Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘I’ll be needing a statement of progress to date,’ the DCI concluded, ‘though of course the priority is to avoid causing unnecessary alarm — nothing melodramatic and,’ he said pointedly, ‘no reference to Carter. The last thing we want is to muddy the waters at this stage.’

  ‘What if the journos ask about Carter?’ Noakes asked stubbornly.

  Sidney’s long-lived wondering frown suggested he expected them to come up with the necessary fancy footwork. Markham duly obliged. ‘We can say there’s no reason at this stage to believe the two cases are connected,’ he murmured deferentially.

  Thus appeased, Sidney waved them towards the outer office where Miss Peabody hovered. ‘Sergeant, I think you’ve got something there on your tie.’ She made little dabbing gestures in the direction of the offending article.

  ‘Don’t you worry, luv.’ The DS brushed ineffectually at the congealing detritus. ‘It’s jus’ a bit of brekkie from earlier.’ He beamed at her confusion. ‘That’s what comes of eating on the hoof.’ The PA shuddered fastidiously as Markham, with an apologetic grimace, whisked his colleague away before she could make any further discoveries.

  ‘We know there’s a connection with Carter, guv,’ Noakes mumbled through a mouthful of station special. ‘You’ve got Melville suddenly getting all aerated about secret cubbyholes an’ buried kiddies . . . the Princes in the Tower stuff . . . plus the missing papers an’ that map with the doodle . . . then Donald Lestrange telling the trick cyclists he saw a child being walled up.’

  ‘It’s all circumstantial, Sergeant.’ Intimations of nausea circulated round Markham’s digestive system as he watched Noakes finish off his ‘snack’ with Falstaffian relish. ‘Any halfway decent lawyer would demolish it like a pack of cards.’

  A snort from across the table offered eloquent testimony to Noakes’s opinion of legal eagles.

  ‘Besides,’ the DI gloomily opined. ‘No way can we get on to Lestrange’s medical history. The ethical standards mob would have a field day. I mean, think about it — casting aspersions on this respected local figure who died after a tragic battle with dementia. I don’t see Daniel Westbrook or the trustees taking that on the chin, do you?’

  ‘S’pose not,’ the DS grumbled.

  ‘And the DCI would go ballistic.’

  ‘That figures.’

  Markham gulped down his coffee. ‘Let’s check what Kate has for us,’ he said. ‘From the sound of it, she may have uncovered something useful at the Newman.’

  * * *

  It was a cold, dank day. Snow was no longer falling, but the curtain of mist persisted so that the gallery seemed to hang in the air as though suspended from angry skies.

  Inside was warm and quiet, however.

  No sign of Kate and Doyle in the incident room, so Noakes padded off to look for them.

  Markham, meanwhile, betook himself to the room allocated to British art — the place where he had loitered just before the terrible discovery of Ned Chester’s body.

  Somehow he felt close to Ned as he contemplated the Matchstick Man’s dark scurrying figures set against a plain flake-white background which gave the pictures their eerie dream-like quality. Scrutinizing the fly-like congregations of busy people, Markham remembered Carol Anne’s poignant description of Ned tracking human insects with his butterfly net.

  None of the figures in the Lowry paintings communicated with the rest, he noticed. Not even in the smaller groups. Unsmiling and aloof, they might as well all have been strangers to each other.

  Was that how their murderer felt, he wondered. Robotic. An outsider. Detached from humanity. Never touching or being touched.

  He moved slowly around the room, pausing before a collection of Lowry grotesques — misfits, down-and-outs, solitaries, the physically deformed — on loan from Manchester. Their strange and ghastly beauty had a queer effect on him. Again, he gazed searchingly at all the examples of human degradation before him as though, if he looked hard enough, they might eventually yield a clue to the conscienceless killer who lurked just outside his field of vision.

  ‘That one’s a crazy.’ Noakes’s rumble interrupted his thoughts. ‘Talk about mad eyes.’

  ‘It’s a self-portrait, sarge. Lowry’s mother was dying when he painted it.’ Burton spoke diffidently, looking uncertainly from Noakes to Doyle as though she suspected them of forming a conspiracy against her.

  ‘Looks like he oughta be in an asylum, if you ask me.’

  ‘Talking of which, how did you and Doyle get on at the Newman, Kate?’ the DI enquired as they stood huddled in front of the Man with Red Eyes.

  ‘Well, it turned up some interesting intel, sir.’

  She handed the DI a sheet of paper which he swiftly scanned.

  ‘So,’ he declared softly. ‘Esmée Crocker was an inpatient for a time after postpartum psychosis. What was the outcome?’

  ‘She made a complete recovery after treatment, sir.’

  ‘And the child?’

  ‘Put up for adoption. Husband walked out and she went home to Mum and Dad. Young enough to make a fresh start, so looks like the family sorted things. It wasn’t that unusual back then.’

  ‘Child snatcher?’ wondered Noakes.

  ‘There’s something twisted about her all right,’ Burton replied slowly. ‘One of those female cats, I’d say . . . but abduction’s a stretch.’

  ‘Not if she was desperate to replace the kid she lost,’ put in Doyle. ‘Her big thing’s arranging exhibitions of children’s fashions.’

  ‘Hardly an indictable offence, Doyle.’ Markham spoke with some asperity. ‘She works in Textiles, after all.’

  Interestingly, Doyle stuck to his guns. ‘Something, oh I dunno . . . something sneaky about her,’ he said. ‘All fluffy on the outside, but then you catch a look in her eyes . . .’ He jabbed two fingers expressively at his own.

  ‘Easily manipulated do you think, Constable?’

  ‘Hard to say. Gushes over Bramwell and the other blokes . . . doesn’t have any time for the women.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The DI turned to Burton. ‘Anything else, Kate?’

  ‘Bill Hignett’s a long-term outpatient, boss. There’s learning difficulties, obviously, but he’s being treated for sexual impulsivity connected with the autism.’ She screwed up her face in concentration. ‘Though Dr Mengham said the prospect of actual sex would scare him to death and he wouldn’t be able to handle an intimate relationship.’ Ignoring Noakes’s sceptical expression, she ploughed on. ‘Partly a developmental disorder, partly something to do with the relationship with his mother . . . very clingy and immature.’

  Oh for fuck’s sake, not all that again. Noakes might as well have said it out loud. He’d clearly had enough transactional analysis for one day.

  ‘So, he’d be curious about sex,’ Burton continued. ‘But it wouldn’t go much further than that. He’d more likely be drawn to immaturity or innocence in others . . . maybe to the point of getting himself into situations he couldn’t handle.’

  ‘You mean kids.’ Her colleague could contain himself no longer.

  ‘But not necessarily in a . . . well, a deviant way, sarge. Dr Mengham said it’s more about patients like Bill relating to someone at the same emotional age . . . someone who doesn’t threaten them . . . who doesn’t make them frightened.’

  ‘Someone like little Alex Carter,’ Noakes said flatly.

  Burton looked doubtful. ‘Was Bill even around when Alex went missing?’

  The DI looked up at the disturbing self-portrait in front of them as though for inspiration. ‘Jim McLeod mentioned the name Hignett rang a bell.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, guv. Told us he remembered the “cloakroom girl.”’

  ‘But from what he said when he looked at the list of gallery staff, it sounded as though most of them were in the vicinity at the time Alex went missing.’

  Noakes ticked the names off on pudgy fingers. ‘Lestrange, Carstone an’ Bramwell were all around . . . academic research or
what have you. Crocker was a receptionist—’ He broke off and turned to Doyle. ‘Big Jim said he heard someone call her “the Croc,” so you might be right about her being a tough nut.’ Doyle tried not to preen. ‘Then there’d be the cloakroom an’ security people, Cathy Hignett for one . . .’

  ‘Did Mr McLeod mention Bill, though?’ Burton enquired, terrier-like.

  ‘Nah,’ Noakes admitted. ‘But he said there were folk drifting in and out, with it being Sunday — most likely getting out of the rain an’ killing time . . . teenagers, pensioners, students . . .’

  Burton looked thoughtful. ‘Bill’s thirty-nine. Back then he would have been—’

  ‘Nineteen.’ There was a glint in Noakes’s eye. ‘If he was there an’ the doc’s right about him wanting to hang round with kids, then that puts him in the frame.’

  ‘But we don’t know for sure he was there, sarge. I suppose we could try asking Cathy.’

  ‘Like she’ll tell us owt,’ the other grouched. ‘She’ll put two an’ two together an’ we’ll get bloody zilch.’ He scowled. ‘But I bet he was around that day. Mum takes him everywhere, so stands to reason.’

  Markham shook his head slowly. ‘It won’t fly, Sergeant. Not unless we’ve got witnesses to place him at the gallery . . . and after all this time, it’s unlikely.’

  ‘Plus, the staff’ll close ranks if they think we’re making him a scapegoat,’ Doyle added sagaciously. ‘One of their own and all that . . .’ He trailed off uncertainly at the ferocious expression on the older man’s face.

  ‘We’re talking about a little lad being kidnapped . . . most likely murdered, for Christ’s sake. He was only six.’ Noakes looked, as Doyle later put it, as though he was about to burst a blood vessel. ‘An’ that poor cow of a mother ended up being suspected of it.’

  In some cranny of Noakes’s constitution, Markham reflected as he watched the little scene unfold before him, up a great many steps and in a corner easily overlooked, there was a secret door with ‘Compassion’ written on the spring. At a touch from the past, it had flown wide open.

  ‘Look, here’s the thing.’ The DS took a deep breath, wiped his sweat-bedabbled face with a none too clean handkerchief and told the other two about what he and Markham had learned at The Anchorage. They listened attentively, Burton drinking it all in, wide-eyed with consternation, and Doyle too, somewhat paler by the time Noakes concluded his recital. ‘Walled up,’ the young DC repeated shakily in disbelief. ‘That’s like a horror story. The Canterville Ghost or something.’

  Burton raised her eyebrows interrogatively.

  ‘It’s the one where this bloke’s locked up and starved to death in a castle cos of past crimes. He starts haunting the place . . . The family that live there can’t get rid of the ghost till they exorcize it so he can rest in peace.’

  ‘Well, little Alex Carter and his mum chuffing well ain’t resting in peace,’ Noakes said grimly. ‘An’ someone here knows what happened.’

  ‘I agree, Hignett’s the obvious suspect,’ Markham addressed them quietly. ‘But we have nothing to place him in the gallery at the relevant time, Sergeant. And remember, Mr McLeod couldn’t say with certainty who was there and who wasn’t. Things are different now,’ he added soberly. ‘Madeleine McCann has seen to that. But back then it was another story. The gallery wasn’t computerized and it was all fairly relaxed . . . pretty much easy come, easy go. As you said, Noakes, people just drifted in and out.’

  ‘True.’ Noakes’s face was downcast. ‘An’ Jim admitted folk could’ve slipped out before they got the cordon up.’

  He sighed gustily. ‘Alex’s mum was no help neither . . . all that cobblers about white hands waving in the dark . . .’

  ‘White hands?’ Doyle was mystified.

  ‘Sorry, yeah. What with everything that’s gone on, we must’ve forgotten to tell you that bit.’

  It was true, Markham realized with compunction as he observed a shadow pass across Kate Burton’s face.

  He dredged up a smile.

  ‘Alex’s mother spoke of having seen white hands with fingers waving in the dark like serpents . . . or a conjuror wearing gloves.’

  ‘Very poetical,’ Noakes sniffed. ‘But she could’ve been tripping . . . thought she smelled summat too . . . Then there was the song.’

  ‘Song?’ Doyle looked as if he’d had as much Gothic detail as he could take.

  ‘Some creepy lullaby or nursery rhyme.’

  ‘“I want an old-fashioned house, with an old-fashioned fence. And an old-fashioned millionaire.”’ Markham recited.

  There was dead silence for some moments before Burton cleared her throat.

  ‘That’s fairly childlike behaviour, sir . . . Could maybe fit Hignett given his immaturity.’

  ‘The song’s from the fifties or sixties, though, isn’t it?’ Doyle mused. ‘Odd choice, though I suppose he could’ve heard it on the radio or somewhere . . . maybe his mother . . .’

  Markham was clearly uneasy. ‘There’s something fetishistic . . . ritualistic about this scenario. I can’t seem to square it with Bill Hignett.’

  ‘Was Rebecca Summerson around when Alex disappeared?’ Doyle’s mind was running on other suspects.

  ‘Could’ve been,’ Noakes replied glumly. ‘Same goes for Traherne and Westbrook, for that matter. Twenty years ago . . . They’d likely be in their teens then.’

  ‘D’you see a kid doing something like this?’ Burton’s tone suggested they were clutching at straws.

  ‘You’ve obviously never heard of Mary Bell or the Bulger case.’ Noakes sounded huffy.

  ‘It’s not that, sarge.’ Burton was emollient. ‘It’s just whoever did this was pretty resourceful . . . cunning . . . They’d have to have had their wits about them and been pretty strong into the bargain.’

  ‘Maybe there were two in it together.’

  ‘That’s an interesting suggestion, Sergeant.’ Markham revolved the idea. ‘Our last murder—’ he couldn’t bring himself to say Ned’s name, ‘would certainly have required some muscle and maybe a lookout . . .’

  The DI fell silent, the faraway look in his eyes telling his subordinates he was reliving Ned Chester’s final desperate minutes alive.

  Surreptitiously, Burton ran her tongue over her bottom lip and loosened her collar as though the room suddenly felt stuffy and close. Noakes and Doyle, meanwhile, pretended deep interest in a composition on the other side of the room. Children dancing splay-legged on a pavement in some industrial city, pinched little nutcracker faces ugly and blank like puppets at a carnival with bleeding gashes for mouths. ‘God, they’re horrible,’ whispered the DS feelingly.

  ‘It’s your Matchstick Man painted ’em,’ Doyle pointed out with a touch of malice.

  ‘Well I s’pose everyone has their off days,’ the other replied with a final long, hard look. ‘But them kids look like they’re possessed.’

  The DS shook himself. This flaming case was getting to him, he reflected sourly. Couldn’t look at a perfectly ordinary painting without freaking himself out. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Burton affecting to examine an industrial landscape.

  ‘Right, team.’ The DI wore a quizzical expression as though perfectly aware of their little subterfuge. But there was affection in the look too, thought Noakes with satisfaction.

  ‘We’ve got a press conference at four,’ Markham announced. ‘I plan to take a back seat and leave the talking to you.’

  Doyle looked dismayed. ‘What’re we going to say?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘The usual platitudes from CID’s playbook, Constable. You can divvy them up between you.’ The DI tried not to sound cynical but failed. ‘“Pursuing various lines of enquiry . . . several promising leads . . . marvellous response from the public . . . important not to compromise ongoing enquiries . . . consideration for the bereaved . . . investigation at a delicate stage . . .” yadda yadda yadda.’

  ‘The journos won’t let us off the hook that easy, sir.’

&
nbsp; ‘Barry Lynch can schmooze a few of them beforehand,’ Markham said crisply. ‘Soften them up, make them feel they’re being invited into the tent. That should help.’

  ‘We can talk about the gallery reopening next week,’ Burton ventured.

  ‘Right, Kate. If in doubt, deflect.’

  ‘Sidney should be good for that,’ Noakes grunted.

  ‘They’re bound to ask how a Gazette reporter wound up dead in the gallery?’ Doyle blurted it out, attracting a scowl from Noakes.

  But Markham remained calm.

  ‘“Wrong place at the wrong time . . . no reason to suppose any connection other than professional interest . . . tragic misfortune . . . ”’ He had it off pat. ‘Depend upon it, Sidney’ll head them off at the pass.’ The DI’s voice hardened. ‘He’ll spout some guff about a reporter’s instincts and Ned’s dedication to his readers . . . Nothing to suggest the Gazette’s finest were ever in bed with CID, of course.’

  Noakes cracked a grin. Attaboy, he thought.

  ‘If all else fails, you can talk about liaising with everyone in the academic community,’ Markham continued. ‘The DCI wants us to steer clear of the art world.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I don’t think he’ll be averse to our throwing the university into the mix.’

  ‘Deranged student an’ all that,’ Noakes said in disgust.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Talking of students, sir, I had a call from the vice-principal earlier.’

  ‘Indeed? What did he have to say, Doyle?’

  ‘Apparently, there’s some sort of demonstration planned for the weekend. He was a bit vague about the details.’

  He would be, thought Markham.

  ‘What, pray, is the point of this demonstration?’ he enquired with weary sarcasm. ‘A protest against colonial oppression or have they moved on to something else . . . Affronts to the LGBT community perhaps?’

  Noakes sniggered appreciatively.

  ‘Just cuts to higher education funding, I think, sir.’

  ‘Oh well, we can probably cope with whatever they spring on us.’ He thought for a minute. ‘If the gallery staff think our attention is focused elsewhere, it might even prove useful.’