Free Maxwell's Revenge by M.J. Trow

Paul said. ‘He won’t be there at the moment, that’s for sure,’ and he headed that way.
    ‘Perfect. I’m interviewing Sylvia in there shortly. But with that little contretemps, things need to change and I don’t have time to make it happen. Could I ask you to help?’
    ‘Of course.’ He opened the door to the Headteacher’s office. Inside, it had an unreal feel. Not only was the school on the other side of the door almost silent, the last few students having finally gone home or shoplifting, whichever was the more tempting, but the room itself seemed to be holding its breath. The chair was pushed back from the desk and a pen lay on a pad, abandoned as the time for lunch had come round. Diamond’s coat hung on the back of the door, his car keys were tumbled on the desk. Jacquie and Paul felt like voyeurs, looking in on the private life of a man who was in no position to complain. In fact, the police person inside Jacquie was shouting it may even be a potential crime scene, if he died. She shook herself free of that thought. No point in meeting trouble halfway; she knew that if trouble wanted to meet you, it would wait in a doorway and jump out at you when you were least expecting it. She walked purposefully behind the desk and moved the pen and padaside. She pulled up the chair and sat down.
    ‘Right, Paul. Oh, have a seat.’
    He was looking round. He turned to her with a shudder. ‘This feels peculiar,’ he said. He normally sat in that chair once a year, when having to explain his decidedly average GCSE results to the Headteacher. In fact, he was due there next week.
    ‘Murder makes everything peculiar,’ she replied and watched his face drain of colour.
    ‘Murder? I think we all assumed … oh, I don’t know. A bad prawn?’
    ‘I think it would have to be a very bad prawn, don’t you, Paul? A prawn with a sub-machine gun, for example. A member of staff is dead already and many others have been whisked off to the General, sirens going.’
    He looked ashen and finally subsided into a chair. Then, ‘What do you want me to do?’
    ‘I want you to ring Henry Hall, as I asked. As soon as you’ve done that, I’d like you to find Max and warn him he will be going to the nick for his interview, nothing serious but DS Davies is no longer available.’
    ‘Is that what you call it?’
    ‘For now. Who knows, by tonight it might be me on gardening leave. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Then, unless you have urgent teacherly things to do, I’d be grateful if you could sit down and try to jot down yourrecollections of where everyone was in the few minutes before the first person collapsed, and any impressions you got. We’ll be asking everyone to do this, but Max always says that historians make the best witnesses.’
    ‘So …?’
    ‘So, you’re a historian, Paul, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yes, of course. But not like Max.’
    ‘I know that, Paul. Just do your best.’ She hadn’t meant to be condescending; it just came out that way. A bit like Jack Shaffer’s words in Maxwell’s favourite Western –‘Tell him no man should be ashamed of being beaten by Shane.’ It was just how it was. And Paul Moss knew it, too. He stood up to leave and the door behind him flew open and caught him a nasty one on the back. ‘Ow.’
    Thingee Two stood in the doorway, her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Moss. I was looking for Mr Maxwell. Is he in here?’ She looked around, aimlessly, as if he was perhaps on a shelf, or under the desk.
    ‘No,’ Jacquie said. ‘He’s getting changed. Can we help you?’
    Thingee was in a cleft stick. She knew that Jacquie was Maxwell’s Other Half, as the Ladies of the Office had it, but never knew what to call her. She settled for nothing and spoke to Paul Moss instead. ‘Oh, Mr Moss, it’s just that we’ve had County Hall on the phone. It’s about, well,you know, all the stuff that happened at lunch.’
    ‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘I thought they’d be