Maxwell’s Ride, page 6
part #6 of Peter Maxwell Series
‘We didn’t all die out with Victoria, you know,’ she said. ‘Mr Warner was a very busy man and had no interest in the basics. Thursdays and Sundays are my days off. I don’t believe Mr Warner ate on those days.’
‘I hadn’t seen Cousin Larry for years,’ Maxwell ruminated. ‘Oh, forgive me, I’m Peter Warner. This is my son, Chris.’
A swift hack to the ankles reminded the newspaperman to close his mouth.
‘When is the funeral exactly?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Look, you’d better come in. We can’t discuss such things on the doorstep. I’m Juliette Pilgrim, by the way.’
‘Charmed,’ Maxwell all but kissed the woman’s hand as she took them through the vestibule. Clearly, Larry Warner had done all right for himself. The address in Queen’s Crescent was a large late Edwardian building with a tendency towards deco. The furnishings were tasteful, Heals at the very least.
‘Do I gather you and Mr Warner were not close?’ Mrs Pilgrim was making life easy for the Great Impersonator.
‘Ooh, it really must be … what, must be twenty years since I saw him. You only met him once, I think, Chris.’
‘Er … yes … er … Dad. I don’t really remember all that clearly.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Maxwell beamed.
She showed the pair into an airy, high-ceilinged lounge with a vast bay window overlooking the street.
‘And the funeral, Mrs Pilgrim?’
‘Oh, we don’t know.’ She invited them to sit. ‘The police won’t release his body just yet. It’s quite, quite awful.’
‘It is,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘The police have been here, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she told him. ‘Whatever else they found, it wasn’t a speck of dust, I assure you.’
‘I’m sure not,’ Maxwell nodded sagely. ‘Er … whatever else did they find?’
She looked from one to the other, an intelligent woman with clear, grey eyes. ‘May I be frank?’ she asked.
You can be anybody you like, dear, Maxwell thought, as long as you give us some answers. ‘Of course.’
‘You knew your cousin was homosexual?’
‘Well, I … let’s just say, he was always into auntie’s dressing-up box in a big way.’
‘I won’t beat about the bush, Mr Warner, I was not overfond of your cousin. Call me old-fashioned if you like, but a string of male callers … well, it wasn’t healthy. I’m just a snob, I suppose, but it was the modern equivalent of Oscar Wilde’s telegraph boys. Students from the local tech doing something called NVQ – I don’t suppose it’s even legal.’
‘It shouldn’t be,’ Maxwell nodded grimly.
‘The police took away a quantity of clothing, his computer and several disks, I believe you call them.’
‘On the Net, was he?’ Logan asked.
‘If you mean, young man, that he surfed in search of electronic sex, I don’t really know. I was his housekeeper with the flat above. I was not his mistress.’
‘Quite,’ Maxwell cleared his throat at the very thought of it.
‘Was there any one young man?’ he asked, ‘Someone special who was here perhaps more than any other?’
‘That’s what the police asked,’ Mrs Pilgrim said. ‘You aren’t a policeman, are you?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘I’ve got a degree. No, I’m a teacher.’
‘I knew it!’ She clapped her hands. ‘My late husband was a teacher, Mr Warner, of geography.’
‘Fascinating subject,’ Maxwell lied. ‘Er … the young man?’
‘Well, there was one, funnily enough. Michael Somebodyorother. Mr Warner called him Micky. He made my skin crawl, I’m afraid.’
‘Not your type?’ Logan asked. Clearly, several years at the Interface had failed to hone his subtlety skills.
‘And what do you do, Mr Warner?’ she narrowed her eyes at him.
‘Oh, I’m a rep …’ He caught Maxwell’s eyes burning into his soul, ‘Repair man. DIY. That sort of thing, you know.’
‘Charming,’ she smiled politely.
‘This Micky goes to the local tech?’ Maxwell checked.
‘I believe so.’
‘Do you remember when you saw him last?’
‘I don’t snoop, Mr Warner,’ she bridled, ‘but I believe it was nearly a week ago – Friday.’
‘He arrived at what time?’
‘Afternoon, I think. Mr Warner had just arrived home himself. I didn’t see the boy leave. Mr Warner, these questions …’
‘I know, I know,’ Maxwell sighed, holding up his hands in supplication, ‘I just can’t understand why someone should want to kill him.’
‘Oh, I can,’ Mrs Pilgrim stood up. ‘Anyone with habits like his. He was a predatory homosexual, Mr Warner. People like him make enemies.’ She suddenly shuddered. ‘He brought the whole building into disrepute. Queen’s Crescent, indeed. People have been very unkind.’
‘You, however, have not been, Mrs Pilgrim. On the contrary, you have been kindness itself.’ He shook her cold, limp hand. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. And at the funeral in the fullness of time, I have no doubt.’
She watched them go and they clambered into Logan’s car parked in the street. As she did so, she picked up Warner’s phone. ‘Hello, is that Leighford CID? Yes. Yes. Sergeant Bartholomew please. I’ll hold.’
In the car, Logan let his shoulders sag. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mr Maxwell … er … Max. I wish you’d told me you were going to do that.’
‘Do what?’ Maxwell was all innocence, strapping on his seat belt.
‘Claim bloody kin.’
‘Go with the flow, Chris, my boy. Learn a bit of sleuthing from the Master.’
‘But we didn’t have to do that. I’ve got my NUJ card.’
‘Yes, and she’d have told us precisely nothing. As it is, we know that the late Mr Warner was not as other chartered accountants and that he probably surfed the net for porn and his boyfriend was a local lad called Micky. I think that’s a pretty good haul for ten minutes work.’
‘What now then?’
‘Portsmouth Technical College, Christine. I’ll dream up some ploy or other as we go.’
‘Yes, Sergeant Bartholomew.’ Mrs Pilgrim had her man on the other end of the line. ‘Greying hair, silly shapeless hat, green coat. Said he was Mr Warner’s cousin, which is a lie. Mr Warner has no family since his mother died. And that he was a teacher, which is possible – he had a rather ‘Leftie’ persona, I thought. Quite nice looking though. Early fifties, I’d guess. The fellow with him, posing as his son, had rather carrotty hair and freckles. He’d be late twenties, claimed to be a repair man which is nonsense. How do I know? His hands. Never knocked a nail in in his life. They’ve just left, the younger of them driving a dark blue Rover, registration number K173 HMN. Well, you did say if anyone called to see Mr Warner … or for any other reason, I was to ring you. Oh, yes, I’ve just remembered. A silly thing, I know. The older man’s trousers, they were screwed up at the bottom, as though he’d got them wet and usually wore cycle clips or tucked them into his socks.’ Mrs Pilgrim laughed brittly. ‘I’m flattered, of course, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘but I think in all honesty I’m a little old for a job on the Force.’
6
What was it about Technical Colleges? They were like larvae longing for the day they’d grow into the butterflies that were Universities. Paint was peeling everywhere, black scuff marks etched the floors. There was an air of decay and a smell of squandered finances. Scraps of paper pinned by one corner only, because of cuts, gave a whole moving horde of Liam Gallagher wannabes the information that lectures were on hand that day for Hewing of Coal (Mr Bennet L23 10.00 a.m.) and Drawing of Water (Mr Webb L4A Mezzanine 11.30 a.m.). Everywhere else seemed to be Leisure and Tourism and Health Care. But then, Maxwell knew the hard way that life for everybody under twenty-two was one long round of leisure and tourism. And as for health, well, nobody cared anyway.
‘Yes, please, your NVQ lists for the current term.’
The girl on the reception desk looked a little confused. ‘Where did you say you were from?’
‘The DES,’ Maxwell lied. ‘Just a routine enquiry.’
‘Right,’ she flicked buttons on her keyboard and her VDU screen performed a series of Bill Gates miracles. ‘You’d want hard copy, I s’pose.’
‘The harder the better,’ Maxwell growled, winking at her.
‘I’ve got one somewhere,’ she assured him. ‘Only, it’s nearly going home time and it’ll take a while to print one out. P’raps our Mrs Winters has got one.’
‘Your Mrs Winters?’
‘Our Personnel and Student Liaison Officer.’
‘No, no,’ Maxwell fussed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of bothering her – as you say, at going home time. Haven’t you got one in a cupboard somewhere?’
‘Well … oh, hang on.’ She disappeared into an inner office while Maxwell looked suitably from the Ministry and Logan was shitting himself. Chris Logan was not really an investigative journalist; he hadn’t the fire for it, nor the brass neck. Subterfuge left him worried and jumpy.
‘Here you go,’ the girl was back in a rustle of her tight leather skirt.
‘Excellent,’ Maxwell slid the folder under his arm.
‘Can you just sign here … Mr … er … ?’
‘Woodhead,’ Maxwell beamed as he flourished with his Biro. ‘Chris Woodhead. Thank you, my dear, you’ve been most helpful.’
The Black Horse had taken a direct hit the night the Luftwaffe came calling. The snug had ended up in the cellar along with a lot of beer, some sawdust and enough broken glass to patch up the Crystal Palace had it still been standing. It had been the end of civilization for some people.
Thatcher’s children haunted it now, frittering away their student loans on nasty lager from Belgium. Maxwell and Logan had fought their way through the milling bodies to the far side of the circular bar which announced to a grateful generation that Murphy’s was permanently reduced. A bank of amusement machines winked and nudged each other in neon flashes in the corner, the one-armed banditti of yesteryear gone electronic. What they laughingly call Live Music was taking a merciful break in the recess where the payload of the Junkers 88 had once landed. And an ageing rocker was giving his picking hand a break by sliding it around the breasts of a girl half his age. Everywhere was leads and mikes, but not the Mike that Maxwell was hunting. He was sitting, or so the pair hoped, facing the door, like Wild Bill Hickok on one of his more sensible nights.
Maxwell pulled a chair up and sat facing the lad. He was … what, nineteen, twenty perhaps, with hard, almost Nureyev features, high cheekbones and chiselled nostrils. Only his appalling woolly cap marked him out as a child of the ’nineties. That and the attitude.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked.
Logan still stood dithering at Maxwell’s elbow.
‘Press,’ Maxwell said. ‘Well, he is.’
Logan thought he’d better join the conversation, so he took a spare chair from the corner and flashed his NUJ card.
‘What d’ya want?’
‘A story,’ Maxwell said. ‘That’s if your name is Michael Lloyd.’
The lad looked at his mates, one on each side, like Horatius at the bridge. ‘It might be,’ he said.
‘Great,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘That’s just earned you a drink. Chris, what’s the man having?’
‘A whale of a time,’ Logan grunted, seeing the lit-up grins on the lads’ faces.
‘Fair enough,’ said Lloyd. ‘Three Stellas – pints.’
‘Is there any other measurement?’ Maxwell smiled and thrust a tenner into Logan’s hand. ‘I might run to another if the answer to my next question’s right.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Lloyd leaned back. ‘And what’s that?’
‘How well did you know Larry Warner?’
‘Who?’
Now, Peter Maxwell had been around. He knew kids like the back of his blackboard, when they lied and when they told the truth. He watched the eyes first, that’s where the smart ones let themselves down. It was only slight, just a flicker really, but it gave the game away every time. It was one of Maxwell’s favourite films – My Friend Flicker. The not so smart ones mottled crimson from the neck or licked their lips or said ‘No’, in that belligerent nasal way that teenagers have. Micky Lloyd was a smart one. The eyes had it.
‘Chris,’ Maxwell caught Logan’s arm as he was making for the bar. ‘Got your mobile?’
‘Sure,’ Logan reached into his jacket pocket.
‘DCI Hall, Leighford nick. I think we’ve got our man.’
‘Now, just a fucking minute …’ Lloyd’s eyes were blazing. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘This,’ Maxwell leaned forward over the hubbub, ‘is a cosy little chat about your career as a male prostitute.’
Pins don’t usually drop in Portsmouth pubs, but one did at Micky Lloyd’s table that night. Lloyd’s defences dropped, his eyes flickered left and right.
‘Do you want me to take him outside, Mick?’ one of his mates asked.
‘No, no, it’s all right.’ Lloyd was focused on Maxwell now.
‘No, you know,’ the mate insisted. ‘Out the back, y’know. Kneecaps.’
‘No, I don’t, Kevin,’ Lloyd bellowed.
‘Well …’ Kevin was a little crestfallen.
‘Look, you and Gringe piss off now, yeah? I’ll see you around, mate.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Kevin and Gringe scraped their chairs and loitered before retreating to the door, eyeing Maxwell as they went. ‘See you then, mate.’
‘Whatever,’ Lloyd leaned forward, suddenly becoming confidential. ‘Look, who are you, really?’
‘Really?’ Maxwell leaned back and let the philosopher in him take over. ‘Who are any of us really? I’m here to talk about you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Larry Warner is dead and you might know something about that.’
‘Oh, no, mate,’ Lloyd said, ‘you’re not pinning any of that crap on me. No way.’
‘Have the police talked to you yet?’
‘No,’ Lloyd frowned, sitting bolt upright, ‘so how did you get onto me?’
‘Don’t worry your fluffy little head about that,’ Maxwell waved a sheaf of paper under the boy’s nose. ‘College lists. You’re the seventh Michael we’ve seen tonight. And the only one who’s lied about knowing Larry Warner.’
‘What makes you think I lied?’ Lloyd was on the defensive now, ready to brazen it out.
‘Years of experience,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Ah, can you manage all three yourself?’ Logan had returned with a tray of lagers.
Lloyd folded his arms. ‘What if I don’t want to drink with you?’
Maxwell dipped his lip into the froth. ‘What if you killed Larry Warner?’
‘What?’ Lloyd felt his pulse racing. Logan saw the boy’s eyes widen. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Well, let’s see.’ Maxwell clasped his hands over his pint and rested his chin on them. ‘There are a number of possibilities. He hadn’t paid you for your last session. You were tired of that kind of life and wanted to go straight, so to speak. He was making unnatural demands – well, even more unnatural, I mean ‘Leave it out,’ Lloyd roared, ‘he was my fucking meal ticket, wasn’t he?’
‘Ah,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘student loans don’t go far, do they?’
‘Fucking right they don’t.’
‘So why did you do it?’ Logan asked.
‘I didn’t fucking do it! Look, look,’ Lloyd tried to marshal his thoughts, rallying his fingers to help him disentangle the chaos of his brain. ‘They said on the telly that he’d been shot, right. And the Echo said it was a high-powered rifle.’
‘Oh, the Echo!’ Logan scoffed. ‘Well, it must be right, then.’
‘Now where am I going to get a shooter, eh? Get real.’
‘Got any form, Micky?’ Maxwell asked.
‘You what?’
‘Are you known to the police? I mean, if my colleague and I turned you upside down and shook out your pockets, would we find any incriminating substances? Is there a file on you in Pompey Vice?’
‘Fuck off,’ Lloyd snarled.
‘Well,’ said Maxwell, ‘it’s only a matter of time. We found you. So will they. Especially when my friend Mr Logan here telephones his editor.’
‘All right, all right,’ Lloyd folded like a pack of cards. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Let’s start with a little thing called the truth, shall we?’ Maxwell asked, ‘and see where that takes us.’
The truth took Maxwell to a sad man who habitually wandered the parks. He was an easy mark for Micky Lloyd, always on the hustle and not particularly fussy how he made his money. They’d met one sunny Sunday in February, in the public toilets under the giant shadow of Portchester castle. A quick bit of business in one of the cubicles and then it was a nice Peugeot ride to a snobby building along Queen’s Crescent. Some frosty old cow of a housekeeper had looked down her nose at Lloyd, but there was nothing she could do. The boy ate well there, drank, watched videos, mostly imported Dutch stuff and went off to college with a wad of cash in his jeans. He was happy, the old poof was happy. What could be wrong with any of that?
‘But he wasn’t the only one,’ Maxwell was thinking out loud as Chris Logan dropped him outside 38 Columbine at the witching hour.
‘What?’
‘Micky Lloyd. Not the only toy boy of the late Mr Warner.’
‘It’s the gun thing,’ Logan was tapping his steering wheel, frowning at the empty street ahead.
‘I know,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Disgruntled AC/DC – or just plain DC – boys might go for a punter with a knife or a hammer or their boots. But a high-powered rifle … Was the Echo right, by the way?’
‘Ha, ha,’ Logan laughed. ‘There’s an unwritten law in the newspaper game, Max – never admit the other guy’s right. I didn’t get that from the police press conference the other day. They must have inside info.’
‘Who would that be from? Hall? Bartholomew?’
Logan shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know anybody on the force? Somebody we can trust?’
‘No,’ Maxwell shook his head, a vision of a girl scowling at him, tears welling in her quiet, grey eyes. ‘No. Nobody. Anyway,’ he turned to Logan, ‘What’s this “we”, white man?’
