Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘How’s your cappuccino, Gil?’

  ‘Excellent, thanks.’ Markham gestured at their surroundings. ‘I see they’re playing around with the seating again,’ he observed with some amusement. ‘Red leather moon chairs . . . whatever next.’

  ‘Yeah, a bit avant-garde for your average shopper. Can’t see Noakes going for it. More a greasy spoon man, I’d have thought.’

  ‘It’s Greggs or bust with Noakesy,’ Markham laughed.

  ‘How is the old devil?’ Chester shot his friend an appraising glance. ‘Running interference for you this morning?’

  Another mirthless bark.

  ‘Pretty much. When I need the DCI keeping at bay, Noakesy’s worth his weight in gold . . . a past master at laying false trails.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Chester grinned. ‘Unlike that girl guide DS . . . the priggish one . . . what’s her name . . . Burton?’

  ‘Oh, Kate’s coming along nicely.’ Markham smiled his rare charming smile. ‘She’ll be as devious as the rest of us in no time.’

  ‘If she wants to survive at Bastards HQ, she’ll need to be.’ Then, seeing Markham’s smile fade, ‘C’mon, Gil, what’s up? Why’re we here? Is it that death at the gallery?’ He looked his friend squarely in the eye. ‘Whatever you say stays between us, you know that.’ He couldn’t resist adding hopefully, ‘First dibs on the inside story of the investigation, though?’

  Markham nodded. Ned Chester had never betrayed his confidence. Bromgrove CID might leak like a sieve, but Chester would remain ‘utterly oyster.’

  He looked round cautiously, but there was no one within earshot, only another elderly couple sitting on the far side of the café. The two servers were taking advantage of the lull to exchange news and gossip. There was no danger of being overheard.

  Quietly, soberly, he recounted the events of the last forty-eight hours, finishing with the dreadful discovery of the night before.

  By the time he had finished, Markham was very pale.

  Chester could see that the discovery of Charles Randall’s body had hit him hard.

  ‘I could so easily have missed it, Ned,’ he said very softly. ‘But when we were standing in the entrance hall, I just knew something wasn’t right. It was that dust sheet on the sarcophagus . . . as though someone had made up a bed.’

  Chester’s gaze was keen. He was one of very few people who knew that Markham was tormented by the last glimpse of his younger brother, shrouded and still on a hospital gurney, irrevocably lost to drink and drugs. While one brother had hauled himself out of the failure pit, the other never managed to slough off the legacy of childhood abuse. In some ways, Markham’s entire career in CID was a never-ending quest to make amends to his lost sibling.

  The journalist made his way over to the service counter for fresh drinks and toasted teacakes.

  By the time he got back to their table, Markham had recovered his composure. Having skipped breakfast, the hot milky beverage and food put new heart in him.

  ‘The awful thing was the parents turning up,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Chester was startled. ‘You mean the victim’s parents?’

  ‘They’d arranged to meet him outside the gallery.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘When they arrived, they saw all the commotion, never dreaming it was their son.’ Markham bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. ‘Mum collapsed screaming. The paramedics had to give her a shot to knock her out.’ He shuddered. ‘It was awful. Dad was this big strong man who just stood there in shock, asking politely if we were sure we’d got the right person because their lad was meant to be taking them for a meal.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘How’d your victim get into the gallery in the first place, Gil?’ The journalist frowned. ‘Hadn’t the SOCOs secured it? Wasn’t the place alarmed?’

  ‘We let ourselves in with Kate Burton’s passkey. I only registered afterwards that the alarm had been deactivated.’

  Chester’s frown deepened. From the way he was fidgeting, Markham could tell he was itching for a nicotine fix.

  ‘So, there must be some staff keys floating around.’

  The other’s face was grim. ‘We thought they’d all been handed in, but clearly not.’

  ‘D’you reckon he met the killer by appointment, then?’

  ‘Well, we were doing interviews in the library next door.’ A spasm of anguish crossed Markham’s face. ‘There seemed no reason to keep them all corralled together, though with hindsight . . .’

  ‘Don’t go there, Gil, else you’ll drive yourself mad.’ The journalist was thoughtful. ‘If not in the gallery, it would have happened somewhere else. Randall must’ve had something on him.’

  ‘Or her.’

  ‘You think a woman could have done it?’

  ‘Dimples says yes . . . if Randall was taken by surprise.’

  ‘Wouldn’t there have been lots of blood? I mean, it’s not as if they could just walk out the front door after something like that.’

  ‘There were signs someone had been in the kitchen at the back of the café . . . that’s where they must’ve cleaned up. Did a thorough job by the look of things.’

  ‘Forensics?’

  ‘The SOCOs aren’t holding out much hope . . . but in any event, everyone and their mother’s been through that café, so there’ll be trace evidence from the whole caboodle.’

  ‘The killer took a hell of a chance, Gil,’ Chester’s finger-rubbing increased in tempo, ‘waiting for the SOCOs to clock off before sneaking inside . . . And even then, there was a good chance you lot might rock up in the middle of it.’

  ‘At least it means we can be positive about time of death.’ Markham’s voice hardened. ‘The SOCOs finished in the gallery one-ish. We rounded off interviews in the library around the same time. After that we spent about an hour and a half reviewing what we’d got,’ his face twisted, ‘and planning how to bypass the DCI. By the time we went next door to the gallery it was half two or thereabouts.’

  ‘I still don’t get it, Gil. Okay, so an hour’s enough time to cut someone’s throat and get cleaned up, but how could they count on you not walking in?’

  ‘I’d asked DC Doyle to tell the Assistant Librarian we’d be needing our conference room till at least two for the team debrief. Anyone in the vicinity would have known that was their chance.’

  Chester’s face was intent as he visualized the scene. ‘So, you think that’s when the killer arranged the rendezvous?’

  ‘Yes. I think they checked the lie of the land, clocked the SOCOs had gone home and told Randall to meet them at the gallery in five minutes . . . something like that.’ Markham’s eyes narrowed. ‘Presumably at some point that morning, Randall must’ve let something slip, some detail which showed he knew. Whether he did it inadvertently or deliberately, I don’t know.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘In hindsight, I’m inclined to think so.’ His hands clenched tight on the tabletop, Markham added, ‘One of the team noticed Randall was hyper-watchful . . . “like there was a snake charmer in the room.” I felt it myself when we were interviewing him.’ The handsome features looked unusually drawn. ‘The body language wasn’t right. I should’ve pressed him harder, Ned.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Gil. You made a judgement call.’

  ‘A poor one.’

  ‘You might’ve pushed and got nothing, mate. Sounds like Randall thought he could handle the situation . . . poor sod.’

  The café was starting to fill up with a cheery hum that was markedly at odds with the subject of their conversation. Chester looked wistfully at a shopper who stood at the counter vaping as he ordered breakfast.

  Markham grinned. ‘Never fancied giving e-cigs a whirl, Ned?’

  ‘Nah, it’s hardcore all the way with me, mate.’ The journalist whipped his hands behind him in an endearingly juvenile gesture, as though by that means he could banish the urge to have a fag.

  ‘So, what’s the plan now, Gil?’r />
  ‘Back to base to set wheels in motion. Kate’s getting an incident room sorted at the gallery, but I have to see the DCI this morning . . . can’t stall him forever.’ Markham heaved a sigh of pure frustration. ‘The thing is, all Sidney ever talks about is PR and damage limitation.’ Then, with a touch of compunction, ‘Which isn’t to say he doesn’t care.’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘But after those murders at the Newman Hospital last year and the police corruption hoo-ha, the last thing he wants is any whiff of civic scandal. To be honest, I think it’d suit him very well if it turns out to be some wacko university student . . . one of that lot jumping up and down and shouting about fascist oppression.’

  Chester raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Well, obviously we’ll check them out.’ A gleam of humour. ‘But even Noakes thinks these murders have to be an inside job . . . and you know how he feels about “long-haired layabouts.”’

  The other chuckled.

  ‘Better send Little Miss Muffet, then. Otherwise you’ll have the vice-chancellor on your back.’

  ‘Him and the rest of Bromgrove,’ Markham groaned.

  ‘You said “inside job,” Gil.’ The journalist’s tone was searching. ‘Are you linking these deaths to the Carter case?’

  ‘I was wondering when you’d get there.’ Markham’s expression was rueful.

  ‘Well, it cast a long shadow from what I’ve heard. Finished a few careers too.’ Chester had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘I was just a cub reporter then. It was 1997 . . . this time of year.’

  ‘What was the vibe at the Gazette?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’ A disbelieving shake of the head. ‘The kid was there one minute and gone the next. No one saw a bloody thing.’ There was a wary look in the journalist’s eyes. ‘Some folk thought your lot got hung up on the mother cos she was a single mum and all that . . . tunnel vision . . .’

  ‘Hmm.’ Markham was non-committal.

  Chester moved off the subject of police incompetence. ‘You said Helen Melville had some sort of thing for child murder, right?’

  ‘According to the facilities manager, she’d unearthed some secret connected to an unsolved crime. And then her ex, Benedict Bramwell, told us she was majorly into the legend of the Princes in the Tower.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the ones killed by the Wicked Uncle . . . leastways he got his henchmen to smother ’em.’ Chester’s eyes were bright with interest. ‘I remember they found a couple of skeletons under some stairs in the Tower of London . . . but Her Maj put her foot down and wouldn’t allow DNA testing, so no one knows if it’s the two boys or not.’

  ‘Well, the jury’s out on who killed them and nothing was ever proved, but it’s likely they were finished off and the bodies hidden.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, your murder vic suddenly going all Time Team like that.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Markham explained about the research into aediculae while his friend listened intently.

  ‘Creepy,’ he said eventually, echoing Olivia’s verdict of the previous night. ‘Guess that’s why I could never stand visits to stately homes with priest holes and such like when I was kid . . . you know, secret rooms and sliding doors . . .’

  ‘I had no idea you were so susceptible, Ned.’

  ‘It’s that feeling of something you can’t see . . . something lurking . . . waiting to jump out at you . . . like there’s an evil magician behind the scenes. Hey,’ a thought occurred to him, ‘wasn’t the Wicked Uncle a hunchback. Richard Crookback or something?’

  ‘So the history books say.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’ Chester was pleased with himself. ‘What if Helen Melville managed to track down the monster in the maze . . . what if this aediculae stuff and Princes in the Tower research got her thinking about Alex Carter and then she came across something that fitted — something that solved the case?’ He flashed Markham a brilliant smile, his reporter’s brain teeming with possibilities. ‘Or try this for size . . . maybe she’d come across a secret to do with another totally separate crime and it led her to make a connection with the Carter case.’ Hooded brown eyes fairly crackled with enthusiasm. ‘That whole Princes in the Tower hoojah could’ve been her way of telling the killer she was on to them!’

  ‘Easy, tiger.’ Markham’s tone was indulgent. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. She was a bona fide academic, remember. There’s an argument for taking the aediculae and Princes in the Tower at face value — historical research, plain and simple.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that do you, Gil?’ Chester enquired slyly.

  ‘No,’ the other said heavily. ‘No, I don’t. Too much of a coincidence and—’

  ‘You don’t like coincidences, yes I know.’

  At that moment, Markham became aware of a young family at the next table. His gaze rested on the golden-haired toddler.

  ‘I’ll be reviewing the Carter file later, Ned. In the meantime, if there’s anything you could dig up . . .’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Gil. Provided,’ with mock seriousness, ‘I get an exclusive in return.’

  The other grimaced. ‘I’m afraid you might have a long wait. Wheels within wheels on this one.’

  ‘Anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘I appreciated a listening ear, Ned. Though God knows what the DCI would say if he caught me fraternizing with the enemy.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not above using us for his own purposes. You wait till the press conference.’

  Another grimace.

  ‘Think I’ll leave the choreography to Kate Burton. Can’t bear the thought of the usual ghastly two-step with Sidney.’

  ‘Too male, pale and stale, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The two men walked through the café towards the escalator which would take them to the ground floor.

  ‘Oh, one other thing, Ned.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘See if you can get me anything on a Donald Lestrange.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Some collector whose papers just went missing from the gallery.’

  ‘Anything to do with . . . the other stuff?’

  ‘Doubt it, but the timing’s a bit odd.’

  ‘Wilco, mate.’

  With that they shook hands and went their separate ways.

  * * *

  The interview with DCI Sidney was every bit as tricky as Markham had anticipated, though Markham derived some comfort from the presence of Noakes — stolidly reassuring — at his shoulder.

  Miss Peabody, Sidney’s PA, was their usual barometer for the DCI’s moods, so when she greeted them in an unusually fluttered manner it seemed to augur the worst.

  Sidney sat behind acres of polished mahogany, ruminatively stroking his luxuriant beard. While a definite improvement on the wispy goatee, when combined with the macho buzz cut, the overall effect was more Jean Valjean than deep thinker.

  Eventually he spoke.

  ‘Art, Inspector, art.’

  Oh God, Slimy Sid was in one of his gnomic phases where they were going to have to read the runes.

  Something anodyne and non-committal was required before Noakes was tempted to wade in.

  ‘The circumstances are certainly highly unique, sir.’

  That should flush it out.

  ‘There’s a very dark side to creativity, Inspector. Think of Van Gogh.’

  So that was it. Sidney wanted an aberrant arty type — say a deranged student — coughing to two murders in double quick time. Problem being, Markham didn’t think there was the remotest chance of this being anything other than an inside job with some as yet unfathomed connection to a long-ago murder.

  Glaucous eyes swivelled from Markham to Noakes and back again.

  ‘I understand you’ve requested the files for the Carter investigation.’

  As ever, the DCI’s snitches were fully deployed.

  Markham shot Noakes a warni
ng look. No way was he going to start on aediculae, hidden secrets or the Princes in the Tower with Sidney. That would be asking for trouble.

  ‘Just looking to get a feel for the history of the gallery, sir,’ he murmured with well-practised blandness. ‘Someone mentioned Carter . . . best to avoid any elephant traps.’

  Elephant traps! God, where’d he got that from? He was morphing into one of those droids with their all-purpose phrases who invariably ended up as DCC.

  But, wonder of wonders, it appeared to have disarmed Sidney.

  ‘Ah yes, I see. Research. Putting everything in context, quite.’ A flash of unnaturally white gnashers. ‘Nothing like ancient history for tapping into the vibes.’

  Ancient history. As in Case Closed. As in ‘Don’t even go there.’

  Markham knew his cue when he heard it.

  ‘That’s right, sir. More idle curiosity than anything else.’

  ‘An’ there might be local sensitivities too,’ Noakes chipped in with sunny innocence. ‘Wouldn’t want to upset anyone.’

  The DI suppressed a grin. Local sensitivities forsooth. Clearly Kate Burton’s PC world view was beginning to rub off on her grizzled colleague.

  This transformation of the station’s village idiot into a source of Solomonic wisdom left their superior taken aback.

  ‘Important not to cause offence, quite.’

  Sidney’s expression was baleful, suspicion contracting his features.

  ‘Talking of causing offence, I had James Armitage on the telephone earlier. I gather you didn’t bother to interview him or Ms Watson after they took the trouble to attend for that express purpose.’

  ‘Unfortunately, they had left the building before we got around to them,’ the DI replied diplomatically. ‘Pressing business elsewhere, no doubt.’

  Chuffing queue-jumpers. But Noakes didn’t say it aloud now that he had a character for preternatural sagacity to maintain.

  ‘No doubt you will wish to remedy the omission as soon as possible, Inspector.’ The DCI eyed Markham beadily.

  Here it came.

  ‘We all know that famous flair of yours.’

  Sidney made it sound like a communicable disease.

  ‘But what this case needs is good old-fashioned legwork. No flights of fancy. No hunches.’