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

had clammed up.
    The torch lit the way as Maxwell took the single step that led into the hall. He could understand why the boy had got the jitters. There was an indefinable something about this house, a sense of disquiet. It was the sort of place where, just for a second, yet always, you sensed there was something at your elbow. He heard the clock chime and the torch beam flashed back at him from its dull glass face. Half past ten. If the occupier was an old lady, she’d probably be in bed by now. And a forgetful old lady might leave the back door open. Then again…
    He saw the ‘then again’ at the bottom of the staircase and shone his torch on the bundle of clothes. He held his breath in the way he imagined George Lemon had done and he knelt down to confirm his suspicions.
    â€˜Jesus,’ he whispered through clenched teeth as first a gnarled hand and then a head of wild, white hair flopped out of the blanket. The place, he suddenly knew, was freezing cold, for all the mild, dry night outside. It was like a tomb. This time he had the mobile in his hand.
    â€˜Jacquie.’
    She was glad to hear his voice; a signal this nonsense was over. ‘Where are you?’
    â€˜Martingale Crescent,’ he told her. ‘A house called Dundee. Big Victorian place on the bend, you can’t miss it.’
    â€˜Are you all right, Max?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ he told her, not sure if that strictly was true. ‘You’d better give your lads a call. It’s Martita Winchcombe and she’s dead as a doornail.’
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    It was a little before two when they got round to him. Peter Maxwell had been sitting in Leighford Police Station for the best part of two hours. Pretty little Jane Blaisedell, Jacquie’s friend, had nipped in as often as she could, bringing him tea and a couple of Jammie Dodgers. What she couldn’t give him was any information – and that was what he wanted most.
    â€˜Mr Maxwell, I am Detective Chief Inspector Hall. For the record and for the tape, this is Detective Sergeant O’Connell.’
    Maxwell looked at them. Henry Hall was a bland bastard, his small, sharp eyes forever hidden behind blank lenses, his jaw firm, his manner serious. O’Connell Maxwell had never seen before, although Jacquie had talked about him from time to time before she’d gone on maternity leave. He had a shock of dark auburn hair and a skin ravaged by the terminal acne that is sometimes the downside of puberty. Maxwell had yet to work out what the upside was.
    â€˜Mr O’Connell.’ Maxwell reached out a hand.The Detective Sergeant sat impassive on the other side of the desk. Maxwell drew the hand back. ‘Henry,’ he smiled. ‘How the hell are you?’
    â€˜I’m well, Mr Maxwell,’ the DCI told him. ‘Could you just tell us what you were doing in Miss Winchcombe’s house this evening.’
    â€˜Snooping,’ Maxwell said. He’d done this before, more times than young O’Connell had had hot dinners, he expected. Ever since the Red House, when he’d been in the frame for murder, he had or had not been helping the police with their inquiries, depending on your point of view.
    â€˜Would you care to clarify that?’ O’Connell frowned, jotting down notes as the interview went, despite the fact that the tape was whirring. He and Maxwell did not go back any way at all and in the space of two minutes the Head of Sixth Form had managed to get right up the Detective Sergeant’s nose.
    Maxwell thought only butter was clarified, but he’d been flippant with the police before and it rarely paid off. ‘Acting on information received,’ he said.
    â€˜Are you taking the piss?’ O’Connell wanted to know.
    â€˜I think,’ Hall stepped in quickly, ‘this kind of phraseology is Mr Maxwell’s idea of a joke.’
    â€˜Thank you, Henry, yes. I went to the house to verify what we all