Parsons rang up the totals and slid the credit cards through the reader. Life at Tesco’s had to go on. And it was still early days, that nice police lady had told her. Still early days yet.
The Victorians had come to Leighford, as they had come to all the resorts of the south coast, as their fathers in turn had come to Brighthelmstone in the wake of mad King George and his son, the indescribable Prince Regent. They’d built their villas for their month in the sun and the chance to see the Queen, God bless her, sailing on the steam packet across to the distant Isle of Wight. Now, the Victorians had gone and their great houses were subdivided into flats, with the telltale six bells on the front door.
Sad, Maxwell thought, as he always did when he saw such vandalism. He parked White Surrey against the wall and pushed the grubby bell of Flat 4, No. 31, Graylands Lane.
‘Yes?’ a distorted female voice answered.
‘Mrs Hagger?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Peter Maxwell. I’m a colleague of Alice’s.’ There was a pause. Maxwell looked up to the blank windows where Flat 4 might be – he couldn’t tell from that angle.
‘She isn’t here,’ the voice said.
‘I know,’ Maxwell talked to the cobwebbed slats of the intercom. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Another pause. ‘You’d better come in.’
There was a whirr and a click. Maxwell pushed the heavy front door with the pebbled glass window. The hall was anonymous, with a set of pigeon holes to his right and the door of Flat 1 to his left. An arrow told him that Flats 3-6 were upstairs. He felt a little like Martin Balsam as he heard his feet creak on the risers, his hands slide up the smooth banister. He glanced back. No fruit cellar at least. But who knew about Jean Hagger, Alice Goode’s flatmate? Who was to say she wasn’t tall and flat-chested with silver hair and a breadknife? He’d better be on his guard, just in case.
If anything, Jean Haggar was worse than mad old Anthony Perkins. She was a typical junior school teacher, complete with fag and neurosis. It’s a bit like the big wing and little wing of the RAF in World War Two – Bomber Command and Fighter Command. Their job was the same – to trounce the Hun – but they loathed each other and had no mutual respect. So it was with senior and junior school teachers. Jean Hagger regarded the likes of Peter Maxwell as privileged, over-paid and pompous. He in turn regarded her sort as under-qualified botty-wipers and nappy-changers.
‘Mrs Hagger,’ he smiled and doffed his cap, extending a hand.
She put the fag in her mouth and took his hand in that awkward way that women do, with weak wrists and stiff fingers.
‘You’d better have a seat,’ she said, moving a fairly awful piece of knitting.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to arrive unannounced.’
‘That’s all right.’ She flicked her thick hair away from her face, ‘Er… ciggie?’
‘No, thanks,’ he smiled.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, really. Look, I’ll come straight to the point. I’m looking for Alice.’
‘You are?’ Jean Haggar sat down on the chair opposite.
‘Maxwell, PI,’ he threw her, casually, as though without trying, his best Tom Selleck.
‘Private Investigator?’ she giggled nervously. ‘I thought you said you were Alice’s colleague.’
‘I am,’ he laughed. ‘And no, in my case, “PI” means politically incorrect. I’m Head of Sixth Form at Leighford High.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember now. You were in the paper the other week, weren’t you?’
‘Er … Young Enterprise, yes. Bit of a con, really. I just posed with the team – the kids did the work. I wouldn’t know a business if it fell on me, still less how to study it.’
‘Alice has talked about you,’ Jean nodded.
‘Doesn’t see me as a knight errant, then?’ Maxwell asked.
‘What?’
‘I got the impression a minute ago that you find it a little odd that I’m looking for Alice.’
‘Er … no,’ Jean flustered, ‘it’s just that
The Victorians had come to Leighford, as they had come to all the resorts of the south coast, as their fathers in turn had come to Brighthelmstone in the wake of mad King George and his son, the indescribable Prince Regent. They’d built their villas for their month in the sun and the chance to see the Queen, God bless her, sailing on the steam packet across to the distant Isle of Wight. Now, the Victorians had gone and their great houses were subdivided into flats, with the telltale six bells on the front door.
Sad, Maxwell thought, as he always did when he saw such vandalism. He parked White Surrey against the wall and pushed the grubby bell of Flat 4, No. 31, Graylands Lane.
‘Yes?’ a distorted female voice answered.
‘Mrs Hagger?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Peter Maxwell. I’m a colleague of Alice’s.’ There was a pause. Maxwell looked up to the blank windows where Flat 4 might be – he couldn’t tell from that angle.
‘She isn’t here,’ the voice said.
‘I know,’ Maxwell talked to the cobwebbed slats of the intercom. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Another pause. ‘You’d better come in.’
There was a whirr and a click. Maxwell pushed the heavy front door with the pebbled glass window. The hall was anonymous, with a set of pigeon holes to his right and the door of Flat 1 to his left. An arrow told him that Flats 3-6 were upstairs. He felt a little like Martin Balsam as he heard his feet creak on the risers, his hands slide up the smooth banister. He glanced back. No fruit cellar at least. But who knew about Jean Hagger, Alice Goode’s flatmate? Who was to say she wasn’t tall and flat-chested with silver hair and a breadknife? He’d better be on his guard, just in case.
If anything, Jean Haggar was worse than mad old Anthony Perkins. She was a typical junior school teacher, complete with fag and neurosis. It’s a bit like the big wing and little wing of the RAF in World War Two – Bomber Command and Fighter Command. Their job was the same – to trounce the Hun – but they loathed each other and had no mutual respect. So it was with senior and junior school teachers. Jean Hagger regarded the likes of Peter Maxwell as privileged, over-paid and pompous. He in turn regarded her sort as under-qualified botty-wipers and nappy-changers.
‘Mrs Hagger,’ he smiled and doffed his cap, extending a hand.
She put the fag in her mouth and took his hand in that awkward way that women do, with weak wrists and stiff fingers.
‘You’d better have a seat,’ she said, moving a fairly awful piece of knitting.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to arrive unannounced.’
‘That’s all right.’ She flicked her thick hair away from her face, ‘Er… ciggie?’
‘No, thanks,’ he smiled.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, really. Look, I’ll come straight to the point. I’m looking for Alice.’
‘You are?’ Jean Haggar sat down on the chair opposite.
‘Maxwell, PI,’ he threw her, casually, as though without trying, his best Tom Selleck.
‘Private Investigator?’ she giggled nervously. ‘I thought you said you were Alice’s colleague.’
‘I am,’ he laughed. ‘And no, in my case, “PI” means politically incorrect. I’m Head of Sixth Form at Leighford High.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember now. You were in the paper the other week, weren’t you?’
‘Er … Young Enterprise, yes. Bit of a con, really. I just posed with the team – the kids did the work. I wouldn’t know a business if it fell on me, still less how to study it.’
‘Alice has talked about you,’ Jean nodded.
‘Doesn’t see me as a knight errant, then?’ Maxwell asked.
‘What?’
‘I got the impression a minute ago that you find it a little odd that I’m looking for Alice.’
‘Er … no,’ Jean flustered, ‘it’s just that
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