She reached once more for the mobile and this time dialled Markham’s number. It went straight to answerphone.
‘Sir, it’s Kate. Er . . . Don’t know if you’re still in meetings . . . er . . .’ She began to stutter. God, why hadn’t she planned what to say beforehand. She tried again. ‘I’ve come across something in the newspaper records . . . a piece about one of the gallery staff . . . something they hadn’t told us . . .’ Feeling foolish at her disjointed rambling, she endeavoured to sound cool and collected. ‘Probably best if we speak in person, sir. I’m just going to finish up in the incident room and I’ll check in again after that.’
That was better. Didn’t want him thinking her a total moron.
The gallery loomed up before her, stark and crystalline. A real ghostly galleon.
For a moment, she hesitated. Should she wait for Noakes or Doyle before going in?
Then, impatiently, she chastised herself. She had her passkey and the DI had arranged two night patrol officers, so there was nothing to fear. Plus, no one knew what she’d found out. She’d type a quick précis for Markham and then whiz through the videotape. In and out in under an hour tops. After that, back to the station. For all she knew, they’d located Bill Hignett or made a breakthrough. Now her racing thoughts were calmer, it seemed increasingly unlikely that what she had discovered would blow the case wide open. Too incredible, frankly. But you never could tell . . . At least it might breathe some new energy into the investigation. If they lifted a few more stones, who knew what else might be uncovered. And it showed everyone had their secrets.
Her ungloved hands were starting to tingle with cold. Better get in there.
* * *
Stolid PC Dave Elson, completing his Gazette crossword at the gallery shop counter-cum-reception desk, glanced up as she came into the lobby.
‘Evening, sarge. Thought you lot would’ve finished for the day,’ he greeted her.
Looking round the shadowy interior, she remembered the DI’s warning. Walls have ears.
‘Just one or two things to finish off, Dave,’ she replied with assumed nonchalance. ‘You know, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. A slave to duty, that’s me.’
‘Right you are. Well, don’t overdo it.’ Like Noakes, he thought she appeared a bit peaky.
‘I won’t.’ She was about to go then turned back to him. ‘Anyone else on patrol with you?’
‘Bob Cunningham’s doing the rounds upstairs.’ He gestured to a clipboard. ‘All the staff signed out a while back.’ He chuckled. ‘Probably worn out from the excitement. It was quite a circus what with the students’ demo and then those telly people doing interviews.’ Another rumble. ‘Amazing how a bit of fame goes to some folk’s heads.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll bet!’
Reassured, she made her way past the exhibition centre to the incident room.
Again, that strange sense that she was moving underwater, the statues and sculptures along her route seeming to advance and then recede like the bleached guardians of some tropical coral reef.
Arriving in the incident room, she felt curiously lethargic, the stuffy warmth neutralizing her bracing exposure to the weather outside. Her head felt full of cotton wool too. Damn and blast, she was coming down with something. How long since the last dose of Nurofen? No, better not risk taking any more otherwise she’d end up sparko.
What was that?
She stiffened, listening intently before relaxing her alert posture.
For God’s sake. The night patrol was on site and everything secure. It was just the strain of the last few days getting to her.
For a wistful moment, she contemplated the long evening ahead, half-wishing she’d accepted Noakes’s invitation. Muriel Noakes might be an overbearing bossy-boots, but her heart was in the right place. And heaven knew she deserved some sympathy what with that spoiled daughter leading them a merry dance . . .
It occurred to her suddenly that she hadn’t yet taken a statement about the altercations Muriel witnessed on the afternoon of Helen Melville’s funeral. That redoubtable lady was positive she had heard Daniel Westbrook shouting at someone to get away from him.
Burton looked down at her grainy printouts.
Was it possible?
She shook herself and put the kettle on. Black coffee and lots of it.
Having made herself a drink, she logged on to the computer and methodically began to type up a report for the DI. Then she scanned one of the printouts and attached it to her covering email.
Done!
Might as well take a shufti at the film footage. After all, there was nothing waiting for her at home apart from Strictly and a scratch supper.
After a few false starts, she got the DVD up and running. With a pen and Post-It to hand, she settled down to watch.
Dave Elson was right, she reflected with a grimace as she watched the gallery staff pose to best advantage. Benedict Bramwell sounded a real pompous twat, while the rest of the senior staff came across as awkward and stilted. Mind you, they were dealing with three murders so you had to cut them some slack.
Hold on a moment. Hold on. There it was . . . that bit there!
Galvanized into action, she jabbed ‘Stop’ and frantically rewound.
Desperately, she scrabbled for her glasses, ramming then on with a force that brought tears to her eyes.
Then she replayed the five second clip over and over.
Freeze, rewind, play. Freeze, rewind, play. Freeze, rewind, play.
She couldn’t be sure precisely what she’d seen, but she thought she could pinpoint the words ‘What have you done?’
Just a scrap of conversation in the background.
But the camera had caught it before, maddeningly, the two figures moved out of shot.
She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Was she imagining it? Getting carried away? Seeing what she wanted to see, manipulating the facts to fit a particular scenario?
She’d need a forensic lip-reader to be sure.
Burton felt her heart slow as she replayed the image repeatedly in her mind. It was succeeded by other images. Images of throttling and throat-cutting . . .
But still somehow, she couldn’t make sense of it all.
With a great intake of breath, her heart steadied and her mind cleared.
Long-forgotten words from a school play came to her: One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
The more she thought, the more she could see how it all might have come about.
The DI needed to know about this. She’d try his number again.
No joy.
Right, she’d give Noakes a call.
At that moment, finger poised above the keypad, she was startled by the intermittent sound of an alarm going off.
Probably just a blip, she decided recalling frequent references to false call-outs and defective sensors. No doubt Dave and Bob were on it.
God, she was tired, her lids heavy. She felt herself drifting off . . .
A sudden noise brought her bolt upright.
The door handle of the incident room slowly turned.
She had expected to see Dave or Bob standing in the doorway.
But it was neither of them.
It was the person she least expected to see.
The one above all others she needed to avoid.
She opened her mouth to speak, to act causal and unafraid. But in an instant of pure terror, she realized that her face had given her away and pretence was useless.
He knew.
* * *
A short time later, PC Dave Elson put his head round the door of the incident room.
‘Sorry, sarge, false ala—’
But there was no sign of DS Kate Burton.
14. Recalled to Life
Sunday morning was cold and crisp, but the sky was clear and the sun rose bright and beautiful.
After a tense meeting with the Gold Group on Saturday evening, which finished with DCI Sidney hissing, ‘You�
�ve got forty-eight hours, Markham, forty-eight hours’, the DI had headed to Doggie Dickerson’s to clear his head with a cathartic bout of shadow-boxing. A cursory check of his emails disclosing nothing urgent, he then returned to The Sweepstakes for supper with Olivia, followed by mindless oblivion in front of the box. But however hard he tried, the night shadows of the investigation pressed upon his mind. Somewhere in Bromgrove was a heart which enclosed a deadly secret, like water locked in an eternal frost. He had to break through that icy carapace to find what lay submerged beneath the surface. The force was on full alert to find Bill Hignett, but so far there had been no sightings nor any helpful information from his mother.
Noakes and Doyle were already in the incident room when Markham arrived, the former shaking himself out of a tangle of parka and long shaggy scarf and looking rather like a larger sort of dog.
‘No Kate?’ the DI said in a tone of surprise.
He noticed that the DS seemed vaguely troubled.
‘I checked in with the night patrol yesterday evening around ten-ish, guv.’
‘And?’
‘Well, Burton had been in earlier. Told Dave Elson she’d got a couple of things to finish off. He thought she was doing a report for you or summat like that, guv.’
Markham frowned. ‘I didn’t get anything from her.’
‘Mebbe she changed her mind an’ decided to call it a day.’ Now Noakes too was frowning. ‘Dave said they had a bit of a problem with the alarms—’
‘What kind of problem?’ Markham was no longer relaxed but whipcord taut.
‘Jus’ the usual. It only lasted a few minutes. This was around half nine. He an’ Bob Cunningham sorted it out, then he swung by to check on Burton but she was already gone . . . He assumed she’d had a bellyful an’ gone home.’
‘Did Elson actually see her go?’
‘Now you come to mention it, no. But he said she’d looked knackered . . . completely done in . . . like she was coming down with summat.’ Noakes was fidgety now, alternately scratching his head and chin. ‘I wanted her to come home with me for her tea, like . . . but she was dead set on checking them newspaper records, so I left her doing that in the library for a bit. Afterwards, she was gonna check out the TV footage.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘You know what Burton’s like when she gets a bee in her bonnet.’
Doyle had moved across to the computer terminal and was scanning the screen.
‘Boss,’ he said urgently. ‘She sent you an email yesterday.’
‘What time was this?’ Staccato like the rattle of hail.
‘Eight forty-five. Hold on . . .’ Doyle squinted at the screen. ‘There’s a failure notice in her inbox timed eight fifty. Looks like she mistyped the address, sir . . . must’ve been seeing double or something.’
‘She was sick and in a hurry to get finished up,’ Markham muttered, feeling increasingly anxious.
‘In her email it says she left a message on your mobile, sir.’
‘I got the start of an answerphone message, but it was very crackly and indistinct. Something about an item in the newspaper records, but then her mobile cut out,’ he said. ‘I presumed she had a bad signal and would call again later.’ Markham’s hands balled into fists. ‘I didn’t realize the significance and she didn’t ring back.’
Noakes took a step towards the DI before recollecting Doyle’s presence. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, guv,’ he said with low-voiced earnestness. ‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should’ve stayed with the lass. Anyone could see she was off colour an’ that fiancé of hers is away on some course.’ He shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘But that library fair did my head in. All I could think about was getting home to the missus an’ some decent grub.’
‘There’s an attachment with her email, sir.’
‘Print it off will you, Doyle.’ Markham’s face was set.
Swiftly and efficiently, the DC proceeded to print off three copies, one for each of them.
Standing, the three men read in silence.
The short piece was from the Gazette, dated 29 November 1996.
Vice-Principal George Courbold said Bromgrove University was greatly saddened to learn of the death of Sir Arthur St John-Crawley, aged 82, after a brief illness.
A vivid and dynamic personality, as well as a tireless fundraiser for the arts, Sir Arthur was a scion of the Stanley family. In 1990 he generously transferred Greygarth House to the Bromgrove artists’ cooperative at a knockdown price.
Remembered by contemporaries for his upright character and strong adherence to traditional country values, Sir Arthur was educated at Eton and Sandhurst before going to Magdalen College, Cambridge, to read History. He was subsequently commissioned into the Blues and Royals and held a series of regimental and staff appointments, including tours of duty in Northern Ireland. On the death of his father, he inherited the title and took over the running of the family home where, a keen gardener, he was happiest of all with a spade in his hand and golden retriever, Jimmy, at his side. Always active in the charitable sphere, when managing the estate became too much of a challenge he chose the artists’ cooperative to continue his legacy of promoting regional talent and fostering a love of art in all its forms. In retirement at Calder-under-Medway, he participated enthusiastically in the life of the community and was a patron of various local organizations.
Sir Arthur’s own life was touched by tragedy when in 1953 he and his wife suffered the loss of one of their twin boys. Charles Henry was just six years old when he disappeared while he and his brother were in the care of housekeeper, Mary Knollys, during his parents’ absence on a visit to family in Ireland. After an extensive search, the little boy’s body was finally discovered in a long disused mausoleum on the outskirts of the estate next to Greygarth Parish Church. It appeared that while exploring he had somehow slipped through a narrow space into one of the coffin shelves before becoming stuck and unable to extricate himself despite frantic attempts to do so. Charles Henry was asthmatic and death supervened through acute respiratory distress. The coroner delivered a verdict of accidental death and the building was subsequently deconsecrated, coffins being reinterred in the church graveyard where Charles Henry is also buried.
Sir Arthur married Venetia Carstone, daughter of a former Lord Mayor of Bromgrove, in 1943. She never fully recovered from her loss and died in 1964 of alcohol-related cirrhosis.
These family tragedies were undoubtedly a factor in Sir Arthur’s untiring work on behalf of Child Bereavement UK, and he was always ready to share recollections of Charles Henry, whom he described as an exceptional child. In 1975, he dedicated an impressive rose window on the north side of Greygarth Parish Church to his son’s memory.
‘Jesus,’ breathed Doyle. ‘Carstone.’
‘Carstone,’ echoed Noakes. ‘He used his mother’s maiden name, nothing to show who he was . . . That artists’ outfit an’ the university prob’ly had no clue about his background or any connection with Greygarth.’
Markham looked stunned, his lips very pale.
‘Veronica Yately certainly didn’t make the connection,’ he said. ‘As far as she was concerned, he was just a visiting lecturer and fundraiser.’
‘A six-year-old brother . . .’ By turns rubbing his chin and rumpling his hair, Noakes pursued his argument. ‘That article doesn’t say what Aubrey was up to when the little lad died. What if it was him who did for the kid—’
‘And Alex Carter too,’ put in Doyle excitedly. ‘The boys were the same age.’
‘An’ don’t forget them initials on Donald Lestrange’s drawing,’ Noakes resumed. ‘“CH.” CH for Charles Henry. Smack next to the doodle of Alex Carter’s name.’ He looked steadfastly at the DI. ‘Gotta be more than coincidence, guv.’
‘No wonder Burton was spooked.’ Doyle shivered. ‘She must’ve got the shock of her life coming across that.’
‘And now there’s no sign of her,’ Markham said tersely.
Something of his alarm communicated itsel
f to the other two.
‘But she went home, didn’t she?’ Doyle began uncertainly. ‘Couple of Night Nurse then off to bed . . .’
The DI had his mobile out.
‘No answer from her landline,’ he said before keying in another number and waiting grimly. ‘And her mobile’s ringing out.’ He turned to Doyle.
‘Constable.’ The DC snapped to attention. ‘Take a uniform with you and get round to Kate’s flat. Break in if you have to.’ His expression was withdrawn. ‘If there’s no sign of her at home, check with her parents and friends . . . if she’s not well, it’s just possible she stayed the night somewhere else.’
‘I’m on it, boss.’ And with that, their colleague was through the door and heading at speed for his car.
Keen eyes raked the incident room and fell on the empty jiffy bag. ‘She was checking the TV footage when someone interrupted her, Noakes.’
‘It’s in the DVD drive, guv,’ the DS confirmed. ‘Right, let’s see where she’d got to . . . Hold on a minute, there’s a Post-It here.’ Triumphantly, Noakes brandished a scrappy bit of paper. ‘It’s got 35.11 written on it. Must mean she was just over thirty-five minutes in.’
They seated themselves in front of the screen and watched intently.
Like Kate Burton the previous night, they paused and rewound, paused and rewound . . . over and over.
‘S’that bit where you can jus’ see Cathy Hignett an’ Carstone standing behind Esmée Crocker,’ Noakes said finally. ‘The bit where Crocker’s boring on about Queen Victoria’s knickers or some such . . . Looks like Hignett says summat to him dead quickly before they move out of shot . . .’
‘Agreed.’ Markham’s face was dark with concentration. ‘Tell me what you think she’s saying.’
‘Difficult to say, guv . . . on account of she looks like she’s talking out the corner of her mouth.’
‘Oblige me.’
When the DI spoke in that tone, it meant he wanted answers fast.
‘Don’t hold me to this, boss . . . but mebbe “What did you do?” or p’raps “What have you done?”’
‘Good. We’re of one mind, then.’
Even at such a moment of critical extremity, Noakes felt ridiculously proud. Then reality kicked in.
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