Read Online Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow - Free Book Online Page A

‘Tell Mr Maxwell what you told me.’
    George’s usually bovine face had an odd look about it this morning, a different one altogether from that caused by the prospect of double French before lunch. If Maxwell didn’t know better, he’d swear the lad had been crying. ‘I seen something last night,’ George muttered. ‘I didn’t like it. I couldn’t sleep thinking about it.’
    George lived on the Barlichway. This could have been anything. Drug abuse. Gangland slaying. Visit by a prospective UKIP candidate. Maxwell braced himself. ‘What was it, George?’ He perched on the end of Nursie’s bed, lolling back to ease the moment and to give the boy plenty of space.
    â€˜It was an old lady,’ he mumbled. ‘She was dead.’
    Maxwell looked at Sylvia. Both of them had been here before.
    â€˜Where was this, George?’ the Head of Sixth Form asked.
    â€˜Bottom of the stairs. I thought it was just a pile of old clothes. Bed said…’
    â€˜Whoa, whoa.’ Maxwell reined the boy in. ‘Let’s back up a little bit there, George. Bottom of the stairs, where?’
    â€˜In a house.’
    Maxwell nodded. This was a kind of progress.
    â€˜I dunno where.’ George sensed somehow thathis explanation lacked a certain something. In History lessons, Mad Max usually wanted to know what evidence he’d got. It was all becoming horribly relevant now.
    â€˜All right.’ Maxwell had given Torquemada a few tips in his day and any fan of Python knew that nobody expected the Spanish Inquisition. He slipped his trusty thumbscrews back in his pocket and changed tack. ‘What time was this, George? Do you remember?’
    â€˜Haven’t got a watch,’ the boy told him, the red-rimmed eyes never making contact with anything other than the floor and occasionally Nurse Matthew’s feet.
    â€˜About, then,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘About what time was it?’
    â€˜Eleven. Twelve.’
    â€˜OK. Not your house, then.’ Maxwell was feeling his way, leading the clearly terrified boy through it. His voice was soft and gentle. ‘Not Granny or the lodger at the bottom of the stairs?’
    George looked at him. These teachers were supposed to be clever, for fuck’s sake. What would an old lady be doing in his own house, dead at the bottom of the stairs? The Lemons didn’t have a lodger. And his granny was only forty-seven. For his part, the Head of Sixth Form had seen George’s CAT scores. He had the IQ of a cat.
    â€˜I dunno whose house it was,’ the boy volunteered.
    â€˜Well,’ Maxwell had no choice now but to grasp the nettle. ‘What were you doing there, George? In somebody else’s house at eleven or twelve o’clock at night?’
    He saw the boy’s eyes flicker for a second. ‘I dunno,’ he said.
    â€˜Come on, George,’ Maxwell said softly, holding up a hand as he noticed Sylvia about to intervene. ‘You can do better than that.’
    â€˜I dunno,’ George insisted, getting louder. ‘I get confused.’
    â€˜What about Bed?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Shall I ask him?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Bed,’ Maxwell repeated. ‘A minute ago, you said “Bed said”. I didn’t catch the rest.’
    â€˜No, I never!’ George was looking at him now, for the first time, the fear in his eyes turning to hostility, panic.
    The sound of silence.
    â€˜All right, Nurse Matthews.’ Maxwell broke the moment and leapt to his feet, bored with the whole charade, tired of the game. ‘Call the police, will you? Whatever this is, it’s out of our hands now.’
    â€˜All right!’ George was on his feet, trembling, crying, the words tumbling from him in a torrent. ‘Me and Bed broke into a place last night. There was a dead old lady in the hall. I fell over her… On her…’ and he collapsed in a quivering heap on