nostrils could pick up oestrogen at forty paces. ‘Wouldn’t give me the time of day without checking why I wanted to know first. He lived in Portsmouth, but she didn’t know where precisely. Drove a Peugeot – odd for a woman to notice that.’
‘Careful, Max,’ she warned him. ‘Teensy bit of male chauvinist piggery seeping in there.’
‘You’re right,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve got the tie, somewhere; founder member of the club an’ all. No, Deirdre was as forthcoming as a clam. Mrs B. put me on to the Leighford connection. When I saw Warner at Magicworld, he didn’t look familiar at all. Just struck me how odd it was that a single bloke would be there, in his three piece and all. Square peg in a round hole.’
‘Max,’ she looked oddly at him, ‘you’re thinking again.’
‘Right again,’ he laughed. ‘I really must stop it or the Secretary of State for Education will be demanding my resignation. Of course, we historians are a bunch of crypto-lefties as it is, denying children their birthright, mustn’t mention the war and so on. Of course we should be grateful for an extra two grand a year, etc, etc.’
‘Stop changing the subject,’ she was leaning forward now, cradling her glass in both hands. ‘What do you mean “a square peg in a round hole”?’
‘It’s an old English saying, nursie. Bit like “a rolling stone butters no parsnips” or “many a muckle mak’s a mickle” – although actually, that’s Scottish.’
‘Max!’ she screamed at him.
‘Damn good Marge Simpson there, Sylv,’ he had to admit. ‘Why, I asked myself, did Larry Warner go to Magicworld? If he was a family man, he’d have gone with the family; with just the kids, maybe, to give the missus a break. If he was a single man, going for the thrill of the rides – sad bastard – then wouldn’t he have gone casual – shirt, jeans, blue suede shoes? If he was a pervert, wouldn’t he have worn a mac? Oh,’ he smacked his forehead, ‘There I go again, being Politically Incorrect about perverts – stereotyping them.’
‘So what’s your conclusion?’
Maxwell leaned forward so that he echoed her posturally, their glasses almost touching in the lamplight. ‘He went there in a suit, Sylv, dressed for work. He was meeting someone. A client, perhaps.’
‘At Magicworld?’
‘A client who didn’t want to meet him at his office. Didn’t want an accountant traipsing all over his flowerbeds. I don’t know. Somewhere neutral? Some bland, public territory where there’d be no advantage, no quarter?’
‘He sounds like an agent,’ she said, ‘in one of those sixties films where they swap spies over the border.’
He nodded. ‘The chartered accountant who came in from the cold.’
‘You’re getting involved in this, aren’t you, Max?’ she asked him after a moment.
‘Me?’ He held his heart in mock astonishment.
‘I know you too well, Peter Maxwell,’ she said. ‘We’ve been together now …’ But she’d said too much and her voice trailed away.
He stood up sharply, putting his glass down on the coffee table and offering his arm. ‘Come on, then, my dear old Dutch, I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘Why, Max?’ she stood up with him. ‘Why are you getting involved?’
He smiled slowly, his eyes flashing in the half light. ‘Because it’s there,’ he said. ‘And because a little girl asked me to.’
He led her to the door as Metternich rolled over and launched himself onto her recently vacated seat. His sighing purr was the feline equivalent of ‘Thank Christ’.
‘Bloody Hell,’ Chris Logan was on his fourth cup of coffee that morning, staring out of the window where the rain drove hard against it. Below him, in the back car park of the Leighford Advertiser , a figure he knew was parking his bike. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘Yehudi Menuhin?’ His oppo Keith Kershaw didn’t look up. ‘Yeah, he is.’
‘Mad Max.’
‘You wanna lay off that crumbly white stuff,
‘Careful, Max,’ she warned him. ‘Teensy bit of male chauvinist piggery seeping in there.’
‘You’re right,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve got the tie, somewhere; founder member of the club an’ all. No, Deirdre was as forthcoming as a clam. Mrs B. put me on to the Leighford connection. When I saw Warner at Magicworld, he didn’t look familiar at all. Just struck me how odd it was that a single bloke would be there, in his three piece and all. Square peg in a round hole.’
‘Max,’ she looked oddly at him, ‘you’re thinking again.’
‘Right again,’ he laughed. ‘I really must stop it or the Secretary of State for Education will be demanding my resignation. Of course, we historians are a bunch of crypto-lefties as it is, denying children their birthright, mustn’t mention the war and so on. Of course we should be grateful for an extra two grand a year, etc, etc.’
‘Stop changing the subject,’ she was leaning forward now, cradling her glass in both hands. ‘What do you mean “a square peg in a round hole”?’
‘It’s an old English saying, nursie. Bit like “a rolling stone butters no parsnips” or “many a muckle mak’s a mickle” – although actually, that’s Scottish.’
‘Max!’ she screamed at him.
‘Damn good Marge Simpson there, Sylv,’ he had to admit. ‘Why, I asked myself, did Larry Warner go to Magicworld? If he was a family man, he’d have gone with the family; with just the kids, maybe, to give the missus a break. If he was a single man, going for the thrill of the rides – sad bastard – then wouldn’t he have gone casual – shirt, jeans, blue suede shoes? If he was a pervert, wouldn’t he have worn a mac? Oh,’ he smacked his forehead, ‘There I go again, being Politically Incorrect about perverts – stereotyping them.’
‘So what’s your conclusion?’
Maxwell leaned forward so that he echoed her posturally, their glasses almost touching in the lamplight. ‘He went there in a suit, Sylv, dressed for work. He was meeting someone. A client, perhaps.’
‘At Magicworld?’
‘A client who didn’t want to meet him at his office. Didn’t want an accountant traipsing all over his flowerbeds. I don’t know. Somewhere neutral? Some bland, public territory where there’d be no advantage, no quarter?’
‘He sounds like an agent,’ she said, ‘in one of those sixties films where they swap spies over the border.’
He nodded. ‘The chartered accountant who came in from the cold.’
‘You’re getting involved in this, aren’t you, Max?’ she asked him after a moment.
‘Me?’ He held his heart in mock astonishment.
‘I know you too well, Peter Maxwell,’ she said. ‘We’ve been together now …’ But she’d said too much and her voice trailed away.
He stood up sharply, putting his glass down on the coffee table and offering his arm. ‘Come on, then, my dear old Dutch, I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘Why, Max?’ she stood up with him. ‘Why are you getting involved?’
He smiled slowly, his eyes flashing in the half light. ‘Because it’s there,’ he said. ‘And because a little girl asked me to.’
He led her to the door as Metternich rolled over and launched himself onto her recently vacated seat. His sighing purr was the feline equivalent of ‘Thank Christ’.
‘Bloody Hell,’ Chris Logan was on his fourth cup of coffee that morning, staring out of the window where the rain drove hard against it. Below him, in the back car park of the Leighford Advertiser , a figure he knew was parking his bike. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘Yehudi Menuhin?’ His oppo Keith Kershaw didn’t look up. ‘Yeah, he is.’
‘Mad Max.’
‘You wanna lay off that crumbly white stuff,
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