Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Noakes jerked a thumb in the direction of the staircase.

  ‘Her nibs was the only one who bothered with this place … probl’y for a bit of how’s your father with Warr.’

  No-one got to the heart of the matter quite like the DS.

  ‘It’s likely they used this place for trysts, yes.’ Markham murmured.

  ‘Yeah.’ Noakes was on a roll. ‘Nice an’ out of the way. Jus’ the Shagnastys an’ a bleeding ghost…. Perfect…. After Warr copped it, the killer could count on nobody paying a visit for yonks.’ He shuddered. ‘Any road, not till there was nobbut left of that poor lad but bones.’

  Soberly, the DI nodded agreement.

  ‘Mebbe chummy knew about Cruella de Vil’s little visits an’ wanted to pin it on her.’

  ‘An added bonus, certainly.’

  ‘Think she could’ve done it, Guv?’ Noakes ducked his head awkwardly in the direction of the shaft. ‘Yon fella didn’t like her.’ His underlip shot out. ‘Hussy … that’s what ’e called her.’

  ‘Harpy,’ Markham amended mildly.

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘We need to keep an open mind, Sergeant. She brought us up here, remember.’

  ‘Could be a double bluff,’ was the stubborn response.

  ‘There’s something she’s not telling us,’ Markham said thoughtfully, ‘but that fear wasn’t simulated.’

  ‘Looked like she were going to puke her guts up, granted,’ the DS conceded with lugubrious relish, ‘but mebbe the reality was jus’ sinking in … mebbe shoving the lad down there was part of some sick ritual….’

  The DI could see his subordinate was enraptured by the possibility of some occult or equally fantastic dimension. Time to administer a swift dose of reality.

  ‘Next thing, you’ll be telling me she’s a practitioner of Wicca. Offering black masses up here with Doctor Lopez and Ernie Roberts!’

  Noakes coloured, looking more than a little foolish as he returned to the sublunary sphere.

  ‘Sorry, boss. I dunno,’ he mumbled, ‘there’s summat about this place …’

  ‘It’s okay. I feel it too.’

  The DI looked at the sinister hatch. A trapdoor to hell.

  We’ll get the bastard, he promised David Belcher silently. We’ll get whoever chucked you away like so much rubbish. And we’ll finish what you started – force whatever lurks beneath this hospital’s shiny blank surfaces into the light of day.

  Noakes waited respectfully. He knew that funny closed look on the guvnor’s face. It meant he was talking to the dead or summat. The missus called it ‘Gilbert Markham’s dreadfully morbid streak’, but Olivia laughingly vowed that she and George (here the DS turned hot) would one day succeed in tearing her boyfriend from those vaults where he prowled taper in hand.

  The DS didn’t mind. He was used to it now. He hoped David Belcher could hear whatever the guvnor was saying.

  ‘Right, Noakes.’ The DI was ready to go. ‘Backup should’ve arrived by now.’

  They left the concrete chamber and moved across the asphalt towards the stairs.

  The wind was rising, whistling more fiercely about the rooftop as though keening.

  Lamentings heard in the air, strange screams of death.

  But nothing would wake the sleeper in the shaft.

  It took some time to sort the SOCOs, but at last they were dispatched to the observation platform with their arc lights and equipment, and quiet finally returned to the incident room.

  The DI slumped into a chair.

  ‘What did you do with Ms Holder, Kate?’

  ‘Sent her home, sir. She’d only have got in the way. And besides, it looked like she was in shock. We’d not get any sense out of her tonight.’ She hesitated. ‘Was that right?’

  ‘Absolutely. She’ll keep till tomorrow.’

  ‘I told her we needed CCTV footage for the last forty-eight hours, but – you’re not going to like this, sir – it’s been wiped.’ She made a wry face. ‘A blip, apparently.’

  There was a despondent silence broken by Burton.

  ‘What was Belcher doing here, sir? I mean, he hadn’t been signed in at the front desk and nobody was aware of him being in the building.’

  Except his murderer.

  ‘How well did the staff know him?’

  ‘I sent Doyle round the wards to check.’ Burton flipped open her pocketbook. ‘Doctor Lopez and Sister Appleton knew him from when he was allowed onto intensive care. Anna Sladen and a couple of the part-time psychologists had dealings when Mikey’s care package changed and they took over from Doctor Warr…. Some of the nurses knew him from the campaign Behind Closed Doors … a few of them were unhappy about all the negative PR.’

  ‘Unhappy enough to kill?’

  ‘Unlikely, sir. Doyle said they seemed genuinely shocked.’

  ‘What about support staff – cleaners, housekeepers, facilities people?’

  ‘Nothing doing, though one of the cleaners thought she remembered him from a few years back … thinks he went to a couple of events organized by the volunteers, coffee mornings and what have you.’

  ‘That ring any bells with Mrs Harelock? She’s responsible for the befrienders, isn’t she?’

  ‘She said his face looked familiar, but she couldn’t be sure if that was because she’d seen him at hospital events or because his face was in the Gazette a few times.’

  Markham rubbed his five o’clock shadow ruminatively. It’s not fair, thought Noakes. The rest of us look like shit, while the guvnor just gets better and better.

  Oblivious of his sergeant’s reflections on the cruel destiny which had endowed one of them with matinee idol good looks and the other a face only a mother could love, the DI continued quizzing Burton.

  ‘Any of the porters clap eyes on him?’

  ‘Nobody saw anything, sir, but …’ She consulted her notes. ‘One of the lads on the apprenticeship scheme said he heard a clanking and rattling noise coming from the clocktower.’

  The elevator.

  Markham leaned towards her, his eyes suddenly alight with interest.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Some time Monday evening.’

  ‘Monday!’

  The DI looked at Noakes. ‘We saw Mr Belcher on Monday evening.’

  ‘So, he could’ve been killed later that night, Guv … even before little Hayley.’

  Markham’s face darkened. He recalled his last sight of David Belcher’s lonely figure at the window of his dingy campaign HQ. And then he saw the man as he had appeared in his dreams – moving like a ghost through the hospital to some phantom operating theatre where he had gestured urgently. ‘Look there. Don’t you see?’

  I failed to see, the DI reproached himself, and because of that he’s dead.

  There was something dark and bitter in the remembrance. Even the ending of the dream now appeared charged with significance, the chasm which opened beneath their feet prefiguring Belcher’s long descent down the shaft where his body was found.

  With an effort, Markham returned to the present.

  ‘He must have seen something,’ he said finally. ‘Or remembered something and suddenly realized it was significant.’

  ‘But why not come to us, Guv?’ Noakes sounded dismayed. ‘Why’d he go to the hospital?’

  ‘He must’ve known it could be dangerous,’ Burton put in.

  ‘D’you think it was blackmail, boss? I mean, he didn’t seem the type … unworldly, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I agree.’ Markham’s extraordinarily magnetic gaze held his colleagues’ attention fast. ‘He didn’t want money…. I think he worked out who had killed Jonathan Warr and sympathized with them.’

  ‘So he wasn’t lookin’ to turn ’em in?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But what did he want then?’ Burton was impatient for answers.

  ‘Information.’

  Calmly and methodically, Markham shared the fruits of his and Noakes’s research. Burton
listened attentively.

  ‘My God,’ she breathed when the DI was finished. ‘Maybe that’s why this place gives me the creeps.’

  Markham looked at her in surprise. Kate Burton rarely said anything so subjective.

  Embarrassed, but gratified by his response, she continued, ‘Even with all the fancy technology and mod cons, it feels like it might as well be on another continent … or even on another planet … as though anything could happen to people if they end up in here….’

  ‘That’s zackly ’ow I feel!’ exclaimed Noakes.

  Despite himself, Markham’s lips twitched.

  ‘Well, there you go, kindred spirits the pair of you.’

  Seeing that neither looked thrilled at this designation, the DI returned to his analysis.

  ‘David Belcher clearly suspected that some kind of abuse had gone on at the Newman, though it’s unlikely he had euthanasia in mind.’

  ‘So you think he wanted someone on the inside to help him figure it out.’

  ‘That’s right, Kate. An exposé would have lifted the lid on the Newman as well as giving him more leverage where Mikey was concerned.’

  ‘He took a big risk.’

  ‘I don’t think he realized the danger.’ The DI’s face was downcast. ‘His crusading zeal blinded him to everything else.’

  ‘Poor silly lad prob’ly thought he’d end up on Panorama.’ Noakes bit his lip. ‘Why the fuck didn’t he come to us instead?’

  ‘He saw us as the “establishment”, Noakes. Didn’t feel able to trust us. And, frankly, can you blame him? Remember, Mikey had told him one of our lot was involved.’

  ‘Oh God, Mikey.’

  ‘Too late to go to intensive care now, Noakes.’

  ‘Yeah, they probably dish out the meds and tuck ’em up the earliest they c’n get away with.’

  ‘We’ll break the news tomorrow.’

  Burton snapped her pocketbook shut, looking more like a school prefect than ever.

  ‘What’s the plan for tomorrow, sir?’

  ‘Briefing at 7 a.m. I’ll look at anything else from Doyle then.’ Then, ruefully, ‘Doctor Warr’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon, so best bib and tucker for that. All of us on parade, no exceptions.’

  ‘Blimey, that’s quick, Guv. How come?’

  ‘By special request. The family and the Health Trust want it done and dusted quickly and quietly … no fanfare … buried on an inside page of the Gazette rather than front page news, if you get my drift.’

  They did.

  ‘And with the body being skeletonized, it was simply a question of taking specimens.’

  Organs in jars, as Doctor ‘Dimples’ Davidson had put it.

  Burton swallowed a yawn. ‘I’ll stay and see the SOCOs off, sir.’

  ‘Me an’ all.’

  Markham blinked. The entente cordiale appeared to be putting out some delicate shoots. Well, far be it from him to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said before adding with mock severity, ‘but no need to write up a report. That can wait till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Wouldn’t think of it, boss.’ In Noakes’s case, he had no doubt that was the literal truth.

  Thursday afternoon.

  Jonathan Warr’s funeral in the crematorium chapel at Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery was quite as grim as Markham had anticipated.

  Walking up the gravel path which bordered the garden of remembrance, the DI was surprised to see Muriel Noakes bearing down on him, resplendent in an extraordinary black toque reminiscent of defunct royalty. She had Noakes in custody, which doubtless explained why he looked almost passable, though the way he was wriggling – like a small boy who needed the loo – suggested his dark suit was much too tight.

  Markham realized he was staring. Hastily, he rearranged his features into an expression of bland good will.

  ‘Good afternoon, Gilbert.’

  God, those dreadful arch tones. And she was the only person who ever called him Gilbert.

  ‘Hello, Muriel. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Well, one tries to support the local community.’

  One. Queen Mother setting.

  Markham carefully avoided looking at Noakes.

  ‘Olivia not with you?’ She made it sound like a dereliction of duty. But then, he was well aware that Muriel didn’t regard his girlfriend as “officer class”, while Noakes’s dumb crush only increased her jealous resentment.

  And yet, Markham knew that Noakes was devoted to his pushy social-climbing wife and fiercely defensive, as though he saw something in her that others – less observant – missed. Champion ballroom performers, on the dance floor the apparently ill-assorted couple moved in perfect harmony.

  He reminded himself not to judge by appearances. What do we ever really know about what goes on in other people’s lives, he wondered.

  Somehow, he needed to find time to catch up with Olivia. Bridge the distance that had mysteriously arisen between them. Until now, hers was the thread of Ariadne whose lightest touch brought him back. But now the thread was unravelling. Something threatened the link between them….

  As he stood lost in thought (so alone, Muriel hissed, not at all sotto voce), there was a general drift towards the chapel. Kate Burton and Doyle came up alongside him looking as ill at ease as Noakes with the same air of clothes pinching uncomfortably, in the metaphorical if not literal sense.

  ‘The DCI and Chief Super have already gone in,’ Burton whispered.

  ‘Right, we’ll slip in near the back,’ Markham replied.

  The chapel’s exterior was quaintly mock gothic, but inside it had all the charm of a downmarket garden centre. Plastic flowers, greenish-yellow uplighting which gave the mourners’ faces an anaemic cast, and a terracotta plinth for the coffin. The only religious emblem was a hideous kitsch crucifix dangling from a hook next to the reader’s pine lectern. Mustard-yellow curtains framed a proscenium arch with little doors leading to the furnace and chimney beyond. For a wrenching moment, Markham was reminded of the mouse-hole hatch through which David Belcher’s body had made its last journey.

  Quickly, he looked away and surveyed the congregation. It was noticeably small but, with a cloud hanging over the good doctor’s reputation, that was perhaps not surprising. Slimy Sid and Chief Superintendent Rees were there, however, mounting a rear-guard action. Philip Rees must have felt the DI’s eyes boring into his back, because he turned around and gave a chilly nod. Sensing an inscrutable falsehood behind the executive veneer, Markham suddenly felt more convinced than ever that Rees and Warr had been partners. The consultant’s path had been smoothed. Records deleted and protest stifled. For a price.

  On the other side of the aisle, he noticed a small contingent from the hospital. Linda Harelock and Ernie Roberts looked as though they were propping each other up. Anna Sladen, graceful in a tailored black dress and blazer, kept glancing at them in concern. Doctor Lopez and Sister Appleton wore expressions of professional sympathy but that was only to be expected. Claire Holder’s appearance, on the other hand, came as a shock. Looking as though she had aged twenty years, like Muriel Noakes she was wearing some over-the-top millinery – a veiled riding hat more appropriate to costume drama than a low-key funeral. From her glassy-eyed stare, Markham suspected tranquilizers or drink.

  The service was mercifully restrained and ‘undenominational’, the elderly celebrant dispensing with a eulogy. A knocked-about looking blonde gave the reading, her voice flat, almost bored.

  ‘“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”’

  This was presumably Warr’s widow, to whom Superintendent Bretherton had broken the news of her husband’s demise. According to rumour, she appeared less than grief-stricken.

  Charity, thought Markham. My God. Rage flushed through his entire body as he remembered Jonathan Warr’s wretched end, and he realized he was shaking. Unobtrusively, he crammed
his hands into the pockets of his pin striped suit.

  A canned version of ‘Jerusalem’ brought the proceedings to an end, what remained of Doctor Jonathan Warr creeping inch by inch on its conveyor belt towards the little doors. Then the coffin was gone and they could go.

  The wooded grounds of the crematorium were like something out of Hansel and Gretel, Markham thought as they emerged into the small leafy park. Fairy tale-ish and surreal. He was glad the chimney was obscured by tall pines.

  It felt obligatory to gather round the wreaths. Amongst some ostentatiously flamboyant wreaths, the DI was touched to see a small bouquet of red roses and dianthus. From the befrienders. Behind it nestled a simple nosegay of violets with a card that read Ernie and all the Porters.

  People began to disperse. Markham saw Anna Sladen shepherding Linda and Ernie away. Doctor Lopez walked with Sister Appleton and Claire Holder. A gaggle of hospital staff followed.

  Markham decided he couldn’t face an encounter with Slimy Sid or the Chief Super. Good. Muriel Noakes had buttonholed them while her husband and his colleagues stood awkwardly on the side lines.

  ‘We’re out of here,’ he told his officers briskly. ‘And before you ask, Noakes, no, there isn’t a wake. Or at least not one at which our presence is requested.’

  The DS was clearly disappointed by the lack of an opportunity to demonstrate his fabled proficiency at hoovering up vol au vents and canapés.

  ‘Best get out of the monkey suits then,’ he muttered sulkily, glowering at the DCI as though he held him personally responsible. ‘I bet they’re going to the eats.’ Noakes was nothing if not a good hater.

  ‘You and I are going on a little trip,’ Markham said to the disgruntled DS. Turning to Burton and Doyle, he instructed, ‘Chase up the PM on David Belcher. Then re-interview every member of staff and check the whereabouts of all patients from Monday evening.’ Noting Doyle’s air of discouragement, he rallied the young detective. ‘Kate will brief you on what Noakes and I have turned up so far. We are getting closer, but there’s a conspiracy of silence here.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘One which goes right to the top. So be discreet.’

  ‘What about the archive records?’ Burton asked.

  ‘Keep digging. I want as much as you can find on those patients and their surgery.’