You’re on the one in front, sitting with that dead man. And …’ he felt her shudder, ‘this is the horrible bit. He’s already dead. He’s sitting bolt upright, next to you. And you’re talking to him. And you don’t know he’s dead. It’s horrible. There’s blood …’
He shook her gently by the arm, then cradled her head against his cheek, softly kissing her parting. ‘Now, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘It was awful, I know. But it’s over now. We’re fine, aren’t we? All of us. We’ll be okay.’
‘Lucy thinks he’s still out there, doesn’t she?’ Tiffany looked up at him, eyes like her sister’s, all hip sophistication gone.
‘It won’t be long now,’ Maxwell assured her. ‘Most murders are cleared up in a few days. They’ll get him.’
But Tiffany was shaking her head. ‘No, they won’t, Uncle Max,’ she told him. ‘Not without you. I saw a flash.’
‘A flash?’ Maxwell frowned.
Tiffany was nodding now, gazing into the middle distance, letting memories flood back. ‘High up, to our left,’ she shut her eyes to focus more clearly. ‘Up there,’ her left arm waved around in the air, ‘Above some rocks. There was a flash.’
‘Like a gun going off?’ Maxwell asked.
‘No. Not like that. It was like… when Mummy and Daddy had some studio portraits done of us a couple of years ago. It was like a camera.’
There was a sudden hiss from the kitchen as Maxwell’s milk boiled inexorably over the saucepan rim and hit the hot plate. The Great Chef leapt from his niece’s side and sprinted away.
‘How many times have I told you, Metternich?’ he bellowed. ‘Never leave your cooking unattended.’ And as the smell of burning milk hit his nostrils, ‘Oh, bugger!’
The bells of St Mary’s were ringing out that morning over sleepy Leighford where Englishmen, Christians all, ignored them and washed their cars or drowned out the clanging with strimmers and hovers. Maxwell watched Miss Troubridge, his very own Neighbour From Hell (he had no need to watch the programme) making her way down her primrose path towards the everlasting bonfire sermons of Father Wainwright. Miss Troubridge was a sprightly old besom, Church of England through and through and the last time she’d missed a service was the day the doodlebugs came to Leighford, courtesy of Mr Hitler. She of course still called the lad with his collar back to front ‘Vicar’. ‘Father’ was a threat too Papist for her.
The old girl peered over the communal privet, as she always did. Bras and knickers on Maxwell’s rotary, so those girls were still there – unless of course, her worst fears were justified and her neighbour had turned. Maxwell saw her greeting somebody further along the road. That would be Mrs Brownleas, her companion of a mile, the chum beside whom she dozed during Father Wainwright’s soliloquy and whose cheek she pecked during the Peace. But it wasn’t Mrs Brownleas. It was a young policewoman in plainclothes walking down his path, making for his front door. He noticed the old girl break her stride and almost break her back looking over her shoulder to check on Mr Maxwell’s doings.
By the time the doorbell rang, he was there, looking at the girl through the reedy fuzz of his door panel.
‘Jacquie,’ he bowed. ‘Or is it Policewoman Carpenter?’ She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
‘It’s Jacquie,’ she said, not quite ready to look him in the face, ‘if you want it to be.’
8
‘Have the girls gone?’ Jacquie asked, standing in Maxwell’s lounge. This wasn’t the first time she’d stood here, heart pounding, unsure of herself, like a schoolgirl again and hating herself for feeling that way.
‘No,’ he told her, ‘they’re still in bed. Disgraceful, isn’t it? In my day, I’d already ploughed the lower meadow, fed the chickens and geese, built a windmill and been called to the colours by half past ten.’
‘I’ve come to apologize,’ she said.
He looked
He shook her gently by the arm, then cradled her head against his cheek, softly kissing her parting. ‘Now, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘It was awful, I know. But it’s over now. We’re fine, aren’t we? All of us. We’ll be okay.’
‘Lucy thinks he’s still out there, doesn’t she?’ Tiffany looked up at him, eyes like her sister’s, all hip sophistication gone.
‘It won’t be long now,’ Maxwell assured her. ‘Most murders are cleared up in a few days. They’ll get him.’
But Tiffany was shaking her head. ‘No, they won’t, Uncle Max,’ she told him. ‘Not without you. I saw a flash.’
‘A flash?’ Maxwell frowned.
Tiffany was nodding now, gazing into the middle distance, letting memories flood back. ‘High up, to our left,’ she shut her eyes to focus more clearly. ‘Up there,’ her left arm waved around in the air, ‘Above some rocks. There was a flash.’
‘Like a gun going off?’ Maxwell asked.
‘No. Not like that. It was like… when Mummy and Daddy had some studio portraits done of us a couple of years ago. It was like a camera.’
There was a sudden hiss from the kitchen as Maxwell’s milk boiled inexorably over the saucepan rim and hit the hot plate. The Great Chef leapt from his niece’s side and sprinted away.
‘How many times have I told you, Metternich?’ he bellowed. ‘Never leave your cooking unattended.’ And as the smell of burning milk hit his nostrils, ‘Oh, bugger!’
The bells of St Mary’s were ringing out that morning over sleepy Leighford where Englishmen, Christians all, ignored them and washed their cars or drowned out the clanging with strimmers and hovers. Maxwell watched Miss Troubridge, his very own Neighbour From Hell (he had no need to watch the programme) making her way down her primrose path towards the everlasting bonfire sermons of Father Wainwright. Miss Troubridge was a sprightly old besom, Church of England through and through and the last time she’d missed a service was the day the doodlebugs came to Leighford, courtesy of Mr Hitler. She of course still called the lad with his collar back to front ‘Vicar’. ‘Father’ was a threat too Papist for her.
The old girl peered over the communal privet, as she always did. Bras and knickers on Maxwell’s rotary, so those girls were still there – unless of course, her worst fears were justified and her neighbour had turned. Maxwell saw her greeting somebody further along the road. That would be Mrs Brownleas, her companion of a mile, the chum beside whom she dozed during Father Wainwright’s soliloquy and whose cheek she pecked during the Peace. But it wasn’t Mrs Brownleas. It was a young policewoman in plainclothes walking down his path, making for his front door. He noticed the old girl break her stride and almost break her back looking over her shoulder to check on Mr Maxwell’s doings.
By the time the doorbell rang, he was there, looking at the girl through the reedy fuzz of his door panel.
‘Jacquie,’ he bowed. ‘Or is it Policewoman Carpenter?’ She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
‘It’s Jacquie,’ she said, not quite ready to look him in the face, ‘if you want it to be.’
8
‘Have the girls gone?’ Jacquie asked, standing in Maxwell’s lounge. This wasn’t the first time she’d stood here, heart pounding, unsure of herself, like a schoolgirl again and hating herself for feeling that way.
‘No,’ he told her, ‘they’re still in bed. Disgraceful, isn’t it? In my day, I’d already ploughed the lower meadow, fed the chickens and geese, built a windmill and been called to the colours by half past ten.’
‘I’ve come to apologize,’ she said.
He looked
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