Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Didn’t you tell me he’d had a tough childhood? Something about a violent father?’ The assistant head’s biography had resonated with Markham, scarred as he was by unspeakable experiences at the hands of an abusive stepfather.

  ‘That’s right. He’s not had it easy.’ Olivia was, typically, anxious to be fair.

  ‘For all the gaps in his formal education, he’s got real street smarts and ambition … It’s just …’ She twirled a strand of auburn hair around her fingers in a distracted manner. ‘He’s dead behind the eyes, you know. Like Archie Rice. Dead behind the eyes.’

  ‘How does he treat the students?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t played his little mind games with one or two of them.’ Olivia’s voice took on a distinct edge. ‘I remember an incident when I was doing supply. I saw a Year 10 boy come blundering out of Ashley’s office – he was facilities manager then. The lad was all red-faced and awkward, but what I remember most is the sound of mocking laughter floating out into the corridor. I just knew Ashley had wound that boy up somehow. Adolescent insecurities would make pupils fair game in his book. And he was clever enough to know which ones would be too embarrassed to say anything.’

  Markham’s face revealed that his detective’s antennae were twitching.

  ‘Oh no, dearest,’ his girlfriend was swift to reassure him, seeing that his thoughts had travelled to the young victims in the St Mary’s murder case. ‘Nothing like St Mary’s. The child protection honchos will never get him for anything. He’s far too smart for that.’

  ‘So, he’s likely just using JP to get ahead, then? Unless it’s a case of blinding physical attraction… But I thought you said JP was first cousin to Quasimodo and all that.’

  ‘I don’t think I went quite that far!’ Olivia spluttered.

  ‘No, now I remember. You said he could star in a remake of The Mummy without any need for cosmetics.’ Markham’s tone was teasing.

  ‘That was Harry, not me!’ Olivia looked somewhat shamefaced. Then she rallied. ‘Well, there’s no denying that JP’s punching above his weight. Ashley’s drop dead gorgeous. On past form, I’d say he’s stringing JP along for venal reasons.’

  ‘Hope’s version of the casting couch, then,’ said Markham. The keen grey eyes scanned Olivia. ‘So, that’s what’s creating all the undercurrents, is it? This romantic imbroglio between the head and assistant head?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Gil.’ Again, that faint line between the brows. ‘It’s as if Ashley’s a vortex for all sorts of negative feelings swirling around. But there’s something else too.’ She sipped her drink before continuing. ‘At the meeting tonight, I felt real hate in the common room … By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’ She laughed shakily. ‘Don’t worry, dearest, it’s just my PTSD kicking in. C’mon, I’ll do the washing up followed by a spot of cathartic marking. It’s 9TB tonight. TB standing for Thick as Bisto!’

  Markham tactfully refrained from further questioning, but inwardly he resolved to keep a closer eye on Olivia. At least Matthew Sullivan and Harry Mountfield were watching her back. He felt sure his girlfriend’s self-appointed praetorian guard would alert him if anything untoward threatened.

  Later that night, while waiting for Markham to come to bed, Olivia switched on her laptop to wade through the day’s emails.

  Scrolling through the endless messages, she noted uneasily that many of the emails emanated from Ashley Dean. What in God’s name was JP playing at? It was one thing for the headmaster to give his arm candy the ‘decorative’ role for which he was so pre-eminently suited, but quite another to cede him this kind of executive power.

  Hearing Markham’s study door close, she shoved the computer to one side.

  Tomorrow is another day!

  Bromgrove Police Station was a building of surpassing drabness, reflected Markham on Friday morning at 6 a.m. as he contemplated the beige lego-brick complex. Same school of architecture as that bunker where Olivia worked.

  He lingered, savouring the cold, still air, postponing his encounter with the fug of CID, looking across from the station to the soot-streaked Victorian gothic edifice of Bromgrove Town Hall. The terraced cemetery of St Chad’s Parish Church rose behind the Town Hall on one side, with Hollingrove Park gently undulating into the distance on the other. It was a pleasing outlook on a late autumn morning. For a moment, he wished passionately that he could betake himself to one of the park benches and enjoy an interval of solitude and utter repose.

  The moment passed. Squaring his shoulders, he passed through the revolving doors into the station foyer, briskly acknowledging the greeting of the desk sergeant before heading for the lift which would take him to CID.

  The open-plan space was quiet, only the strip lighting and dodgy water cooler humming quietly in the background. Some tired Swiss cheese plants were dotted around at strategic intervals in a desperate attempt to ameliorate the prevailing sterility, but somehow this poignant attempt at indoor landscaping merely accentuated the room’s claustrophobic stuffiness. Markham had a glassed-in corner office with narrow louvred windows offering unparalleled views of the station car park. Deftly, he flicked open the blinds which screened the glass partition walls.

  Open for business!

  Right on cue, DS George Noakes ambled through the door, bearing what Markham assumed was some death-by-cholesterol offering from the canteen. As usual, he looked as though his clothes had been pitchforked on with absolutely no attention paid to overall effect. Today’s combination was particularly bilious, comprising a mustard tweed jacket teamed with a less than pristine blue shirt, maroon regimental tie and baggy off-white trousers. Olivia had been delighted by what she termed Noakes’s ‘psychedelic’ dress sense, but Markham’s superiors remained distinctly unimpressed.

  ‘For God’s sake, Markham,’ DCI Sidney had hissed after a recent briefing, ‘do something about your DS. He’s an absolute disgrace. Sets an appalling example to junior officers.’

  And yet, for all the professional opprobrium that the obdurately un-PC grizzled veteran invariably attracted, Markham stubbornly resisted any attempt to banish George Noakes to Siberia. Only he knew how much he owed to Noakes’s unflashy dependability, compassion and common sense. Only he knew how well each acted as the other’s counterpoise. Eventually, DCI Sidney (or ‘Slimy Sid’ as he was popularly known) and Superintendent Collier had given up trying to detach Noakes, though not without dire prognostications on the potential damage to Markham’s chances of further promotion.

  He was willing to take the risk.

  ‘Morning, Guv,’ Noakes grunted, plonking himself down on one of two sagging armchairs in front of Markham’s desk. Without further ado, he proceeded to unwrap his polystyrene cargo, revealing a lurid burger and hash browns liberally spattered with ketchup.

  Markham sighed, wrinkling his nose fastidiously and doing his best to suppress a wave of nausea at the overpowering smell of grease.

  Such was their morning ritual. Set in stone as far as Noakes was concerned.

  Noakes stole a furtive glance at the discreet framed picture of Olivia on Markham’s desk – the only personal touch in the office save for a few nineteenth century classics on the bookshelf. His attitude to Olivia was a mixture of awe and apprehension. Privately, he thought she was like one of those sorceresses from his daughter Natalie’s childhood picture books sprung to life. Fascinating, mysterious, other-worldly – so no wonder the DI was struck all of a heap by this red-headed will o’ the wisp. They were well-suited, to his mind, despite her being five years older. Noakes didn’t understand half of what she said, but he liked listening to the sweet, musical contralto and watching the green eyes glow with enthusiasm. And she was good for the boss – had softened some of his edges and banished the haunted look from his eyes. Noakes rarely shared personal confidences with the notoriously reserved Markham, whose austere demeanour repelled any attempt at over-familiarity. But by some alchemy of their curious sub-or
al communication, he knew instinctively that Olivia was the DI’s soulmate and that without her he would take to bleeding inwardly.

  ‘What can you tell me about Hope Academy, Noakes?’

  Noakes prided himself that he was rarely taken by surprise, but the startled expression on his battered features showed that the question came out of left field.

  ‘Well, Guv, I know your … Olivia … well, I know she teaches there, an’ I don’t want to speak out of turn …’

  ‘That generally doesn’t bother you, Noakes,’ came the dry response, ‘so no need to spare my delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘Well, it’s got a bit of a reputation, Guv. Kids out of control, if you know what I mean. Some real tearaways. I’m just glad our Natalie went to Bromgrove Secondary. They’ve got their priorities right there.’

  Having spied Noakes’s daughter out and about in Bromgrove’s less salubrious nightspots, Markham privately reckoned that Natalie was making up for lost time, however, he kept his counsel and made vague noises of agreement.

  Mollified, the DS said, ‘Not that I’m saying the teachers at Hope are all useless, mind.’ Perish the thought. ‘That Harry Mountfield’s sound. Plays five-a-side with some of the lads from uniform.’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of the good guys according to Olivia.’

  Emboldened, Noakes expanded further. ‘I’ve been up there from time to time with PC Doyle from the Community team. Didn’t much care for all the higher-ups, to be honest.’

  Markham repressed a smile. ‘I believe they’re called the Senior Leadership team these days,’ he said in mild reproof.

  The DS snorted contemptuously. ‘Bloody ridiculous. In my day, there was the head an’ deputy head an’ folks knew what was what. Now they’ve all got these fancy titles and are too grand to spend any time in the classroom. My Muriel says—’

  Markham hastily cut him off at the pass, being only too well acquainted with the worthy Mrs Noakes’s views on the iniquitousness of public institutions from the government down.

  ‘No scandal or anything like that then, Noakes?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of, except for a young maths teacher who left in a bit of a hurry.’ The DS added lugubriously, ‘Usual sort of thing, boss. Some girl had a crush on him then started shouting the odds. She broke down and admitted it was all moonshine, but he scarpered anyway.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully, ‘The head was a real slime ball, dead insincere.’

  Markham subsided into a brown study broken by Noakes enquiring, ‘Why d’you want to know about Hope, Guv? Summat wrong there?

  ‘Oh, just something that came up in conversation with the Police Commissioner,’ the DI replied vaguely.

  Noakes understood that whatever was troubling the boss, he would learn nothing more for the present. Markham would revert to the subject when he was ready.

  At that moment, there was a tap on the door.

  ‘DC Kate Burton reporting for duty, sir!’ said a cheerful treble.

  As Markham and Noakes stared blankly at her, the bright smile wavered.

  ‘On secondment from Family Liaison, sir. DCI Sidney said you were expecting me.’

  ‘Of course!’ Markham’s voice sounded unnaturally hearty to his own ears, but he was anxious to make the eager new arrival welcome, especially given Noakes’s marked lack of enthusiasm.

  DC Burton wore a sharply pressed, gender-neutral taupe trouser suit and crisp white shirt with Nehru collar which made her look like an upscale communist. Her neat conkerbrown bob framed a broad, button-nosed face only redeemed from absolute plainness by its air of alert intelligence.

  Markham waved the newcomer to the vacant armchair next to Noakes’s, observing with amusement the way she carefully dusted it down before perching gingerly on the edge as though fearful of catching something. Much to Noakes’s evident stupefaction, she then whipped out a notebook and pen, looking at the DI with a rapt attention that bordered on reverence. From the bulldog-chewing-a-wasp expression on his DS’s face, Markham knew that he was busily inventorying Burton’s indictable offences. University graduate. Leftie. Tree-hugger. Keen as mustard. Brown noser. Plain bloody annoying.

  The DI suppressed the urge to groan. Whoever had assigned Burton to his team had a warped sense of humour. The chances of the DS reining in his inner Neanderthal were vanishingly small. The best he could hope for was that the new DC’s visible determination to make a good impression was proof against anything Noakes could throw at her.

  ‘Right,’ he said, inwardly wincing at his own avuncularity and ignoring Noakes’s smirk, ‘let’s get on with it. There was that GBH on the Hoxton yesterday. Take PCs Doyle and Davies with you and report back to me soonest.’

  Noakes’s mouth turned down at the corners, but Markham ignored his evident displeasure and added meaningfully, ‘You can show DC Burton the ropes, Sergeant. By way of, er, induction.’

  Burton visibly perked up at the mention of induction, though Markham had only used the word because the new recruit looked like the kind of officer whose preferred bedtime reading was Blackstone’s Police Manual. Noakes’s snort was eloquent in its repudiation of such niceties.

  After they had left, Markham found himself unable to settle. Restlessly pacing his office like a condemned man facing the drop, the DI’s thoughts kept coming back to Hope Academy and Olivia’s misgivings.

  History couldn’t repeat itself, could it? She had been through so much last year, with those horrible murders at St Mary’s. The scar tissue had only just formed over those old wounds, leaving her raw underneath. When she screamed in the night, he knew which ghosts stalked her because they pursued him too.

  He’d get the Community team to do a discreet recce. Hadn’t Noakes mentioned that Hope was on PC Doyle’s beat? Yes, Doyle and Burton could pay a visit tomorrow – do a talk on drugs or some such as cover for sniffing around and getting the lie of the land.

  The decision made, Markham reluctantly turned his attention to the day ahead. Miss Purcell, his punctiliously correct PA, was no doubt hovering in the vicinity.

  Hope Academy would keep.

  3. A Discovery

  FIVE P.M. ON FRIDAY afternoon.

  After a day of frenzied mayhem, Olivia was trying to keep a low profile.

  Located at the far end of the English wing, her classroom E1 was on the third floor of the ‘bunker’, with a bird’s eye view of the Children’s Memorial Garden in Bromgrove South Municipal Cemetery. She never failed to be touched by the array of brightly coloured balloons and inflatable toys bobbing above the marker stones in a gallant display of pride and commemoration. On her very worst days, when past horrors threatened to overwhelm her, these poignant offerings reminded her of the indomitability of the human spirit.

  What will survive of us is love.

  Standing by the window, she was smiling at two new Noddy and Brambly Hedge tributes and congratulating herself on having dropped off the senior leadership team’s radar when there was a gentle tap at the door. Suppressing a sigh, Olivia called, ‘Come!’

  Her head of department Doctor Abernathy stood irresolutely in the doorway, subfusc looking even more shop-soiled than usual, spectacles sliding down his nose and the shock of white hair standing on end as though he had spent the last hour running his hands through it in an ecstasy of abandonment. Anyone else would have barged in, Olivia thought, but not the doc. The man belonged to a different era. She noticed he was emitting those beaver-like noises he tended to make when he had something difficult to say.

  ‘Miss Mullen,’ he began softly before grinding to a halt.

  Olivia beamed encouragingly at him. He was such a dear man, totally unsuspicious that Hope’s senior leaders looked askance at his old-fashioned ways and were busily measuring him for his professional shroud.

  ‘Miss Mullen,’ he said pathetically, waving a crumpled sheaf of paper with a distracted air. ‘I fear I am behindhand with various administrative tasks including some data entry for Year 11.’

  Olivia could well
imagine it, since he notoriously found digital media as impenetrable as Hindustani.

  ‘I allowed myself to become distracted by Doctor Donne,’ was the shamefaced excuse. ‘Time ran away from me …’ He trailed away into a series of inarticulate sounds

  Typical Abernathy. From anyone else in the department, it would have sounded deeply suspect, but not from him.

  ‘No problem at all, Doctor Abernathy,’ she reassured the old man whose lack of guile and prurient curiosity had been pure balm amidst the twittering and impertinent nosiness which had accompanied her return to Hope. ‘Leave it with me. I can easily put it on the system.’

  ‘That is most kind of you, Miss Mullen!’

  Abernathy looked as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Ramming his spectacles back to the top of his nose, he darted forward and thrust the wad of paper into Olivia’s outstretched hands before pirouetting on the balls of his feet and trotting away to his office at the opposite end of the landing. No doubt he would soon be blissfully re-immersed in The Complete Works of John Donne. Good luck to him, she thought, contemplating his retreating figure with affection. It would be terrible if JP, ‘Killer’ Kavanagh and co succeeded in replacing him with some whippersnapper who could talk fluent baloney with the rest of them!

  The thought of Hope’s senior management team had a galvanizing effect on Olivia. It was getting late and darkness was stealing over the memorial garden.

  Time to make a move.

  She hadn’t been quick enough!

  At that moment, Helen ‘Killer’ Kavanagh bustled in through the door that Abernathy had left open and, without waiting for an invitation, plonked her ample form down on a desk at the front. Olivia marvelled that it didn’t disintegrate beneath her.

  ‘Olivia, I’m always so impressed by your professionalism. No shooting off on the dot for you! Unlike some of your colleagues.’

  There was a pregnant pause. Clearly this was an invitation to bitch. But Olivia wasn’t biting.

  ‘Well, actually, I was just about to call it a day myself, Helen. All work and no play, you know …’