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

crossed to him. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.
    ‘I’ll have an iced tea,’ Wensley said.
    Maxwell raised an enquiring eyebrow to the girl at the bar. This was likely to tax her NVQ training to the limits, but she bustled away to do her very best. Maxwell wasn’t to know that she came of stiff-upper-hp stock and her great-granny had worked in the NAAFI when they bombed Coventry.
    ‘I haven’t really had a chance for a chat.’ Maxwell ushered his man to the little circle of chairs. ‘How the hell are you?’ As he said it, his focus inevitably settled on the man’s dog-collar, but he was in for a penny by this time and a tactical withdrawal would only make matters worse. ‘What did the police ask you?’
    ‘What did they ask you?’ John Wensley had been a careful boy. Now he was a careful man.
    ‘My whereabouts on what they predictably call the night in question.’
    ‘What did you tell them?’
    ‘The truth.’
    ‘Which was?’
    Maxwell leaned back in the snug of his chair, crossing his legs. ‘I was in my room, number forty-six, on the first floor.’
    ‘Asleep?’
    ‘No.’ Maxwell was prepared to play along for the moment, but it would be the Preacher’s turn next. ‘I read until about one, one-fifteen. Some tosh, before you ask, on the death of Christopher Marlowe.’
    ‘Interesting man.’ Wensley nodded. ‘An atheist.’
    ‘It’s at times like these I thank God I’m one.’ Maxwell beamed. The joke died in the ether.
    Wensley’s tea arrived and he called the girl back. ‘What’s this?’ he asked her, holding up the sweet in the saucer.
    ‘That’s your free chocolate augmentation,’ she said.
    ‘I don’t want it,’ he told her. ‘Take it away.’
    She looked embarrassed, but Maxwell saved the day. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said, and snatched it expertly from Wensley’s fingers. ‘Thank you, my dear. Delicious.’
    ‘So you’re a teacher, Max?’ Wensley stirred the cubes with the long, elegant spoon.
    ‘For my sins,’ Maxwell said. ‘But don’t change the subject, Preacher. What did the police ask you?’
    ‘It sounds very similar,’ Wensley said, leaning back and crossing his legs too. ‘They wanted to know my movements on Friday night, particularly the early hours of Saturday morning.’
    ‘What about your movements last night?’ Maxwell asked him, slowly rolling the cut glass between his fingers.
    ‘Last night?’ Wensley frowned.
    ‘I came a-calling,’ Maxwell told him. ‘It was late. About half twelve. You were probably asleep.’
    ‘No,’ said Wensley. ‘I wasn’t there. What did you want?’
    ‘To make some sense of all this, John.’ Maxwell couldn’t remember when he’d used the man’s name before. It didn’t sound right.
    Wensley nodded. ‘That’s what we’d all like to do,’ he said. ‘But it won’t happen without God’s grace.’
    ‘Ah, yes.’ Maxwell had known this moment would come. ‘Tell me about this church of yours.’
    ‘My church?’ Wensley looked at him. ‘It’s not mine, Max, it’s for all of us. Anyone who wants to come in. The door’s always open.’
    ‘Where were you last night?’ Maxwell was suddenly aware of how cold the lobby was and how still. The hubbub from the dining room had stopped, as though every punter in there had paused, Yorkshire-laden fork inches from their mouths, to hear the Preacher’s answer.
    ‘Wandering, Max,’ Wensley said as he sipped his tea. ‘It’s what I do.’
    Goodbyes had been difficult. Muir and Asheton weren’t speaking. Their respective women had followed suit, Janet Muir all too keen to loathe Veronica on account of the woman’s age and looks alone. Both Alphie and his wife had hugged Maxwell, in the way that luvvies do, and this bonhomie had extended to Jacquie, who was still wiping off Cissie’s lipstick as she drove for the Graveney’s gates.
    The Preacher hadn’t been there as the others settled their bills in reception. Maxwell imagined he was wandering