Maxwell’s House Read Free Page B

thought to myself, that’s unusual. Because it was. Oh, the Red House used to be a place for courting couples. You know, just kids. But I’d seen no one there for months on account of it was so derelict, you know. Anyhow, old Shep here, he’d gone inside and he wouldn’t come down, so I went in after him. It was then I saw the tramp.’
    ‘Dan Guthrie’, Ross was in command again, taking the story on, ‘was a well-known figure in the neighbourhood. He’d been sleeping rough throughout most of July – remember the weather had been good until that last week – and he’d gone into the Red House about eight o’clock, hoping to find shelter.’
    ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘Jesus.’
    ‘Chief Inspector Henry Hall.’ Ross sat beside a tight-lipped detective in immaculate gold-rimmed glasses. ‘You’re in charge of the case. Is there any message you have for our viewers tonight?’
    ‘Yes.’ Hall seemed at ease with the radio mike clipped to his tie. ‘The dead girl was just seventeen years old …’
    ‘Seventeen years and four months,’ he argued with the television.
    ‘She had her whole life before her. Someone out there knows why she died and who killed her. 23rd July. A Thursday. Did someone you know come home later than usual that night? Was he behaving strangely? Has he been behaving strangely since?’
    ‘Presumably, you want to interview that man seen talking to Jenny at the Dam? Let’s just have a description again.’
    A bad drawing filled the screen of a scruffy lad of twenty or so, with dead, pencilled eyes and an attempt at stubble.
    ‘He was eighteen to twenty-five years old.’ Ross padded it out. ‘Wearing denim jeans and a white or cream shirt. He was well-spoken.’
    ‘We need him to come forward,’ Hall said, as the camera swung back, ‘to eliminate him from our enquiries.’
    ‘A particularly senseless killing,’ Ross commented. ‘There is an incident room set up at Tottingleigh and you call it on 0391 421638 or the studio here on 0500 600 600; that’s 0500 600 600, where a team of detectives is waiting for your call. Remember, if you’d like to speak to a BBC researcher instead, your call will be treated with the utmost confidentiality.’
    Ross turned to a third camera, outstaring every villain in the land. ‘Jenny Hyde was only seventeen. She hadn’t an enemy in the world. But it’s possible that the killer may strike again. It’s up to you to make sure he doesn’t.’
    Then the mood was lifted, the silence gone, and the smiling face of Sue Cook filled the screen. ‘Were you in the centre of Birmingham on 14th May?’ she asked.
    He stood up, crossed the room and switched off the set. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in the centre of Birmingham,’ he said. He looked down at the blackened screen, lifeless, blank. ‘And don’t tell me not to have nightmares, Nick. Because they’re already here.’

2
    There was only one topic of conversation really. Jenny Hyde.
    ‘I taught her French in Year 9.’
    ‘Wasn’t she in Godspell?’
    ‘It’s come to something, hasn’t it, when you can’t let your kids out after dark?’
    ‘The death penalty. That’s the answer.’
    ‘I blame the ’60s, of course. All that peace and beads bollocks. It’s left us with no morals. No norms. We’ve lost our way.’
    Ever been in a staff room? It’s more or less like hell must be. Or purgatory. John Milton would have been a comprehensive schoolteacher, if only he hadn’t been born three hundred years too soon. ‘The awful sound of hissing in the hall.’ They sat, clutching assorted mugs and whispering. In the Special Needs corner, the Nappy Brigade, Joan Wilson’s needles clacked together like those of Madame de Farge as something shapeless for the latest grandchild grew inexorably. Next to her, Sally Greenhow was shaking her head, smoking frantically and muttering about how society had gone to the dogs.
    Under the window, the 1981 Committee, all track suits and cynicism, lounged