‘Did people actually live in the property, as in stay overnight?’
‘Yes, I believe so, Inspector. Renovations were very much a work in progress — fitted in round people’s day jobs — but the bedrooms were habitable and outsiders could book a room provided they didn’t mind having to “slum it.” Peter stayed over once or twice, but I wasn’t up for roughing it.’ She grinned. ‘Too fond of my creature comforts.’
A short time later, back in the car, Markham quickly googled Greygarth House on his smartphone, the DS looking over his shoulder.
‘Hmm.’ The DI contemplated the elegant double-fronted Queen Anne property before scrolling through tasteful shots of banqueting and bedroom suites.
‘All very Pride and Prejudice,’ Noakes grunted. ‘Can’t see the DCI letting us spoil the party with cadaver dogs an’ the like.’
Markham flexed his hands in front of him like a trapeze artist balancing on a wire, desperately looking for some object to steady himself.
‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘There’s no likelihood of our being allowed to pollute the shades of Greygarth based on what we’ve got. Christ, I can almost hear Sidney going off on one now, “Don’t let flair lead you by the nose, Markham!” It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Although it was only early afternoon, masses of cloud shone in the murky sky with a lurid light, like heaps of copper that had been heated in a furnace and was growing cold. There was something demonic about it, Markham reflected in his despondency.
Dark satanic mills, he told himself, his thoughts wandering to those grim industrial scenes back in the gallery.
‘Pity Mrs Yately didn’t recognize anyone, guv . . . I mean, apart from the old git.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I mean, I don’t see our Aubrey making human sacrifices down in the cellar or what have you.’
Markham grimaced.
‘Hardly.’ He stared moodily out of the window, remembering the relentless castle-building of his dreams. Now it seemed as though he was confronted by precipitous new heights, forced to scale them with ladders that were too short or ropes that swung and swayed as he clung to them . . . and all the time a figure moved inexorably away into the distance, its face livid and deadly . . . a figure that eluded his grasp.
‘But we know there’s a link with Greygarth House,’ he said defiantly. ‘That drawing of Donald Lestrange’s with Alex Carter’s name gave it away. That’s why the killer went back to the archives room. In case there was anything else that was incriminating.’
Noakes’s mind was running on suspects. ‘Any of ’em could’ve been around Greygarth back then, guv,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The place was like Piccadilly bleeding Circus. Mrs Yately said so herself. We jus’ need another piece of the jigsaw.’
But in the meantime, the enemy’s hiding place eluded them.
Down the road from the Land Registry stood the little squat church of St Mary the Virgin, its old grey spire surmounted by a cross standing out starkly against the horizon. Markham could almost fancy it looked down sorrowfully on the afternoon prospect as though lamenting the existence of those who cared nothing for the lesson which those emblems conveyed.
* * *
‘Was it as bad as you expected, then?’
Olivia asked the question curled up next to her lover on the chesterfield in their living room at The Sweepstakes.
By mutual consent they had avoided the topic of the investigation during their evening meal, but now, with curtains drawn tight against the darkness, she felt able to broach the subject of the press conference.
‘Sidney kept us moving like a brigade of skaters. You could see the press were fed up. It was one sodding platitude after another.’
‘Nobody got bolshie?’
‘No.’ Markham sighed. ‘I don’t know what it was . . . respect for Ned, perhaps . . . but no one cut up rough, though there was quite a bit of muttering in corners.’
‘Sounds like Barry Lynch earned his salary, then.’ Olivia was no great admirer of the media officer who she felt availed himself rather too enthusiastically of the PR man’s traditional licence to ‘press the flesh.’
‘Well, as he told me afterwards in that ghastly shopworn phrase of his, it “looks like we got away with it.”’
Olivia giggled. ‘Master of the cliché.’
‘Well, he certainly gave the DCI a run for his money. They were both pretty nauseating, but it did the trick.’ Unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘I caught sight of Sidney’s notes. He planned to finish off with “the darkest hour is just before the dawn” but must have baulked at the last minute . . . too pukeworthy even for him. As it was, Noakes wore that expression of his . . . you know, the one where he looks as though something’s gone down the wrong way.’
Another giggle then Olivia turned serious.
‘So, you’ve kept the Hydra at bay for now?’
‘Well, there’s no doubt we’re in the last chance saloon. Afterwards, Sidney was making noises about the Yard taking over the case if we don’t get results . . . like he couldn’t keep a lid on it for much longer.’
‘The papers haven’t said all that much really,’ Olivia said thoughtfully. ‘Nothing about there being a serial killer on the loose or anything like that. The Daily Post made it sound like some sort of love triangle and there was no mention of Alex Carter. From what the Sentinel implied, it was a vendetta against the university . . . politically motivated.’
‘Sidney’s been calling in favours. Mission “Throwing Dust in the Public’s Eyes.” The last thing he wants is a repetition of last year’s scandal at the Newman.’
‘But now with Ned . . .’
‘Yes. The awkward squad isn’t going to be fobbed off with that “in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time” gambit for long.’
‘On the news, Sidney almost made it sound like Ned had interrupted a burglary or something . . . without coming right out and saying it.’
‘Not particularly convincing, was it?’
‘To be honest, no. And the fact that he looked like a shifty snake oil salesman didn’t help either.’
‘In fairness, he’s stalling for time. But he can’t keep up the damage limitation for much longer.’
A bell tolled mournfully somewhere in the distance, recalling Markham’s thoughts to the little church he had passed earlier on the road.
An hour nearer to death, an hour nearer to heaven or hell.
Olivia snuggled up with the fluid elegance of a Siamese cat.
‘What’s the plan for tomorrow, Gil?’
‘A student demonstration at the gallery needs to be contained.’
‘Should help with Mission Disinformation — playing up the political angle.’
‘True.’ Markham stretched luxuriously, savouring the cosy complicity. ‘Plus, it gives us an opportunity to watch our gallery suspects while they believe we’re looking elsewhere.’
‘D’you think the killer’s going to let something slip?’
‘Makes me sound fey, Liv, but I can’t help feeling we’re very close now.’ He cast a fond look at the delicate hopeful face turned towards his. ‘The way Ned was killed suggests deep fear and paranoia.’
‘You mean putting him in the suit of armour?’
‘Yes . . . almost as if after the murder he wasn’t really seeing Ned at all, but himself . . . as though he wanted to hide from the world behind that helmet . . . just the eyes peering out . . .’
‘Someone at war with the world . . . always “on guard.”’
‘I knew you’d understand,’ Markham said comfortably. Drawing her closer, he added, ‘I’ve got Kate and Noakes lined up for library research duties tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Can’t imagine George being ecstatic about that.’
‘He wasn’t, but it was the library checks they did that cracked the Hope Academy case, remember.’
There was a smile in Olivia’s voice as she said, ‘In addition to cementing their entente cordiale.’
‘Well, I think that’s when they began to dev
elop an appreciation of each other’s . . . er, special qualities.’
‘And George was really shaken when Kate was abducted last year. Suddenly looked like he’d aged ten years.’
Markham still had nightmares over the Newman investigation, unable to believe how close the team had come to losing Kate Burton.
‘Let’s just say normal service has been resumed and they’re back to the love-hate relationship,’ he said. A sudden impish grin lit up the sombre features. ‘Noakesy’s never at his best in academic settings, but Kate’s learned how to handle him. So long as she keeps off the Pre-Raphaelites, they’ll be all right.’
‘I take it Kate’s interested in the Skinny Lizzies.’
‘Very much so.’ Another grin. ‘Though from a feminist perspective, you understand. Formed part of a module on Sexual Stereotypes in her MA.’
‘Not much meeting of minds there, then . . .’
‘Well, Noakes isn’t totally anti-art. He volunteered some surprisingly perceptive comments on Lowry.’
‘Ah, the working man’s painter . . . all those gritty industrial scenes.’
‘It was more Lowry’s paintings of down-and-outs and grotesques which seemed to fascinate him actually.’
‘Oh yes . . . vagrants with hunched backs, missing limbs and facial deformities . . . the tragic outsiders.’
‘I overheard him telling Doyle it made him think . . . about how bad luck could happen to anyone and we’re all just one step away from disaster.’
‘“There but for the grace of God . . .”’ she murmured. Then more lightly, ‘How did Doyle receive this dose of philosophy from CID’s resident philistine?’
‘Oh, you know the youngster . . . didn’t bat an eyelid . . . Lowry was a cricket and football fan — painted a crowd scene at Man City’s Main Road Ground — so that makes him okay in Doyle’s book.’ Markham paused. ‘To be honest, though, I think he felt the same way as Noakes did about the pictures of misfits and the people who’d lost their minds . . . that there was something sordid and soulless in them . . . like the murderer . . .’
‘Is that why you want to search the local records?’ Olivia asked softly. ‘To find the life event that produced a killer?’
‘Sounds a bit desperate when you put it like that . . .’
‘Not at all.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I just hope there’s a clue waiting there.’
Anxious to banish her lover’s despondency, she turned the conversation into lighter channels.
‘I’m quite partial to Lowry myself.’
‘Really, Liv?’
‘Yes. There was something endearingly . . . well, subversive about him . . . never became an establishment figure for all his eventual fame.’
‘As I recall, he didn’t really win success till quite late in life.’
‘That’s right. Worked as a rent collector till he was sixty-five.’
‘Noakesy’d definitely approve of that. Real man of the people.’
‘Oh yes. The story goes that when a posh lady arrived at his house asking to buy “a good painting,” he told her “I only paint bad ones” and slammed the door in her face.’
‘Better and better,’ Markham chuckled. ‘I’m rather warming to him myself.’
‘I imagine Muriel’s not a Lowry aficionado.’
‘God no. Apparently abstract art’s her thing.’
‘In which case, she’ll have adored how George came across on the telly. He looked like a walking example of pointillism gone wrong.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Markham groaned in mock horror. ‘Sidney was simply furious about it. I meant to get Noakes into a different outfit, but . . .’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘he wasn’t exactly cooperative. I thought he was going to punch the make-up artist when he suggested some pan stick.’
‘Priceless. I bet Sidney loved all the fuss and salaaming, though.’ She slipped into a cruel imitation of the DCI’s supercilious honk. ‘“Which is my best side, Inspector?” Not a problem given the fact he’s got two faces.’
‘It comes with the territory, sweetheart,’ Markham observed pacifically. ‘I’m just grateful to be spared all of that.’
‘Oh, there was no question of letting the number two steal his thunder, Gil. Strictly the support act, that’s you.’
‘And more than happy for it to stay that way.’
She shot him a contrite look. ‘I know, dearest, I know.’ Then lovingly, she suggested, ‘What about a nightcap and then something lowbrow on the box . . . I think we’ve had enough high-minded conversation for one night.’
The lovers settled down together while across the city Bromgrove Art Gallery slumbered uneasily under the eye of night.
And meanwhile a murderer awaited, wakeful and watchful, the advent of morning.
* * *
‘Who tipped off Bromgrove News?’
Noakes scowled at Burton and Doyle as though he held them personally responsible.
‘Not guilty, sarge,’ came the laconic reply from Doyle. Yawning, he observed the motley group of bobble-hatted students as they marched slowly up and down the pavement outside the gallery doing their best to look unconscious of the television crew on the other side of the road.
‘For fuck’s sake, this is all we bloody well need . . . long-haired layabouts prancing around like they’re on some flaming reality TV show.’ Blowing on icy fingers the colour of chopped liver, the DS stamped his feet to restore circulation while casting baleful glances in the direction of the youthful protestors.
‘Actually, sarge, with that duffle coat and Doctor Who scarf, you could go over and blend right in.’
Shooting the DC a dirty look, Noakes gestured towards the gallery where faces clustered curiously at windows.
‘Like we’re gonna get anywhere with this three-ring circus caterwauling out here . . .’
Kate Burton, sensibly but smartly clad in a beige blanket coat, tailored black trousers and suede ankle boots, remained composed.
‘It’ll likely work in our favour, sarge,’ she said equably. ‘I mean, draws the heat away from the gallery . . . gets everyone focusing on the university.’
‘It’s a frigging distraction, that’s what it is.’
‘But a useful diversionary tactic,’ commented a calm voice.
The DI had come up unobserved behind them.
Eyes narrowed against the wintry sunshine, he appraised the television unit.
‘Just three of them,’ he murmured. ‘Nice and unobtrusive. Perfect.’
‘Whaddya mean perfect?’ In Noakes’s eyes, the media were enemy Numero Uno.
‘Perfect for having them do some background shots and so forth inside the gallery . . . keeping eyes on our suspects without them realizing.’
‘You think the killer might break cover, sir?’
‘I think there’s a chance, Kate . . . especially if they’re lulled into a false sense of security by seeing us taken up with the students.’
‘What if we got something on camera . . . I mean, like hard evidence . . .’ Doyle was enthused.
The DI was determinedly objective. ‘I’m not optimistic about our chances of that,’ he said quietly. ‘But the crew might capture something we’ve missed.’
‘What do we tell the gallery crowd, then?’
‘We stay low-key, Noakes. Give them some spiel about letting local news place the student demonstrations in context . . . a chance for some sympathetic journalism . . . redressing the balance, that kind of thing.’
Ned would have known how to play it, he thought sadly.
‘I want them distracted . . . off-kilter,’ he said with increasing conviction.
Off guard.
‘Sometimes when you’re too close to the action, you miss things,’ the DI continued. ‘Think of the camera crew as a fresh pair of eyes.’
The sound of some muted chanting floated over to them. ‘Hands off our culture!’ Half-frozen hands waved placards which read: No More Cuts.
‘Up the revolution!’ mocked Noakes. �
�Power to the people!’
Doyle smirked. ‘We shall overcome!’ he carolled before subsiding beneath a withering glance from the DI.
‘That’s enough,’ Markham rapped. ‘Noakes, you and Kate can set things up with the TV crew.’ He turned to Doyle. ‘Constable, I’d like you to speak to Cathy Hignett and whoever else you can find and see if they can organize some hot drinks and snacks for the students.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Only ten o’clock, so maybe we’ll have more along in due course.’
‘You must be joking,’ Noakes retorted. ‘They’ll all be sleeping off last night’s ale like as not.’
‘In which case, it’ll be a very orderly and well-mannered demonstration.’ The DI was firm. ‘The crew can do some filming out here . . . perhaps an interview with whoever’s in charge.’ He pointed to a bespectacled beanpole of a lad who, red-nosed and listlessly brandishing a megaphone, was hardly anyone’s idea of Che Guevara. ‘That one looks good for a few soundbites. Then they can quietly disperse.’
‘And once it’s fizzled out, we move the TV unit into the gallery, sir?’ Burton clearly chafed at wasting time on a damp squib demonstration.
‘That’s right . . . but we need to dress it up as some kind of PR exercise.’
‘We can make out it’s a community initiative, sir . . . You know, people getting behind the gallery before it reopens next week.’
‘Good, Kate.’ Markham rubbed his eyes which were suddenly stinging in a sharp wind that had whipped up from nowhere. ‘You can talk about TV doing some tracking shots and talking heads stuff for Bromgrove Roundup . . . nothing to do with the murder investigation, just a local news feature . . . cuts in arts funding . . . preserve our heritage for future generations . . . foster appreciation of cultural diversity . . .’
‘You’d be a natural at politics, guv,’ Noakes said admiringly. ‘Got it all off pat.’
‘Must be the DCI’s lessons paying off,’ his boss replied glumly.
‘Folk love getting their faces on telly.’ Doyle jerked a thumb towards the gallery. ‘They’ll all want a piece of the action, you can bank on it.’
‘All the better for us. With their defences lowered, something might slip out.’
‘We can ask to see the camera footage too, sir,’ Burton said brightly. ‘Check out the body language.’ She was evidently keen to try out some insights from her Psychology degree, thought Markham, suppressing a smile. He noticed the other two exchange wary glances. The prospect of a session exploring human behavioural traits with their colleague was clearly not one they relished. In fact, judging by the expression on Noakes’s face, it was probable he considered root canal work without anaesthetic preferable to hearing Kate Burton bang on about the neurobiology of crime suspects. Wisely, however, the DS held his peace.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 120