Maxwell's Chain

by M. J. Trow

  Helen Marshall screwed up her face. Henry Hall could whittle down the wind in terms of suspects, but she wasn’t happy. ‘I don’t like it, though, Henry. He’s a nasty piece of work, I’d be the first to agree. But…he’s too selfish to be a killer, if you know what I mean. He would only do it for gain, and there doesn’t seem to be any. We don’t even know who she is yet.’

  ‘Mrs Troubridge, Jacquie’s neighbour.’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure she fits the description that well, but…well, we’ll soon see. The PM will give us chapter and verse.’

  ‘Has Crown seen her?’

  ‘No. He was too squeamish to look closely after he tripped over her. All he did was call it in and then wait for us. When we went to the location, he was at the end of the path, green as grass and shaking.’

  ‘Perhaps he should.’

  ‘Have you gone all medieval on me, Henry? Do you want to see if the wounds bleed?’

  ‘Surely they’ve stopped bleeding by now.’

  ‘I was just speaking metaphorically, Henry. They used to see if the presence of the killer…You know, in Chaucer’s time – “Murder will out”…Oh, never mind.’ Sometimes she thought she might have had a lucky escape.

  The door opened and Jacquie came in.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Hall said. ‘Please don’t keep us in suspense.’

  ‘Well, the good news is that Max is at home, entertaining.’

  Hall looked blanker than ever. A blow by blow account of her partner’s social life he could do without. And of course there were those in Leighford nick who didn’t find Peter Maxwell entertaining at all. ‘So, he’s not snooping around at the scene of the crime, then,’ said Hall. ‘That is good news, but not earth shattering, Jacquie.’

  ‘That’s not the news. The news is, he’s entertaining Mrs Troubridge.’

  ‘What?’ Hall and Helen Marshall said together.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Jacquie said. ‘And also her sister. Apparently, she was expected the other night and wandered off for a coffee or something and confusion ensued. Max was a little incoherent, with mixed annoyance and…well, being thoroughly Troubridged, I should think. I’m sure I’ll get the details tonight.’

  ‘Have I missed something?’ Helen Marshall asked. Like all attractive women, she was always on the alert when there was another one, a younger one at that, in the room. ‘What’s the bad news. She’s not suddenly died has she? Poisoned coffee, something like that?’

  Jacquie could also be arch. ‘Mrs Troubridge only drinks tea,’ she said. ‘No, the bad news is that now we have absolutely no idea who our body is. We’re back to minus square one on that one, guv.’ She addressed herself exclusively to Henry Hall.

  He was not the most sensitive of men, but even so, he wished it would stop. Not for nothing did the police service delay the introduction of women officers for as long as it could. ‘I think it’s time we interrupted the forensics team,’ he said to the DCI. ‘We need to get a photo of the victim to Mike Crown and watch very carefully as he views it. And we need to have a look ourselves.’

  ‘That won’t help, though, Henry, will it?’ Helen said. ‘There’s now no earthly reason why she should be known to you. The Leighford connection was always fragile. Now it doesn’t really exist, except between Crown and his stepdaughter.’ She stood up and extended a hand. ‘I’m afraid I must go and get ready for the press conference,’ she said, looking briefly at her watch but not really focusing. ‘We’ll be in touch if we think you can help us further. Henry.’ She shook his hand briefly and then sat back down. ‘Detective Sergeant.’ She nodded at Jacquie. ‘Can you find your own way out?’ and she bent to the paperwork littering her desk.

  Hall stood in the corridor wondering what had gone on in the last few minutes. He asked Jacquie.

  She patted him on the shoulder. It was more than she would usually do, but she had watched this man sleeping and that gave a woman leeway. ‘Guv,’ she said. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t possibly tell you,’ and chuckling quietly, she made her way to the stairs. Turning her head, she threw back one last remark. ‘Our good news is her bad news. And that sounds good to me.’

  Henry Hall, still puzzled, followed her down to the car park and they soon were driving through the February day back to Leighford. Back to the safe ground. All in all, it was probably a woman thing.

  The forensic team in Chichester toiled on, unaware of the politics in the air. They had found a well nourished female of indeterminate age, certainly well cared for, lifted, tweaked and enhanced in various subtle ways. They had scanned her for DNA, of which they had found an ample quantity, in fact, an unusually large amount. They assumed she worked in an environment where she came up against a lot of people. But one set of DNA was there in particularly copious amounts. The lab boys differed in their opinions. One said it was only to be expected, as there had clearly been reasonably close proximity, if only for a brief moment. Hairs fell, spit flew, it was fair enough. The other said that that was all very fine, but it was the places that the DNA was found that clinched it for him. Under the skirt waistband. Under the bra strap. Under her nails. It would have had to be a pretty comprehensive trip for Mike Crown to have left his DNA all over the victim’s body. In the mental list the lab tech carried in his head, he put a big tick against him – they had the killer. All they needed now was the name of the victim. He picked up the phone and dialled. It was time Mike Crown was confronted with what he had done. They might have this sewn up by teatime at this rate. Job done.

  The Troubridge sisters had gone home by the time Jacquie arrived later that Thursday afternoon. Maxwell still had the habit of closing one eye and looking askance, as if recovering from a blow to the head. Johnny Depp had picked that one up from him to play Jack Sparrow. After he gave Jacquie all the details of his surreal encounter, sounding like something scripted by Mervyn Peake for Gormenghast, he waited with breath well and truly bated for her recital of her morning.

  ‘Nothing doing, Max,’ she said. ‘It’s got no link to Leighford any more. It’s the job of the Chichester police to sort it out.’

  ‘Mi casa, su casa,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘Not only are all you boys wearing the same blue, but it’s the same police authority, damn it. And anyway, it was the stepfather of our victim…’ Maxwell’s sentence had become plaintive. He and Nolan often exchanged notes on how to get their own way, updating at regular intervals. Currently, Nolan had it all to do when it came to wheedling. But he had a cuter nose than his dad, so it was even stevens really.

  ‘Firstly,’ Jacquie said, as severely as she could, ‘what’s with the “our” victim?’ Conversations like this always had an air of déjà vu about them. She and Maxwell had been there and got all the T-shirts. ‘Secondly, despite what Henry says, I don’t think the guy did it. He’s truly horrible, preying on ladies who need a bit of reassurance, shall we say, to be kinder than he was about them. But I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he genuinely did trip over a body. It must happen all the time, taken all in all.’

  Maxwell’s eyebrows rose into his hair. ‘All the time? In that case, I really must jog more. Well, all right, jog. But, in that case, if it’s nothing to do with our victim,’ he persisted in his description; he had taken ownership, as he was constantly being told to do by the SLT, ‘you can tell me everything, can’t you? It can’t possibly matter. Eh,’ he nudged her, ‘Eh, go on, you know you want to. Eh? Eh?’ Maxwell’s Eric Idle was not totally lost on Jacquie, although she barely remembered the original.

  She sighed and sat down heavily. ‘Max, today has been a bit of a rollercoaster. When I went to work, I thought Mrs Troubridge was dead.’

  ‘And now we’ve got two for the price of one,’ Maxwell remarked.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I also thought we had found our murderer.’

  ‘And now you discover you’ve just got a really clumsy jogger,’ he added.

  ‘If you say so.’ She suddenly grinned. ‘It was quite funny, though,’ she said, snuggling u
p. ‘The DCI at Chichester really fancies Henry.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Maxwell said, wondering what part of the bland policeman could attract anybody. ‘I suppose that’s all right among today’s PC PCs, is it? Gaily speaking?’

  She swiped him round the head in a playful sort of way. ‘The DCI at Chichester is a woman, you sexist pig. DCI Marshall, God rot her, has smashed her way through the glass ceiling.’

  ‘Ah,’ Maxwell caught just a tiny flash of green in his love’s grey eyes. ‘Does Henry know this woman has the hots for him?’

  ‘No, that’s the best bit. She wears it like a badge. Doesn’t like me at all.’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t.’ Maxwell chuckled, ‘Successful women never do like other women. Look at Dierdre Lessing, for instance. I believe she sticks pins in wax images of all the other women on the staff if they are younger, more attractive or more intelligent than her.’ He was silent for a while, then, ‘She gets through a lot of pins.’

  Jacquie chortled at the thought. ‘Even so, it was a bit annoying, you know. She kept calling me Detective Sergeant, like it was an insult.’

  ‘So, if she was so horrible, why not tell me all about the case?’

  ‘Nothing to tell, Max. Stop it, now. Mike Crown fell over a body. They are working on ID as we speak.’

  ‘And this Amazon will let Henry know who it is?’

  ‘Unlikely. She really froze him out, at the end. Gave us the bum’s rush, in fact.’

  ‘So,’ he leant back, hands behind his head. ‘That’s it then, is it? Our little bit of excitement all over?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, is he the guy? Do you think he killed his stepdaughter, Darren Blackwell and this unidentified woman? He must be a random nutter, if so.’ Maxwell was fully up to speed with current psychological jargon.

  ‘Why?’ Jacquie asked. ‘He seems almost too down to earth. He just wants money, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, there’s no link, is there?’ Maxwell reasoned, wrestling with it all out loud. ‘Two young victims, one older. Two women, one man. Two in Leighford, one in Arundel. Has to be random.’

  ‘I don’t know about this last one, but apparently Lara Kent had Darren Blackwell’s brother’s number on her mobile.’

  Kerching! Maxwell looked slyly at her. She was sipping a coffee and had her nose in the cup. She couldn’t see him coming, prowling up through the Serengeti grass. In a minute, his teeth would be in her throat and Metternich would be proud of him. ‘That’s odd,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Still, I expect they just met at a club, or something.’

  ‘Isn’t Darren Blackwell’s brother still at Leighford?’ Jacquie asked. ‘A bit young for a club?’

  ‘Bless your little heart,’ he smiled. ‘Without under-age drinkers, there wouldn’t be a single viable licensed premises in the whole town. And your oppos in uniform would be out of a job come chucking out time. Yes, Kevin is still at Leighford High and no, what we need is to find out who this third body is and link it with the other two.’ As he spoke, he knew his mistake. He had said the dreaded ‘w’ word. ‘We’; drat it, now he would have to start stalking all over again. It could take hours.

  Sure enough, her head came up and she sniffed the wind, like the startled little wildebeest she was. ‘Max,’ she said, sitting up straight and looking him in the eye. ‘We don’t have to do anything. I possibly will be involved with such an investigation and when and if it is in the newspapers or on the TV, you might then also find out. Until then, my lips are sealed.’

  Damn! Bugger and poo! Back to hiding in the long grass, until she dropped her guard, dipped her nose to the water once too often. But he’d get her. Oh yes, Peter Maxwell always got his woman. A small piece of bribery might be in order.

  ‘Now Mrs Troubridge is restored to us,’ he said, rubbing his hands together like George Peppard in The A-Team, loving it when a plan came together, ‘we have a babysitter. What do you say to a nice night out?’

  Suspicious, she looked into his eyes. There was guile there, certainly, but a thousand years of teaching will do that to a man. Why not? They had only been out sleuthing this week and a nice evening out, with no strings, might be a nice change. ‘Why not?’ she smiled. ‘I’ll go and ask her…them. It will be an excuse to meet Miss Troubridge, even if they say no.’

  ‘Araminta.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Araminta. That’s Miss Troubridge’s name.’

  ‘What were they thinking?’

  ‘I have the full story, but, really, Queen of Puddings, it would be too much for a youngster like you at this time of night. Go, marshal the Troubridges, Mrs and Miss. Oops, did I say Marshall? Sorry. Then come and put your gladrags on. Something Nexty. We’ll party like it’s 2007. Or at least go for a drink.’ He patted her on her way. ‘Go on. Chop, chop. I’ll go and warn Nole. The poor kid will think his eyes have gone funny, otherwise.’

  Smiling, Jacquie went down the stairs, across the dampness of the lawn that briefly separated the drives and rang the bell next door. Twittering noises broke out overhead as the Troubridge twins wondered aloud who it could possibly be, at this hour. Poor Nolan, thought Jacquie. But it will make a man of him. Or else he’ll be in rehab for ever.

  Helen Marshall was still at her desk long after her team had gone home. She didn’t do it for effect, she did it because she had to. It was still a man’s world in the police and if she didn’t drink and swear and smoke like them, she just worked harder than they did. She was trying out various ways of getting back into Henry Hall’s good books, without too much unseemly grovelling. She had sent him and that little Detective Sergeant more or less packing when she found they were of little use to her. That was both impolite and, as it turned out, unwise. She did need them, after all. She reached out for her phone several times and then found something to distract her from making the call. A mug-ring to wipe away. A pencil to sharpen. A calendar to cross a few days off. Anything. Finally, she wiped her hands down the sides of her skirt. She hated that Henry Hall could make her feel like a silly teenager; in itself, that was bad enough. But she was going to have to ask him a favour. And she hated that much, much more. She picked up the phone and dialled. It seemed to ring for ever. She breathed a sigh of relief. He’d gone home. Excellent. She could leave it until…

  ‘Hall.’

  ‘Oh, Henry. You are still there. Good. I am glad,’ she lied. ‘Look, I wonder if I could ask you a favour? It’s Helen Marshall, by the way.’

  Henry Hall was terser on the phone than in real life. His lenses kept the world at bay when face to face. When separated by miles of whatever gubbins British Telecom saw fit to lace the country with, he was ice. ‘Possibly.’ He didn’t get hurt by people’s rudeness, but he did sometimes get even.

  ‘We’ve had prelims from the forensics team and…well, because of your…’

  ‘Jacquie.’

  ‘Yes, her neighbour being, as we thought, missing, they were looking specifically for the Leighford link.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, they found one.’ She waited while it sunk in.

  Eventually he said, trying to keep the smugness from his voice, ‘That was a bit unexpected from your end, I assume.’

  ‘Well, yes. Look, Henry, I can’t help thinking we’re on the wrong foot here. I didn’t mean to be so…dismissive, this afternoon.’

  ‘Good. Jacquie and I would hate to think you had done it on purpose.’

  Ouch. On so many levels, Henry Hall did not mess around when getting even was an option. Helen Marshall marshalled her thoughts. ‘Well, there we are, Henry. Water under the bridge, shall we say?’ There was no reply, so she just said, ‘Good. Right, the Leighford link. The forensics team found a cinema ticket, all rolled up as if someone had, you know, rolled it and unrolled it repeatedly, you know how you do, when you’re waiting or something.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s a common nervous reaction.’ She found herself getting annoy
ed and knew it would get her nowhere with Henry Hall. She took a deep breath, in through nose, out through mouth, yoga style. ‘It took them a while, but they have managed to decipher it as a ticket for the deluxe screen at the Leighford Multiplex.’

  Henry Hall brightened. There really was a Leighford connection. And one that could be traced, quite quickly. ‘Do you have a date?’

  ‘Yes, it was the twelfth.’

  ‘Monday? I’ll get right on it.’

  ‘Right on it? How can you tell who went to the cinema on Monday?’

  ‘The deluxe screen here in Leighford is by booking only. It only holds about fifty people all told and because there’s a bar in the lobby area, they don’t allow under eighteens, no matter what the film is. We use it quite often, as a matter of fact.’ He had often sat a few rows back from Peter Maxwell, and had been very tempted to do something juvenile with a few well aimed bits of popcorn, but so far had managed to resist.

  ‘Heavens, Henry,’ Helen said, and suddenly their relationship was back on track. ‘I never had you down for a film buff.’

  ‘Oh, I’m hardly that,’ he said. ‘But when I go out I would rather not be looking for people breaking the law, and somehow the extra two pounds fifty and having to book keeps the law-breaking in the deluxe screen to a minimum.’ Peter Maxwell, of course, was always the exception.

  ‘So, can you get a list, do you think?’

  ‘What showing was it?’

  ‘They didn’t say. Just that it was the twelfth.’

  ‘They are showing Music and Lyrics this week. I’ve avoided it, because Mrs Hall is not a great Hugh Grant fan.’

  ‘Otherwise, you might have been sitting next to a potential murder victim,’ Helen Marshall said.

  ‘I think we all do that, at some time in our lives,’ said Hall. ‘The trick is not to be one.’

  ‘That’s very deep, Henry,’ said the DCI. ‘I think I’ll just get off home and leave you to do the digging at your end. Or I could send someone, if you like?’