‘No hunches, sir. Absolutely.’ Best just to parrot back the garbage and they’d get out all the faster.
Satisfied that he had put Bromgrove CID’s wunderkind in his place, Sidney got back to painting.
‘Used to dabble a little myself. On the other hand, the lady wife’s quite accomplished.’
Markham’s gaze flicked to the silver-framed portrait on the DCI’s desk of blonde Valkyrie spouse and well-scrubbed offspring.
Of course she would be, he thought savagely.
And no doubt the photo montages of Sidney with the great and good which festooned the walls of his inner sanctum — or Hall of Fame as the station wags had irreverently dubbed it — featured a sprinkling of gallery patrons and artistic celebrities. In the circumstances, there was no way the DCI was going to entertain any suggestion that a psychopath might have somehow polluted the inner circle.
Markham felt a dull ache travel up his spine to his shoulder blades. He’d have to do the usual palaver of running a dummy investigation alongside the real thing. Kate Burton could be head of misinformation and waffle while Doyle drowned the DCI in spreadsheets and spurious statistics.
Meanwhile I can be head of projectile vomiting, he thought wearily as a tidal wave of Sidney-speak washed over him.
‘. . . regular updates, Markham, I don’t want any surprises.’
He became aware that the DCI had finally ground to a halt and was looking at him expectantly.
‘No surprises, sir. Absolutely.’
Christ, he was starting to feel like a ventriloquist’s dummy. He needed to get out before his head exploded.
With a testy flick of the wrist, they were dismissed from the presence and Miss Peabody sidled in from the outer office, with her eternal air of one primed to propitiate an angry god.
‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ Noakes grunted, loosening his tie once they were safely out of earshot. ‘Don’t blame you for not wanting to talk archaeology or whatnot with him, guv. He’s not having any.’
‘No, as usual he favours the local nutter scenario.’
‘D’you think his missus did that picture next to the window?’
‘The flower arrangement?’
‘I thought they were weeds.’
‘That’s because you have no soul, Noakesy.’ The DI chuckled. ‘At least she had the sense to stick to still life — flowers can’t complain you haven’t done them justice.’
Another grunt, but the DS was pleased to see some animation return to the guvnor’s face.
‘What now, boss?’
‘Can you hold the fort at the gallery?’
‘Sure, guv.’
‘The incident room should be set up . . . and Kate will’ve sorted that sweep of the library by now. The SOCOs are going let us have the gallery back by tomorrow, but the building won’t reopen until next week. I want all the staff in for interviews covering their movements yesterday afternoon, and we’d better arrange to see those two trustees pronto.’ His face expressionless, Markham added, ‘The team needs briefing on the DCI’s . . . pointers, so if you could take care of that please.’
The DS noticed the other’s fists were jammed deep in his pockets, a tell-tale sign indicating that he wanted to punch someone quite badly. No prizes for guessing who.
‘You’ll be . . .’
‘Fitness training, Noakes.’
Which meant Doggie Dickerson’s.
Doggie might not know anything about art, but a visit to his den of iniquity, aka Bromgrove Boxing Club, was the best antidote Markham could think of to counteract a dose of DCI Sidney.
* * *
Doggie was looking as villainous as ever, thought Markham later as he towelled off after an invigorating bout. A dead ringer for Fagin, in fact.
On hearing that his ‘fav’rite ’spector’ was on the premises, the proprietor shambled across to the optimistically entitled ‘Sauna’ — in reality a mouldering shower room in desperate need of re-grouting — for a friendly catch-up. With his scraggy toupee rammed on back to front, nicotine-stained fangs and rheumy eyes, Doggie was no one’s idea of a health guru. But he suited Markham down to the ground. As did the grungy facilities where he felt entirely comfortable, whereas sleeker, slicker outfits left him cold. To the likes of DCI Sidney, it would no doubt offer further proof of his being a fifth column in the heart of CID — not least as the club was also heavily patronized by Bromgrove’s criminal fraternity — but to Markham it was home from home. He refrained from enquiring too closely into the CVs of those sparring alongside him and they, in return, slugged away for all the world as though perfecting that left hook represented the height of their ambition. Everyone a winner.
‘’Ow was that then, Mr Markham?’
‘Not bad thanks, Doggie. Certainly got the blood pumping. Think I’m a bit out of condition, though.’
‘I always say a pint of Guinness ’elps with energy.’
‘Well I’ll certainly bear that in mind, Doggie. Not sure it’d give me the edge over Mr Carstairs,’ Markham grimaced, referring to a fellow DI from Vice. ‘He was unstoppable today.’
‘Try the Guinness, Mr Markham.’ Doggie adjusted the skirts of his dingy gabardine-cum-dressing-gown with magisterial gravity. ‘You’ll see a difference in no time.’
‘Will do.’
Having done the honours of his establishment, Doggie moved away, ducking his head to a powerfully-built young man before retreating to his lair in the back office.
‘Hail the conquering hero,’ Markham observed dryly.
Chris Carstairs flashed the megawatt smile which wreaked havoc amongst young and impressionable female recruits to CID.
‘No hard feelings, eh, Gil? I felt lucky tonight.’
‘Oh, I’ll have my revenge, never fear. Doggie’s just been sharing his infallible tips for sporting success.’
Carstairs snorted. ‘The old rascal. Something to do with your “fluid intake” by any chance?’
Markham tapped the side of his nose with a grin.
‘What gives with that business at the gallery, Gil? I hear there’s been another.’
‘Early days, Chris, early days.’
It wasn’t generally done to talk shop at Doggie’s, so he knew he could keep it to a minimum.
‘You into art at all, Chris?’ he enquired curiously.
‘God no, mate. Though the one who did the matchstick men’s all right.’
Markham wondered what the hell it was about that painter which made the likes of Noakes and Carstairs brandish his name like a calling card.
‘Girlfriend of mine did a student placement there a while back,’ Carstairs offered. ‘She said it was like a mouse house, with separate burrows . . . poky little corridors and cupboards. A bit creepy, she said.’
* * *
Creepy. That word again, he thought walking back to his car.
Mid-afternoon and the daylight would soon be gone.
The stunted trees in the gym car park stretched their arthritic limbs against a leaden sky as though in supplication.
Or warning.
He had to get back to the — what had Carstairs called it? — burrow and probe those dark corners.
His mobile rang, jolting him out of his reverie.
Kate Burton’s voice.
‘What is it, Kate?’
‘A small fire at the gallery, sir. It’s out now, but I just thought you should know.’
‘Where did it start?’
‘The archives room, sir. No one knows how it started. Accidental most likely.’
No, he thought. This was no accident.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
6. On the Trail
Bromgrove’s Fire Investigation Team was just preparing to leave as Markham arrived. Their chief, Simon McLeish, a sandy-haired man with a strong Northern Irish accent, greeted him amicably.
‘Afternoon, Inspector. Don’t worry, it’s all under control.’
‘Are we talking arson, Mr McLeish?’
The other looked genuinely baffled.
‘More like a daft prank or mindless vandalism, if you ask me.’ He frowned. ‘Looks like someone started a little bonfire upstairs in that records room then scarpered when the corridor alarm went off.’
‘Mindless vandalism,’ Markham repeated.
‘Well, they’d chucked files and what have you into the recycling bin and then set it alight. There was no real danger of it spreading.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I say, no logic to it . . . just a load of mouldy old papers.’ He jerked his head towards the front door. ‘Noakes was telling me you’ve had company the last few days.’ He grinned. ‘Our friends from the university.’ A wry chuckle. ‘No sign of them today, though.’
‘With two murders, they may have decided that discretion is the better part of valour.’ Markham sighed. ‘I’ll send Kate Burton over to the campus to get to the bottom of this protest or whatever the hell it is. I can’t risk Noakes.’
‘God no. He’s like me . . . thinks they’re all Bolsheviks.’
Markham smiled thinly. ‘Well, maybe Comrade Burton will winkle out the truth.’
‘You sound dubious.’ McLeish eyed him narrowly. ‘Not convinced it’s a prank, then?’
Markham noticed a little knot of people gathered in the café. He moved closer to the chief, keeping his voice low. ‘I’d like to play this low-key: give out that we’re treating it as vandalism, no connection to the murders.’
Another keen glance.
‘Fine by me, Inspector.’
‘Okay for me to take a look up there?’
‘No problem. Not much to see. Just some smoke and soot damage . . . and a pile of ash in the bin.’ The FIO gestured expansively with his clipboard at the baroque foyer. ‘Some real treasures here, so just as well it didn’t spread.’
The two men walked towards the front door.
‘Noakes told me you didn’t get far with DCI Sidney.’ McLeish’s tone was sympathetic. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest on this one, eh?’
‘Well, no point casting my pearls before’ — long pause — ‘those who do not want them.’
An appreciative rumble.
‘Presumably he wants it all squared away in a couple of days.’
‘Something like that,’ Markham replied deadpan. ‘But even the Almighty took seven, so Sidney’ll just have to cut us some slack.’
‘I’ll email you later, Inspector.’ With a laugh and a wave, McLeish was gone.
Kate Burton detached herself from the group in the café and approached the DI.
‘So, Kate,’ he said loudly enough for his voice to carry, ‘looks like we’ve got ourselves a case of vandalism.’
Burton picked up her cue.
‘So it would seem, sir.’ She gestured towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’
As before, the route led through the collection.
Even though the rooms all lay wide open, Markham felt the stifling consciousness of something moving stealthily just ahead of him — a phantom with murdering fingers that had caught first Helen Melville and then Charles Randall in its demon-clutch.
So many scriptural pictures, he thought, passing one that he recognized as a depiction of Jacob’s Ladder, with its column of diaphanous angels stretching far away into the sky.
Then it was on past Life and Thought Emerging from the Tomb. Was it his imagination, or did new shadows lie aslant the peacock’s garden? Did he detect a new helplessness about the ethereal white-clad figure in the foreground, as though she could tell a story if she chose — as though she shrank from new-hatched plans of evil?
Get a grip, he told himself. But still, for all the bare expanse of polished parquet, there was a sense of suffocating oppression which intensified as they came to the windowless corridor he remembered from before. He felt a momentary mad desire to emulate Jacob and climb out of the warren into the clouds.
Then the feeling passed and he was standing inside the drab stuffy little room, even dingier than before due to the conflagration.
Noakes stood with Rebecca Summerson in the centre of the room, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head like a bull about to charge.
‘One of that university lot must’ve sneaked in somehow,’ he greeted his colleagues.
Markham made a non-committal noise that could be taken for assent. Turning to the facilities manager, he asked, ‘When did you realize something was wrong?’
‘The alarm went off around half past three.’ She bit her lip. ‘It would have gone off sooner but the sensors on this corridor are a bit dodgy . . . due to be replaced.’
‘Who knew about the sensors?’
‘Well, everyone really, I suppose.’
The DI examined her closely without appearing to do so.
The woman looked wrung out, ill, blonde hair hanging lank and lustreless. Wearing a black cowl neck shift dress, her pallor was very pronounced and her eyes unfocused.
‘I hope you haven’t lost anything of great value, Ms Summerson,’ Markham said kindly as he examined the recycling bin. ‘I don’t suppose you were able to salvage much paperwork.’
‘Well, there was summat,’ prompted Noakes.
‘Oh yes.’ Rebecca Summerson made a visible effort to pull herself together and held out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘This must have got stuck behind the photocopier somehow when the intruder was trashing the place.’
It looked like an architect’s drawing for a large property. Lots of shapes, squiggles and cross-hatching. At first glance, nothing especially unusual save for an arrow scored so fiercely in biro that the pen had almost torn the paper.
Markham looked closer. The arrow appeared to be pointing to the intervening space between two walls. But there was nothing to show whether the drawing was a ground plan or whether it depicted an upper storey.
Then the DI noticed another odd feature in the way the initials C and H — now plain, now adorned with curlicues — were repeated over and over again along the borders of the page in a sort of tormented graffiti.
Suddenly, his heart stopped.
There it was. A break in the row of initials along the right-hand border.
A name.
Alex Carter.
The question was, had Rebecca Summerson seen it?
If she had, the woman gave no sign.
The DI kept his voice light, casual.
‘Some sort of architect’s plan from the look of it. Ring any bells, Ms Summerson?’
‘Nothing that I recognize, Inspector.’ He could have sworn she was genuinely perplexed. ‘We just store old monographs and academic articles in here, from before things got digitized. This must have got mixed in with the rest for some reason . . . Can’t imagine how. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
‘Not to worry.’ Markham ushered her towards the door. ‘Sergeant Noakes and I will be down shortly to interview staff regarding yesterday’s tragic discovery.’ It was never the DI’s habit to gush or trot out formulaic condolences, but there was no doubting his compassion as he held Rebecca Summerson’s eyes. ‘Mr Randall’s death must have come as an appalling shock to you all.’ All of them, perhaps, save one. ‘I promise you that we will catch whoever did this.’
The cordial, reassuring tones seemed to come as a relief. She shut her eyes momentarily as though to let them wash over her and then took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said and quietly left the room.
Once they were alone, Markham handed the crumpled piece of paper to Noakes who then passed it to his colleague. Clearly the significance of the reference to Alex Carter was not lost on them. Thoughts of university hooligans evaporated. The graffiti was a game changer.
‘The killer knew that Helen Melville had found something incriminating in here,’ Burton said thoughtfully as she handed it back to Markham. ‘They wanted shot of all the other junk on the off chance there was anything else which might lead back to them.’
‘Yeah,’ Noakes agreed. ‘Couldn’t risk being seen up here poking through the files, so deci
ded to set light to ’em.’ He looked round the room speculatively. ‘Nearly got away with it an’ all.’ An idea struck him. ‘Hey, d’you remember what the director bloke said about Helen Melville having a thing about doodles? How she rabbited on about Ian Brady being caught out by summat in an exercise book?’ The other two nodded. ‘Well, what if there’s another bit of paper like this floating around . . . from that art collector’s file . . . the one that went missing?’
‘The Lestrange papers.’ Burton was quickly on his wavelength.
Noakes had the bit between his teeth now. ‘Randall could’ve come across whatever she left lying around an’ made a connection with someone at the gallery.’
‘That’s a plausible scenario, Sergeant.’ Markham spoke approvingly and Noakes’s beefy features mottled with pleasure.
‘Alternatively, it’s possible that Mr Randall saw or heard something that put him on the killer’s trail,’ the DI continued. ‘Something whose significance he may not even have realized at first.’
Burton’s expression was worried. Markham was quick to notice.
‘What is it, Kate?’
‘The library sweep didn’t come up with anything,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Helen Melville’s usual carrel was empty. There isn’t a rigid booking system or anything like that, but gallery staff generally stick to the same carrels. They can loan them for up to seven days at a time.’
‘How secure are the carrels?’ Markham asked. ‘Does the library have keys?’
‘That’s just it, sir. There are some keys kept at the loans desk, but I don’t think the library assistants pay much attention to academics and researchers. I mean, they trust them to get on with it really.’
‘So, nothing to stop someone having a snoop?’ Noakes chipped in.
‘It’d be quite easy for someone to wander in if the door was unlocked and Melville was in another part of the library.’
They digested the implications of this for a minute or two.
‘Who’re we looking for, guv?’ Noakes finally burst out in frustration. ‘That Summerson one seemed like she was in a daze . . . looked like she’d hit the bottle an’ all.’
Markham too had caught the whiff of alcohol, concluding it was more than likely Rebecca Summerson had fortified herself before coming to work.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 110