retain some vestige of professionalism, ‘leave it to the experts.’ She was on professional ground here at the nick, aware that the plywood and plaster walls had ears.
‘Do you think they’ve eloped?’ he asked her, ignoring the plea to keep his nose out. ‘Gone north to Gretna Green?’
She shrugged. ‘Bit old-fashioned that, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, ‘but romantic’
‘You think they were having an affair, then?’
‘It happens.’ He remembered Jean Hagger’s sudden hysteria that morning. ‘Have you searched her flat?’
‘Mr Maxwell, Ms Goode has been missing now for four days. She is an adult, and as far as we are aware, in full possession of her faculties. Despite what you may read in the papers, it is a free country. At the moment, we’re more concerned for Ronnie Parsons. For the time being, Alice Goode will have to fend for herself. You’ve got people to cover her, haven’t you? At the school, I mean?’
Maxwell turned pale and held his fingers in front of him in the shape of a cross. ‘Supply teachers,’ he said. Alien beings from another planet.’ He was growling in his best William Conrad, ‘They’re here. At a school near you.’
She ignored him. Levity wasn’t on her list of priorities tonight. ‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘you can cope. Now, unless you have some more information on Ronnie …’
He stood up, knowing a lost battle when he saw one. ‘No,’ he said, and turned to go, ‘but I’ll have a little bet with you, Woman Policeman Carpenter. I’ll lay you … oh, a fiver … that Ronnie Parsons comes home any day now, bringing his tail behind him. But Alice … well, I’m very much afraid Alice doesn’t live here any more.’ He held up his hand. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said.
Hamilton’s Coaches weren’t open on Sundays. Their drivers, by the end of April, were scattered to the corners of the country, driving little old ladies and gentlemen around southern country lanes, leafy already in the early spring. But Maxwell had struck lucky. He knew where they parked the coaches, on the old brewery site, and not only was there a vehicle parked there, in its distinctive red and white, but a driver had his head buried in the engine.
‘Morning.’ Maxwell tilted White Surrey’s front wheel so that the machine stayed upright, with him straddling the crossbar, both feet on the ground.
‘Hello.’ The driver peered at him from under the bonnet.
‘I’m looking for Dave,’ Maxwell said.
‘Well, now,’ the driver wiped his grimy hands with a cloth, ‘is that Dave Warwick or Dave Freeman?’
‘Ah.’ Maxwell grinned. Jut his luck to have a choice. ‘Fell at the first there, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, who are you?’ the driver asked.
‘Peter Maxwell.’ The Head of Sixth Form extended a hand. The driver wiped his on his grubby overalls and shook it. ‘I’m from Leighford High.’
‘Christ, mate,’ the driver tutted, ‘you have my condolences. Have a look at this.’ He climbed into the coach, Maxwell parking White Surrey and clambering aboard too. The tenth seat back was punctured with the telltale brown-edged holes made by cigarettes. ‘One of your little bastards did that,’ the driver told him.
‘What, on the London trip?’ Maxwell asked.
‘That’s right; MOMI. I’ve been on to your Headmaster about it. Gave me the usual soft soap. He’d leave no stone unturned. Couldn’t believe it was one of his kids. Usual crap.’
‘You took the trip then?’ Maxwell couldn’t believe his luck,
‘Yeah. Oh, I’m the second Dave, by the way: Dave Freeman.’
‘Excellent. I rang your boss on Friday.’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Well, you know we’ve lost one of the staff and a sixth former?’
‘Yeah,’ Freeman sat down on the nearest seat, across the aisle from Maxwell who did likewise, ‘that was very peculiar.’
‘Was it?’
‘Well, I don’t know about your day, mate, but in mine we didn’t have any women teachers. To
‘Do you think they’ve eloped?’ he asked her, ignoring the plea to keep his nose out. ‘Gone north to Gretna Green?’
She shrugged. ‘Bit old-fashioned that, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, ‘but romantic’
‘You think they were having an affair, then?’
‘It happens.’ He remembered Jean Hagger’s sudden hysteria that morning. ‘Have you searched her flat?’
‘Mr Maxwell, Ms Goode has been missing now for four days. She is an adult, and as far as we are aware, in full possession of her faculties. Despite what you may read in the papers, it is a free country. At the moment, we’re more concerned for Ronnie Parsons. For the time being, Alice Goode will have to fend for herself. You’ve got people to cover her, haven’t you? At the school, I mean?’
Maxwell turned pale and held his fingers in front of him in the shape of a cross. ‘Supply teachers,’ he said. Alien beings from another planet.’ He was growling in his best William Conrad, ‘They’re here. At a school near you.’
She ignored him. Levity wasn’t on her list of priorities tonight. ‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘you can cope. Now, unless you have some more information on Ronnie …’
He stood up, knowing a lost battle when he saw one. ‘No,’ he said, and turned to go, ‘but I’ll have a little bet with you, Woman Policeman Carpenter. I’ll lay you … oh, a fiver … that Ronnie Parsons comes home any day now, bringing his tail behind him. But Alice … well, I’m very much afraid Alice doesn’t live here any more.’ He held up his hand. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said.
Hamilton’s Coaches weren’t open on Sundays. Their drivers, by the end of April, were scattered to the corners of the country, driving little old ladies and gentlemen around southern country lanes, leafy already in the early spring. But Maxwell had struck lucky. He knew where they parked the coaches, on the old brewery site, and not only was there a vehicle parked there, in its distinctive red and white, but a driver had his head buried in the engine.
‘Morning.’ Maxwell tilted White Surrey’s front wheel so that the machine stayed upright, with him straddling the crossbar, both feet on the ground.
‘Hello.’ The driver peered at him from under the bonnet.
‘I’m looking for Dave,’ Maxwell said.
‘Well, now,’ the driver wiped his grimy hands with a cloth, ‘is that Dave Warwick or Dave Freeman?’
‘Ah.’ Maxwell grinned. Jut his luck to have a choice. ‘Fell at the first there, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, who are you?’ the driver asked.
‘Peter Maxwell.’ The Head of Sixth Form extended a hand. The driver wiped his on his grubby overalls and shook it. ‘I’m from Leighford High.’
‘Christ, mate,’ the driver tutted, ‘you have my condolences. Have a look at this.’ He climbed into the coach, Maxwell parking White Surrey and clambering aboard too. The tenth seat back was punctured with the telltale brown-edged holes made by cigarettes. ‘One of your little bastards did that,’ the driver told him.
‘What, on the London trip?’ Maxwell asked.
‘That’s right; MOMI. I’ve been on to your Headmaster about it. Gave me the usual soft soap. He’d leave no stone unturned. Couldn’t believe it was one of his kids. Usual crap.’
‘You took the trip then?’ Maxwell couldn’t believe his luck,
‘Yeah. Oh, I’m the second Dave, by the way: Dave Freeman.’
‘Excellent. I rang your boss on Friday.’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Well, you know we’ve lost one of the staff and a sixth former?’
‘Yeah,’ Freeman sat down on the nearest seat, across the aisle from Maxwell who did likewise, ‘that was very peculiar.’
‘Was it?’
‘Well, I don’t know about your day, mate, but in mine we didn’t have any women teachers. To
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