Free Maxwell’s Ride by M. J. Trow Page A

for the bar. ‘Got your mobile?’
    ‘Sure,’ Logan reached into his jacket pocket.
    ‘DCI Hall, Leighford nick. I think we’ve got our man.’
    ‘Now, just a fucking minute …’ Lloyd’s eyes were blazing. ‘What the fuck is this?’
    ‘This,’ Maxwell leaned forward over the hubbub, ‘is a cosy little chat about your career as a male prostitute.’
    Pins don’t usually drop in Portsmouth pubs, but one did at Micky Lloyd’s table that night. Lloyd’s defences dropped, his eyes flickered left and right.
    ‘Do you want me to take him outside, Mick?’ one of his mates asked.
    ‘No, no, it’s all right.’ Lloyd was focused on Maxwell now.
    ‘No, you know,’ the mate insisted. ‘Out the back, y’know. Kneecaps.’
    ‘No, I don’t, Kevin,’ Lloyd bellowed.
    ‘Well …’ Kevin was a little crestfallen.
    ‘Look, you and Gringe piss off now, yeah? I’ll see you around, mate.’
    ‘Yeah, right.’ Kevin and Gringe scraped their chairs and loitered before retreating to the door, eyeing Maxwell as they went. ‘See you then, mate.’
    ‘Whatever,’ Lloyd leaned forward, suddenly becoming confidential. ‘Look, who are you, really?’
    ‘Really?’ Maxwell leaned back and let the philosopher in him take over. ‘Who are any of us really? I’m here to talk about you.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because Larry Warner is dead and you might know something about that.’
    ‘Oh, no, mate,’ Lloyd said, ‘you’re not pinning any of that crap on me. No way.’
    ‘Have the police talked to you yet?’
    ‘No,’ Lloyd frowned, sitting bolt upright, ‘so how did you get onto me?’
    ‘Don’t worry your fluffy little head about that,’ Maxwell waved a sheaf of paper under the boy’s nose. ‘College lists. You’re the seventh Michael we’ve seen tonight. And the only one who’s lied about knowing Larry Warner.’
    ‘What makes you think I lied?’ Lloyd was on the defensive now, ready to brazen it out.
    ‘Years of experience,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Ah, can you manage all three yourself?’ Logan had returned with a tray of lagers.
    Lloyd folded his arms. ‘What if I don’t want to drink with you?’
    Maxwell dipped his lip into the froth. ‘What if you killed Larry Warner?’
    ‘What?’ Lloyd felt his pulse racing. Logan saw the boy’s eyes widen. ‘Why should I do that?’
    ‘Well, let’s see.’ Maxwell clasped his hands over his pint and rested his chin on them. ‘There are a number of possibilities. He hadn’t paid you for your last session. You were tired of that kind of life and wanted to go straight, so to speak. He was making unnatural demands – well, even more unnatural, I mean ‘Leave it out,’ Lloyd roared, ‘he was my fucking meal ticket, wasn’t he?’
    ‘Ah,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘student loans don’t go far, do they?’
    ‘Fucking right they don’t.’
    ‘So why did you do it?’ Logan asked.
    ‘I didn’t fucking do it! Look, look,’ Lloyd tried to marshal his thoughts, rallying his fingers to help him disentangle the chaos of his brain. ‘They said on the telly that he’d been shot, right. And the Echo said it was a high-powered rifle.’
    ‘Oh, the Echo !’ Logan scoffed. ‘Well, it must be right, then.’
    ‘Now where am I going to get a shooter, eh? Get real.’
    ‘Got any form, Micky?’ Maxwell asked.
    ‘You what?’
    ‘Are you known to the police? I mean, if my colleague and I turned you upside down and shook out your pockets, would we find any incriminating substances? Is there a file on you in Pompey Vice?’
    ‘Fuck off,’ Lloyd snarled.
    ‘Well,’ said Maxwell, ‘it’s only a matter of time. We found you. So will they. Especially when my friend Mr Logan here telephones his editor.’
    ‘All right, all right,’ Lloyd folded like a pack of cards. ‘What is it you want?’
    ‘Let’s start with a little thing called the truth, shall we?’ Maxwell asked, ‘and see where that takes us.’
    The truth took Maxwell to a sad man who habitually