Maxwell's Revenge

by M. J. Trow

  Maxwell and Betty Carpenter hastened through the deserted town centre, the speed as near to a run as two people who will never see fifty again could maintain. They scanned constantly, turning their heads this way and that, jumping at every blowing newspaper, dashing off in pursuit of every shadow. The helicopter drone they barely noticed. It was probably a coastguard sweep. Routine. They were certainly unaware of the squad cars prowling past the Flyover. They were alone, apart from the occasional hardened drinker heading towards the Vine, the only pub which had bothered to open in what had rapidly become a siege town. News travels fast. Bad news travels faster and the growing crowd at the police station were sending out signals on every frequency. Leighford was battening down its hatches. They could hear a measured tread behind them, but knew it wasn’t their quarry. For a start, they reasoned, he was ahead of them. And his flat feet would flap on the paving stones of the pedestrian precinct they were now in like gunshots.

  Maxwell suddenly stopped and triangulated like a hound on the scent. ‘Betty,’ he whispered. ‘Can you hear that?’

  She came and stood alongside him. ‘Footsteps,’ she said. ‘Behind us.’

  ‘No, not that. That other sound. It’s got an echo; it’s hard to make it out.’

  She listened harder, funnelling a hand to her ear. It made her look as if she was auditioning for a role in Macbeth. She bent her head and closed her eyes. Then, suddenly opening them wide, she turned to Maxwell. ‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘That way.’

  They dashed off down the alleyway to their left, chasing the dark elusive butterfly of death.

  All too soon, Jacquie and Hall were at the Vine. No one knew how the pub had managed to survive, taking up valuable wine bar space in the middle of Leighford Town Centre. But there it was, large as life and twice as smelly. Mad Artie was noticeable by his absence. His ancient mother, who kicked him out every morning to give her space to ply her dwindling trade, had a lie-in on a Sunday, so the air in the lounge bar was merely noisome, rather than noisome and blue. The police persons walked in gingerly. It certainly wasn’t wise to stand still for too long; the legend went that people who stood on one spot could be seen to sink into the soggy carpet, until they were beyond human aid.

  A wordless shout called them over to the bar. Angus lounged there, with a half-drunk pint in front of him. The barman was leaning close by, fidgeting with an empty glass, its froth-flecked sides still wet with condensation.

  Hall and Jacquie made their way from the door, with that sidelong look adopted by the approacher to the approachee; it was not appropriate to wave, and yet some kind of greeting was needed. Thank goodness it was a small room, thought Jacquie. There was no need to call back.

  ‘Angus,’ Hall said, shortly. ‘Are we on the clock?’

  ‘Mr Hall,’ Angus said, stirring himself rather more than was usual. ‘I’m not in this game for the money, you know. I’m in it for the cause of justice.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Hall said. ‘Do you have the remastered voice tape?’

  ‘Tape?’ Angus laughed and moved his gum to the other side. He took another swig of his beer. ‘CD-ROM, you mean.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Angus,’ Hall exploded. ‘What’s the point of that? We need to hear it now.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ Angus said, reaching down to the side of his stool. ‘I’ve got my laptop with me. I’ve come more or less straight from that shop where the poisoner was caught. Well, nearly caught; how is Mr Maxwell, Jacquie?’

  ‘That’s DS Carpenter, to you,’ snapped Hall.

  Oh, great, thought Jacquie. Years of schmoozing gone West. She gave Angus a rueful smile.

  The boffin looked at Hall with just a hint of annoyance. Angus was not easily moved, to anger or anything else, but Hall got right up his nose. He waved a plug aimlessly in the air. ‘I’ve had this running on battery almost all night. Jeff, have we got an extension lead we can use?’

  ‘Is it hot in here?’ the barman said, a propos of nothing.

  ‘Not especially,’ Angus said. ‘Do you have an extension?’

  ‘No,’ the barman said, swatting a fly only he could see. ‘It is hot in here.’ He threw his arms around madly, and twitched his head. ‘Get off,’ he cried, and fell suddenly to the floor, the thud accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.

  Angus reacted with lightning speed. He leapt to his feet and put his hands on the bar, launching himself over, kicking over the glasses and a bowl of peanuts as he did so. Hall and Jacquie were both impressed and amazed and, with deference to their age and rank, dashed for the flap at the end, to let themselves through. When they reached the other side, an unexpected and unpleasant sight met their eyes. The barman, Jeff, was half sitting, half lying in a pool of alcopop, which fizzed and spluttered in a desultory way. On top of him lay Angus, retching and heaving as his system tried to rid itself of the poison inside.

  Hall was on his knees, pulling the boffin off the barman, who was in a bad way, that was obvious. His colour was horrible, his eyes were rolled up, his breathing shallow. Blood trickled from glass cuts in his scalp. The DCI turned to Jacquie. ‘Mind the glass. Some of it is from their glasses; we’ll need that for analysis. And the peanuts, they’ll need collecting up as well. That’s for SOCO, though. Call the paramedics.’

  She turned to face outwards from the bar, pulling out her phone as she did so. She dialled and the seconds it took for the call to go through seemed endless.

  ‘Police, fire or ambulance?’ the disembodied voice said.

  ‘Ambulance and police, the Vine public house, Leighford High Street.’

  ‘Could you give me details, caller?’

  ‘They are the details. Just get them here, now,’ Jacquie snapped. ‘I am DS Jacquie Carpenter, Leighford CID, and this is an emergency.’

  ‘They’re on their way,’ replied the imperturbable voice. ‘Do you need further assistance?’

  ‘No,’ Jacquie sighed, and rang off. She turned back to where Hall had turned the barman on his back and was giving mouth-to-mouth, an unlovely task on many levels. Angus was groaning, doubled up on the floor. She reached down and touched his arm.

  ‘Angus? Angus, it’s Jacquie. Can you get up?’

  He shook his head and retched again.

  ‘Come on, Angus. It’s more comfy on the other side of the bar. Let’s get you to a chair, or a nice bench or something. You’re in Mr Hall’s way. Come on,’ and she coaxed him, using all the skills honed on the North Face of Nolan at bedtime, to get him to stand, to walk and finally to sit down out in the lounge.

  He sat with his head on his knees, moaning faintly and sometimes giving a half-hearted heave, but he wasn’t sick again. Finally, she reached into her bag and brought out a bottle of water. ‘Come on, Angus. Take a sip of this.’

  He backed away from it, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

  ‘No, come on, Angus, don’t be silly. You heard me break the seal. This water has been in my fridge for over a week and then in my bag. It hasn’t been poisoned, I promise you. Look,’ and she took a swig. ‘See?’

  Reluctantly, he took the bottle from her and drank, sips at first and then great pulls until the bottle was empty. He gave it back to her and nodded his thanks. His voice was hoarse when he asked, ‘How’s Jeff?’

  ‘Not too good,’ Jacquie said. ‘Mr Hall is working on him.’

  ‘Hall?’ Angus was surprised. ‘Is he any good?’

  ‘The best,’ said Jacquie. ‘He’s in good hands, Angus.’ It seemed almost cruel, but she had to ask. ‘Was your beer from a bottle or a pump?’

  ‘A pump,’ Angus said. ‘But Jeff changed the barrel and washed the lines out. In fact, it improved the taste; hygiene isn’t much of a thing with old Jeff.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then he pulled two pints.’ Angus was struggling to focus, to remember. ‘He drank his straight off and had another. I was feeling a bit fragile, in fact. I was working in the lab last night, when I called you. I was just going home when the
y called about the shop, so I came straight over. That took ages; I’ve only had a few hours on a mate’s sofa, so I didn’t really feel much like beer, to be honest.’ He was getting into his stride. ‘He was knocking back the peanuts as well. I don’t eat peanuts in bars.’

  ‘Allergy?’

  ‘No. I did a dissertation on the number of different organisms in a typical pub plate of peanuts for my MSc.’

  If Jacquie was amazed, she managed not to show it.

  ‘So, long story cut short, I don’t eat peanuts in bars.’

  ‘Fair comment,’ she said. ‘So, let’s get this right. Jeff had one whole pint and you had a half; in other words, what we saw in your glass was the leavings of your first glassful.

  ‘That’s right. But Jeff had had two; his empty glass was the second.’

  ‘Have there been any other drinkers in here today?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But you could ask the barman from the dining room side. He would know.’

  Jacquie’s head came up, a deer at the waterhole. ‘There’s another barman? Where is he?’

  ‘I dunno. In the other bar.’

  ‘But, Angus,’ Jacquie tried to be gentle. ‘Surely, he would come round when he heard the commotion?’

  ‘Y’d think,’ said Angus, reverting to type. ‘Look, Jacquie, can I lie down? I really want to lie down.’ And he twisted himself round and lay awkwardly across two chairs and closed his eyes. Jacquie checked that he wouldn’t fall off and, satisfied, turned back to the bar. Hall was just rising into view, like the Kraken surfacing for the last time. He was still looking down at the horror he had been dealing with at his feet. He turned his head and looked Jacquie in the eyes. He shook his head slightly and turned to the flap. He was walking heavily, holding on to the bar. He slumped down on a stool.

  Jacquie went over to him and righted Angus’s overturned seat. She sat down and faced her boss. It was time for some straight talking. ‘This isn’t our fault, guv,’ she said. ‘It was done before we got here.’

  ‘And you call that not our fault?’ Hall said, dully. He looked at his hands for a moment, then clapped them on his knees. ‘Come on, Jacquie,’ he said. They could hear the squeal of the squad car outside, probably one re-routed from Rob Illingworth’s back-up team. The paramedics would be with them. ‘Let’s get back to the nick, see what’s happening there. If we can, we’ll go in through smokers’ corner.’

  They made their way to the door and almost collided with a stream of SOCOs and green-clad paramedics. Hall didn’t know the uniformed sergeant in charge. He gestured behind the bar. ‘One dead, I think,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to call it. One over there on those chairs. Arrest him. Read him his rights and take him to the hospital. Don’t leave him till I get there.’ He pushed past his puzzled men and went out into the fresh air. ‘In fact,’ he added for Jacquie’s ears only. ‘Don’t leave him even when I get there for his own safety.’

  ‘But, guv …’ Jacquie frowned.

  ‘No, Jacquie.’ He spun round to face her. ‘I know you like Angus. We all like Angus, in the sort of way that we like any strange and mildly ugly animal as invented by David Attenborough. But he’s our man, make no mistake.’

  ‘But, guv, what about the other barman?’

  Hall stopped in his tracks. ‘Other barman? What other barman? I didn’t see another barman.’

  ‘That’s my point. There is another barman, through in the other bar. But he didn’t come round when he heard the noise. Surely, an innocent man would.’

  Hall pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The seat dedicated to Jock was handy and he sat down on it gratefully. Finally, he said, ‘I still think Angus is our man.’

  ‘You may be right, guv,’ said Jacquie, placatingly. ‘But we must find the barman as well. He may have had a drink and be unconscious somewhere.’

  Hall pushed himself back to his feet. Somewhere, the little fuel gauge that monitored his brain was saying empty. Any minute, the light would come on to warn him he would stop dead within the next hundred yards. But until that happened, he must soldier on. He walked back to the pub and put his head round the door. She heard him bark orders, but couldn’t hear what they were, then he was back with her and shepherding her along with a hand on the small of her back. ‘Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Right you are, guv,’ she said and in the same, companionable two and a half mile pace as they had arrived, they walked away. As they turned the corner towards the nick, her phone rang.

  ‘DS Carpenter,’ she said.

  The town centre was still deserted, although that wouldn’t be the case for long. The curious ghouls who were attuned to such things would soon be out in force, herded behind the police tape, watching every come and go of the professionals inside. Word would be on the streets. There was another one at the Vine. The sun beat down, warm and lazy as syrup and gilded the statue of Councillor MacIllwain, looking out over his Memorial Garden for eternity. Somewhere, high up above the shop fronts, a wisp of smoke rose into the air, a little hint of autumn, a warning that the year was turning. A swallow turned and dived and spiralled in the sky. A lark sang over the Dam.

  And a murderer swaggered, unremarked, through the town centre of Leighford, his waiter’s apron slung casually across his shoulder.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maxwell had to give Betty her due. Her turn of speed was unremarkable, but her stamina was amazing. She had fallen into the kind of dogged slog he had always imagined a Roman soldier had adopted. She tipped her weight slightly forward and let gravity do the work and he kept up with her with difficulty. He put a tick in the ‘pro’ box, to balance cons like budgie poo toast and ecru trims. Every little helps.

  Every now and then, they would stop and listen for the flapping of their quarry. Eventually, they were close enough to hear him quite clearly, his slightly laboured breathing and the muttering under his breath. Then, they heard what they had been waiting for: the footsteps slow and stop. They looked at each other in triumph. They had him. They had worn him out. They slowed their pace to a walk and regained the power of, if not speech, then at least a kind of gasping whisper.

  They came to a T-junction, where the narrow alley between the backs of shops gave way to a wider, paved walkway, where tubs of late geraniums, dusty with the lateness of the year and stunted by their diet of cigarette ends and wee, gave a brave splash of colour. They crept up to the corner and looked carefully round, one way, then the other.

  ‘Nothing!’ wheezed Maxwell. ‘Where has the old bugger gone?’

  ‘He must live in one of these houses,’ Betty said, forcing the words out with a breath. ‘You know him, I thought you said. Do you know which one?’

  ‘No,’ Maxwell said. ‘I knew him a year or so ago. He … well, he left Leighford under rather a cloud and I was amazed to find him back. This isn’t where Dierdre, that’s his niece, from school, lived. I can only assume he bought this recently, or is renting. But, hell and damnation, Betty. We were doing so well.’

  ‘Let’s face it,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to call Jacquie.’

  Maxwell looked at her for the first time since their hunt was up. ‘I don’t like to say this, Betty, but she will go stark raving mad if she sees you like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ She tried to swivel her eyes round to see her own face; a good trick if successful but, yet again, she failed.

  ‘Bright red, sweating and bug-eyed, if I may borrow a phrase from Year Nine. She’ll think I have been mistreating you.’

  ‘Why would she assume that?’ she asked waspishly.

  ‘No reason,’ he said, innocently. ‘But anyhoo, let’s leave the call a while, shall we? He might still break cover.’

  ‘You make him sound like a fox or something.’

  ‘Rat, more likely. Let’s just get our breath and we can plan the next move.’

  They leant against the wall while the cells in their furthermost reaches waited patiently for oxygen. They both heard the voice at once.

&nbs
p; ‘Mr Maxwell? Cooee.’

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Maxwell asked as they spun round trying to find the source of the call.

  A gate creaked down the lane and an elderly head peeked out. ‘Hello,’ it called. ‘Down here.’

  ‘It’s a trap,’ Betty hissed. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘You can’t kill with poison when the victim knows about it,’ Maxwell said. ‘Come on,’ and he trotted off towards the gate, which Lessing had left tantalisingly ajar.

  The house beyond the fence was, like Maxwell’s, a tall town house, but older and very narrow. They were in the back garden, a neat little rectangle which owed much to Alan Titchmarsh and his crew. A path wound up between banks of shrubs to a small gravelled area just by the patio doors. On the gravel, his back to the house, like an animal at bay, stood Oliver Lessing. On close inspection, he was no more attractive than their fleeting impressions had led them to think. He was scrawny, his head balanced on a neck too thin for it, poking out from the collar like a Galapagos tortoise at the end of its second century. His legs stuck from his wide shorts like celery, white despite a summer’s exposure whilst watching birds and anything else that took his fancy. His feet were encased in weathered Crocs, on which an incongruous bird had been buttoned. Altogether, an unappealing sight. He was wearing thick gardening gloves and appeared to be busying himself tidying up the borders around the gravel.

  ‘Hello, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘Welcome to my home. And you must be …?’

  ‘Mrs Carpenter,’ Betty said, as though at a vicarage garden party.

  He looked at her with his head on one side, looking for all the world like a puzzled emu. ‘I thought you’d be younger,’ he said. ‘Late baby all round, was he, the little chap?’

  ‘I’m his grandmother,’ Nolan’s grandmother said, grandly.