When Did You Last See Your Father?

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Leon, this is nothing to do with the suitability of you and Max as parents. It’s not even anything to do with Matthew himself. It’s Ronan and revenge. John Maxwell doesn’t know it but he’s just his tool.’

  ‘But a powerful one.’

  ‘As you say – a powerful one.’

  I stared at the ground and thought. Yes – John Maxwell was a powerful man. With influence and authority. If he spoke – people would listen. That was the problem. And it might also be the solution.

  ‘Edward, I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

  ‘Where’s Max now?’

  ‘In her office. She doesn’t yet know he’s here. Are you suggesting we attempt to keep it from her?’

  ‘No, I think that would only result in our deaths and the subsequent destruction of everything within a five-mile radius. Where is John Maxwell at this moment?’

  ‘Being entertained by Mrs Partridge.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, carefully.

  ‘A good PA is an invaluable tool,’ he said, serenely.

  I’d been thinking. I had just the glimmerings of an idea but it would have to do. ‘Can you buy me some time?’

  ‘How much time?’

  ‘Not less than thirty minutes.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I always enjoy a challenge. I shall give you an hour.’

  About to stride away, I had a sudden thought. ‘I should see Max.’

  He shook his head. ‘I do not think that is a luxury either of you can afford at this moment. There are other priorities. She will understand when I explain it to her.’

  I must have looked unconvinced because he added, ‘Trust me to look after her, Leon.’

  ‘Don’t let her kill him.’

  He seemed disappointed.

  ‘In fact, don’t let her speak at all.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know, but he will be looking to manipulate her, antagonise her, provoke her into doing something . . . unwise. None of that will be possible if you can persuade her just to sit silently and make no move at all. Tell her, please, I need her to keep all his attention on her while I fix things.’

  ‘And not kill him.’

  ‘But only because I have a much better idea.’ I turned away and opened my com. ‘Mr Markham, can you spare me a moment, please? It is rather urgent.’

  Saying I had an idea might have been overstating things slightly but I did have a few vague thoughts and we could make up the rest as we went along. And people think it’s only the History Department that can improvise in a crisis.

  I met Markham in the Great Hall. Everything there seemed normal – there was no shouting – well, no more than in our usual working day. No shouting was coming from Max’s office or screaming from Dr Bairstow’s.

  I think Markham was all set for a cheery greeting and then he saw my face.

  ‘What can I do?’

  We had a short conversation and then he disappeared and I went off to see Polly Perkins.

  Fifty-five minutes later and five minutes ahead of schedule, he and I were pulling out through the gates. I was driving.

  ‘I’ll pull over outside the pub,’ I said. ‘We’ll wait there.’

  We sat for a while in silence and then I said, ‘Tell me you wore gloves.’

  He treated that remark with the contempt it deserved.

  ‘And that Polly did too.’

  He sighed loudly. An underestimated hero, struggling against the many injustices of the world.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  We didn’t have to wait for long. A smartly understated black saloon purred past and disappeared out of the village. I pulled out after it.

  ‘Not too close,’ warned Markham. ‘He doesn’t know either of us but we can’t take any chances.’

  I nodded. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Glove compartment,’ he said, and pulled out three mobiles, still in their boxes. They didn’t seem something that the ­Security Section would normally possess, so God knows where he’d got them from. I was too grateful to ask.

  ‘You’re sure they’re untraceable?’

  ‘Absolutely guaranteed,’ he said confidently.

  ‘OK. Make the call.’

  He dialled the number which must have been answered almost immediately.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, in a disconcertingly accurate impersonation of a nervous old lady. ‘I’m not sure if it’s you I want but there’s a car just gone past and I’m sure he’s drunk. He was all over the road. He nearly hit that child. You should do something about it . . . What? . . . Oh, on the Rushford road, just past the petrol garage. Big, black car. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to drive.’ He switched the phone off, removed the card and threw everything out of the window into the hedge. He picked up another phone, dialled and put it on speaker. ‘Your turn.’

  A voice answered. I didn’t give it a chance to speak.

  ‘Listen, mate. I’m just outside Whittington and you want to do something about this. Bastard nearly hit me. Doing a ton and all over the shop. Pissed as a newt. Bound to be. Black car. One of them big jobs. He’s gonna kill someone before long. Heading for Rushford. You wanna stop him before he hits the ring road.’ And nodded to Markham to end the call.

  ‘Nice,’ said Markham admiringly. I don’t know why he thinks he’s the only one with criminal talents.

  That phone went into the hedge, too.

  We stayed well back, just catching a glimpse of his taillights every now and then.

  ‘Good job the road’s empty,’ said Markham, cheerfully, and I could only agree, because John Maxwell was travelling too fast and cornering too wide for my peace of mind. This was the weak spot in our plan. It was vital for everyone’s safety that John Maxwell was apprehended before he reached the ring road. It wasn’t part of my plan to put anyone’s life at risk.

  Markham laughed, suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking, if Max was here she’d be turning the air purple cursing our wonderful police force who turn up at the most inconvenient moments and yet aren’t anywhere in sight when you need them.’

  The third phone rang. It was Edward.

  ‘Everything is in hand,’ I said. ‘How is Max?’

  ‘Exceeding expectations,’ was all he said, and rang off.

  ‘Wonder what that means,’ said Markham, curious.

  ‘Either she’s being astonishingly well behaved or she’s gone ahead and murdered him and disposed of the body and we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said comfortably. ‘Either is good.’

  Indicating, I turned on to the ring road. The black car was about a hundred yards ahead of us and just beginning to speed up.

  I was just doing the same myself when a police car, blue lights flashing, zipped past us in the fast lane. There was a brief blast of siren and the black car obediently pulled over.

  ‘What a solid citizen,’ said Markham in much the same tones that anyone else would say, ‘What a tosser.’

  ‘Not for long.’

  The black car had halted and so did we, pulling up on to the hard shoulder about a hundred yards behind. Close, but not too close.

  ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ said Markham, ‘if this all goes tits up, do we have a Plan B?’

  I thought of the gun under my seat. ‘Oh, I expect I’ll think of something.’

  We’d stopped on a slight bend which kept us mainly out of sight unless you really looked. Ahead of us, the police officers were slowly climbing out of their car. Markham was fumbling with something.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Directional microphone, mate. Don’t you want to hear what’s happening?’

  ‘Where did you get that?’

&nbs
p; ‘Came out of one of the pods.’

  I resolved to have a word with Mr Lindstrom later.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Markham. ‘Did you bring popcorn?’

  Two policemen were approaching the black car. We could hear their footsteps quite clearly.

  ‘Good quality sound, isn’t it?’ said Markham.

  ‘The best money can buy and not designed for this purpose.’

  ‘Do you want me to nip back and replace it?’

  The police officers had arrived at the car. ‘Could you turn the engine off, please, sir?’

  ‘Good afternoon, officers.’

  ‘For all the world as if he hasn’t got a thing to hide,’ said Markham.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. Is this your car?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  We could hear some rummaging around. Presumably he was looking for the paperwork.

  ‘And your licence, sir?’

  More breathing and fumbling.

  ‘The sound really is very good,’ said Markham admiringly.

  ‘Dr Maxwell?’

  ‘Well, Mr Maxwell, actually. I’m a surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital just outside Manchester. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Talking too much,’ said the expert beside me. ‘Never volunteer information.’

  ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

  ‘Have a heart, officer. I haven’t had lunch yet.’

  ‘So, you haven’t been drinking, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m scheduled for theatre this afternoon so definitely not.’

  ‘Only we’ve had several reports of erratic driving. Big, black car. Just like this one.’

  ‘Well, it can’t have been me. I’m just coming from a meeting and I’m on my way home. As I say, I’m in theatre at four o’clock so I’d better get a move on.’

  We could hear footsteps crunching and I watched one of them wander around the car.

  ‘They really are buggers, aren’t they,’ said Markham amiably. ‘They work on the principle that everyone’s guilty of something and if they stare at you long enough you’ll break down and tell them everything they want to know.’

  ‘Any minute now,’ I said.

  ‘Any minute now, what?’

  ‘She’ll find the broken rear light.’

  ‘Which broken rear light?’

  ‘The one Dieter prepared earlier.’

  ‘There was no need, you know. They’ve stopped him on suspicion of drink driving. They don’t need a pretence to search him or his car.’

  ‘No, in Dieter’s case, I think it was just mindless vandalism. He was bored.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  ‘Could you step out of the car, please, sir?’

  ‘Look, officer, this is ridiculous. I haven’t been drinking and I have a long journey ahead of me. I can’t afford to hang around with this nonsense.’

  He might as well not have bothered.

  ‘If you could step out of the car, please, sir.’

  There was some sort of exasperated grunt and then the driver’s door was opening and we had our first glimpse of John Maxwell.

  He was a big, bulky man, made bigger and bulkier by his driving coat. ‘Bet he’s the sort of pillock who wears a yachting cap,’ said Markham, on no grounds whatsoever.

  His dark hair was only slightly streaked with grey. Annoyingly, I had more grey hair than he did. ‘He probably dyes it,’ said Markham, who, on top of everything else, is obviously telepathic. ‘Wonder where Max gets her red hair from.’

  John Maxwell heaved himself out of the car and staggered slightly. Markham gave the contented sigh of one who has witnessed a difficult task well achieved.

  ‘Steady on, sir,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Don’t read too much into it, officer. I caught my foot in the sheat belt.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘Slurring his speech,’ said Markham with satisfaction. ‘That always allays suspicion and puts people’s minds at rest. And here comes Mr Breathalyser. Do we know what Mrs Partridge put in his tea? Is it likely to prove fatal?’

  ‘It was in the milk,’ I said, ‘because neither Max nor Dr Bairstow takes milk and it was important they drank the tea, too. And I’ve no idea what it was. I know R&D knocked it up in about three minutes flat, so your guess is as good as mine. He might begin to glow green at any moment now.’

  Back at the car there was some argument but the traffic zipping past on the bypass meant we couldn’t always hear as well as we would like. The body language was clear enough, though. John Maxwell was displaying all the indignation of a man unjustly accused of having a couple of drinks with a lunch he hadn’t even had yet and the police had adopted the world-weary stance of those who’d heard it all before.

  ‘I’m not normally in favour of the police not believing a word you say,’ said Markham, thoughtfully. ‘Suspicious bastards that they are, but in this case . . .’

  ‘Suspicious enough to find it, I hope.’ I let go of the steering wheel and wiped my suddenly sweaty palms. Because if this didn’t work I couldn’t even begin to imagine what our future would be like. If Max lost Matthew again . . .

  ‘Trust me,’ said Markham with confidence. ‘They’re like bloodhounds. Not very bright, but very, very tenacious.’

  ‘Far be it from me to question your canine expertise,’ I said, glad of the distraction, ‘but I think you mean bulldogs.’

  ‘Are they the ones who never let go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then yes, I mean bulldogs.’

  We sat in silence, watching the drama unfold.

  John Maxwell, unjustly accused citizen, secure in the knowledge he hadn’t been drinking, seemed to be offering to stand on one leg.

  ‘Don’t do it, mate,’ advised Markham. ‘I can only stand on one leg when I have been drinking.’

  We watched.

  ‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ said Markham. ‘Do you think he’ll have the sense to stand still, shut up and demand his solicitor?’

  ‘He knows he hasn’t been drinking,’ I said. ‘He knows he’s done nothing wrong. I’m betting he’ll take the test, and then when he fails, make matters considerably worse either by abusing them and their equipment or trying to bribe them.’

  ‘Oh, not the old trick of passing over your licence with a couple of twenties wrapped round it. Trust me – that never works.’

  ‘Would you mind blowing into this, sir?’

  ‘Officer, this is ricid . . . ridiculous. I swear I haven’t been drinking. In fact, I’ve been in a meeting all morning with the history people at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Well, that’s just added twenty years to his sentence,’ murmured Markham. ‘They won’t have forgotten having to get Bashford down from that church tower last year. Bloke’s an idiot.’

  Whether he was referring to Bashford or John Maxwell was unclear.

  Back at the car again, John Maxwell had stopped protesting long enough to blow into the breathalyser. Everyone peered at the readout and we didn’t need Markham’s directional microphone to hear John Maxwell’s bellow of rage. His attempt to get back into his car was not appreciated. There was a brief struggle with an inevitable outcome. A roaring John Maxwell was face down on his own bonnet while his hands were handcuffed behind his back. Passing traffic was slowing down for a good look.

  ‘We oughtn’t to stay much longer,’ warned Markham. ‘They’ll call for backup and a low-loader and it’s rather going to complicate the issue if you’re found here, and if I’m found here, there’ll be shit and fans in all directions.’

  ‘I want to be sure they don’t miss it,’ I said. ‘Polly Perkins put a lot of work into that. I don’t want to go back and tell her she’s wasted her morning.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Outer pocket
of his driving coat. Silly sod gave his coat to Mrs Partridge to look after. Seemed to think she’d been put on this earth for the sole purpose of holding his coat.’

  He sighed. ‘Death’s too good for some people.’

  They hauled the former pillar of the community off the bonnet. He was swaying on his feet.

  ‘They’ll search him now,’ said Markham. ‘And the car.’ And indeed, the more senior officer was asking him if he had anything dangerous concealed in his pockets. ‘Told you we should have brought popcorn.’

  I sat up. This was it. This was what everything had been leading up to. The important bit.

  We waited. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the rough plastic grind into my palms. A moment’s carelessness and they’d miss it . . . Or suppose one of them did accept the old money wrapped around the licence thing . . . Or they found it but just didn’t care . . . So much could go wrong . . .

  The senior officer, carefully rummaging through John ­Maxwell’s pockets, held up a data stick. Just a generic data stick. One that could be bought anywhere. Not one of ours. Even we’re not that dim.

  ‘Is this yours, sir?’

  There was a moment’s stillness. John Maxwell didn’t know it yet but these were the last moments of his life as he had known it and never would again.

  He threw it a contemptuous glance. ‘Of course not. Never seen it before in my life.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’

  ‘Of course I am. What are you planting on me now?’

  ‘You’ve no idea how this got into your pocket, sir?’

  ‘I told you. No. I don’t know who your Chief Conshtable is here, but let me tell you, I know mine rather well and he’sh going to raise hell over the way I’ve been treated today.’

  He might as well have spared his breath.

  ‘Is the laptop on the back seat yours, sir?’

  ‘Of course. It’s my work laptop.’

  ‘What’s on the data stick?’ whispered Markham, although they couldn’t possibly have heard us.

  ‘The results of Polly trawling around the Dark Net for thirty-five minutes this morning. There’s some rather nasty stuff out there and now some of it is on that data stick.’

  ‘Excellent. And what’s on the laptop?’

  ‘Not a browser history he’ll be familiar with, but the police will find it very interesting, nevertheless.’