Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Despite it being a Saturday, Costa was peaceful and practically deserted. Of course, the weather would doubtless have put paid to the usual influx of visitors, she concluded. To say nothing of the murders next door.

  She made no demur when Noakes took charge of ordering the refreshments. On the rare occasions that he was not bugging the hell out of her, his company could be rather soothing. In a cosy corner, with lattes and chocolate muffins arrayed before them, he looked as though life could hold no higher bliss. Even in a triple homicide where their enquiries were going nowhere fast.

  Maybe that’s what I need to do, she told herself. Live in the moment. ‘Do a Noakes.’

  It was getting dark outside, blue-black twilight stealing across the library forecourt towards the atrium where the coffee shop was situated. She gave a start at her own image reflected spectrally back at her in the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window.

  ‘Evening all.’

  DC Doyle appeared at their table and flopped heavily into one of the trendy tub chairs.

  ‘’Lo mate,’ said Noakes through a mouthful of double chocolate chip. ‘Any news of Bill Hignett?’

  ‘Nada.’ The young detective looked weary, the energy in his face dimmed to about three-quarter strength.

  Burton frowned. ‘Who saw him last?’

  ‘That’s just it, no one seems to know.’ He grimaced. ‘The DCI’s cock-a-hoop . . . wants Hignett named prime suspect.’

  ‘Fuck-a-doodle-do. You’re telling me Sidney seriously thinks that poor sod could’ve pulled off those three murders.’

  ‘I know, sarge, I know, but you have to admit there’s something iffy about him doing a disappearing act.’

  ‘Maybe he got spooked . . . afraid they’d pin this on him,’ Burton ventured.

  ‘Well, he got that bit right.’ Noakes sounded disgusted. ‘Typical bleeding Sidney. Plumps for Nutters ‘R’ Us an’ hey presto it’s case closed.’

  ‘The boss is in a Gold Group meeting now.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do . . . shovelling shit from on high.’ The other pushed away his plate as though he had suddenly lost his appetite. Burton too felt sick at the thought of Markham stuck in a room with the top brass, politicking and bargaining to save the investigation. She could imagine how he would look . . . chiselled features, rigid as those of an effigy on some medieval crusader’s tomb, masking his disdain for a ‘quick fix.’

  Her head hurt trying to absorb it all, and she felt a sudden irrational urge to lie down in the crisp cold snow outside and go to sleep . . .

  Dammit, she couldn’t check out now. Discreetly, she fumbled in her shoulder bag for some Nurofen. She’d slug a few when Noakes and Doyle were looking the other way.

  ‘What’s the boss want us to do?’

  Doyle pushed a jiffy bag across the table to Burton.

  ‘That’s the film from this morning. You’ve got footage of the students doing their thing outside and material shot inside the gallery.’

  Her headache was intensifying by the minute.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said listlessly. ‘I’ll check it out once we’ve finished going through the newspaper stuff.’

  Looking at her white strained face, Noakes expressed his sympathy in the only way he knew how.

  ‘Lemme get you a top-up,’ he said with clumsy bonhomie. ‘Don’t want you conking out on us.’ And with that, he shuffled off to the counter and a spot of banter with the peroxide blonde examining her fingernails, who promptly brightened up at the attention.

  ‘I c’n have a look first if it’d help, sarge.’ Doyle too was doing his best to muster some esprit de corps.

  Burton dredged up a smile.

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ she said. ‘Appreciate the offer, though.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘Can’t imagine there’s anything useful on there.’ Her earlier idea of checking out the body language had lost its shine. ‘You didn’t notice anything unusual, I suppose?’

  ‘Nah. Just boffin talk really . . . Bramwell giving it the great “I Am” while the rest jockeyed for position in the background.’ He smiled slyly. ‘I was right about them wanting to be on the telly. Even the catering lot had fresh pinnies all round. And a couple of the security guards were prancing about like they thought it was a remake of The Thomas Crown Affair.’

  His colleague chuckled, her mood lifting.

  ‘Well, you never know,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Once I’m bored of the newspaper cuttings, I’ll give it a whirl. What’ll you be up to in the meantime?’

  ‘I’d better get back next door. Someone from Family Liaison’s with Cathy Hignett.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m not looking forward to her reaction when she finds out that Bill’s in the frame for three murders.’

  ‘And maybe Alex Carter too.’

  ‘God.’ He looked at her disbelievingly. ‘It won’t come to that, will it? I mean Hignett’s not all there and couldn’t organize his way out of a paper bag.’

  Their colleague was back at the table with drinks for the three of them. Burton winced when she took a mouthful of hers. There was so much sugar, she could almost feel cavities forming on the spot. Observing, however, that the DS was watching her shyly out of the corner of his eye, she feigned delight. ‘Perfect!’ she exclaimed, ‘I really needed that.’ She could tell Noakes was pleased, though as usual he took resort in gruffness.

  ‘Have you two geniuses decided who dunnit, then?’

  Disconsolate shakes of the head.

  Throwing caution to the winds, Burton knocked back the Nurofen. Her colleagues looked very much as though they wished they could do the same.

  ‘If Sidney’s dead set on Hignett, then we have to come up with something fast,’ Noakes ruminated. ‘Trouble being, we’ve got sweet FA.’

  ‘What if Hignett’s been helping someone?’ Burton said slowly.

  The other two stared at her. ‘Like who?’ Noakes asked flatly.

  She gulped down more too-sweet macchiato.

  ‘Someone who’s stayed well back in the shadows . . . Someone who had a hold on Donald Lestrange . . .’

  Doyle sat up straighter. ‘You mean as an accomplice in the Carter abduction?’

  ‘Accomplice . . . accessory after the fact . . . reluctant bystander . . . God knows. But one thing’s for sure. Our man — or woman — held Lestrange fast. Trapped. Who’s to say Hignett wasn’t caught in the spider’s web too?’

  Noakes rumpled his hair savagely so that it stood on end in stiff little spikes. Not a good look, thought Burton idly. More Ben Gunn than Miami Vice. She repressed a rising urge to giggle.

  ‘D’you remember Hignett being specially matey with anyone?’ her fellow DS asked.

  ‘Nobody in particular,’ she admitted, her tone defeated. ‘There’re a few people he’s good with.’

  ‘But not to really talk to, as in proper buddies like,’ Noakes pressed.

  ‘No, that’s true. But he may have been instructed by the killer to keep his distance at work, especially once we came on the scene.’

  ‘Would he be bright enough to stick to a plan?’ Doyle was doubtful.

  ‘Or keep it from his mum?’ Noakes put in.

  ‘I think he might,’ Burton replied, absently stirring her gloopy drink. ‘Low-functioning autism doesn’t rule out basic cunning . . . or self-preservation. If he’s highly suggestible, the killer might have hit pay dirt.’

  The other two looked unconvinced, but Noakes looked at the hollowed-out, peaky girl in front of him and spoke kindly. ‘Might be summat in it,’ he said. ‘Hignett’s got the brawn all right, an’ if someone else was the brains . . .’ Turning to Doyle, he added, ‘Dig around a bit more.’

  The DC looked put-upon but nodded.

  Noakes scratched his bristly chin. ‘Didn’t you say something a while back about folk making complaints cos Hignett was perving?’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed the DC warily. ‘Didn’t come to anything, though. Something and nothing . . .’

  ‘See if there’s paperwork, anyth
ing in HR. Find out: did anyone speak up for him, volunteer to help with mentoring or whatever they call it.’

  ‘There’s the Disability Employment lot down at the council.’ Doyle’s expression said he was clutching at straws but prepared to suffer for the cause. ‘If I don’t get anywhere with Rebecca Summerson, they might stump up.’

  ‘Give it your best shot, lad,’ Noakes urged with Olympian condescension. He wheeled round to Burton. ‘Right, luv, reckon it’s time for round two.’

  Doyle watched as his colleagues wended their way towards the escalators.

  The old devil was making a real effort with Kate Burton, he concluded as he observed Noakes’s arm shoot out to steady the younger woman. Despite her highfalutin claptrap, she wasn’t so bad when you came to think of it. Prepared to sweat blood if it meant finding a killer.

  Their figures disappeared out of sight. He felt curiously unwilling to see them go.

  No time to get sentimental, he admonished himself before heading for the exit.

  * * *

  The wall clock in Miss Todd’s office said 5.30 p.m.

  ‘Don’t time jus’ fly when you’re having fun,’ Noakes commented grumpily as they settled themselves back down at the microfilm readers.

  Burton turned to face him.

  ‘Will they blame the boss for this, sarge . . . the fact that we haven’t got anyone yet?’

  Her heart was on her lips.

  Instead of feeling exasperated or contemptuous, Noakes was surprised by a certain reluctant tenderness which stole over him.

  Wonder if that boring fiancé of hers knows she’s carrying a torch for the boss, he thought.

  Well-accustomed to women falling like ninepins for Markham, he sensed that Burton’s devotion was somehow different . . . purer . . . like they were on some sort of quest together.

  He blinked at himself in surprise for coming over all poetical. Must be all that baloney about King Arthur rubbing off on him. God, much more of it and he’d be able to give the old bat Miss Todd a run for her money after all.

  He cleared his throat. ‘The boss knows what he’s doing, luv. We’re only a week in, an’ this ain’t your run-of-the-mill enquiry, what with Carter an’ all the other stuff.’

  ‘They’re all so jealous of him, sarge, the higher-ups . . . just waiting to see him get his comeuppance.’ Her face was very red now. ‘Like crocodiles in one of those David Attenborough documentaries.’

  ‘Well he’s got you, me and Doyle in his corner, luv. The A-Team.’ His voice surprisingly gentle, he added, ‘He’s weathered worse than this — an’,’ a note of pride crept into his voice, ‘his clearance rate’s better’n anyone else at his rank.’ An awkward pat on the arm. ‘’Sides, Sidney owes him big style.’ And loves him none the better for it. But Noakes kept that reflection to himself. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘let’s give this another crack an’ if we haven’t got anywhere in an hour or so we’ll call it a day.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Diligently, they ploughed on, looking for all the world like a couple of ill-assorted amateur folklorists digging back into the past.

  An hour and a half later, backs and eyes aching, they were forced to admit defeat. Noakes had clearly reached saturation point when it came to the North West cultural scene. ‘Pretentious old farts the lot of them,’ he said, then looked round guiltily as though one of the anathematized species might be lying in wait to ambush him.

  Burton grinned weakly. For once they were ‘on the same page.’

  ‘It’s heavy going, that’s for sure,’ she agreed.

  They looked at each other, savouring the rare moment of uncomplicated amity.

  ‘You look knackered, sarge. And we can’t sit here all night. Besides,’ she smiled tremulously, ‘the boss’ll be needing you back at base.’

  It was a generous admission borne of the fact that Burton felt she had mysteriously arrived at some understanding of their respective places in Markham’s heart.

  Noakes looked at her wan, vulnerable little face.

  Christ, he thought, she looks about twelve. He knew it wasn’t ‘feminist’ or ‘woke’ or whatever they called it these days, but at times like this he couldn’t help wishing she was safely tucked away in some department where they didn’t have to deal with sick bastards and wackjobs.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Won’t your fella be expecting you? Reckon you’ve earned a chippy tea with your feet up in front of the telly.’

  ‘He’s on a course in Hendon this weekend.’ Her voice was dull, inflection-less. ‘Corporate crime and market abuse. So, it’s baked beans out of a tin for me, and only the cat for company.’

  ‘The missus does spag bol Saturdays.’ Noakes looked suddenly embarrassed at this culinary one-upmanship. ‘You’d be welcome . . . I mean she makes loads . . . always room for one more . . .’

  Burton was touched. ‘That’s really kind,’ she said sincerely. ‘But it’s family time and Mrs Noakes will want you to herself for a bit.’ She gestured to the microfilm reader. ‘I’ll hang on a while longer, skim some more. If I print stuff off, I won’t have to do it all here.’ She tapped the jiffy bag Doyle had given her. ‘I can have a popcorn moment later, see what the TV people got in the can.’

  ‘Rather you than me, luv.’ Noakes eyed the package with disfavour. ‘Bramwell an’ the rest of ’em showing off . . . Ugh!’

  ‘It won’t be a barrel of laughs,’ she conceded. ‘You’ll think I’m mad, sarge. Call it superstition, but I can’t help feeling there must be some way of telling who it is . . . some tell-tale sign . . . Maybe they caught it on camera . . . Guilt . . . fear . . . hatred . . . Something.’

  ‘Whoever it is, they’re a dab hand at hiding what they feel.’ Noakes’s face was grave. ‘And that makes ’em dangerous.’

  ‘D’you think Bill Hignett’s come to harm, sarge?’

  ‘If you’re right about him being part of this . . . then he could be a threat . . . a risk . . .’

  ‘But Bill’s a poor soul. Harmless.’

  ‘Maybe not to the killer.’

  Kate was aware of a screaming noise in her throat. She felt an underwater blur of terror.

  ‘We’ve got to find him.’ Her speech seemed to have thickened.

  Noakes looked at her with something approaching concern.

  ‘We’re on it,’ he said firmly. ‘You finish up here an’ get off home, otherwise you’ll be fit for nowt tomorrow.’

  He lumbered towards the door and peeped into the corridor.

  ‘Coast’s clear.’

  He was about to make his getaway when something prompted him to look back.

  ‘Sure you’ll be okay?’ He didn’t like leaving Burton in the sterile little office. Around them the rest of the library was eerily quiet, like a slumbering leviathan of the deep.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ His colleague plastered on a bright smile. ‘You get back to HQ.’ She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘I’ll make tracks in another hour or so.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Anyway, you know me and libraries, sarge . . . home from home.’

  Reassured, he winked and vanished with a cheery wave.

  Relieved of the need to put on a front, Burton slumped in her chair. The headache was back along with a nagging conviction that she couldn’t go just yet . . . had to give it one last push. She just couldn’t believe that their killer had covered the trail so completely as to leave no trace.

  ‘First rule of forensics,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Locard’s Principle. The perpetrator always leaves something behind. Always.’

  Head down, shoulders hunched, she pored over the microfilm records with renewed intensity.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later. ‘Oh my God.’

  Just three words. The merest thread of a whisper.

  Burton shook her head as though her vision was indistinct.

  Then she craned forward avidly, drinking in the contents of the screen for dear life.

  When she had finished, she got to her
feet and began to pace the office restlessly in a manner reminiscent of her boss.

  After the initial elation, self-doubt assailed her.

  It was a story all right. A secret that hadn’t come to light until now.

  But one that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Didn’t automatically make a killer.

  Unless . . . unless . . .

  No. It just didn’t make sense. And where did Bill Hignett fit in?

  It might be a lead of sorts, but the DCI wouldn’t entertain it for a moment.

  Her brain was fragmented, unable to join pieces of the puzzle.

  The office felt oxygenless. Like that underwater world Noakes had described when they were in the Round Reading Room.

  Atlantis, she thought on a rising wave of hysteria.

  For a moment, she wished fervently that she really was floating on the ocean floor, with only the sound of breathing and bubbles, fish gliding sleekly by, beautiful and peaceful — electric blue, bright yellow, stripy, spotty, silver — and not another human in sight.

  Sweat broke out on her forehead. Am I coming down with something, she wondered. Of all the times for it to happen . . .

  Suddenly giddy, she groped her way back to the microfilm reader and sat down once more.

  What to do?

  She reached for the mobile in her bag and then slowly withdrew her hand.

  Noakes and Doyle were busy about their own tasks. Suddenly, she was transported back to police training college, listening to the instructor. Time to ‘take ownership.’ Think for herself.

  The gallery was right next door. She’d nip back to the incident room and check the witness statements with a toothcomb. One person’s in particular. Her gaze fell on the jiffy bag. She’d play back the TV footage while she was at it, looking for some betraying slip that might help nail a killer.

  With shaking hands, she pressed ‘Print’ and scooped up copies of a grainy article. Then she scribbled a note of thanks for Miss Todd and left it on her desk along with the librarian’s key fob.

  Outside the building, the freezing air cut through her like a knife. But the clean sharp pain was almost welcome, her mind suddenly clearer.

  Her discovery was something the DI really ought to know about.