Markham gave the shy smile which was so much at odds with his normally austere demeanour.
‘I’m grateful to you for making the time, Mike.’
‘What else have I got to do? Keeps me out from under the missus’ feet any road.’ Bamber’s rheumy blue eyes were shrewdly speculative. ‘Now then, the Warr investigation. As I say, mothballed way back. Why the sudden interest?’
Markham spread his hands helplessly. ‘You’ll have heard of the discoveries at St Mary’s.’
‘A right hornet’s nest you’ve stirred up there, lad. I won’t ask if you’ve got anywhere. Your face at that press conference was a picture.’
Markham grimaced. ‘Damage limitation, Mike. And the investigation’s dead in the water. But the murder of Irene Hummles—’
‘Definitely murder then?’
‘No doubt about it. The hyoid bone was fractured.’ Markham frowned then continued. ‘We screwed up badly over that. Took Irene’s disappearance at face value. Swallowed the PR – sad middle-aged woman who’d bailed out when life became too much.’
‘So, what do you reckon was really going on?’ Bamber was suddenly alert with interest.
‘Apparently, she’d gone into meltdown over a couple of lads who absconded on her watch. I began thinking we’d got this the wrong way around.’ Markham’s voice was urgent. ‘D’you see, Mike? It started with two missing boys. Two boys who disappeared and were never seen again.’
Bamber sucked down another lungful of smoke. It seemed to aid the thinking process. ‘You went back through the files looking for missing teenage boys and came up with those three. Jonny Warr, David Belcher and Adam Waring…’
‘I’m sorry, Mike. I know Warr and the others got under your skin.’ It was an open secret that Bamber had received treatment for PTSD since leaving the force. Markham wondered if he and Cath had taken a conscious decision not to have children – not to bring new life into a world where danger lurked.
‘It was a long time ago. But you’re right, I’ve never forgotten those boys. They’d be coming up to forty now with families of their own, like as not.’ Bamber took a long draught of whisky. ‘All that was taken away from them,’ he said heavily. ‘And out there someone thinks they’ve got away with it.’
‘You think the same killer – or killers – murdered all three?’ asked Markham.
‘Yes, I do.’ Bamber was quietly certain. ‘You couldn’t get a fag end between them, they were that close. Depend upon it, the same evil shit did for them all.’
Markham remained silent for a moment, anxious to signal his sympathy, before wandering over to the window as though to admire Bamber’s immaculate herbaceous borders.
‘It’s all right, lad,’ said the older man wryly, ‘you can sit down now. Round here we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves!’
Markham returned to his chair. ‘What we could be looking at here is a pattern. A killer starting up again.’
‘Perhaps they never stopped,’ said Bamber in a low voice.
Markham stared at him.
‘I mean to say, what if there’ve been other disappearances over the last twenty years – say from outside the area – but no-one’s joined the dots?’
Markham felt as though he was drowning in quicksand.
His worst nightmare.
Bamber continued in a remorseless catarrhal rumble. ‘Or maybe one killer did for the first three and an associate, or copycat, abducted the two from St Mary’s.’
‘What can you tell me about Jonny, David and Adam?’ Markham’s voice was hoarse. ‘C’mon, Mike, anything at all.’
‘Sparky, liked to lark about. Jonny was quieter than the other two – did a stint as an altar server at the cathedral before he went off the rails. David and Adam were into martial arts – some sort of kick-boxing, or perhaps it was taekwondo … I can’t remember now.’ He laughed. ‘Fancied themselves Jackie Chan.’
Markham thought back to the conversation with Mrs Warr.
‘Jonny’s mum said something about a band at St Mary’s…’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Played the sitar did Jonny.’ Bamber grinned at Markham’s bemused expression. ‘Always had to stand out from the crowd. No Floral Dance brass whatsit for him!’
‘Were the other two musical?’
‘Nah. But they went through some sort of hippy phase.’ Bamber shrugged. ‘Pretty harmless stuff, the odd spliff at most. At least they weren’t doing hard drugs or mugging old ladies.’
‘No real harm in them then,’ said Markham slowly.
‘That’s about the size of it. Though…’ he hesitated.
‘Go on,’ the younger man urged.
‘All three of them were naïve, gullible.’ Bamber’s face darkened. ‘A predator picks out the weak from the rest of the herd, right? Well, those kids were vulnerable. Belcher and Waring were from broken homes, while Jonny had been bullied at school and was a bit of a loner. They could have been drawn into something without seeing the danger until it was too late. Oh,’ he broke off, exasperated with himself, ‘I’m not making much sense.’
‘No, Mike,’ Markham reassured him. ‘Those boys are more real to me now. Not just grainy photos in a folder.’ Later, back in his car, Markham kept revolving that one word in his mind.
Gullible.
Olivia looked around her new classroom with pleasure.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
It had been a good idea to come into St Mary’s and take the measure of her new kingdom, she decided. With it being a Saturday, the boys were all out doing sports, so everywhere was quiet.
The room was in a corner of the first quadrangle: fifteen desks were arranged in a horseshoe, so smaller than average class sizes. A world away from Hope Academy.
Yes, all perfectly satisfactory. Computer, interactive whiteboard, flipchart easel, and gunmetal filing cabinets. There was also a book case, tucked away behind the door, for her own personal collection. Happily, she began arranging her treasured classics and anthologies.
Suddenly, Olivia heard voices. Raised voices. She froze behind the open door, feeling like a voyeur but reluctant to obtrude herself into what sounded like an intimate conversation.
She recognized Cynthia’s voice. Who was the other? Ah yes, the delectable architect. From the flutter in her friend’s manner when she had introduced Edward Preston, Olivia guessed she was smitten. She could understand why. Early forties, handsome as a dream, humorous and good with children. Diplomatic too, given the invidious tightrope he had to walk at St Mary’s, caught between the local authority on the one hand and Sir Philips’s myrmidons on the other.
On this occasion, however, he sounded uncharacteristically harsh, if not angry.
‘For God’s sake, Cyn, what the hell did you want to do that for? I thought you understood … got to be careful…’
The soft reply was inaudible, but it appeared to mollify Preston.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I thought we trusted each other. You could have ruined everything ... don’t need outsiders…’
Cynthia’s voice was breathy, needy, insinuating. Olivia only caught muffled snatches of speech.
‘...thought you’d like it … didn’t know she was with him…’
There was a fade out, as though the speaker had momentarily moved just out of earshot, then Olivia heard Preston again, his voice fading in and out.
‘We need to keep it between ourselves. Remember what the Master said…’
‘I’ve been so worried, Ed … that horrible business with Irene...’ Cynthia was shrill now.
Olivia craned forward as far as she dared. It would be incredibly embarrassing if they caught her eavesdropping like this.
Preston’s voice was soothing. It sounded as though he was embracing Cynthia, speaking into her hair.
‘Nothing to do with us… Some maniac, sweetheart… Most likely, she hooked up with someone she shouldn’t have. Let’s face it, the poor woman wasn’t the full shilling, was she? I mean she was incredibly emoti
onally vulnerable ... unstable … the Master really put himself on the line persuading the governors to give her a second chance…’
Their voices died away, and Olivia heard footsteps receding down the corridor.
She remained stock still for a few minutes before slowly emerging from behind the door.
What to make of that conversation, she wondered. What had Cynthia done to upset her boyfriend? Was she, Olivia, the outsider?
And who was the Master? Was it the same person who’d persuaded the governors to give Irene Hummles a second chance?
She sat down at the nearest desk, her earlier bright optimism giving way to a creeping unease. There had been something clandestine and unwholesome about Preston and Cynthia. As though whatever they were negotiating was far darker than a lovers’ tiff.
‘Miss Mullen! Miss Mullen!’
Nat and Julian peered round the door, fresh from their exploits at rugby.
‘My team won!’ crowed Nat, hopping from one foot to another in his excitement. ‘Against the under fourteens! And I scored the winning try cos Julian fumbled a catch!’
Julian grinned wryly at Olivia. ‘He’s never going to let me live this down, Miss Mullen.’
Despite the weight on her mind, Olivia could not help but be amused by Nat’s braggadocio, his narrow chest puffed up with pride at having triumphed over the big boys. Julian’s eyes were fond as he watched his friend strut. Olivia suspected he might deliberately have muffed it to give Nat his moment in the sun.
‘P’raps you can come and watch us tomorrow,’ Nat said to Olivia with studied casualness.
‘I’d like that, Nat, though I don’t know much about rugby.’
Nat was giving the new member of staff no wriggle-room. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll teach you,’ he said before adding kindly, ‘you look like a quick learner.’
‘What have you been up to since I last saw you?’ Olivia adroitly turned the subject before she could be commandeered for other touch-line assignments.
‘We had an adventure last night,’ said Nat with an air of importance.
In the silence that followed, the world seemed entirely still. Julian, who had turned very pale, stiffened like a soldier preparing for battle.
Nat glanced uncertainly from his friend to Olivia and back again.
Olivia got up and closed her classroom door. ‘You can trust me not to blab to the other teachers, cross my heart and hope to die,’ she said.
Perching on a desk, Nat launched into a garbled story about how they had got up in the middle of the night to look for the Night Watchman. Olivia’s heart sank like a stone when she heard this, but she forced herself to laugh. ‘And did you track him down to his lair?’
Nat said with some hauteur, ‘Well not him ’xactly. But we saw something weird down at the little cemetery by the—’
‘We shouldn’t have been there, Miss Mullen,’ Julian cut in, correctly intuiting Olivia’s concern, ‘but we were curious.’
Nat was annoyed with Julian for stealing his thunder. ‘Don’t interrupt, Julian! Anyway, it was Mr Woodcourt. He was doing a funeral, he said.’
Olivia leaned forward. ‘Oh, you spoke to him?’
‘Well, not right then cos he was busy. But we asked about it today.’
Olivia waited. Don’t rush him, she told herself.
Nat beamed. ‘He had to take care of some ancient remains for Mr Preston.’
Observing Olivia’s look of mystification, Julian explained. ‘The dig turned up some human fossils from the Middle Ages, Miss Mullen. Mr Woodcourt was giving them Christian burial – you know, saying prayers and stuff—’
‘—an’ sprinkling holy water.’ Nat was not to be outdone.
‘He should really have given the fossils to the archaeology people,’ Julian continued, ‘but Mr Preston agreed to let him have a prayer service – like a blessing…’
It appeared to cross Nat’s mind that the canon’s actions might be negatively construed because he piped up defensively, ‘It wasn’t stealing, Miss Mullen. The bones didn’t belong to anyone and Mr Woodcourt didn’t think it was respectful to put them in a glass case in a museum so people could come and gawp at them. He said that way their souls wouldn’t rest in peace.’
Olivia nodded solemnly.
‘They’d wander the earth for ever and ever, jus’ like vampires,’ Nat added with evident relish.
Julian’s voice was emotionless. ‘Mr Woodcourt wouldn’t be able to do that for all the bones down there, but he said the service was sort of symbolic…’
‘Like an exorcism!’ exclaimed Nat.
Julian rounded on the younger boy. ‘He did not say exorcism, Nat!’
‘But that’s what he meant!’ Nat was determined to have the last word.
‘Wow, lads!’ Olivia decided it was time to intervene. ‘An adventure indeed!’
‘You won’t say anything to the other teachers will you, Miss Mullen?’ Nat looked worried.
‘Mr Woodcourt wanted to keep this a secret. He and Mr Preston might get into trouble if anyone finds out.’
‘None of the teachers will hear about it from me,’ she replied and was relieved to see the narrow shoulders relax. ‘Now, you must be famished after all that exercise, and I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.’
It was an effective distraction. ‘Cook’s sure to get out the biscuits if you’re with us, Miss Mullen,’ whooped Nat joyously. ‘C’mon!’
* * *
A while later, having left Nat and Julian conducting a vigorous post mortem of the rugby over orange juice and snacks, Olivia walked slowly back to her classroom for a last check.
She was just shutting the door when from behind her came the sound of a discreet cough.
Whirling around, she found herself face to face with the principal.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Miss Mullen. Can I walk you to the front door?’
‘Thank you, Dr O’Keefe.’ Olivia paused, somewhat unnerved by his cat-like stealth and unsure how to broach the subject which now held a burning interest for her.
‘You’re looking what Nat would call discombobulated, Miss Mullen,’ the principal observed. ‘It was the same for me at first. Mercifully, the canon was there to see me through.’
Here was an opening.
‘Mr Woodcourt must be a tremendous asset to St Mary’s,’ she said carefully. ‘How long has he been here? Did he work in parishes first?’
Easy, don’t want to sound nosey.
But the principal – clearly something of a fan – saw nothing amiss.
‘He’s a marvellous man,’ he said warmly. ‘Seventy-one, but roars round like a teenager with the boys … apparently quite a demon on the cricket pitch.’
‘Aren’t Anglican clergy normally retired by his age?’ Olivia blushed. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry…’
‘No need to apologize,’ answered O’Keefe smoothly. ‘No, Dick’s good for a few more years. Career-wise, he’s criss-crossed the country. Studied at Ridley Hall. Then started out as a curate in Gracechurch. Later on, let me see, I think he was vicar of St James’s, Cedar Hill and rector at Holy Trinity in Bude … or was it the other way around? Anyway, I know he did sterling service for the Diocesan Youth Service in various places – plus he co-ordinated the Crusader Gap Year Scheme – before being poached by the cathedral here and eventually ending up as Residentiary Canon. Does lots of outreach with schools and Bromgrove Education Team, as well as being part of the furniture for the last twenty years. Genuinely humble. He wouldn’t allow a full profile on the St Mary’s website, so, ironically, he has the shortest entry of any of the staff. Low Church, of course, so the Dean’s Anglo-Catholicism must sometimes raise his hackles, but he’s the soul of forbearance.’
Olivia murmured some conventional words of admiration. The shadowy doubts that had been floating just below the surface of her mind were dispelled by O’Keefe’s enthusiastic recital. Woodcourt might have deviated from orthodox practice, but his service for the medieval dead, seen i
n a certain light, was arguably a poignant tribute to the indestructibility of the human spirit. She felt ashamed of her suspicions, which she now realized had been fanned by the partly overheard exchange between Cynthia and Preston.
‘You’re looking tired, Miss Mullen.’ The principal sounded concerned. ‘Be off home with you now,’ he added as they reached the front entrance, ‘and forget all about St Mary’s.’
Olivia felt a change in air pressure – as though someone somewhere had opened a door or window and was listening intently. But then the impression vanished and she was bidding Dr O’Keefe goodbye.
Forget about St Mary’s.
The words hung in the stillness as the front door shut behind her.
11. On the Scent
‘I felt a bit of a fool, to be honest, Gil.’ Olivia grimaced as she concluded the account of her morning’s activities. ‘I was all ready to pin everything on Canon Woodcourt when, from what Dr O’Keefe says, the man’s next door but one to a saint!’
A wave of compunction hit her as she contemplated Markham’s heavy eyes and white, tired face. ‘Oh Gil, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You wanted a night off and here I am blethering on about my half-baked theories!’
Markham smiled across the table in their secluded corner of the tiny pizzeria. However busy it was, Giuseppe somehow always managed to conjure up a private nook for favoured customers. The swarthy, fierce-looking little major-domo had a soft spot for Markham ever since the latter rescued his underage daughter Maria from the clutches of James Foley, kingpin of the Hoxton estate and a thoroughly bad lot. The Italian had also capitulated to Olivia’s charms hook, line and sinker. Bellissima! was his invariable sigh of satisfaction whenever he saw her with Markham.
At Olivia’s reference to Woodcourt, Markham was suddenly alert. It wouldn’t do to let her become fixated on the canon.
‘I’m not ruling anything out, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I agree, the canon sounds an unlikely suspect at this stage. But there is something seriously out of joint at St Mary’s… Oh, and by the by, that silver-tongued principal of yours was round at the station earlier to tell me about some school society which raised eyebrows.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 13