parties.’
Maxwell did, of course, and he couldn’t agree more.
‘No, we have a party at a local golf club. Our Vice Principal is a member.’
‘How did she get here?’ Jacquie asked. ‘Did she drive?’
‘She come by train,’ Mendoza said. ‘But I did not want her out late, so I took her home.’
‘You drive?’ Maxwell checked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mendoza told him. ‘I have just about got the hang of the right and the left now. Look, is Juanita in any trouble?’
‘We don’t know, Mr Mendoza,’ Jacquie said. ‘We hope not. Do you have her home address?’
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I did not know her that well.’
‘Past tense, Mr Mendoza?’ Maxwell asked.
‘I wish the children I teach had your grasp of English,
señor
,’ he smiled. ‘I am sorry. I mean, I
do
not know her that well.’
‘Bloody Hellfire!’ Jacquie shouted as a white van snarled out of nowhere, cutting her up along the A259. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing in this sunset.’
‘Don’t knock it, dearest,’ Maxwell felt his heart slither downwards from his tonsils again. ‘In other contexts, it’s a gorgeously romantic sight, a ball of fire sinking into the sea, rather as the heat of my love is quenched by the endlessness of your caring…’
He looked across at her and they both burst out laughing.
‘You old fart!’ she rubbed his knee. ‘That’s why I love you. Pass the vomit bag.’
‘And on a more prosaic note,’ he said, ‘where would any ofus be if the bloody thing went out; the sun, I mean.’
‘Where, indeed?’ Quantum Physics and the Meaning of Life weren’t exactly Jacquie’s thing. She changed the subject. ‘What did you make of the Spanish connection?’
‘Well set-up chap,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘No doubt all the girlies in Year Ten line up to swoon over him. Bet there’s been a huge take-up in Spanish GCSE this year.’
‘I was thinking more of his relationship with Juanita.’
‘I bow to your expertise, darling heart,’ he told her. ‘Do you smell a rat?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But I am beginning to think that dear Juanita might not be all we thought she was.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, we didn’t know about Don Rodrigo. And neither did Mrs Troubridge.’
‘Jacquie,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Mrs Troubridge was at school with Boudicca. There could have been a whole queue of men standing in Mrs Troubridge’s garden to service Juanita and the old besom would never have noticed.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘You don’t fancy going the pretty way, do you?’ he asked her.
‘What?’
‘Via the Point?’
‘Now, Max,’ she frowned. ‘Pam has had Nolan now for the best part of twelve hours.’
‘And when he’s Prime Minister and King all rolled into one, she’ll dine out on it for the rest of her life. Come on, it’s only ten minutes.’
It was. Jacquie’s car roared off the A259, making for theShingle. The little lights of evening were beginning to show now, dotted on the headland, whose ridges and furrows had merged to form a mass of dark, like the hump of a huge whale. It would not be totally black for a couple of hours yet, but the shapes of the day had gone. Willow Bay lay like a pale crescent below them, tiny dots of people still scampering on the surf booming along the breakwaters. Tired children still squealed happily as the light died and the odd glow and wisp of smoke marked the places where their parents were equally happily scorching bits of meat on their temporary barbecues.
Then they were on to Ringer’s Hill and turning into the car park high over the sea. There was a solitary car parked there and a middle-aged couple were standing by the bonnet, enjoying the view and the comparative solitude, like one of those corny ads for life insurance on the telly. Did they know that yards away, under the overhang of the gnarled oaks, the police cordon ribbons still fluttered, marking the shallow grave of a small time crook? It was all so
Maxwell did, of course, and he couldn’t agree more.
‘No, we have a party at a local golf club. Our Vice Principal is a member.’
‘How did she get here?’ Jacquie asked. ‘Did she drive?’
‘She come by train,’ Mendoza said. ‘But I did not want her out late, so I took her home.’
‘You drive?’ Maxwell checked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mendoza told him. ‘I have just about got the hang of the right and the left now. Look, is Juanita in any trouble?’
‘We don’t know, Mr Mendoza,’ Jacquie said. ‘We hope not. Do you have her home address?’
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I did not know her that well.’
‘Past tense, Mr Mendoza?’ Maxwell asked.
‘I wish the children I teach had your grasp of English,
señor
,’ he smiled. ‘I am sorry. I mean, I
do
not know her that well.’
‘Bloody Hellfire!’ Jacquie shouted as a white van snarled out of nowhere, cutting her up along the A259. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing in this sunset.’
‘Don’t knock it, dearest,’ Maxwell felt his heart slither downwards from his tonsils again. ‘In other contexts, it’s a gorgeously romantic sight, a ball of fire sinking into the sea, rather as the heat of my love is quenched by the endlessness of your caring…’
He looked across at her and they both burst out laughing.
‘You old fart!’ she rubbed his knee. ‘That’s why I love you. Pass the vomit bag.’
‘And on a more prosaic note,’ he said, ‘where would any ofus be if the bloody thing went out; the sun, I mean.’
‘Where, indeed?’ Quantum Physics and the Meaning of Life weren’t exactly Jacquie’s thing. She changed the subject. ‘What did you make of the Spanish connection?’
‘Well set-up chap,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘No doubt all the girlies in Year Ten line up to swoon over him. Bet there’s been a huge take-up in Spanish GCSE this year.’
‘I was thinking more of his relationship with Juanita.’
‘I bow to your expertise, darling heart,’ he told her. ‘Do you smell a rat?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But I am beginning to think that dear Juanita might not be all we thought she was.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, we didn’t know about Don Rodrigo. And neither did Mrs Troubridge.’
‘Jacquie,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Mrs Troubridge was at school with Boudicca. There could have been a whole queue of men standing in Mrs Troubridge’s garden to service Juanita and the old besom would never have noticed.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘You don’t fancy going the pretty way, do you?’ he asked her.
‘What?’
‘Via the Point?’
‘Now, Max,’ she frowned. ‘Pam has had Nolan now for the best part of twelve hours.’
‘And when he’s Prime Minister and King all rolled into one, she’ll dine out on it for the rest of her life. Come on, it’s only ten minutes.’
It was. Jacquie’s car roared off the A259, making for theShingle. The little lights of evening were beginning to show now, dotted on the headland, whose ridges and furrows had merged to form a mass of dark, like the hump of a huge whale. It would not be totally black for a couple of hours yet, but the shapes of the day had gone. Willow Bay lay like a pale crescent below them, tiny dots of people still scampering on the surf booming along the breakwaters. Tired children still squealed happily as the light died and the odd glow and wisp of smoke marked the places where their parents were equally happily scorching bits of meat on their temporary barbecues.
Then they were on to Ringer’s Hill and turning into the car park high over the sea. There was a solitary car parked there and a middle-aged couple were standing by the bonnet, enjoying the view and the comparative solitude, like one of those corny ads for life insurance on the telly. Did they know that yards away, under the overhang of the gnarled oaks, the police cordon ribbons still fluttered, marking the shallow grave of a small time crook? It was all so
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