Maxwell’s Reunion by M. J. Trow Read Free Book Online

his hands in the air. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Oh, I can tell you what sort of boy he was – sporty and funny and brave. But I hadn’t seen George Quentin – until today – for thirty-seven years. Not in the flesh. All the clocks stopped in ’63, Jacquie. As far as this lot goes, when I threw my blazer into that damned swimming pool, time stood still.’
    She reached across and held his hand. ‘Have I told you how sorry I am?’ she asked.
    He held hers. ‘I know.’ He nodded. ‘I know. Come on. We’ve got some years to roll back.’
    ‘Max …’
    He held up his hand. ‘“It’s not your business,”’ he said. ‘“It’s all a long time ago. There’s nothing you can do. Leave it to the professionals.” Is that what you were going to say?’
    She smiled in spite of herself, arching an eyebrow at the same time. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she leaned towards him, ‘I was going to say “Be careful out there”. Hill Street Blues, remember?’
    Peter Maxwell did. ‘Careful?’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Careful is my middle name.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s see if we can track down Jade and pay the bill. Last one back at the Graveney’s a suspect.’
    The Graveney had thoughtfully set aside the under-manager’s office for interviews. ‘There’ll be two of them,’ Jacquie had said, and she was right. DS Vernon was there, mid-thirties perhaps, thick black hair, a London Scottish set to his nose. Maxwell had met him, of course, at Halliards when the squad cars rolled in, all flashing blue lights like something out of The Bill. The one he hadn’t met was the DCI.
    ‘Nadine Tyler.’ She had a powerful grip for a woman. ‘It’s Mr Maxwell, isn’t it?’
    ‘Peter Maxwell.’ The Head of Sixth Form smiled.
    ‘Do sit down.’ DCI Tyler was tall, statuesque even, well aware that she was a woman in a man’s job and that she had just crashed through the glass ceiling. Well aware too that the resultant shards had embedded themselves in the backs of some of her male colleagues, who were bitter, touchy, resentful.
    Maxwell looked at her across the desk. She was playing the body language game well. He was in a low chair; she in a high swivel. The light was behind her so that sometimes, depending on her angle to the late afternoon sun, she looked like the winged devil out of The Exorcist, with beams from Hell at her elbows.
    ‘You realize this is not a formal interview,’ she said in what Maxwell took to be a cultured Wolverhampton accent, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. ‘Just a little chat?’
    ‘Of course.’ He nodded.
    ‘But equally, you won’t mind if DS Vernon takes a few notes?’
    ‘Of course not.’ Maxwell smiled at the man with his notebook on his knee across the office.
    ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Nadine Tyler said, leaning back in the chair. There were no rings on her fingers, no jewellery round her neck. The eyes were hard and grey, flinty in the afternoon light.
    ‘Well …’ Maxwell cradled his left knee in locked hands, as relaxed as she was. ‘Let’s see. I’m an eligible bachelor. I live in Leighford with my cat and collection of model soldiers. Oh, and I’ve been teaching for nearly four hundred years.’
    Vernon, Maxwell could see, had written nothing down, but Nadine Tyler was smiling. ‘What do you teach?’ she asked.
    ‘Children.’ Maxwell smiled back, wondering just how much rope she’d give him. ‘History,’ he said. ‘I’m Head of Sixth Form.’
    ‘Nice job?’ she asked.
    ‘Nicest in the school.’ He shrugged. ‘Nicer than yours, I’d wager.’
    Nadine Tyler laughed. When she did the years seemed to fall away and Maxwell was looking at a girl again. ‘Let’s stay with you.’ She leaned forward, her hands clasped quietly on the under-manager’s desk. ‘Obviously you and George Quentin go back a long way?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Maxwell nodded, resisting the urge to echo her posturally. ‘I’ve known George for