Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘This is all conjecture, people.’ Markham was tense.

  DC Doyle was fidgeting with paperclips, as though revolving something in his mind.

  ‘What is it, Doyle?’

  ‘Ted Cartwright and the Chief Super weren’t on the scene till much later, sir – 2010…. So where do they fit into all this?’

  ‘We have to see Doctor Warr’s activities in terms of phases.’ Reluctant pity for the murdered consultant lanced through him. ‘I think there were stretches when he probably managed to fulfil the role of dedicated, caring professional. But then a combination of greed and megalomania somehow came into play, and he was seduced back into ethically dubious magic surgery.’

  ‘With Cartwright and Rees oiling the wheels,’ Noakes finished glumly.

  ‘Yes.’ To Markham there was now a ghastly inevitably about that unholy troika. ‘They served on the same local committees … mixed with the great and the good … attended the same case conferences….’

  ‘Had their snouts in the same trough.’

  ‘It seems increasingly likely.’ The DI was quietly circumspect. ‘Though I should stress we need to be wary of jumping to conclusions. All of this is just hypothesis.’ Sombrely, he added, ‘It doesn’t take us any closer to finding out who killed Hayley Macdonald and David Belcher.’

  ‘Any chance of an exhumation licence for the graveyard at Seacrest, sir?’

  ‘It would take time. Which is something we don’t have.’

  ‘An’ ’sides, the DCI’d never wear it,’ Noakes pointed out. ‘What with it pointing the finger at Warr an’ his cronies.’

  Only too true, thought Markham, wincing at the thought of Slimy Sid’s likely reaction if he attempted to revisit the theory of corruption in high places. He could hear it now. ‘Have you forgotten that Doctor Warr is the victim here, Inspector?’ That would be followed by the usual folderol about besmirching the reputations of public servants, and the coda would follow the familiar lines of a warning against his besetting sin – flair.

  No, far better to keep feeding Sidney the line that they were focusing their attention on psychopaths with a grudge while secretly following the psychosurgery trail.

  The problem was that he couldn’t stall Sidney forever. Any time now, the DCI’s love of PR meant that he would be demanding Markham set up a press conference where he could announce, in statesmanlike fashion, that the police were on the verge of a significant breakthrough.

  Only problem being they currently had zilch.

  The DI dragged his attention back to the team.

  ‘Kate, you said you’d come across a few cases in Cartwright’s files that caused ripples.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Intelligent brown eyes watched him intently.

  ‘Were they like Rose’s?’

  ‘Well, hers stood out, sir, cos of the way the family went smash. The mum dying like that and a couple of the younger kids going off the rails…. But there were one or two other cases where people made complaints.’ She screwed up her face in an effort to recall the details. ‘There was one woman whose husband cut up rough about Warr using hypnotherapy. He claimed she was never really the same afterwards…. I think she ended up in the Newman again after an attempted suicide. The husband wrote to the CEO of the Health Trust as well as his MP, but no dice.’

  ‘Sounds like the good doctor was untouchable.’ The bitterness in Doyle’s voice attracted Markham’s attention. He noticed that Noakes was covertly scrutinizing him as well. The DS had an avuncular relationship with Doyle, regularly appraising the youngster’s amatory prospects and the fortunes of their beloved Bromgrove Wanderers (it was debatable as to which loomed larger) over a pint. The old war horse was bound to know what was up. Once they’d finished here, Markham would winkle it out of him.

  ‘One thing I don’t get, boss.’

  ‘What’s that, Kate?’

  ‘Why did Cartwright have all this stuff from the eighties and nineties in his files? As Doyle said, he only arrived on the scene much later.’

  ‘A way of making sure Warr stayed in line,’ Noakes suggested. ‘If Cartwright knew where the bodies were buried,’ his three colleagues flinched, ‘then he could put the screws on Warr. No chance of the doc bottling out.’

  ‘Insurance.’ The DI’s voice rang with conviction. ‘He wanted to make sure that nothing from Warr’s earlier practice could come back to bite them.’

  ‘And now it has.’

  ‘Yes,’ Markham said seriously. ‘I imagine Ted Cartwright is one very frightened man.’

  ‘Good.’ Noakes’s response was unequivocal.

  ‘It’s getting late.’ The DI spoke briskly, trying to inject some energy into his voice. ‘Kate, I need you to check out everything we’ve got from Cartwright, especially those cases where there were complaints against Doctor Warr. See if you can get a handle on the families. Try Social Services, the Health Trust … Citizens Advice … local MP’s Constituency Office … mental health support groups. Someone out there knows something that could lead us to the killer.’

  ‘Speaking of support groups, sir, the befrienders are running a coffee morning here tomorrow.’ She flashed a grin at Noakes. ‘Lots of home baking, so Linda Harelock tells me.’

  ‘S’pose we oughta show our faces, Guv. Community relations an’ all that.’

  ‘Absolutely, Sergeant,’ Markham replied. ‘I know I can rely on you to consume sufficient quantities of Bakewell tart to disarm the most obdurate critic of Bromgrove CID.’

  Noakes wasn’t at all sure he liked the guvnor’s sarky tone of voice. But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘My Muriel never misses Mary Berry,’ he said loftily. ‘Happen she’ll drop in. With it being for charity.’

  The DI suppressed a groan.

  ‘Doyle, I’ll catch up with you first thing tomorrow. See where we’re up to with staff and patient movements. Right, you and Kate shoot off. Noakes, a quick word, please.’

  When the door had shut behind the other two, he asked bluntly, ‘What’s the matter with Doyle?’ As the other hesitated, he rapped, ‘There’s no point denying it, Sergeant. It was written all over his face.’

  ‘His older sister Jean’s retarded.’

  ‘Learning disabled, Noakes.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Noakes was unabashed. ‘Epileptic too.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Presumably that’s why he was so uncomfortable visiting Mikey Belcher on the intensive care ward.’

  ‘Nah. He was jus’ being a big girl’s blouse.’ The DS drew himself up with almost Churchillian hauteur. ‘I told him there’s no room for wusses in our nick.’

  There was no danger that the quality of mercy would ever be strained in Bromgrove CID, thought Markham. Aloud he said, ‘He seemed pretty upset just now.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I s’pose that story Burton was telling got to him.’ Noakes cleared his throat. ‘He was always watching out for Jean when they were growing up. Hated it when she got called moron an’ stuff like that. Other kids were unkind, y’see. When she got into a state, he could calm her down no matter what.’

  ‘You seem to know quite a lot about her.’ Markham never failed to marvel at the way his uncouth, monumentally tactless sergeant somehow had the knack of finding his way to people’s hearts.

  The DS looked embarrassed. ‘Well, the lad’s dead fond of Jean. She’s in one of them assisted living thingies now, but he takes her out at weekends for treats an’ that. She’s even been to the footie.’ He looked straight at Markham. ‘I think he was always afraid summat bad might happen … that they might lock her up an’ throw away the key … or she’d end up in one of them God awful places that smells of pee where they all sit around staring into space.’

  ‘If Jean had fallen into the clutches of a pair of butchers like Kennedy and Molloy, that might well have been her fate.’ Markham shuddered.

  ‘You won’t tell the lad I’ve said owt, will you, Guv?’ Noakes asked anxiously. ‘Only he wouldn’t like to think we’d b
een talking about it.’

  ‘Mum’s the word, Sergeant.’ Markham smiled warmly at his subordinate, grateful for his infallible radar. ‘In the meantime, let’s steer Doyle away from those case histories.’

  ‘Burton’s welcome to ’em,’ the other grunted. ‘Like a freaking ghoul she is. Poring over them creepy books from Warr’s office.’

  Creepy was the word, Markham silently agreed, thinking about sepia pictures of butter knives slicing through brain tissue and paralyzed patients grimacing at the camera, heads tilted, frozen somewhere near their left shoulder, their fingers gnarled and useless. How terrible for Doyle if that had been the phantom of his imagination. His sister spirited away to become the madwoman in the attic.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Noakesy,’ he said sincerely. ‘Keep an eye on Doyle for me, will you.’

  ‘Wilco, Guv.’ Noakes was proud to have the boss’s confidence.

  ‘Right, see you tomorrow, ready to consume your bodyweight in cakes.’

  Watching Noakes in action the following morning, winning hearts and minds as he wolfed down chocolate cake and brownies, Markham realized his parting injunction the night before was destined to be followed to the letter.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to bake for a man who appreciates home cooking like you do, Sergeant.’ Linda Harelock beamed her approval, while her helpers twittered admiringly on the sidelines.

  Muriel Noakes, fussily overdressed as always, found time in between patronizing the hospital volunteers to tell Markham in a stage whisper that he was looking ‘terribly thin and run down’, before enquiring with misplaced flirtatiousness, ‘Whatever is Olivia doing to you, Gilbert?’ Tempted to reply that a diet of rampant sex was responsible, the sight of Noakes hovering in the background like a faithful St. Bernard checked any tendency to flippancy. Instead, the DI proffered some conventional platitudes which appeared to satisfy Mrs Noakes, for she patted her stiffly lacquered hair with an air of complacent satisfaction before moving on to her next victim, Councillor Edwards, a timid little man who visibly quailed as she bore down on him like a ship in full sail.

  Looking around the small café, Markham saw Anna Sladen looking distinctly ill at ease, cornered by Philip Rees of all people. Now, why had the Chief Super bothered to turn up, he asked himself.

  The DI allowed himself the pleasure of a few moments’ contemplation of Anna’s cool blonde beauty, wondering idly what her hair would be like unbound. Danae in her cloud.

  Then he caught Noakes’s beady eye from across the room and blushed as though he had been caught out in some infidelity. Damn the man. What did he think he was? Markham’s chaperone?

  The psychologist’s eyes invited him to come and rescue her. Ignoring Noakes, he walked over. Rees was clearly displeased at the interruption.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said curtly before turning on his heel and walking across to Claire Holder who stood in a huddle with Doctor Lopez, Sister Appleton and other hospital staff.

  The managing director looked less than her glamorous self, wearing a boxy black suit that drained all the colour from her already ravaged face. The rest darted furtive glances at Markham, as though avid to discern if they were the subject of conversation.

  ‘You don’t relish these occasions, Ms Sladen,’ he observed.

  ‘Am I that obvious?’ She gave a strained laugh. Close up, he could see dark shadows under the startlingly blue eyes. ‘I can’t recall who it was talked about every man being surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, but they must surely have had the Newman in mind!’

  Markham’s lips quirked in amusement.

  And then he noticed something.

  Chief Superintendent Philip Rees was no longer in the café.

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Sladen,’ he murmured.

  Swiftly, he moved along corridors, glancing into bays, courtyards and day rooms.

  There was no-one about save for Ernie Roberts trundling his squeaky-wheeled trolley. Typically selfless, thought Markham. Holding the fort while the rest of them stuffed their faces.

  As though by instinct, he directed his steps towards Jonathan Warr’s office.

  The door was ajar, and through the half-open gap, Markham saw the unmistakable figure of Philip Rees standing next to the consultant’s filing cabinet. Stealth was written all over him.

  Quietly, hardly daring to breathe, Markham retreated down the corridor.

  But there was another watcher, mindful that the time was close at hand.

  For we must all appear before the judgment seat to answer for the things done in the body, be they good or bad.

  12. Out of the Depths

  TURNING A CORNER INTO one of the Newman’s endless bays, the DI slumped against the wall collecting his thoughts.

  What was the Chief Super doing in Jonathan Warr’s office? Who had unlocked it for him? What was Rees looking for?

  Wearily, he shut his eyes.

  A prickling apprehension recalled Markham to himself. Despite the silence, he felt sure that someone was watching him.

  He moved out of the bay to stand in the corridor, scrutinizing its linoleumed depths with a searching mistrust before looking down to the swing doors at the far end.

  Suddenly, he saw a face distorted with rage flattened against the glass pane of the left-hand door, cyanosed features contorted in a Munch-like silent scream.

  For a minute, Markham stood paralyzed, as though the sight had cast a spell on him, then he moved swiftly down the corridor towards the doors.

  There was no-one there, though; like a floater in his eye, he felt that dark silhouette lingering in the cool sanitized hospital air.

  Maybe he’d just imagined the apparition, though the sense of scorching hatred had been so strong he had felt as though it might strip the flesh from his bones.

  Hell is empty. And all the devils are here.

  Christ, this glassed-in greenhouse unnerved him, he thought, moodily gazing out into one of the interconnecting courtyards where colourless sunlight slanted onto concrete under a pumice-grey sky.

  The DI felt he couldn’t take more forced civility at the coffee morning, so he headed for the incident room. He’d check in with Burton and Doyle before returning to collect Noakes who was no doubt still carrying the flag for CID – right down to the very last crumb.

  Burton had a queer, intent look on her face when the DI caught up with her. Bent over what looked like one of the books from Jonathan Warr’s extensive library, she appeared both fascinated and repelled.

  ‘Doctor Warr was majorly interested in far-out stuff like genetic engineering and selective breeding, sir.’ She gestured to some other volumes at her elbow. ‘Eugenics too.’

  ‘Ah. Survival of the fittest.’

  ‘It’s totally warped, boss.’ Her voice was appalled. ‘I mean all this about humanity being made up of different “races” and the “superior” ones thriving while “degenerate” ones went to the wall….’ Savage air quotes made it look as though the DS was skewering Jonathan Warr with each word.

  ‘Well, you can guess what that meant for the learning disabled.’

  ‘Yeah. They’d be institutionalized or sterilized … or, better still, killed off.’ Her hands clenched. ‘Fucking evil.’ Then she went poppy red. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘That’s all right, Kate. I think we’ll find that Doctor Warr liked to imagine he was fighting a heroic battle in the interests of human evolution. Preventing the weak from dragging the strong down to their level.’

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘Or being cruel to be kind, depending on your perspective.’

  The DI was relieved to see there was no sign of Doyle. After what he had learned from Noakes, he did not imagine the young DC would have much relish for this conversation.

  Burton pushed the books to one side as if they were contaminated.

  ‘When we find Warr’s killer, there’ll be part of me that wants to shake him by the hand.’

  ‘Whatever Doctor Warr’s just desserts, Kate, no-one had the rig
ht to act as judge and executioner,’ Markham said quietly. ‘He met a horrible end, and his remains were chucked away like refuse.’ The DI was unusually emphatic. ‘No-one had the right to do that to him.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Yes, sir.’ Then, reaching for her notebook, she leaned forward eagerly. ‘I think I may have a lead on that patient Rose I was telling you about yesterday.’

  ‘Quick work,’ Markham said approvingly.

  ‘A woman at Social Services said there was someone at Mind – you know, the mental health charity – who might be able to help.’ A quick check of the notebook. ‘Turned out to be a Mrs Margaret Hart … helps out at the shop in the town centre. She was in there today, so I had a word over the phone. Elderly but still got all her marbles.’

  ‘She knew the family then?’

  Markham felt a quiver of anticipation. Of all the histories in those files, Rose’s plight stood out as somehow pre-eminently monstrous. And there was that sister who had fought so tenaciously to bring the truth to light … maybe she held the key…. Currently, it was their best bet. He couldn’t go after families from the DCC’s list without alerting the powers that be and bringing Slimy Sid down on him like a ton of bricks. Instinctively too, he felt that the roots of Jonathan Warr’s murder lay in the distant, as opposed to the more recent, past. Something about the Newman, something in the very fibres of the place, made the DI feel sure their killer had jealously stalked Warr over time, had shadowed him in an intensely intimate and pleasurable pavane, savouring the power of life and death like the doctor’s doppelganger. The final act of revenge was probably a downer….

  ‘Mrs Hart remembered the case and kept in touch with Rose’s sister Irene while she still lived in Bromgrove. The family name – get this, sir – was Seacombe … same as those caretakers down at Seacrest.’ She sat back triumphantly. ‘Bit of a coincidence, boss.’

  ‘I don’t like coincidences.’ The keen grey eyes turned so stormy, that Burton felt a shiver of fear. The DI was undoubtedly a foe worthy of this killer’s steel. Observing that he was deep in thought, she preserved a respectful silence. Had Noakes been able to read Kate’s mind while she watched the chiselled features, with as much wonder as though it was Michelangelo’s David come to life, he would have arrived at the most alarming conclusions. Luckily for the DS’s peace of mind, he was still busy with community relations in the café.