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

George.’
    â€˜Mr Maxwell,’ the lad managed.
    â€˜Got your bearings, then?’
    George thought they were things that whizzed round in his bike gears. He wasn’t going to enjoy tonight. Together, the unlikely pair retraced the steps the lads had taken the previous night. From the Spike, they took one of the dozen or so bike trails that criss-crossed the Dam, dipping down into the oak-treed hollow where Bud cans nestled among the nettles and marked the last resting place of a Morrison’s trolley. A thick length of rope with a tyre tied to its free end hung strangely silent and still from a high oak branch. Then they were out on Sycamore Grove, keeping to the shadows at George’s request. He had family in this street; he was sure Mr Maxwell understood.
    As they swung left into Martingale Crescent, George’s resolve left him and he stopped dead. ‘Ithought it was,’ he said, waving an uncertain arm ahead. ‘That’s the place. On the corner.’
    â€˜That Victorian place?’ Maxwell realised he’d asked a question too far. ‘That big house with the bushes?’
    George nodded. ‘I can’t do this, Mr Maxwell,’ he blurted suddenly. ‘I can’t go back in. What if she’s still there?’
    â€˜I expect she will be, George,’ Maxwell told him. ‘That’s why we’re here; remember?’
    George remembered. But he didn’t want to remember. He backed off into the privet that lined the pavement, then turned and fled, years of pasta and chips taking their toll long before he reached the darkness of the Dam again. Ahead was the Barlichway and home and a return of the nightmares before the cops came calling. And Maxwell didn’t chase him. Time was when he would have done, but then time was when he wouldn’t have got involved in things like this anyway. Perhaps it was all too weird. Perhaps it was time to hang up his board-marker and shuffle off to that great Staff Room in the sky. But not yet awhile; he had a few jobs to do first.
    The house was solid, unimaginative, pale yellow in daylight, an even paler grey by night. Dark rhododendrons ringed it and a tall cedar guarded the scruffy lawns. The summer had been long and hot and it had taken its toll on the untended gardens of old ladies. He crossed the weedy gravel,feeling it springy underfoot, and tried the porch door. Locked. He put his nose to the stained glass and looked through. He couldn’t make out much. There was another door ahead of him, more solid, opulent with a fanlight that read Dundee . An old umbrella lay furled in a cane stand to his right and an ancient pair of green wellies to his left. He pulled the hood more securely over his hair and trotted around to the right, past the bushes and onto the rear lawn. Here was a smaller door, glass-panelled, and it was wide open.
    His hand reached into the hoodie pocket for his mobile, the one Jacquie insisted he carry. He was already late in using it. As soon as he’d found the house, he’d promised her, he’d ring. She’d contact the station and the ambulance service and the wheels of officialdom would grind into action. Except that he wasn’t absolutely sure that this was the house. He only had George Lemon’s word for that and remembering George’s recent and memorable interpretation of why the eighteenth-century penal system was called the Bloody Code, that didn’t say a lot really. He needed more proof.
    The kitchen in which he now stood had been modernised several times since someone had built the place back in the days of Empire. Its work surfaces were gleaming Formica and the torch beam stabbed into dark recesses, highlighting cobwebbed corners and an already-growing mustiness. All the way from the Spike, Maxwellhad been coaxing more information out of George Lemon. He knew the boys had gone in by the back door into the kitchen, but after that it got a little vague and George