nodded back at him. If this was downtown Chicago, Ronald Parsons would have passed for a goodfella, with his slim moustache and his wardrobe-sized shoulders.
‘Thanks for waiting with my wife,’ Parsons said, ‘There’s some funny people about these days, isn’t there? It’s good to know she’s in safe hands.’ And he hustled Dorothy around the corner to the beige van tucked away out of sight.
‘How did you get this number?’ Jacquie Carpenter snapped angrily.
‘I keep my nose to the wheel and my flies open,’ Maxwell said. ‘What – if you’ll excuse the vernacular – the shit is going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
Maxwell sat down heavily on his bottom stair. ‘Woman Policeman Carpenter, did you or did you not tell me only yesterday that your Metropolitan colleagues had found Alice Goode’s body?’
‘That’s right,’ she confirmed.
‘And did you not say that your boss was due to speak unto my boss on that very same revelation?’
‘Well, yes, I …’
‘Well, why hasn’t he? I know Legs Diamond. He couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. There was no such call.’
‘I know!’ she shouted.
He held the receiver away from his eardrum.
‘Look,’ she’d regained whatever composure she had left and was back on track again, ‘I can’t be held responsible. I shouldn’t have told you anything in the first place. For whatever reason, the DCI had held the story back.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve just seen the non-item on the local news. Chap called Cainer posing outside a nick I’ve never seen, saying, in effect, “Mind your own business”.’
‘They have their reasons,’ Jacquie told him.
‘Oh, great!’
‘Max!’ she bellowed. It wasn’t like Jacquie Carpenter, but she’d compromised herself. Her job was on the line and all the time she felt the train was getting closer. It frightened her. She’d never done anything like this before. Never broken rules or her word. And now, here she was, in over her head, with panic at her elbow.
It was his turn to calm down. ‘Tell me about the letter.’
There was a pause. ‘I can’t.’
‘Ronnie is in trouble,’ Max reminded the detective.
‘Exactly,’ her voice was cold, different, official. ‘In more trouble than you know. Now, Max, please, for my sake, for Ronnie’s sake, for yours, I’m asking you to stay out of this. Please don’t call this number again.’
And the line went dead.
Maxwell looked at his cat. ‘First she’s in,’ he said to the animal, ‘then she’s out. Now she’s shaking it all about. It looked suspiciously to me, Count, as if Woman Policeman Carpenter’s losing it.’
Metternich yawned ostentatiously. He could have told his master, had man-animal communications improved over the last seven million years, that that was women for you. Maxwell would have to try another tack.
Exactly how long Sylvia Matthews had loved Peter Maxwell, she couldn’t say. It wasn’t something she’d scrawled in graffiti paint across the bike sheds or carved with her Girl Guide penknife into the bark of the sweetheart tree. It was just a feeling she had, every time she saw him in the corridor, heard his voice booming through the hall, caught the wind as he rattled past her on White Surrey, pedalling north. Every time, she felt her stomach tighten and her heart loop. Then she’d mentally shake herself free of it, of him. How stupid, Sylvia, she’d say to herself; you’re old enough to know better, dammit. You’ll never see forty again. Nor come to think of it, forty-five. Now, pull yourself together and get back on that shelf, where you belong.
So when his barbed-wire hair appeared around her office door that Wednesday afternoon, a little after lunch, followed almost immediately by his smiling face, she felt it all happening all over again. As if she wanted to run home and say ‘Mummy, Mummy, he did it. He smiled at me. He talked to me.’
But Emma Dollery was having her period pains
‘Thanks for waiting with my wife,’ Parsons said, ‘There’s some funny people about these days, isn’t there? It’s good to know she’s in safe hands.’ And he hustled Dorothy around the corner to the beige van tucked away out of sight.
‘How did you get this number?’ Jacquie Carpenter snapped angrily.
‘I keep my nose to the wheel and my flies open,’ Maxwell said. ‘What – if you’ll excuse the vernacular – the shit is going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
Maxwell sat down heavily on his bottom stair. ‘Woman Policeman Carpenter, did you or did you not tell me only yesterday that your Metropolitan colleagues had found Alice Goode’s body?’
‘That’s right,’ she confirmed.
‘And did you not say that your boss was due to speak unto my boss on that very same revelation?’
‘Well, yes, I …’
‘Well, why hasn’t he? I know Legs Diamond. He couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. There was no such call.’
‘I know!’ she shouted.
He held the receiver away from his eardrum.
‘Look,’ she’d regained whatever composure she had left and was back on track again, ‘I can’t be held responsible. I shouldn’t have told you anything in the first place. For whatever reason, the DCI had held the story back.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve just seen the non-item on the local news. Chap called Cainer posing outside a nick I’ve never seen, saying, in effect, “Mind your own business”.’
‘They have their reasons,’ Jacquie told him.
‘Oh, great!’
‘Max!’ she bellowed. It wasn’t like Jacquie Carpenter, but she’d compromised herself. Her job was on the line and all the time she felt the train was getting closer. It frightened her. She’d never done anything like this before. Never broken rules or her word. And now, here she was, in over her head, with panic at her elbow.
It was his turn to calm down. ‘Tell me about the letter.’
There was a pause. ‘I can’t.’
‘Ronnie is in trouble,’ Max reminded the detective.
‘Exactly,’ her voice was cold, different, official. ‘In more trouble than you know. Now, Max, please, for my sake, for Ronnie’s sake, for yours, I’m asking you to stay out of this. Please don’t call this number again.’
And the line went dead.
Maxwell looked at his cat. ‘First she’s in,’ he said to the animal, ‘then she’s out. Now she’s shaking it all about. It looked suspiciously to me, Count, as if Woman Policeman Carpenter’s losing it.’
Metternich yawned ostentatiously. He could have told his master, had man-animal communications improved over the last seven million years, that that was women for you. Maxwell would have to try another tack.
Exactly how long Sylvia Matthews had loved Peter Maxwell, she couldn’t say. It wasn’t something she’d scrawled in graffiti paint across the bike sheds or carved with her Girl Guide penknife into the bark of the sweetheart tree. It was just a feeling she had, every time she saw him in the corridor, heard his voice booming through the hall, caught the wind as he rattled past her on White Surrey, pedalling north. Every time, she felt her stomach tighten and her heart loop. Then she’d mentally shake herself free of it, of him. How stupid, Sylvia, she’d say to herself; you’re old enough to know better, dammit. You’ll never see forty again. Nor come to think of it, forty-five. Now, pull yourself together and get back on that shelf, where you belong.
So when his barbed-wire hair appeared around her office door that Wednesday afternoon, a little after lunch, followed almost immediately by his smiling face, she felt it all happening all over again. As if she wanted to run home and say ‘Mummy, Mummy, he did it. He smiled at me. He talked to me.’
But Emma Dollery was having her period pains
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