at her, the grey eyes clear, the head held high, its chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. The last time she’d stood here, in his lounge, on his turf, he’d leaned across and kissed her. Now she wanted it to happen again. But it didn’t.
‘PMT, I suppose,’ she said.
‘Ah, pre-Maxwell tension,’ he nodded. ‘That’s biology for you.’
She fished in her handbag, the one dangling from her right shoulder. ‘And that’s for you,’ she said. She handed him a video in a plain white cardboard box.
‘Not Dormitory Nights – The Director’s Cut ?’ he leered. ‘You’re spoiling me, my dear.’
Her face twisted into a half smile. ‘I think you’ll find this a lot more interesting,’ and she sat down.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he asked.
‘You can get me some answers,’ she said, leaning back in the chair as he fiddled with the video.
‘My generation put a man on the moon, you know, but I still have trouble with this.’
There was no preamble. No forthcoming attractions in which a sandpaper voice-over rasped ‘at a cinema near you’.
‘Max,’ she stopped him before it started. ‘If the girls come in, you must switch this off.’
‘So it is Dormitory Nights ,’ his eyes widened.
It wasn’t. A fixed camera looked down from a ceiling onto a spartan table. Two men sat facing each other, the glare from the bad light bouncing off the bald head of one of them. The other appeared to be in combat gear, sitting bolt upright, like a robot. At the bottom right of the screen was a date and logo and an electronic timer. Saturday night at the movies.
‘The bald guy is Dr Richard Bartlett; he’s a psychiatrist. The other one is Neil Hamlyn; he’s just confessed to the murder of Larry Warner.’
Maxwell pressed ‘pause’ on his remote and sat down heavily opposite Jacquie open-mouthed. On the screen a band of white static crackled across Hamlyn’s shoulders as he raised a hand to make a point. A man in the freeze-frame. ‘Jacquie …’ Maxwell began.
She held up a hand. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Should I be showing you this? No. Should I even have it in my possession? No. If anyone found out, would I lose my job? Yes. There,’ she sighed, as if with relief, ‘now we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s get on with it.’
Maxwell looked at her, the remote still in his hand. This girl had put her career on the line for him before, and more than once. But in the past, he’d had to ask her, using all the old Maxwell charm, the public-school offensive. Now she’d come unsolicited, with classified information which could sink them both. ‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘I have to ask why.’
She looked at him, biting her lip. What was she supposed to say? That she loved him? Was that why? Could it be that simple? And did she love him? More than the job that had become her life? More than that life? The other answer was easier. ‘Bartlett’s convinced – so now the DCI is convinced that Hamlyn did it. He’s based his beliefs on this interview, taken yesterday.’
‘Only one?’ Maxwell asked.
Jacquie nodded. ‘He says he’s sure. Doesn’t need any more.’
‘This Bartlett – who is he? Some sort of Cracker?’ He didn’t look much like Robbie Coltrane.’
‘He’s a forensic psychiatrist, on loan to the force,’ she explained. ‘We don’t, by and large, set much store by people like him. It’s all a bit Quantico and the FBI. Psychological profiling is the darling of armchair detectives – oh, sorry, Max.’ He beamed and bowed low. ‘Hard-bitten coppers don’t tend to buy it. It was all Frank Bartholomew could do to stop himself chucking up.’
‘Hmm,’ Maxwell mused. ‘One of nature’s gentlefolk, our Mr Bartholomew. Why are you risking your neck showing this to me, Jacquie?’
Would he never leave it alone? Get off the subject? Just play the bloody thing and be grateful. ‘The chalk face,’ she answered. ‘You’ve
‘PMT, I suppose,’ she said.
‘Ah, pre-Maxwell tension,’ he nodded. ‘That’s biology for you.’
She fished in her handbag, the one dangling from her right shoulder. ‘And that’s for you,’ she said. She handed him a video in a plain white cardboard box.
‘Not Dormitory Nights – The Director’s Cut ?’ he leered. ‘You’re spoiling me, my dear.’
Her face twisted into a half smile. ‘I think you’ll find this a lot more interesting,’ and she sat down.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he asked.
‘You can get me some answers,’ she said, leaning back in the chair as he fiddled with the video.
‘My generation put a man on the moon, you know, but I still have trouble with this.’
There was no preamble. No forthcoming attractions in which a sandpaper voice-over rasped ‘at a cinema near you’.
‘Max,’ she stopped him before it started. ‘If the girls come in, you must switch this off.’
‘So it is Dormitory Nights ,’ his eyes widened.
It wasn’t. A fixed camera looked down from a ceiling onto a spartan table. Two men sat facing each other, the glare from the bad light bouncing off the bald head of one of them. The other appeared to be in combat gear, sitting bolt upright, like a robot. At the bottom right of the screen was a date and logo and an electronic timer. Saturday night at the movies.
‘The bald guy is Dr Richard Bartlett; he’s a psychiatrist. The other one is Neil Hamlyn; he’s just confessed to the murder of Larry Warner.’
Maxwell pressed ‘pause’ on his remote and sat down heavily opposite Jacquie open-mouthed. On the screen a band of white static crackled across Hamlyn’s shoulders as he raised a hand to make a point. A man in the freeze-frame. ‘Jacquie …’ Maxwell began.
She held up a hand. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Should I be showing you this? No. Should I even have it in my possession? No. If anyone found out, would I lose my job? Yes. There,’ she sighed, as if with relief, ‘now we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s get on with it.’
Maxwell looked at her, the remote still in his hand. This girl had put her career on the line for him before, and more than once. But in the past, he’d had to ask her, using all the old Maxwell charm, the public-school offensive. Now she’d come unsolicited, with classified information which could sink them both. ‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘I have to ask why.’
She looked at him, biting her lip. What was she supposed to say? That she loved him? Was that why? Could it be that simple? And did she love him? More than the job that had become her life? More than that life? The other answer was easier. ‘Bartlett’s convinced – so now the DCI is convinced that Hamlyn did it. He’s based his beliefs on this interview, taken yesterday.’
‘Only one?’ Maxwell asked.
Jacquie nodded. ‘He says he’s sure. Doesn’t need any more.’
‘This Bartlett – who is he? Some sort of Cracker?’ He didn’t look much like Robbie Coltrane.’
‘He’s a forensic psychiatrist, on loan to the force,’ she explained. ‘We don’t, by and large, set much store by people like him. It’s all a bit Quantico and the FBI. Psychological profiling is the darling of armchair detectives – oh, sorry, Max.’ He beamed and bowed low. ‘Hard-bitten coppers don’t tend to buy it. It was all Frank Bartholomew could do to stop himself chucking up.’
‘Hmm,’ Maxwell mused. ‘One of nature’s gentlefolk, our Mr Bartholomew. Why are you risking your neck showing this to me, Jacquie?’
Would he never leave it alone? Get off the subject? Just play the bloody thing and be grateful. ‘The chalk face,’ she answered. ‘You’ve
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