Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘You could be right, Noakes. I think Audrey was on to something. Whatever the secret was, she paid for it with her life. If only I could have warned her she was playing with fire!’

  ‘She’d probably have gone ahead anyway, Guv. My Muriel…,’ Here Markham braced himself for second-hand psychological insights of doubtful provenance. ‘Well, she says that some women of that age go all fuzzy … you know, get mad ideas about blokes and things.’

  From what Markham recalled of Mrs Noakes, he reckoned there was little chance of her ‘too solid flesh’ succumbing to fuzziness but, as ever, his DC’s pronouncements contained a nugget of common sense.

  ‘Yes, Noakes,’ he conceded wryly, ‘it’s quite possible that where JP was concerned, Audrey wasn’t rational. Erotomania or De Clerambault’s syndrome or some combination of the two.’

  ‘Eh?’

  The DI hastily returned to the vernacular. ‘She’d likely have clammed up if I applied the thumbscrews. But I wish to God I’d at least tried.’

  ‘Burton said when you found her she had a bit of paper in her right hand.’ Noakes was keen to jolt Markham out of further introspection.

  ‘Yes, it looked like a banknote, though we’ll need forensics to confirm.’ The DI’s fingers drummed an impatient tattoo. ‘Was this blackmail?’

  ‘Yeah, Guv. Money could’ve changed hands, then the killer wrenched it out of her hand when he was stuffing her into the back of the piano.’

  Markham was thoughtful. ‘That sounds feasible, Noakes. But what puzzles me is why she agreed to meet him on her own in the music practice rooms. Even allowing for the fact that she wasn’t thinking straight, that was a terrible gamble.’

  ‘He must have been very reassuring.’ Noakes spoke with conviction. ‘Made her believe she was safe with him. An’ maybe she figured some of the kids would be around – jamming or summat.’

  ‘Yes, our man – or woman – was able to lull Audrey into a false sense of security. Plausible. Smooth-talking. Outwardly harmless. In reality, subtle, calculating and dangerous.’

  Noakes eventually lumbered off home, assured by the DI that he would not be long following.

  But still he sat there, light-headed with fatigue, as though there was a spell upon him, keeping him motionless, while terrible images were imprisoned within his eyes.

  2.55.

  All existence seemed to beat with a lower pulse than his own …

  Just then, Markham’s eye fell on a pair of grubby trainers wedged behind the filing cabinet and inspiration struck.

  Rather than go home and wake up Olivia, or pull an all-nighter at Hope, he would drop by ‘Doggie’ Dickerson’s Gym in Marsh Lane where Bromgrove Police Boxing Club had its unofficial headquarters. Like a vampire, Doggie never seemed to sleep and was invariably to be found in his dingy little office, a bottle of the strong stuff to hand and a tale to suit every ear. Markham guessed the antecedents of some of his sparring partners wouldn’t bear close inspection, but he found Doggie’s fetid den, with its heaving, grunting inmates, oddly soothing. For the fellowship, he supposed. And the chance to go ten rounds with DCI Sidney by proxy. Yes, if Doggie could accommodate him, nothing would revive him like imagining that he was knocking seven bells out of Slimy Sid!

  Having locked up behind him, Markham set the alarm as Jim Snell had shown him then stood outside in the forecourt looking back at the school. Wreathed in mist, it seemed almost to be vanishing from sight like The Flying Dutchman or some other ghost ship.

  With one last look, the DI turned his back on it and walked towards the car park.

  Some thirty minutes later, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, Markham felt like a man reborn.

  Arriving at the gym, he had found cocky Chris Carstairs, a young DI from Vice doing squat thrusts in a corner while a couple of local undesirables were slogging it out in one of the three rings. Such was the mysterious freemasonry of Doggie’s, that distinctions of rank ceased to matter. All that counted was pushing oneself to the limit and measuring one’s strength alongside other men.

  ‘’Lo, Gil. Haven’t seen you round here for a bit,’ sang out Carstairs on spotting him. ‘You must be out of practice,’ he declared, eyeing Markham’s anatomy as though minutely choosing his point of attack. ‘Fancy your chances against me? I’ll pull my punches, I promise!’

  A guffaw floated out of Doggie’s office at this feeble witticism. Then the proprietor himself shambled out, looking as disreputable as ever, his straggly grey hair, nicotine stained fingers and yellow tombstone teeth distinctly at odds with the complacent look he bestowed on his little kingdom.

  ‘Morning, Inspector,’ he rasped. ‘Good to see you. This ’ere young fella’s on at me to give ’im a workout, so reckon you could help me out.’

  The ‘workout’ wiped the smirk off Carstairs’ face, so business-like and bloodthirsty was the way in which he was demolished despite landing some heavy punches. Markham himself was surprised by the reserves of energy which seemed to have come to his aid out of nowhere. Despite lack of sleep, it was as if he had drunk a great draught of fury and indignation which insulated him from his colleague’s bull-like proceedings. That was for Audrey. And that, and that! Then, when Carstairs got to his feet and squared up once again, the faceless murderer gave way to DCI Sidney. Take that, you bastard. And that!

  ‘Whoa!’ Doggie was finally aroused to something almost approaching animation as the other went down once again. ‘’E’s not looking too pretty, Mr Markham. I’d say you’ve won.’

  From a prone position, Carstairs eyed him with dazed respect before allowing himself to be helped down from the ring.

  ‘That was too many for me, Gil,’ he observed before adding suspiciously, ‘have you been training somewhere else on the sly? I’ve never seen you like that before. You’d be a useful light heavyweight for the Federation Cup team, mate. I could put in a word if you like.’

  ‘I’m flattered, Chris.’ And it was true, he did feel a savage exultation in his victory. ‘But I lack your dedication.’ He clapped the other man on the shoulder and said warmly, ‘Any time you feel like a grudge match, though …’

  Carstairs grinned ruefully. ‘I’m not likely to underestimate you again, Gil.’

  Doggie having retreated to his lair, the two men lingered companionably next to the ring, idly watching the other match in progress.

  ‘You’re on the Hope Academy case, Gil?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Markham exhaled slowly, not choosing to say more. Carstairs was unperturbed by his curtness. Doggie’s was a last bastion against the horrors of the job, and officers rarely talked shop there.

  ‘Kids from Hope went on the rampage in the town centre last Christmas,’ he murmured, before adding with a sideways glance at Markham, ‘it’s a tough gig being a teacher there.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Markham grunted non-committally.

  ‘There’s been the odd scandal too … teachers getting too friendly with pupils, that kind of thing.’ Carstairs wrinkled his brows upwards as if teased by a fleeting memory. ‘And a few years back the head had to retire in a hurry … All hushed up of course. Fingers in the till, as I remember it.’

  Sex and money spinning their endless webs. Wasn’t it always the way, thought Markham. Somehow, he had to unravel the threads and find that gossamer-fine connection with Ashley Dean and Audrey Burke.

  ‘Right, Gil, as you’ve had the bad taste to thrash me, I’m off. Let me know if you change your mind about the squad.’ Carstairs chuckled. ‘You can bring Noakes along as your second. He c’n drink your share of the beer.’

  ‘A match made in heaven,’ came the dry rejoinder as Markham toweled himself off. He decided to have a shower at the station rather than take the risk of contracting something unspeakable from Doggie’s facilities. Noakes would be in before long, and they could plan the day ahead.

  Later that morning, having returned to Hope, Markham and Noakes got into their car, a standard issue Ford Fiesta from the station pool which was ha
rdly likely to enhance their kudos with the little knot of teenagers loitering about the front courtyard making an elaborate pretence of disinterest in the police comings and goings. Out of respect for Audrey Burke, the school was closed to students though lessons would resume the following day. Markham noted with sadness that tributes to her were conspicuous by their absence from the forecourt.

  Markham had decided to leave Doyle and Burton at the school with Forensics while he and Noakes went to check up on James Palmer. For all the DS’s shortcomings, Markham found his dishevelled companion a curiously comforting presence even now when, as designated chauffeur, he was grinding gears with the ferocity of a Formula One driver.

  James Palmer lived in Calderstones Drive, a highly sought-after address in a leafy suburb of Bromgrove, about twenty-five minutes away from the school. Strangely enough, even though a cold wind was gusting and no leaves were rustling on the mighty oaks which reared ominously above them, Markham felt more at ease with Bromgrove’s chill melancholy than the stifling oppression of Hope and its Stalin-esque surveillance. Perhaps it was different for kids today, he reflected, but that soulless bunker made him nostalgic for the cosy shabbiness which had been the setting for most of his own schooldays.

  But it wasn’t just that, he thought, trying to pin down the source of his disquiet. Parapsychologists and exorcists talked of a ‘cold spot’ in haunted buildings, didn’t they? Well, he’d felt something similar at Hope this morning, for all the raucous din of a sprawling school community. There had been a sense of malevolence so strong that it was like a presence at his shoulder, as though the spirit of Evil was breathing softly down the back of his neck. And yet, he could not grasp this shadowy spectre nor hold it fast.

  ‘Nearly there, Guv,’ grunted Noakes, recalling Markham with a jolt to the present. ‘How d’you want to play the interview with Palmer?’

  ‘Low key. We won’t even call it an interview. More a friendly house call to see how he’s coping with the trauma blah-de-blah. How’s your bedside manner, Noakes?’ He regarded his subordinate with a quizzical expression. ‘No need to answer that!’

  Noakes turned into a quiet cul-de-sac lined with detached and terraced Victorian period houses.

  ‘Right, here we are. Number 4 Calderstones Drive. Cushty! He’s done all right for himself!’

  Markham considered the impressive semi-detached property thoughtfully. Spread over four storeys, it oozed exclusivity and looked to have around half an acre of manicured lawn to the sides and rear.

  ‘Indeed he has, Sergeant!’ The DI figured they were looking at a cool half a million’s worth of prime real estate.

  ‘I thought he was divorced with kids at uni.’ Noakes was puzzled. ‘How’s he managed to hang on to this lot?’

  Markham wondered how he could have afforded it in the first place, even on a headmaster’s salary.

  ‘Separated, not divorced, Noakes. But you’re right, I can’t imagine he’ll be keeping it if there’s a divorce in the offing.’

  Noakes climbed shallow sandstone steps to the elegantly porticoed front door followed by Markham.

  The DS’s hand was raised to the solid brass bell push when the ‘character’ front door, complete with stained-glass antique panels, swung open to reveal a blonde pocket Venus attired in chinos and a cashmere sweater. A heady blast of Chanel No. 5 knocked both officers backwards, so that they were momentarily disorientated.

  Markham was the first to recover.

  ‘Mrs Palmer?’

  ‘For my sins.’ It was a low, husky voice, not unattractive. ‘You’ll be the police. Come in.’

  The high-ceilinged, light-filled hallway had tasteful checkerboard marble tiling in black and white. A chunky mahogany jardinière stand was the only furniture, and Markham admired the elegant restraint which had preserved the heritage feel of the property.

  The two men were led into a surprisingly cosy, sash-windowed living room and ushered to a moss-green Chesterfield. As he made the introductions, Markham briefly took in the elegant but comfortable mix of antique and modern furniture, William Morris wallpaper and nineteenth-century botanical prints before concentrating his attention on Cheryl Palmer. Sporting a silver-frosted Farrah Fawcett hairstyle of the sort favoured by the Duchess of Cornwall, she had a delicate heart-shaped face whose smoothness spoke of an expensive beauty regime. A silver-framed photograph on the adjacent side-table showed a younger leggy replica, with long tortoiseshell tresses and the same gamine features.

  ‘That’s Jemima, our youngest,’ Cheryl said, following Markham’s gaze. Her voice was proud. ‘She’s in her first year at Durham.’

  Breaking off, as though her mind was elsewhere, their hostess offered them tea or coffee. The DI interposed smoothly before Noakes could accept.

  ‘We don’t propose to take up too much of your time, Mrs Palmer. Just wanted to see how your husband’s bearing up. We know Mr Dean was his protégé and he’d done a great deal to bring him on.’

  Markham said nothing of the second murder.

  Cheryl’s lips trembled as she fought for composure. ‘That place sucked the life out of him. He had nothing left for me and the kids. That’s why we separated. Not cos there were three of us in the bloody marriage or anything like that, but on account of Hope taking up all his energy. And now he just sits chain smoking, moaning to himself and rocking backwards and forwards. Like he’s lost his mind.’

  She appeared oblivious to the possibility of her soon-to-be ex-husband having turned to a man for comfort. Was her unconcern genuine or simulated, Markham wondered.

  Markham groped for the right words. ‘I know this will seem poor comfort to you now, Mrs Palmer, but time is a great healer. With proper support, hopefully your husband can come to terms with what’s happened.’

  The woman’s mouth twisted. ‘He won’t ever get better till he’s out of there, Inspector. It was just one crisis after another. He got no peace.’

  ‘What sort of thing d’you mean, luv?’ Noakes enquired innocently.

  ‘Oh, it was all sorts. The business of that maths teacher … then before that, some woman in the English department. A nymphomaniac redhead …’

  Noakes winked suggestively. ‘Teachers getting it on in the stationery cupboard, were they?’

  Markham found he was holding his breath.

  ‘Nothing like that. The silly bint got involved with a sixth-former. Lots of special tuition before the parents kicked up a stink. Everyone was buzzing about it. They were quite brazen – seen out together after he left, apparently. Various governors were up in arms. The whole saga gave James an ulcer.’ The beautifully shaped brows puckered. ‘Hey, come to think of it, I think she was the one caught up in that awful business at St Mary’s.’ Cheryl made a moue of distaste. ‘There’s always a drama with some women.’ It sounded to Markham like a mocking echo of DCI Sidney.

  The DI’s heart was palpitating violently. He felt as though poisoned weapons had been hurled at him. The pain of the sting was almost unbearable. His recent bruising encounter in the ring was nothing to it.

  Why had Olivia never told him about this? What else had she kept hidden?

  Seeing that the guv’nor was dangerously poised, Noakes came to the rescue.

  ‘If you remember, sir, we’ve got that appointment on the other side of town.’

  Somehow Markham found his voice.

  ‘Of course, Sergeant. Mrs Palmer, we don’t want to disturb your husband while he is resting. But please pass on our best wishes for his recovery. No, don’t trouble yourself, we’ll see ourselves out.’

  Afterwards, Markham could not remember how he had got out of the house. He only knew that he needed to see Olivia as soon as possible.

  8. Clearing the Air

  BY AN UNSPOKEN TELEPATHY, the two officers did not speak until they were well away from Calderstones Drive.

  ‘Where to, Guv?’ Noakes eventually enquired, eyeing Markham warily. He could see from the tight set of the DI’s mouth that his guvnor was
upset.

  Markham did not immediately reply. Misgivings assailed him like a regiment of furies beating at the walls of his brain. The view outside the car windows mirrored his mood, grass and trees setting up a dull shiver under late morning clouds that hid the sun fitfully.

  Why hadn’t Olivia been completely frank? Why hadn’t she told him about this … this business with a student? And why the hell had she left him to find it out from the headmaster’s wife of all people!

  Markham made no reply, and Noakes, realizing that the guv’nor was in no mood for repartee, took refuge in his own thoughts.

  For a moment, back there in Palmer’s house, Noakes had thought Markham was going to keel over; his face had turned a funny putty colour and when they came out, his knuckles gripping the car handle had been white. He was willing to bet all the guv’nor could think about now was clearing the air with his girlfriend. Personally, he couldn’t imagine Olivia doing anything dodgy, but the guv’nor had her on a pedestal. Hearing Cheryl Palmer’s gossip had been … well … like seeing a crack appear in crystal. Noakes blinked in surprise at himself. There was something about Olivia Mullen which made him come over all poetical!

  ‘Drop me at home, will you, Noakes.’ The words were abrupt and awkward. ‘There’re … one or two things I need to attend to …’

  ‘Right you are, Guv.’ Noakes’s face was impassive. Smoothly, he pointed the car towards The Sweepstakes.

  Markham found Olivia sitting curled up in her favourite armchair, staring dreamily into space. A book, open but clearly unread, lay in her lap. Her face lit up at his entrance.

  ‘Gil! How I’ve missed you!’ she cried, and then seeing the shock in her lover’s face, she said, ‘What is it, Gil?’

  For the first time in their relationship, she had the sense of a chill fog having gathered between them – of them somehow missing each other’s mental track.