starchy, ironing smell and hearing the thrub of thumbs on skiffle board. Those are the memories you have when your mother was Lonnie Donegan.
He heard the bells of St Olave’s clanging somewhere beyond the neat lawns of the estate where the proverbial English were resolutely ignoring the call to prayer and starting on the important things like tinkering with their cars and watering their flowerbeds before Southern Water got serious with a hosepipe ban. Driest April since records began, they claimed. But they claimed this sort of thing like some people claimed benefits.
He spent the morning ploughing through the timed essays that the A-level historians had offered him rather as ancient man had given sacrifices to his gods. But there was no appeasing Mad Max, no dodging his thunderbolts. Just the deadly aim of his pen, circling bad grammar, unsplitting split infinitives, ridding the land of the ever-present apostrophe. And from these things there was no escape.
Lunch was a cheddar ploughman’s at The Green Man, washed down with a pint of his host’s best. Then back to Columbine Avenue, where most men of his age would doze over the Sunday papers or snore their way through the Sunday match. Peter Maxwell put on his video of
Picnic at Hanging Rock
and watched with growing fascination as the Pan pipes and sunlight played on those weird stones and the lovely, frothy girls who vanished among them. Ronnie Parsons had gone that way, drawn into the magic of MOMI, and Alice Goode had followed him. Or was it the other way round? They had vanished into the whirring spools, become invisible in the subliminal scenes.
He was just staring at the dead face of Rachel Roberts, lying in the shattered glass of the school conservatory, when the doorbell rang. He checked the clock. Half past four. Not likely to be a Jehovah’s Witness. The last one had run away screaming after half an hour’s diatribe from Mad Max. He put his slippers on and flopped downstairs from the living room. Through the distortion of his front door glass, he could make out a woman’s shape.
‘Woman Policeman Carpenter.’ He bowed low as he held the door open to her.
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that,’ she said, glancing nervously from side to side, ‘Jacquie. Call me Jacquie.’
All right … Jacquie,’ said Maxwell. ‘Is this a social call?’ The girl was wearing jeans and a dark blouse, utterly unlike the office efficiency uniform she’d worn last night. Her hair reached her shoulders and there was a holdall in her hand. ‘Should I get my piggy bank down for your collection for the police benevolent fund?’
Her eyes smouldered at him. ‘Do you ever drop that irritating front of yours?’ she asked.
‘All right,’ he said, the smile gone. ‘Consider it dropped. What do you want, Jacquie? What are you doing here?’
‘What am I doing here?’ She found the second question easier to answer than the first. ‘I’m putting my career on the line, that’s what I’m doing here.’
Maxwell’s smile was back, and broader and bigger than before. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in that case you’d better come in.’
5
‘From the beginning, then,’ Jacquie Carpenter said, rummaging in the holdall that served as her handbag off duty. ‘I shouldn’t show you these. I shouldn’t even tell you about them.’
‘Would you like some tea?’ Maxwell asked. It looked as though the girl needed something to steady her, some reassurance.
Jacquie looked at him. ‘You haven’t got anything stronger?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘I’m a Southern Comfort man, myself
‘Fine,’ she said and he clattered about in his drinks cabinet. ‘You realize that what I’m about to tell you is absolutely confidential?’
Maxwell looked at her. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘inscrutability is my middle name. By the way, you’d better call me Max if we’re going to be working together.’
‘Who said anything about working together?’ Jacquie sat
He heard the bells of St Olave’s clanging somewhere beyond the neat lawns of the estate where the proverbial English were resolutely ignoring the call to prayer and starting on the important things like tinkering with their cars and watering their flowerbeds before Southern Water got serious with a hosepipe ban. Driest April since records began, they claimed. But they claimed this sort of thing like some people claimed benefits.
He spent the morning ploughing through the timed essays that the A-level historians had offered him rather as ancient man had given sacrifices to his gods. But there was no appeasing Mad Max, no dodging his thunderbolts. Just the deadly aim of his pen, circling bad grammar, unsplitting split infinitives, ridding the land of the ever-present apostrophe. And from these things there was no escape.
Lunch was a cheddar ploughman’s at The Green Man, washed down with a pint of his host’s best. Then back to Columbine Avenue, where most men of his age would doze over the Sunday papers or snore their way through the Sunday match. Peter Maxwell put on his video of
Picnic at Hanging Rock
and watched with growing fascination as the Pan pipes and sunlight played on those weird stones and the lovely, frothy girls who vanished among them. Ronnie Parsons had gone that way, drawn into the magic of MOMI, and Alice Goode had followed him. Or was it the other way round? They had vanished into the whirring spools, become invisible in the subliminal scenes.
He was just staring at the dead face of Rachel Roberts, lying in the shattered glass of the school conservatory, when the doorbell rang. He checked the clock. Half past four. Not likely to be a Jehovah’s Witness. The last one had run away screaming after half an hour’s diatribe from Mad Max. He put his slippers on and flopped downstairs from the living room. Through the distortion of his front door glass, he could make out a woman’s shape.
‘Woman Policeman Carpenter.’ He bowed low as he held the door open to her.
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that,’ she said, glancing nervously from side to side, ‘Jacquie. Call me Jacquie.’
All right … Jacquie,’ said Maxwell. ‘Is this a social call?’ The girl was wearing jeans and a dark blouse, utterly unlike the office efficiency uniform she’d worn last night. Her hair reached her shoulders and there was a holdall in her hand. ‘Should I get my piggy bank down for your collection for the police benevolent fund?’
Her eyes smouldered at him. ‘Do you ever drop that irritating front of yours?’ she asked.
‘All right,’ he said, the smile gone. ‘Consider it dropped. What do you want, Jacquie? What are you doing here?’
‘What am I doing here?’ She found the second question easier to answer than the first. ‘I’m putting my career on the line, that’s what I’m doing here.’
Maxwell’s smile was back, and broader and bigger than before. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in that case you’d better come in.’
5
‘From the beginning, then,’ Jacquie Carpenter said, rummaging in the holdall that served as her handbag off duty. ‘I shouldn’t show you these. I shouldn’t even tell you about them.’
‘Would you like some tea?’ Maxwell asked. It looked as though the girl needed something to steady her, some reassurance.
Jacquie looked at him. ‘You haven’t got anything stronger?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘I’m a Southern Comfort man, myself
‘Fine,’ she said and he clattered about in his drinks cabinet. ‘You realize that what I’m about to tell you is absolutely confidential?’
Maxwell looked at her. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘inscrutability is my middle name. By the way, you’d better call me Max if we’re going to be working together.’
‘Who said anything about working together?’ Jacquie sat
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