Maxwell’s Ride (8 page)

Maxwell pulled a chair up and sat facing the lad. He was … what, nineteen, twenty perhaps, with hard, almost Nureyev features, high cheekbones and chiselled nostrils. Only his appalling woolly cap marked him out as a child of the ’nineties. That and the attitude.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked.

Logan still stood dithering at Maxwell’s elbow.

‘Press,’ Maxwell said. ‘Well, he is.’

Logan thought he’d better join the conversation, so he took a spare chair from the corner and flashed his NUJ card.

‘What d’ya want?’

‘A story,’ Maxwell said. ‘That’s if your name is Michael Lloyd.’

The lad looked at his mates, one on each side, like Horatius at the bridge. ‘It might be,’ he said.

‘Great,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘That’s just earned you a drink. Chris, what’s the man having?’

‘A whale of a time,’ Logan grunted, seeing the lit-up grins on the lads’ faces.

‘Fair enough,’ said Lloyd. ‘Three Stellas – pints.’

‘Is there any other measurement?’ Maxwell smiled and thrust a tenner into Logan’s hand. ‘I might run to another if the answer to my next question’s right.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Lloyd leaned back. ‘And what’s that?’

‘How well did you know Larry Warner?’

‘Who?’

Now, Peter Maxwell had been around. He knew kids like the back of his blackboard, when they lied and when they told the truth. He watched the eyes first, that’s where the smart ones let themselves down. It was only slight, just a flicker really, but it gave the game away every time. It was one of Maxwell’s favourite films –
My Friend Flicker
. The not so smart ones mottled crimson from the neck or licked their lips or said ‘No’, in that belligerent nasal way that teenagers have. Micky Lloyd was a smart one. The eyes had it.

‘Chris,’ Maxwell caught Logan’s arm as he was making for the bar. ‘Got your mobile?’

‘Sure,’ Logan reached into his jacket pocket.

‘DCI Hall, Leighford nick. I think we’ve got our man.’

‘Now, just a fucking minute …’ Lloyd’s eyes were blazing. ‘What the fuck is this?’

‘This,’ Maxwell leaned forward over the hubbub, ‘is a cosy little chat about your career as a male prostitute.’

Pins don’t usually drop in Portsmouth pubs, but one did at Micky Lloyd’s table that night. Lloyd’s defences dropped, his eyes flickered left and right.

‘Do you want me to take him outside, Mick?’ one of his mates asked.

‘No, no, it’s all right.’ Lloyd was focused on Maxwell now.

‘No, you know,’ the mate insisted. ‘Out the back, y’know. Kneecaps.’

‘No, I don’t, Kevin,’ Lloyd bellowed.

‘Well …’ Kevin was a little crestfallen.

‘Look, you and Gringe piss off now, yeah? I’ll see you around, mate.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Kevin and Gringe scraped their chairs and loitered before retreating to the door, eyeing Maxwell as they went. ‘See you then, mate.’

‘Whatever,’ Lloyd leaned forward, suddenly becoming confidential. ‘Look, who are you, really?’

‘Really?’ Maxwell leaned back and let the philosopher in him take over. ‘Who are any of us really? I’m here to talk about you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Larry Warner is dead and you might know something about that.’

‘Oh, no, mate,’ Lloyd said, ‘you’re not pinning any of that crap on me. No way.’

‘Have the police talked to you yet?’

‘No,’ Lloyd frowned, sitting bolt upright, ‘so how did you get onto me?’

‘Don’t worry your fluffy little head about that,’ Maxwell waved a sheaf of paper under the boy’s nose. ‘College lists. You’re the seventh Michael we’ve seen tonight. And the only one who’s lied about knowing Larry Warner.’

‘What makes you think I lied?’ Lloyd was on the defensive now, ready to brazen it out.

‘Years of experience,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Ah, can you manage all three yourself?’ Logan had returned with a tray of lagers.

Lloyd folded his arms. ‘What if I don’t want to drink with you?’

Maxwell dipped his lip into the froth. ‘What if you killed Larry Warner?’

‘What?’ Lloyd felt his pulse racing. Logan saw the boy’s eyes widen. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘Well, let’s see.’ Maxwell clasped his hands over his pint and rested his chin on them. ‘There are a number of possibilities. He hadn’t paid you for your last session. You were tired of that kind of life and wanted to go straight, so to speak. He was making unnatural demands – well, even more unnatural, I mean ‘Leave it out,’ Lloyd roared, ‘he was my fucking meal ticket, wasn’t he?’

‘Ah,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘student loans don’t go far, do they?’

‘Fucking right they don’t.’

‘So why did you do it?’ Logan asked.

‘I didn’t fucking do it! Look, look,’ Lloyd tried to marshal his thoughts, rallying his fingers to help him disentangle the chaos of his brain. ‘They said on the telly that he’d been shot, right. And the
Echo
said it was a high-powered rifle.’

‘Oh, the
Echo
!’ Logan scoffed. ‘Well, it must be right, then.’

‘Now where am I going to get a shooter, eh? Get real.’

‘Got any form, Micky?’ Maxwell asked.

‘You what?’

‘Are you known to the police? I mean, if my colleague and I turned you upside down and shook out your pockets, would we find any incriminating substances? Is there a file on you in Pompey Vice?’

‘Fuck off,’ Lloyd snarled.

‘Well,’ said Maxwell, ‘it’s only a matter of time. We found you. So will they. Especially when my friend Mr Logan here telephones his editor.’

‘All right, all right,’ Lloyd folded like a pack of cards. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Let’s start with a little thing called the truth, shall we?’ Maxwell asked, ‘and see where that takes us.’

The truth took Maxwell to a sad man who habitually wandered the parks. He was an easy mark for Micky Lloyd, always on the hustle and not particularly fussy how he made his money. They’d met one sunny Sunday in February, in the public toilets under the giant shadow of Portchester castle. A quick bit of business in one of the cubicles and then it was a nice Peugeot ride to a snobby building along Queen’s Crescent. Some frosty old cow of a housekeeper had looked down her nose at Lloyd, but there was nothing she could do. The boy ate well there, drank, watched videos, mostly imported Dutch stuff and went off to college with a wad of cash in his jeans. He was happy, the old poof was happy. What could be wrong with any of that?

‘But he wasn’t the only one,’ Maxwell was thinking out loud as Chris Logan dropped him outside 38 Columbine at the witching hour.

‘What?’

‘Micky Lloyd. Not the only toy boy of the late Mr Warner.’

‘It’s the gun thing,’ Logan was tapping his steering wheel, frowning at the empty street ahead.

‘I know,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Disgruntled AC/DC – or just plain DC – boys might go for a punter with a knife or a hammer or their boots. But a high-powered rifle … Was the
Echo
right, by the way?’

‘Ha, ha,’ Logan laughed. ‘There’s an unwritten law in the newspaper game, Max – never admit the other guy’s right. I didn’t get that from the police press conference the other day. They must have inside info.’

‘Who would that be from? Hall? Bartholomew?’

Logan shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know anybody on the force? Somebody we can trust?’

‘No,’ Maxwell shook his head, a vision of a girl scowling at him, tears welling in her quiet, grey eyes. ‘No. Nobody. Anyway,’ he turned to Logan, ‘What’s this “we”, white man?’

The newspaperman laughed. ‘Max, I must admit – old teacher and all – when I took you along this afternoon, I was a bit, well …’

‘Pissed off?’

‘Well pissed off,’ Logan agreed, phrasemaker that he was. ‘But, well, watching you work …’

‘It was a joy to behold, yes, I know. Thank you, Chris. Now, to save my blushes, I must away. It’s long past my bedtime.’

‘What happens tomorrow?’ Logan leaned across as Maxwell was about to close the door.

‘Well,’ Maxwell pondered it, ‘the sun comes up, assuming we can see it, about five …’

‘I’m serious, Max. This morning the Larry Warner thing was just a story. Now …’

‘Now it’s a crusade,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Watch it, Chris. You’re starting to care. That’s fatal, believe me.’

‘I’m in,’ Logan insisted. ‘Ring me.’

‘All right,’ Maxwell said. Perhaps the geek had grown up after all. And he watched the dark Rover snarl away into the night.

Softly, softly, he put his key into the lock, treading over Metternich lying like a draught excluder inside the door. The flick of the tail was the furry bastard’s shorthand for ‘And what time do you call this?’ He crept up the stairs to the half light of his lounge and all three of them were lying there, fast asleep, Tiffany curled tightly on the armchair, dreaming of Brad Pitt or, God forbid, Leonardo di Caprio; Lucy snuggled into the safe, enveloping arms of Sylvia Matthews, whom Maxwell had asked to babysit again. And Sylvia? Maxwell could never guess what she dreamed of. He poured himself a Southern Comfort and sat down on the floor, his knees under his chin, his glass against his nose. He’d wake them presently, tell them all was well. There was no sign tonight of Robert de Niro. And he blew a kiss to them. His girls.

Later, he couldn’t remember how it fitted into his dreams, but it was probably the school bell, tolling the knell of yet another god-awful day. Then he realized it wasn’t the end of a day, but the start of one and it was as black as pitch in the tip he called a bedroom.

‘War Office.’ Even at an impossible time in the morning, Max was quite Mad.

‘Max, it’s Sandie.’

‘Sister mine, how the devil are you?’

‘Well, things are a little hairy at this end, darling. Complications – I won’t bore you with it all now. The upshot is, can you hang on to the girls for a while longer?’

‘Longer?’

‘Yes. No more than a week, I promise. Are they behaving themselves?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Good. Give them our love, will you? Sorry, it must be quite early over there.’

‘Something like that,’ Maxwell muttered.

‘Sorry, darling. Any problems, let me know, will you? Tell the girls I’ll ring them, there’s a big bro.’

And she was gone, off to do whatever it was diplomats’ wives do – Maxwell couldn’t imagine. Presumably they had somebody else to make the cucumber sandwiches. ‘Big bro’ shuffled out of bed and opened his curtains. The sun was a ball of orange fire in the early mists wreathing the sleeping town houses. The Downs were just a line of pearl in the haze and he watched the street lights go out one by one. He heard the door open slightly and he didn’t have to turn to see who it was.

‘Morning, Count. Sleep well, did we?’

The black and white animal loafed onto the bed, starting his morning ritual, kneading the duvet as if his life depended on it.

‘No dribbling, please,’ Maxwell warned him and fumbled for his dressing gown. ‘What’ll it be for breakfast? Little bits of coloured concrete they’re conning you are mackerel, tuna and salmon? Go-Cat over easy? Fine. And no,’ he peered down at the monster as he rolled over onto his back, ‘you can’t have it in bed.’

Metternich watched the silly old bastard hunting for his slippers and disappear onto the landing. He waited for the usual ‘Oh shit’ as his Master caught himself a nasty one on the banister. Then he stopped rolling around cutely, hating himself all over again. The things a cat has to do to get some food around here.

‘I can’t ask you again,’ Maxwell was in the kitchen, phone in one hand, slice of toast in the other.

‘You haven’t,’ Sylvia said on the other end of the line, from her kitchen somewhere across town. ‘I’ve offered. They’re lovely girls, Max, you know that. Just … well, don’t get in too deep, that’s all. I don’t want you getting hurt.’

‘Why, Matron.’ Maxwell was doing his Kenneth Williams again. ‘I didn’t know you cared. See you at ten.’

‘No,’ she whispered into the receiver as the line went dead. ‘No, that’s just it, isn’t it?’

They took the M27 West, past Magicworld where the crowds and coaches of the last day of the school holiday were swarming, skirting the New Forest, no longer new and not much of a forest and drove into Bournemouth in time for elevenses. It had to be said that Chris Logan wasn’t Peter Maxwell’s first choice for a companion of a mile, but he had a car and perhaps his journalistic skills would find an outlet one day.

The Wyndham Theatre stood on the western slope of Ramsdown Hill, where the Avon looped into Christchurch and the only sound, apart from the roar of traffic on the A338 was the drone of the odd aircraft circling into Hurn. The place had been built as a Music Hall in the days when the Halls packed ’em in. Dan Leno had played there, along with the Great Vance, George Leybourne and Vesta Tilley. They knew a thing or two about cross-dressing, did the Victorians.

What struck Maxwell as he entered the deserted auditorium was the cold. All morning, they’d driven with the Rover’s windows open, the sun roof atilt in the golden weather, Logan tapping his fingers on the wheel to the incessant babble from Radio Ga-Ga. But here, with the proscenium rising before him, it could have been midwinter.

‘Hello!’ Maxwell called, ‘Anybody there?’

There was a noise off stage, a clattering of flats and a silver-haired figure in a cardigan stood there, looking over his glasses, a clipboard in his hand.

‘Mr Wiseman?’

‘Yes,’ the silver-haired man said. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Peter Maxwell, from Leighford High School. We met last term when you spoke to my sixth form. If I may say so, I’ve never heard a better Terry Wogan!’

‘Yes, yes of course, Mr Maxwell.’ He came to the edge of the stage and shook the man’s hand. ‘And flattery, by the way, will get you almost anywhere.’

‘This is Chris Logan, of the Leighford Advertiser.’

‘Mr Logan,’ Wiseman shook his hand too. He was younger than the silver hair let on. Perhaps Maxwell’s age, with a wiry frame and twinkling eyes. He could have been Sir Ian McKellen in a funny mirror.

‘Ah,’ Wiseman sat on the stage, swinging his legs over the edge and cradling his clipboard, ‘Is the Advertiser doing a piece on the Wyndham?’

‘Er … not exactly,’ Logan said, ‘although it’s possible, in the fullness of time.’