Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘The patients have their own dining areas on the wards,’ she said casually. ‘This is mainly for visitors.’

  Markham was conscious of relief that the evil hour for inducting his sergeant into appropriate behaviour around service users was not yet upon them.

  ‘What’s in the old part of the building?’ he enquired.

  ‘Oh, that’s the archives, where they keep all the records. Lin and the befrienders help out in there sometimes.’ Surreptitiously, Hayley slipped off her stilettos under the table, enjoying the sensation of cool linoleum against her soles. ‘The Research Centre’s in there too, plus some therapy rooms.’

  ‘Looks a bit gloomy,’ put in Noakes. ‘Like Broadmoor or one of them places.’

  ‘That’s all changing, Mr Noakes,’ Hayley said solemnly. ‘They’re redesigning all the old hospitals … gonna be miles cheerier … eco-friendly an’ everything.’

  The DI looked at her earnest little face.

  Cosmetic rebranding, he thought, but the same demons seething beneath.

  Suddenly, Hayley stiffened. A petite woman with an olive complexion and long dark hair coiled into a chignon at the nape of her neck was threading her way through the tables towards them. Her entire appearance was an exemplar of executive power dressing, while long blood-red fingernails put Markham in mind of a bird of prey.

  ‘Thank you, Hayley.’ It was a husky contralto. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  Dismissed, the receptionist scrabbled for her shoes. Markham smiled warmly at her. ‘Thank you for taking care of us, Hayley,’ he said.

  ‘Nice lass that.’ Noakes eyed her retreating figure with avuncular benevolence, oblivious of the impatience which vibrated through every inch of the Pocket Venus at his side.

  ‘Quite,’ was the crisp response. ‘Now, if we could get on.’

  The two men stood and introductions were duly made before Ms Holder ushered them along several more corridors to her office.

  ‘Bit quiet, isn’t it?’ said Noakes to no-one in particular.

  ‘You won’t see much of our service users in the administrative section of the building. Not from any lack of transparency.’ She bestowed a chilly smile on Noakes. ‘It’s simply that the wards are pretty much self-contained, so there’s no reason for them to go further afield.’

  ‘Very cosy, I’m sure,’ came the reply.

  The director looked hard at him, as though probing the observation for any trace of sarcasm, but the DS’s expression of sunny innocence was inscrutable. Clearly concluding that he was an amiable simpleton, their guide opened the door to her sanctum.

  Claire Holder’s huge office was impressive. Parquet wood flooring with what, to Markham’s eye, looked very much like an Aubusson carpet in filigree blue and ivory. Two comfortable wingback armchairs, whose aquamarine needlepoint upholstery picked up the delicate tints of the carpet, were positioned either side of a glass coffee table bearing copies of Country Life. A large walnut Partners desk stood in front of bay French windows, framed by navy swag curtains, which gave access to what looked like a private walled garden. A door to the right of the desk was half-open, and Markham caught a glimpse of a luxuriously appointed private bathroom before the director hastily shut it. One side of the room held an oval conference table and chairs, while the other featured a mahogany sideboard with state-of-the-art coffee maker and fine bone china. A glorious floral arrangement – hellebore and winter jasmine – stood in a blue and white porcelain jardinière next to the window, echoing the room’s colour palette. The air was overlaid with a subtle fragrance, as of cinnamon and cloves.

  A sardonic comment on these plush surroundings gleamed in Noakes’s eye.

  Nice work if you can get it!

  Imperceptibly, Markham shook his head to forestall any impertinent observation, not however without the rueful reflection that Claire Holder’s quarters would give their Chief Super a run for his money.

  With an imperious gesture, the director waved them to be seated and settled herself behind the desk.

  With the light behind her, Markham could now see that the woman was not as composed as she had at first appeared. Despite heavy make-up, her dark eyes looked bloodshot and the manicured hands which rested on her desk’s leather blotter were trembling. Following the direction of the DI’s gaze, she moved them to her lap.

  ‘Your colleague Sergeant Burton is setting up an incident room for you next to the archives room in the clock building. It should satisfy your requirements, but please don’t hesitate to tell me if there is anything else you need. I would appreciate it if you could ensure as little interference with the hospital’s day-to-day routines as possible.’

  Maximum efficiency, minimum warmth.

  ‘This is a murder inquiry, Ms Holder, and everything else is subordinate to that.’ The DI felt an instinctive antipathy to this beautifully groomed woman whose smile did not reach her eyes, but he sought to hide it. With a steely glance at Noakes, he reassured her, ‘We will of course at all times respect the patients’ dignity and privacy.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ She patted her immaculate chignon and flicked an invisible speck off the lapel of her soft wool jacket. A discreet glance at the ormolu clock on her desk suggested that her mind was elsewhere. Committee meetings and action plans, Markham surmised wryly.

  ‘Will you be wanting to start interviews today?’ she asked. That was good. Such pragmatism at least made a change from the usual bill of fare on such occasions: the simulated outrage (‘You can’t seriously be suggesting …’), followed by grudging compliance (‘Well, of course we’ve got nothing to hide …’), accompanied by lashings of insincerity to appease affronted executive egos (‘Just a matter of routine … purposes of elimination’ etcetera).

  ‘I’d like to get started on those first thing tomorrow morning,’ the DI answered smoothly, ‘but if you felt able to spare us a few minutes of your time now …’

  He could tell the suggestion was unwelcome, but she answered steadily enough, ‘Of course.’ A muscle leaped at the corner of her carefully lipsticked mouth. ‘I understand you’ve been able to make an identification …’

  ‘Yes. The deceased is Doctor Jonathan Warr, one of your consultants who went missing early last year.’ No point in sugar coating it. ‘We believe he was murdered, but will know more after the autopsy.’

  She had herself well under control now. Just that tell-tale tic hinting at turmoil behind the veneer.

  ‘It was a shock to everyone when Jon didn’t turn up to work. We’d been at the Mental Health Conference at the Wellcome Institute in London together only the day before.’

  ‘Jus’ the two of you?’ Noakes wore an expression of Confucian impenetrability as though to preserve himself from any suspicion of salaciousness.

  ‘That’s right.’ There was a flush of angry colour on the sallow cheeks, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Markham felt a certain reluctant admiration begin to stir.

  ‘What was your impression of his state of mind?’

  ‘Well, there were problems with his wife Deirdre.’ Her voice hardened. ‘And he was terribly upset by the patient abuse inquiry… I’d never seen him so depressed.’ The black eyes suddenly flashed fire. ‘He was a wonderful, caring man, absolutely devoted to his patients. It was scandalous the way those campaigners persecuted him.’

  ‘Sounds like he had a friend in you, luv,’ Noakes observed insinuatingly.

  ‘He was my professional mentor,’ the director replied with calm dignity.

  That and what else besides, wondered Markham. Was this a case of an illicit relationship gone sour? Had Warr refused to leave his wife for her? Or were the two of them up to something which went awry? Fraud? Malpractice? Something darker?

  Markham rose to his feet, sensing they would get nothing further out of her at this juncture.

  He intercepted a glance at the small top drawer of her desk. Drawer with a key. A pound to a penny Claire Holder had a bottle of something stashed away in there. Gin. Vo
dka. Whisky. From the look on her face, she needed that drink badly …

  It was a relief to get outside and gulp down lungfuls of cold air. Even the gathering twilight was welcome. Markham felt oddly disorientated. As though, like Alice, he had passed through the looking glass. Well, now he was back on the right side again.

  ‘Like Antiques Roadshow in that office,’ Noakes offered sourly. ‘An’ what’s the betting her nibs is necking it down before we’re even out of the car park?’

  ‘Yes, I’d say the mini bar is well and truly open,’ the DI agreed.

  Noakes gave a convulsive shudder. ‘That place creeps me out, Guv. All shiny and nicey-nicey, but not real if you get me.’

  Markham did.

  ‘I want to pay a call on those campaigners Ms Holder mentioned.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘They’ve got an office round the corner, above Age Concern in the shopping centre.’ The DI looked over his shoulder at the hospital, its extensions seeming more submarine-like than ever in the misty evening air. ‘We can swing by here later to check in with Burton and Doyle.’

  With that, the two men walked off towards their car.

  Claire Holder sat on the edge of the loo in her private bathroom, the door locked, fortifying herself exactly as Markham had envisaged.

  Just one drink, she told herself. Just one drink.

  And by God she needed it.

  That inspector was a handsome devil. Reminded her of Jon before …

  Hastily, she took another swig.

  Careful now. She had a meeting with the Trustees in fifteen minutes. Wouldn’t do to let all those awful Colonel Blimps catch a whiff of Stolichnaya Premium brand. Where the fuck were those double-strength mints?

  The awful lecherous look on that buffoon-like sergeant’s face. God.

  It wasn’t like that with Jon. It wasn’t gross or crude. She believed in him. Believed that together they served a higher purpose. And then it all went wrong.

  Enough of this. With shaking hands, she smoothed down her skirt and meticulously began to reapply her makeup.

  Perfect. And no alcohol breath.

  She was ready for business.

  3. Sleep No More

  TWILIGHT WAS DRAWING IN as Markham and Noakes approached Age Concern in the Medway shopping centre, the street lamps’ milky phosphorescence leaching daylight from the evening sky. Yet both men were glad to be away from the Newman Hospital with its relentless, wide awake watchfulness.

  The centre was in fact little more than two covered arcades for the big name retailers – WHSmith, Marks and Spencer, Boots and the like – with a dreary little street in between, where Poundland and charity shops jostled for custom.

  Age Concern was halfway down this unprepossessing row. A doorway to the right of the shop bore a buzzer with the intercom discreetly labelled Behind Closed Doors. Markham pressed the button and the door clicked open. They climbed a flight of dark, rank-smelling stairs, emerging onto a narrow landing with two more doors.

  A pale ginger-haired man with a straggly Karl Marx beard suddenly appeared before them in his shirtsleeves. Squinting uncertainly at them in the gloom, he said, ‘That was speedy. I wasn’t expecting you guys till tomorrow.’

  Following him into a cramped office overlooking the street, they were confronted with an industrial size photocopier which had clearly ground to a halt mid-cycle, the machine’s inky entrails exposed to view and stacks of leaflets dotting the sludge-coloured rattan carpet.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, sir.’ The DI grimaced sympathetically while Noakes took in the dispiriting décor of faded floral wallpaper, limp moss-green curtains hanging at a drunken angle, and grubby formica table overflowing with takeaway cartons. It was the kind of place his missus would say should carry a warning to wipe your feet on the way out. ‘I gather you’re expecting a repair service,’ Markham continued. ‘In fact, we’re here on another matter entirely.’

  Introductions were made, their softly-spoken interlocutor explaining that he was David Belcher, lead (and doubtless sole) coordinator of the Behind Closed Doors campaign, before inviting them to take a seat. Perched gingerly on the edge of an incongruously chintzy sofa, Noakes averted his eyes from various stains and blotches which suggested it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. God, he thought, let’s get out of bleeding Botulism Central before we catch summat.

  Markham showed not the slightest sign of discomfort, as much at his ease in the comfortless garret as if taking tea with the Queen. You had to hand it to the guvnor, the DS reflected with grudging admiration, he treated everyone alike. Didn’t matter if they were the Deputy Chief Constable or a dustman, it was all the same to him.

  The DI’s grave courtesy had its effect on the other whose offer of refreshments was (with an inward shudder on Noakes’s part) declined. Coiling his lanky frame into a grungy armchair opposite them, Belcher apologized for the chaos. ‘We run this place on a shoestring, and everything’s at sixes and sevens today.’

  ‘You’re in the middle of a mailshot, I see. Admirable work, acting as a watchdog for patients’ rights.’ Markham paused. ‘Hopefully the mental health landscape’s changed for the better thanks to the Blom-Cooper and Boynton inquiries,’ he added with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Maybe in places like Ashworth and Rampton, Inspector. But the trendy brigade’s moved on now. The Newman doesn’t attract many column inches these days.’

  ‘But surely the current investigation’s a positive development.’

  ‘D’you know how long it took to get that off the ground, Inspector?’ David Belcher’s hands were clenched as though he badly wanted to punch someone. ‘Years. And we were stonewalled all the way.’ He took a ragged breath. ‘If it hadn’t been for those lowlife nurses getting sent down, the Newman’s managers would’ve got away with it. Just tap-danced their way out of trouble.’ A hand came up to tug the straggly beard. ‘But after that, well, the Trust couldn’t look the other way.’

  The DS eyed him shrewdly. ‘Know someone in there do you, mate? A patient?’

  Belcher looked at Noakes’s face. Whatever he saw there seemed to reassure him.

  ‘Yeah, my brother Mikey.’ Another tug of the beard. ‘Personality disorder. Our shitty childhood may have had something to do with it …’

  ‘At least he’s got you in his corner.’

  ‘Violent sociopath. That’s what they called him. But he was never violent with me.’

  ‘Any chance they’ll let him out one day?’ Noakes’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

  ‘Oh, they’ve marked him down as a troublemaker, Sergeant. He’s on the patients’ council, you see.’

  ‘Don’t they like ’em to have a bit of a say, then?’

  A strange, almost shifty expression crossed Belcher’s face.

  ‘Not it if means opening a can of worms.’

  ‘Can of worms?’ Markham leaned forward intently.

  ‘Stories from old-timers … about more than just abuse.’ Belcher gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Look, I know this sounds far-fetched … like something out of Shutter Island … but Mikey was freaked out.’ The hazel eyes held a desperate appeal. ‘Word was that people had disappeared and one of your lot was involved.’ He swallowed hard, prominent Adam’s apple painfully visible under the transparent skin. ‘There must’ve been something in it, cos they suspended my visits after that. Oh, sure, they dressed it up with a load of bollocks about patient protocols and change of medication, but the bottom line was I didn’t get to see him.’

  ‘Rest assured, we’ll be looking into that, Mr Belcher,’ Markham said seriously. The room was very quiet, the sound of creaking grilles in the street below signalling the end of the working day.

  ‘You may be aware that a body was discovered in Bromgrove Woods.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard, Inspector.’

  ‘Doctor Jonathan Warr from the Newman. We believe him to have been murdered.’

  Again, a long convulsive swallow and a flush that ran up under the dead
white complexion like an angry rash.

  ‘I won’t pretend to be sorry, Inspector. I’m not that much of a hypocrite.’ Belcher’s voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion.

  Markham waited. It was one of his gifts, the capacity to refrain from filling a silence.

  ‘He was an arrogant piece of work. One of those doctors with a God complex.’ Belcher made a self-deprecating gesture. ‘Look, I don’t have a chip. Never made it to university myself … lost several years to drink and drugs … But I know a phoney when I see one.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Oh sure, Warr had a string of initials after his name and all the bigwigs eating out of his hand. But he was managing Mikey’s case all wrong … experimenting on him with way-out treatments or some such, cos Mikey was doing really well, then once Warr came along he went a bit haywire.’

  ‘Could what your Mikey said about folk disappearing be down to his mental problems?’ Noakes asked. ‘Or maybe,’ the DS screwed up his bulldog features in a comically touching effort to telegraph sympathy, ‘there was hallucinations or summat that stopped him thinking straight … voices from the radio an’ all that.’

  ‘Anything’s possible, Sergeant. But I think Mikey was proper scared … cowed almost. I’d never seen him like that before.’

  Belcher looked straight at Markham.

  ‘Something was wrong at that hospital, Inspector. And I think Doctor Warr and that harpy girlfriend of his were both in on it.’

  He sighed and gestured to the photocopier. ‘This is a tinpot – some would say crackpot – outfit. But at least we’re raising awareness.’

  The DS scooped up a handful of leaflets. He cleared his throat. ‘Good on you, mate.’ Without looking at Markham, he added, ‘We’ll have a few of these for the station.’

  The DI raised a quizzical eyebrow. Wonders would never cease. Noakes’d be suggesting a group hug next. ‘We can see ourselves out, Mr Belcher,’ he said cordially. ‘No need for you to come downstairs.’

  It was quite dark now, with only a few idlers here and there. A heavy silence seemed to press in on them, strangely and suddenly hushing the lonely little precinct.