Free Maxwell's Island by M.J. Trow Page A

his last mouthful of coffee. Nolan had appeared at the end of the table.
    â€˜Hello, poppet,’ said Sylvia. ‘Are you looking forward to today?’
    Nolan smiled at her. She was his favouritebabysitter of all. More fun than Mrs Troubridge. Not as strict as Grandma. ‘I want to come with you to see the squirrels,’ he said. ‘Are they really red?’
    â€˜Well, more ginger, really,’ Sylvia said. ‘And you can see them later in the week with Mum and Dad – all the groups are swapping round.’
    He mulled it over. It was true that Blackgang Chine sounded all right, but his father had said that it was the oldest theme park in the country. Did that mean that all the rides were broken? Eventually, he nodded. ‘OK. I’ll go with Mums and Dads.’
    â€˜Why, thank you,’ said Jacquie, bowing her head. She looked across at Pansy, who was swaying. ‘Mrs Donaldson.’ Then, louder, ‘Mrs Donaldson!’
    The woman’s eyes flew open. ‘What?’ she cried, momentarily disoriented.
    â€˜Are you ready to go? For your brisk walk to the Needles? Blow the cobwebs away, hmm?’
    Pansy Donaldson was not as other women. She took a deep breath and gave her hangover its marching orders. ‘Brisk walk? Certainly.’ She got up and walked steadily out of the room. The others watched her go, admiration written on every face.
    Guy spoke for them all. ‘Wow!’ he said.
    Â 
    Out at the coach, Maxwell’s worst fears were realised. The driver was leaning against the door, swathed in a map. Unfortunately, the map was of theIsle of Man. Jacquie, quick as always to detect the underground rumblings that were the precursors to Maxwell’s rare bursts of temperament, scurried forward and gently removed the map from the man’s confused grasp.
    â€˜I don’t seem to be able to find Ventnor,’ he muttered.
    â€˜I wonder if you would be happier with this GPS,’ Jacquie suggested, in the tone she had often used to convince drunks that sitting in the back of a police car and having a nice ride home would be a better idea than shinning up the war memorial.
    He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and then shook his head. ‘I don’t have much truck with those sort of things as a rule,’ he said. ‘Give me a good old map, every time. Except that,’ he reached for the map again but Jacquie held it behind her back, out of his reach, ‘I’m just having a bit of trouble finding Ventnor.’
    â€˜Yes, I can see that,’ Jacquie said. Then a thought struck her. ‘Why were you looking for Ventnor? I don’t think we’re going to Ventnor today, are we?’
    â€˜Not as such,’ the driver conceded. ‘But I went there once when I was a kid and we were staying with my Auntie Irene. I thought that if we got there, I might find my bearings a bit better.’
    â€˜I see,’ Jacquie said slowly. ‘Perhaps your Auntie Irene could help us.’
    â€˜Do you know my Auntie Irene?’ the driver asked, perking up.
    â€˜Um, no.’ Jacquie was looking at Maxwell desperately, but he just waved placidly at her and she knew she was on her own. ‘But I thought you said last night that you were going to stay with her.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, that’s right,’ the man said. ‘I couldn’t find her house, though. Anyway, she might have moved. Or be dead, even. It has been thirty years. And she wasn’t really my auntie. That’s just what we called her. Auntie Irene. Or Julia. I can’t really remember.’
    Jacquie was not often speechless. Her years as woman policeman, in various ranks and trades under that umbrella, had taught her most quirks of humankind. But this man was something else. She sighed and tapped him in a friendly way on the arm. ‘Wait here,’ she said.
    â€˜Houston, I think we have a problem,’ Maxwell drawled as she rejoined the little