Maxwell's Crossing (28 page)

‘Emergency call, guv,' she heard Hall's radio crackle. ‘A Mr Timothy Moreton. Just been threatened with a gun. It's Jeff O'Malley and somebody claiming to be called Maxwell.'

‘Oh God,' Jacquie said through gritted teeth.

‘Any direction from Moreton's?' Hall asked.

‘West along Barlichway Road. Two men in a people carrier. Licence number … we haven't got that, guv. Sorry.'

‘We've got it. Don't worry. Put everyone on it, Phil. They're making for the town centre.'

There was a squawk as the police radio flicked to other channels. Hall looked at Jacquie, staring cold-faced, resolutely ahead. ‘We must accept,' he said quietly, ‘that we are looking at a hostage situation.'

Even at moments like these, DI Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell could keep her sense of humour. Just. ‘That'll be OK,' she said. ‘Max won't hurt him.'

‘Where are we going, exactly?' Maxwell asked. O'Malley had been crawling along this street for what seemed like hours.

‘You invited yourself along,' O'Malley grunted. ‘So shut the fuck up.'

‘That's no way to talk to someone from a country that
let you people join two world wars,' Maxwell smiled.

O'Malley glowered at him, then he laughed. ‘You goddamn sonofabitch, Maxwell. You know, if things had been different, I coulda gotten to like you.'

‘I'd like to say the same, Jeff,' Maxwell said, ‘but you having a lethal weapon in your armpit rather put that out of the realms of possibility, didn't it?'

‘I shoulda left you at Moreton's. Where is this goddamn apartment? It's over a cab rank, I know it is.'

‘If it's the place I think it is, it's over a grocer's. And this is Juniper Street. The last grocer here went out of business in 1934, if my
A Brief History of Leighford
is anything to go by.'

O'Malley looked at him. ‘You know who I'm looking for, dontcha?'

Maxwell nodded. ‘If it wasn't Moreton …' he said.

‘Right.' O'Malley hit the brakes. ‘Then we got just one other place to go.' And with a scream of tyres, the Mosses' people carrier squealed off into the night.

‘Juniper Street.' Hall repeated the radio's message to Jacquie, though she'd heard it plainly enough.

‘That's where …' she suddenly realised.

‘… we should have been looking all along. Phil?'

‘Guv.'

‘Get a couple of cars to 28 Juniper Street. Flat 2B. Mark Chambers. Traffic warden. And don't let the ticket machine fool you. This man is armed and dangerous. We're on our way. No one is to enter the premises until we arrive.'

‘Jesus,' Maxwell whispered. ‘I didn't know we paid our traffic wardens so well.'

He and O'Malley sat in the people carrier in front of a large detached house, dark with rhododendron bushes and willow. Only the drive gleamed pale in the
half-moon
.

‘Of course,' he said, ‘it could be that Mr Chambers' dear old mum was rather better heeled than he let on.' He glanced at O'Malley. ‘Or the blackmail business is definitely taking off.'

‘Blackmailer. Killer. This guy's into multitasking big time.'

‘How did you know it was him?'

‘I didn't,' O'Malley admitted, ‘but it had to be somebody at the card school. Some sonofabitch trying to frame me. That meant it was somebody I knew, and apart from you and your little lady, I don't know anybody outside of the card school.'

‘I must admit,' Maxwell said, ‘I was beginning to suspect Hector.'

‘Hec?' O'Malley roared with laughter. ‘That pantywaist! And here I was thinking you were some judge of character. Wait here.'

‘Jeff.' Maxwell held the man's arm. ‘Think about this. You've got your man. You and I reached the same conclusion at the same time. Henry's not going to be far behind. Leave it now. We'll call Henry, put him in the full picture. All right, you're facing assault charges with a deadly weapon, etcetera, etcetera, but that's a long way from murder.'

‘Yeah,' O'Malley said, almost sadly. ‘And I'm a long way from home. I'm not gonna crease your skull with this,' he patted the pistol butt, ‘but I ain't taking no responsibility for what happens in there.'

‘Fair enough,' Maxwell said and the two of them approached the house.

It was locked, front and back. There were burglar alarms at various vantage points on the walls, but no obvious sign of CCTV cameras. And no security lights. Perhaps Mark Chambers didn't expect any visitors. Maxwell was still peering in through the wobbly glass in the front door when O'Malley nudged him aside with a crowbar in his hand. He caught Maxwell's look.

‘He ain't gonna open up like we was collecting for the Blue Cross.' And he slammed it forward, shattering glass and barging the swinging door aside.

The burglar alarm screamed into the darkness, warning half of West Sussex of intruders, and O'Malley hauled open a cupboard by the door and jammed the flat of his hand down on the control panel. The screech stopped as soon as it had started.

‘No chance of a li'l lady here,' the American growled to Maxwell and he made for the stairs, flicking on lights as he went. O'Malley moved quietly for a big man and he was already on the landing behind a door when a bleary-eyed Mark Chambers stood there in his pyjamas, blinking in disbelief as he saw Maxwell below him, halfway up the stairs.

‘Mr Maxwell?' he said, frowning. ‘What are you doing here?'

Chambers had a gun in his right hand, a .44 Magnum which Maxwell had seen rather a lot of in the past hour. It was the old television police drama cliché again, the last words of a victim in dear old Midsomer before the credits rolled or the advert break came on. Maxwell glanced imperceptibly at O'Malley, who flattened himself against the wall, raising a finger to his lips.

‘Just passing,' Maxwell played along. ‘Thought I'd arrest you for murder.'

A bemused smile crossed Chambers' face. ‘I'd heard you were something of an amateur detective,' he crowed, ‘with the accent on the amateur.'

‘Where did you hear that, Mr Chambers? On the police band? You remember Jeff O'Malley, don't you? American gentleman? Card player?'

‘Get to the point,' Chambers snapped.

‘Well, he thought your flat in Juniper Street was above a taxi rank because he heard the radio broadcasts. But what he really heard was the police band you habitually tune into, wasn't it?'

‘I could have been one of them.' Chambers' face was a livid white. ‘
Should
have been one of them. I applied to the police, not once, but several times. And they turned me down. Some nonsense about unsuitability. So what do they do? They let bastards go. Like that shit Hendricks. That Sarah Gregson who'd killed her own mother. How do you do that, Mr Maxwell? Kill your own mother.' He shook his head at the injustice of the world.

‘I don't think Jacob Shears deserved the treatment you gave him, did he?'

‘Ah,' Chambers shifted a little nervously. ‘That was my bad, I'm afraid. Mistaken identity. I meant to take out that child molester, Melling. Still, it's early days.'

‘Why did you change your MO?' Maxwell asked. And why, he heard the question screaming in his head, didn't O'Malley
do
something?

‘To keep the rozzers guessing, of course. I'd been planning this for years, but when Jeff O'Malley arrived, I thought, “What a perfect patsy.” So,' he waved the gun, ‘what better pointer to an American than this? I didn't need to waste a bullet on Sarah Gregson when a simple push would do the trick. Shears was a little messy, but I was running out of methods by then. You, of course, will die as a result of a break-in. Bizarre, they'll all say, for a respected member of the community, a teacher, but there it is. Bit of night-prowling, perhaps, to boost his salary – bit too much like hard work if you ask me. Not quiet and sophisticated like blackmail.'

‘You won't get away with it, Mr Chambers. The police are on their way.'

‘Oh, yes, they always are, aren't they? Do you know, I even lost my job today – the day job, that is. That stupid bastard Bob Thorogood said I was too … what was the word he used? “Overzealous”, that was it. He didn't actually fire me. I resigned. Told him where he could stick his bloody job.' His face relaxed from the mask of fury to a self-satisfied smile. ‘No, I have a permit for this,' he waved the gun again, ‘and the mood of the country is at last starting to swing my way. It will be self-defence. Intruder. Dead of night. An Englishman's
home is his castle and all that. I called out to you, Mr Maxwell. I said, “Who's there? I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it.”'

The lights suddenly went out. There were two shots in the blackness, blasting as one, and the roar and flame of a pair of .44 Magnums briefly illuminated the landing. When the lights came back on again, Jeff O'Malley was slumped against the wall, his hand on the light switch, the other still holding the gun but with blood dripping off his fingers and along the barrel. At the top of the stairs, inches from the crouching Maxwell, Mark Chambers lay face down, a dark stain spreading from his side, out across the carpet and down the first riser.

‘Sonofabitch,' O'Malley muttered and Maxwell gingerly took the gun from his hand.

They heard the police sirens wailing in the distance and both men sat down while Maxwell checked Chambers for signs of life. There were none.

Jacquie Maxwell looked out of the kitchen window. ‘It's hailing,' she said. ‘Makes a change.'

Maxwell glanced over his shoulder and through the kitchen door – across the landing he could see out of the sitting room window. ‘It's snowing out the front,' he remarked.

There was a silence. A perfect Saturday morning in 38 Columbine. Another piece of toast popped up and Jacquie caught it deftly. Maxwell was treating himself to a croissant.

Eventually, he spoke again. ‘Where's Hec?'

‘Seeing Camille off at Heathrow. She flies this afternoon, but she wanted to be there in plenty of time. Also the press might catch her if she gets there early.'

‘Surely you mean the press might miss her?'

Jacquie smiled at him indulgently. ‘Max,' she said. ‘It's Camille.'

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I wasn't thinking.'

‘It's snowing out of this window now,' she said. ‘I'm so tired of this weather.' She buttered and jammed her toast. ‘I had an email from Harry last night.'

‘That's an odd coincidence. I had an email from Paul yesterday afternoon.' Sounds of spreading, tearing and munching according to their season filled the kitchen. Metternich's purr was almost the loudest thing in the room. ‘Did he have anything exciting to say, Harry? Bet he was pleased we got Jeff O'Malley on something concrete.'

‘Yes, he was. Er … as a matter of fact, he had a proposition to put to me.'

‘What a very odd coincidence,' Maxwell said, wiping jam off his chin. ‘Paul was also talking propositions. I don't usually enjoy being proposed to by my colleagues – not the male ones anyway. He has met Harry, by the way. He popped in to apologise for the raid.'

‘He seems very nice,' Jacquie said.

‘Paul? Of course he's nice.'

‘Max! I mean Harry.'

‘Paul seems to like him, from the sound of it.' Maxwell got up and went to his wife, still staring pensively out at the snow. ‘If you want to go, I'll give it a try, you know,' he said.

She turned in his arms and looked into his eyes. ‘Try what?' she said, trying to sound light and unconcerned.

‘The sabbatical year in LA. Teaching at the university. Giving seminars on British police procedure. All that.'

‘How long have you known?' she asked him, poking him in the chest.

‘Since Paul's email arrived.'

‘Pig! You didn't say a thing.'

‘Nor did you,' he pointed out, ‘until just now. And then it was only when I said it first.'

‘But … but … it's abroad. It's full of Americans, talking with accents, with funny grammar. Think of the
spelling
!'

‘It's near Hollywood. The West, or what's left of it. Disneyland for Nole. Skunks for Metternich to play with. Sun. Lots of sun.'

‘They don't walk anywhere, they only drive.'

Neither of them had mentioned that mad Night When Maxwell Drove. He had just handed Jacquie her keys and the whole thing had never happened.

‘All the more pavement for me,' the eternal pedestrian said. ‘Look, you won't put me off now,' he said. ‘I've already told Bernard Ryan. He's started the paperwork.'

‘My God! What did he say?'

Maxwell looked down. ‘He seemed rather pleased, as a matter of fact. Asked how soon we would be going. I told him it was up to you. You can expect the bunch of flowers any day now, I should imagine. When will you tell Henry?'

It was Jacquie's turn to look down. ‘I spoke to him yesterday, when I got the email.'

‘And what did
he
say?'

‘He wasn't as pleased as Bernard, perhaps, but he was supportive. He's thinking of a sabbatical himself,
trying out retirement, I think. Margaret's idea. I give it a week, myself, but we'll see. This O'Malley case has given him a lot to do, of course. The blackmail victims run into the hundreds. Mrs Whatmough was the tip of the iceberg.'

‘Well, that's it, then. We've just got to tell Nole.'

‘Mrs Troubridge.'

‘Metternich.'

‘He knows,' Jacquie said. ‘He's been under the table listening all the while.'

‘Your mother.'

‘Do we have to? Can't she just find out?'

‘Come here, you clever girl. Need any pointers for the lectures?'

‘I was hoping you'd be giving most of them.'

‘Try and stop me.'

It wasn't exactly spring when Henry Hall drew up outside 38 Columbine, but it wasn't as bone-freezingly cold as it had been for the last two months. The tableau in front of him could only be happening there. Mrs Troubridge, all of a tremble, was hugging the Maxwells one by one, even Mad Max himself, and then passing them on to Alana for a hug, as though on a conveyor belt. Hector Gold was standing in the doorway of Number 38, dapper in an apron and slippers, passing out the Maxwells' luggage. Metternich was in a large and palatial cat carrier on the path, the label clearly showing that he was travelling with the people, not the luggage. A phase of Henry's life, a long phase, a happy phase, was
laid out in front of him. He had loved Jacquie Maxwell as Sylvia Matthews had loved Maxwell all those years, as a good thing in his life, someone to make him keep on trying. Margaret and the boys were his world, but Jacquie Carpenter Maxwell was his star.

Hector stepped forward and everyone feared there may be a speech. ‘Thank you for entrusting your home and dear Mrs Troubridge to me,' he said to Maxwell, meaning every word. ‘I feel privileged to live here and before I go I will apply to the appropriate office in government to make sure there is a plaque on both your houses.'

Maxwell stepped away from his front door, content. He had passed the mantle of Leighford and Columbine into the right, if rather zany, hands. The Sixth Form had given him a laptop, their way of trying to drag him into their century. But they all knew it wouldn't work.

Blowing kisses, Henry drove them away, Metternich spitting just for the look of the thing. Everyone was quiet on the drive, even Nolan appreciating that, however huge the ice creams were, he was going to miss Mrs Troubridge, Plocker and even Mrs Whatmough. He pressed his nose to the window and committed his world to memory.

At Heathrow, Jacquie and Maxwell hugged Henry Hall with equal fervour. Nolan was swung round and Metternich given a tentative stroke before he was borne away by a besotted air hostess, who would be bleeding profusely before she got beyond the gate.

Maxwell looked at Henry. This was a seminal
moment in their lives. Something memorable must be said. ‘I'll be back,' Maxwell said, in a perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Hall stepped back, waving, as the little family went through the gate marked ‘Departures'.

‘Yes, indeed you will,' he muttered to himself. ‘You're my star witness – I'll see you in court.'

And his Raymond Burr was flawless.