Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  But the DI forestalled any further platitudes. ‘Perhaps it might be possible to speak to some of Ms Shawcross’s sixth-form students and anyone who was in the study annexe on Monday afternoon.’ The assistant head’s smile appearing somewhat strained, the DI added, ‘In the presence of an appropriate adult, naturally.’

  Aye, aye. Noakes’s antennae were twitching. For some reason, Superwoman didn’t want them chatting to the students. Now why might that be? P’raps Shawcross’s ‘friends with benefits’ weren’t limited to the likes of Leo Cartwright . . .

  ‘Of course, Inspector. If you’re agreeable, I’ll set that up for tomorrow. Mr Cartwright can suggest some responsible pupils.’

  For responsible read discreet.

  At that moment, Markham’s mobile rang.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He listened intently and then, after a few tense minutes, ended the call.

  ‘We’re needed back at base, Ms Atkins, so you’ll have to excuse us.’

  He had the distinct impression she was relieved.

  * * *

  Out in the car park, the tarmac shimmered through a heat haze. Behind them, the school looked uglier than ever. There was an urgency to Markham’s movements as they returned to the car.

  ‘What’s up, guv?’

  ‘That was Kate. Peter Elford’s been found dead at home.’

  Noakes paused in his Formula One revving. ‘What . . . you mean there’s been an accident?’ And then, as Markham paused, a strange expression on his face, ‘Or what — he’s topped himself . . . cos it was him who did for Shawcross?’

  ‘From what Kate told me, it appears he may have been engaged in some sort of autoerotic practice or ritual that went wrong.’

  ‘Solo sex games . . . You’re having me on, guv — Elford!’

  ‘Eyes on the road please, Noakes. Yes, Elford. He was meant to attend a meeting at the town hall this morning but didn’t turn up. It wasn’t like him, so they sent someone round to his flat. The caretaker had spare keys.’

  ‘But chuffing Nora — we only saw him yesterday an’ he was fine!’ Noakes thumped the steering wheel.

  ‘He was recently divorced, apparently. Being treated for depression too.’ The DI frowned. ‘Recent events could have tipped him over the edge so that he took risks . . . But I agree, the timing feels hinky.’

  ‘Everything about this bleeding case is hinky.’ Noakes scowled. ‘That drama teacher was hiding summat. When you said that about Shawcross being a pupil at Hope . . . he looked dead shifty . . . Sullivan spotted it an’ all cos he tried to cover for him.’

  So Noakes had picked up on that too.

  ‘I want anything Hope’s HR department has got on Rebecca Shawcross,’ the DI said decisively. ‘And Cartwright’s personnel file too.’

  ‘I’ll get Doyle round to the school pronto, guv. All those teenage girls with their Oompa Loompa fake tans oohing and aahing over him . . . he’ll think he’s died an’ gone to heaven.’

  Unlike Peter Elford whose soul had departed this life in circumstances that sounded distinctly hellish. Staring fixedly ahead, Markham stiffened in anticipation of the dread discovery.

  4. Stranger Than Fiction

  Peter Elford’s flat was pleasant but unremarkable, situated on the first floor of a nondescript three-storey red-brick building named Troutbeck Court. It was near the town centre and what an estate agent would call ‘well presented’, reflected the DI inconsequentially as he took in the tidy communal front garden and the predominance of glass and timber in the entrance lobby.

  DC Doyle met them there, along with an inoffensive white-haired man whom he introduced as Mr Jones the caretaker. When he spoke, Mr Jones was quavery of voice. From the nervous glances the young detective was casting at the older man, he was clearly concerned Jones might keel over on him.

  ‘I’m just going over to the lodge to make Mr Jones a cuppa and take his statement, sir,’ he said pointing to a small white bungalow on the other side of the front lawn.

  ‘Might want to put a slug of brandy in it,’ Noakes added eyeing up the caretaker whose ashen-faced horror and speechlessness told the tale of what awaited them inside.

  ‘Excellent, Constable.’ Markham approved the arrangement, adding solicitously, ‘We’ll be across shortly, Mr Jones, but in the meantime you’re in good hands.’

  ‘Through there, sir. Burton’s waiting for you.’ Doyle looked as though he could do with a shot of something stronger than tea himself.

  * * *

  Markham’s initial impressions were of bland Habitat-style décor and lots of chrome. All very Location, Location, Location, so that he half expected Kirstie and Phil to come sashaying in and scoring the place for saleability.

  But when Kate Burton, grim-faced, ushered them through the arch that connected the living and dining areas, any impression of suburban irreproachability was abruptly dispelled.

  Peter Elford, clad in only his underpants, was slumped across the pine dining-room table. With a black bin bag over his head, the community centre administrator had a length of what appeared to be surgical twine tied around his neck. Upended on the tastefully patterned mauve carpet was a well-thumbed paperback.

  Forbidden Flowers by Nancy Friday. What Noakes would doubtless term ‘a mucky book’.

  ‘Jesus,’ Noakes breathed. ‘Jesus.’

  Markham disliked profanity but, taking in the profoundly bleak scene before them, he too was badly shaken. The only sound in the room was a bad-tempered bluebottle bashing itself against the French window.

  Burton found her voice. ‘Looks like some kind of sex game gone wrong, guv.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I haven’t touched the body, obviously, but I took a quick look in his desk.’ She gestured to a roll-top on the other side of the room. ‘Ugly divorce and the ex-wife being difficult about access to the kids — boy and girl, both in their teens . . . So all this,’ she gestured helplessly, ‘must’ve been . . . well . . . some sort of safety valve.’

  ‘Mebbe he had a guilty conscience too . . . assuming he offed Shawcross.’

  ‘Let’s not make any assumptions,’ Markham said heavily.

  ‘Quite right,’ came a voice from the door. Dimples Davidson had arrived. Behind him were two SOCOs, already gowned up.

  The threesome contemplated the tableau in silence.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Davidson said finally. ‘I’ll just get togged up, Markham, and do the necessary.’ He gestured to the SOCOs who began to set up screens.

  ‘Let’s take a breather outside.’

  The three police officers walked blindly out into the drowsy front garden. Already there was a little knot of residents standing beneath a monkey puzzle tree murmuring in low voices.

  ‘I’ll get rid of ’em, guv,’ Noakes muttered observing the stony look on his boss’s face.

  Burton joined him. With a combination of tact and elbow (the former Burton, the latter Noakes), they had soon managed to shepherd the little throng back indoors.

  Damn and double damn. Now Gavin Conors from the Gazette had rolled up.

  ‘D’you have any comment for our readers, Inspector?’ He signalled to the accompanying photog — another spiv in snooker-player attire — to start snapping pictures of the building. ‘Is there any connection with the murder at the community centre?’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Noakes was back, glowering at Conors like a gorilla ready to charge. Go ahead, punk, make my day.

  The reporter wrestled with himself. He and Noakes ‘had form’, so to speak, and he was clearly tempted to take a pop. However, prudence won out in the shape of his companion who eyed Noakes with the air of one who didn’t much fancy his chances in a contest of man versus gorilla.

  ‘C’mon, Gav,’ he muttered. ‘They ain’t worth it.’

  With a baleful glance at his old adversary, the Gazette’s boy wonder backed off muttering imprecations about freedom of the press and police oppression.

  ‘Like as not freaking Neighbourhood Watch tipped ’em off.’ Noakes cast a furious
glance back at Troutbeck Court where the net curtains were doubtless twitching.

  ‘Easy, Noakesy. At this rate you’ll give yourself a coronary.’

  Burton blinked at the unusual softness in Markham’s voice and wondered for the umpteenth time what it was about her splenetic, socially inept colleague that inspired such forbearance. He’d come very close to fisticuffs with Gavin Conors, which would have brought Sidney down on them like a ton of bricks.

  ‘Let’s see what Dimples has for us.’ The DI looked as though he knew precisely what she was thinking.

  Back in the stuffy, airless flat, the smell of death was unmistakeable. But at least Elford’s body was now stashed on a portable gurney which had been magicked up from somewhere.

  Noakes felt a lump in his throat. The shape under the body bag was so small, so defenceless. Elford might have been a smarmy, self-important git, but to die like this with no dignity — everyone knowing you’d been perving. Poor, poor sod.

  The pathologist looked sombre. ‘Let’s speak in here,’ he said, gesturing to the living area.

  They perched awkwardly on the cream dralon three-piece suite, whispering as if Elford could still hear them, though the silence in the administrator’s ear was nevermore to be broken.

  ‘This wasn’t a natural death, Markham,’ Dimples began.

  ‘I’ll say.’ Noakes couldn’t restrain himself.

  ‘Shut up, Noakesy.’ Markham looked expectantly at Davidson.

  ‘I mean, Inspector, that he was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered!’

  Davidson nodded, clearly gratified to have taken the wind out of Noakes’s sails. ‘Obviously, this is unofficial until after the PM.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Granted, it looks like a case of autoerotic asphyxiation, but how many blokes would do that in full view of a French window with the curtains tied back?’

  ‘I take it there’s something else to go on beyond his proximity to the French window?’

  ‘Yes there is, Inspector.’ Davidson paused dramatically. ‘I found this under the fingernails on his right hand.’

  The pathologist flourished a plastic evidence bag in their direction.

  ‘What you got in there then?’ Noakes was determinedly unimpressed.

  ‘An itsy-bitsy fragment from what I believe to be a surgical glove.’ Davidson smiled complacently. ‘I think something interrupted your killer before they had time to clear up as thoroughly as they intended — the doorbell . . . or the phone perhaps . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s deffo wall-to-wall nosey parkers in this place,’ said the DS as though the good doctor had merely confirmed his dyspeptic world view.

  ‘Maybe the murderer had arranged to meet Elford,’ Burton said tentatively. ‘But he or she had counted on having more time . . . Got spooked and then bottled it . . .’

  The DI gestured towards the narrow hallway. ‘Check the Ansafone, will you Kate? It’s possible Elford arranged to meet the murderer here but forgot about his meeting with the council . . . and then they rang to check where he was.’

  Burton slipped into the narrow hallway where they could hear her checking 1471.

  The DI returned his attention to the pathologist. ‘You found something else as well, didn’t you?’

  ‘It so happens I did, Markham.’

  ‘Well, spit it out then,’ Noakes groused. ‘Or d’you want a drum roll or summat.’

  Davidson was unruffled, well used to what passed for banter with the DS. ‘I’m just waiting for your colleague to re-join us,’ he said equably.

  ‘You’re right, sir.’ Kate was back. ‘The Clerk of Works rang in a snit about Elford missing his appointment with some advisory committee or other. Said she couldn’t raise him on his mobile either . . . asked what the hell he was playing at.’

  ‘Ah, the mobile.’ Markham raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

  ‘No sign of it so far as I could see, sir.’

  ‘So the murderer switched it off.’

  ‘You said there was summat else, doc.’ Noakes was getting impatient. ‘Not jus’ the scrap of glove.’

  ‘That’s correct, Sergeant.’ Davidson spread his hands in front of him, contemplating the signet ring on his pinkie with what Kate Burton privately thought of as his superior air. ‘The victim had ingested something. There were traces of it in his mouth.’

  ‘Like what? You mean drugs?’

  ‘I would say some sort of sedative or muscle relaxant . . . slipped into a drink.’

  ‘There’s a tumbler in the kitchen sink, sir,’ Burton said. ‘Just the one, mind.’

  ‘The murderer must have talked Elford into offering him — or her — a drink,’ Markham said slowly.

  ‘Then slipped him a Mickey Finn.’ Noakes nodded. ‘Had to make sure he was out of it before . . .’ He mimed a strangling.

  ‘Afterwards, they took the second glass away, along with Elford’s mobile and his clothes,’ Burton concluded.

  There was a brief silence then, ‘Will there be anything from the murderer, doc? Skin cells, trace DNA . . . ?’ Burton asked desperately.

  ‘Oh sure.’ There was something maddening about Davidson’s cheery self-possession. ‘But not much use to you unless they’re already in the database.’ He met three pairs of anxious eyes in turn, rolling the words round in his mouth as though savouring a fine wine. ‘And even if you turn someone up — a lover, a colleague — your average clever-clogs brief will argue flawed DNA transfer or incriminating secondary touch.’ He beamed at their disconsolate faces. ‘Forensics is a bit of a minefield these days. That’s where you sleuths come in.’

  ‘Right little ray of sunshine you are,’ Noakes muttered balefully. But before he could start a barney, one of the SOCOs poked his head round the archway.

  ‘The ambulance is here, doc. Happy for this one to go?’

  This one, thought Markham sadly. The paragon of animals now reduced to a quintessence of dust.

  He bowed his head out of respect as Peter Elford’s pitiful remains set out on their last journey. After a moment’s hesitation, Noakes and Burton followed his lead. Davidson, well used to the DI’s insistence on reverence for the deceased, paused in locking his medical bag and watched the sombre little procession wend its way out of the flat.

  It felt hotter than ever indoors. The pathologist, florid and stocky, ran a sweaty hand through his thinning sandy locks. ‘I’m done here, Markham. Post-mortem at 5 p.m. All welcome.’

  ‘I’ll be attending, doc,’ Kate Burton piped up.

  Davidson looked at her benignly. ‘Oh, Buggins’ turn is it, m’dear?’

  ‘No, she freaking volunteers, would you believe?’ Noakes’s voice cracked with incredulity.

  ‘Kate will be liaising with the scene of crime team on this one, Doug,’ the DI said firmly.

  Dimples looked from one DS to the other and flashed his sawbones smirk. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he chuckled. ‘Turn and turn about, eh?’

  ‘Is this the same killer as did for Shawcross?’ Noakes demanded bluntly.

  ‘Now, now, Sergeant,’ the other clicked his tongue. ‘You know better than to ask me that.’ With a valedictory beam, he was gone.

  ‘’Scuse me, I’ve got summat to do.’ Noakes too vanished into the dining area, whence issued the sound of a resounding thwack. The buzzing, which had been droning on throughout their interview with Dimples, abruptly stopped.

  The DS reappeared. ‘That sodding bluebottle was getting right on my tits,’ was all he proffered by way of explanation. Markham suspected he would’ve liked to have done something similar to Dimples Davidson, but the refractory insect was clearly an excellent substitute.

  The two SOCOs were still flitting about the place like giant moths.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it,’ Markham said, before adding as an afterthought, ‘Did you check out the other rooms, Kate?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s two bedrooms. Looks like one’s been freshly decorated . . . in girlie colours . . . maybe for w
hen the daughter comes to stay.’

  ‘Anything interesting in Elford’s room? Anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. And just the usual in the bathroom cabinet — plus he was taking citalopram for depression.’

  The sterile little flat was starting to depress Markham.

  ‘Whoever rigged up that scene back there hated Peter Elford,’ he said. ‘The way it was staged . . . nasty . . . cruel.’

  Despite the heat of the day, Burton shivered. ‘So what had he done to deserve that? Could he have been blackmailing someone, d’you think, sir?’

  ‘Like Elford had summat on the killer . . . yeah,’ Noakes nodded approvingly before Markham could reply. ‘Had to be. I mean,’ he gave a derisive snort, ‘Mr Brylcreem was ’xactly the kind of bloke for that kind of caper . . . an’ the pervy stuff too,’ he added darkly.

  It was obvious Noakes thought the manner in which Peter Elford had met his end represented condign punishment for being a prize dickhead on all fronts. And yet Markham knew that when it came to breaking the news of Elford’s death to the ex-wife and two teenagers, the DS would drop no clangers and, in some mysterious way, would convey that he knew at least a part of what they were feeling. Officers like Kate Burton were no less compassionate, but it was with the DI’s bear-like, shambling number two that the bereaved would feel their pain and sorrow were somehow safe.

  ‘To answer your question, Kate, yes I think it’s likely that Peter Elford knew something . . . had chanced upon something. It was in character for him to keep it to himself rather than come to us . . .’

  ‘Enjoyed holding it over the killer?’ Burton hazarded. ‘Power games?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’ The DI brushed an invisible speck from his immaculate pin stripe (how come he doesn’t sweat like the rest of us, thought Noakes irritably). ‘Or maybe he too had a grudge against Rebecca Shawcross and was prepared to maintain his silence . . . for a price.’ His voice very low, Markham added, ‘Whatever the reason, it cost him his life.’

  Burton shivered again. ‘What’s the plan, sir?’