Maxwell’s Ride (21 page)

‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice sounded over the intercom, rather tired, rather world-weary.

‘Peter Maxwell, from Leighford High School. We met last week.’

There was a buzz and a click and the front door opened. The house was the mockest of Tudors, but the quality was pure ’thirties and it wouldn’t have surprised Maxwell at all that this building, in itself, was listed.

She met him in the hall, gliding with an elegance over the polished parquet floor. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said, extending slim, jewelled fingers. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’

‘I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ he kissed her hand and surprised her with his chivalry, ‘but there’s a poem I’d like to discuss with you.’

‘A poem?’ she smiled. ‘Couldn’t you have phoned?’

‘Oh, no,’ he shook his head. ‘For this poem, I needed to see you face to face.’

She frowned. ‘But why?’

Only now did he let her hand fall. ‘Because it’s a poem you wrote.’

‘One of mine?’

He twisted his lips a little. ‘Let’s say a collaboration, shall we? Part Amy Weston, part Rupert Brooke.’

15

‘You like cats?’ It was a superfluous question really. A large tortoiseshell had pinned Maxwell to the chair, a Devon Rex was curled under one armpit, a silver tabby was under the other. Only the Persian blue sat aloof, knowing exactly how gorgeous she was without Maxwell billing and cooing all over her.

‘I’m a cat person,’ Maxwell said. ‘Although I’m not sure whether I’m a cat owner.’

‘What do you have?’

‘A black and white.’ Maxwell buried his fingers in the bundle of fur in his lap. It was the most fun he’d had in a long time. ‘I think they’re called Friesian in some circles.’

She passed him a coffee, just poured from an expensive cafetiere. ‘I never know whether to take you seriously or not,’ she said.

‘Oh, please do,’ he begged her. ‘Sudden death is something I never joke about.’

‘Sudden death?’ Amy Weston, the poetess, was sitting on an elegant chaise longue across the room from him. Everything about the woman was elegant, her long flowing kaftan, her cats, her cream-coloured decor.

‘Chris Logan,’ he said.

She frowned and shook her head, all in one movement.

He reached into his pocket and read the contents – ‘And we that knew the best down wonderful hours grew happier yet. I sang at heart, and talked and ate, and I lived from laugh to laugh, I too, when you were there, and you, and you.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You were right, Mr Maxwell. It is Rupert Brooke. Probably written in 1910. It’s called “Dining-Room Tea”.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘What I don’t know is why you should quote it on a card, left with a single rose, where the police found the dead body of a journalist.’

‘Why
I
should?’ That curious frown and shake of the head again.

‘It is your handwriting?’

‘Mr Maxwell, how did you get my address?’

‘You’re famous, Ms Weston, one of the country’s foremost women writers.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Do I catch a sense of limitation there? Some sexist condition?’

‘Not at all,’ he smiled, sipping his coffee. ‘I’m merely quoting your friend Archie Godden.’

‘Godden.’ He thought he saw her face darken. ‘He’s a bastard.’

‘Oh, really? I’m sorry, I naturally thought …’

‘Neither of those words apply to Archie, Mr Maxwell. He isn’t natural and he doesn’t have a thought in his head, at least, not an original one.’

‘I see.’

‘And it’s precisely because I am famous that I don’t give my address away to any Tom, Dick or … you’ll forgive me, Harry.’

‘Ah,’ he winked. ‘But you gave it to Deirdre Lessing.’

‘Who?’

‘Quite!’ he beamed triumphantly. ‘My sentiments exactly. Her publicity team however tell me she’s Senior Mistress, a sort of middle-aged concubine, at Leighford High School.’

‘Whence you emanate?’ she checked.

‘Where I teach,’ he corrected her. That in itself was bad enough, but he drew the line at emanation. ‘Well, you’ve been very kind, Ms Weston,’ and he put the coffee cup down before removing the tortoiseshell’s claws from his country casuals, ‘but I fear I’m wasting my time.’

‘Must you go?’ He sensed the routine detachment of the question.

‘Yes, I have to report all this to the police. My only quandary is whether to see the Met, on whose patch poor Chris died, or Leighford CID, where the dear departed lived. Still, co-operation between the forces is excellent these days, isn’t it? I’ve never been to Scotland Yard.’

‘Wait,’ the command was harsh, imperious. ‘Please, Mr Maxwell. We needn’t be hasty about all this. Is it, after all, such a crime to commemorate the passing of another human being?’

‘No crime at all.’ Maxwell sat down again and the tortoiseshell re-established his lap as her territory, shaking an erect tail at him before curling to bring her nose up her bum. ‘Would you like to share it with me?’

‘Before I do,’ she sat upright, staring into his eyes, ‘I need to know why you want to know.’

‘Larry Warner’s murder,’ Maxwell said, watching for all the old familiar signs. ‘Chris Logan was investigating it.’

‘He was? Why?’

‘Because he was a journalist. Because Warner died on his newspaper’s doorstep … And because I asked him to.’

‘You’re involved?’

‘I was at the Wild Water ride on the day Warner was killed. I didn’t have any choice but be involved.’

‘You could have walked away,’ she said.

He looked at her. ‘I’m not the walking away type,’ he told her.

‘Neither am I,’ she said. ‘I heard about Mr Logan on the local news. The Arches, the Adelphi, the Embankment – I knew these areas well. You know my
Shifting Sands
trilogy?’

‘Er …’

‘No matter. It touched a chord – I don’t know why. The Arches, a futile death.’

‘Futile?’

‘Isn’t all death futile, Mr Maxwell, unless it’s in a cause?’

‘A cause?’

She shifted on the chaise longue. ‘Well, you know, a just war?’

‘Are we talking jihad?’ he asked her. ‘A holy war?’

She chuckled, a soft rippling sound that rippled through his head. ‘We’re not Muslims, Mr Maxwell. Curiously un-English, isn’t it? We British fight wars, but they’re never holy. We’d be too embarrassed to admit to that. It’s too emotional.’

‘So you left the rose?’ he asked her. ‘Isn’t that emotional?’

‘I didn’t say it wasn’t,’ she said. ‘It’s just that we aren’t, as a people, as a nation.’

‘Why the Rupert Brooke?’

‘I told you,’ she sighed, ‘when we met last. He was a fine poet. Influential certainly on my earlier work.’

‘And why “Dining Room Tea” in particular?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, frowning. ‘I don’t know why it came to me. Mr Maxwell, you aren’t really going to the police about this, are you?’

‘Why?’ he asked her. ‘Would you rather I didn’t?’

‘Snoopers,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t like snoopers.’

‘But you’re a celebrity,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t snooping go with the territory?’

‘Poetry is private,’ she told him. ‘No one’s seen my best work. Or … nearly no one. What I let the public see is only a façade. Not the real me.’

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘about Anthony LeStrange.’

Anthony?’ she frowned. ‘I barely know him. We only meet via Charts. He’s very well known, certainly. Quite seriously wealthy, I should think. Quite a brilliant hypnotist.’

‘That’s his metier?’

‘Oh yes. All that tigers in the High Street and sawing people in half, that’s his public persona.’

‘Like the poetry you let us see?’

‘Exactly. I suspect his best work is done behind the scenes. We’ll never see it.’

‘Why should Chris Logan want to talk to him?’

‘You said it yourself,’ she told him, ‘but about me. Anthony is a celebrity, a television personality. Why shouldn’t a journalist want to talk to him?’

‘I meant,’ he leaned forward as far as the cat would let him, ‘in connection with the Larry Warner murder.’

‘Ah,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he smiled back. ‘But I think I know a man who can.’

‘Yes. Hello. My name is Peter Maxwell. I’m an old friend of Chris Logan. Yes. He was found dead unfortunately, a few days ago. Yes. Well, I’m planning a memorial service for him and I believe he used to write for you. Yes. That, I don’t know. Can you help? Yes. Yes. Of course.’

Maxwell waited while the
Sun
switchboard played some dreadful Muzak at him down the phone. He lolled back in the chair, waving to his littler niece across the quad from him in the science labs at Leighford High, disguised in white coat mid goggles as she was.

‘Yes. Until ’98. That would be right. Tell me, we’ve asked a celebrity to be present at the service, say a few words, you know. Er … Anthony LeStrange … Yes, the magician. Oh, brilliant, yes. No, I’ve no idea how it’s done, no. Well, I seem to remember that Chris did a story on him for you once. Yes. Just for the record, you know. Could you? Oh, wonderful.’

And he lolled back again, watching Lucy as Ben Holton scurried round her, flapping about bunsen burners. Whoever made such a neurotic into the Head of Science? Oh, wait a minute. Maxwell remembered it was Legs Diamond, he of Bad Appointments R Us, adding fuel again to the old adage, if you want to get a Head, get a twat.

‘Yes. Ah, he did. Oh, three articles. Excellent. And … what? Hypnosis? You’re sure about that? No, thanks. I don’t need that. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ And he put the phone down.

‘I don’t usually have lunch with strange men,’ Maxwell assured Henry Hall. ‘Especially Detective Chief Inspectors.’

They sat in Hall’s silver Volvo under a cloudless sky, facing out to sea. Around them, sunburnt kids scampered, lobster-red. Maxwell didn’t care. They should have been at school, but their semi-literate parents had other ideas. Sunstroke and stupidity – the great British summer.

‘I’m glad we could find a mutual moment,’ Hall said. Maxwell tackled his baguette with gusto. He’d met Henry Hall before and had learned to respect him, but he was a bland bastard, for ever hiding behind protocol and the blankness of his rimless glasses.

‘I’m glad you’re glad,’ the Head of Sixth Form was on his precious lunch hour, that glorious window in the day when some sort of peace descended and teachers sat comatose, like cryogenic experiments in the staffroom, psyching up for the uphill battle that was the afternoon.

‘I wanted a chat about Chris Logan.’

‘I rather thought you might.’

‘You were in his flat.’

‘I was looking for him.’

‘Clearly, so was someone else.’

Maxwell turned in his seat, reaching for the can of something fizzy resting on the dashboard. ‘Clearly. Any idea who?’

Hall was still staring at the hazy line where the sky met the sea. ‘I was just going to ask you the same question.’

Maxwell chuckled. A less humourless bastard than Hall would have joined him. ‘Do I sense an offer coming on?’

Hall turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There are things I know,’ Maxwell said, ‘and things that you know. Put those things together and we might just catch Logan’s killer.’

There’s a distinction there,’ Hall noticed. ‘The things I know are police business. The things you know are being withheld and could be classed as obstruction.’

Tsk, tsk,’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘Mi casa, su casa, Chief Inspector. I suspect you want to nail this man more than I do.’

‘And Logan makes it personal for you, does he?’

‘He does,’ Maxwell told him. ‘It might have been me under the Arches the other night. Should have been, perhaps.’

Hall looked at him curiously. ‘People with a death wish are no good to me,’ he said. ‘Your investigation’s heading towards Anthony LeStrange.’

Yes,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Policewoman Carpenter will have told you that.’

‘Keith Kershaw told us that,’ Hall corrected him, ‘at the
Advertiser
offices.’

Jacquie was the last person Maxwell wanted to land in it. He’d have to box cleverer than this.

‘Have you talked to LeStrange?’

‘The Met have. He’s never heard of Chris Logan and he has an alibi for the time of his death. As he does for that of Larry Warner.’

‘Warner?’ It was enough to make Maxwell stop chewing.

‘What we haven’t released yet,’ Hall told him, ‘is that both men were killed with the same gun. A Ruger KM 77 Vt Mark Two.’

‘Jesus.’

‘We know exactly when Warner died from eyewitness accounts – including yours. Logan we can ascertain to within an hour and a quarter. LeStrange was actually filming on both occasions. We’ve got corroboration of that from more technicians and members of the public than you and I have had hot dinners.’

‘He is a magician,’ Maxwell reminded the detective.

‘True,’ Hall nodded, ‘but unless he’s sussed the time-space continuum thing, I’ve got to rule him out.’

‘Where does that leave us?’ Maxwell asked.

‘With loose ends,’ Hall said, scanning the timeless horizon again. ‘And brick walls. I’ll tell you what, Mr Maxwell; are you a gambling man?’

Maxwell shrugged. ‘Well, you know, the National, the Boat Race, I’ve even been known to buy a Lottery ticket.’

Hall fumbled in his pocket and fished out a coin, spinning it and catching it expertly. ‘Heads or tails?’ he asked.

‘Heads,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’ve always had such respect for them.’

‘Heads it is,’ Hall told him. ‘Do you want the loose ends or the brick walls?’

‘I’m not quite sure …’

‘Ends or walls?’ Hall persisted.

‘All right, then.’ Maxwell was never one to chicken out in a corner. ‘Walls.’

‘Good,’ said Hall. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’

‘Have you heard of the White Knights, Count?’ Maxwell was adjusting the saddle of Sergeant Mitchell’s mount, filing off the flash with an expert action. Naturally, the cat had not.

‘Neither had I.’ Maxwell applied the glue, carefully, not wishing to make his pet feel in any way inadequate by his lack of knowledge. ‘But apparently, the Met’s anti-terrorist squad has been aware of them for some time. They’re a white supremacist group. You know, Hitler was a nice guy, the KKK collect for Barnardo’s and should we really let anyone other than heterosexual Caucasians live? It’s the kind of tolerance you show to Leighford’s mouse population, only we humans are supposed to have the odd moral or two, mixed with a little conscience and a smattering of principles. Well, it seems that our friend Mr Hamlyn, confessor to killings, is a member of this august body, which raises all sorts of implications about his SAS credentials. Who told me this useful little snippet? That nice policeman, Mr Hall. And why did he tell me? Because he thinks I can be useful to him.’