Maxwell's Inspection by M.J. Trow

general  agreement noises.
    â€˜Well, not exactly.’ Paul Moss was frowning, wrestling with it.
    â€˜Ah,’ beamed Maxwell. ‘It takes a Head of History to be so perspicacious.’ He knew. He’d been one himself. ‘Say on, oh wise one.’
    â€˜Well, she was all over him , I’ll grant you. Looked a bit one-sided to me,’
    â€˜No, no.’ Holton was shaking his head. ‘He was loving it. I’m just surprised they were so public. But actually having it away … What do you make of that, Max?’
    â€˜I’m asking the questions today, Ben,’ Maxwell said. ‘That’s why I got us all together – several heads etcetera. For what it’s worth, I can only conclude it was done for effect.’
    â€˜What? For our benefit?’ Sally asked.
    â€˜In a way. Could they have known we’d be there, in the Vine, I mean, at that time?’
    â€˜Don’t see how,’ Holton shrugged. ‘Unless they followed us, of course. This is all getting pretty weird, Max.’
    The Head of Sixth Form nodded. ‘And I suspect it will get weirder still before the whole thing’s over.’
    The door swung wide and a dishevelled woman stood there, a fag dangling out of her mouth and a length of hoover hose in her hand. ‘I didn’t know you had a meeting . Surprised you’re here at all with a bloody madman about. Still, that’s them for you, innit? That Mr Diamond. Needs takin’ in, ‘e does. I’ll do you later. Tra.’
    â€˜No need to apologize Mrs B. It was a spur of the moment thing. So am I, if truth be told. Yes, it is. I couldn’t agree more. Personally I can’t wait. ‘Bye.’ Maxwell was a past master at swimming in Mrs B’s stream of consciousness  He even had a badge for it. She was a good old sort, a good stick, a brick, all those inanimate objects people used to use as metaphors in the days when they knew what a metaphor was. And, like Arnie Schwartzenegger, she’d be back – Maxwell could count on it.
    Â 
    The Vine was noisier at eleven that night than it had been on Monday. Maxwell jostled his way to the bar past the idiot with the air guitar taking up most of the central floor space and bought himself a drink off of the old tart who served him.
    â€˜Have one yourself,’ he shouted over the combined roar of the Leighford Bikers’ Association’ Annual Do and the crashing chords of The Yawning Hippos. Only two of the Band were under thirty and only Maxwell knew what soap was.
    â€˜Ta,’ and she tucked his fiver down her cleavage. He’d never see that again.
    â€˜Tell me … er … Doris, is it?’ Maxwell judged the name to be about right. The woman was fifty if she was a day, bottle-blonde, make up by Grimaldi. Wrong side of the tracks.
    â€˜Philomena,’ she corrected him.
    â€˜Right,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Tell me, Philomena, were you here on Monday?’
    â€˜I’m here every bloody night, ducks.’ She put his Southern Comfort down in front of him.
    â€˜I was here on Monday, with some friends.’
    â€˜Lovely.’ She took a drag on her ciggie.
    â€˜Do you remember a couple here at the bar? She was dark-haired, attractive, middle-aged.’
    â€˜I’m not a dating agency, darlin’,’ she informed him.‘This is a respectable place, you know. We haven’t been closed down in six months.’
    The Bikers whooped and clapped as the Hippos got stuck into their finale, grande though it wasn’t. Gerry Cosgrove rang the bell, bellowing in Maxwell’s ear, ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’ Maxwell was probably the only gentleman in the building, but he’d never been a snob about these things and let it pass. ‘Er … last Monday,’ he grabbed Cosgrove’s attention.
    â€˜What about it?’
    â€˜There was a man and a woman, here, at the bar. All over each