Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

Nothing left to do but set the alarm and secure the premises, the three detectives averting their eyes from the cordoned off section where Markham had made his grisly discovery.

  Outside it was snowing again, thick flakes driving and drifting against them as they walked, stiffening their clothes and freezing their eyelashes. But they barely noticed the elements, hunched against the blizzard which enveloped the gallery in a white pall.

  * * *

  When Noakes arrived at the DI’s flat the next morning, he found his boss more or less in command of his emotions, though new lines of tension seemed to have sprung up overnight in the handsome face.

  ‘Carol Anne made it easy for me,’ Markham had told Olivia who had waited up for him in his study. ‘Not a word of reproach. She said Ned was never happier than chasing a lead. It made him feel like an entomologist stalking human insects with a butterfly net.’

  Her eyes dimmed with unshed tears, Olivia chuckled. ‘Typical Ned!’ Gently, she added, ‘Hold on to that thought, Gil. Remember he died doing what he loved best.’

  With frightening intensity, her lover replied, ‘But he was the one being stalked. He was the one who walked into a trap. God, if you’d seen him in that suit of armour, like some horrible metal strait-jacket . . .’

  ‘Try not to think of it.’

  ‘I’ll never forget it as long as I live . . . Ned loved those Pre-Raphaelite paintings . . . the medieval romance and the chivalry.’ Markham shuddered violently. ‘It’s like someone knew and posed his body out of spite. One last sick joke . . . Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail impersonated by Ned Chester of the Gazette.’

  Olivia sought to distract him.

  ‘Didn’t you say Helen Melville was obsessed with a picture like that?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Markham’s fists unclenched. ‘Life and Thought Emerging from the Tomb. The painting that shows two figures coming out of a mausoleum — a woman accompanied by a knight in armour.’

  ‘And it’s meant to symbolize the body being the soul’s prison?’

  Markham nodded, piercing dark gaze fixed on her.

  ‘Those pictures that went missing from the gallery — the ones you told me about the other night — they’re all about imprisonment as well?’

  ‘Right again.’ To Olivia’s relief, his exhausted features kindled with renewed animation. ‘It felt like maybe there’s some paranoid psychosis bubbling away beneath this case. Someone seriously disturbed . . . endlessly revisiting a crime from the past but never achieving closure.’

  ‘And Donald Lestrange holds the clue?’

  ‘Ned died after he called the gallery to say he had some information about Lestrange. So he must be the key to it all, Liv.’ Markham saw this conviction reflected in his lover’s face.

  ‘But there’s someone standing behind Lestrange,’ he continued. ‘The puppet-master . . . the one who pulled the strings. The manipulator. The controller.’

  Olivia suddenly felt herself go cold, as though a shadowy, ghostly figure had sidled into the room to stand behind her. As though the killer was breathing softly down her neck.

  ‘You’ll get him, my love,’ she repeated over and over. ‘You’ll get him.’

  Arriving in a damp flurry, Noakes echoed her mantra. ‘We’re getting close, guv, I c’n feel it,’ he declared. ‘It’s jus’ a matter of time.’

  Markham looked wordlessly out at the snow-clad cemetery, seeing Evil burrowing like a mole underground, staking its claim to another mound of earth . . . a dank cell to house the remains of Ned Chester. Impossible to credit that their goodbye in Waterstones was for all time . . .

  ‘George, I think you and Gil need something more substantial than a cup of coffee inside you today,’ Olivia said lightly. ‘It goes against my principles,’ she sighed theatrically, ‘but what would you say to a “coronary on a plate”?’

  Noakes’s beatific expression indicating that this arrangement was eminently acceptable, she ushered him out of the room towards the well-appointed galley kitchen at the back of the apartment, leaving Markham to follow when he was ready.

  * * *

  Dr Christina Skelthorne, chartered clinical psychologist at The Anchorage, was a petite kewpie doll of a woman whose immaculate maquillage, raven chignon and what Noakes called ‘droopy clothes’ gave her a geisha-girl quality that Markham found disconcerting. Even more so the irritating sing-song neatness of her speech and head-on-one-side posture suggestive of talking someone down from a ledge. Which, the DI supposed, was commensurate with her calling.

  In the event, it was surprisingly easy to extract the required information, Dr Skelthorne accepting at face value his justification for their visit, namely that they were looking for anything in Donald Lestrange’s personal background which might identify a motive for the theft of his papers. Left hanging in the air — albeit not in so many words — was the suggestion that they were there at the trustees’ behest, to ascertain whether embarrassment was likely to be caused should personal details about the collector enter the public domain. To Markham’s ears it sounded somewhat thin and unconvincing, but by some miracle the psychologist didn’t call their bluff.

  ‘Your civilian investigator, Mr Chester, explained the position,’ she informed them blandly.

  The DI didn’t dare look at his colleague, but felt an inward glow at his friend’s ingenuity.

  Well done, Ned. Well done.

  ‘Obviously, I merely summarized the general therapeutic outcome,’ Dr Skelthorne intoned. ‘As I told Mr Chester, client confidentiality is paramount.’ Her voice held a question.

  ‘Mr Chester hasn’t had an opportunity of briefing us in full, Doctor.’ And never would, Markham reflected with a gnawing at his guts. ‘He suggested it was worth our coming to see you in person.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She looked gratified at the implied compliment.

  Blindside them with flattery. Worked like a charm every time, Markham reflected wryly.

  Dr Skelthorne padded across the shag pile carpet to a filing cabinet which was the only functional item in a room as impersonally furnished as a Trusthouse Forte Hotel guest suite.

  Her movements calm and deliberate, she removed a slim manila folder before reseating herself in the comfortable overstuffed armchair and scanning its contents. Perched side by side on a slouchy lilac sofa, the two men waited expectantly.

  Finally, she closed the folder.

  ‘Some years before he died, Mr Lestrange had experienced persistent nightmares.’ She paused, giving the impression that she sought to reduce complex processes to layman’s terms. With a sphinx-like smile, she elaborated. ‘To put it at its simplest, he was troubled by recurring flashbacks related to a chronic anxiety disorder.’

  ‘What kind of nightmares?’

  Dr Skelthorne blinked. Clearly having intended to lead up to the subject in stages, she hadn’t reckoned on Noakes’s preference for the full-frontal approach.

  She looked towards Markham as though expecting him to intervene, but the DI merely watched her with brooding, unfathomable eyes.

  ‘Mr Lestrange believed that he had been complicit in a criminal enterprise,’ she said finally.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Could you perhaps be more explicit, Doctor.’

  ‘He was troubled by dreams in which he watched a child being buried alive.’ The professional smile firmly in place, she added, ‘Of course this was a case of symbolic displacement . . . suppression of early-life trauma leading to dissociative re-enactment.’

  Before Noakes could butt in requesting a translation, Markham enquired easily, ‘Was therapy successful in locating the relevant childhood episode?’

  The professional mask slipped a little, but the Colgate smile was swiftly back in place.

  ‘We concluded there was unlikely to have been any specific trigger. It was more a question of authoritarian parenting leading to sexual confusion and gender ambivalence.’

  Bollocks to that. Noakes’s mutinous expression said it all.

  He
ading off any Freudian or Jungian exegesis, Markham interposed, ‘Did Mr Lestrange identify any particular setting for this burial . . . or say who was involved?’

  ‘Well obviously, one must distinguish reality from illusion.’

  ‘Oh, naturally.’ The DI’s manner was smoothly insinuating, his expression that of the fascinated amateur. ‘But allowing that this was fantasy . . .’

  The psychologist was disarmed.

  Smarmy bugger, thought Noakes watching admiringly. Always has poncey types eating out of his hand. Pound to a penny, she’d love to get him on the couch . . .

  The DS was brought sharply back to reality when Dr Skelthorne said, ‘Mr Lestrange was convinced that a child had been walled up in front of him.’

  Markham’s mouth was dry, but somehow he forced the words out.

  ‘Did the child have a name?’

  She shook her head. ‘He called him the Lost Boy.’

  Despite the warmth of the room, Markham felt goosebumps.

  ‘Did he say where this happened?’

  ‘He described features of a typical country house, most likely a National Trust property he remembered from childhood . . . Gawthorpe Hall perhaps . . . or Knebworth House.’ She patted the manila file complacently. ‘A fixation with hidden rooms and recesses is not uncommon in such cases, as a signifier for the divided self.’

  No, thought Markham. Donald Lestrange didn’t conjure up some imaginary topography. He was reliving something he had witnessed. Something which rose up uncontrollably in his dreams to haunt him. Something he desperately wanted to expunge from his memory.

  ‘And the perpetrator? Man or woman?’ The DI’s tone was casual, giving no clue to the thoughts that raced through his mind.

  ‘He would never say. But,’ another smug tap of the file, ‘clinically speaking, this presented as a textbook case of patricidal impulse. Killing the father,’ she added benignly for Noakes’s benefit. ‘Of course, with the rapid onset of dementia, Mr Lestrange’s day-to-day care became a matter for the local health authority and his treatment here was unfortunately discontinued.’

  ‘Would you say he experienced any relief from his symptoms after psychotherapy? Did the nightmares stop?’

  Dr Skelthorne pursed her lips as though Markham had made a gaffe.

  ‘By articulating his fears in a safe environment, he acquired a measure of control over them.’

  That would be a no, then.

  ‘What about doodles?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ The psychologist looked blankly at Noakes.

  ‘Scribbles, drawings, stick men . . . did he ever do owt like that in any of the, er . . . sessions? I mean,’ he jerked a thumb towards a tasteful still life on the far wall, ‘art was his thing . . . so stands to reason he might jot summat down.’ The DS looked wildly about him for inspiration and finding none, concluded lamely, ‘He might’ve tried to get the bad thoughts out of his head by putting ’em on paper.’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean.’ Regarding Noakes warily as though he belonged to some primitive species not previously encountered, the psychologist enunciated her words carefully. ‘No, we didn’t adopt that approach in his past life regression therapy. It was thought best to keep the personal and professional halves of his experience distinct.’

  More’s the bleeding pity.

  ‘Mr Lestrange wasn’t a suitable subject for hypnosis and, as I say, his therapy was interrupted by the onset of dementia.’

  They had circled as near as they dared to Alex Carter and the possibility of Lestrange’s connection to a serial killer. Time to beat a tactical retreat before Dr Skelthorne became suspicious and raised the drawbridge.

  Markham gave her a charming smile. The one he reserved specially for dippy women, as Noakes thought of it.

  ‘Thank you for making time to see us, Doctor. In cases of . . . personal delicacy, it’s invaluable to hear directly from health professionals.’

  Blah blah blah. The standard BS.

  Cordial handshakes all round and a few minutes later they were standing outside the clinic.

  ‘What now, guv?’

  It felt raw and damp, the short perspective of Crofton Street with its elegant Georgian houses obscured by mist which, in Markham’s current mood, seemed to hang over everything like a filthy curtain.

  ‘“The longer the beard, the shorter the art.”’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s what your Matchstick Man said about artists. It’s why Lowry shaved with a cut-throat razor until the day he died.’ A harsh bitter laugh. ‘Ned loved stories like that. Loved debunking all the academic claptrap.’

  The DS looked anxiously at his boss.

  ‘Don’t worry, Noakesy, I’m not going to lose it. Not now.’

  ‘Wonder what put Chester on to The Anchorage, guv.’

  ‘Someone must’ve let something slip and then Ned was on it.’

  ‘Like a rat up a drain,’ Noakes said admiringly. ‘That was dead crafty passing hisself off as an investigator.’

  ‘Wasn’t it just,’ echoed Markham, forcing the words past an enormous lump in his throat.

  ‘What now, guv?’

  ‘Well, at least we’re getting somewhere. It’s looking very much as though little Alex Carter was abducted and murdered.’

  ‘An’ Lestrange knew who did it . . . that’s what sent him doolally.’

  ‘More than likely.’ Markham sighed heavily, watching his breath spiral into the cold air. ‘But Ned never got anything concrete. Presumably that’s why he thought his news could wait.’

  ‘The killer wasn’t to know that. So he decided to fix him good an’ proper.’ Lugubriously, Noakes mimed bashing someone over the head before self-consciously recollecting himself.

  ‘I want to pay the Land Registry a visit,’ Markham said. ‘Lestrange lived in a big stone semi the other side of Calder Vale. Nothing on the scale of a country house, but that architect’s plan in his papers—’

  ‘The one with the doodle . . . the one the killer dropped . . . with Alex Carter’s name on it?’

  ‘The very same. We need to see if it rings a bell with property services. Could be a long shot, but worth trying the recognition factor . . . local knowledge.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I’m willing to bet it’s not sodding Gawthorpe Hall—’

  ‘Nor Knob House, neither.’

  ‘Knebworth House, Sergeant.’

  ‘Are we going now?’

  ‘We need to see the DCI first obviously.’

  Noakes’s face fell.

  ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’

  At that moment, Markham’s mobile sang out.

  The exchange was short and to the point.

  Turning back to Noakes, the DI said, ‘Kate has some interesting news for us from the Newman. It appears Donald Lestrange was not the only one with medical secrets in his past.’

  11. A Bend in the Road

  ‘Well, that was a turn up for the books,’ the DS observed to Markham later on Friday morning, sounding as though his world had tilted on its axis.

  The two men were sitting in the canteen at Bromgrove Police Station. Largely deserted, they had the place pretty much to themselves, save for a few young traffic cops who kept a respectful distance.

  Notwithstanding his earlier cholesterol-laden breakfast, Noakes was tucking into the ‘station special’ — a sausage, bacon and scrambled egg muffin with extra ketchup on the side. From the wink bestowed on him by the motherly supervisor, it was clear his reputation had gone before him. ‘Gotta keep our strength up,’ he told the DI, chomping happily. ‘Can’t do owt on an empty stomach.’

  No danger of that in your case, the DI thought wryly.

  Aloud, he merely said, ‘The DCI certainly showed his best side today.’

  And it was true. Sidney had appeared genuinely shaken by Ned Chester’s murder, the trademark bombast and braggadocio totally absent in his tribute to the dead reporter. ‘I always found him upfront and honest,’ the DCI told Markham. ‘Which is m
ore than can be said for the rest of that shower down at the Gazette.’ His gaze reflective, he added, ‘Chester’s coverage of those murders at the Royal Court last year did CID no harm at all . . . could’ve been a real hatchet job, but in the event it was a remarkably fair and objective piece of journalism.’

  It would have been expecting too much of Sidney to imagine that he could have laid the credit for Ned Chester’s sympathetic analysis at Markham’s door, but his condolences at least were sincere. ‘I know you and Chester were friends,’ he said with unwonted kindness. ‘If you need to take any time, Inspector . . .’

  On the DI readily assuring him that his top priority was to apprehend a triple-killer, Sidney, with evident relief, got back to business. ‘Why would Chester have been a target?’ he enquired, gimlet gaze raking the DI. ‘Please don’t tell me you’d been sharing details of the investigation with him, Inspector.’

  Markham duly delivered a suitably expurgated account of the conversation in Waterstones. ‘Ned was a mad enthusiast for art, sir.’ Again, he had to force the words past a golf ball sized lump in his throat. ‘And of course, he immediately made the connection with Alex Carter.’ It felt like a betrayal, but he didn’t want Sidney learning anything about Ned’s unauthorised enquiries at The Anchorage. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘Ned may have decided to do some background digging on his own account and in the process inadvertently stumbled across something that threatened the murderer.’

  ‘What kind of something?’ Sidney’s darkening expression suggested a cold weather front was on its way.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out, sir,’ Markham temporized. ‘Of course, we’ll be checking his movements and contacts over the last few days.’

  The DCI smoothed his beard magisterially. ‘I want you and your team available this afternoon at four sharp to record a slot for the evening news bulletin.’ The glance Sidney shot at Noakes, whose combination of flecked tweed jacket and shiny polka dot shirt was strongly suggestive of his having got dressed in the dark, expressed the conviction that the latter was unlikely to add much lustre to the occasion. ‘Best bib and tucker of course, sir,’ Markham said reassuringly.