Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

‘As in people might lower their guard?’

  ‘Precisely, Noakes.’

  ‘Where are we up to with interview statements, Kate?’

  ‘Doyle and I are just going through them, sir . . . nothing jumps out, though.’

  ‘Get that wrapped up and try tapping junior staff about the bosses . . . somewhere in there we’ll find a clue that will blow this case wide open.’

  Please, God.

  ‘In the meantime, Noakes and I will head out to the Land Registry.’

  ‘D’you think someone will be able to make a match with that drawing, boss?’

  ‘It’s a long shot, Doyle. But it may start a ripple . . . you never know.’

  Quietly, they dispersed to their various jobs.

  Silence fell once more on the wizened changelings, eccentrics and grotesques. And the man with the red eyes brooded inscrutably over all.

  * * *

  The Land Registry was some way out of town on the far side of Calder Vale.

  Noakes drove with elaborate care and attention, casting the occasional furtive look at his boss.

  ‘It’s all right, Noakesy,’ the DI said eventually, ‘I’m not an invalid. No need to tiptoe around me.’

  ‘Never dreamed of it, guv.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  They drove in companionable silence for a time, Markham watching the picturesque snowscape slip by.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking you’re somewhat disenchanted with your Matchstick Man after seeing those pictures of down-and-outs back there?’

  The DS looked sheepish. ‘Well it’s real life, ain’t it, guv . . . but kind of ugly too.’ He paused and then, ‘I remember Ned Chester saying even Lowry’s family found ’em a bit weird. His mum used to turn all the paintings towards the wall whenever they had visitors.’

  ‘And yet now those same pictures fetch millions of pounds.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Unexpectedly, Noakes chuckled. ‘Chester told me he used to get £5 per signature whenever he did signed prints. One time there was this dealer came in and he jus’ signed a shortened version of his name. The dealer asked why an’ he said L. S. Low was a small signature cos it was a small fee.’

  The DS gripped the steering wheel as though for dear life.

  ‘I guess it was jus’ that some of them oddballs he painted gave me the heebie-jeebies . . . like he was obsessed with folk who had nothing . . . whose life was a big hole . . . a big fat zero.’ A pause and then, ‘D’you think our murderer’s like that, guv? Someone who’s got a great empty hole where his heart should be . . . like he’s maimed or crippled or summat?’

  Markham reminded himself that it never did to underestimate Noakes. Many in CID dismissed the uncouth shambling DS as a Neanderthal — a throwback to some primitive era before policing had fully evolved. But the DI hoped he knew better. He kept a special place for his colleague in his heart. A place of which he had never taken the measure, either by rule or compass, but which seemed to magnify and expand with the passing of the years through some mysterious alchemy which could never be put into words.

  ‘Maimed or crippled,’ he now repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, Noakes. I reckon you’re right. Someone with a terrible sense of inner isolation reduced to simulating human emotions without being able to empathize . . . A hollow man.’

  Not a complete person at all. Rather, some sort of subtly constructed reflex machine which mimicked others.

  ‘What d’you think made him like that, guv?’

  ‘Perhaps something happened. He was overtaken by some sort of catastrophe and it flipped a switch.’ Reading his colleague’s mind, he added, ‘And no, it doesn’t mean I’m going all “bleeding-heart liberal” on you.’ A vein pulsed near the DI’s temple. ‘Nothing . . . nothing can excuse the deaths of three innocent victims. It’s just that I have a feeling about this.’

  ‘You know what the DCI says about your hunches, guv.’

  ‘By heart.’ Markham’s brows knitted. ‘But nonetheless . . .’

  ‘Where do we go after the press conference, boss?’

  ‘I want you and Kate to do some research in Central Library.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Noakes sounded less than thrilled at the prospect. ‘What’re we meant to be looking for?’

  ‘Local records. Anything and everything on the gallery.’ The DI’s voice was hoarse, urgent. ‘I want to know what flipped the switch, Noakes. What it was that turned our murderer’s world upside down?’

  ‘Well there’s nowt Burton likes better than nosing through microfilms an’ local whatnot, boss.’ He couldn’t resist the dig. ‘What with her university educashon an’ all.’ Which made it sound like a communicable disease, reflected Markham.

  ‘Think of it as an opportunity for team bonding.’ The DI was inexorable. ‘Or some mentoring,’ he added slyly. It was worth stretching a point.

  Noakes looked pleased. ‘Well, you can’t put a price on experience.’

  ‘Quite.’

  The DI’s expression was opaque, shuttered.

  ‘Time’s running out, Noakesy. With the gallery reopening next week, we need a way into this case.’

  And how.

  ‘My missus thinks it’s gotta be someone with a thing about being a painter.’

  ‘Oh?’ Polite neutrality was always the best bet when Muriel Noakes had a Quincey moment.

  ‘Yeah. She says if you look at history, lots of creative types had a screw loose . . . Van Gogh . . . Beethoven . . . Vivien Leigh . . . the Sherlock Holmes guy . . . all sorts . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely something to bear in mind.’

  ‘Someone happy in their own little world . . . prefers their own company . . . Like them people with Asperger’s — the ones who live in their own head a lot of the time.’

  Markham was genuinely curious, ‘Did Mrs Noakes identify anyone who fitted the bill?’

  ‘Not exzackly,’ the other admitted. ‘But then, they’d be putting on an act . . . covering up.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure someone afflicted with Asperger’s would necessarily be able to conceal it.’

  Noakes was momentarily deflated, but then he rallied.

  ‘Mebbe it’s not the worst kind, guv . . . like they’re on top of it most of the time an’ folk jus’ think they’re odd rather than freaky.’

  ‘You could be right. In many ways, the artistic world’s a one-person world whereas we live in a two-person world. We talk to people, have relationships with people. But art’s focused on what’s inside . . .’

  ‘Yeah, stuff that happens inside the head.’ Noakes was gratified the guvnor appeared to be coming round to Muriel’s way of thinking.

  ‘“Call no man an island.”’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘It’s something the poet John Donne said.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ The DS awaited enlightenment.

  ‘But our man — or woman — is an island. In the world but not of it. Much like one of those wrecks of humanity you were studying back there in the gallery.’

  ‘Must get a bit stressful . . . like having shell shock or summat.’

  ‘That’s why we need information. Fast.’

  ‘Muriel didn’t mind most of that crowd at the gallery.’ Noakes became expansive. ‘’Cept the drinky one an’ that Cathy Hignett. The rest were okay. She prob’ly surprised ’em,’ he added complacently.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, they’d be thinking she was only interested in pretty pictures. The kind on biscuit tins. But she’s up to all sorts . . . all the modern stuff.’

  Having spent what felt like a lifetime battling the Noakes’s inverted cultural snobbery, Markham preserved a discreet silence on the subject of taste in art.

  ‘Mrs Noakes wasn’t too impressed by Daniel Westbrook, as I recall.’

  ‘Oh yeah. But,’ with magnificent condescension, ‘she said arty folk are bound to be a bit neurotic . . . specially after what had happened.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘An’ galleries are spooky places t
o start with . . .’ Another of those sidelong furtive glances.

  ‘What’s bothering you, Noakes? Come on, spit it out.’

  The other kept his eyes riveted on the winding road.

  ‘I keep having dreams about doors,’ he said gruffly, sounding distinctly embarrassed.

  ‘Doors?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The DS gnawed his nether lip and then resumed. ‘Well, the same door really . . .’

  It was evident Noakes would require some prompting.

  ‘Whereabouts is this door?’

  ‘In the dream, I’m standing in that corridor in the gallery.’

  ‘The one with the archives room?’

  Noakes nodded.

  ‘Well, there’s this door, see. An’ I know there’s a dreadful secret . . . something dangerous behind it.’

  ‘What happens?’

  ‘Benedict Bramwell an’ Mr Carstone come along . . . there are a couple of other folk too, but I can’t make out their faces . . . like they keep melting into each other.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘They’ve got all these planks and nails an’ things to make the door secure . . . everyone gets stuck in, hammering away.’

  ‘So they make it safe?’

  With one hand, the DS tugged at his collar as though he suddenly found it too tight.

  ‘The nails keep breaking an’ the wood keeps crumbling an’ splintering . . . like worms between their fingers . . . they hold up their hands to show me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘There’s a creature on the other side . . .’ Noakes’s embarrassment was palpable, but he had clearly decided in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Dunno if it’s a man or an animal. But I’ve got to keep it closed up.’ Another vicious yank of the collar. ‘Then one of ’em standing there asks if I want to know its name an’ says he’ll whisper it.’ The DS’s voice sank to a mere thread. ‘I c’n see his lips forming the letter “A” an’ then someone screams that the secret’s discovered. That’s when I wake up,’ he concluded lamely.

  ‘It’s all perfectly explicable, Noakes,’ the DI said, though as his colleague spoke he felt a prickle of apprehension. ‘The murder investigation and Alex Carter case are preying on your mind, so your subconscious takes over at night . . . translating your anxiety into physical symbols.’

  ‘I ain’t got a split personality or owt like that, mind.’ Typically belligerent at having exposed his vulnerable underbelly, thought Markham.

  ‘Not at all,’ he answered repressing a smile. ‘I’ve had a few bad nights myself as it happens.’

  His colleague was mollified. ‘D’you think we’ll get anywhere with this lot at the Registry, guv?’

  ‘Well, we know it’s not Donald Lestrange’s place. And none of the gallery staff have aristocratic pretensions, so, far as I’m aware.’ Markham’s lips quirked at the memory of Olivia enquiring which of his suspects was a ‘belted earl.’ ‘But maybe there’s a connection with a heritage property or public building . . . the National Trust . . . something that leads back to the gallery or someone connected with it . . .’

  ‘Good to get out of town at any rate.’

  The DI couldn’t deny it. Already he was dreading their return and the press conference.

  ‘Right, guv, we’re here.’

  The brutalist architecture of the office block which housed the Land Registry was softened by its mantle of white, not yet turned to slush.

  Markham looked up at the building, feeling an anticipatory quiver in the pit of his stomach.

  Hardly daring to hope, he suddenly had the oddest feeling that their luck was about to turn.

  12. Out of the Shadows

  ‘Let’s have a look. Hmm, I think that might be part of Greygarth House.’

  Veronica Yately, statuesque and plummy-voiced, squinted at the drawing the DI produced from his breast pocket. Blessedly incurious — or, more likely, possessed of such perfect breeding as to inhibit any vulgar inquiry into the purpose of their visit — she whipped out her spectacles for a closer look.

  ‘Yes,’ she said straightening up with an impressive creaking of corsetry, ‘definitely Greygarth.’

  ‘I believe I’ve heard of it, Mrs Yately. ‘The artists’ colony out towards Troutbeck?’

  ‘Colony?’ Noakes frowned. ‘What’s one of them, then? D’you mean a commune . . . some sort of hippy house . . . like them kibbutzes?’

  Unfazed, the administrative officer beamed at him.

  ‘That’s certainly one way of describing it, Sergeant.’ She gestured to the office breakout area. ‘Sit yourselves down. How about some refreshment too — I normally have elevenses round about now.’

  The production of tea and biscuits certainly rendered Noakes more amenable to Mrs Yately’s local history lesson.

  ‘The idea for Greygarth came from Red House,’ she told them.

  ‘Ah.’ Markham’s interest was piqued. ‘The place the Pre-Raphaelites designed. It’s on my “bucket list” of places to visit . . . a riot of medieval murals and Gothic flourishes, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector. The likes of Burne-Jones, Rossetti and William Morris all lived there together for a time . . . in line with their ideals of artistic brotherhood,’ she cast a mischievous glance at Noakes, ‘and free love.’

  Clearly the DS had decided chocolate Hobnobs were worth a certain amount of aggravation, appearing almost resigned to learning that Greygarth was a similar hotbed of sexual iniquity.

  ‘So a crowd of potheads an’ squatters set up camp, did they?’ he enquired beadily. ‘All bongo drums, spliffs an’ gardening in the nude.’

  Mrs Yately chuckled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant. The Pre-Raphaelites might have whooped it up, but Greygarth was a much staider affair. More like a group of middle-aged academics and art historians seeking to recreate their university days than anything “alternative.”’

  ‘Oh.’ Noakes blinked, recalibrating his mental impressions. ‘So it was sort of . . . seminars an’ workshops an’ stuff . . .’

  ‘That’s right. Plus exhibitions of local artists and the occasional grander event when they could persuade galleries to stump up sponsorship.’

  ‘Who owned the place?’ The DS was puzzled. ‘We’re talking stately home, right? You’re not telling me a bunch of lefty lecturers an’ dropouts could afford anything like that.’

  ‘It was in the hands of a junior branch of the Stanley family for many years, but then I think the line ran out and the house became quite derelict. In the end, I believe the artists’ cooperative, or whatever they called themselves, got it for a song.’

  ‘How many of ’em were there?’

  ‘Around a dozen or so, all well-heeled. Not too many Citizen Smiths among them. A couple of universities pitched in with grants too, and parts of the building were rented out to schools and colleges for different events, so it ticked over quite nicely for several years.’

  ‘Is it still going?’

  ‘Eventually they transferred it to Bromgrove University, Inspector.’

  For a fat profit no doubt. Amazing how these arty-farty unworldly types were never backward when it came to sniffing out a good deal.

  ‘What does the university use it for . . . accommodation?’

  ‘It’s a conference and hospitality centre now, Sergeant . . . Still got the heritage feel, but all mod cons inside.’

  ‘Did you know the place in its heyday, Mrs Yately?’

  ‘I visited a few times with my late husband.’ Her eyes were misty with recollection. ‘He was an amateur artist and enjoyed the painting weekends.’ There was something attractively girlish about her giggle, and for a moment the years fell away. ‘My daubs were dreadful, but the tutor said Peter showed real promise.’

  ‘How come you recognized the architect’s drawing so quickly?’ It felt like rank ingratitude to put the question after being spoiled with tea and biscuits, but Noakes couldn’t help feeling suspicious.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a photographic memory, S
ergeant. Once seen, never forgotten. That’s the library and interconnecting snug on the ground floor.’ Her eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘Members of the cooperative stuck floor plans and diagrams outside each room when they were doing “refurbishments” . That soon fizzled out once financial reality hit home, but I think in the beginning they had grand plans for renovation and wanted to stress their respect for history and continuity . . . quite sweet really.’

  Less sweet if it turned out the remains of Alex Carter were concealed somewhere within the walls.

  Markham repressed a shudder and handed Mrs Yately the same list of gallery personnel he had shown to Jim McCleod.

  ‘Can I ask you to run your eyes down that list and see if you recognize any of those names.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector.’ She studied the paper with careful deliberation.

  ‘I remember Mr Carstone. As I recall, he would have been in his late forties, early fifties.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I really can’t be sure about the others.’

  Noakes’s shoulders sagged.

  She sensed they were deflated at her response.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ she said quietly. ‘I can see this is important to you. My husband and I joined the Friends of Greygarth, helping to drum up support for various conservation projects. Mr Carstone was an energetic fundraiser and always very appreciative of local help.’

  ‘Does the name Donald Lestrange mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with a wry smile. ‘He was the nearest Greygarth got to its own resident celebrity . . . making a bit of a reputation as an art critic.’

  ‘You said Greygarth was an artists’ cooperative, Mrs Yately. Does that mean there was a community in residence there?’

  She made a little moue.

  ‘Perhaps not in the accepted sense of the word, Inspector. More of a floating population, you might say.’

  Noakes perked up. ‘So it was all fairly relaxed, then . . . no one monitoring comings and goings . . .’

  ‘Well, I remember there was a visitors’ book and a roster of student types who manned the gatehouse and helped out with the grounds but no one bothered much about security. There was always quite a lot of traffic through the house and nowhere was out of bounds.’