another door and a face he knew, a face he loved, appeared on the other side of it.
‘It’s late,’ he said.
‘That’s my line.’ She laughed and pulled him inside, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close.
‘It’s cold,’ he told her, ‘out there.’
She took him to the bed and knelt on it. ‘It’s warm in here,’ she said. He kissed her soft, wet mouth and breathed in the tent of her hair which covered his face. ‘I’m afraid, Jacquie,’ he whispered.
She frowned, holding him at arm’s length. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘You’re Mad Max. A thousand children go in awe of you every day and a thousand children love you. They’d walk through fire for you, Max.’
He laughed. ‘What am I, some bloody Pied Piper?’
‘You call the tune,’ she said.
‘Have you been reading my lines again?’ he asked her, arching an eyebrow.
‘Why have you come, Max?’ she asked, holding his face in both hands.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he told her.
She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Why have you come?’ she asked again. And her eyes wandered to the pillow to her right.
Maxwell’s did too. ‘You haven’t been asleep,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got my nightie on.’
Maxwell couldn’t miss that. Her breasts jutted under the silk and her hips swelled as she moved to the carpet, looking up at him. ‘There’s no dent in the pillow,’ he said.
She laughed and clapped. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet.’
‘And....’ He got off the bed. ‘This is the real clincher. No teeth in the jar.’
She squealed and threw the pillow at him. ‘You bastard!’
‘I came to talk, Jacquie.’ He was serious again. The wit, the wag, the raconteur, the teller of tall tales was a little boy lost on a sea of blood.
She knew his moods, felt his pain. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ She nodded.
‘Like Hell,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know why.’
‘Yes, you do, Max.’ She held both his hands. ‘Because it wasn’t just George Quentin hanging there, was it? It was your childhood, your school. For a lot of us, schooldays are the worst of our lives. We hate them; can’t wait to leave. But for you, for every old Halliardian, I expect, it was a way of life. That life’s been snuffed out. That’s what hurts. Come on, I’ll make us both a cup of cocoa and we’ll talk about tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘is one day nearer to catching the bastard who’s killed your childhood.’
He stood where the pavilion had stood all those years ago. Far away, beyond the hedge and the broad sweep of the playing fields, Halliards looked grim and black against the lightening pearl of the sky. Dawn streaked flat and purple to the east. He knew the police tape still fluttered in the grounds, could see the fitful moon gilding the helmet plate of the copper patrolling the grounds. He strained to hear the man’s boots crunching on the gravel. He’d done it; what he’d set out to do. And in the end, it had been so easy, so laughably bloody easy.
He walked away into the morning.
5
‘George Quentin,’ the man in the green mask said. ‘Male Caucasian, approximately fifty. Well nourished. Good muscle tone.’ He swung away in his swivel chair and slid the length of the mortuary table. ‘But I expect you already know most of that, Inspector.’
Ben Thomas did. He hated Sunday mornings. He hated them most of all when he was sitting in a morgue that was colder than a penguin’s arsehole with a dead man for company. ‘Cut to the chase, Rajiv. Shouldn’t you be in church?’
Rajiv raised an eyebrow and hooked his mask under his chin. Ben Thomas was a racist bastard. There was no doubt about that. But, unlovely as he was, he had a way of getting away with it, a way he’d learned as an insider with Warwickshire CID. You loved him or you hated him. Come to think of it, Rajiv Nagapon hated him.
‘Hanging, then.’ Thomas lounged against the cold white
‘It’s late,’ he said.
‘That’s my line.’ She laughed and pulled him inside, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close.
‘It’s cold,’ he told her, ‘out there.’
She took him to the bed and knelt on it. ‘It’s warm in here,’ she said. He kissed her soft, wet mouth and breathed in the tent of her hair which covered his face. ‘I’m afraid, Jacquie,’ he whispered.
She frowned, holding him at arm’s length. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘You’re Mad Max. A thousand children go in awe of you every day and a thousand children love you. They’d walk through fire for you, Max.’
He laughed. ‘What am I, some bloody Pied Piper?’
‘You call the tune,’ she said.
‘Have you been reading my lines again?’ he asked her, arching an eyebrow.
‘Why have you come, Max?’ she asked, holding his face in both hands.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he told her.
She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Why have you come?’ she asked again. And her eyes wandered to the pillow to her right.
Maxwell’s did too. ‘You haven’t been asleep,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got my nightie on.’
Maxwell couldn’t miss that. Her breasts jutted under the silk and her hips swelled as she moved to the carpet, looking up at him. ‘There’s no dent in the pillow,’ he said.
She laughed and clapped. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet.’
‘And....’ He got off the bed. ‘This is the real clincher. No teeth in the jar.’
She squealed and threw the pillow at him. ‘You bastard!’
‘I came to talk, Jacquie.’ He was serious again. The wit, the wag, the raconteur, the teller of tall tales was a little boy lost on a sea of blood.
She knew his moods, felt his pain. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ She nodded.
‘Like Hell,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know why.’
‘Yes, you do, Max.’ She held both his hands. ‘Because it wasn’t just George Quentin hanging there, was it? It was your childhood, your school. For a lot of us, schooldays are the worst of our lives. We hate them; can’t wait to leave. But for you, for every old Halliardian, I expect, it was a way of life. That life’s been snuffed out. That’s what hurts. Come on, I’ll make us both a cup of cocoa and we’ll talk about tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘is one day nearer to catching the bastard who’s killed your childhood.’
He stood where the pavilion had stood all those years ago. Far away, beyond the hedge and the broad sweep of the playing fields, Halliards looked grim and black against the lightening pearl of the sky. Dawn streaked flat and purple to the east. He knew the police tape still fluttered in the grounds, could see the fitful moon gilding the helmet plate of the copper patrolling the grounds. He strained to hear the man’s boots crunching on the gravel. He’d done it; what he’d set out to do. And in the end, it had been so easy, so laughably bloody easy.
He walked away into the morning.
5
‘George Quentin,’ the man in the green mask said. ‘Male Caucasian, approximately fifty. Well nourished. Good muscle tone.’ He swung away in his swivel chair and slid the length of the mortuary table. ‘But I expect you already know most of that, Inspector.’
Ben Thomas did. He hated Sunday mornings. He hated them most of all when he was sitting in a morgue that was colder than a penguin’s arsehole with a dead man for company. ‘Cut to the chase, Rajiv. Shouldn’t you be in church?’
Rajiv raised an eyebrow and hooked his mask under his chin. Ben Thomas was a racist bastard. There was no doubt about that. But, unlovely as he was, he had a way of getting away with it, a way he’d learned as an insider with Warwickshire CID. You loved him or you hated him. Come to think of it, Rajiv Nagapon hated him.
‘Hanging, then.’ Thomas lounged against the cold white
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