sylvia screamed at him, then remembered that Maxwell had a History class next door. ‘Max, we’re involved in this. We… I should have told somebody.’

  ‘You did,’ he said calmly. ‘You told me. If anybody is carrying any cans here, it’ll be me.’

  ‘No, no,’ she shook her head. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and teaching,’ he reminded her. ‘What did you say to this girl detective?’

  ‘She was in uniform. I said…God help me…I said it was possible that Annette was having a fling with someone, but that it was only a rumour and I didn’t know who.’

  ‘But it’s not a rumour,’ he corrected her. ‘And you do know who.’

  ‘Max!’ she screamed again. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Sorry, Sylv,’ he smiled and reached out to take her hand. ‘I notice our Mr Fry is absent today. As he was on Friday.’

  ‘Of course he is. They’ve run off together. It’s obvious.’

  ‘It would seem to be.’

  ‘And we’re…’

  ‘…Accessories before, during and after the fact.’ He finished the sentence for her. ‘I went to see him, you know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I confronted him. In a bizarre little scene like something out of Chekhov. Showed him the note.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Sylvia hissed. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He denied it, of course.’

  ‘Denied it?’ Sylvia was beside herself. ‘How could he? It’s in his handwriting.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then…’

  ‘Oh, that was only Round One. Round Two I’d planned for Friday. I was going to tackle him again, away from the home environment. Away from wifey.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Eleanor, isn’t it?’

  ‘She didn’t seem a very happy lady.’ Maxwell remembered her cold stare, the wandering around the kitchen, the sweep of her dress.

  ‘Would you be,’ Sylvia asked him, ‘if your husband was knocking off a fifteen-year-old?’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Maxwell conceded. ‘Anyway, Round Three was a bit banjaxed by events at the dig.’

  ‘Round Three?’

  ‘Well, it would have been difficult and I’d have probably brought you or Sally in. I was going to confront Annette.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Maxwell smiled. ‘And what does “hmm” mean?’ he asked her.

  She screwed up her face. ‘It means you ought to know better than exposing yourself to a teenaged girl.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Maxwell was good at mock outrage.

  ‘It would amount to the same thing. You’d get about as much co-operation as if you’d dropped your trousers.’

  ‘Always used to work behind the bike sheds in the good old days,’ Maxwell said, finishing his coffee.

  ‘Those were the Fifties,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Fifties?’ Maxwell frowned. ‘I’m talking about last term. See yourself out, Sylv. I’ve got a classroom of young hopefuls next door in desperate need of enlightenment. And don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t.’ She stood up to face him. ‘Tell me exactly what you intend to do.’ Sylvia Matthews had been here before. She’d loved this man once. Loved him still in a different way. She’d seen him hurt too many times. She didn’t want to see it again.

  He held her by the shoulders and kissed her on the tip of her nose. ‘I intend to make a rookie policewoman very happy and possibly earn her promotion and a few brownie points on her way crashing through the glass ceiling.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Max.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Trust me, lady,’ he said. ‘I’m a Head of Sixth Form.’

  ‘What have you got for me, Jim?’ Henry Hall was up to his eyes in paperwork and it was only day five of the Radley case.

  ‘Precious little, I’m afraid, Henry.’ Jim Astley was sitting at a desk too, at the other end of a phone line, his paperwork rather less intensive, but his problems no less daunting. ‘Radley’s vertebrae snapped at the third, spinal cord cut cleanly. Commensurate with hanging.’

  ‘He was hanged?’

  ‘No, no. Figure of speech. In the glory days before ’65. Judicial hanging always produced a clean break in the third vertebra – if it was done properly. Brilliant practitioners like Pierrepoint. Ah, good times.’

  ‘Come off it, Jim,’ Hall said, tilting his glasses back onto his hairline in a rare moment of relaxation. ‘Before your time, surely.’

  ‘Ah,’ Astley chuckled. ‘You say the nicest things, Chief Inspector. No, I was a mere shaver when that great government of ours decided to give murderers a second chance – none for their victims, you’ll notice…’

/>   ‘I’d love to talk ethics with you all day, Jim,’ Hall told him. ‘But I do have a body. Or rather, you do.’

  ‘Habeas corpus. Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Cause of the neck break?’

  ‘Blow to the side of the neck, left. Single blow, sharply delivered.’

  ‘Blunt object of some kind?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m damned if I know what. Wood? Iron? There’s nothing on the skin. Other than extensive bruising, I mean. Slight break and some bleeding commensurate with trauma like that.’

  ‘Do you know when he died? Where?’

  ‘One question at a time,’ Astley said. ‘Miracles take a little longer, you know, Henry.’ Hall had heard that one before. And from this man in fact. Pretty well in every case they’d worked together. ‘When?’ Astley began with that. ‘I would hazard a guess late on Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. I’d say he’d been dead about fifteen or sixteen hours when that deranged little child found him. Although, as you know, time of death is an infuriatingly inexact science.’

  Hall knew that. ‘What about place, then?’ He moved Astley on.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Where did he live?’

  ‘Near the Petworth campus, University of Wessex,’ Hall said. ‘Are you saying he died at home?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Astley told him. ‘But it’s possible. What was he wearing?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When anybody saw him last – what was he wearing; any idea?’

  ‘Not as such, no,’ Hall conceded. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It could be. You see, his shirt buttons weren’t done up properly. Now, I don’t know about you, but the last time I did that I was still in Infant School. Somebody stripped him and put on different clothes. Spooky, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m very busy, Mr Maxwell,’ Alison McCormick had just scraped into the police service on account of her height. She was more than a little sensitive about it and resented looking up at the bow-tied, weirdly capped man standing over her, peering through the Perspex. It had been a long, long day.