Craft and Design was located on the ground floor of the gallery to the left of the black and white marble floored entrance. On the right-hand side of the lobby was the Sculpture Gallery, whose smirking nudities made Gemma feel uncomfortable, unlike the scantily clad nymphs and shepherds of the Victorian pictures which oddly enough didn’t bother her at all. Behind the Sculpture Gallery could be found the small exhibition centre and offices for senior staff. To the rear of the lobby were the gallery shop and café with cloakrooms, storage lockers and staff room in the basement. An imposing staircase, continuing the black and white theme, led from the front hall up to the first floor which housed the paintings. The cupola-roofed first-floor landing had an echoing, cathedral-like air of hushed devotion which seemed to have risen up like incense from the cavernous gloom of the foyer below.
Bromgrove was proud of its art gallery. A small, compact building in the neoclassical style with majestic pillared portico, it was situated right in the centre of town next to the Central Library and boasted thirteen rooms (an unlucky number some might say) spanning art from medieval times to the present day. Chronologically arranged, a wander through the collection would give visitors a whistle-stop tour of art through the ages, though, like Gemma, most visitors seemed to have their particular favourites. There were some big names too, she was wont to boast — Monet, Turner, Gainsborough and Lowry — but nothing could dent her allegiance to the Pre-Raphaelites. ‘Dunno what you see in ’em,’ her boyfriend, Jeff, had yawned on a visit one rainy day in October. ‘Jus’ letchy old gits with a thing about redheads. Give me Banksy or the Matchstick Man any day.’ After that, she had kept her raptures to herself.
Now, outside, the November afternoon was already getting dark. She started as she passed the ceramics desk and caught sight of her white face reflected in the long sash window behind it. Moving swiftly through displays of jewellery, pottery and glass, she passed finally through a door marked Textiles, her station for the day.
It was a long narrow space lined with wall-to-ceiling cabinets containing mannequins in crinolines, bustles and breeches for which Gemma found it difficult to work up any enthusiasm. Wispy grey-haired Miss Crocker, Assistant Textiles Curator, was squinting myopically at a swatch of fabric in a packet on the counter in front of her making the little beaver-like noises which, with her, generally indicated puzzlement.
‘Who could have left this? The label seems to have come adrift. I wonder what—’
Then her face cleared.
‘Oh, I know what it is!’
The girl waited for enlightenment.
‘It’s from that tapestry Mr Traherne was worried about. He thought it might have mould.’
None the wiser, Gemma did her best to look alert and intelligent.
The diminutive older woman smiled kindly at her.
‘It needs storing in the freezer, then Conservation can have a look. I wonder if you’d mind taking it down for me, Gemma,’ she said, looking rather distractedly at the untidy work service strewn with a variety of labelled garments and paperwork. After rummaging in the capacious pockets of her corduroy skirt, the curator located a swipe card. ‘That’ll unlock it for you.’
‘’Course, Miss Crocker.’
For some reason that she couldn’t explain, Gemma felt fidgety, restless, as though impelled to keep on the move. Normally she had no difficulty subduing such outbreaks of cabin fever when she was in Textiles, but today was somehow different.
The textiles freezer was accessed by a narrow black-railed spiral staircase at the very far end of the room.
Just as she put her foot on the first tread, Gemma felt an uneasy sensation. A kind of prickling between the shoulder blades as if someone was stood behind her.
But there was no one there.
She gave herself a little shake. No chance of impressing the likes of Rebecca Summerson if she came down with an attack of the heebie-jeebies any time someone asked her to do an errand.
At the bottom of the stairs, she flipped on the light switch and there it was, the walk-in freezer.
Again, that feeling of unease. But this time it was an almost unconquerable reluctance to swipe the electronic lock.
The stairwell was cool and musty, but she felt beads of sweat breaking out along her hairline and at the nape of her ponytail.
God. What was the matter with her? Too much time spent drooling over pictures of fairyland, she told herself grimly, vowing to ration the dose on her next trip upstairs.
Another little shake and then she raised the swipe card, her hand steady now.
The freezer door swung open.
But Gemma Clarke stood as though turned to stone, the packet dropping from her nerveless hand.
Curled up in a foetal ball at her feet was a woman, the hands like claws at her side.
A woman with auburn hair.
1. The Palace of Art
At last Bromgrove Art Gallery was silent. The pathologist had been and gone, Helen Melville’s pitiful remains wheeled away on a gurney, and the building left to an army of technicians and SOCOs.
Now DI Gilbert Markham, ‘Gil’ to his friends, and DS George Noakes were taking stock in a small windowless office adjacent to the exhibition centre behind the Romanesque Sculpture Gallery.
Noakes was clearly relieved to be away from the impersonal alabaster busts and statues which lined the route like a sinister praetorian guard, their blank stare reflecting the light of some fathomless alien world.
‘Freakin’ creepy that lot,’ he grunted, jerking a thumb towards the passage they had just traversed. ‘Like horrible wax-works jus’ watching and waiting to make a grab at you. Always hated it when they dragged us here on school trips and whatnot.’
The stolid DS not being noted for his imaginative disposition, Markham found this an interesting reaction.
‘I take it you’re not a fan of the gallery then, Sergeant?’
Noakes looked sheepish. ‘Not really, guv.’ He struggled to frame his thoughts, his pudgy hangdog features corrugating with the effort. ‘None of it feels like it’s got anything to do with real life. I mean, all them angels and folk lying about outdoors picnicking . . .’
The DI suppressed a grin as his subordinate consigned centuries of Judeo-Christian culture to the dustbin.
‘’Course we took our Nat here a few times,’ Noakes ploughed on, evidently anxious that his boss shouldn’t regard him as a complete philistine.
Natalie Noakes, undisputed doyenne of Bromgrove’s flashier nightclubs, struck Markham as unlikely to have profited much from the experience, but he kept such thoughts to himself and smiled non-committally.
‘I imagine it’s not everyone’s cup of tea,’ he commented mildly, making no mention of the many rainy afternoons he had passed in the gallery, eking out the time till he had to return to the home that was no home at all, desperately escaping into a parallel universe of grace and enchantment before encountering the sordid reality of a stepfather’s abuse.
Something close to compassion flared in Noakes’s piggy eyes, so that the DI had the feeling his sergeant knew exactly what he was thinking.
The two men’s rock-solid relationship was an object of mystification to most of Bromgrove CID, and to slimy DCI Sidney in particular, it was nothing short of incomprehensible. Indeed, Sidney’s jeremiads against ‘dinosaurs’ and ‘detectives out of step with modern policing’ were now so routine that the DI regarded them pretty much in the light of an occupational hazard and went his own sweet way regardless. George Noakes was one of his non-negotiables: not only had they come through many adventures together, but he knew the other always had his back and, by some strange attraction of opposites, understood him better than anyone else. The shambling, uncouth DS and his darkly handsome boss with a reputation for impenetrable reserve made a decidedly incongruous pairing, but their clear-up rate had so far rendered them impregnable to all assaults on their partnership. Markham intended it to remain that way.
‘I take it we’ve got full c
ontact details for everyone who was in the gallery when the alarm was raised?’
‘Yeah, guv. Burton and Doyle are on it,’ came the prompt reply. Then with a sly grin, ‘Burton went round with the facilities manager securing the area. Prob’ly boring the pants off her oohing and aahing over every two-bit daub in the place. You know what she’s like.’
Markham smiled wryly. Keen-as-mustard, DS Kate Burton was a university graduate, the team’s acknowledged ‘culture vulture’ and Noakes’s polar opposite, so it had been a case of dislike before first sight. Notwithstanding which, the two detectives had settled into an uneasy truce. Along with a grudging respect for each other’s abilities, they shared a fierce devotion to their boss. With Burton, this had gone much further than professional regard, though Markham had never suspected her hopeless crush on him. Noakes guessed but never betrayed his colleague’s secret, confining himself to the occasional knowing glance. Since Burton was now engaged to an up-and-coming DS in Fraud, the danger looked to be long past, though Noakes suspected she would never be entirely ‘over’ the guvnor.
‘What about the young girl who found Ms Melville?’
This was another quirk of Markham’s. No victim was ever just ‘the body’ or ‘the deceased’ to him, and woe betide any junior officer who thought to indulge in gallows humour. On such occasions, the DI’s tongue could cut like a lash.
‘Security attendant name of Gemma Clarke,’ came the reply. ‘Poor little bint. All snot and tears. Burton did a mop-up an’ called this lad Jeff to come an’ collect her.’ Noakes scowled. Clearly he had not hit it off with the boyfriend. ‘’Bout as much use as a J-Cloth. More interested in squeezing his blackheads than anything else.’
‘Hmm.’
A pause and then, ‘What did you make of the rest?’
The DS had surprisingly sharp instincts when it came to sizing folk up.
‘The facilities woman,’ he consulted a dog-eared notebook, ‘Ms Summerson — definitely a miz that one — looked like a stuck-up piece of work. Kept looking me up and down like it was Downton Abbey or summat and she expected me to use the servants’ entrance.’
Noakes’s sartorial instincts lagging markedly behind his inquisitorial skills, this was hardly to be wondered at. Today’s ensemble consisted of baggy mushroom-coloured cords, scuffed brothel creepers and hideous emerald-green jumper topped off with a Columbo-style mac. It didn’t even have the merit of being a considered fashion statement, but was rather a combination of total indifference to how he looked coupled with his ongoing battle of the bulge. With his brick-red complexion and haystack of salt-and-pepper hair, the DS hardly conformed to anyone’s ideal of the gentleman detective. A blot on the artistic landscape if ever there was one.
‘But efficient, I’ll give her that,’ Noakes conceded grudgingly. ‘Got a roll call of the staff organized in double quick time, so Doyle could tick ’em all off.’
He frowned, ‘You could see it hit her hard, though. Turned white as a sheet when we told her who it was. Pulled herself together sharpish, but there was a moment back there when I thought she was going to pass out.’
Interesting.
‘Oh, and get this, guv.’ Another look at the notebook. ‘The boss is Helen Melville’s ex-husband, well, separated, any road. Lemme see . . . yeah, that’s it: Benedict Bramwell,’ Noakes declared with a flourish.
Benedict Bramwell. Markham recalled meeting the gallery director at some civic bunfight or other. Tall, balding and adept at meaningless bonhomie. The epitome of a useful committeeman.
‘Has he been informed?’
‘They’re trying to locate him? He’s at a meeting in Birmingham today.’
‘What about the rest of the command structure?’
‘Well, there’s the Board of Trustees — they’re only around now and again, for meetings and that sort of thing.’ More riffling through the notebook. ‘The Treasurer and Secretary share an office behind the exhibition thingy, but nobody sees much of them.’ Noakes gave an eye-roll. ‘Too grand to mix with the plebs if you ask me.’
‘Get that chip off your shoulder, Noakesy. Tact and diplomacy are the order of the day here.’
‘If you say so, boss.’
‘I do.’ Markham was firm, grimly recalling his sergeant’s less than subtle approach during their most recent murder investigation involving the local ballet company.
With a long-suffering sniff, the DS continued down his list.
‘With it only being a small outfit, there’s not that many chiefs . . . leastways they all double up. Helen Melville was responsible for paintings and sculptures, as well as buying stuff. Then there’s the head of Craft and Design who handled textiles too, name of,’ Noakes squinted at his untidy scrawl, ‘Marcus Traherne. His deputy’s the one who took us down to the freezer—’
‘Miss Crocker?’ The assistant curator, with her air of the world being too much for her, had reminded the DI of DCI Sidney’s much put-upon PA, Miss Peabody.
‘Yeah. She was in a right state, poor old biddy. Seemed to think it was all her fault. The facilities manager’s PA made her a cup of tea, nice sensible woman, Cathy Hignett. God knows how she copes with Ms Bossy Knickers.’
‘Anyone else from the top brass?’
‘Silver-haired gent, Head of Conservation Aubrey Carstone.’ Noakes just couldn’t help himself. ‘Marcus, Aubrey, I mean, I ask you!’ At a steely look from Markham, he subsided and resumed his recital. ‘Thin, weedy, spectacles . . . getting on a bit. But kindly, you could see the staff liked him. Prob’ly lets ’em get away with all sorts.’ Noakes flicked over a page. ‘He’s got a youngish deputy, Daniel Westbrook — crew cut, tough-looking, doesn’t miss much, related to some art collector.’
‘Did Ms Melville have an assistant?’
‘Nah, she was one of them ball-breakers, er, executive types,’ Noakes hastily amended, ‘didn’t like to delegate. Got the feeling it may have got up folk’s noses.’
‘Anyone else I should know about at this stage?’
Noakes snapped his notebook shut.
‘That’s all the main players, guv. We’re trying to get hold of Bramwell an’ the two trustees. Apart from that, it’s jus’ the café and cloakroom people, security attendants and such like.’ He screwed up his features sagaciously. ‘I think there’s one or two researchers floating round the place as well. Postgraduate types from the university.’ This was said with an air of profound suspicion. ‘Mr Carstone’s giving Doyle the details.’
‘What about those demonstrators who were outside? What was that all about?’
‘Oh, jus’ the usual rent-a-mob lot.’ Noakes looked disgusted, no doubt recalling their entanglement with Bromgrove University ‘activists’ in a previous murder case. ‘Usual snowflake shite, guv. Summat to do with paintings being nasty about black people.’
‘Thank you for that neat paraphrase, Sergeant.’ The DI’s tone was dry. ‘Somehow I suspect the reality may be more complex.’
Noakes grinned, not at all abashed.
‘Well you know what they’re like, boss. Never happy unless they’re taking offence.’
‘Do we know if there was any trouble with gallery staff? Any run-ins with Helen Melville?’
‘Right, now I get you.’ The DS was suddenly serious. ‘I’ll get Burton on to it, guv.’ With an air of magnanimity, ‘She’ll be on their wavelength, if you get my drift.’ With her poncey psychology degree and MA in Gender Studies he meant, though the words were left unsaid.
‘Quite.’
Markham leaned back in the tasteful ergonomic chair which was already giving him a back ache.
‘Any obvious oddballs jump out at you? Other than the university lot,’ he asked hastily before Noakes resumed his denunciation of Generation Snowflake.
‘A couple of the security guards seemed a bit gormless.’ Then, in an unusual burst of empathy, ‘But that’s cos they’re looking at the same stuff day in day out.’ Clearly the notion of there being any art-fanciers amongst their numb
er never crossed Noakes’s mind. ‘Mind, there’s one bloke definitely looked like he’d got a screw loose.’
‘Oh yes, who was that?’
‘Fella called Bill Hignett—’
‘Hignett? Isn’t that—’
‘Yeah, Cathy Hignett — the facility one’s PA — she’s his mum.’
Noakes did an expressive eye-roll.
‘I heard one of the others call him “Quasi.”’
‘“Quasi?”’ Markham wondered if he was being exceptionally dense.
‘You know, short for Quasimodo, guv, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame — you know, creepy bell-ringer from that Disney film.’
‘Ah. And how did Mr Hignett react to this term of endearment?’
‘Oh, he seemed used to it . . . like a nickname,’ the DS replied warily, antennae suddenly alert to what he privately termed his boss’s ‘sarky’ tone. ‘I think he’s jus’ a bit simple, learning disabled or whatchamacallit. One of the café girls said his mum got him the job.’
‘Any issues with his fellow workers?’
‘He could be a bit, well, intense if he got a thing about someone, he’d follow ’em round like a dog.’
‘Helen Melville?’
‘Oh, she slapped him down early on and Mum made sure to keep him out of Melville’s way. Nah,’ Noakes shook his shaggy head, ‘Reckon he’s just a big harmless lummox, guv . . . part of the furniture. Bit of a nuisance sometimes maybe, but that’s about it.’
As the DI sat digesting this information, there was a tap at the door and DS Kate Burton appeared. Smartly attired in a charcoal trouser suit and immaculate white shirt, conker-brown pageboy swinging, she was visibly energized by the start of a new investigation. Head on one side, she regarded the DI with the air of an intelligent beagle.
Not exactly pretty, with her retroussé nose and solemn eyes like enormous lollipops, there was something undeniably appealing about Burton’s earnestness. She had faced tough opposition from home when she decided to join the police, but rapid promotion and Markham’s interest in her career had done much to smooth ruffled parental feathers. ‘She’ll be safe with him,’ was her father’s verdict after meeting the DI, and Markham had fully justified that faith, though there had been a moment in last year’s investigation into a series of murders at the Newman Psychiatric Hospital when the team thought they had lost her. It was a close shave, but Burton came through the crisis with flying colours and somehow the whole experience bound the little unit even more closely together. ‘Markham’s groupies,’ others in CID were wont to mutter sotto voce, but the same cavillers would have killed for a chance to work with the legendarily austere DI whose reputation as Bromgrove CID’s rising star made him an object of intense interest.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 103