digging into his cheek, just a dimpled fist lightly placed against his chin, where it had landed when the fingers he sucked to help him drop off had finally slipped from his mouth. He gave a little sigh from time to time, twitched his leg and carried on sleeping. Maxwell turned to Metternich, stretched at ease on the chair. At least he knew the Boy wasn’t dreaming of eviscerating rodents as he slept.
‘Two things, Count,’ he began, giving up on the The God Delusion for the eighth time, ‘Firstly, you know you’re not supposed to be on that chair.’ The monstrous black and white beast flicked a dismissiveear. Was he bothered? ‘Fair enough. Just checking. Secondly, I wondered if you had any thoughts on the events of last night. Not the trouble with the Mem, I don’t mean. All that frostiness is just her way of saying “I love you”. I mean the body that poor old Bill and I found on the dunes. In the dunes, perhaps I ought to say. I didn’t see anything, just the hand, but I’m sure it was a girl, and young, too. Jacquie says she wasn’t one of mine and I hope she’s right.’ He sipped his coffee. The cat licked a paw, tongue searching between his toes. Fingers, since it was his front paw. ‘It’s odd that I haven’t heard from Bill, though, don’t you think?’
Metternich turned his head and stared at that plastic thing in the corner, silent now, but the blasted thing had been ringing all morning. It had almost driven him to getting up and moving somewhere quieter. But not quite.
‘Hang on.’ Maxwell had had a thought. ‘I haven’t checked for messages. I am a fool.’ He put his mug down and got up with that strange silent grace that parents adopt when they are trying not to waken a child. He crept across the room and picked up the phone. The fractured dial tone told him the story. He had a message. He dialled 1571; the year of Lepanto, when Don John of Austria had kicked seven kinds of shit out of the Turks and set hispeople free. Without that fortuitous aide memoire, Maxwell would never pick up messages at all.
‘This is BT One Five Seven One. You have,’ minute pause, ‘fifteen new messages. First message. Message received at today at ten oh seven hours.’
‘Max, Max, this is Bill. Are you there? Is this one of those phones where you hear who’s on the other end? Max? Max? Mr Maxwell? Perhaps not. Well, if you’re there or when you get this message, can you give me a ring? Please, I mean? Only, I’ve had the police round. They seem to think I did it. The…you know, the…thing. Murder. They haven’t arrested me or anything but, well, Emma’s in a bit of a state. Well, so am I as a matter of fact. So…um, yes, if you could give me a ring. That’s Leighford 879621. Umm…right, then.’
‘End of message. To hear the message again, press one. To save it for thirty days, press two. To delete it, press three. Next message. Message received today at ten fifteen hours.’
‘Max, Max…are you there…?’
And so on, thirteen more times, getting more and more frantic, more high pitched and desperate. And the electronic woman who punctuated them must have had a sore throat by now. Maxwell slowly replaced the phone. Why would he want to keep all that lot for thirty days? As a classic example ofmounting hysteria, however, the messages had merit. Perhaps he’d pass them on to the psychiatric unit at Leighford General as a learning tool for their students. In any event, he was aware that he had just witnessed the unravelling of Bill Lunt. Surely, the police couldn’t seriously suspect the man? He had been practically catatonic at the murder scene. And he wasn’t that good at acting. In fact, Maxwell would have taken bets that he wasn’t any good at acting at all.
Taking the phone with him, he went back to his seat, and his conversation with Metternich. ‘So, as I was saying, Count. I have in actual fact heard from Bill, only not really because we haven’t spoken. So I haven’t
‘Two things, Count,’ he began, giving up on the The God Delusion for the eighth time, ‘Firstly, you know you’re not supposed to be on that chair.’ The monstrous black and white beast flicked a dismissiveear. Was he bothered? ‘Fair enough. Just checking. Secondly, I wondered if you had any thoughts on the events of last night. Not the trouble with the Mem, I don’t mean. All that frostiness is just her way of saying “I love you”. I mean the body that poor old Bill and I found on the dunes. In the dunes, perhaps I ought to say. I didn’t see anything, just the hand, but I’m sure it was a girl, and young, too. Jacquie says she wasn’t one of mine and I hope she’s right.’ He sipped his coffee. The cat licked a paw, tongue searching between his toes. Fingers, since it was his front paw. ‘It’s odd that I haven’t heard from Bill, though, don’t you think?’
Metternich turned his head and stared at that plastic thing in the corner, silent now, but the blasted thing had been ringing all morning. It had almost driven him to getting up and moving somewhere quieter. But not quite.
‘Hang on.’ Maxwell had had a thought. ‘I haven’t checked for messages. I am a fool.’ He put his mug down and got up with that strange silent grace that parents adopt when they are trying not to waken a child. He crept across the room and picked up the phone. The fractured dial tone told him the story. He had a message. He dialled 1571; the year of Lepanto, when Don John of Austria had kicked seven kinds of shit out of the Turks and set hispeople free. Without that fortuitous aide memoire, Maxwell would never pick up messages at all.
‘This is BT One Five Seven One. You have,’ minute pause, ‘fifteen new messages. First message. Message received at today at ten oh seven hours.’
‘Max, Max, this is Bill. Are you there? Is this one of those phones where you hear who’s on the other end? Max? Max? Mr Maxwell? Perhaps not. Well, if you’re there or when you get this message, can you give me a ring? Please, I mean? Only, I’ve had the police round. They seem to think I did it. The…you know, the…thing. Murder. They haven’t arrested me or anything but, well, Emma’s in a bit of a state. Well, so am I as a matter of fact. So…um, yes, if you could give me a ring. That’s Leighford 879621. Umm…right, then.’
‘End of message. To hear the message again, press one. To save it for thirty days, press two. To delete it, press three. Next message. Message received today at ten fifteen hours.’
‘Max, Max…are you there…?’
And so on, thirteen more times, getting more and more frantic, more high pitched and desperate. And the electronic woman who punctuated them must have had a sore throat by now. Maxwell slowly replaced the phone. Why would he want to keep all that lot for thirty days? As a classic example ofmounting hysteria, however, the messages had merit. Perhaps he’d pass them on to the psychiatric unit at Leighford General as a learning tool for their students. In any event, he was aware that he had just witnessed the unravelling of Bill Lunt. Surely, the police couldn’t seriously suspect the man? He had been practically catatonic at the murder scene. And he wasn’t that good at acting. In fact, Maxwell would have taken bets that he wasn’t any good at acting at all.
Taking the phone with him, he went back to his seat, and his conversation with Metternich. ‘So, as I was saying, Count. I have in actual fact heard from Bill, only not really because we haven’t spoken. So I haven’t
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