McLeod was pleased to see them. ‘Margaret’s at her sister’s,’ he said, ‘but she’s just been baking.’
In no time at all they were ensconced in his study at the back of the house with steaming mugs of tea, homemade scones and jam. Noakes, needless to say, did full justice to the spread while Markham merely crumbled his food, breaking off pieces to feed to McLeod’s golden Labrador, Clover. A smile hovered at the corners of McLeod’s mouth as he sucked his pipe and observed the study in contrasts.
It was a homely but cosy room, with an old-fashioned fire crackling in the hearth, three high-backed chintz armchairs and bookshelves lining one wall. There were lots of titles on history and archaeology, Markham noted.
McLeod followed his glance. ‘I was always a bit of an antiquarian,’ he offered by way of explanation. ‘Old buildings, ruins, stuff like that . . . They held a fascination for me.’
Markham wondered whether this interest post-dated the disappearance of little Alex Carter — whether at the back of McLeod’s mind lurked the thought that somewhere out there was a building which might one day be forced to give up its dead.
‘I know why you’re here, gents.’ McLeod’s voice broke into Markham’s thoughts.
‘The Carter case.’ He smiled at them grimly and, for the first time, Markham noted the heavy bags under the former DCI’s eyes and the gleam of sadness in his expression. ‘You’ll be wondering if there’s a link with these murders at the gallery.’
Markham took McLeod through all the details of their investigation and the older man listened intently.
‘I always thought the child had to be out there somewhere,’ he said finally, his eyes shimmering with tears.
Markham got up and made a feint of perusing the titles on McLeod’s shelves to give him time to recover. Meanwhile, Noakes petted the dog with clumsy affection.
After an interval, Markham returned to his seat.
‘There may not be a connection with Alex at all,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s all speculation at this stage, but nevertheless . . .’
‘What happened with Alex’s mum, sir?’ Noakes was uncharacteristically deferential.
‘No need for formality, Noakes. I’m not your boss anymore.’
‘I’ll always think of you as the chief, sir.’ It was said with unmistakeable sincerity.
‘Thank you.’ McLeod’s voice was gruff, but Markham could see he was touched.
‘She’s long dead. Drink and drugs.’ A heavy sigh. ‘We got it in the neck from the press for focusing on her, but Jesus, there was so little else to go on. And Shelley Carter was the last to see him alive.’
‘She was a strange lass,’ Noakes said reminiscently. ‘A bit fey by all accounts.’
‘You’re telling me.’ McLeod spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘Talked a load of hooey about seeing these white hands with fingers waving like serpents, same as one of them conjurors — you know, when they’re wearing gloves and doing fancy tricks in the dark. But she was hysterical. None of it made any sense.’
‘She saw hands?’ Markham was alert.
‘And smelled something too, she said.’
‘Like what?’ Noakes leaned forward, intrigued. ‘Chloroform? Summat like that?’
‘She just said it was sharp and spicy and then it was gone.’
Aftershave perhaps. Or perfume.
Mentally, Markham was back in the archives corridor. ‘Where did she see these hands?’
‘The lad went missing from that long corridor leading off the room with the medieval paintings.’
‘Yes.’ Markham paused. ‘I knew from a look at the cold case file where it had happened, but even without that I would have guessed. It just felt that something bad had happened there.’ Despite the warmth of the room, he gave a convulsive shiver. ‘As though the air had retained an impression . . . almost like a photographic negative.’
‘Nasty,’ Noakes concurred feelingly.
McLeod looked from one to the other.
‘It was barmy really,’ he said at last. ‘Shelley kept gabbling about hands coming out of a cupboard or a wardrobe.’ Rumpling his hair distractedly, he continued, ‘There were cabinets and tallboys and what have you . . . but the most likely bet was the private staff staircase.’ McLeod was breathing heavily now, caught up in the emotion of that day. ‘Shelley was slow raising the alarm and we thought—’
‘It was “Here we go Looby Loo,”’ interjected Noakes helpfully. ‘Like she was out of it or on summat.’
‘It was only a few minutes, but that was all it took,’ McLeod concluded wretchedly. ‘By the time our lot were on the scene, there was no trace.’
There was a long silence, then, ‘Whoever it was took one hell of a chance.’
It was an echo of the reporter’s verdict on the murder of Charles Randall. The killer took a hell of a chance.
‘Nowadays when a child goes missing, after Madeleine McCann, it’s amber alerts and all the rest of it. Everything sealed off, no one in, no one out.’ McLeod’s voice sank to a hoarse whisper. ‘But things were different then. It was a Sunday. Just a few visitors, mainly pensioners and the odd student or youngster who’d buggered off before we got the cordon up.’
Markham handed him a list of gallery personnel.
‘Lestrange and Carstone, I remember them,’ the other said. ‘Researchers or something like that. Nice blokes. Couldn’t see them mixed up in anything sinister. They helped with the search. One of ’em sat with Shelley . . .’
He ran his eyes down the list. ‘Bramwell,’ he continued. ‘Yes, an academic like the other two . . . younger’n them, though . . . Stuck up. Thought a lot of himself. Got bolshie about giving his contact details.’
Another name caught his attention. ‘Crocker. There was a mousy receptionist or secretary.’ He chuckled. ‘I heard someone call her “the Croc,” but she looked the type who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
McLeod handed back the sheet of paper. ‘Hignett rings a bell too. Cloakroom girl, I think.’
His tone thoughtful, he added, ‘I don’t know about the rest, but they could have been there for all I know. There were a few kids who slipped the net . . . teenagers who’d come in out of the rain most like. So you see . . .’
‘I’m really grateful for this, sir.’ Markham looked McLeod straight in the eye. ‘What happened that day seems more real somehow.’
He meant it.
‘Is there anything else you remember, sir? Anything at all?’
‘Not that I can think of. Hold on a minute, there was one thing . . . Shelley said she remembered hearing someone humming, a sort of crooning just before Alex disappeared. How did it go? “I want an old-fashioned house, with an old-fashioned fence. And an old-fashioned millionaire.”’
The hair stood up on the back of Markham’s neck.
It was as though a killer stood right there in the room mocking them.
* * *
Afterwards, out in the rural winter wonderland, Noakes said uneasily, ‘It could’ve been any of ’em, guv.’
Markham’s mobile rang.
‘That was Kate. Armitage and Watson await our pleasure.’
The DS sniggered. ‘Makes ’em sound like a dodgy comedy act.’
‘I doubt this interview will be a laugh a minute, Sergeant.’
They trudged slowly back to the car.
Jim McLeod watched till they had disappeared from sight.
After all this time, he thought, after all this time.
8. Secrets
The art gallery looked as though it was made of spun sugar, Markham thought as they parked next to the entrance. Like the decoration on a bridal cake or something equally superficial.
Yet two innocents had died there, and behind the crystalline façade was a creature with cold eyes that watched the two detectives and knew them for the enemy.
They sat in the car with the heater on, curiously reluctant to make a move, almost somnolent in the cosy fug. Markham sank into a reverie where the t
itanic subjects gazing and struggling on the walls and ceilings of the gallery broke the spell that lay upon them, stepped out of their gilded portraits and came towards him, whispering a name. Through half-open lids he almost fancied he saw nymphs, goddesses and colossi gesturing to him with excited intention as if to say, ‘We hold the clue. There! Look there!’
Then the moment was gone, the prophets and evangelists and angels frozen once more into attitudes of alien remoteness.
Noakes was gently snoring.
The DI gave him a dig in the ribs. ‘Wake up, Sergeant. We aren’t finished for the day.’
* * *
The gallery felt more sepulchral than ever, as though all the staff had melted away, though Markham had no doubt there were watchers in the wings.
They found Burton and Doyle in the cheerless incident room glumly drinking tea. Doyle looked less than his usual dapper self, with tie undone almost as though he had yanked it loose in an outburst of frustration. Under the DI’s coolly appraising gaze, he hastily readjusted it.
‘Are we any further forward, Kate?’ Markham enquired.
She frowned. Like Doyle, an air of despondency hung about her, but at Markham’s entrance she made a visible effort to rouse herself. It was touching the way she always tried to galvanize the team, he thought, watching her straighten up.
‘Yes and no, sir.’
‘That sounds very enigmatic.’
‘Well, the trouble is it looks like they’ve pretty much all got something to hide.’
‘How so?’
‘It turns out Marcus Traherne’s been allowing students into the gallery after hours for . . . recreational purposes.’
Noakes smirked, enjoying her obvious discomfiture.
‘You mean shagging?’
‘Sex seems to have come into it, yes,’ she replied stiffly.
‘Was this for money, Kate?’
‘He says not, sir.’
Markham turned to Doyle. ‘What about the students?’
‘They’re singing from the same hymn sheet, sir. Just fun and games.’ The DC rolled his eyes. ‘The way Traherne spun things, he made it sound like he was trying to build bridges with the demonstrators . . . you know, a bit of misguided PR for the gallery that got out of hand.’
Noakes guffawed. ‘He must think we were born yesterday. Swinging from the chandeliers and he calls it PR!’
Markham’s lips curled with distaste and he was wearing what Burton privately thought of as his puritanical look. ‘No Sex Markham.’ That had been his nickname at Bromgrove CID in the early days. But once his colleagues caught a glimpse of Olivia Mullen — ‘a real stunner’ being the unanimous verdict — their attitude required recalibration. The DI was now generally regarded as a dark horse and the subject of endless prurient speculation, but he enveloped himself in an air of chilly restraint which repelled the slightest approach to overfamiliarity. ‘C’mon, Noakesy, dish the dirt,’ was the cry down the canteen. But if Markham’s wingman knew, he wasn’t telling.
‘Gross misconduct.’ The DI sat down heavily. ‘But without more, it’s a disciplinary matter.’
‘There was some colourful stuff in Traherne’s HR file, sir.’ Burton was desperate to give the boss something. Like a kid bringing an apple to their teacher, Noakes thought. It was plain to see she was still holding a candle for the guvnor. And that poor sap of a fiancé didn’t have the foggiest.
‘What kind of stuff?’ Markham’s voice was hollow as though he guessed the answer.
‘Helen Melville raised a grievance against him a while back for bullying and sexually inappropriate behaviour, but the complaint didn’t come to anything. It was put down to “banter” and Benedict Bramwell “had a word.” Melville then reported Bramwell to the trustees for not taking her seriously but got nowhere. There was bad blood between them over that.’
‘So, bollocks to all that garbage about Bramwell and Melville having an “amicable separation.”’ Noakes air-quoted gleefully.
‘Well yes, it looks as though Bramwell wasn’t completely frank, sarge.’
‘Did you tackle him about it, Kate?’
‘Didn’t turn a hair, sir. Said he’d completely forgotten it. Storm in a teacup, hardly worth bothering about, they’d long since put it behind them, etcetera etcetera.’
Benedict Bramwell was clearly a virtuoso in the art of stonewalling.
‘Hmm.’ Markham impatiently pushed back a lock of hair from his eyes. ‘Did the HR files yield any other nuggets about the staff?’
‘Miss Crocker “raised concerns” about certain colleagues “bringing their personal lives to work.”’ Burton was keen to show she could air-quote with the best of them. ‘Looks like Rebecca Summerson gave her the bum’s rush — basically told her to mind her own business.’
God, what a nest of vipers.
‘From Summerson’s notes, Crocker came over all gooey and maternal about Charles Randall. Worried that Melville might be compromising him.’
‘Did Ms Summerson follow up with Randall?’
Burton’s preternaturally solemn expression lightened momentarily.
‘He told her, off the record, that Crocker was a nosey old bat.’
The DI laughed. ‘There’s gratitude for you!’
‘Bill Hignett’s quite tasty too, sir.’ Doyle did not want to be left out.
Markham quirked an eyebrow ironically. ‘Tasty? Come on, Doyle, you know my feelings about sloppy jargon. Let’s have the specifics please.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The young detective flushed to the roots of his carroty hair. ‘There were quite a few complaints about him being touchy-feely. And he had meltdowns too.’
‘Is there a medical diagnosis?’
‘Autism and ADHD plus sexual disinhibition disorder.’ Doyle squinted at his notes. ‘The gallery’s got some sort of partnership with the Disability Employment team at the council. There’s a mentor who comes in now and again. Apart from that, Mum keeps him on the rails most of the time. Aubrey Carstone or Gemma Clarke can usually calm him down when he has a tantrum.’
‘Any bullying?’
‘Not to speak of. A couple of girls in the café reported him to Rebecca Summerson. Said he gave them the willies — liked coming up behind them and making them jump, that kind of thing. And Helen Melville complained he was always spying on her and Charles Randall—’
‘Spying?’ Markham caught at the word. ‘That’s pretty strong.’
‘Yeah,’ Noakes agreed. ‘Makes it sound like they were up to summat dodgy and didn’t want him snooping.’
‘It was all smoothed over in the end.’ Doyle resumed his narrative. ‘Cathy Hignett’s got him on a short leash, so doesn’t look as though it went beyond mild perving. She gave staff the rough edge of her tongue if she thought they were too hard on him.’
‘Ructions with our two victims?’
‘Them and everyone else from the sound of it.’
‘Who gave him that nickname . . . “Quasi”?’
‘No one knows for sure, sir. Someone said it might’ve been Randall. But Hignett seems almost proud of it.’
‘Like he’s some sort of creepy mascot,’ Noakes interjected. ‘Him and friggin’ Mrs Mop are straight out of the Bates Motel.’
‘I think we can rule out an Oedipal Complex, Noakes.’
‘Eh?’
Seeing that Burton was poised to deliver a mini-lecture on attachment disorders, Markham hastily turned the discussion into another channel.
‘Did you turn up anything on Daniel Westbrook? Anything in the HR files?’
‘Clean as a whistle, sir.’ Burton’s tone was resigned. ‘A couple of spiky performance management appraisals from Helen Melville, but apparently that was par for the course with her. Aubrey Carstone said she didn’t pull her punches but Westbrook took it all in his stride. His own specialist interest is medieval religious shrines and holy places — following in the footsteps of his uncle, Donald Lestrange — so Melville and Randall may have felt threatened . . . li
ke he was encroaching on their territory.’
Could professional jealousy have been the touchstone for something darker, wondered Markham.
His head was beginning to ache.
Idly, he wondered if it was still snowing, already wistful for the tranquil beauty of Calder Vale.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep . . .
If the DCI had his way, none of them would be getting much sleep for the foreseeable.
He became aware that Burton and Doyle were looking at him expectantly.
‘Good work, both of you’, he said. ‘As you observed, Kate, the field’s pretty much wide open.’ He thought for a moment. ‘What’s your take on Rebecca Summerson?’
‘She’s in bits, sir. Had another rant about Westbrook earlier. Doyle saw a hip flask in her handbag.’
‘Would she be capable of a double bluff . . . killing her lover and the man she had taken up with, then setting up Westbrook as the fall guy?’
‘According to some of the admin staff, she’s a real piece of work. Bit of an actress too by all accounts.’
‘If it’s acting, then she should get an Oscar,’ put in Doyle.
The DI glanced at the ugly wall clock.
Four o’clock.
‘What time can we expect the trustees, Kate?’
‘Half an hour or so, sir.’
‘Right, let’s go have a cup of tea — clear our heads.’
‘By the way, Ned Chester from the Gazette called earlier.’
Markham’s head came up.
‘Oh. What did he want?’
‘He was a bit cloak and dagger. Said he had something you might find interesting. Something to do with Donald Lestrange. Didn’t want to go into details over the ’phone.’
‘Getting le Carré'd away as usual.’ Noakes was pleased with his pun. ‘Daft git should stick to arts ’n crafts.’
Burton ignored the interruption.
‘I didn’t press him, sir. We had all the staff in here at the time — a quick briefing about the gallery reopening next week — and the girl covering reception put him through on speakerphone. Luckily I don’t think anyone was really paying attention . . . too busy chatting amongst themselves.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 113