‘Numpty,’ was Noakes’s succinct response.
The young PC was clearly crushed at the thought that he might have blown his chances in CID.
‘It’s all right, Doyle,’ said Markham kindly. ‘You’d been hanging about for hours. Understandable that you took your eye off the ball for a moment. Could have happened to any of us.’
Not to me, Noakes and Burton thought in unison.
‘You’re a good officer,’ Markham continued as they piled into the squad car. ‘The main thing is to learn from this and move on.’
An’ stop mooning over that dippy girlfriend. Noakes’s expression was eloquent in its disapproval, but he said nothing, merely gestured Doyle to the driver’s seat. Markham got in the front next to him, while the other two sat in the back.
‘No sirens,’ the DI instructed, ‘but over to Cromptons Lane as fast as you can, Doyle.’
It was still raining relentlessly, mixed now with hail. Inside the bubble of their car, speeding along in the gathering darkness, Kate Burton felt as though they were the last people alive, marooned in a nightmare, huddled together for protection. Like something out of a sci-fi movie. Only the evil they had to eliminate was no vampire but a flesh and blood human being. Someone whom, until recently, she had seen as one of them.
Markham’s thoughts ran in an equally sombre groove. Could he prevent further carnage? What could he offer Harry Mountfield beyond the secure wing of a psychiatric hospital, through whose bars he would be poked and prodded for the rest of his days like a freak of nature? The urbane, witty teacher who could never be healed, whose inner void could never be filled. Always insatiable, always hungry, always lost.
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
The journey towards the motorway seemed interminable, even though the rush hour was long over. The hail persisted with its ominous drumming, as though even the elements were rallying for the final assault.
Finally, they were outside number 87.
There was a figure at the window, silhouetted against lamplight, looking out into the darkness. Then it withdrew into the shadowy recesses of the front room.
Mountfield.
Burton drew in her breath sharply. ‘He’s here.’
‘He didn’t run then,’ Doyle said wonderingly.
‘Where would he go?’ asked Markham. ‘We’d find him eventually.’
‘He could’ve tried to bluff it out,’ observed Noakes meditatively, ‘but he must have known the net was closing at Hope. With JP’s death, we’d have been all over ’im like a rash and the truth was bound to come out.’ The DS pulled a face. ‘’Sides, he’s worked up an appetite now. On a spree, isn’t he?’
Burton shuddered, but she realized it was true. Mountfield saw his mission as far from over. His blood lust still demanded satisfaction.
‘We go in calmly, quietly. No theatrics, understood?’ Markham’s voice was peremptory. ‘The priority is to get them both out of there alive.’
There would be no chance at all if the place was swarming with tactical support, hostage negotiators, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, he thought. But with the small-scale approach, there was just a chance …
The front door was open.
‘In here, Inspector!’
Mountfield sounded eerily, horribly jovial. As though this was a dinner party and he the welcoming host.
Warily, they filed into Helen Kavanagh’s front room.
The deputy head was sitting on the black leather sofa. She looked oddly composed, almost relieved, even with a sharp bread knife held to her throat.
The man they had been hunting sat next to her.
As to externals, it was the same shambling charm and breezy dishevelment.
‘So, you’ve caught up with me at last, Inspector,’ he said with lazy amiability. Then, watchful as a praying mantis, ‘Don’t come any further.’
There was no chance of bringing him down. That knife would have severed Kavanagh’s jugular before they got within striking distance.
Markham lowered himself into the armchair nearest the door. Burton and Noakes stood in the doorway behind him, Doyle in the hall.
‘It’s over, Harry,’ the DI said quietly. ‘Or should I say, Howard.’
The other’s features momentarily contorted, then the debonair mask was back in place.
‘I prefer to go by Harry these days, to be honest. I left Howard Medlock behind a long time ago.’
Markham leaned forward, his voice low and confidential.
‘But you didn’t really. You never cut the chains which tied you to the past. However far you travelled, you were still the boy who lost his twin brother and mother far too young. However high you reached, there was still a gaping hole beneath your feet. You never forgot Adrian, did you? Your whole life was a mission to avenge him, everything else a pale reality – including Harry Mountfield.’
‘Quite the amateur psychoanalyst, Inspector.’
The humorous eyes were suddenly flat and empty, the teasing lilt replaced by a harsh rasp.
‘I never forgot what happened. It crushed everything else out of existence.’ He flexed the hand that rested on his thighs. ‘You know, of course, that Palmer could have stopped what was happening to Adrian. Instead, he looked the other way, the fucking voyeur.’
‘We know that JP was bisexual, Harry, and that he loved Ashley Dean.’
A pulse began to beat rapidly at Mountfield’s temple.
‘Were you in love with Ashley too? Did he lead you on before chucking you aside?’
The tempo of Mountfield’s breathing increased, but his eyes were unreadable.
‘I think you were ashamed and humiliated. You wanted to wipe Ashley off the face of the earth, not just because of what it would do to JP, but because Ashley represented something secret and degrading – the same thing that led your brother to kill himself.’
Mountfield’s lips drew back in a snarl. For a moment, he looked like a mad dog – as though he wanted to bite Markham, to tear the flesh from his bones.
The DI recoiled but did not break eye contact.
‘Yes, it’s true, Inspector. I wanted to strike at Palmer by destroying what he loved best in the world – like he had done to me.’ He gave a mirthless snicker. ‘I also aimed to have him take the rap for Ashley’s death. Only Dumb and Dumber got in the way.’
‘Audrey Burke and Jim Snell.’ Markham spoke with cold deliberation. ‘Two innocent human beings whom you murdered and defiled.’
‘They were prepared to look the other way for money, Inspector.’ Mountfield smiled sardonically. ‘Though the Berk had a charity in mind, would you believe? With her, it was all about protecting ole JP. Couldn’t see the man was a crock of shit.’
‘What put Audrey onto you?’ Burton shot out.
Mountfield smiled. A slow, chilling smile.
‘The eavesdropping bitch overheard me making an appointment with Ashley for an after-hours rendezvous. He adored anything which smacked of intrigue, so I had no problem persuading him. I’d nicked Snell’s keys and it was all set. Should have been a piece of cake … but the Berk knew all about the meet… She loathed Ashley of course – he practically mimicked her to her face – so I hinted that I had a sob story of my own and came the repentant sinner.’ He smirked. ‘Good performance, if I say so myself.’ An ugly scowl succeeded the smirk. ‘Snell was a different matter. Dug around in my background and opted for blackmail before ending in the slime where he belonged.’ With a scornful laugh, he dismissed the caretaker.
‘It’s over, Harry,’ the DI said again. ‘Let Helen go. What does she have to do with any of this?’
‘She’s going to be my last, Markham. My final two-fingers to this self-satisfied, smug, sick world of ours. It’s thanks to the likes of her – with her data and her fucking spreadsheets – that no-one really sees the kids anymore … so the ones who need help the most – the ones like Adrian – slip through the cracks.’ He was stuttering now. ‘Jabbering on about empowerment and being t
here for learners when none of it means a bloody thing.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry.’
It was a croak.
‘I’m sorry.’ The voice was firmer this time. ‘That’s not really who I am. The inspector knows that now, but I’d like you to know too.’
It was the authentic Helen Kavanagh, stepping out from behind the mask, thought Markham, and his admiration rose.
The killer’s world tilted on its axis. His eyes looked unfocused, childlike.
Markham telegraphed Kavanagh.
Now!
She darted forward with a wild cry, taking Mountfield by surprise.
Arms reached out and whisked her from the room.
The killer sprang to his feet panting, trapped, his eyes now full of hatred. The fox caught in a circle of hunters. It must have been the face that his victims had seen, and it shocked Markham.
The DI stood too, as though they were partners in a gruesome pavane, poised to see the dance to its end.
Never taking his eyes off Markham, Harry Mountfield drew the blade across his own throat.
Later, Markham would have nightmares about that lopsided, half-decapitated poll whose expression of demonic glee, like that of some awful Petrushka, defied bystanders to show pity and seemed to proclaim that he had enjoyed the last laugh.
A fortnight after the unforgettable conclusion to what became known locally as ‘the Mountfield Case’, Markham and Olivia stood in the garden of remembrance at Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery, waiting to enter the little crematorium chapel.
It was a cold November afternoon, dank mist cloaking the colonnade memorial wall with its rows of niches. Everything bore a melancholy aspect, nothing more so than the sad little bouquets from other funerals lined up in their serried ranks.
It was the DI’s second funeral that week, Jim Snell having been laid to rest a few days earlier at a sparsely attended twenty-minute Humanist service in Bromgrove Woods. There had been no bouquets for the caretaker, just a small bunch of white freesias from the police team.
Markham’s gaze rested on the inscription over the stone archway which led from the garden of remembrance to the chapel.
Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
So much death.
Very gently, Olivia slipped a hand into his and they walked towards the chapel.
For all its mock-gothic aspect, the chapel’s clinical interior was uncompromisingly twenty-first century. Hideous mustard-yellow curtains formed a garish proscenium arch around a catafalque covered in similar drapery. Blinding white floral arrangements stood stiffly to attention atop gilt jardinières, while bilious mauve uplighting bathed the scanty congregation in a lurid hue. A plastic Cross – clearly a last-minute touch – swung from a hook beside the pulpit.
Markham could not remember when he had last seen anything so depressing.
Sliding inconspicuously into a seat right at the back, he registered some sort of piped music on a loop in the background. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ How horribly inappropriate for Harry Mountfield, marooned in his own private hell. The canned anthem provided cover for whispered conversations amongst palpably ill at ease mourners, the men imprisoned in dark suits and women awkwardly adjusting fancy hats as though uncomfortably aware that they did not suit the occasion.
Who were these people? Mountfield’s – Medlock’s – relatives? Gawpers? Press? He locked eyes with Matthew Sullivan in a pew across the aisle. Good to know that Harry’s friend had not forgotten him. Helen Kavanagh sat next to Sullivan, lost in her own thoughts, looking somehow diminished and old. No doubt Hope Academy was busily expunging all traces of Mountfield from the record. As if he had never existed.
Suddenly the tinny strains came to a jerky halt and a shuffling behind Markham indicated the arrival of the bearer party. While a hastily substituted soundtrack of Albionini’s Adagio in G Minor echoed in the background, Harry Mountfield’s mortal remains proceeded to their final resting place.
Markham gave the coffin quick glances, then looked away.
The image of Mountfield’s remains inside the coffin tried to enter his head. He shut it down immediately.
For all his revulsion at Mountfield’s crimes, Markham felt a sudden fierce hope that the minister on duty that day would be able to speak of him with compassion. Not least for the sake of Olivia who so desperately needed to hear a message of hope amidst the darkness.
An apprehensive-looking elderly clergyman slipped into the chapel via a side door and waited patiently for the classical track to come to a halt. Markham thought, poor man! How could he deliver the traditional Christian message of hope over the coffin of currently the most hated man in Bromgrove – a killer responsible for three (very nearly four) murders?
‘Dearly beloved,’ came the uncontroversial opening.
Then there was a dramatic interruption. Markham heard voices, strident and angry, raised in the porch.
‘It’s a disgrace letting him anywhere near decent folk!’
‘Let the bastard rot!’
‘What about the victims?’
‘Call yourself a clergyman, do you?’
Markham was just preparing to intervene when the clamour ceased as abruptly as it had started. The furious tones died away, shut out by the sturdy chapel door, and the service proceeded without further outbursts.
Clearly shaken, the minister nevertheless managed to deliver the funeral address albeit without mentioning the deceased by name. Afterwards, Markham remembered only the concluding words, ‘In my end is my beginning’, drawing some private consolation from the thought that somehow, somewhere Harry Mountfield was beginning the world again.
The yellow curtains screened the coffin from view as it slid gently away into the smiling jaws of the furnace beyond.
Afterwards, Markham and Olivia repaired to The Grapes where the team were waiting. Burton and Doyle ducked their heads shyly in greeting, while Olivia twitted Noakes about his unusually dapper appearance. Observing how the DS’s ears turned pink, an almost goofy expression softening the trade-mark truculence, Kate reflected wryly that she was not the only one sighing for the moon.
When they were settled with drinks, the conversation turned to Mountfield’s funeral, his colleagues listening in stunned silence as Markham described the rent-a-mob disruption of the service.
‘That’s shameful!’ Burton exclaimed disgustedly. ‘The man had to be disposed of somehow, and his family had some rights after all. Anyway, what did folk think he was going to do – pop up behind the trolley like something out of a horror movie?’
‘You’re right, Kate.’ Olivia’s voice was warm. ‘People should let the dead rest in peace. All of them.’
Noakes bit back what he had been going to say. Olivia Mullen was too soft-hearted for her own good. Just as well she was one of the family. The police always looked after their own.
There was a sardonic glint in the DI’s eyes which Noakes didn’t much care for. Almost as though the guv’nor knew exactly what he was thinking.
Time to drink up …
Gradually, the conversation turned into more cheerful channels, Olivia congratulating Burton on the news of her permanent promotion to CID.
The DC glowed. ‘Yep,’ she confirmed proudly. ‘And the force is sponsoring me for an M.A. in Gender and Modern Policing.’
She looked across the table at Noakes, bracing herself for the expected put-down, but to her surprise none was forthcoming. Instead the DS’s gaze was disconcertingly benign. There had been an uneasy period when she worried that Noakes had somehow detected her thumping great crush on Markham (for that’s all it was, she told herself firmly). But as he sat there mildly quaffing his ale, she told herself there was nothing to worry about on that score.
‘And Doyle’s had some good news too.’ Burton was anxious to shift the spotlight away from herself. ‘His
secondment’s come through.’
‘Ah yes, welcome aboard,’ Markham said.
He was pleased to see the youngster was looking less lovelorn these days, having apparently transferred his affections from the stony-hearted Sally of yore to an attractive young DS in Traffic who, rumour had it, was not averse to his attentions.
‘Things should be better at Hope after Christmas,’ Olivia was keen to update them. ‘Helen Kavanagh’s off to work for the LEA, and they’re going to bring in a new executive head. Poor Dave Uttley’s on sick leave after that nervous breakdown, so Matt’s going to take over as the new deputy with Doctor Abernathy as Assistant Head. A fresh start all round.’
‘S’pose it’ll be business as bloody usual then,’ Noakes growled, his mood of sweet reason evaporating. ‘You scratch my back an’ all that.’
Olivia was determinedly upbeat. ‘Not with Matt at the helm.’ She added, seemingly inconsequentially, ‘Word has it he’s quite a useful footballer, you know.’
Noakes was clearly engaged in some sort of internal struggle, but his love of the beautiful game prevailed. ‘Well, if Sullivan’s still there, it’s not all bad news then.’
His colleagues stifled their grins. In a changing world, the reactions of DS Noakes were as reassuringly predictable as Bromgrove’s bad weather.
Later that evening, Markham and Olivia lay stretched out on the rug in front of their woodburner.
There was something intensely comforting about being indoors in front of a fire on a wild autumn evening, Olivia thought. All the ghouls and goblins at bay.
‘A penny for them.’ Markham smiled lazily at her.
‘I’m just thinking how well it’s finally worked out,’ she answered dreamily. ‘The doc and Matt’ll make a great team.’
‘I think old Abernathy knew far more than he ever let on about all the sexual tensions swirling around Hope. Looks a new man now it’s out in the open and Sullivan’s in the clear.’
‘Yes, I think he cares a great deal about Matt. But with him it’s a case of “the love that dare not speak its name”.’ She smiled rather sadly. ‘Matt has no idea.’
‘Between them they’ll steer Hope into calmer waters,’ said Markham comfortingly. ‘You know,’ he added musingly, ‘Abernathy was right about Helen Kavanagh. He told Kate Burton she was a decent woman underneath it all—’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 39