Maxwell's Island by M.J. Trow Page A

over without the other person. Apart from the slow pace, it was pretty much a carbon copy of the previous day. Pansy had a hangover. The Medlicotts weren’t there. The ginger-headed kid was taking notes. Nolan was eating enough fried food to last him a week, for the second time in two days. Ethan Oojah had walked into a bedside lamp. Just one thing was different; they had been joined by Barton Joseph, tracksuited and ready for the fray.
    â€˜Were we expecting him to join us for meals?’ Sylvia asked Maxwell out of the corner of her mouth.
    â€˜I think he’s getting his money’s worth,’ he told her. ‘In case we don’t come up with funding.’
    And it certainly looked that way; why else would he be eating three Weetabix?
    Then, suddenly, two things were different. Tom Medlicott appeared in the dining room doorway, not sleekly kitted out in running gear, an immaculate Izzy beside him, but in pyjama bottoms and skin. He stood dramatically with a hand on each side of the door frame, as if to stop escapees.
    â€˜Has anyone seen Izzy?’ he asked.
    The kids looked at each other and made various ‘Idunnow’ noises. One or two of the girls sniggered – sir with his top off. Coo.
    He remembered himself. ‘Mrs Medlicott, I mean.’
    The answer was the same. Maxwell slid out from his seat in the bay window and went up to the man, shepherding him from the room. Maxwell was no stranger to behaving strangely, but he knew for a definite fact that he had never appeared before a room full of pupils in just his pyjama bottoms. It didn’t result in very good discipline in future, he had been taught during his teacher training. It was around about Rule 400, just before exposing yourself, but important, nonetheless.
    â€˜Come on, Tom,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s go through here. Or,’ he looked again at the man, wild-eyed, barefoot, ‘better still, let’s go up to your room. Bit more private there, don’t you think?’
    Tom Medlicott struggled in his light grasp, but found that it wasn’t quite as light as he had thought. ‘I must ask them … I can’t find Izzy.’
    â€˜Has she gone for a run?’ After all, they clearly did that as a habit.
    â€˜No. She wouldn’t go without me. Or without at least saying she was going.’
    Maxwell could understand that. He and Jacquie told each other if they were changing rooms, let alone that they were going out. But he had always rather thought that was because they both led rather dangerous lives, she as a woman policeman, he as a nosy bastard.
    â€˜She did say that you sleep quite deeply. Perhaps she couldn’t wake you to tell you she was going out.’
    â€˜No, that’s only in the middle of the night. Anyway, she
can
wake me, if she really tries. It’s just that I don’t wake up at external noises, things like that.’ Medlicott allowed Maxwell to guide him gently to the stairs.
    â€˜Do you snore, Tom? I know I do and Jacquie often changes rooms, just to get a few hours sleep. Might she have done that?’
    â€˜In a hotel?’ Medlicott was dismissive. ‘Wouldn’t that be rather unusual?’
    â€˜Yes, but shall we ask?’ Maxwell had to prevent him from turning round and making straight for Reception. ‘Better still, I’ll ask, you go up and get dressed. I’ll see you in the lounge in a few minutes.’
    The Head of Art turned reluctantly and headed up the stairs, turning every few steps to make sure that Maxwell was doing as he promised. When he had turned the corner on the landing, Maxwell walked quickly into Reception. He knew he only had a limited time before Medlicott was back down and kicking up a fuss.
    The girl at Reception looked crisp and efficient. Her name, on her badge and on the laminated sheet on the desk, was Lorraine.
    â€˜Hello, Lorraine,’ he said, whilst mentally filing her in his brain as