Readers should read the previous ‘Body’ stories to get the full back story for Maxine, as well as the first two ‘Cuz’ stories for Andy and Maria. This is a little Christmas bonus. This one is each day until the end of the week.
Thank you all for staying with Willow, there isn’t anything that long in my brain – yet!
Marianne.

Chapter 1

It was a lovely day; the sun was out, and all was good in my world. I was driving my second love, my Daimler SP250 Dart. It was a car that encompassed so much of my history.

Let me start. My birth name was Maxine Fawcett, and I first started my working life as a police cadet, only to mess it all up, some years later, my being overly cock-happy in the back of a police car. The only problem was getting caught in the act. Not that way, I was almost religious about my pill-taking. No, we were rumbled, mid-coitus, by a fellow officer.

My partner in crime got a rap over the knuckles and a pat on the back, while I was, politely, told to keep my knickers on as I went out the door. After that, I went freelance as a budding Private Investigator, solved a few bigger cases, gained a lot of brownie points with the police, and made enough money to buy an upstairs office in Soho.

Along the way, I collected Lena, my business partner and now manager. I also gained a husband, one Lord Bertie Woodward. I moved out of the flat above the office to live with Bertie in his Canary Wharf apartment. We were Lord and Lady Woodward, well known around town whenever a party was being planned.

The reason for that was that Bertie was a music promoter and tour organiser, so we knew a lot of famous people by working with them on a daily basis. I had been given the contract to supply security to the shows, so had gone from a one-woman office to having a staff in the hundreds, most being part-timers. We had about ten in the Soho office. Some to handle the security business, a few working on the private investigations, and a couple to handle the car club that we had founded.

The car club came about from one of our cases, and was called ‘The Replicants Car Club’, because it welcomed owners of replica vehicles, ones that looked old but were brand new and modern under the body. Like my Dart. This one had started life as a pursuit car on the motorways and I had driven one during my training in the police. Mine was a long way ahead of that early one. Grayson Smythe had rebuilt in from the chassis up, with modern suspension, reinforced chassis, racing brakes and a tweaked engine. I just loved driving it as much as I loved driving Berties’ Aston Martin.

Today, Lena and I were on a little break from work. Bertie was off with a band that was touring America, and the office was ticking over. We had organised a tour for the car club, a drive around France in our exceptional vehicles. This weekend, we were all booked into a bed and breakfast near Laon, just north of Paris. Well, the Gite Lorengrain was more than a hotel, as it was more of a wellness spa.

The five guys in the tour group got to drive their cars and talk BS over a beer, which allowed the ladies to get a massage, spa treatment and talk girls talk over our wines. It wasn’t a cheap place to stay, which is how we had managed to book our small group there. Our club members were generally well-off enough to have car collections worth millions. A couple had brought their genuine cars. My shiny black SP250 stood out, though, as did Lenas’ dark blue Triumph Stag drop-head, with a similar treatment to mine.

We were here for the car get-together in Laon. It happened every year, and this was to be the thirty-eighth one. It had a fixed format, easy-going touring, a lot of socialising, and the drive around closed roads in the old town on the Sunday. When I say ‘closed roads’, I’m not talking racetrack. No, these are cobbled streets in the old town, laid down when horses were the biggest transport around, and mainly just wide enough for a Cadillac, as long as the pedestrians breathed in.

We had arrived at Gite Lorengrain on Thursday morning, and I already felt like a new woman. This trip was Lenas’ first real outing as a new woman. When we had met, she was Len, an ex-SAS killer with PTSD, with wearing softer clothing helping her sleep. She had taken three months off to have her SRS and would be back in the office when we got back to the UK.

We were in convoy, and doing a wide loop around Laon, to sign in for the weekend. I was following one of our members, in his more modern Jaguar, with him following the orders of his GPS. He led us until we turned onto the Crepy to Laon Road, finally arriving at the Park Foch, where we were directed to join the other early arrivals.

We got our paperwork that outlined our weekend, and I sat in Lenas’ Stag with her to look through it. Today was fairly open. We were invited to look around the town and look at all the shops that were supporting the car event. There were directions to the Promenade Yitzhak Rabin, a long road that ran along the northern edge of the old town, where all of the parking had been set aside for entrants over the weekend.

We found our way there and parked with a lot of other classic cars. We spent the day looking at cars, looking at the shops, buying trinkets and tea towels, had lunch in one of the many cafés, and dinner was in a larger restaurant, as guests of the Jaguar Owners, our club patron being a life member.

It was a lovely day, followed by a good sleep and a healthy breakfast. Saturday was a scenic tour around the countryside, followed by another dinner, this time in the company of the Rolls Royce Owners. Sunday was the fun day, and the one that filled the town. Because of the amount of cars, we were parked in several different places. I was to follow our member with the Jaguar, along with Lena and another member with an Aston Martin DB4.

When we arrived at the parking area, a guy looked at the sticker on my windscreen and directed me to one side. We were a large group of sports cars and speciality vehicles; I estimated about eighty. There would be around three times as many spread around the town in various car parks. I was directed to back into a slot and turned off.

When I got out and had a good look around, I realised that I was parked in front of the Laon Police Station, with the Municipal Building on another edge of the square. I was parked beside a number of police cars. There were a couple of Peugeot 203s from the fifties, and a few 403 and 404 estates from the sixties, as well as one that really interested me, a Matra Djet from 1967, which they used for a pursuit car on the highways as part of the Vehicule Rapide d’Intervention fleet. There was also a couple of the Citroen Traction Avant cars they used from the thirties and well into the sixties, easily recognised in England by those who were old enough to watch old French films on the TV.

The Dart wasn’t the only example from England. There was a forties Wolseley with the bell on the front, a quite rare Ford V8 Pilot that was the forerunner of the high-speed UK pursuit vehicles, as well as one that came after mine, an Audi A4 Quattro, painted in a burnt orange.

I joined everyone in walking around to look at the cars lined up until we were called up to join in the parade through the city streets. There was quite a crowd of onlookers, as well as the owners looking at the cars. I saw a lot of beautiful old cars, as well as some radical new ones, part of the inclusive nature of the event. I had seen a lot of more modern cars over the last couple of days, and I had almost filled the memory card in my phone.

I was looking at the older Wolseley police car with Lena when there was a voice I knew.

“No wonder there were so many big heists in those days, with ancient equipment like that.”

I looked around.

“Hi, Rudy. This was top of the range at the time. Some forces used Jaguars, but they were too expensive for general use. You know what governments do, call for tenders and always take the cheapest. These handled pretty well, for their day. I did hear of a force in Australia that bought a fleet of the new, locally built cars in the late forties, only having so many roll over on high-speed corners, they had to weld a couple of lengths of railway line to the chassis to lower the centre of gravity. You really have to remember what the general public were driving at the time, old Austins, Hillmans, Sunbeams.”

“You’re a font of knowledge, as usual, Maxie. Is Bertie around?”

“No. He’s in America with a tour. Where’s your band?”

“We got them settled in Reims on Thursday and will clear them out on Tuesday. Next weekend they’re playing in Châlons for four shows and then we go further south for the summer. I think that we may be playing in England next summer. That will be interesting.”

“I’ll make sure I’ll catch you then. Do you have a car here?”

“What, little old me with a car like these. I may have something to drive in England. Our drummer has a friend in Turin with a few cars, and he’s keen to have a couple there. He’s particularly keen to attend the one at Blenheim Palace at the end of August.”

“You’ll have to hide your tats if you’re there. That’s one very high-powered gathering.”

“I might have to tell him that, thank you. I haven’t worn a suit since I became the band roadie. Anyway, I think that I see someone with a bullhorn, so you may be getting the word to saddle up. See you again, Maxie.”

“See you, Rudy.”

I made my way back to the Dart, with a couple walking beside me. The guy laughed.

“Good looking friends you have, Miss.”

“Just a guy I know from my job providing security for bands. What are you driving?”

“We’ve got the Audi.”

“Does it have the blues and twos?”

“I does, but we are very careful where we use them.”

“I’ve got them in my SP250 as well, the guy that rebuilt it found some in an auction. The original bell is just for show. Perhaps we’ll be able to have some fun during the parade. If some of the locals use theirs, we should be able to add to the cacophony. I’m Maxine Woodward, by the way. I have a company called Max Force. We do the security and PI work, as well as running the Replicants Car Club.”

“Good to meet you, Maxine. Why did you get the Dart?”

“I drove one at Hendon.”

The woman laughed.

“If you’re talking about that clapped out red one, I was trained with that one, as well. I’m Maria Barton, and this is my husband, Andy. We both resigned from the force to take over his parents’ dress shop, when it was passed to him. This weekend is a few days off in a buying trip. We have a week of appointments in Paris that start on Monday afternoon.”

We exchanged business cards when we got back to our cars. I warmed mine as I sat and thought. Being in the business, I followed the news, and the name of Andy Barton niggled at my brain. I got it as we pulled out. He had been instrumental in a couple of well reported cases, a few years ago. If Maria had been training at Hendon, she had probably gone further than me, as my course was originally a favour for several nights of passion with one of the instructors. I joined the line behind the Audi, and then didn’t think much more about the meeting as we trundled through the streets of the old town, joining in with the mayhem as one of the locals in a Peugeot sounded his own siren.

That evening, Lena and I found a quiet restaurant as a bit of peace before herding our few members during a trip to Paris and then home. Over dinner, we talked about the tour and the fun of the afternoon. Lena wasn’t impressed.

“At least you got to play with your lights and siren, Maxie. I just edged along in first for most of it in those narrow lanes. I think that the event has got too big for the venue.”

“I’ll have to agree on the slow bits of the parade. Still, there were a lot of very nice cars to look at.”

“That couple that you walked back to the Dart with. They looked like coppers.”

“Supposedly retired to run a dress shop, or so they told me. They acted as if they were still active, when you know what to look for.”

“A bit like you, Maxie. You still have that aura of being aware of your surroundings, no matter how peaceful it is. I’ll take a bet that you have noted most of the other diners, graded them by their clothes and general attitude, and have ranked them in their order of dangerousness.”

“I’m not that bad, am I?”

“Don’t worry, love. I’m the same. When you’ve been at the pointy end a few times, it comes naturally. Did their names strike a chord?”

“He was Andy Barton. You may have read about that case, a few years ago, where they pulled a girl out of a cave. She was to be the seventeenth victim of a bastard that made girls prisoner, raped them over a period of weeks or months, and then drowned and dumped them. It never went to trial, as he died of a heart attack on his way to the airport.”

“I seem to recall that one. Didn’t they praise Barton for his doggedness in pursuing a line of enquiry that appeared too stupid to be true?”

“I think so. But, as you and I know, sometimes it’s the stupid answers that end up as right. I doubt that anyone would have ever thought that there could ever be a bookie that made money by giving it away.”

“That was difficult for me to comprehend, until we got further involved. We did well out of it, though. That, alone, has made me the woman I am now.”

“A very striking one as well, I may add. The operation gave you a new outlook on life, I think.”

“It did, Maxie, love. I’m going to be a bit less dramatic in my outfits, as befitting the lady I now am. I’m looking forward to a bit of shopping in Paris.”

We were both in her Stag, that evening, and she drove us to the hotel with the top down, the wind in our hair and the radio playing French pop songs. Next day, we all had breakfast, checked out, and were on the road to Paris.

We had four days in Paris, with everyone going their own way. Lena and I asked about shops that were easier on the purse and did quite well for ourselves. Our companions hit the more upmarket ones, seeing that they could afford it, as well as having more occasions where you didn’t wear anything under a couple of thousand pounds.

Two days later, I was following Lena to Soho. We were both keen for some home food and were both going into the office to make sure everything was ticking over nicely. After that, I drove back to Canary Wharf and parked in my spot, then carried my bags and shopping up to the apartment. I put my washing in the hamper, hung my new acquisitions, and stripped off for a good shower and hair wash.

That evening, I rang Bertie and we spoke for about an hour, with him telling me about the bands on the tour. One of them was very new to the business and had to be taught that you don’t give a long list of needed items to be in your rooms and dressing room. Those days were long gone except for the few big stars. Newbies had to suck it up for a few years before they had earned the right. I told him about my car tour and the fun I’d had. He promised that we would do it as a couple next year.

After that, I didn’t want to watch TV, so put the computer on and looked at events we may be able to take in with our two cars in the UK. I checked my emails and then loaded all my photos in a new file. I looked through them and took more care looking at the ones by the police station on Sunday.

I had a couple with Lena in the background, as well as a few with either Andy, Maria, or both in the shot. There was a couple with Rudy looking at cars, and one where he was talking to a guy I recognised. He was a roadie with another one of the bands that had toured on the same gig as Rudys’ band. There was another picture of an Aston Martin, where Rudy was in the background and a young lad was two cars over, pointing a long lens at him, rather than the cars. That was weird. It could have been that It was merely that I had captured the fraction of a second when he was moving to get another picture.

A week later, my mobile rang.

“Hello. Maxine Woodward speaking.”

“Maxine, it’s Maria Barton. We met at Laon.”

“Hello, Maria. How was your buying trip? I left a lot with some of the shops I went to in Paris.”

“We did pretty well, although we go to the manufacturers, rather than retail outlets. I wonder if we could meet. There’s a little café near Covent Garden that is pleasant. Did you take lots of pictures?”

“Yes, I did. I’ve loaded them on my computer.”

“Can you do me a favour, please. Can you put your ones from the place we met onto a USB stick. We didn’t take any, ourselves, and we would like to show a friend of ours what it was like.”

“Any subject in particular? You did look as if you were active on the day.”

“We weren’t that obvious, were we?”

“Not for anyone without my experience and intuition. My friend, Lena, picked up on it as well, but she had spent a lot of time in the SAS, in a war zone.”

“Have her come along, as well, if she can. I’ll give you the café address and I’d like to meet, tomorrow at ten.”

I called Lena to tell her about the morning meeting. She was happy to come along, telling me that it may add a little spice to the humdrum. Next morning, I found the café. There were outside and inside tables. Maria was sitting at one with an older man opposite. She motioned for me to sit next to the man. I was ordering tea and cake when Lena arrived, so we ordered for both of us. The other two already had theirs in front of them.

I did the introductions for us, and Maria did the introductions for them. The man had a name so obviously fake, it made Lenas’ eyebrow rise. He was Justin Thyme, and he had a laptop in a bag. He asked me if I had brought the USB. I gave it to him, and he plugged it into a slot and started looking at the pictures.

At one picture, he looked at Maria.

“Nice one of you and Andy, my dear.”

When he got the picture with Rudy, he turned to me.

“I believe that you know this man?”

“That’s Rudy. He’s a roadie with a band called ‘Exarctics’. He told me that they were playing in Reims that weekend. There’s another picture of him in the background, talking to another roadie.”

When he got to that one, he turned the screen so that Maria could see it. She looked surprised. Not as surprised as when they arrived at the picture of the lad taking a picture. He showed it to Maria, and she paled. He turned the screen so that Lena could see it.

“You haven’t said much, my dear. What would you say about this picture, if I tell you that the lad taking the picture was on a training mission from the French service?”

“If that lad is in the service, he must be very wet behind the ears. That may have been a lucky shot that Maxie took, but he wasn’t being very careful.”

He closed the laptop.

“If you don’t mind, Maxine, I’ll borrow that stick. There are others that need to see these pictures. Do you have any questions?”

“I’ll take a guess, sir, that you’re high up in one of the anti-terrorist branches, and that either Rudy or his friend are being looked at. I’ll also take a guess that something else happened that brought this meeting about. Both I, and Lena, have been at the pointy end often enough to see similar vibes in others. We both guessed that Andy and Maria are still active in some way. You’ve had time to look at your files on both of us, so you may have come to a decision that we can either be told to butt out, or else you want us to give you more information. Either here, or somewhere with bright lights.”

He smiled, without it reaching his eyes.

“I’ve read your files, and I’ve spoken to others who were mentioned in them. I find it hard to reconcile the two ladies at this table with the exploits that are in the files. Your taking down many of the government was amazing. You have both shown exceptional bravery in the past. I’m surprised that one of the spook departments haven’t already sounded you out. You have given me a dilemma. You’re absolutely right, as anyone with this much information has usually signed a whole book of paperwork. What would you do, in my shoes, Maxine?”

“I’d talk to me to see what else I know and hang the secrecy. Obviously, you will have someone following the two roadies, and I’m the one at this table who has worked on a tour with both of them, and their bands. I don’t know what you want, but I’m prepared to meet somewhere with a tape running. What happened that stirred the pot?”

“Take a guess.”

“The lad taking the picture was rumbled.”

“Quite right. When the cleaning crew went around on Monday morning, they found his body in a refuse bin, without the camera. He had been stabbed with a thin dagger. He was a new signing in the French secret service, and the day was supposed to be a test for him. He was just asked to take pictures of anyone who looked wrong. He had been given no specific task, but he must have taken one picture that somebody didn’t want taken. Whoever killed him has the same knack of reading people that you both have.”
Marianne Gregory © 2025