by M. J. Trow
‘In that sense?’ McBride frowned. He thought the book was open and shut. Why hadn’t the Super thrown it at him? Not only was Moreton shifty and something of a surprisingly loose cannon, but he was trying the old fabricated evidence ploy. Nothing was designed to get further up a copper’s nose.
‘In another sense,’ Malcolm leaned back against the wall to allow a uniformed cohort to pass, ‘we’ve got no prints on the murder weapon, nothing yet from the search of his home – no more news from the Bedford boys, I assume?’
McBride shook his head.
‘And no established previous links with either of the dead women. No, John, this case is closer to home than that. It lies with somebody who knew one or both of the dead women before.’
‘Which means St Bede’s,’ McBride said, unconvinced.
‘Or Whatsisname,’ Malcolm nodded. ‘Who is it? Peter Maxwell.’
Peter Maxwell was back in his attic study again, the place he always returned to when the world got a bit much; when the bitch that was life got up and slapped him in the face. Some men fish, others run around a football pitch, still others collapse after too many pints. Mad Max Maxwell? He painted model soldiers.
His brush deftly etched in the gold braid on the hussar jacket of Lieutenant Fitzgibbon. Then Maxwell took a deep breath and started on the double gold stripes on-the overalls. That was the only way to do it, really, in one. Start at the waist and don’t slacken up on the pressure until you’ve reached the ankle.
‘How’s this for size, then, Count?’ He talked to the cat who shared his inner sanctum because sometimes silence was just too painful. ‘The filth have picked up Dr Andrew Moreton – no, he didn’t write the book, I’ve already done that one – on the grounds, I would think, of what they found in his room.’
The cat known as Metternich yawned ostentatiously, stretching out on the dormer windowsill as only cats can.
‘Now …’ Maxwell started work on Fitzgibbon’s second leg. ‘We don’t as yet of course know what that was. Sally is convinced they’ve got the wrong man.’ He reached the right ankle and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, I’m about to tell you,’ he said. ‘Don’t be so impatient.’
Metternich licked his back with boredom.
‘Sally rifled the drawers of one Alan Harper-Bennet. No, I don’t think you’d like him, Count – not a cat person. She found – and I have it downstairs; I’ll show you later – what does appear to be a blackmail letter. No, it’s printed. Almost as corny as cut from bits of newspaper, isn’t it? But actually, quite clever, because you know how difficult it is to identify block capitals. Well, what do you mean, what’s wrong with that?’
Count Metternich paused in his ablutions to tweak his left ear.
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. Let’s surmise for a moment …’ Maxwell squinted in the harsh lamplight to apply his brush to Fitzgibbon’s sabretache. ‘Bugger me, Count, Irish harps are a bitch to paint, aren’t they? Yes, I suppose he would have carried a plain patent leather one really, but allow me some artistic licence, please! Let’s surmise that I … no, let’s make it more interesting – you. You are being blackmailed. Well, I don’t know why. What about your nocturnal habits involving getting your legs over feline fatales of the neighbourhood? Someone is blackmailing you and you’re tired of shelling out. So what do you do? Yes, all right, you claw them to death and toss them about the garden with a curious disembowelling motion, but I’m being metaphysical here, Count. We humans aren’t quite that nasty. No, you’ve bashed the blackmailer over the head. Only it wasn’t the blackmailer.’
Metternich looked at Maxwell suspiciously.
‘You’ve got the wrong – put your tongue away. Your tongue.’ Maxwell tapped his own, careful not to do it with the loaded brush. ‘Put it … that’s it. You’ve got the wrong person, and the right person – the real blackmailer – sends you a note to that effect. What’s the first thing you do?’
Metternich rolled over and splaying his hind legs began to apply his tongue to his bottom.
‘Well, yes, probably,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘Gives you time to think, I suppose. But then you kill the right one, don’t you …’ He paused in his brushwork, putting the half-painted soldier down for a moment. ‘Was that it, Count?’ He was asking himself. ‘Was Sally right after all? Was Rachel really blackmailing him?’
Metternich’s cleaning noises stopped abruptly and the animal straightened and looked at his master.
‘Well,’ Maxwell said, ‘we’ll see. But my point is, you’d destroy the note, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t leave it around where the most obvious and cursory search would find it? No,’ Maxwell shook his head, ‘it’s too damned pat. So,’ he took up the officer of the 8th again, ‘Luton tomorrow, Count. Ever been to Luton?’
Metternich flopped down on to the floor and padded his way down the loft ladder rungs.
‘I only asked, Count,’ he heard Maxwell say.
11
‘“God, I will pack,”’ said Maxwell, quoting Rupert Brooke, ‘“and take a train” and get me to Luton once again, for Luton’s the one place I know where men with shady pasts do go.’ He looked down from his shaving mirror to the black and white thing that slunk round his ankles. ‘All right, purist,’ he said to the cat, ‘I’m paraphrasing rather extravagantly. What’s for breakfast? Oh, yes, it is your turn.’
There was a sharp ring at the door bell. Maxwell checked his watch. Too early for the postman. He’d cancelled the milk last week. He hauled on his dressing-gown and made for the stairs. In the knobbly glass at the end of the hall, he saw the distorted outline of a figure he thought he knew.
‘Sally?’ he said, peering round the door. ‘I thought you were going home for a bath, a drink and the loving arms of your husband.’
‘That was yesterday,’ she said. ‘Been there. Done that. And anyway, you relic, it was a shower. Have you ridden British Rail recently? Tried to carry a coffee back from the buffet car? I thought I’d save you the hell of all that. It was Luton, wasn’t it?’
It had to be said that Alan Greenhow hadn’t been too keen. Sally had been through enough in his opinion. And he knew what an old bastard Maxwell was. They’d talked about it in the wee small hours and eventually, he’d said yes. With the proviso of course that Maxwell was to look after Sally. And if he didn’t, he (Alan) would break both his arms. Fair enough.
‘Well?’ Sally shouted over the 2CV’s rattle as they neared their destination.
‘Well, what?’ Maxwell couldn’t see where he was going in the driving rain and the mist of deceptive early summer.
‘Aren’t you going to fill me in on Luton?’ she asked.
‘What, you mean the church of St Mary’s, with its black flint and white limestone chequered tower? The Butes’ house at Luton Hoo built by Robert Adam in 1767 and rebuilt after the fire of 1843? The local industries of hat and lace making? Nah, I don’t know anything at all about Luton – oh, except that they’ve got a girls’ choir, of course.’
‘As Dagenham has its girl pipers,’ Sally added.
‘Ah,’ Maxwell closed his eyes and did his utmost to get comfortable in the cramped passenger seat, ‘the skirl of the pipes.’
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Arsehole!’ she suddenly yelled at a passing motor cyclist.
‘No, I am awake,’ Maxwell assured her. ‘You don’t have to shout.’
‘Do you think we’re going to learn anything about Harper-Bennet – at his school, I mean? If it was … I don’t know, Paul Moss or Roger Garrett at Leighford and two total strangers came nosing about, would you be inclined to talk?’
‘About Paul Moss, no,’ Maxwell told her. ‘No, I don’t think I would. But Roger Rabbit, now, that’s an entirely different matter. A talentless no-hoper like him should have been pegged out over an anthill years ago. I’d shop him to anybody.’
Sally raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, now, Max, off the fence. What do you really think of Roger?’
‘You take my point, though, Sal
. It all depends on politics. How the weirdo is regarded by his colleagues. Gregory Trant’s going to be there, though. We’ll have to come clean as to who we are. No chance of posing as publishers’ reps or anything. It’s the next exit.’
‘What is?’
‘The Luton road. Anything to get off the vicious circle that the Ministry of Transport laughingly calls the M25.’
Out of Luton – which is really the best place to be – they took the A6129 to sleepy Wheathampstead. The John Bunyan School stood to the left of the road, screened on one side by the forest that once marked the boundary of the Danelaw and on the other by the vast sprawling housing estate whose kids fed the school and whose adults still worked in Luton’s dwindling motor trade. It was a dull building, made even duller by the grey drizzle that had replaced the torrents of the morning.
Sally Greenhow parked in the space reserved for School Nurse, as there was nowhere else to do it, and they made their way to Reception.
A rather spotty girl with adenoids grinned up at them.
‘Good morning.’ Maxwell raised the panama he habitually wore in summer, the one which gave him the air of an unemployed – and probably unemployable – cricket umpire. ‘May we see Mr Harper-Bennet, please?’ He dripped his brim over her.
‘Mr Who?’
Maxwell threw a glance at Sally Greenhow. It had definitely said ‘John Bunyan’ on the gate. ‘Mr Harper-Bennet. Big bloke. Teaches games and sociology, a bizarre combination I think you’ll agree.’
‘Don’t know him,’ the girl said.
In previous years, Maxwell would have grabbed the stupid little secretarial shit by the collar and hauled her across the counter. But that was then. Now it was political correctness and children’s rights and the International Court at The Hague. Anyway, Maxwell had been to a good school himself. He was too much of a gentleman.
‘Is there a real person around?’ he asked.
The girl was still gaping at him when an older one popped her head around the corner. ‘I’m sorry,’ she beamed, ‘Sharon is on work experience.’
‘That must be a first,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘We’re looking for Mr Harper-Bennet.’
The older girl looked at Maxwell, then at Sally. ‘Ah, no. You’ll want our Mr Watkin.’
‘Will I?’ Maxwell asked, wondering who this man was and how he could possibly fulfil his requirements.
‘Yes. He’s our Head of Sixth Form. He deals with new entrants.’
‘New entrants?’ Maxwell was lost.
‘Your daughter.’ The secretary nodded in Sally’s direction.
‘Look, dear,’ it was Sally’s turn to weigh in, ‘I’m twenty-nine years old with a higher degree in Education, so could you possibly do as you’re told and get Mr Harper-Bennet for us?’
‘That’s it, Sal,’ Maxwell muttered. ‘Really get ’em on our side.’
‘Oh.’ The secretary bridled and Maxwell saw the shutters come down. ‘It’s a free period for him. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Maxwell tipped his hat and pushed Sally ahead of him out of the office.
‘Max,’ she protested, ‘we haven’t found out anything.’
‘Precisely,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Never mind. And Sally, leave it to me, there’s a good girl. Ah,’ he caught sight of a figure in the corridor ahead, ‘a human being. Excuse me.’ The figure half turned. ‘Have you seen Alan in your travels?’
‘Alan Harper-B?’ The figure was a rather homely woman with short-cropped hair and a bum that ought never to have been squeezed into a pair of electric blue cycling shorts. ‘He’s on the multi-gym, I think. Straight on, turn left. There’s the gym. Can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’ Maxwell tipped his hat again and waited for the homely woman to waddle away. ‘Sit this one out, Sal,’ he murmured to his colleague.
‘Look, Max,’ she frowned, ‘I’m not just a bloody taxi service. I’m involved in this too, you know.’
‘Up to a point, yes,’ he nodded, ‘but I don’t want you to get involved any further. I owe it to Alan.’
‘Sod Alan!’ Sally shouted, only then remembering to check the length of the corridor. ‘I don’t need my husband’s permission to talk to people and I don’t need yours.’
‘All right.’ Maxwell laid his hands gently on the girl’s shoulders. ‘I knew it was a mistake to give you people the vote, but there it is. You find Trant. He knows Harper-Bennet and Moreton and I didn’t get much of a crack at him at Carnforth.’
‘What about Harper-Bennet?’ she asked.
‘He’s mine,’ Maxwell said. ‘See you back at the car in … what? Half an hour?’
Funny how all ’60s schools are the same. Peter Maxwell had never been to the John Bunyan in his life, but he found the gym as simply as his own navel – in fact with a lot less hassle. The familiar smell hit him squarely in the nostrils, that indefinable combination of jock straps, liniment and sweaty humanities. There was a soft drinks machine to his left, boys’ changing-rooms beyond that. Through the double doors of the gym, he saw half a dozen nubile lovelies draped around a trampoline while a seventh, no doubt the Olga Korbut of Luton, was gyrating in the air above the canvas like a thing possessed. Maxwell shuddered. Turning over sharply in bed often had his stomach leaping.
He took the twisting stairs to the gallery that ran the length of the gym. A deserted table tennis table stood at one end. And at the other, the object of his search. Alan Harper-Bennet sat with his back to a contraption, his legs straight out in front of him, his fists clenched on a bar above his head. He wore a track suit and trainers and he’d left his glasses in the changing-room.
‘Hello, Alan,’ Maxwell hailed him.
‘Who is it?’ Harper-Bennet paused in mid-pull, his biceps flexed.
‘Peter Maxwell. From the Carnforth Centre. Remember?’
Slowly, Harper-Bennet let the weights bar down. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Alan,’ Maxwell perched on the other seat of the multi-gym, tinkering with the weights, ‘what a cliché. I happened to be in the area, and I thought I’d catch up on all the gossip. Dr Moreton, for instance.’
‘“Happened to be in the area”?’ Harper-Bennet smirked. ‘Pull the other one, Maxwell. You’re snooping.’
Maxwell clicked his fingers. ‘Rumbled,’ he said. ‘Shucks!’
‘Look.’ Harper-Bennet climbed off the contraption and reached for a nearby towel to wipe the sweat from his neck. ‘I’m not sure I care for this.’
‘What?’ Maxwell beamed up at him.
‘You, coming here like this.’
‘Well, actually …’ Maxwell rummaged in his pocket. ‘I can’t con you, can I? I’ve got a little present for you,’ and he handed Harper-Bennet a pair of lacy panties.
‘What …?’
‘They’re another pair of Sally’s. She thought you might like them for your collection.’
Harper-Bennet blinked. ‘What the fuck is all this about?’ he asked, eyes blazing.
‘Oh, come on, now,’ Maxwell chuckled, ‘we’re men of the world, Alan. Mind you,’ he jerked a thumb over the wall behind him, the one that led into the gym, ‘you’re in your element here, aren’t you? Furtive little fetishist like you. Blue serge, eh?’ He winked at Harper-Bennet. ‘Very nice.’
The games master stood there, mouth open, staring at Maxwell rather stupidly. ‘I can’t decide whether to punch you on the nose or call the police,’ he said.
‘Well,’ Maxwell rested his elbow on the wall, ‘you could try the former, but then the spectacle of you committing GBH on an old man would be witnessed by your gels down there, not to mention your colleagues.’ He beamed and waved to the homely woman who was yomping her way across the gym floor. ‘On the other hand, if you call the police, they’re going to want to see the blackmail note, aren’t they?’
‘Blackmail note?’ Harper-Bennet was having one of those days. Maxwell was holding a piece of paper under his nose. His glasses were elsewhere so Harper-Be
nnet had to take it over to the window to read it properly. ‘What is all this?’
‘Well, Alan,’ Maxwell had not moved from his conspicuous position in full view of the trampoline team, ‘I’ve come rather a long way in the hope that you would tell me.’
‘This is some kind of sick joke, isn’t it?’ Harper-Bennet said. ‘Was it that King woman? Someone said you knew her way back. It’s got to you, hasn’t it? Knocked your oars out of the water.’
For the first time, Maxwell crossed to his man, his smile gone, his eyes hard. ‘Rachel’s death has got to me, yes. When some bastard beats to death the woman you once loved, well, you do get just a threat unreasonable.’
‘You think I did it.’ Harper-Bennet looked horrified. ‘You’ve come here to accuse me.’
‘Got it in one, Alan, baby,’ Maxwell growled.
‘You’re mad!’ and Harper-Bennet moved for the door. Maxwell was faster though and hauled him back. ‘Take your fucking hands off me, you maniac,’ the games master snarled.
Maxwell stepped back, his hands in the air. ‘Who wrote the note?’ he asked. ‘Or who do you think wrote it?’
‘This?’ Harper-Bennet still had it in his hand. ‘This is crap!’ and he tore it in half and scattered the pieces in a flutter over the floor.
‘That was a photocopy, in fact,’ Maxwell said, smiling again. ‘It’s hard to tell from the original these days, isn’t it? The original, of course, has your fingerprints on it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it was found in your room at the Carnforth Centre.’
‘Where?’
‘Top drawer. Sideboard facing the bed.’
Harper-Bennet licked his lips. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Who found it?’
‘That doesn’t really matter, does it, Alan?’ Maxwell said. ‘The point is that in you we have a man with a secret. And that means a man with a motive.’