Free Maxwell’s Match by M. J. Trow

Science Block arched to the south. ‘I’ve been in your position before. One o my sixth form was killed, some years back. A least,’ he pointed to the gate, ‘you’ve got some sort of security here. Our site is wide open.’
    ‘But that’s trespass, surely,’ Graham said, ‘if one of them comes onto Grimond’s property.’
    ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages, Tony,’ Maxwell growled. ‘What are you going to do? Set the dog on them? The man-traps? They’ll have every excuse under the sun for being somewhere they shouldn’t. And if they can’t wriggle out, they’ll just stump up whatever fine the law throws at them. They can afford it, all of them. Christ, the sons of the heir to the throne can’t get any privacy. What chance do you think you stand?’
    ‘What’s your advice?’ Sheffield asked, hating himself for doing it.
    ‘Talk to your new man – Robinson? Make sure he’s sound. Send out a letter to parents, day kids and boarders. Explain the reason for “softly softly”. Work with Hall.’
    ‘I wanted to ask you about that,’ Sheffield said waiting until a brace of children had passed, saluting them with a frosty ‘Good afternoon, whoever you are. How do you know him?’
    Maxwell chuckled. ‘We’re old sparring partners,’ he said. ‘He’s almost as cuddly as a barracuda – no station hugs for him. But he’s shrewd as all get out and I’d go to the wire with him.’ He looked at their faces. ‘Sorry,’ he smiled. ‘A few too many clichés there, I’m afraid. I watch a lot of television.’
    Sheffield closed to Maxwell. ‘Can you talk to him?’ he asked. ‘I want the lid kept on this. And if you know the man …’
    Maxwell raised his hands. ‘I’m not sure that would work,’ he said.
    ‘Mr Maxwell,’ politeness had returned. ‘An hour ago I was all set to kick you off the premises. Now, well … I may have been hasty. I’d like you to stay and I’d like you to work with Inspector Hall. Please?’
    Maxwell looked at his man. George Sheffield had aged a thousand years in the last day and the straw he was clutching at was a crusty old Head of Sixth Form from Dropout Comprehensive. ‘I’ll give it a whirl, Headmaster,’ he smiled.
    ‘Thank you,’ Sheffield shook his hand warmly. ‘Mervyn, get hold of Robinson, will you?’ He patted his Deputy’s arm. ‘Word to the wise and so on. Now, Tony,’ he put his arm around Graham’s shoulder, ‘about running Tennyson …’
    Incident Rooms are the same the world over. It doesn’t matter whose patch they’re on; whether they’re in a state of the art nick or a village hall. This one was a village hall, in the heart of Selborne, with the dark-treed Hanger rising above it The Ladies’ Bridge Club had put in an official complaint to the Chief Constable and the Ladies’ Aerobics Group (virtually the same ladies, in fact) had done a runner at the arrival of the fuzz. Only their Treasurer, a feisty old biddy addicted to re-runs of the Golden Girls , had stood her ground spitting blood in the face of a rather bemused sergeant about how she paid his inflated salary. It was just the pique of someone tragically losing life’s eternal battle against cellulite.
    The phone points moved in, the electricians and the computers. There were more miles of cable than crossed the Atlantic on a daily basis. And of course, it was raining. Henry Hall’s anonymous specs were beaded with water as he ducked in under the Gothic porchway some Victoria Selbornians had lovingly arched over the door, providing a reading room all those years ago for the natives of Gilbert White’s village.
    ‘Here,’ he pointed to the corner of the ante room where he wanted his desk and a pair of long-suffering constables gratefully deposited the load. ‘Afternoon, Mark.’
    DCI West had arrived, unannounced, his hair plastered to his forehead and his raincoat steaming. ‘Settling in all right, Henry?’
    ‘It’s early days, as you see.’
    West did. It irked him all