Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘What did she mean by asking him that, guv . . . unless . . . unless she’s guessed he’s behind it all? But why would she . . . ?’

  ‘There must be something between them, Noakes. Something we missed.’ His voice harsher than a steel trap, the DI rapped out the order. ‘I want Cathy Hignett and Daniel Westbrook located right away, Sergeant. And we need to find out where Aubrey Carstone is.’ He fought down a sick lurch of fear. ‘Kate Burton’s safety might depend on it.’

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, having received news from DC Doyle that Kate Burton did not appear to have returned home the previous night, Markham confronted Cathy Hignett across the conference table of the incident room. The fine straight lines in the almost transparent pallor of his face had never looked more implacable.

  ‘I believe you are in a position to help us find the person responsible for four murders,’ he said quietly. ‘It appears that the abduction of a police officer can also be laid at this person’s door.’

  No one was better than the guvnor when it came to being angry in a low voice, Noakes thought admiringly. Much scarier than if he’d screamed and raged and burst a blood vessel.

  Cathy Hignett looked utterly wretched, looking at Markham like some dumb animal, hands shredding a soggy tissue to pieces.

  ‘Aubrey Carstone,’ the DI said.

  Two words, but they released the red-eyed lumpen woman from the spell that held her tongue-tied.

  ‘I never knew for certain,’ she said desperately. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’

  The cast in her right eye made it difficult to see where she was looking, giving Markham the unnerving impression that there was someone at his shoulder. In a sense, perhaps there was. Aubrey Carstone, now their prime suspect.

  ‘What’s the connection between you?’ he continued inexorably, determined to leave pity out of the equation.

  ‘My mum was Aubrey’s, Mr Carstone’s nanny . . .’

  ‘Mary Knollys.’ This was Noakes.

  ‘That’s right. Knollys was Mum’s maiden name.’ She contemplated the remnants of her mutilated tissue as if unsure who had shredded it. Markham produced an immaculate snow-white handkerchief and handed it across the table. Something in the grave courtesy of his manner seemed to steady her.

  ‘There was a terrible accident when Mum was looking after the twins — Charles Henry and Aubrey. She didn’t say much about it, but you could tell it preyed on her mind. She was never the same afterwards . . . blamed herself for what happened.’

  ‘Did the family . . . ?’

  ‘Oh no. They were very kind. She stayed on as housekeeper and looked after Aubrey till he went away to school. Later she met my dad and had me.’ A pause, then, ‘It was only after she retired, towards the end of her life, that she opened up a bit.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘She went into the hospice in 1994 and died the year after.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘Just that it had been one of those scorching summer days . . . very hot, with the threat of thunder.’ Cathy Hignett’s voice was remote, as if she was recounting a dream. ‘Mum had one of her migraines — they only happened once in a blue moon — and needed a lie-down. She asked the girl who did the cleaning — Maggie her name was — to keep an eye on the boys, just for half an hour or so. But there was a delivery to the house and Maggie got distracted . . . when she turned round to see where they were, the boys had gone.’ Suddenly the woman looked distraught. ‘Mum nearly went off her head, she was so frantic to find them . . .’

  It was obvious this piece of family history had haunted Cathy Hignett for years.

  Patiently, compassion for her obvious distress welling up despite himself, Markham waited.

  ‘They found Aubrey wandering in the woodland garden on the far side of the estate. He said his brother wanted to play hide and seek. When it was his turn to look, he couldn’t find Charles Henry . . .’

  Her face mottled with agitation, she gulped and gasped. It was a horrible sound. Like a fish hooked out of water and floundering on dry land, thought Noakes fascinated.

  ‘It took a while before the search party found Charles Henry in that creepy little house where they kept the coffins piled up inside . . . and by then it was too late.’ Her lips were working convulsively. ‘Mum always wondered . . . she was never sure . . .’

  ‘She thought Aubrey might have killed his brother.’ The DI was very gentle.

  Cathy Hignett wiped her sweat-streaked forehead with the handkerchief.

  ‘He was only six. It didn’t seem possible. But Aubrey was quite jealous. They were non-identical twins . . . Charles Henry was the special one even at that age . . .’

  An exceptional child.

  And the less-favoured brother . . . the bad seed?

  ‘There were things . . . Once, Mum caught him with his hands round Charles Henry’s throat, and another time he pushed Charlie’s head under in the bath, but she didn’t think then that he was going to hurt him, not really. I mean, children play games, don’t they? It was only later she wondered . . .’

  ‘Did Aubrey ever say anything about what happened the day his brother went missing?’

  ‘Not really . . . in those days, you weren’t encouraged to dwell. No counsellors or anything like that.’

  ‘But Aubrey’s explanation didn’t sit easy with your mother?’

  ‘It was just . . . there was this one time he mentioned it. He said something like wasn’t it strange to think of Charles Henry being shut up in that funny little house all the time — “the Hansel and Gretel house” he called it — locked in with the coffins on their shelves . . . maybe trying to scratch a message into the wood.’ Her face was running with perspiration. ‘Mum told him not to be morbid, but she remembered how he looked . . . said his eyes were all glittery and strange . . . It bothered her.’

  ‘And your mother was in the hospice when she told you this?’

  ‘Yes, she was drugged up with morphine and all sorts by then of course . . . wandering in her mind quite a lot.’

  Markham regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘See here, Inspector.’ The discordant sing-song voice held a pleading note. ‘Mr Carstone always kept in touch with Mum and the family. Then later, when I had Bill and . . . there were problems . . . he looked out for us . . .’

  ‘Looked out for you? How was that, luv?’ Noakes was non-judgemental, almost affable.

  ‘My husband walked out on us when Bill was eight. Couldn’t cope with having a son who wasn’t, well, normal.’ Her eyes were suddenly bitter, hard. Clearly it hadn’t been an easy life. ‘Mr Carstone helped me get a job at the gallery. Then later, he did the same for Bill.’ A poignant note of pride crept into her voice. ‘He was a sort of mentor . . . kept Bill on track . . . made sure any . . . well, any misunderstandings were smoothed out.’

  ‘Misunderstandings, Mrs Hignett?’

  ‘Some people had it in for Bill, Inspector.’ Her voice was angry now. ‘Never willing to give him a fair chance. But Mr Carstone wasn’t like that.’

  Noakes recalled his instruction to Doyle the previous evening. See if you can find out who spoke up for Hignett when he was accused of perving. It must have been Carstone who pulled strings so that Cathy Hignett’s troublesome offspring kept his job.

  ‘Jus’ your everyday superhero then,’ said the DS, wearing his blandest expression.

  ‘I s’pose it was a case of hero worship,’ Cathy Hignett said. ‘Bill really looked up to Mr Carstone, would have done anything for him.’

  Anything.

  The word hung in the air between them.

  Face aflame with ugly red blotches, she tried to backtrack.

  ‘I don’t mean Bill would have done wrong,’ she stammered. ‘He wouldn’t have hurt anyone. Couldn’t have.’

  ‘What if he thought someone was a threat to Mr Carstone, luv?’ Noakes moved in for the kill. ‘What then?’ He looked sideways at her with a stronger compound of keenness and
suspicion than was compatible with his previous assumption of relaxed indifference.

  ‘Had it ever occurred to you that Mr Carstone might in some way have been grooming Bill with a view to making use of him?’

  ‘Grooming?’ Her voice was shrill now. ‘What the hell do you mean, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, I think you know, Mrs Hignett.’ Markham’s voice was hypnotically soft, subduing her like some enchanted incantation. As if the boss was one of them Eastern dervishes or summat, Noakes thought with increased admiration.

  Cathy Hignett couldn’t tear her eyes away from the DI.

  ‘When Helen Melville began shooting her mouth off about a secret in the Lestrange papers . . . when she suddenly became obsessed with past crimes and the Princes in the Tower . . . it got you thinking, didn’t it?’

  Still her eyes remained riveted on the clear chiselled whiteness of his face.

  ‘You knew Aubrey Carstone was in the gallery that day when little Alex Carter vanished from the face of the earth . . . just as Charles Henry was never seen alive after he went off with his brother for a game of hide and seek.’ Markham spoke quietly, but each word, each syllable was brutally distinct. ‘You remembered what your mother had said, and the past came flooding back, didn’t it? Even though you’d done your best to keep troublesome thoughts buried fathoms deep.’

  Stricken, the woman nodded dumbly as though she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘You knew Aubrey Carstone and Donald Lestrange were friends. They were even together the day Alex Carter went missing.’ Markham’s gaze drilled into her. ‘What if Lestrange knew something incriminating about Carstone? What if he’d left a clue behind when he died?’ The DI brought a hand down on the table with frightening suddenness. ‘That’s what you began to ask yourself, isn’t it?’

  The silence was so absolute, it felt as though the building held its breath.

  ‘And then the murders started.’

  She flinched as if this was death by a thousand cuts.

  ‘You couldn’t face the truth could you, Mrs Hignett?’ The DI continued, wielding his scalpel with remorseless skill. ‘Didn’t want to face the truth.’

  Noakes couldn’t recall when he’d last seen so much abject misery concentrated in one face. Poor cow, he thought. Then he thought of Kate Burton and his expression hardened.

  ‘You began watching your son and Aubrey Carstone . . . thought you saw signs of an understanding between them.’ Markham’s voice was insinuating now, almost caressing in a shocking parody of intimacy. ‘Up till then you’d been able to deceive yourself. No doubt Aubrey was able to lull your suspicions. There was no shortage of other suspects, after all, and anyway, how could a man of that age have pulled off three murders all by himself?’

  ‘See, here’s the thing, luv.’ At an imperceptible nod from the DI, Noakes took over. ‘Carstone wasn’t doing it all by himself, was he? He had back up.’ The DS wagged his head sagely. ‘Had your lad to do the heavy lifting.’ Looking at her levelly, he added, ‘Mebbe that’s how it was even as far back as 1997.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’ Cathy Hignett looked close to collapsing. ‘That’s a lie,’ she repeated, her voice cracking.

  ‘Is it?’ Markham took up the reins to deliver the coup de grâce. ‘If you thought it was a lie, why did you confront Aubrey Carstone?’

  ‘Confront him?’ Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Hignett. We’ve just been replaying footage shot by the TV crew yesterday and there’s a moment when the camera catches you speaking to Aubrey Carstone.’

  ‘We’re pretty sure you said summat like “What have you done?” Now that’s an odd thing to be asking old Aubrey out of the blue, ain’t it?’ Noakes jabbed his forefinger at her. ‘What’s he supposed to have gone and done, then?’ The DS thrust his shaggy head towards her. ‘An’ it’s a bit of a coincidence you asking him a question like that the same time as Bill does a disappearing act.’

  ‘My Bill’s done nothing.’ Her voice had risen an octave higher, the words jerked out of her in spasms. ‘Absolutely bloody nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. And deep down, nor do you.’

  She stared back at the DI as though turned to stone.

  ‘Where did they go, Mrs Hignett? What was their special place?’

  The silence stretched for an eternity.

  ‘Greygarth,’ she breathed. ‘Greygarth.’

  Noakes was puzzled. ‘But doesn’t the university own it now—’

  Markham raised a hand, his eyes never leaving Cathy Hignett’s, and the DS fell silent.

  ‘You said Aubrey Carstone talked about the “Hansel and Gretel” house.’

  ‘Mum said he and Charles Henry loved Grimm’s Fairy Tales.’ Her voice was mechanical now, as though the fight had gone out of her. ‘Hansel and Gretel was Aubrey’s favourite, he was pretty much obsessed with it.’

  The story of a cannibalistic witch luring children into her cottage in the woods. An early indicator of pathological impulses?

  ‘That’s partly why Mum wondered . . .’

  ‘About how Charles Henry really died?’

  ‘Yes. It was the fact of Charlie being found in that mausoleum place and Aubrey having a bit of a thing about it. The building was out of bounds to the boys, but he was always fascinated by it . . . said it was like Greygarth had another house inside it . . .’

  The house within a house.

  Aediculae. Houses of the dead. Hidden spaces. Shelves, niches, burials.

  How he must have resented any encroachment on his preserve by colleagues looking to make a name for themselves.

  Markham brought his attention back to the woman sitting opposite.

  ‘So, Aubrey Carstone had continued access to Greygarth.’

  A statement not a question.

  ‘It was his family home when all’s said and done. If anyone had a right to be there, he did.’ Defiance flared briefly in the red-rimmed eyes.

  She quailed slightly under Markham’s gaze.

  ‘When Sir Arthur sold the place, he made it a condition that there was a flat for the family so they could come and go as they pleased. Mr Carstone said the university continued the arrangement. All legal and above board. Plus, he did lectures and talks and things, which meant he was still involved with the place. Helped with events for local primaries too. He was good with kids.’

  Good with kids. Despite the heat of the room, Markham felt cold. From the grim look on Noakes’s face, the significance of those words was not lost on him either.

  Was it possible that they would uncover more than just Alex Carter’s jumbled bones at Greygarth? Were there other cries unheard echoing down the arches of the years?

  Though seriously unnerved, the DI gave no sign.

  ‘Presumably your son was also a visitor to Greygarth, given his attachment to Mr Carstone.’

  ‘Mr Carstone was good about taking Bill sometimes . . . to help me out . . . give me a bit of a break. Bill wasn’t always easy to manage.’ The admission appeared wrung from her. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she went on hastily, ‘I don’t mean he did anything criminal. He was just fractious occasionally, but Aubrey . . . Mr Carstone . . . well, he had a way with Bill — calmed him down if folk wound him up.’

  ‘People like Helen Melville an’ Charles Randall,’ put in Noakes.

  ‘Well, not just them.’ For all the dull vacancy, the implications were not lost on her. ‘There was teasing and folk could be unkind . . . nicknames, stuff like that.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Noakes smote his forehead theatrically. ‘“Quasi”! That was Charles Randall, wasn’t it? Not very nice.’

  Her tone suddenly viperish, she positively spat at him. ‘He was an arrogant stuck-up piece of work, picking on someone like Bill to get cheap laughs. Strutting and preening like he thought he was God’s gift to women. Him and that Helen Melville made me sick the way they threw their weight around.’

  ‘And now they’re both dead.’ Markham’s voice was tonel
ess.

  ‘So, what if I did hate them?’ Saliva pooled in the corners of her mouth and her features were distorted. ‘There’s no law against it.’

  ‘But there is such a thing as perverting the course of justice, Mrs Hignett.’ Markham’s face seemed carved out of granite.

  ‘You’ve got to understand.’ She was whining now. ‘He’s my son. And Aubrey Carstone’s family . . . all the family I’ve got.’

  And there it was, Markham realized. The psychological blocking mechanism which had enabled Cathy Hignett to protect her mind from unbearable truths. If the housekeeper-nanny, Mary Knollys, had dissociated herself from reality — deliberately and with quite remarkable dexterity — what cause was there for wonder in the fact that her daughter had done likewise.

  He pressed again.

  ‘So, your son comes and goes at Greygarth?’

  ‘He may have done, yes.’

  A strange look of dislike and distrust crossed her face when he mentioned the name of the house. Clearly it filled her with some unconquerable dread.

  You knew, Markham said to himself. All that time, you knew and said nothing.

  Suddenly the figure of Ned Chester swam before him as he was in life, brim-full of intelligence and energy, and he experienced a wave of revulsion for the woman in front of him so strong that he felt he must pass out.

  ‘Guv,’ Noakes said quietly, his expression concerned.

  The light-headed sensation receded.

  ‘We’ll interview Daniel Westbrook on the way over to Greygarth, Sergeant.’ It was the familiar decisive tone. ‘I want everything low-key. No sirens, no cordon, no tactical support. Nothing.’

  ‘Hearing you loud and clear, boss.’

  ‘Carstone knows by now this is the endgame.’ Markham’s eyes were dark pools against sharply etched cheekbones. ‘No way out.’

  ‘An’ he’s got one of ours.’

  ‘Not for much longer.’ When Markham spoke in that tone, Noakes knew the die was cast.

  * * *

  The sun was no longer shining as their unmarked car pulled away from the art gallery, snow showing dull ivory against a sullen sky. A vaporous mist wreathed the countryside, spreading through the air in concentric ripples like foamy breakers against the shore.