by M. J. Trow
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Actually, I’m glad to have this chance to apologize for that.’ She offered him a seat in her outsize armchair. ‘It was ludicrous, embarrassing and unfair.’
‘Consider it a closed book,’ he said, making himself comfortable. ‘I’m here about James Diamond.’
‘James?’ She sat on the edge of her still made-up bed. ‘Ah.’
‘I’ve got a strange feeling that my revered leader is up to his neck in a spot of bother at the moment. And that you can shed some light on that. Am I right?’
‘What do you want to know?’ She sipped her Scotch, unlike Maxwell’s, on the rocks.
‘I’ll settle for the truth,’ he said.
‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘The truth. James and I met at a conference in Brighton in ninety-eight. He seduced me.’
‘He seduced you?’ Maxwell wanted to get this scenario straight in his mind.
‘Well, it may have been half a dozen of one, six of another,’ she smiled. ‘You know what conferences are like.’
Maxwell did – Blind Date meets Get Your Tits Out.
‘That was all it was. Just a short fling. Or so I thought.’ Her face darkened. ‘I was wrong. He began phoning me, writing, texting once texting became the norm.’ It wasn’t the norm for Peter Maxwell – he was still trying to send telegrams.
‘Are you trying to tell me Legs Diamond was stalking you, Sally?’ Maxwell frowned. This wasn’t the Headmaster he had come to loathe and despise.
‘How well do you know him, Max?’ She sensed his incredulity. ‘Really know him, I mean?’
‘I know he’s an inept shite,’ Maxwell told her, believing the time for pussy-footing around to be over. ‘Give him a decision and he’s hamstrung. Give him an option, he’ll jump the wrong way. Not a people person, is our Legs.’
‘I’m impressed by your loyalty,’ she scoffed.
‘Actually, that’s why I’m here,’ he answered her. ‘It’s precisely because I am loyal, despite my better judgement, that I don’t want to see him drowning in somebody else’s cesspool.’
‘That somebody else being me?’ she looked him squarely in the face.
‘Something like that,’ he said.
‘I lost Keith, my husband, as a result of James.’
‘Lost in the sense of …?’
‘James started coming round to the house … we lived in Bournemouth then, pestering me for sex, sending me presents, flowers. Keith and I … well, we’d been having our problems. James was the last straw. But I still think, without him, we’d have got it together; patched up our differences, moved on … In the event, we divorced last year.’
‘What about Margaret?’
‘Who?’
‘Diamond’s wife,’ Maxwell reminded her.
Sally shrugged. ‘I never met the woman. James always said he felt sorry for her. I got the picture of a mousy little piece in crimplene. I don’t want to sound like a banner headline from something by Virago Press, but you fucking men treat us all like shit.’
‘Fucking being the operative word,’ Maxwell reminded her. ‘That “noises off” performance at the Vine….’
‘Alan,’ she nodded darkly. ‘Alan was the complication.’
‘In what way?’
She looked at him, biting her lower lip. ‘Alan and I were in love.’
‘Oh, really?’
She stood up sharply. ‘Maxwell, I don’t care what you think of me. If I don’t measure up to your God-given moral standards, then fuck you. It doesn’t matter one way or another. Alan and I had been an item for months. He’d ask for me on as many Ofsted teams as he could so that we could be together. Just feeble, fleeting moments like this, in grubby, one-star hotel rooms. But I didn’t care – I was with him.’
‘And Pamela?’
‘Who?’
‘His wife.’
‘That bitch,’ Sally growled. ‘I’ve never met her either, but she made his life hell. Nothing crimplene mouse about her, I understand. He asked her for a divorce and she just laughed at him. Laughed like she wasn’t the one who was the bloody joke.’
‘Where does Diamond fit in to all this?’
Sally wandered to the window. Through her still open curtains she could see the night stars twinkling far out against the black headland that was the Shingle. ‘When we arrived at Leighford I couldn’t believe it,’ she said. ‘There he was, all testosterone and attitude.’ Testosterone and attitude? Was she even talking about the same man, Maxwell wondered. ‘He cornered me on the Monday afternoon, pawing, licking. In his office. It was disgusting. I told him he had no hold over me; never had. I told him … and God help me, this was the most terrible thing I’ve ever done … told him about Alan and me. Hoping it would put him off, make him see sense. He went berserk, shouting, screaming. I got out, just left … I couldn’t take any more of it.’
She turned back to him. ‘That’s why I was out of my tree that night, the night of the Vine. I’d been hitting the g ‘n’ t’s here at the hotel ever since the afternoon. I just wanted Alan, to love and to have him love me. It all got a bit out of hand after that and I’m sorry you had to witness it.’
‘How about the man with the black bag?’ Maxwell asked her.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The man you bumped into on your way out of the gents at the Vine. Joe Public. You said something like “Brilliant” at the time.’
‘Did I?’ She frowned. ‘I was pissed. I don’t remember. He was probably standing in my way. I already felt pretty awful, what with you witnessing the whole thing. Either love is the most beautiful thing in the world, or it’s a cheap sordid sideshow.’
‘He was the same man you were seen rowing with in the pub car-park later that night.’
‘What are you talking about? Who told you that? Who saw me?’
‘Just someone,’ Maxwell shrugged.
Sally replenished her Scotch. ‘Well, I don’t know, Max, who your “someone” is, but they’re wrong. I haven’t the first clue who the guy was and after leaving the loo, I never saw him again.’
Maxwell nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Diamond last Wednesday night.’
‘What?’
‘A week ago,’ he reminded her. ‘He came to visit.’
She blinked. ‘What, here at the Cunliffe?’
‘This would be late, maybe eleven or half past.’
‘Max,’ she frowned, sitting forward with a fierce concentration on her face. ‘What are you talking about? Given what I’ve just told you, do you think for a moment I’d allow that weird bastard to be in my presence alone again?’
Maxwell looked at her. ‘Given what you’ve told me, Sally,’ he said, ‘no, I don’t suppose you would.’
He’d seen himself out. At the dead of night, he’d crept along Sally Meninger’s corridor in the dim half light. He needed time to consider this one, to examine the twists and turns of her testimony. She may have got into DC Baldock’s trousers and DC Baldock’s mind, assuming he had one, but Peter Maxwell had been round the block a few more times than the boy detective.
‘Jesus!’ Maxwell was standing stock still, staring ahead as the hairs prickled on the back of his neck.
‘Can I help you?’ a voice called.
‘Tell me you’re not Paula Freeling,’ he said, ‘or I’ll have to re-examine my concept of faith.’
‘Who are you?’ the little woman in the nightgown asked him.
‘Er … Peter Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I teach at Leighford High School.’
She held out a cold and tentative hand. ‘I’m Deborah Freeling,’ she said. ‘Paula was my sister. Did you know her?’
‘We had the briefest of conversations,’ Maxwell said. ‘Not even that, really.’
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Deborah looked up into his bright, deep eyes. ‘I’m not in the habit of inviting strange men back to my room, but I need to have some answers. The police are telling me nothing. Do you have
a moment?’
‘So there we have it, Count,’ Maxwell blew imaginary smoke rings to the ceiling. It was very late and he was lolling on his sofa, half getting his head round the latest Simon Schama. He’d tried sleeping – no go. He’d tried counting sheep but half of them had the face of Alan Whiting and the others bore a curious resemblance to Paula Freeling – or was it Deborah? ‘Let me recap, shall I?’
Metternich didn’t give a monkey’s really and his yawn said it all – a narrowing of the eyes, an exposure of the tongue and a flashing of the canines. Odd that, for a cat. Why weren’t they called felines? Either way, he should have been Elsewhere a long time ago, eviscerating a rodent. That was what he’d been put on earth to do, after all.
‘We have that old dilemma, the lying woman. Or do we? Alan Whiting’s all over Sally Meninger. Or is he? Legs Diamond’s all over Sally Meninger. Or is he? What’s the common denominator, I hear you ask. Why, Sally Meninger of course. All right,’ he tossed the book aside and folded his arms, determined to wrestle the problem through. ‘Let’s say she’s lying. First scenario. Alan Whiting is not all over Sally Meninger – she’s all over him. Now this much I can vouch for, having seen it for myself. Not only is she all over him, she’s all over him in public. And not just a peck or a shy little holding of the hand, but the Full Monty. Well, you’re very young, Count, so I won’t go into the Daily Sport details. And especially with you having no nuts to speak of, etcetera – I don’t feel it would be appropriate. The question is, why? Why does a professional, middle-aged woman with a position in the world behave like that? Second scenario. Legs Diamond is not all over Sally Meninger, but rather au contraire. Vice versa.’ His mind was racing. ‘Well,’ he wagged a finger at the cat. ‘You say that, Count, but it’s apparently quite common. Bored middle class housewives spicing up their lives by going on the game. After all, it is, after the Church of England, the oldest profession. So, what are we saying? Sally Meninger is a 50K a year hooker? It’s possible. So who killed Whiting? She did, because he’d rumbled her night job and was going to the authorities? A.N.Other did to protect Sally’s reputation? Did Sally hire a hitman? Well, I know it’s bollocks, but Jacquie seems sold on the idea…’
He looked again at the phone. He’d rung her countless times already, since she’d hung up on him. Each time the beep. Each time the answerphone message. ‘I can’t come to the phone just now …’ And he mentally finished the sentence for her, ‘I’m having a hard time with a devious, ungrateful pig who keeps sticking his nose into police business.’
‘All rightee,’ Maxwell bowed to the inevitable and got up to pour himself another Southern Comfort. ‘What Sally would have us believe, Count, is that she and Whiting were love’s middle-aged dream and that nasty, twisted old Legs Diamond, in a fit of jealousy, killed the Inspector in a sort of green mist. Well, actually, that’s no sillier than the hitman, is it? But there’s a problem.’ And he got himself outside a large one.
Metternich rolled over and stretched. God knew what time it was and the silly old fart was still burbling on. Time for a bit of bum-licking at least. He got on with it, right there in Maxwell’s dimly-lamped living room.
‘What of the curious incident of the Headmaster in the night time?’ Maxwell was pacing the room. Any minute now he’d lie down on his front with his bum in the air, ready to pounce. Or if he was a cat he would. ‘You see, Sally Meninger says Diamond didn’t visit. Diamond says he did. Now why should a man deliberately put himself in the frame by claiming to be somewhere he wasn’t, knowing perfectly well that a second murder victim disappeared from that self-same spot? Confused? I know I am, and with respect, Count, the cubic capacity of your brain wouldn’t fill a thimble, so where does that leave you? On the other hand, why would Sally Meninger lie about Diamond’s visit? You see, the problem arises because of George. You won’t remember George, Count. You were only a little black nothing of fleas and fur when George was at Leighford High. Now he works twenty-four hours a day solid for the Cunliffe. He’s a bright enough sort of chap, observant, honest, loyal. After I’d slipped him a bung on my way out of Sally’s room, he told me that, sure enough, Legs Diamond had paid a visit. Typical of Legs, of course, he didn’t remember George at all – either that, or he’s a better actor than I give him credit for. Like me, Legs realized there’d be a copper on the prowl in the foyer so, like me, he rang George and came out with some crap about confidentiality, needed to see the Ofsted Inspectors, actually came out with his name and bloody position. God save us from master criminals like James Diamond. The Napoleon of Crime he ain’t.’
Maxwell took a swig and winced as the amber nectar hit his tonsils, trailing around the living room, looking for inspiration. ‘But you see the problem, Count? George told me Diamond arrived via the back – that’s the kitchen door – at ten thirty, near as dammit. Diamond’s version is that he crept up the back stairs to Sally’s room on the second floor for nookie, an exchange of pleasantries, a séance, who knows? Sally’s version is that he never got there. So where was he? George didn’t see him leave and the kitchen door is another fire exit. You just push the bar and out you go. No alarm. Paula Freeling went to her room at a little after ten, the others hitting the trail in ones and twos an hour later. Diamond would have had plenty of time to get into the old girl’s room, drug her, truss her up or whatever and whisk her away into the Leighford night. Bob’s your uncle and Legs Diamond’s a serial killer. Shit!’ Maxwell thumped down his glass. ‘This is all getting too surreal, Count.’ He pinged the cut glass with an expert fingernail. ‘And this stuff doesn’t help.’
He sat back down on the settee. ‘Then, there’s Deborah Freeling, sister and spitting image of the late lamented Paula. I tell you, I was glad I was wearing the brown trousers when I met her tonight. She’s staying at the Cunliffe, in her sister’s old room at the suggestion of … wait for it … Jacquie. Yes, my Jacquie.’ His words hung heavy on the stillness of the night air. Was she his Jacquie any more? He sensed a hot friend cooling and it frightened him. ‘According to Miss Freeling – the live one, that is, a police officer named Detective Sergeant Carpenter called on her in her hotel and suggested she move to the Cunliffe. Said it would help enormously with police enquiries, apparently. Now, a) why didn’t Jacquie tell me that? And b) how can it possibly help police enquiries? It seems to me, as it must inevitably seem to you, that, on the contrary, it just confuses the issue, thereby hampering rather than helping the boys in blue.’
He looked at the room distorted through the amber and the crystal cuts in his glass. The world was starting to look like that all the time to him now. ‘She was rather a pathetic figure, actually, Count. Wanted to know exactly what had happened at Leighford High. She seemed more angry than sad. Pretty determined to find out who killed her sister. Well,’ he emptied the glass with an air of finality. ‘Aren’t we all?’
Silently, and with appalling effect, Metternich broke wind. James Diamond went back to Leighford Police Station the next morning with his solicitor in tow. He’d told his secretary to clear his diary of engagements and since he never did any teaching, covering classes wouldn’t be much of a problem. He’d spent the most ghastly night of his life coming clean with Margaret, his long-suffering wife. She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t ranted. And somehow, that had made matters worse. Expecting a rolling pin, he got deathly silence. She quietly and methodically moved into the spare room and vowed to get even. He’d rung the chairman of governors and explained his problem. And after much ‘oh dearing’, the stupid old bugger had made patronizing noises while metaphorically wheeling in circles prior to disappearing up his own bum. And he’d rung the Chief Education officer to offer his resignation.
‘Now, James,’ the nauseating pen-pusher had wheedled. ‘We don’t have to be too hasty, do we?’ He was, after all the man who’d appointed him in the first place. ‘Of course, if the police re-arrest you, I’m afraid we may have to consider suspension.’ He was, when all was said and done, a public servant and he kne
w exactly what a fickle lot the public were.
So while Diamond was waiting in Interview Room One, a pompous, overpaid arse of a solicitor sitting by his side; and while Margaret Diamond was packing a few things to go and stay with her mother; and while the nauseating CEO was checking with the County solicitor and beginning the distancing process, Bernard Ryan was trying to run a school and his Head of Sixth Form was holding back the running feet of progress.
‘Time off?’ Ryan repeated, trying to make sense of the absent Head’s diary entries for the day.
‘A day,’ Maxwell said. ‘Two at most. Come on, Bernard, it’s the quiet end of the year. You know, that magic time we teachers dream about – Years 13 and 11 have gone, the exam build-up is all over and we have absolutely nothing to do but sharpen our pencils, sit back and count the huge amount of lolly they pay us.’
‘Get real, Max,’ Ryan grunted. He’d been Acting Head for sixteen hours now and was already feeling suicidal. He looked at the photo of James Diamond with his kids on the desk in front of him and saw him in a new light. ‘This isn’t some Famous Five bloody adventure. The Head’s in serious difficulties.’
‘Precisely,’ Maxwell nodded, his cycle-clips still round his ankles, his hat still perched on his barbed-wire hair. ‘Which is why I’m asking for a couple of days.’
Ryan dithered. ‘Permission denied,’ he said. It was a cliché he’d heard in war films without number, but it served no purpose.
‘Aaargghhh!’ Maxwell jacknifed and scrabbled for the dark corner, his face turning the colours of the rainbow as he clutched his left arm.
‘Max!’ Ryan moved forward to catch him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘For the moment,’ the Head of Sixth Form beamed, straightening smartly. ‘But that could have been a heart attack, my old back trouble or even the first tentative symptoms of galloping impetigo. You see the way this is going, Bernard?’