‘What about the facilities manager? After all, she and your two victims were in some sort of triangle, weren’t they?’
‘It’d be neat, Liv, no doubt about that. If we can’t pin it on a deranged student, then a distraught middle-aged woman would suit the DCI down to a tee. “Emotionally vulnerable . . . difficult time of life . . . balance of mind disturbed . . . ”’ He had his boss’s patronizing nasal tones off to perfection.
Olivia laughed, a full-throated uninhibited peal. ‘Just so long as no one at the top of the totem pole’s pushed off their pedestal, eh?’
‘That’s right. Well, you know what Sidney’s like.’
‘Don’t I just!’
‘He’s not a bad man really.’
There was an eloquent silence.
‘It’s just that he sees everything in terms of civic image. As though he has to varnish all the surfaces to cover up any ugly cracks . . .’
‘He’ll need a bloody large pot of varnish for this case, then,’ Olivia observed dryly. ‘Cracks all over the shop from what you tell me.’
Markham smiled at her. ‘Who knows but I’ll turn out like the DCI once I’ve marinated long enough in the higher echelons of CID.’
‘Not a chance, my love.’ She pulled a face. ‘Sidney’s a bottom feeder. Always was and always will be. It’s in his DNA. Whereas you . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished as she slipped an arm about his neck, leaning in as she stood next to his chair.
‘What’s the plan for today?’ she enquired finally after some minutes of companionable silence.
‘Another crack at the senior staff,’ Markham said heavily. ‘After that spat between Rebecca Summerson and Daniel Westbrook, I want to see if there’s anything in the personal dynamics . . . something I’m missing . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Difficult to see Summerson as a femme fatale. She looked almost catatonic yesterday . . . zombie-like . . .’
‘Could it be an act?’
‘It’s possible.’ He flexed his long well-shaped hands as though longing to shake the truth out of someone. ‘She’s not popular with the staff, that’s for certain.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ageist too. Reading between the lines, she was trying to shuffle off Esmée Crocker towards redundancy.’
‘Crocker . . . I forget, Gil, what does she do?’
‘She’s the assistant curator in Textiles.’ He frowned. ‘Harmless enough on the surface, but struck me as potentially a good hater. She didn’t actually come out and say that Rebecca Summerson was a corrupting influence on Helen Melville and Charles Randall, but you could tell that’s what she meant.’
‘Ugh. Don’t fancy the sound of Miss Crocker one bit.’
‘Well, the rest of them like her.’
‘Often the way with someone deceitful.’
‘True. And I dare say she could tell many a secret. She’s the kind of woman people confide in . . .’
‘. . . or the sort who listens at doors.’
Markham grinned. ‘Nothing gets past her for all she looks a sweet old dear.’
‘Maybe she’s got sheathed claws.’ Olivia thought for a moment. ‘What about Westbrook? He’s your link to that collector whose papers went missing, isn’t he?’
‘He’s Donald Lestrange’s nephew, yes.’
Markham thought of Westbrook’s compact, almost simian physique and the impression of repressed energy like a coiled spring.
‘Westbrook could have killed Helen Melville and Charles Randall,’ he said finally. ‘Apparently he was in love with Randall but no dice.’
‘“Each man kills the thing he loves,”’ Olivia murmured.
‘True.’ Her boyfriend’s expression was bleak. ‘It explains Westbrook’s outburst about Helen Melville.’
‘But you don’t think this was a crime passionnel?’
‘Could be. But . . .’ Markham looked up at her. ‘When I initially talked to Westbrook, I felt he was holding something back . . . something to do with the archives.’ Slowly, he got to his feet, untwining himself from Olivia’s embrace. ‘But maybe I got that wrong,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Maybe he was afraid because he had a reason to hate Helen Melville and knew we’d find out.’
‘Or maybe he had some inkling of the secret in the archives — the one Helen and Charles Randall were killed for.’
‘If so, he’s given no hint.’
Olivia placed a detaining hand on her boyfriend’s arm. ‘Won’t he be in danger if he knows who the murderer is?’
‘Not if he keeps it to himself.’ Markham thought back to Westbrook’s demeanour. ‘I think he’d be quite capable of that.’
‘Even if it means shielding whoever killed the man he loved?’
‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in CID, Liv, it’s that love and hate are two sides of the same coin.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘Charles Randall may have put Westbrook on the rack—’
‘You mean deep down Westbrook might actually be grateful to whoever did this? God, that’s sick.’
‘That’s my world, Liv.’ Suddenly, Markham’s eyes were so full of pain that Olivia could hardly bear to look at him.
‘Come on,’ she said, hugging him. ‘Let’s have a big greasy fry up. It’ll set you up for the day.’
Given her predilection for muesli (‘that birdseed crap’, as Noakes referred to it) and healthy eating, this represented a significant concession.
Markham grinned. ‘You’re on,’ he said.
* * *
Two hours later Markham sat in Aubrey Carstone’s office which was situated next to the Medieval and Renaissance collection on the first floor, the curator having suggested his quarters as a ‘friendlier’ environment for interviews than the soulless berth next to the exhibition centre which served as their incident room.
Carstone’s office certainly had vastly more character than Rebecca Summerson’s impersonal domain. Carpeted with what, to Markham’s appreciative gaze, looked like vibrant kilim rugs, the room was decorated with intricate leather hangings, framed tapestries and richly upholstered armchairs in gold and red — the fruits, presumably, of that substantial private income.
When they arrived, Gemma Clarke was standing at Carstone’s antique Chippendale desk admiring what appeared to be some sort of vintage map.
‘With all the swirling patterns, it’s like you can see faces peering out . . . wicked little faces,’ she said in wonderment.
‘Well, in many of the early maps you’ll find gargoyles and costumed figures, my dear.’ The curator’s voice was kind with no hint of patronage.
It was an amusing study in contrasts — the venerable scholarly septuagenarian and his eager apprentice who glowed with enthusiasm. The frightened snuffling child who had made the dreadful discovery of Helen Melville’s corpse was a distant memory.
After she had left the room, Markham remarked on her transformed appearance and air of confidence.
‘Oh, there’s a lot to Gemma, Inspector. And I think now she’ll finally have a chance to blossom.’
Without being cowed by Helen Melville.
The unspoken corollary hung in the air, but Carstone tactfully changed the subject, talking easily about his maps and some of the curios in the room.
‘Nice old git,’ was Noakes’s irreverent comment once he had left the room. ‘Thought he’d never stop wittering on. That chart or whatnot on his desk jus’ looks like a load of weird blotches to me.’
‘Worth a fortune though, Sergeant,’ Markham replied dryly, amused to see scepticism replaced by an expression of almost superstitious respect.
The soothing ambience of the room had failed to relax Daniel Westbrook who was, if anything, even more buttoned up and reserved than before, his eyes skittering round the office as though he expected something to slither out of one of the lacquered cabinets and ambush him. Like one of those ancient gargoyles Carstone mentioned, Markham thought wearily.
Westbrook apologized for his ‘intemperate outburst’ of the previous day. ‘My judgement was clouded by personal fe
elings,’ he told the detectives. Other than that, he wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Like pulling teeth,’ Noakes exclaimed in disgust. There was genuine warmth and respect, however, when he spoke of his uncle, Donald Lestrange. ‘My parents were killed in a car accident when I was eight, but thanks to him I had a home and family.’
And yet, Markham thought, there was something, something . . . Westbrook was like an actor who hadn’t quite mastered his role. From behind the mask his eyes held a strained watchfulness while an occasional twitch of the lips spoke of anxious efforts at self-control.
‘We got nowhere with him,’ the DI informed Kate Burton when she joined them, having re-interviewed Rebecca Summerson in the facilities manager’s office. ‘Any joy with Ms Summerson?’
‘Looked like she was cracking up, guv,’ was the glum response. ‘She and Westbrook clearly can’t stand each other, but it’s like they’ve made a mutual pact to keep shtum.’
‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
‘I reckon she’s hitting the bottle too, sir.’
‘Guilty conscience?’ grunted Noakes.
‘Couldn’t say, sarge. She’s all over the place, though, no doubt about that. I left her with Miss Crocker. Looks like Mr Carstone and Miss Crocker will have to manage things between them.’
There was a knock at the door and Cathy Hignett appeared with a tray. Markham jumped up to help her.
‘How’s morale back there?’ he enquired kindly, helping her to distribute drinks and biscuits.
‘We’re managing.’ The tone was ungracious but Markham could see the frightened woman beyond. She stood shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, greasy hair rumpled into stiff prongs which stuck up all over her head, a dull red colour in her cheeks which was somehow stale rather than fresh. The restless questing eyes roamed around Aubrey Carstone’s office as if reluctant to settle anywhere.
She was nervous. But was it simply the result of a double murder or something else? Could she be shielding her son?
She slouched out of the room and shut the door behind her.
Markham placed a finger to his lips and signalled to the others to stay silent. After a few minutes had passed, he went to the door, opened it and looked into the corridor.
‘Walls have ears,’ he said rejoining them.
‘I had some intel from Doyle earlier, sir.’ While Noakes made short work of the chocolate digestives (‘thought they’d be bound to palm us off with Rich Tea’, he said happily, his approval rating for Cathy Hignett going up a notch), Burton checked her notebook.
‘Oh yes? I believe you had him recceing the Students’ Union.’
Noakes’s massive head came up sharply. Jammy bastard his expression said.
Burton carefully avoided meeting her colleague’s accusing gaze.
‘There was this girl who got quite chatty. Said something about having been to “parties” at the gallery.’
‘Parties?’
‘That’s what she said. Told Doyle that “Marky Mark” organized them. Then her friend came over and shut her up.’
‘Who the chuffing hell’s “Marky Mark” when he’s at home?’ Noakes grumbled through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘I mean, do any of this lot look like a DJ?’
‘Marcus Traherne,’ the DI said thoughtfully.
‘What, the Brylcreemed wonder?’ Noakes snorted. ‘You’re having me on. Looks more like a used car salesman that one!’
‘Doyle got the impression there might be something . . . well, something a bit kinky about it,’ Burton said awkwardly.
Noakes looked at her slack-jawed, his imagination clearly working overtime, chocolate digestives temporarily forgotten.
‘You mean like sex parties . . . orgies?’
His fellow DS appeared embarrassed. At moments like this, Markham could see why her father had wanted his only daughter to follow an alternative career path.
‘It was the way the girl spoke . . . suggestive . . .’
‘Who’d want to . . . have it away with all these creepy statues and things looking at ’em?’
‘For some folk, that would heighten the pleasure, Noakes. Like cemetery sex.’
The DS looked as though he might burst a blood vessel. Markham turned to Burton. ‘I want you and Doyle to re-interview Marcus Traherne, Kate. If there’s some sort of . . . extracurricular enterprise going on, then it’s possible he or one of the students may have seen or heard something.’ His tone was grave as he added, ‘It could put them in danger.’
The DI walked across to the window which overlooked a narrow alley. Snow was coming down thickly now, the pavement shrouded with a pristine white valance. It had a blinding purity which made his eyes ache. He turned back to face the room.
‘D’you think Traherne’s our man, guv?’
The mastodon had recovered his self-possession.
‘He looks like a smiling assassin,’ Burton said unexpectedly before Markham had a chance to answer, blushing furiously as both men looked at her in surprise. ‘I just don’t like him,’ she qualified defensively.
‘A killer?’
‘I’d say he could be pretty ruthless if he didn’t get his own way, sir. I get the impression he bullies the security and admin staff. Ambitious too, so probably felt threatened by this project Helen Melville and Randall were working on . . . afraid they were stealing a march on him.’
‘Go in hard as you like then, Kate. I trust your judgement.’
The DS turned even pinker with pleasure.
Silly bint, thought Noakes. But there was no malice in the reflection.
‘By the way, James Armitage telephoned to say he and Ms Watson won’t be available till this evening, sir.’
‘Wants us to dance to their tune, does he?’ The DI’s lips tightened. ‘Well, so be it.’ He smiled at Burton. ‘Noakes and I will head out to see Jim McLeod.’ Observing her face fall, he pointed out, ‘McLeod’s old school, Kate, and Noakesy was on the original investigation. He’ll probably be more forthcoming if we keep this men only. Otherwise you’d be in there with us, never fear.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Burton snapped her notebook shut. ‘Oh, I also had a call from the press office, boss. About Helen Melville’s funeral . . . it’s tomorrow. She’s going to be buried not cremated.’
‘What?’ Markham was mystified. ‘I know the PM didn’t throw up any surprises . . . but so soon?’
‘Barry Lynch was keeping things close to his chest, sir.’
‘That figures,’ Noakes harrumphed. ‘Conceited little twerp. So far up the DCI’s backside—’
‘Quite,’ the DI interrupted firmly before the other could complete his scatological allusion.
‘There was nothing controversial about the PM,’ he murmured almost to himself. ‘Attempted asphyxiation then bundled into that freezer to finish her off, followed by heart attack resulting from shock . . . If Pathology’s got all the samples, the coroner could’ve authorised release of the body.’
‘Friends in high places,’ Noakes opined tapping the side of his nose. ‘An’ Sidney pulling strings.’
‘Well, we’ll be at the funeral tomorrow. Kate, can you liaise with Lynch about that please.’ Markham was notoriously uninterested in CID or civic politics, and there was a finality in his tone which meant he did not care to lift the curtain on whatever wheeling and dealing had taken place behind the scenes. Justice for the dead was all that interested him.
‘Leave it with me, sir.’ From the faraway look in her boss’s eyes, Burton knew he was back at the scene of the first murder, looking down at Helen Melville’s corpse curled on its side . . . seeing it lowered into the heathery levels of the municipal cemetery where it would ferment and rot underground while the winter sun rose and cooled overhead.
She felt a prickle of sweat on her forehead. Noakes was giving her a look. The one that meant he suspected her of ESP or some other hippy nonsense.
She cleared her throat. ‘Right, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ll be off.’
W
ith the quiet efficiency which characterized all her movements, she glided out of the room.
‘C’mon, Noakes. Time to see what Jim McLeod can tell us.’ Markham was glad of the chance to escape the gallery’s strange airtight atmosphere, almost craving that sharp cold which would feel like plunging into clear crisp water.
There was no one in the corridor outside Aubrey Carstone’s room. And yet, Markham could not shake off the uneasy feeling that he and Noakes were under observation.
Walls have ears, he had said half in jest. But something in the eerie stillness made him suspect he had spoken truer than he knew.
* * *
Calder Vale, to which Jim McLeod had retired, was a peaceful rural suburb of Bromgrove.
His picture postcard house was the last in a line of terraced cottages at the end of a street clinging to the side of Calder Hill. A brook flowed down the hillside, passing the squat Saxon church of St Bartholomew in its travels.
Even though the cold sliced his lungs, giving him the sensation of a catch in his breath, Markham savoured the tranquil beauty of the landscape.
A good place to start upon a new existence.
* * *
Jim McLeod had the air of a dissipated cherub. Swarthy and snub-nosed, with springy silver hair, there was something irresistibly merry and puckish about him. A former prop forward with Bromgrove CID Warriors, there were still traces of a robust physique in the commanding figure who greeted them warmly.
Universally popular, McLeod’s retirement had come as a surprise. ‘I’ve done my thirty,’ was all he said, but Markham knew he wanted to spend more time with gentle fragile Margaret who had never accustomed herself to the demands of his profession. Their childlessness was a source of sadness to both, but for some reason they had never considered adoption. Perhaps, Markham thought, that was why the Alex Carter case had left such an indelible impression.
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