Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘I’ll correlate patient and staff movements for the last twenty-four hours, sir.’ Burton was champing at the bit. ‘On a spreadsheet tracker,’ she said in a tone that suggested life could hold no greater bliss.

  Jesus wept. Noakes studiously avoided meeting Doyle’s eye.

  ‘Excellent. Doyle, you can finish taking the staff statements.’

  *

  Both men were glad to get out of the hospital.

  Markham imagined lunatic eyes upon them as they walked away into the swiftly darkening afternoon, rage flashing somewhere in the depths of the building like lightning across a troubled sky. The conviction was so strong, that halfway across the courtyard he whirled around, expecting to see the face of evil pass like a blanched moon across one of those reinforced glass windows.

  But nothing stirred, and the Newman kept its secrets close.

  6. A Cold Front

  ‘“THE CONDEMNED MAN ATE a hearty meal.”’

  Markham grinned at the expression on Noakes’s face as they sat across from each other in the station canteen, the DS boggling as his boss tucked into sausage and chips.

  ‘I can’t face the DCI on an empty stomach,’ the DI admitted. ‘Or maybe I’m just reacting to the Newman.’ He shuddered. ‘There’s something so glazed … so cellophane-wrapped about that place. It makes me want to kick over the traces.’

  ‘You should do it more often, Guv,’ Noakes grunted. ‘They do a mean steak and kidney pie in here.’

  ‘That would be living dangerously.’ In every sense of the word, Markham thought to himself as he contemplated the grubby tables.

  He pushed his plate away.

  ‘How are we going to play it with the DCI, boss?’

  Intimations of nausea circled round Markham’s digestive system.

  ‘We just sit and suck it up, Sergeant. Going on past form, I imagine he’ll stick with the status quo.’ Wearily, he elucidated. ‘That means pinning the murders on our old friend the “bushy haired stranger” rather than daring to insinuate that anyone at the Health Trust could possibly be involved.’

  ‘Cos Sidney plays golf with ’em,’ Noakes observed bluntly.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  For a wistful moment, the two men silently pondered the Shangri-La of a world without DCI Sidney before Markham got to his feet. ‘C’mon, Sergeant,’ he sighed, ‘best get it over with.’

  Miss Peabody, Slimy Sid’s irreproachably correct PA, fluttered round them, enlarged moth eyes scanning an appointments book which she clung on to for dear life.

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector … that is, he may be able to fit you in … perhaps I could …’

  Eying Noakes warily as though she suspected he might not be fully house-trained, the secretary sidled towards the door of Sidney’s inner sanctum and disappeared.

  ‘Always looks at me as if she thinks I’m going to pinch the silver or summat,’ the DS grumbled.

  Reading the runes from Miss Peabody’s appearance was something of an art form, Markham reflected. On this occasion, he judged that the DCI’s mood had taken a sharp turn downwards.

  Once they were ushered into the Presence, it became rapidly apparent to the DI that this conclusion was correct. No offer of tea or coffee was forthcoming, and from the baleful glances directed at Noakes, it was clear the DCI was inventorying fresh causes for complaint. Irritably, he scratched at an outbreak of eczema which mottled his sallow cheeks above the salt and pepper goatee. Somehow, even with the buzz cut and designer beard, he managed to look more like a suburban accountant than the head of CID.

  ‘… The way this is managed could have a major impact on public confidence in the police.’

  Oops. It was always risky to tune out mid-spiel. Now the DCI was glaring at him with unmistakable hostility.

  ‘Maintaining public confidence. Absolutely our priority, sir.’

  Parroting back Sidney’s own words usually worked as a stalling tactic.

  ‘The prospect of dangerously unstable mental patients on the rampage … well, I need hardly spell it out.’

  God, here it was bang on cue. The bushy haired stranger. You had to say this for him, Sidney never disappointed.

  ‘With respect, sir.’ Sidney looked as though he suspected this was Markham’s semaphore for the exact opposite. ‘Scrutinizing former and current service users will obviously be our most urgent priority.’ Obviously. ‘But presumably we need to consider a possible connection with … ongoing investigations …’

  The DCI’s long-lived, wondering frown was something to behold.

  ‘Ah, there’s that flair of yours, Markham.’ Sidney made it sound like a medical condition. ‘A good thing of its kind, but mustn’t let it ride you.’ In a ghastly simulacrum of joviality, he forced a laugh. ‘I’m confident we can trust the GMC and CQC to do their stuff.’ Funny how the acronyms always tripped off the man’s tongue, Markham thought savagely. ‘No need for us to muddy the waters, Inspector.’

  The DI gritted his teeth.

  ‘There’s also the missing persons investigation the DCC tasked me with, sir.’

  Sidney patently didn’t care to be reminded.

  ‘Well, we all have our … hobby horses,’ he said with benign condescension, ‘but I think you’ll be heading up a blind alley, Markham.’ Clearly charmed by this metaphor, he repeated it. ‘Nothing but a blind alley.’

  With kamikaze desperation, Markham tried again.

  ‘It just seems too much of a coincidence that there should be these concerns about the Newman,’ Sidney shot him a gimlet-eyed look of pure loathing, ‘at the same time as a consultant and receptionist turn up murdered.’

  ‘Sexual psychosis.’ With this gnomic pronouncement, the DCI sat back in his chair as if to say ‘game, set and match’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Attractive young female targeted by a predatory mental health patient.’ Sidney shook his head sorrowfully. ‘The public needs protecting from such individuals.’

  ‘Why?’ blurted Noakes. ‘I mean, it’s not like they’re going anywhere.’

  Sidney chose to ignore this interruption by the village idiot.

  ‘What about Doctor Warr?’ Markham was curious to see where this went.

  ‘Ah, a case of transference, Markham.’ Sidney switched to finger-wagging mode. ‘The patient idealizes his psychiatrist as a father figure then kills him after a perceived rejection.’

  ‘Doctor Warr’s body was found outside the hospital, sir.’

  ‘You should be looking at ex-patients in that case, or considering the possibility of a shared delusion.’ With some complacency, he added, ‘Folie à deux, I think they call it.’

  Well, thank you very much, Dr Freud.

  ‘Talking of accomplices,’ which Markham wasn’t, ‘you might want to check out that unsavoury character who’s been operating some sort of vendetta against the hospital. Has a brother in the Newman, I believe.’ Sidney nodded with profound sagacity. ‘They say the apple never falls far from the tree.’

  Do they?

  Satisfied that he had bludgeoned the opposition into silence, Sidney continued. ‘Or there’s the fellow whose wife died after an … unfortunate … judgement call.’

  Unfortunate. God in heaven.

  ‘I think both Mr Belcher and Mr Hewitt can be ruled out for the second murder, sir, as this occurred within the hospital complex … it’s unlikely either of them broke in and, in any event, one imagines their logical target would be medical personnel as opposed to a receptionist.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where the accomplice comes in. Someone on the inside.’

  Markham could see that if the DCI was forced to relinquish his bushy haired stranger as prime suspect, then Belcher or Hewitt were next up.

  ‘It’s certainly one line of enquiry, sir,’ he said non-committally.

  Sidney looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘You believe the murders are connected, Inspector?’

  ‘As I say, sir, it feels too unlikely
to be coincidence.’

  ‘Distrust feeling, Markham. A trap for the unwary.’

  God, if there was something worse than outright hostility, it was the faux paternalism.

  ‘I believe that Doctor Warr was murdered because of his activities at the Newman, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘and that the receptionist Hayley had found out about it. He had some … unusual research interests.’

  The stony silence which greeted this statement was hardly encouraging, but the DI persisted. ‘It’s possible there’s a link to the malpractice inquiry and mispers, sir.’

  The silence lengthened, threatening to become awkward, but Markham made no attempt to fill it. Crossing one elegant leg across the other, he feigned intense interest in the innumerable framed pictures of Sidney rubbing shoulders with a host of celebrities and civic worthies. No wonder station wags had christened his office the Hall of Fame.

  Hold on a minute. Wasn’t that a new addition to the collection?

  Yes, there was the DCI hobnobbing with filthy rich Sir Jocelyn Hart, CEO of Bromgrove Health NHS Trust, and a minor royal. From the look of almost orgasmic rapture on his humpty dumpty bonce, Sidney clearly felt he had scaled the social Himalayas.

  Noakes had got it in one. Or perhaps that should be a hole-in-one, the DI thought as a wave of almost hysterical levity threatened his composure.

  The head honcho at the Trust was Sidney’s new BF. Probably the two of them were firm golfing buddies to boot. No way was the DCI going to let Markham spoil the party.

  Damn and double damn.

  Time to regroup.

  Wearing his blandest expression, the DI said, ‘Of course, sir, as you advised, we need to start with the Newman’s patient population. In such a potentially dangerous environment, any number of psychological disorders could be implicated.’

  The formula worked its magic. Sidney was lapping it up.

  ‘Excellent. No stone unturned, Inspector,’ he replied almost cordially, satisfied that Markham’s tiresome tendency to insurrectionism had been subdued by superior force of arms. So important for young officers to heed the voice of wisdom.

  Noakes was looking hard at him, but Markham gave an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. I’ll tell you when we get out of here.

  Once they were clear of Miss Peabody – anxiously on the look-out for a change in weather fronts – Noakes turned to the DI accusingly. ‘You didn’t tell him owt about that lobotomy stuff.’ He bent his shrewd gaze on Markham. ‘Nor bent coppers neither.’

  ‘I could see there was nothing doing, Noakesy. Keep out signs all over the shop.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There was a new picture of Sidney pressing the flesh with the CEO of the Health Trust … I think Ted Cartwright was oiling away in the background, but wasn’t close enough to see.’

  ‘Ah,’ Noakes said in a tone of deep comprehension. ‘Now I’m with you, Guv.’

  ‘We were too deep in bushy haired stranger territory … anything about malpractice or corruption was doomed to fall on deaf ears.’

  ‘You should wheel in Burton next time, Guv. Get her to bring all them psychology textbooks … Sidney’d love it. They could have a cuppa an’ a nice cosy chat about Ted Bundy an’ all the other freaks.’

  Markham grinned mischievously. ‘It just so happens the DCI read psychology at university like Kate.’

  ‘I might’ve bloody guessed.’

  ‘I saw a few titles by Paul Britton and David Canter on the DCI’s bookshelves, so I fancy he’s interested in criminal profiling and the like.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Noakes sounded profoundly unimpressed. ‘Thinks he’s chuffing Cracker like as not.’

  Markham squared his shoulders. ‘We’ll have to humour him. Let’s just be thankful he didn’t say anything about a press conference.’ Suddenly exhaustion slammed into him like a truck. ‘Look, Noakesy, see if you can put a rocket under Ted Cartwright. I want those records. Then check in with Kate and Doyle. See where they’re up to on patient and staff movements.’

  ‘Those sodding spreadsheets,’ the DS growled.

  ‘Yes, can’t be helped I’m afraid. Kate can also rustle up some clinical data for the in-patients … that way at least we can blind Sidney with science while seeing where the psychosurgery angle takes us. Then there’s—’

  ‘You get off,’ Noakes cut in. Slyly he added, ‘Reckon I know what you need, Guv.’

  ‘Oh yes, what’s that?’

  ‘Coupla bouts down at Doggie Dickerson’s.’ The DS alluded to the gym in Marsh Lane where Bromgrove Police Boxing Club had its unofficial headquarters. Little more than three dingy rings plus sanitary installations of dubious hygienic integrity, this was Markham’s invariable antidote to encounters with the DCI.

  ‘You’ve read my mind, Sergeant,’ the DI replied. ‘Tell the others, briefing 7 a.m. sharp tomorrow.’

  As the DI entered the decrepit premises, Doggie shambled out to meet him, a distinct aroma of whisky following in his wake.

  God, thought Markham, the old rogue looks more disreputable than ever. A dead ringer for Fagin or some other Dickensian villain.

  Doggie’s was a favourite haunt of Bromgrove CID and the local criminal fraternity alike. Under its dodgy auspices, there existed a kind of brotherhood between hunter and hunted, professional hostilities being suspended while they beat the proverbial seven bells out of each other in the ring. For all its seediness, the rough authenticity of the place exactly suited Markham. Far more so than the antiseptic atmosphere of more conventional gyms.

  His grey wig wildly askew, Doggie greeted his ‘fav’rite ’spector’ with unusual condescension and affability, in the process disclosing more of his yellow-toothed orthodontics than Markham cared to behold on a full stomach.

  ‘’Lo, Mr Markham.’

  ‘How goes it, Doggie?’

  ‘Can’t complain, Mr Markham. Your Mr Carstairs was in earlier, givin’ it some welly.’

  Like Markham, Chris Carstairs from Vice derived similar therapeutic benefits from a sweaty slug-fest. On this occasion, the DI was not sorry to have missed him. Wrung out from Sidney, it would be more than he could take.

  Doggie measured his man with a shrewd eye.

  ‘C’mon, Mr Markham, I’ll ’ave the right partner ready for you in a jiffy.’

  The DI turned towards the euphemistically entitled locker room. A thought struck him. ‘You were a professional, Doggie.’ In another life.

  ‘Oh aye,’ was the laconic response.

  ‘Did you ever see boxers with brain injuries?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty o’ pasta brains in my time, Mr Markham. Blokes turned to mush. Nothin’ left. But,’ Doggie shook his head sadly, the wig wobbling from side to side, ‘nobody wanted to talk about it. Bad for business y’see.’ And with that, he shuffled away.

  Turned to mush. Nothing left. Bad for business.

  Those phrases echoed in Markham’s mind as he swung at his bull-like opponent, imagining that he was giving Sidney a pasting – Take that, you bastard. And that! – and they continued to reverberate as he headed for home. More and more, he was inclined to think that delving into the shadowy world of psychosurgery – that bourne from which human beings returned only as wrecks – was likely to be bad for business. The question was, whose?

  *

  ‘I remember the Hewitt case, Gil. That poor woman was virtually decapitated in front of her three children … all under ten. Wasn’t there a misdiagnosis by some psychiatrist at the Newman?’

  ‘Yes, it was Doctor Warr whose body’s just turned up in Bromgrove Woods.’

  Olivia looked startled. ‘He took a drubbing in the press, but got off the hook in the end.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Markham made a sound somewhere between disgust and laughter. ‘The Trust called in the big guns … basically, they chucked around enough clinical labels – mixed affective state, bipolar disorder, blah blah – to ensure he got the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Throwing sand in people’s eyes.�
��

  ‘Precisely.’

  Markham looked lovingly across the table. After the bleached and double-bleached brightness of the Newman – all those endlessly shiny reflective surfaces – the dim cosiness of their living room, curtains drawn tight against the misty night, fell upon him like balm.

  Supper over, they pulled their armchairs up to the wood-burning stove in the fireplace.

  ‘D’you think Dr Warr made other mistakes, Gil?’ Olivia asked, burrowing into the depths of her chair with a girlish snuggle. With her waterfall of red hair, pallor and long slender fingers, she looked more than ever like one of those sirens of legend who lured men to their doom.

  ‘Warr wouldn’t be the first doctor to have a messiah complex.’ Markham’s eyes were shadowed. ‘The fact that he had friends in high places helped him … experts were falling over themselves to say it might not have been schizophrenia and there was a reasonable difference of medical opinion.’

  ‘Like the Yorkshire Ripper and the voices telling him to kill prostitutes,’ Olivia said thoughtfully. ‘You remember, Gil, they said he wasn’t mad at his trial, so he went to prison. Then later he ended up in Broadmoor after they decided he was a paranoid schizophrenic—’

  ‘And now he’s back in prison again on the basis that he’s not mentally ill any more,’ Markham concluded for her. ‘All round the houses because the so-called experts can’t agree.’ He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You couldn’t make it up!’

  ‘I suppose doctors will always come up smelling of roses because they stick together.’

  ‘Well, hopefully the White Coat Effect isn’t as potent as it used to be, sweetheart.’

  Grey-green eyes regarded him earnestly.

  ‘There’s been another one, hasn’t there?’ she said softly. ‘Another murder.’

  Haltingly, Markham told her about Hayley – from their first encounter with the chirpy little receptionist to the discovery of her remains concertinaed in the freight elevator.

  ‘Poor George.’ Olivia’s eyes were over-bright. ‘She’d be about the same age as his daughter. It must have been shattering for him.’