five, something like that. You’d have to ask my boss, Paul Moss.’ That Maxwell had a boss at all came as something of a surprise to Henry Hall.
‘Did you expect to meet Radley?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I did,’ Maxwell told him. ‘His Number Two, Douglas Russell, said he hadn’t seen him all day.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Why, Chief Inspector,’ Maxwell was as wide-eyed as he was bushy-tailed. ‘Don’t tell me Mr Russell is a suspect.’
Hall opened the door wide. ‘Everybody’s a suspect, Mr Maxwell,’ he said softly, trying not to sound too much like Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau. ‘Even you. Shall I give you a lift or tell that constable to arrest you for deliberate contamination of a scene of crime? You see, that “Do Not Cross” tape is not just a serving suggestion.’
Maxwell raised his hat and hauled Surrey’s handlebars upright. ‘Point taken, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘A vertical movement of the head is as good as a rapid closure of an eyelid to an equine quadruped that is visually impaired,’ and he pedalled away across Radley’s planking, gravel and mud flying in his wake.
She advanced on him, hands in the air, circling slowly. A powerful, peroxide blonde, nudging thirty-five. He grabbed one wrist, but she was faster, spinning him sideways with his arm locked straight. There was a hiss of breath from the little audience, white robed, green belted, against the mirrored wall. Then she brought her leg forward and yanked him backwards to thud painfully on the mat. To a ripple of applause, he staggered to his feet, and the pair bowed to each other. Slowly, her mask of sheer power melted into something softer.
‘Next time,’ he muttered as his head came up.
‘Next time I’ll break your arm,’ she smiled sweetly.
‘Miss Welland?’
She turned at the sound of her name. A good-looking dark-haired man was standing in the doorway of the gym, with what looked like a warrant card in his hand.
‘DS Toogood, Leighford CID.’
‘Yes,’ she reached for a towel from the wall bars, and hung it round her neck. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Professor Fraser said I might find you here.’
‘Tam? How is the old bastard? I’m flattered he knows what I do on my days off.’
‘He’s concerned,’ Toogood said.
‘About what?’ She ran the towel over her hair and straightened her top, cleavage threatening in the bright neon strip lights of the gym.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Toogood asked. People shrieking ‘banzai’ and flinging each other all over the floor wasn’t exactly conducive to a quiet chat.
‘I need a shower,’ she told him. ‘But I don’t suppose you want to join me in there?’
‘Perhaps some other time,’ Toogood said. University lecturers hadn’t looked like her in his day. There had beennothing alluring about Sir Anthony Fischer at all, but then he was 72 with a glass eye.
‘All right,’ she smiled, sensing his discomfort as she jutted her breasts at him. ‘Buy me a mineral water. Last one in the refectory’s a wuss.’
The café at The Camdens Fitness and Leisure Centre was hardly state of the art. Hard aluminium chairs littered the room with equally hard aluminium tables, topped in garish blue and orange tiles. Decidedly unathletic people served an astonishingly limited range of goodies behind the counter and the whole place, from its breezeblock walls to its metal stairs had the odour of the jock-strap and the dodgy trainer. Famous athletes grinned down from photos on the walls, biceps bulging, quadriceps quivering.
‘Look, it’s just awful about David,’ Sam Welland was saying , ‘but life has to go on. How’s Susan taking it?’
‘Susan?’
‘His wife.’ The karate star took a hefty swig from her water bottle.
‘I don’t know,’ Toogood told her, trying valiantly to open his sugar sachet. ‘That’s my next port of call.’
‘Well, it’s a silly question, really. She must be devastated. You know that
‘Did you expect to meet Radley?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I did,’ Maxwell told him. ‘His Number Two, Douglas Russell, said he hadn’t seen him all day.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Why, Chief Inspector,’ Maxwell was as wide-eyed as he was bushy-tailed. ‘Don’t tell me Mr Russell is a suspect.’
Hall opened the door wide. ‘Everybody’s a suspect, Mr Maxwell,’ he said softly, trying not to sound too much like Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau. ‘Even you. Shall I give you a lift or tell that constable to arrest you for deliberate contamination of a scene of crime? You see, that “Do Not Cross” tape is not just a serving suggestion.’
Maxwell raised his hat and hauled Surrey’s handlebars upright. ‘Point taken, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘A vertical movement of the head is as good as a rapid closure of an eyelid to an equine quadruped that is visually impaired,’ and he pedalled away across Radley’s planking, gravel and mud flying in his wake.
She advanced on him, hands in the air, circling slowly. A powerful, peroxide blonde, nudging thirty-five. He grabbed one wrist, but she was faster, spinning him sideways with his arm locked straight. There was a hiss of breath from the little audience, white robed, green belted, against the mirrored wall. Then she brought her leg forward and yanked him backwards to thud painfully on the mat. To a ripple of applause, he staggered to his feet, and the pair bowed to each other. Slowly, her mask of sheer power melted into something softer.
‘Next time,’ he muttered as his head came up.
‘Next time I’ll break your arm,’ she smiled sweetly.
‘Miss Welland?’
She turned at the sound of her name. A good-looking dark-haired man was standing in the doorway of the gym, with what looked like a warrant card in his hand.
‘DS Toogood, Leighford CID.’
‘Yes,’ she reached for a towel from the wall bars, and hung it round her neck. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Professor Fraser said I might find you here.’
‘Tam? How is the old bastard? I’m flattered he knows what I do on my days off.’
‘He’s concerned,’ Toogood said.
‘About what?’ She ran the towel over her hair and straightened her top, cleavage threatening in the bright neon strip lights of the gym.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Toogood asked. People shrieking ‘banzai’ and flinging each other all over the floor wasn’t exactly conducive to a quiet chat.
‘I need a shower,’ she told him. ‘But I don’t suppose you want to join me in there?’
‘Perhaps some other time,’ Toogood said. University lecturers hadn’t looked like her in his day. There had beennothing alluring about Sir Anthony Fischer at all, but then he was 72 with a glass eye.
‘All right,’ she smiled, sensing his discomfort as she jutted her breasts at him. ‘Buy me a mineral water. Last one in the refectory’s a wuss.’
The café at The Camdens Fitness and Leisure Centre was hardly state of the art. Hard aluminium chairs littered the room with equally hard aluminium tables, topped in garish blue and orange tiles. Decidedly unathletic people served an astonishingly limited range of goodies behind the counter and the whole place, from its breezeblock walls to its metal stairs had the odour of the jock-strap and the dodgy trainer. Famous athletes grinned down from photos on the walls, biceps bulging, quadriceps quivering.
‘Look, it’s just awful about David,’ Sam Welland was saying , ‘but life has to go on. How’s Susan taking it?’
‘Susan?’
‘His wife.’ The karate star took a hefty swig from her water bottle.
‘I don’t know,’ Toogood told her, trying valiantly to open his sugar sachet. ‘That’s my next port of call.’
‘Well, it’s a silly question, really. She must be devastated. You know that
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