old Jack Warner wouldn’t have contemplated.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes, I was wondering if Detective Constable Carpenter is on duty.’ The sergeant looked Maxwell up and down as though he was something caught on the sergeant’s shoe.
‘What’s it about?’
‘Personal,’ chirped Maxwell.
‘Then I suggest you come back in the morning.’ The desk man was helpfulness itself.
‘It’s about the missing teacher,’ Maxwell said, ‘Alice Goode.’
He expected the third degree, if not the Spanish Inquisition, but instead the sergeant picked up a phone and muttered a few words into it, ‘Jacquie? Yes. Tom. There’s a … may I have your name, sir?’
‘Maxwell.’
‘A Mr Maxwell to see you. Says it’s about Alice Goode. Right. Right you are.’ And he put the phone down.
‘DC Carpenter won’t be a moment, sir,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ Maxwell took a seat. No sooner had his bum touched the vinyl, however, than a door swung wide and Jacquie Carpenter stood there. She looked tired. Worse, she looked worn out.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said.
The Head of Sixth Form clambered to his feet. He’d gone to a good school. ‘I hope I haven’t called at a bad time.’
‘I should have gone off duty nearly three hours ago,’ she told him, checking her watch, ‘But apart from that … Thanks, Tom.’ She took Maxwell up the flight of cheerless concrete steps that led to the CID offices on the first floor. He knew this building well. He’d helped the police with their enquiries three years ago when Jenny Hyde had been found murdered. She was one of his sixth form. Leighford High had never been the same since. They walked past VDUs and office doors without glass. Then she swung out a chair at her end of the corridor and sat her visitor down.
‘I’d offer you some coffee,’ she said, ‘but the machine’s switched off. What is it you want, Mr Maxwell?’
‘To know where Alice Goode is,’ he told her.
She sighed. ‘If it weren’t confidential, I’d bring up on the screen the hundreds of people currently missing in this county alone. Multiply that throughout the forty-three police forces of England and Wales and you’ve got a pretty big problem.’
‘So we shouldn’t bother?’
She looked at the floor, trying to control what she felt inside. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said, ‘it’s been a long day. And believe it or not, there are only so many hours in it. Now, at the moment I’m doing all I can to concentrate on Ronnie Parsons. We’re all of us short of resources and manpower and time. We have to prioritize. Ronnie Parsons is my priority.’
‘Good for you,’ Maxwell winked.
She flashed fire at him. ‘Are you saying he shouldn’t be?’
‘I’m saying he shouldn’t be alone, no.’
‘So you think wherever they are, they’re together?’ He didn’t like the enthusiasm in DC Carpenter’s eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Precisely!’ Her voice was louder than she’d intended. Why did she let this man get to her? ‘Precisely,’ calmer now. ‘You think that because we’ve got links with other forces, computers, Interpol, Christ knows what, we know any more than you do? Ronnie Parsons, Alice Goode, they’re just two needles in a bloody haystack, Mr Maxwell. And if those needles don’t want to be found, well, frankly, there’s not a lot we can do about it.’
Maxwell looked at the girl of the mixed metaphors. Her hair, a chestnut gold in the late lamps of the office, was still scraped back into the single thick plait. Her lipstick had all but gone – much of it, Maxwell noticed, was on the rim of a canteen coffee cup on her desk. Why did canteens the world over use that pale green stuff? But it was her eyes that gave away her exhaustion. Her eyes and the confession she’d just made, that the police didn’t have the first bloody clue.
‘I can understand that you’re concerned,’ she said, ‘we all are, but please,’ and she tried to save what face she could, to
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes, I was wondering if Detective Constable Carpenter is on duty.’ The sergeant looked Maxwell up and down as though he was something caught on the sergeant’s shoe.
‘What’s it about?’
‘Personal,’ chirped Maxwell.
‘Then I suggest you come back in the morning.’ The desk man was helpfulness itself.
‘It’s about the missing teacher,’ Maxwell said, ‘Alice Goode.’
He expected the third degree, if not the Spanish Inquisition, but instead the sergeant picked up a phone and muttered a few words into it, ‘Jacquie? Yes. Tom. There’s a … may I have your name, sir?’
‘Maxwell.’
‘A Mr Maxwell to see you. Says it’s about Alice Goode. Right. Right you are.’ And he put the phone down.
‘DC Carpenter won’t be a moment, sir,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ Maxwell took a seat. No sooner had his bum touched the vinyl, however, than a door swung wide and Jacquie Carpenter stood there. She looked tired. Worse, she looked worn out.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said.
The Head of Sixth Form clambered to his feet. He’d gone to a good school. ‘I hope I haven’t called at a bad time.’
‘I should have gone off duty nearly three hours ago,’ she told him, checking her watch, ‘But apart from that … Thanks, Tom.’ She took Maxwell up the flight of cheerless concrete steps that led to the CID offices on the first floor. He knew this building well. He’d helped the police with their enquiries three years ago when Jenny Hyde had been found murdered. She was one of his sixth form. Leighford High had never been the same since. They walked past VDUs and office doors without glass. Then she swung out a chair at her end of the corridor and sat her visitor down.
‘I’d offer you some coffee,’ she said, ‘but the machine’s switched off. What is it you want, Mr Maxwell?’
‘To know where Alice Goode is,’ he told her.
She sighed. ‘If it weren’t confidential, I’d bring up on the screen the hundreds of people currently missing in this county alone. Multiply that throughout the forty-three police forces of England and Wales and you’ve got a pretty big problem.’
‘So we shouldn’t bother?’
She looked at the floor, trying to control what she felt inside. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said, ‘it’s been a long day. And believe it or not, there are only so many hours in it. Now, at the moment I’m doing all I can to concentrate on Ronnie Parsons. We’re all of us short of resources and manpower and time. We have to prioritize. Ronnie Parsons is my priority.’
‘Good for you,’ Maxwell winked.
She flashed fire at him. ‘Are you saying he shouldn’t be?’
‘I’m saying he shouldn’t be alone, no.’
‘So you think wherever they are, they’re together?’ He didn’t like the enthusiasm in DC Carpenter’s eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Precisely!’ Her voice was louder than she’d intended. Why did she let this man get to her? ‘Precisely,’ calmer now. ‘You think that because we’ve got links with other forces, computers, Interpol, Christ knows what, we know any more than you do? Ronnie Parsons, Alice Goode, they’re just two needles in a bloody haystack, Mr Maxwell. And if those needles don’t want to be found, well, frankly, there’s not a lot we can do about it.’
Maxwell looked at the girl of the mixed metaphors. Her hair, a chestnut gold in the late lamps of the office, was still scraped back into the single thick plait. Her lipstick had all but gone – much of it, Maxwell noticed, was on the rim of a canteen coffee cup on her desk. Why did canteens the world over use that pale green stuff? But it was her eyes that gave away her exhaustion. Her eyes and the confession she’d just made, that the police didn’t have the first bloody clue.
‘I can understand that you’re concerned,’ she said, ‘we all are, but please,’ and she tried to save what face she could, to
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