by M. J. Trow
‘Oh, hello, Max. Are you one of the stricken?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. How are you?’
‘I’m coming down with it, I think. Sod’s law that I would, now it’s half term.’
‘Oh, that’s too bad. Look, Paul, do you have Greg Adair’s number?’
‘Is this a wind-up, Max?’
‘No. Should it be?’
‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t really be your style. But…don’t you know?’
‘Come on, Paul. This isn’t a game, you know. Have you heard about Dierdre?’
‘No. What about her?’
‘She’s dead.’ There seemed no other way to put it.
There was a long pause. ‘Dead? An accident?’
‘Murder. And I think Greg may be next. Or at least, nextish.’
‘Max, you’re not making any sense. How can Greg be next?’
‘Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘Well, he could be, I suppose. But he’s in the high dependency unit at the hospital. He’s got pneumonia. You can’t murder somebody that way, can you? It started with the same virus that’s going round, but it went a bit haywire. He called the doctor several times and just got given the whole “take paracetamol” routine from some paramedic Level Two type. By the time he was found, he was in a really bad way. It’s touch and go, apparently.’
‘My God.’ Maxwell was genuinely gobsmacked. ‘When was this?’
‘Hmm. Must have been…what’s today? It puts me out when we’re not at school.’
‘Friday.’
‘Right. Well, it must have been Wednesday evening he was found, then. But he’d been a bit off colour all week.’
‘He was certainly very snappy when I spoke to him. He stormed off. He bumped into you, I seem to remember.’
‘Well, I would imagine he already felt grotty, then. I know he went to the cinema on Monday and had to leave because he felt so unwell.’
That answered one question and asked another. It confirmed he was at the cinema, but raised the point that, unless Dierdre Lessing was totally mesmerised by the screen, she would have seen him, yet again, with his unsuitable other, giving him more reason to kill her. But, if he was already ill on Wednesday, he couldn’t have killed her. He sighed. ‘Thanks, Paul. Well, at least we know he’s in safe hands.’
‘Max, he’s in an NHS hospital. How can you say that?’
‘True. Well, safe as opposed to the hands of a murderer, anyway. Have a good break, now, and don’t answer the phone to any strange men’ and he rang off, feeling more certain than ever that his sneaking suspicion might be the right one.
He had one more call to make. He was halfway through dialling when he heard Jacquie come in, talking in the hall in her usual way when she was not alone.
He stuck his head out of the door and called, ‘Up here,’ and carried on dialling. Again, the phone rang on and on. But this time, no one replied and the answerphone clicked in. He listened to the message, right through, but, after a breathy pause, rang off. As he did so, he realised he had just left an anonymous heavy breathing phone call. But, at this stage of the game, what could it matter?
He turned as Jacquie and Alan Kavanagh came in, rubbing their hands together and heading for the gas fire.
‘It’s really cold out there,’ Jacquie said. ‘But, before you say it, we are not going to have snow.’
‘We’ll see,’ Maxwell said, smugly. He held out his hand and Kavanagh shook it. ‘Glad to see you, DC Kavanagh. May I call you Alan?’
‘Yes.’ Kavanagh was pleased to see that Maxwell seemed quite normal. The house was not a Black Museum of all the cases he had worked on illicitly, with death masks of those Mad Max had sent down. There were no displays of weapons or poisons; not a chainsaw or six pack of strychnine in sight. In fact, the house was quite ordinary. He was suddenly aware that he had sounded perhaps a tad abrupt. ‘Please do.’
‘Any further forward?’ Jacquie asked Maxwell. She lifted a bottle towards Kavanagh. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you.’ Kavanagh was in best Sunday school tea mode, only speaking when spoken to and politely declining all offers of food and drink, for fear he should seem greedy. He was not nine stone wringing wet for nothing.
‘I have discovered that Greg Adair is in hospital,’ he remarked.
‘What?’ the policepersons chorused.
Maxwell raised his hands. ‘It’s all right; he’s in Community General in the safe hands of Dick van Dyke. It’s pneumonia. Since Wednesday. So, not only is he not in the frame any more, he is also, I should have thought, safe from any murder attempts. Although, come to think of it, it doesn’t stop people in Diagnosis Murder.’
‘So that leaves…who?’ Jacquie asked, daytime television not being part of her regular experience.
‘Just Emma Lunt, by my reckoning. Although I suppose there may be some we don’t know of yet.’
‘Explain how you came by the list,’ Jacquie said. ‘That will be a start.’
So Maxwell gathered them round and, using two colours for simplicity, carefully drew out the chain ambigrams using the names of the previous victims and those he saw as potential ones. Alan Kavanagh had all the hallmarks of a Grade E GCSE; colour coding would help him enormously.
When he had finished, Jacquie pushed herself away from the table and blew outwards. Kavanagh was just silent. This was Jacquie’s call. The old geezer was obviously barking mad.
‘Well, Max,’ she began. Here it comes, Kavanagh thought. She’s thinking of a way to divert his attention while they waited for the men in white coats. ‘It would take someone like you to spot that.’
Nice one, thought Kavanagh. Lull him into a false sense of security before tying him up with a spare clothesline.
‘We didn’t look at the names. We looked at the lifestyles for a link.’
‘Uh?’ Kavanagh was puzzled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She seemed to think the mad old bugger was right. Perhaps she was still humouring him.
‘Do try to keep up, Alan.’
Why did everyone keep saying that to him? He wasn’t slow. He had an A level in Philosophy and Ethics to prove he could think. And critically at that.
‘Did you not understand the ambigrams?’ she said kindly. ‘Would you like another explanation?’
‘No! No, of course I don’t. How can a fancy way of writing someone’s name make them a murder victim?’
‘Well, it doesn’t,’ Maxwell said kindly. ‘It’s just that, in a random population, where everyone bumps into everyone else all the time – crowded buses, supermarkets, pubs, clubs – if you, the murderer that is, if you just decide to kill people who have briefly met each other, you’d never be able to track who you were going to bump off next. But if you had some other criterion to go by…’
‘…such as their name fitting a chain ambigram…’ put in Jacquie, getting excited.
‘…then that makes your choice easier.’ Maxwell smiled at him and held out his hand, inviting comments on his theory.
Kavanagh was struck dumb. Finally, he found his voice. ‘But…why should you…’
‘…the murderer…’ Jacquie helpfully interposed.
‘Yes, the murderer, why should you want to kill people who had met randomly in shops and places? Why would you choose them at all?’
Maxwell and Jacquie looked at each other and then at Kavanagh. It was Maxwell who answered him.
‘Well, because you’re mad, of course. We didn’t want to think like that, because that makes the potential list of killers so wide. The whole population, allowing for age, sex etcetera. I think we’re talking about someone who is playing a game. Murder is a sort of intellectual exercise, like timing yourself on The Times crossword or working out a cryptic code. You know better than I do, Alan,’ Maxwell condescended, ‘most people are killed by people they know. That’s why they’re killed. And that’s what leads you guys to a solution. Now, a random series of killings, based on something general like an ambigram, well, that’s a bit
of a bitch, isn’t it? But, because of the victims, it is possible to narrow it down.’
‘How?’ Kavanagh could feel himself being sucked in to this morass of insanity.
‘There are various clues that link them together,’ Jacquie said, ‘but only when you have everything laid out. Lara Kent had Darren Blackwell’s brother’s phone number on her mobile, along with others, from anonymous pay-as-you-go handsets. But when Henry checked with him, he hadn’t taken her number and had no recollection of having met her. So, we worked out, she had actually met Darren, who had no mobile and so had given her his brother’s number.’
‘She must have met loads of people, though. She was a pretty girl, she’d have been swapping numbers all the time,’ Kavanagh reasoned.
‘Agreed. This is where the names come in. You can make a chain ambigram out of Darren, but not of, say, Shaun. So, he was chosen.’
‘I think I see. But the murderer would have had to know his name, then, to choose him.’
‘Precisely. So, then, the murderer would have seen Darren speak to Dierdre Lessing. Which he would do, if they bumped into her. Highenas always talk to staff. It’s a kind of invisible club we all belong to.’
‘Hyenas?’ Kavanagh’s head was beginning to hurt.
‘Ex Leighford High pupils,’ Jacquie filled in the details.
‘Yes, Highenas. Where was I?’ Maxwell appealed to Jacquie.
‘Darren. Dierdre. Highena.’
‘Yes. So, again, we have a hint as to who the murderer could be, or at least, which group in the population they belong to.’
‘And it is…?’
Maxwell looked sympathetically at Kavanagh, but even more sympathetically at Jacquie; she had to work with the idiot.
‘I’m sorry to have to say it, but I think that the murderer is either an ex Leighford High pupil, or a member of its staff.’
Kavanagh couldn’t help it. ‘Like you, for example.’
Maxwell admired his cheek, if not his intellect. He smiled and turned to Jacquie. ‘Is this the time?’ he asked her. ‘Am I, after all, the guy?’
She stroked his cheek and Kavanagh had that feeling of having a door closed gently in his face. ‘No, Max. You’re not the guy.’ She turned away and then paused. ‘Not this time.’
‘So,’ Maxwell continued. ‘I’ve looked at the names in the frame so far, although of course it might be someone completely different. But I think our murderer is coming to the end of the game and knows it. Even so, the compulsion to complete the pattern may still drive him to murder someone who fulfils the criteria. There weren’t many names that did – yours, Alan, and Greg Adair. And Emma Lunt. But I can’t get an answer from her. I’ve tried.’
Alan Kavanagh surprised himself by saying, ‘I’ll go and see if she’s all right.’
Jacquie laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘But, Alan. What if it isn’t her. What if it’s you?’
‘It isn’t,’ he said, with finality.
‘Why so certain?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Because my name isn’t an ambithingy. It doesn’t work.’
‘Well,’ Maxwell began. ‘It’s not perfect, I grant you. You have to tweak the ‘l’ and the ‘n’ a bit, but in general…’
‘My name’s not Alan.’
‘It’s not?’ Jacquie said. ‘You mean you use an alias?’
‘No, of course not.’ He grinned. ‘I use my middle name.’
‘So, your name is…?’
‘Horace.’
Maxwell and Jacquie guffawed and instantly silenced themselves. Kavanagh laughed too. ‘What were your parents thinking?’ Jacquie asked.
‘They named me after my grandfather,’ he said. ‘It was only after I was registered it turned out that he hated the name as well. So anyone looking me up, on a staff list or something, would think my name was Horace.’
‘The murderer might have overheard someone call you Alan,’ suggested Maxwell.
‘I don’t get out much,’ Kavanagh replied sadly. ‘I don’t really seem to fit in Leighford. Or anywhere, much.’
Maxwell and Jacquie both mulled this statement over. There seemed little to add.
‘Well, now,’ Maxwell said, a little too heartily. ‘In that case, Alan, old chap, perhaps we will take you up on your offer. Meanwhile, Jacquie and I will see if we can break down the list of possibles. It is still pretty huge. Now, do you know where the Lunts live?’
‘I think so. I’ve got the address in my phone, from when I thought I might have to go and arrest him.’
‘Ah,’ beamed Maxwell. ‘Technology, eh? Let us know when you get there. Let us know if she’s all right.’
‘It’s nice of you to be so concerned,’ said Kavanagh, shrugging on his coat.
‘She’s a Highena,’ Jacquie said. All three of them stopped in their tracks. Did that make her a potential victim or more likely a potential murderer?
Too late now, thought Kavanagh. He had cast himself in the role of chivalrous defender and so off he had to go. ‘Bye, then,’ he said as he went down the stairs. ‘Speak later.’ Jacquie and Maxwell stood at the top of the stairs and watched him go.
As the door closed behind him, Jacquie turned guiltily to Maxwell. ‘Will he be all right, Max? He’ll use his nous and take back-up, won’t he?’
‘Yes,’ he said, slightly doubtfully. ‘He’s done the basics, presumably – side head chancery, testicle stranglehold – use of one of those lovely metal jobbies you bash doors in with. Or should that be with which you bash in doors? But, I tell you what. Why don’t you ring Henry and tell him where Horace has gone? That way, he can keep an eye. Just in case.’
‘Don’t call him Horace,’ Jacquie exploded with laughter. ‘I’ve got to face him on Monday.’
‘Sorry. But tell Henry all the same. Then you’ll be sure of facing him on Monday. Chop, chop.’
Jacquie picked up the phone while Maxwell wandered away, humming.
He was in the kitchen, nibbling unenthusiastically on a piece of crispbread when she found him.
‘He’s not answering. I left a message. What are you doing?’ she asked, unwrapping a KitKat.
‘I’m trying to think. There’s this tune that keeps going through my head. It’s a ringtone on a phone.’
‘Go on, then. Hum me it.’
‘Hum me it? Is that even English?’
‘All right. Please, by putting your lips together and expelling air, attempt to convey to me the tonality of the piece of music with which you seem obsessed.’
‘Better,’ he said, ‘I’ll da daa it. It gives a more rounded impression.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Dada dada dada da da da da da. Da da da da di di…oh, it’s no good. I just know it’s by Diana Ross.’
‘“Chain Reaction.”’
‘Sorry?’
‘“Chain reaction”.’ She burst briefly into song. ‘I’m in the middle of a chain reaction…’Maxwell was impressed. God, this girl was good. She’d named that tune in less than one. Still, it had to be said, modestly of course, that his da-daaing was among the finest in the world.
‘You weren’t born when that came out. Let alone the kid who has it on his phone.’
‘Indeed not,’ Jacquie agreed. ‘Not when it came out first. But it’s been covered, most recently by Steps. It’s a free download.’
‘Ooh, I expect so,’ Maxwell said, sweeping phonespeak under the rug.
‘I’ll tell you something, though. Lara Kent had that as a ringtone. For just one number.’
They stared at each other, thoughts zinging madly through their brains. There suddenly seemed to be not quite enough oxygen in the room.
Jacquie recovered first. ‘Max. Whose phone was it?’
‘Nicholas Campbell. Chef, student, film buff. All round good hard worker. You’ve met him. He worked at the burger bar. Remember? And, since then, at the deli.’
‘Yes, I do remember him.’ She frowned. ‘Not what I was expecting.’
‘No, nor I. But perhaps he isn’t the murderer. What
if he is a link in the chain, but who didn’t fit because his name doesn’t make an ambigram?’
‘If so, he’s a lucky boy. Even so, we must check which number makes his phone ring like that. It may be the same one as on Lara’s phone.’
‘Let’s go.’
Jacquie pointed overhead. ‘A small matter of a boy upstairs.’
Maxwell looked startled for a moment and then shocked that he could forget his son. ‘Oh, sorry. Could the Tweedle sisters help out?’
‘They’re probably in bed by now, but I’ll go and ask.’ Jacquie raced down the stairs.
Maxwell paced the room. Finding Nick Campbell wasn’t going to be easy, but he thought he had a system that would work, starting with the burger bar. The deli would be closed by now. That should be enough, although it was unlikely that he would be at home on a Friday night. Nice looking boy like him, bound to be out on the town. The sound of twittering in stereo from below almost made him shout with pleasure. He went to the head of the stairs, already thanking the Troubridge sisters.
‘Ooh, Mr Maxwell,’ one of them cried. ‘It’s no trouble. Nolan is such a dear little boy.’
‘A dear sleeping little boy,’ Jacquie said, by way of instruction. ‘I know it’s very late for you both, you are such dears to help out.’
The twittering reached a crescendo as the two sleuths hurried down the stairs.
As they buckled up in the Ka, Jacquie said, ‘Where to?’
‘The burger bar, my man, and don’t spare the horses!’
‘The burger bar?’
‘Nick Campbell’s address?’
‘Right,’ and Jacquie threw the car into gear and they sped off in a squeal of rubber, both of them fully aware that Baby Jane and her sister would, even now, be dropping loud things on the floor and poking Maxwell Junior to make him wake up.
Chapter Twenty
Alan Kavanagh should have called for back-up. Bill Lunt he’d met before; a mild, inoffensive type with a predilection for photographing murders. More, the man was a martyr to hysteria and nervous disorders. Hardly the killing type. But then, Alan Kavanagh had been immersing himself in the classic cases of late. Who would have said that nice Mr Christie of 10, Rillington Place, was burying victims in his back garden, in his kitchen cupboards, under his floor boards? And he was a copper, for God’s sake!