Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Yeah.’ Noakes warmed to this theme. ‘A war – nurse – might’ve duffed ’em up … if someone narked or management got wind.’

  ‘Or maybe they worried this officer could get to them,’ Burton added. ‘But they wanted the information out there somehow.’

  It was a sobering thought.

  Markham squared his shoulders.

  ‘Right,’ he said crisply, ‘we’ll be running a murder investigation in respect of Doctor Warr, as it’s unlikely he ended up in Bromgrove Woods by accident. The autopsy’s this afternoon, so we’ll know more later today.’ He ran a hand impatiently through the thick black hair which curled over the back of his collar. ‘Then there’s a parallel probe into possible corruption at the Newman and the issue of missing patients.’

  The DI looked at Burton.

  ‘Kate, I want you to set up an incident room.’

  ‘At the Newman, sir?’

  ‘Yes. You can take DC Doyle with you. That’s if DI Carstairs can spare him from Vice.’

  ‘They’ve just wrapped up that trafficking case, sir … you know, the one over at the YWCA.’

  Markham did know. All too well.

  ‘Excellent, Kate.’ He walked her to the door and into the outer office. ‘We need PCs, whiteboards, secure telephone. The works. But nothing about the corruption probe to be visible on any displays. There can’t be any leaks.’

  ‘Got it.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you think Doctor Warr’s death and the mispers are linked, sir?’

  ‘My personal feeling is that there’s a connection, yes.’ He smiled down at her. ‘You know I don’t like coincidences.’

  Then the door to the DI’s room clicked shut behind her.

  For a moment, she stood irresolute, wistfully looking back at her colleagues through the vertical blinds which screened the glass partition walls. The DS was happily playing with the steel balance balls on a pendulum relaxation toy which sat on Markham’s desk, setting them in motion with the gleeful absorption of a child.

  She felt a sudden sharp pang, envying their complicity with a fierceness which took her by surprise. She wanted to make friends but didn’t know how.

  Why can’t I be as relaxed as that around the boss? Why am I so uptight? Why doesn’t he let his guard down with me the way he does with Noakes?

  The boss was so reclusive, yet he had let George Noakes into his life. Could he ever be as comfortable with her?

  Oh, for God’s sake, she told herself. There’s an incident room to get sorted and here I am mooning around like a soppy adolescent. Get a grip, Burton! Purposefully, she headed towards the door.

  ‘Have you quite finished playing with that thing?’ Markham asked the DS, but his tone was indulgent.

  Reluctantly, Noakes turned his attention away from the gadget.

  ‘Champion,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll get one of those for our Nat’s birthday.’

  The DI thought it infinitely more likely that Noakes’s permatanned daughter, the undisputed doyenne of Bromgrove’s nightclubs, would prefer a pair of Jimmy Choos, but kept his opinion to himself. Let the doting father cherish his illusions.

  ‘So.’ Noakes looked beadily at his boss. ‘Who’s the weak link?’ Then, holding up a stubby forefinger gnomically, he volunteered the surprising intelligence, ‘Ackshually, I might have an idea about that.’

  Markham waited.

  ‘My Muriel went to the Newman Open Day last year,’ Noakes said at last. ‘With the Women’s Guild.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Didn’t fancy it meself. Places like that give me the heebie jeebies.’

  He gave a pleasurable shudder then continued. ‘The gold braid mob was out in force along of all the local big wigs. DCI Sidney an’ all them.’

  He looked closely at Markham.

  ‘The Chief Super was there an’ all.’

  The DI didn’t move a muscle, though a pulse had begun hammering near his jaw.

  ‘The missus said he looked like he owned the place.’

  A pause.

  ‘Really at home.’

  Another pause then, ‘Too much at home.’

  Too much at home.

  Such a small deadly phrase.

  And Muriel Noakes – bossy, overbearing, bumptious – had registered that false note.

  Noakes held his boss’s eyes.

  ‘It’s Chief Superintendent Rees, isn’t it, Guv?’

  The DI nodded.

  Chief Superintendent Philip Rees.

  Gold Commander on the case.

  After Noakes had padded away on various unspecified errands (no doubt involving a detour by way of the canteen), Markham remained at his desk, his mind travelling to the previous week’s meeting with DCC George Ashton….

  Ruddy cheeked and stocky, with a fine head of iron-grey hair, Ashton looked more like a ploughman than second in command of Bromgrove’s finest. But the DI knew better than to underestimate ‘Farmer George’, fully aware of the shrewd intelligence concealed behind that bluff exterior. He would have to tread carefully. If this blew up at some future date, or a trial imploded for want of ‘due process’, the DI had no doubt his superiors would throw him to the wolves without a second thought.

  ‘Is the investigation into Chief Superintendent Rees official, sir? I mean, shouldn’t Professional Standards be involved?’

  Markham could see the question was unwelcome, but Ashton met his gaze squarely.

  ‘You can take it the investigation is authorized at the highest level, Inspector.’ He allowed a pause for this to sink in. ‘But given the sensitive context – special hospital, vulnerable adults and so forth – you will report directly to me.’

  The DCC’s face was open and guileless, his tone avuncular. ‘Don’t look so worried, man. Baseless accusations against senior officers are an occupational hazard.’

  Markham found this less than reassuring, but knew better than to push his luck. Ashton had clearly brought down the portcullis on any further discussion of Rees.

  ‘Concentrate on these missing patients at the Newman, Inspector. And keep all briefings “need to know”. With the Gazette and these campaigners sniffing around … well, let’s just say I don’t want to hear rumours of another Shipman.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  Less than a week later, Markham learned that his SIO on the Newman investigation was none other than Chief Superintendent Philip Rees.

  Well, he reasoned, the Chief Super hadn’t been suspended or stripped of his rank. And gold command was more about honour and glory than anything else – grandly remote and ‘hands off’ rather than getting stuck in with the troops – so he could be kept out of the team’s direct orbit.

  On reflection, it would have been more likely to raise eyebrows if Rees hadn’t received the appointment. And yet, Markham was uneasy, still in the dark as to the DCC’s cunning plan – if indeed there was a plan as opposed to its being business as usual….

  What Noakes termed arse-covering was clearly the order of the day. Wearily, Markham booted up his computer and prepared to compose an e mail. Time to get the DCC’s imprimatur in writing.

  And then off to the scene of the crime.

  2. Through the Looking Glass

  THE NEWMAN HOSPITAL, SITUATED behind Bromgrove General on the outskirts of the town in the quiet suburb of Medway, was a disconcerting conglomeration of redbrick gothic architecture and twenty-first century modernism.

  The Victorian clocktower which dominated the forecourt – once part of the old workhouse – was flanked on either side by low gunmetal grey extensions which put Markham in mind of U-boats.

  As they lingered at the front of the building in the rapidly cooling Monday afternoon air, it was clear Noakes didn’t much care for his surroundings.

  ‘Why’d they bother with all them daft slogans?’ He jabbed a finger at various hoardings bearing multi-coloured mottoes: With You On The Journey and By Your Side. ‘Do they think folk won’t notice it’s a nut house?’

  ‘Mental health facility,’ the DI correct
ed resignedly. Short of a personality transplant, there was precious little prospect of Noakes behaving in a manner that could remotely be described as PC. The best Markham could hope for was that he and Kate Burton would be able to absorb the worst of it.

  ‘An’ what’s that load of old junk?’ A pudgy digit stabbed the air again.

  Following the direction of Noakes’s gaze, Markham saw what appeared to be a collection of suitcases and rucksacks cast in concrete next to some granite blocks bearing the imprint of footsteps.

  ‘I would imagine it’s an art installation,’ he observed mildly. ‘On the theme of journeys … Yes,’ he bent down to look at the small plaque at its base, ‘it’s entitled Voyage of Recovery.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that makes the psychos feel a whole lot better,’ opined his companion with heavy sarcasm. ‘Yeah, cop a load of that an’ no need for the old hypodermics.’

  ‘Stow it, Sergeant,’ Markham rapped, ‘or I’ll think seriously about recommending you for diversity awareness training. And for God’s sake watch your language. The people here are patients or service users, got it?’

  A grunt was all the response he got.

  Although the reception and waiting area – located to the left of the clock tower – occupied a double height atrium flooded with light, Markham had the unpleasant sensation of being in some sort of air lock, as though all the oxygen had been sucked out. The U-boat analogy again.

  Swivelling CCTV and red lights winking heightened the feeling of deadening claustrophobia in this universe which had to have eyes wide open twenty-four hours a day. Markham felt his own pupils begin to throb in sympathy.

  By his side, Noakes shuffled from one foot to the other, casting those furtive glances with which he was wont to approach situations outside the norm.

  A pretty blonde receptionist with a smile of unnatural brilliance greeted them at the glass-walled central island in the entrance foyer. Having issued the two men with ID badges, she kept up a non-stop stream of patter while whisking them at dizzying speed through the building, four inch stilettos notwithstanding.

  ‘I’m Hayley Macdonald. Our managing director – Ms Holder – thought you might like a quick tour, jus’ so you know the layout.’

  Markham forbore to mention that this was not his first visit to the Newman.

  ‘All the wards are colour coded and named after famous rivers. Nile, Danube, Volga, Thames and Rhine.’

  Noakes opened his mouth but, at a look from Markham, shut it again.

  ‘They’re all single sex. Rhine’s the intensive care secure unit for service users on a section or in long-term treatment.’

  Flashing through the complex like a chirruping kingfisher, Hayley gestured right and left.

  ‘All the corridors have light tubes and skylights.’

  ‘Why’s that, luv?’ Noakes couldn’t resist.

  ‘Therapeutic,’ she replied with the air of one who knew her script and was sticking to it. ‘Helps to promote mindfulness and wellbeing innit. They c’n look at the clouds and things.’ She paused at one of the floor-to-ceiling French windows. ‘We’ve got garden spaces too. Bringing the outdoors indoors.’

  ‘Like a bit of hoeing do they, luv?’

  Hayley looked slightly flustered.

  ‘Well, there’s safety to think about.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Markham shot another meaningful look at the DS.

  It was clear the one-storey facility extended a long way back.

  ‘There’s eighty beds in the main wards. All en suite.’ Poignantly, Hayley’s voice held a note of proprietorial pride. ‘Then we’ve got twenty beds in the critical care section. Music and art studios are round the back of the clock tower, an’ here’s a multi faith room where you c’n jus’ chill.’ She whipped open the door to a small room, one wall of which comprised a stained glass window where a gaily coloured boat headed across choppy turquoise seas to a lighthouse painted in vertical red and white stripes like a fairground helter skelter.

  ‘Very calming,’ Markham declared firmly before Noakes could say anything untoward. Hayley beamed at him. ‘I sit here myself sometimes,’ she confided, ‘if I want a bit of peace and quiet.’

  Then they were off again. They passed what seemed like acres of glass and brightly-coloured day lounges (‘break out spaces,’ Hayley pronounced, with no apparent sense of irony) before arriving at a set of double doors next to which was a sign marked Forensic. Through the doors, Markham glimpsed the metal detector arch and plexiglass reinforced nursing station.

  Hayley was palpably ill at ease now. ‘This is the secure area,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘Ms Holder said I should leave this bit to her.’

  ‘Sure,’ Markham said easily, frowning at Noakes who was boggling at the interior of the ward as though expecting Nurse Ratched to emerge at any moment.

  Visibly relieved, Hayley seemed to recover her sang-froid. ‘P’raps you’d like to see our shop,’ she suggested. ‘There’s a little café too.’

  Noakes rubbed his hands. ‘Now you’re talking my language, luv.’

  At that moment, a kindly faced individual who looked to be in his early sixties emerged through a side door pushing a trolley stacked with boxes and packages of various shapes and sizes.

  ‘’Lo, Ernie,’ Hayley greeted him cheerfully. Then to her visitors, ‘This is Ernie Roberts, our head porter.’

  Markham recognized the name of the man who’d discovered the skeleton in Bromgrove Woods.

  Mr Roberts ducked his head in acknowledgement and smiled shyly at the young receptionist with whom he was clearly something of a favourite.

  ‘I’m jus’ taking these, er, visitors, to the caff.’

  ‘Another half hour till my break, young Hayley.’ It was a gentle voice with a soft burr.

  Markham was surprised to find Mr Roberts back at work after the shock he’d had. But he could tell the man was old school. Used to soldiering on.

  ‘See ya then.’ Hayley waved as her colleague disappeared down the corridor.

  ‘He’s lovely is Ernie,’ she told them. ‘A real sweetheart. Lost his wife a while back an’ lives on his own. I dog-sit for him sometimes.’

  Momentarily, Noakes was distracted from thoughts of food.

  ‘What’s those?’ he asked, pointing to a framed photograph hanging on the wall opposite, which must originally have been black and white but was now faded to sepia, giving it a ghostly look.

  Markham moved alongside him to look. After a brief hesitation, Hayley joined them.

  The photograph appeared to show little clapboard garden pavilions dotted across a sandy expanse like hives.

  That was all. Nothing else.

  Noakes was almost nose to nose with the glass.

  ‘There’s a signature or summat in the right-hand corner,’ he said. ‘Yeah … Your Friend … that’s what it says.’

  He straightened up and grinned at Hayley who was once more looking flustered.

  ‘Spooky, that. Got yourself a poltergeist or summat?’

  ‘Oh, I think that prob’ly just means the Friends of the Newman, Mr Noakes. A gift from the volunteers, y’see.’ With a flash of inspiration, she added, ‘They raise funds to send patients on trips … holiday chalets … stuff like that.’

  The DS let it go and wandered off to look at a startling seaside mural – more boats bobbing up and down in a garish marina – with Hayley hovering at his elbow like an anxious gallery assistant.

  Markham, meanwhile, stood lost in thought in front of the strange photograph.

  Your Friend.

  Suddenly, he realized where he had seen those words before.

  At school. A history book about the Russian Revolution. There was a sinister monk called Rasputin, with a long beard and piercing eyes, whose evil influence brought down the royal family and led to their death by firing squad. A hypnotist and fraudster … That was how he signed off letters to his victims. Your Friend.

  Despite the airless warmth of the corridor, Markha
m shivered. It was a disquieting association. Almost a warning. Was there an evil genius lying in wait somewhere in this strange sealed-off world?

  He looked again at the faded photograph, so incongruous next to the relentlessly upbeat artwork surrounding it. Those little chalets, or whatever they were, struck a chill in their desolate isolation. No-one can hear you scream, he thought.

  Hayley was looking askance at Noakes. Oh God, better get in there before he outraged her sensibilities past all hope of redemption.

  Crisis averted. ‘They’ve got Wagon Wheels in the caff,’ she said cunningly.

  As by a Pavlovian reflex, the DS docilely aborted his commentary on the deficiencies of institutional modern art. ‘You up for a cuppa, Guv?’ he said over his shoulder.

  Markham resigned himself to the inevitable and followed the pair back along the corridor. Behind him, there was the faint hydraulic hiss of a swing door, but when he turned around there was no-one there. That was the thing about this hermetically-secured universe, he reflected. Like an aquarium, it somehow deadened sound and muffled ordinary human noises so that they seemed to come from a long way away …

  The other two were looking at him. ‘Lead on, Hayley,’ he said politely.

  Markham felt better once they were seated in the café where they had the place to themselves. The coffee was surprisingly good and the Wagon Wheels restored Noakes’s good humour, while the seating area was light and airy with a pleasant view onto a landscaped patio bright with catkins and primroses. A motherly looking woman greeted Hayley cheerfully before bustling off to do some stock-taking.

  ‘Linda Harelock’s our longest-serving befriender,’ the receptionist explained.

  Noakes looked startled. ‘What’s one of them then, luv?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit, looking round warily as though he anticipated a laying on of hands.

  Hayley giggled at the expression on his face.

  ‘Oh, that jus’ means the volunteers – folk who help with the café and mobile library. They visit patients too, like if they don’t have any family or friends.’

  Noakes relaxed again, but Markham noticed he was back to the furtive glances.

  Hayley noticed too.