called? How old are they?’
‘Jase is four and Shane’s two and a half. Why?’ The daffy thing was even more suspicious now. Well, you heard such things, didn’t you? About them paedophile rings and so on.
‘Oh good,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘by the time they’re eleven, I’ll have taken early retirement.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good afternoon.’ And he was gone.
The car park had thinned out by nine. Only one or two vehicles still waited under the twilight sky. This was as downtown as Leighford got, scruffy Victorian buildings with peeling paint and boarded-up windows. The kiddies’ playground was locked and deserted and only the odd, stray gull winged its way overhead, crying into the distant darkness far out to sea. The season had not bitten at Leighford yet. The great British public were waiting to see which way the weather jumped before they made their final holiday choice – Leighford or Lanzarote; what a facer!
‘Evening, Dee for Douglas.’ A sandy-haired man with a freckled face got out of his Mondeo.
Douglas was older, waistline widening, hair-line retreating. ‘Jonathan,’ he nodded.
‘What is it tonight?’ Jonathan asked. ‘Cynthia was getting a little inquisitive. I had to burn my programme.’
‘I’ve got it billed as
Desert Death
,’’ Douglas told him. ‘It’ll have to go some to beat last month’s.’
‘Little corker, wasn’t she?’ Jonathan smirked. ‘What an arse.’
And they made their way through the back streets to that green door marked ‘film club’.
A battered black Capri, on its way to becoming a classic car, crunched its way onto the Tesco forecourt. Maxwell had parked himself on a trolley rail for the last quarter of an hour. It was chilly now as the lights went out all over Tesco’s and night came to Leighford. He pulled his jacket round him and kept faithful watch on the staff entrance, all feeling gone from his bum.
A jolly woman with scraped-back hair came clattering out and with her was Dorothy Parsons. Maxwell hopped off his perch and swooped on his prey.
‘Mrs Parsons,’ he lifted the shapeless tweed hat.
‘Oh, Mr Maxwell … See you tomorrow, Ellen.’
‘Yeah, tara!’ Ellen, the jolly woman called, looking Maxwell up and down so that she could commit him to memory for tomorrow’s gossip in the staff canteen.
‘The police …’ Maxwell said.
Ellen lingered a little longer, taking her time to get away. The gossip would be juicier than she hoped. But the horn on the Capri was insistent and she had to go.
‘All right!’ she bellowed as the security manager rattled his locks behind her. ‘Keep your bloody hair on!’
Dorothy scanned the car park. No beige van. She’d have to wait. ‘Look, Mr Maxwell,’ she looked up at her son’s teacher, ‘I told the police I can’t help. I just don’t know nothing. Ronald and me, we’re worried sick, that’s all.’
‘The police found something,’ Maxwell said. ‘A letter. What was all that about?’
Dorothy Parsons looked away again. Where was he? When would her Ronald come? He was already ten minutes late.
‘Some letter,’ she flustered, ‘some stupid thing. I don’t know what it was. He’d written that teacher a letter. There wasn’t nothing in it, Mr Maxwell. You know Ronnie. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Not a fly, no. But Alice Goode was dead and Dorothy Parsons didn’t know that. ‘Did you see the letter, Mrs Parsons?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Do you know what was in it?’
‘Dot.’ She jumped at the sound of her own name. Ronald Parsons stood behind her, the van keys in his hand, his dark eyes narrowed in Maxwell’s direction.
‘Oh, Ron,’ she whined, ‘where were you?’
‘I parked round the back,’ he said. ‘What’s up, Dorothy? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, Ron,’ she said quietly, taking her husband by his thickset arm. ‘I thought you’d be here early tonight.’
Ron hadn’t taken his eyes off Maxwell. ‘Mr Maxwell.’
‘Mr Parsons,’ Maxwell
‘Jase is four and Shane’s two and a half. Why?’ The daffy thing was even more suspicious now. Well, you heard such things, didn’t you? About them paedophile rings and so on.
‘Oh good,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘by the time they’re eleven, I’ll have taken early retirement.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good afternoon.’ And he was gone.
The car park had thinned out by nine. Only one or two vehicles still waited under the twilight sky. This was as downtown as Leighford got, scruffy Victorian buildings with peeling paint and boarded-up windows. The kiddies’ playground was locked and deserted and only the odd, stray gull winged its way overhead, crying into the distant darkness far out to sea. The season had not bitten at Leighford yet. The great British public were waiting to see which way the weather jumped before they made their final holiday choice – Leighford or Lanzarote; what a facer!
‘Evening, Dee for Douglas.’ A sandy-haired man with a freckled face got out of his Mondeo.
Douglas was older, waistline widening, hair-line retreating. ‘Jonathan,’ he nodded.
‘What is it tonight?’ Jonathan asked. ‘Cynthia was getting a little inquisitive. I had to burn my programme.’
‘I’ve got it billed as
Desert Death
,’’ Douglas told him. ‘It’ll have to go some to beat last month’s.’
‘Little corker, wasn’t she?’ Jonathan smirked. ‘What an arse.’
And they made their way through the back streets to that green door marked ‘film club’.
A battered black Capri, on its way to becoming a classic car, crunched its way onto the Tesco forecourt. Maxwell had parked himself on a trolley rail for the last quarter of an hour. It was chilly now as the lights went out all over Tesco’s and night came to Leighford. He pulled his jacket round him and kept faithful watch on the staff entrance, all feeling gone from his bum.
A jolly woman with scraped-back hair came clattering out and with her was Dorothy Parsons. Maxwell hopped off his perch and swooped on his prey.
‘Mrs Parsons,’ he lifted the shapeless tweed hat.
‘Oh, Mr Maxwell … See you tomorrow, Ellen.’
‘Yeah, tara!’ Ellen, the jolly woman called, looking Maxwell up and down so that she could commit him to memory for tomorrow’s gossip in the staff canteen.
‘The police …’ Maxwell said.
Ellen lingered a little longer, taking her time to get away. The gossip would be juicier than she hoped. But the horn on the Capri was insistent and she had to go.
‘All right!’ she bellowed as the security manager rattled his locks behind her. ‘Keep your bloody hair on!’
Dorothy scanned the car park. No beige van. She’d have to wait. ‘Look, Mr Maxwell,’ she looked up at her son’s teacher, ‘I told the police I can’t help. I just don’t know nothing. Ronald and me, we’re worried sick, that’s all.’
‘The police found something,’ Maxwell said. ‘A letter. What was all that about?’
Dorothy Parsons looked away again. Where was he? When would her Ronald come? He was already ten minutes late.
‘Some letter,’ she flustered, ‘some stupid thing. I don’t know what it was. He’d written that teacher a letter. There wasn’t nothing in it, Mr Maxwell. You know Ronnie. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Not a fly, no. But Alice Goode was dead and Dorothy Parsons didn’t know that. ‘Did you see the letter, Mrs Parsons?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Do you know what was in it?’
‘Dot.’ She jumped at the sound of her own name. Ronald Parsons stood behind her, the van keys in his hand, his dark eyes narrowed in Maxwell’s direction.
‘Oh, Ron,’ she whined, ‘where were you?’
‘I parked round the back,’ he said. ‘What’s up, Dorothy? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, Ron,’ she said quietly, taking her husband by his thickset arm. ‘I thought you’d be here early tonight.’
Ron hadn’t taken his eyes off Maxwell. ‘Mr Maxwell.’
‘Mr Parsons,’ Maxwell
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