the corridor, she turned and kissed Maxwell on the cheek, mouthing ‘thank you’ in the silence of the early hours.
He watched them go, then checked his watch. He needed a drink and the bar didn’t close until two. He grabbed his key and made for the stairs.
‘It’s a quarter to three,’ David Asheton crooned, watching the hanging tankards through the distortion of his glass. ‘Well, ten to two, anyway … Max, thank Christ. I hate drinking alone.’
‘I thought I’d have to.’ Maxwell perched on the high stool next to him.
‘Not while there’s a bar open. Mine host!’ Asheton thumped the counter. ‘My old friend will have a … what?’
‘Southern Comfort, barman, please, and have a little one yourself.’
The barman had rather less humanity than the bloke who kept Ray Milland company in The Lost Weekend , and he was a million years younger. He’d lost the will to live by half past twelve and the dark circles under his eyes said it all. ‘No, thank you, sir,’ was the sum of his repartee.
‘Ash?’
‘Hair of the dog.’ Asheton waggled the empty glass at the man. ‘But it’s my round, Maxie.’
‘You’re pissed,’ Maxwell said, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet.
‘As a fart,’ Asheton conceded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve left that lovely little thing Jacquie alone in a great big bed?’
‘I fear I have,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Veronica?’
‘The time of the month.’ Asheton sighed. ‘Ah,’ and he accepted the brandy gratefully. ‘Max, your health,’ and they clashed glasses. ‘And here’s to the bastard who killed dear old Quent. May he rot in Hell.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Maxwell did. ‘I gather you had DCI Tyler.’
Asheton sniggered and winked at his old oppo. ‘She was gagging for it by the time the interview ended,’ he confided to Maxwell, the barman and any other lizard still lounging at that hour of the morning.
‘What did she ask you?’
‘Oh, inconsequential stuff, mostly,’ Asheton said. ‘They’re going through the motions, Max. They know who did it.’
‘They do?’ Maxwell was all ears.
‘Of course. The Preacher.’
‘The Preacher?’
‘Is there a fucking echo in here?’ Asheton slurred. ‘Of course it’s the Preacher. “Behold, a dark horse. And his name that sat on him was Death.” Oh, come on, Maxie.’ Asheton reached across and shook the man’s knee. ‘You remember Wensley, what a social misfit he was, what a bloody pariah. None of us could work out what he was doing at Halliards, remember? He just didn’t fit in. Christ knows how he got to be one of the Seven.’
Maxwell shrugged. ‘We were sorry for him, I suppose.’
‘You were,’ Asheton grunted. ‘Personally, I couldn’t abide the bastard. What possessed Stenhouse to invite him? It’s all bollocks.’
‘Formal statements tomorrow, apparently.’ Maxwell drained his glass.
‘Not before midday, I hope,’ Asheton said. ‘I don’t do the Sunday morning thing. Besides, it’ll all be over by then. The Preacher will have cracked.’
‘Will he, Ash?’ Maxwell slapped the man’s shoulder, and winked at him. ‘I wonder. You get your beauty sleep now,’ and he was gone.
There was no reply at the Preacher’s door. Maxwell knocked once, twice, waited in the silence of the Sunday morning. Nothing. The man slept the sleep of the just. Or was it the dead? For a moment a shiver darkened Peter Maxwell’s soul, a step on his grave. He looked right. Nothing. Left. Nothing again. There was a desolation about hotels in the watching hours. The building was full of people, but the people were silent, missing. Even Asheton had stumbled off up the stairs, footsteps padding erratically along the carpets; and the barman had washed his last glass and had slid down the metal grille with a crash.
Only the soft lights burned. The old building groaned, stirring in its own sleep, lost in its own memories, melting with the years in the still of an autumn night. He knocked on
He watched them go, then checked his watch. He needed a drink and the bar didn’t close until two. He grabbed his key and made for the stairs.
‘It’s a quarter to three,’ David Asheton crooned, watching the hanging tankards through the distortion of his glass. ‘Well, ten to two, anyway … Max, thank Christ. I hate drinking alone.’
‘I thought I’d have to.’ Maxwell perched on the high stool next to him.
‘Not while there’s a bar open. Mine host!’ Asheton thumped the counter. ‘My old friend will have a … what?’
‘Southern Comfort, barman, please, and have a little one yourself.’
The barman had rather less humanity than the bloke who kept Ray Milland company in The Lost Weekend , and he was a million years younger. He’d lost the will to live by half past twelve and the dark circles under his eyes said it all. ‘No, thank you, sir,’ was the sum of his repartee.
‘Ash?’
‘Hair of the dog.’ Asheton waggled the empty glass at the man. ‘But it’s my round, Maxie.’
‘You’re pissed,’ Maxwell said, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet.
‘As a fart,’ Asheton conceded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve left that lovely little thing Jacquie alone in a great big bed?’
‘I fear I have,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Veronica?’
‘The time of the month.’ Asheton sighed. ‘Ah,’ and he accepted the brandy gratefully. ‘Max, your health,’ and they clashed glasses. ‘And here’s to the bastard who killed dear old Quent. May he rot in Hell.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Maxwell did. ‘I gather you had DCI Tyler.’
Asheton sniggered and winked at his old oppo. ‘She was gagging for it by the time the interview ended,’ he confided to Maxwell, the barman and any other lizard still lounging at that hour of the morning.
‘What did she ask you?’
‘Oh, inconsequential stuff, mostly,’ Asheton said. ‘They’re going through the motions, Max. They know who did it.’
‘They do?’ Maxwell was all ears.
‘Of course. The Preacher.’
‘The Preacher?’
‘Is there a fucking echo in here?’ Asheton slurred. ‘Of course it’s the Preacher. “Behold, a dark horse. And his name that sat on him was Death.” Oh, come on, Maxie.’ Asheton reached across and shook the man’s knee. ‘You remember Wensley, what a social misfit he was, what a bloody pariah. None of us could work out what he was doing at Halliards, remember? He just didn’t fit in. Christ knows how he got to be one of the Seven.’
Maxwell shrugged. ‘We were sorry for him, I suppose.’
‘You were,’ Asheton grunted. ‘Personally, I couldn’t abide the bastard. What possessed Stenhouse to invite him? It’s all bollocks.’
‘Formal statements tomorrow, apparently.’ Maxwell drained his glass.
‘Not before midday, I hope,’ Asheton said. ‘I don’t do the Sunday morning thing. Besides, it’ll all be over by then. The Preacher will have cracked.’
‘Will he, Ash?’ Maxwell slapped the man’s shoulder, and winked at him. ‘I wonder. You get your beauty sleep now,’ and he was gone.
There was no reply at the Preacher’s door. Maxwell knocked once, twice, waited in the silence of the Sunday morning. Nothing. The man slept the sleep of the just. Or was it the dead? For a moment a shiver darkened Peter Maxwell’s soul, a step on his grave. He looked right. Nothing. Left. Nothing again. There was a desolation about hotels in the watching hours. The building was full of people, but the people were silent, missing. Even Asheton had stumbled off up the stairs, footsteps padding erratically along the carpets; and the barman had washed his last glass and had slid down the metal grille with a crash.
Only the soft lights burned. The old building groaned, stirring in its own sleep, lost in its own memories, melting with the years in the still of an autumn night. He knocked on
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