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

Buddies on most conceivable surfaces.
    ‘Are you winding me up?’ the woman wanted to know. She was half a head shorter than Jacquie and far below Benny. A social historian like Peter Maxwell would have assessed she was suffering from rickets. ‘Are you from Winchester Road nick or what?’
    ‘Leighford,’ Jacquie told her. ‘Leighford CID.’
    ‘Leighford?’ the straw-haired woman blinked, frowning. ‘What the fuck’s he been up to there?’ She looked at the boyish freckles on Benny Palister. ‘’Scuse my French, darlin’, won’tcher?’
    ‘We’re making enquiries about Mr David Taylor,’ Jacquie explained, looking out of the window at high-rise Brighton where there had been no sign of the sea since 1958.
    ‘Dave?’ she repeated (almost). ‘He’s nothing to do with me no more.’
    ‘But he was?’ Jacquie turned back to her. ‘Your husband.’
    ‘Ex,’ she spat. ‘Wiv a capital X.’
    ‘I take it you and Mr Taylor are divorced?’ Benny asked.
    She looked him up and down. ‘You’re quick, ain’tcha? No,’ she stubbed out her ciggie before reaching for another. It was as well neither of the coppers smoked, because she wasn’t offering any. ‘No, technically, we’re just separated. Well, there’s no point. Dave is such a bastard he wasn’t going to support us, no way. I’d had enough. I told him to clear off, fuck off out of it and don’t come back. And he hasn’t.’
    Jacquie looked at Benny. Indeed he hadn’t, and now he never would. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Annie,’ the woman told her. ‘Look, what’s this all about? Whatever he’s been telling yer about me, it ain’t true.’
    ‘He told us nothing, Annie,’ Jacquie said. ‘That’s just the point. Look, um…perhaps you should sit down.’
    Chance would be a fine thing, thought Benny. Every chair was a pile of debris, from flung clothes to Indian takeaway cartons. ‘Oh, yeah,’ Annie muttered, the ciggie wobbling between her lips as she talked. ‘Yeah. Sorry. It’s the maid’s day off.’
    She swept the settee contents onto the floor and Jacquie gingerly sat down next to her, vowing to shower and visit the dry cleaner before she clapped eyes on Nolan again. She chose her moment. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Annie,’ she said softly. ‘I’m afraid David is dead.’
    Jacquie Carpenter had done this before. So, once, had Benny Palister. There was no easy way to do it. And no telling what the reaction would be. Some relative strangers had cried and screamed and ranted. Some nearest and dearest had shrugged and thanked them. No rhyme. No reason. Shock. Disbelief. Bewilderment. Denial. Anger. The whole melting pot of emotions that comes with sudden death. Why her? Why him? Why
me
? In the end, it often came down to that. Why
me
?
    ‘How do you know?’ Annie, once-Taylor, asked.
    ‘We were able to identify him from dental records,’ Benny said.
    ‘Jesus!’ Annie hissed, shaking her head. ‘Where was this?’
    ‘We found his body on a headland above Leighford,’ Jacquie said; giving the name of the place seemed a little tactless in the circumstances.
    ‘How…?’
    ‘We don’t have any answers, yet, Annie,’ Jacquie forestalled the question. ‘That’s why we’re here. Can you tell us when you saw David last?’
    Annie blew smoke across the room, searching the middle distance for an answer. ‘Six, seven months. I dunno. About Christmas time, I think.’
    ‘When you separated?’ Benny checked.
    ‘Christ, mate, we’ve been separated bloody dozens of times.The last time I seen him was Christmas – or it may have been New Year.’
    ‘That was here?’ Jacquie was trying to focus on the nitty-gritty , the devil that was in the detail of murder enquiries.
    ‘God, no. I wouldn’t have him here. Lowering the tone all over the place. No, this was a party. It must have been New Year, come to think of it.’ She put on her posh voice. ‘It was up at the golf club, don’tchya know,’ it