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

Asheton went to Durham, although somebody told me years ago, he’d got a girl pregnant and threw it all up.’
    ‘And Wensley?’
    ‘Ah.’ Maxwell raised both eyebrows. ‘There you have me. The Preacher was always a little, shall we say, different? One of us, yet not, if you know what I mean. He was due to go, I think, to King’s, London, to read theology. But there again, he often talked about living in Tibet and getting in touch with his inner self, so God knows. He seems to be ordained now.’
    ‘Indeed.’ The DCI turned to him. ‘But there’s nothing really about this weekend that is as it seems, is there, Mr Maxwell?’

4
    ‘Am I interrupting?’ Anthony Bingham’s head peered round Maxwell’s door. The coat and scarf of the day had gone and the judge wore a jumper and cravat.
    ‘Not at all,’ said the Head of Sixth Form. ‘I wondered who’d be first.’
    ‘First?’ Bingham was in the room, the door still ajar. ‘Are you playing some sort of game, Max?’
    ‘It’s all a game, Ant … Look, I’m sorry, but inappropriate as it is, I feel I’ve still got to call you Cret. Can you live with that?’
    ‘In comparison with what many a felon who has come up before me calls me, I’m sure I’ve got off lightly.’ He closed the door. ‘Any threat of you breaking open your minibar?’
    Maxwell smiled and dragged himself off the bed. ‘Looks like Scotch or Scotch,’ he said, rummaging among the miniature bottles in the wallside cabinet.
    ‘Fine.’ Bingham threw himself down on Maxwell’s settee. ‘You’ve talked to the filth, of course?’
    ‘The …?’
    ‘Police, Max. It’s underworld jargon.’
    ‘Yes.’ Maxwell nodded. ‘I have heard the term. I’m just a little surprised to hear you use it, Cret.’
    ‘Never forget, Maxie, my boy.’ Bingham took the proffered glass. ‘Today’s judge is yesterday’s lawyer. When I took defence cases I despised the boys in blue because they planted evidence in people’s pockets. When I became a prosecutor, I despised them because they didn’t. Either way, a dead loss. Who did you have?’
    ‘A woman,’ Maxwell told him. ‘A DCI Tyler.’
    ‘Ah, yes, Nadine. Hard-nosed bitch, I’d say. Here’s to the return of capital punishment,’ and he drained his glass. ‘I dare say Ash will be in her knickers by nightfall. Didn’t see you at dinner.’
    ‘No. Jacquie and I ate out. Had lunch out, too, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘Right. Rather a little cracker, that piece of yours.’ The judge’s eyes swivelled in all directions. ‘I don’t see any smalls, those little tokens of domestic bliss.’
    ‘Jacquie has her own room.’
    ‘Oh, really?’ Bingham raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t remember you being such a prude, Max. Remember Cranton, ’62?’ and he chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me Mrs Maxwell thinks you’re on some sort of teaching conference?’
    ‘There is no Mrs Maxwell, Cret.’ He smiled. There had been, of course; not that Cret knew. She lay under the flowers now with her little Jenny, two girls with the bluest eyes in the world. He could still smell their warm, soft skin cradled in his arms on countless picnics, still hear their tinkling laughter down the years. He couldn’t hear the scream of tyres or the rip of metal as their car bounced on tarmac and their lives ebbed away. A bend too tight. A road too wet. A police car too single minded in the chase. Those were the noises of the night. And he heard them then.
    ‘So, what did they ask?’ Bingham prompted.
    ‘About you, and Stenhouse and Ash and the. Preacher. All of you. And me, of course.’
    ‘Did you have your solicitor present?’
    ‘Of course not.’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘I haven’t got a bloody solicitor. No doubt you’d have advised me to.’
    ‘No doubt I would, but I didn’t get the chance. What time did this Gorgon interview you?’
    ‘Er … let’s see. About four, I think. Why?’
    ‘Divide and conquer.’ Bingham nodded. ‘It’s the oldest trick in the