Maxwell's Revenge

by M. J. Trow

  Hall came back in to the room, shaking his head. ‘Check the number, Jacquie,’ he said.

  She punched the relevant key. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said. ‘Another phone.’

  ‘Criminals today just have money to burn,’ said Maxwell. ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

  ‘No, it was done through one of those voice changers.’ She stood there, with her phone in her hand, feeling helpless. As if to cheer her up, it rang. ‘DS Carpenter.’

  ‘Hello.’ The laid-back tones of Angus filled her ear. ‘How y’doing?’

  ‘Angus, he’s got another phone,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Yeah, well, he would have. They’re cheap now, aren’t they? Anyway, my mate’s nearly finished your voice thing. He says it will be done by midday or so.’

  ‘Angus, that’s great news. Shall we meet you both somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah, all right. I’m still in Leighford, I was on that shop. Oh, is …?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. Well, let’s say the Vine at one, shall we?’

  ‘Yeah. That sounds cool. See you there.’ And he rang off.

  ‘The Vine?’ said Hall, aghast. ‘Why there?’

  Jacquie shrugged. ‘It’s Angus,’ she said. No other explanation was needed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  And so the plans were laid. Jacquie and Hall were going to the nick in his car, to check on any progress, ring Leighford General to do a quick victim headcount and also, if time permitted, drop in on the Barlows, currently squatting at Mrs Barlow’s mother’s. Then, off to the dubious charms of the Vine, for something out of a sealed bottle to drink, something out of a sealed packet to eat.

  Maxwell was rather mutinous when his morning was mapped out for him. When Ninja woke up, he was to take her and Nolan for a quick shop in town. She could drive the Ka. He was not to mention anything about bent bumpers, scraped side panels or any other car-related things. He was not to mention alcohol. They would buy Nolan his prize courtesy of that nice Mr Hall and then come home to await news from Jacquie. They would take drinks in cans, boxes, bottles, whatever they fancied. What they would not do was accept food or drinks from strange men.

  Jacquie looked into his eyes and said, from her usual trusting stance of hope over experience, ‘You won’t do anything stupid, Max, will you? You won’t, oh, I don’t know, leave them and go chasing off or anything?’

  He would have tossed his head, but he knew he would probably pass out, so he didn’t.

  She could tell his intention and put her hands on his chest, palms flat. ‘Please.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘I’ll have Nole with me.’

  ‘And my mother.’

  ‘I thought I was just listing reasons to behave,’ he said, reasonably. ‘Off you trot with Henry, now, and let me know as soon as you get anything. I,’ and he drew himself up proudly, ‘will be carrying my mobile.’

  ‘And what good will that do? It hasn’t been plugged in for weeks to my certain knowledge. No, make sure Mum has hers. I’ll use that.’

  ‘Ja wohl, mein Fuhresse. I will obey.’ It was a first-rate Josef Goebbels.

  ‘Well, just make sure you do. Henry’s waiting in the car, so I must go.’ She sketched a kiss in his direction. ‘I’ll see you back here, later.’

  ‘Mwah,’ he called theatrically as she flew down the stairs. He looked thoughtfully after her for a moment and then turned and went into the lounge where Nolan was watching something multicoloured on the telly. Maxwell threw himself into the chair and Nolan immediately climbed aboard and curled up in his lap. Just a whisker behind, Metternich appeared from nowhere and curled up on Nolan. They both promptly went to sleep.

  Trapped, Maxwell let his mind wander and, as his son had so perspicaciously noticed, he did this best in a muttered undertone.

  ‘Count, are you asleep?’ The great beast shifted a paw and flicked an ear, which was the same as saying that, while to all intents and purposes he was sleeping, he was still awake to his master’s mutter and any passing rodent. ‘Right,’ Maxwell said, ‘pin your ears back, Watson, and see if you can pick the bones out of this one. Here we are, Sunday morning, nine-thirty and all’s not very well. Particularly the Leighford High staff and wannabees in the hospital. I have been bumping into a very strange man indeed since Wednesday lunchtime. You may remember him, Count: Dierdre Lessing’s Uncle Oliver. I have never been his favourite person, but he seems to be ignoring me these days. A bit of eye contact, but that’s all.’

  On cue, Metternich opened one eye and glared at the gabbling old fool. Did he never shut up?

  ‘That’s right,’ Maxwell said, approvingly. ‘That’s the kind of thing. Well, it seems to me that it’s a coincidence too far that he pops up and then someone at Leighford High School dies horribly. And that the occasion of the death is the interview for the replacement of his beloved niece. So, he works that out as a bit obvious, so he nicks the cocktail dishes. Although, of course, there was the one eaten by Freda which was clearly all right, unless she has the constitution of an ox. Which may in fact be the case, since she eats a lot of school dinner leftovers and is probably immune to every poison going. Hmm. But I digress. Unfortunately, he knocks Sylv over on his way out of my beloved institution and then goes home and worries about being recognised. So he starts a lot of other poisonings in the hope that he puts the police and, more importantly, moi, off the scent.’ He smiled complacently at the cat. ‘What do you think?’

  Metternich squeezed his eyes shut and put a paw over them for good measure.

  His owner, as he rather optimistically styled himself, sighed. ‘You’re right. It sounds a bit unlikely, but it’s all I’ve got. Unless …’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘unless we are all overlooking an even more obvious culprit, viz and to wit, not to mention to woo, Mr Sue Bevell. He had motive enough, God knows. If he can get thousands for a dodgy boiled egg in a hotel, how much more would he get for a dead wife? And someone did try again, didn’t they, only on her?’ He looked sternly at the cat. ‘This is your fault, Count. I would have been quite clear in my mind if it wasn’t for you.’

  The door opened at this pivotal point in his thought process and his mother-in-law-to-be stood there, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He suspected hair of the dog, but wisely held his counsel.

  ‘Are we ready, then?’ she said, rather superfluously, since she could clearly see that Maxwell and Son were still in pyjamas and Coco Pops. ‘Before I went upstairs, Jacquie mentioned a shopping trip.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Maxwell said, politely. ‘If you could just dislodge the cat, I’ll get us both ready. We won’t be more than about three hours, if memory serves. Nolan is a bit of a snappy dresser, as you know, and the right outfit can take a while.’

  She reached forward to pick up Metternich.

  ‘Take care,’ Maxwell began. ‘He has his claws in my … aarghh.’ He screamed quietly, but with fervour, as the steel needles of Metternich’s left front paw dug like lightning into the top of his thigh. Nolan stirred on his lap and the morning was underway.

  Shooing his son ahead of him up the stairs and only limping a little, he tried to marshal his thoughts of ten minutes before. In essence, it was Lessing or Bevell. Bevell or Lessing. It was no good trying to guess. He would take Nole and Ninja for a quick shop down on the Sea Front where the gift shops were still sopping up the last of the summer trade before closing tight for the winter. He would buy Nolan something that would prove to be just the first of a long and expensive set. He would send them back home for a nice lunch of tinned food from the cupboard. He would then wind up this case and be sitting, casually polishing his nails, when the police arrived to make an arrest. Then, on Monday morning, he would be all set to go back to Leighford High to complete his Plan, begun on Friday, to transform the school before Diamond’s return. And all this with concussion.

  ‘Your Daddy is a genius,’ he remarked to Nolan, dunking him in the bath. At this rate, the child would be washed into oblivion, but there was no other way half
so effective at removing errant cereal.

  ‘Yep,’ the boy agreed.

  This monosyllabic lark could be quite pleasant, thought Maxwell, squeezing the shampoo lavishly on the lad’s curls. Good for the ego.

  Finally, they were leaving the house. Nolan was washed and brushed. Maxwell was washed but not brushed, as the bruise on his temple made even the thought untenable. He had used to think that hair could not feel pain; he knew differently now. Ninja was looking remarkably chipper, except for possibly a little strain around the eyes. She and Nolan waited patiently while Maxwell locked the front door. As he turned to walk down the path, he was startled into an involuntary cry of alarm by Mrs Troubridge springing up from behind the hedge. He couldn’t believe she could still scare him, but she managed it every time. Before he could draw breath, Ninja was in there like a ninja.

  ‘Mrs Troubridge,’ she said, airily. ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘Marvellous, Betty,’ she carolled in reply. ‘And you?’

  ‘Wonderful. We’re off shopping.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Troubridge feigned amazement. ‘Are the off-licences open already?’

  Maxwell was transfixed, but knew that this exchange could go on and on. ‘Ladies, excuse me. We have a bit of a busy day ahead of us. Shall we?’ And he shooed Nolan and his Ninja down the path, waggling a farewell to Mrs Troubridge with his spare hand.

  At the kerb, the little procession stalled suddenly. ‘Where’s my car?’ Betty Carpenter might have had a huge hangover, but even she could tell the difference between this tiny thing and her pride and joy.

  ‘Oh, did Jacquie not say?’ Maxwell passed the buck adroitly. ‘She was a little stressed last night and just felt she would be happier driving home in her own car. Here are the keys.’ He jangled them in front of her. She felt as though the bells of St Mary’s were going off in her head. But there was no Bing to sing to her.

  ‘Well, all right,’ she said, snatching them to silence the noise. She walked round to the driver’s side. ‘It’s such a nuisance you can’t drive, Max,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t drive. Not can’t.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Isn’t that rather selfish?’

  He saw no reason to argue this particular toss. ‘Not really.’ He got into the back with his son. ‘I’ll be back here with Nole. The baby seat is still in your car.’

  Jacquie’s mother was not the most sensitive of women, but even she could tell a door shut in her face and, after some minutes of disgruntled tutting, she got the seat adjusted to her dumpy legs and off they went, in a series of kangaroo-like jerks. Maxwell wisely kept silent. He had no idea that she didn’t drive either. While they made their way to the Sea Front, he kept quiet. She was clearly not much of a multitasker where driving was concerned and he just spoke when a turn was necessary. He was planning where to park; somewhere easy was obviously the order of the day.

  ‘Where can I park, Max?’ she asked, rather spookily reading his mind. ‘Somewhere nice and easy. I’m not at all happy driving this car.’

  Maxwell couldn’t help himself. ‘It must be two feet shorter than yours and only half as wide.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, mysteriously. ‘Look, here’s a car park. Is this one all right for the shops?’

  Not only was it all right for the shops, it was also empty. Maxwell looked at his watch; the place should be heaving with people by now. ‘This is fine, yes, great. We can either go to the High Street or the Sea Front from here.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, driving in and stopping randomly. This was a case not so much of parking as abandoning the car. ‘Do we have to pay on a Sunday?’

  Maxwell chuckled. ‘Leighford Council would charge for parking on the Day of Judgement,’ he said. ‘Yawning graves and rivers of blood would not stop the wardens around here. You get Nole’s coat on for him and I will go and get the ticket.’ He strolled across to the machine and had to take a sizeable detour to avoid a gaggle of small, intense women with maps and binoculars round their necks who had just alighted from a minibus. They sounded like a flock of starlings in a roost and then, as if to complete the analogy, they suddenly wheeled in a body and headed off for the Sea Front.

  Back at the car, he stuck the ticket in the windscreen and they were off, in a curious tacking route dictated by Nolan’s insatiable curiosity.

  ‘He’s just like the Elephant’s Child,’ Betty Carpenter remarked.

  ‘As long as he doesn’t fall into the great green greasy Limpopo,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s a devil to get out of his clothes.’

  She looked amazed. ‘You know that story?’ she said.

  ‘Kipling? I should say so. You wonder how he got it all done, don’t you? All those books and then the cakes. A marvel.’

  She looked at him closely. If only she could tell when he was being serious, she thought, she would feel much more comfortable in his company. They walked on for a while, with the sea to their left on the other side of the coastal defences, chunks of concrete which were beginning to weather but would only ever look like chunks of concrete. To their right, the wide pavement of the Sea Front was a playground to Nolan, who ran ahead, chasing seagulls and dodging round the legs of the map-hung women.

  ‘What a lovely child,’ Maxwell heard one of them say. Then, his hackles rose and his adrenalin had him running. Her next sentence was the inevitable. ‘Would you like a sweetie?’

  ‘No!’ Maxwell yelled and was among them, scooping up his astonished son in his arms. Then, remembering his manners, he yelled, ‘Thank you.’ He skidded to a halt and turned to face the women, now clustering together and staring at him with big eyes. One or two on the edge of the group were trying to edge further in.

  The woman who had spoken turned to her friend. ‘I was only going to give him a sweetie,’ she said, drumming up support.

  ‘Yes,’ twittered the women, in out-of-kilter Greek chorus. ‘Just a sweetie.’

  ‘Do you watch the news?’ he asked of the crowd.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ they chorused. ‘That lovely Huw Edwards. Sir Trevor. Oh, yes.’

  ‘Local news?’

  They shook their collective head.

  ‘So you don’t know about our little poisoning scare, then?’

  They drew one breath. ‘Poison?’ they whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, brutally. ‘A random poisoner is at large in Leighford, ladies. So offers of food are a bit off-limits at the moment, as I am sure you understand. This little chap has already had a close shave.’

  ‘Ooh,’ they cooed, increasing their bird-like appearance. Thirty hands reached out to tousle his curls. ‘Poor little mite.’

  Maxwell doffed his hat. ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ he said. ‘And I hope I haven’t alarmed you at all.’

  The sweet-offerer was pushed forward. She seemed to have become their unofficial spokesperson. ‘We were going to have a fish-and-chip lunch before our walk,’ she said.

  ‘Well, ladies, that’s totally up to you,’ he smiled. ‘But I personally wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. This man is random, as I said. You can’t second-guess him at all.’

  They got into a huddle. Some had brought sandwiches, it appeared, and the Tottingleigh Townswomen’s Twitchers always shared everything; it was in their Constitution.

  The spokesperson turned to Maxwell. ‘Thank you for your warning, Mr …’

  ‘Maxwell,’ he said, redoffing his hat.

  ‘Maxwell. We will share out our sandwiches to avoid this lunatic.’

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Ladies …’ He stood aside as they streamed past him.

  ‘What a nice man, in the end,’ he heard one of the tail-end Charlenes say, ‘even though he does seem to have cereal in his hair.’

  Maxwell raised his hat again and investigated. Sure enough, one small Coco Pop was nestling there. He removed it and threw it to a grateful seagull.

  Nolan, who had remained silent throughout the experien
ce, now spoke. ‘Dadda,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want sweetie.’

  ‘Good boy,’ Maxwell said and shooed him back to his grandmother.

  ‘I didn’t want sweetie,’ he said again.

  Ah, the repetitive stage. Goodie. ‘That’s great, old chap,’ said Maxwell, absently.

  ‘I didn’t want sweetie, becos,’ he insisted, ‘the nasty man is over there.’

  Maxwell’s head snapped up and he instantly regretted it. ‘Where?’

  Nolan’s little finger waved vaguely towards the shops, where the sea defence ended and the normal-width pavement began. The twitchers had gathered there and seemed to be planning a route, with much random pointing going on.

  ‘I can’t see him, sweetheart,’ he said, bending down. ‘Point for me again.’

  The child was getting testy. ‘There,’ he said, pointing in a stabbing motion. ‘With the ladies.’

  Betty Carpenter was standing behind them, shading her eyes with one hand and scrabbling in her bag for her distance glasses with the other.

  ‘Ninja,’ Nolan was tugging on her jacket. ‘The man.’

  Finally, she had her glasses on and looked hard at the group. Suddenly, she grabbed Maxwell’s shoulder with surprisingly strong fingers. ‘My God, Max,’ she whispered. ‘He’s right. It is the same man. Well, it’s a man who was there at the time.’

  ‘And only Nolan knows which one gave him the lolly.’ He squeezed his son hard and kissed the top of his head. ‘Well done, mate,’ he said, quietly. ‘A chip off the old block.’ He stood up.

  ‘Yes, but which block?’ Jacquie’s mother said. Maxwell glanced at her and saw that she was smiling.

  He smiled back. ‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Look, Betty, stay here with Nole. If I don’t come back in, let’s say half an hour, ring Jacquie. Tell her I’m after Oliver Lessing. Have you got that?’ She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you here. I’m going to go and speak to the rancid old bugger. I had him in the frame all along, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow and her daughter flitted across her face. ‘Who did you tell?’