Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  The inspector walked over to the French windows and looked out at the balcony garden that had been the dead woman’s pride and joy. There was something so gallant and hopeful about the winter pansies and violas bobbing in their large white tubs and the enticing citrus trees with their succulent fruit. He wondered who would look after them now.

  ‘I think Georgina was over the worst.’ Markham spoke with conviction. ‘That’s what Joan says and I agree. It didn’t make sense for her to have come home from a happy evening of tea and chat and then kill herself. I mean, how could she have been so upbeat if she was planning something like that?’

  ‘Maybe the calm kicked in cos she knew that next day there wouldn’t be any more pain.’ But Noakes sounded less confident now and Markham knew he had won the day.

  ‘I want a post-mortem on this one,’ rapped the DI. ‘Too many unanswered questions. It’s not just the bottle. How come the tumbler’s still half full? She’d have needed a full glass to knock back that many tablets. And another thing … why’s the writing desk open? Was she writing something yesterday evening when she was interrupted? Could mean nothing, but she was an organized woman and I don’t like loose ends.’ He shook his head. ‘I think we were meant to take this at face value. Lonely widow coming apart at the seams so took her own life. Case closed. But what about when she came to see us, Noakes? That wasn’t some pathetic attention-seeker. She was totally on the ball and keen as mustard to help her friend.’ The inspector spoke with a sudden fierceness which make his subordinate jump. ‘Trying to make us think Georgina took the coward’s way out was downright evil. I don’t think it happened that way at all.’ He gestured at the armchair. ‘I’m willing to bet she was forced back in her seat and smothered with one of those cushions – wouldn’t have been difficult if she’d had a drink, been slipped something, or lulled into a false sense of security. There’s no sign of a struggle, so she must have been taken by surprise.’

  ‘Not much flesh on her neither,’ said Noakes, ‘so likely she wouldn’t have been able to put up a fight.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Markham jammed his hands into his pockets. He took one last look at Georgina Hamilton’s serene face, wordlessly vowing that he would call her killer to account. Passing into the tiny hallway, he suddenly noticed an old-fashioned framed sampler on the wall. Beautifully stitched in embroidered silks and threads, mythical birds and beasts roamed its borders while the central panel bore a single verse: On that day, the secrets of all hearts shall be laid bare. Oh yes, he told himself, I am going to drag all the hidden malignity into the light. Then he and Noakes quietly left the SOCOs to their work.

  Back at Bromgrove station, Markham viciously jerked down the blinds on the glass partition wall which formed one side of his office. CID was largely deserted, but he craved freedom from prying eyes.

  Sighing deeply, he slumped behind his desk. Events were moving faster than he could control them, as though he was being drawn inexorably into the centre of a whirling vortex.

  Calm.

  He reached listlessly for a stack of papers. Staff interviews at St Mary’s had so far yielded nothing new about the matron. But Markham felt convinced Irene Hummles had been killed for what she knew, and that somewhere in the bundle of statements lay the key to her murder.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come!’ He was half grateful for the interruption.

  It was Desmond O’Keefe. Markham could see what Olivia meant about the man. Slight, spare, almost Spanish-looking, he had a Jesuitical aura all right. But for all that, Markham instinctively liked his lack of ecclesiastical priggishness – the total absence of those airs and graces which might have been expected to form part of his job description.

  ‘What can I do for you, Dr O’Keefe? As you know, there’s been another tragic incident, possibly unrelated to events at St Mary’s, though we’re not currently able to say.’

  ‘I heard, Inspector, and I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know Mrs Hamilton, but I believe she was a good friend of Joan, our cook.’

  That was it. No fishing for information or details.

  Markham felt some of his tension ebb away.

  O’Keefe cleared his throat. ‘In the circumstances, I’m reluctant to bother you with this. Something and nothing, really.’

  Markham somehow mustered an encouraging smile. ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’

  ‘There’s a society connected to St Mary’s. Called Blavatskya or some such. Named after the woman who founded the theosophy movement, apparently. I don’t pretend to understand the half of it, but the idea is to explore connections between different mystical traditions.’

  ‘Very worthy, I’m sure. However, I must say you look sceptical.’

  ‘It’s Sir Philip’s baby, Inspector.’ Markham suppressed a groan. ‘Between you and me, I think he’s a bit of a crank. But the canon rates him, and he’s been incredibly generous to St Mary’s over the years. So, it seems mean-spirited to begrudge him his pet project…

  ‘But—’

  ‘I received an anonymous letter the other day accusing the society of “unwholesome practices”.’

  O’Keefe took a folded sheet from his pocket and passed it across the desk. Markham scanned it quickly and looked up in puzzlement.

  ‘Nairatmya? What the hell’s that all about?’

  O’Keefe grinned. ‘Some Buddhist doctrine of personal self-conquest, so Sir Philip tells me. Transcendence through purity and mortification of the flesh.’

  ‘Hmm. Problem is, your poison pen doesn’t seem to think there’s anything very pure about it.’ Markham looked straight at O’Keefe. ‘Doesn’t come right out and say so, but I’d say whoever wrote this is driving at child abuse. Let’s see…’ Markham consulted the letter. ‘…inappropriate behaviour … warped effect on adolescent sexuality … brainwashing … perverted conditioning … and so on. Hold on a minute, that’s interesting. Disordered and potentially violent impulses … possible tragic outcomes. I wonder…’

  ‘You think there could be a link with the truanting and other, er, safeguarding concerns? Maybe even a connection with the murders at St Mary’s?’

  ‘Don’t you, Dr O’Keefe? Isn’t that why you brought this to me?’ Markham was blunt.

  ‘Yes.’ The principal met his gaze frankly. ‘I can’t afford to ignore it. Speaking personally, I think it’s just one of Sir Philip’s hobby horses – that’s what Edward Preston says and I’m inclined to agree with him. Blavatskya meets in school every fortnight – one of the large music rooms. The canon or Sir Philip reads a paper, the boys have a short debate and that’s about it. Oh, and there’s a little newsletter or magazine too; the Friends of St Mary’s helps with that. Pupils make the occasional trip to look at Sir Philip’s curios, but Cynthia Gibson always takes the boys down and brings them back. All quite inoffensive. You could call it part of students’ PSHE – that’s Personal, Social and Health Education to the uninitiated. Certainly doesn’t amount to a cult or anything sinister from what I can see.’

  ‘And yet, you’re not one hundred per cent certain.’

  ‘I don’t want to be heavy-handed, Inspector, and start off on the wrong foot with Sir Philip. And I certainly don’t want to be closed-minded and parochial – opposed to the boys developing an interest in other cultures. But ... well, I thought I should mention it … the children’s welfare is paramount, and I didn’t want to hold anything back.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you, Dr O’Keefe. Leave this with me.’ Markham rose, signalling that the meeting was over. ‘I promise you absolute discretion.’

  The principal slipped from the room, leaving the inspector to his thoughts.

  While Markham brooded in his office, DS Noakes was chatting with an old friend down in the bowels of the building.

  ‘Don’t often see you down in Records, Noakesy.’ Sergeant Ivor Harrison, having a quiet day in his musty domain, was delighted by the diversion, even going so far as to rustle up a pot of tea and illicit crea
m cake in the back office.

  ‘Ah well, I’m too grand for the likes of you now.’ Noakes grinned through a mouthful of cake. Unruffled, the other responded with a two-fingered salute and swilled his tea.

  Finally, patting his paunch with the satisfaction of a connoisseur, Noakes declared, ‘Wonderful cake that. Much better than anything upstairs.’

  ‘It’s the missus’ turn to bake for the Women’s Guild, so I get the leftovers.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ replied the DS with feeling. ‘Remind me to come down here more often!’

  Harrison got down to business. ‘So, what’s your guvnor after then?’

  ‘Intel on three lads who disappeared from Bromgrove around twenty years back.’ Noakes consulted his notebook. ‘Yeah, 1997 that would be.’

  ‘Mispers?’

  ‘Two mispers and a suspected homicide. Let’s see, here are the names. Jonathan Warr, David Belcher and Adam Waring. Two of ’em – Belcher and Waring – came from the Hoxton Estate. Warr lived in Bromgrove Park, so I’m guessing he was a few rungs higher up the ladder.’

  Harrison’s eyes glazed over with a reminiscent, faraway look.

  ‘I remember them,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Even after all this time. Saw quite a bit of them when I was on the beat. Fourteen and thought they knew it all, the great daft lummoxes. Never thought there was any great harm in them, to be honest, though they always seemed to be at the centre of any mischief that was going down. Belcher and Waring were tearaways, pretty much left to drag themselves up. Warr’s parents were a cut above – teachers, I think. He was a quiet lad, not really the type to kick over the traces. Would have outgrown the other two in time.’

  Noakes was startled to see the grizzled veteran’s eyes fill with tears. Wiping a sleeve across his eyes, Harrison said almost in a whisper, ‘Poor silly lad. Time wasn’t on his side. They found his body in a shallow grave round the back of Bromgrove Spinney a few years after the three of them did a flit. Identified him using dental records.’

  Noakes looked down at his stewed tea in an agony of sympathy.

  Eventually, Harrison recovered his composure.

  ‘I was at Jonny Warr’s funeral in the town cemetery. It was a miserable day. Stair rods. But the whole place turned out. I’ll never forget his mother’s face. She taught part-time at St Mary’s and played the organ at the cathedral, so the students had the music sorted.’ The sergeant’s face twisted. ‘They did Jonny proud. Sir Philip was there an’ all. He wasn’t an invalid in them days. Spouted prayers in some foreign lingo that nobody understood, but I remember he looked proper upset. Someone told me a nephew of his drowned in an accident around the same age when they were on holiday, so it must have brought it all back.’

  Noakes frowned. ‘The other lads weren’t there for the funeral,’ he said flatly.

  ‘No.’ Harrison sounded weary and defeated.

  ‘Could they have killed Jonny, d’you think?’

  ‘I’ve often asked myself that. But look, David and Adam had no nastiness in them. Even that lot down the Hoxton won’t hear a word against them.’

  ‘An accident, then, and they ran away.’ Noakes was doggedly persistent.

  ‘They’d have faced the music those two, not gone on the run.’ Harrison’s face was very serious as he looked the other in the eye. ‘I think someone did for them. Same as happened to Jonny. They’re out there rotting in some ditch or cesspit, you mark my words, Noakes,’ his voice shook, ‘waiting to come home.’

  The two men sat silently as dismal images scrolled remorselessly across their minds.

  ‘Is your boss re-opening the investigation then?’ Harrison tried to glean some comfort from Noakes’s visit. A thought occurred to him and he shot a shrewd glance at his friend. ‘Is there some connection with St Mary’s? You know, they had a couple of lads supposedly hightail it from there a while back…’

  ‘Yeah, we’re considering them too,’ admitted Noakes. ‘I’ve pulled their case files from St Mary’s. Justin Furlong and Ned Pettingill. Not so much a case of heading for the bright lights with them though. More like teenage angst. They were both thirteen when they ran away. Justin was wound up over his voice breaking and Ned had problems coping with his parents’ divorce… No obvious similarity with David, Adam and Jonny beyond the fact that all of them melted into thin air. I’ve got the usual from CAMHS on Justin and Ned, but I’ll take anything you’ve got down here on the other lads.’

  Harrison responded with alacrity, disappearing into the stacks and returning a few minutes later with a stack of manila files which he plonked down in front of Noakes.

  ‘Your guvnor might want to have a chat with Mike Bamber. Retired now, but he worked the case. Between you and me, I think it did for ’im. He was never the same man after. Always hanging round Jonny Warr’s grave, smoking and talking to himself. Any road, his details are in there. Let me know how you do, won’t you, my son?’

  Noakes recognized the plea.

  ‘Wilco.’ Clumsily, he slapped the other on the back. ‘I know you were right cut up about those boys, Sarge. Don’t know if anything’ll come of it, but looks like we may have a pattern of young fellas going missing in Bromgrove, and my guvnor doesn’t like coincidences. Leastways not when we’ve got an outbreak of unexplained homicides in the mix as well.’

  The two men shook hands. Noakes lumbered upstairs to the upper regions, leaving Sergeant Harrison alone with his memories.

  ‘Right,’ said Markham when Noakes arrived in his office with the files. ‘Let’s clear our heads. Get out of the office for a bit. Maybe it’s a long shot, but we can check out the Bromgrove Park address for Jonathan Warr’s parents. I don’t feel up to the Hoxton today. Not without Kevlar vests and backup, at any rate!’

  Nothing loath, Noakes led the way to the car pool and selected his favourite Ford Mondeo. The journey passed in companionable silence, both men feeling they had somehow secured a reprieve.

  The light was failing when they drew up outside the Warrs’ address in Bromgrove Park, a quiet close on the outskirts of town lined with detached modern homes set in extensive manicured gardens.

  The door was answered by a slim middle-aged woman with a faded platinum bob and tired eyes. On learning who they were, a thin sigh escaped her, but she smiled wanly and ushered the two officers through to an airy and spacious conservatory overlooking the back garden.

  Catching Markham’s eye as he took in the incense burner, meditation chimes and delicate brass prayer bells dangling from a lacquered ivory frame, Mrs Warr told him, ‘My husband and Jonny were mad for all that New Age stuff.’

  ‘Is your husband around?’ Ideally, it would be good to see the parents together.

  ‘We separated a year or so after they found Jonny,’ came the quiet response. ‘It was perfectly amicable. Something shifted after he died and we couldn’t seem to find our way back.’

  The interview flowed easily, but there was frustratingly little to add to what they already knew. Jonny’s mother could only tell them that her son had become withdrawn and secretive in the months before he vanished.

  ‘You have to give them their freedom,’ she said brokenly, her eyes begging them to agree. ‘He was that age, you see. I don’t blame the other boys. There was no real harm in them.’ It was almost an exact echo of Sergeant Harrison’s words. ‘Jonny was a clever boy, came with me to St Mary’s sometimes for band practice, but he was happy at Hope Academy and none of his teachers reported any problems.’

  ‘How do you think he ended up in the Spinney, Mrs Warr?’ Markham’s voice was very kind.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking!’ She flashed. ‘That he was into drugs or underage sex or … something horrible.’

  ‘I promise you, Mrs Warr, we’re coming to this with a completely open mind, making no assumptions. Your son was a victim. That’s our starting point.’ Markham was firm.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s been so long.’ She faltered. ‘Can I ask … are you reopening the case because
of the bodies at St Mary’s?’

  Markham looked at Noakes.

  ‘We’re treating it as a cold case review, luv,’ the DS said earnestly. ‘We never like to close the book on any investigation, see. Especially if it involves a child.’

  Shortly after that, it was time to go. As they walked through the hall, Noakes gestured to a framed studio portrait on the wall. A slender, blond, mild-eyed boy with a frank, open gaze.

  ‘Very striking, your Jonny.’

  ‘Yes, he was. But he took his looks for granted, wasn’t vain at all.’

  The poignant contrast between the pitiful decomposed corpse of the crime scene photographs and the glowing youth of the portrait – looking out fearlessly at the world – was not lost on either man.

  As they drove away, Mrs Warr stood watching, a desperate entreaty in her eyes.

  Tell me what happened to my son!

  10. Ancient History

  ‘So, you want to know about the Warr case. Ah, Markham, that was the one that got away. But before we get on to that, tell me, how’s life treating you?’

  Mike Bamber regarded his former protégé with an expression of rueful resignation belied by his shaking hands, chain-smoking and frequent slugs of Famous Grouse.

  The two men were sitting in the retired DI’s snug, his wife Cath having tactfully left them to it.

  As Markham updated his old mentor, part of Bamber’s mind was reliving the dreary day of Jonny Warr’s funeral, all those years ago. He could recall the exact date, now: Friday 12 December, 1999.

  Despite his stout frame, wispy grey hair and high colour, Bamber still radiated authority, so that for a moment Markham felt himself transported back to the days when he was a nervous young detective learning his trade.

  ‘Relax.’ Bamber chuckled at Markham’s discomfiture. ‘I’m retired now, remember! Just a decrepit old has-been—’

  ‘Hardly that!’

  ‘—while you’re the Commissioner’s blue-eyed boy. And for God’s sake call me Mike. After all this time, I reckon you’ve earned the right!’