Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

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Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 136

by Catherine Moloney


  ‘What sort of complaint?’

  ‘We were coming up to GCSEs. I didn’t know much about it at the time . . . it was all hushed up very quickly. One minute Mr Carmichael was there, the next minute — pouf — he was gone . . .’

  ‘How long had Mr Carmichael been at the school?’

  ‘He was an NQT—’

  ‘Yeah, we know. Newly qualified teacher,’ Noakes put in before the other could translate.

  ‘That’s right, a newbie. Nice guy from all that I could tell.’

  ‘There’s something more, isn’t there, Mr Cartwright?’

  ‘Look, you didn’t get this from me, right?’

  Markham nodded gravely.

  ‘I heard later that whatever Bex said about him . . . well, Carmichael was arrested . . . had to leave teaching . . .’

  ‘And then what?’ The DI was remorseless. ‘Did he face charges?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Cartwright’s face was troubled. ‘Word on the grapevine a few years later was that he’d committed suicide.’

  ‘Cos of what she’d accused him of?’ Noakes’s voice was flat.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Cartwright looked wretched. ‘But yes, Sergeant, more than likely it played a part.’

  ‘I don’ remember owt about a case like this.’ Noakes looked puzzled. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells . . . I was coppering in Bromgrove, but there wasn’t anything about it in the local rags.’ He screwed up his features in an expression of fierce concentration.

  ‘Her dad might have had something to do with its never getting out.’

  ‘Her dad?’

  ‘He died in a road accident when she was in the upper sixth. Councillor Shawcross.’

  Now Noakes looked across the table at his boss and whistled. ‘So Ted Shawcross was the reason that story never saw the light of day.’

  ‘Before my time, Sergeant.’ Markham’s coffee was cooling, but he gulped it down anyway. ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘The devious, controlling sort.’ The DS thumped the table making their coffee cups bounce.

  Heads turned.

  ‘Hearing you loud and clear, Noakesy. Just don’t smash the place up, okay?’

  ‘Sorry, boss. But he was a nasty bugger. Eyes too close together,’ the DS added as though this was the clincher that explained it all.

  ‘Anything specific to tell me, Sergeant?’

  ‘Rumour had it he was involved in a couple of scams. But he was always too quick for the Fraud boys . . . always managed to wriggle his way out of trouble. “Teflon Ted”, they called him. Prob’ly had one of our lot on the inside tipping him off.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Markham mused. ‘So her father closed it all down.’

  ‘D’you think it’s why she got clobbered then, guv?’

  ‘Garrotted, Noakes,’ the DI corrected mildly. ‘Well, this might be motive for murder, don’t you think?’

  ‘God yes.’ The DS spoke feelingly. ‘All this MeToo crip crap an’ obsession with victimhood . . . It’s gone too far, if you ask me. What about the rights of blokes like this Carmichael? What about him?’

  ‘Presumably the allegation was sexual,’ Markham pursued his train of thought.

  ‘You betcha.’ His colleague’s scowl was fearsome to behold, causing a waitress who had approached their table to recoil in consternation. Oblivious, Noakes continued, ‘The guy probably raised his voice to her . . . gave her a bad mark . . . put her in detention or summat . . . An’ she saw a way of getting back at him . . . an’ then it all got out of hand.’ He was transparently entranced with his own thesis. ‘Yeah, I reckon that’s how it went, guv. You heard what Ty said. Shawcross got all weepy ’bout his women’s magazine garbage . . . a story about some student accusing an innocent man . . . only that was hunky-dory cos, you see, he felt dead guilty an’ never meant to do it. Boohoo.’

  ‘Don’t burst a blood vessel, Sergeant.’

  ‘It jus’ gets to me, boss. It’s an awful thing, child abuse, but—’

  He broke off in horror, suddenly appalled at his own tactlessness.

  ‘You’re quite right.’ Markham’s voice was gentle. ‘Somehow society’s lost sight of those who are wrongly accused. He that filches from me my good name . . . makes me poor indeed.’

  Noakes was relieved. If the boss was quoting poetry, it meant he was alright.

  ‘The missus says she feels sorry for lads an’ lasses these days . . . Like they have to sign a bleeding contract or summat before they c’n even have a snog.’

  Markham refrained from pointing out that such considerations were unlikely to have inhibited the pneumatic Natalie. The DS would not like to hear that his beloved daughter, the apple of his eye, had acquired something of a reputation in connection with Bromgrove nightlife.

  Seeing that Noakes was poised for another tirade — O tempora, o mores! — he quickly interposed. ‘There’s no one of that name at the community centre, so far as I’m aware . . . no Carmichael.’

  ‘’S right, guv.’

  ‘But we need to check this out. If there’s a relative or friend of Phil Carmichael employed at the community centre, then what happened to Ms Shawcross could have been a revenge killing . . .’

  ‘An’ then Mister Brylcreem sussed it somehow an’ blackmailed the killer. Hey,’ an idea struck Noakes, ‘mebbe he sympathized with ’em. His wife had been flinging all kinds of accusations around during their divorce, according to Burton . . . Might’ve made him take the killer’s side . . . Like kinda fellow feeling an’ all that.’

  ‘It’s one possibility, certainly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, guv, I just gotta say it,’ Noakes burst out.

  ‘Be my guest, Sergeant.’

  ‘She was a nasty little madam that “Bex”. Like father like daughter.’

  ‘Well, heredity is bound to count for something, Sergeant.’

  His DS looked uncertain whether this constituted an unqualified endorsement of his theory.

  ‘What now, boss?’ He looked longingly as a tray of burgers and chips passed their booth. ‘I don’ suppose . . .’

  ‘You can get a Greggs on the way to the community centre, Noakes,’ the DI said firmly. ‘Time for pig-outs once we’ve cracked this case.’

  That’ll be the freaking Twelfth of Never, his subordinate brooded mutinously.

  * * *

  As Noakes reversed out of Hope’s car park, the DI’s mobile went.

  ‘That was Kate,’ he said after a few minutes’ conversation. ‘The press conference is first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Noakes pulled one of his special faces. The one he reserved especially for announcements like this. He thought of it as his Barry Lynch face, though not even this distortion of lips, cheeks and tongue could adequately convey his dislike of the station’s PR supremo.

  ‘Kate can front it,’ Markham said, only too aware of his sergeant’s thought processes.

  ‘She’s bloody welcome.’

  ‘But ideally we need to give the press folk something to chew on.’ There was a hint of steel.

  ‘Like what, guv?’

  ‘Something to substantiate a claim that we’re following “several lines of enquiry”, Sergeant.’

  ‘You’re not gonna give them owt about Carmichael are you, boss?’

  ‘Not explicitly, no . . . too risky. But I think we need to weave Bromgrove General and the “complex personal background” somewhere into it. Hints of a troubled private life . . . that kind of thing.’ Markham sighed. ‘Whatever will keep them from sniffing round the centre and school, essentially.’

  ‘Oh right, I’m with you.’

  Operation Misinformation.

  ‘I’m going to take over from Kate at the community centre.’

  Noakes didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Then you and she are going to check out that adolescent unit.’ There was a determined ring to Markham’s voice. ‘I want to know what she was doing there when she nipped out of school. Was it research or professional development like she put down when
she signed out? Or was it connected with when she had counselling for PTSD? Or was she there for something else entirely? Whatever it was, I want to know.’ A thought struck him. ‘Plus, we’ll need details of the treatment she had over the Carmichael business.’

  ‘An’ after that?’

  ‘You can do a quick fact-finding spree at the council offices.’ Markham was grimly purposeful. ‘I want this Carmichael issue clarified. If it’s just a sideshow, I want it out of the way.’

  ‘You think we’ll get a name, guv?’

  ‘Maybe not a name . . . but at the very least a lead.’ He suppressed a smile at the look on Noakes’s face. ‘I know you found Kate a little . . . full-on during the Newman investigation. But you’ve shaken down together very well since then and,’ he knew he was grasping at straws, ‘I want her to learn from you.’

  ‘Oh aye.’

  Clearly not a match made in heaven, but the DI would just have to hope for the best. And he needed to give Kate Burton her head. She was being uncharacteristically reticent about applying for promotion, and he didn’t want to hold her back.

  Plus, Markham wanted another crack at Chris Burt — without Noakes’s hulking presence and louring disapproval. The caretaker had looked terrified of Noakes, so Doyle was a better bet for any re-interview.

  ‘I’ll head over to the Newman once I’m done at the community centre,’ the DI concluded.

  ‘God, I hate that place.’ Noakes shuddered pleasurably. ‘All them screwballs jus’ waiting to pounce.’

  ‘Overflowing with the milk of human kindness — that’s you, Noakesy.’

  The DS took it as a compliment.

  * * *

  They sped back towards town in meditative silence.

  Markham couldn’t shake the feeling of profound uneasiness that had come over him. He had the car window wound down, but the air tasted of thunder.

  What were they missing?

  Peter Elford died because he chanced upon a killer’s secret.

  What if someone else, wittingly or unwittingly, threatened their security?

  If that happened, they were looking at another death.

  8. A Trinity

  The storm broke that afternoon while Markham and Doyle were closeted with Chris Burt, great sheets of rain veiling the community centre as though wrapping it in its own Perspex cocoon. At least the air was now somewhat fresher, and the oppressive humidity dispelled.

  What Doyle irreverently called the ‘odd couple’ had set off to Bromgrove General a short time earlier.

  ‘“When shall we three meet again?”’ Noakes quoted at Markham as he issued instructions, leading Burton to goggle at her colleague in unflattering astonishment.

  ‘I took the missus to see Macbeth at the Exchange,’ he mumbled, ears slightly pink at the tips. ‘Your Olivia thought we might enjoy it. And we did,’ he added truculently, his fists balling as though he was ready to take on all comers.

  ‘Excellent, Sergeant, excellent. I like my team to be eclectic in their pursuits.’

  Noakes mentally stuck out his tongue at Burton. See, I’m not a total ignoramus!

  ‘I want to know what symptoms Rebecca Shawcross exhibited . . . and what was the course of treatment at that adolescent unit,’ Markham said crisply. ‘Also, the names of anyone she came into contact with.’ Burton dutifully scribbled it down while Noakes examined the sediment beneath his fingernails.

  ‘What about the council?’

  ‘Anything you can get on Phil Carmichael — his family background, contacts . . . maybe see where Hope and Leo Cartwright fit in . . .’ Markham sighed. ‘If at all . . . We’re pretty much groping in the dark, but let’s face it, this is the strongest motive for murder so far and we need to check it out.’

  ‘Rebecca Shawcross was a complex character.’ Burton’s puritanical streak had surfaced on learning of the ‘friends with benefits’ set-up. ‘Maybe this is all about something in her . . . sex life.’

  ‘You might well be right, Kate.’ Markham tried to shake off the feeling that something in this case was eluding them . . . like a floater in the eye . . . something out there on the periphery . . . something they had missed. ‘But we need to get a handle on her — and fast.’

  Now he and Doyle, perched on canvas camping chairs, contemplated the caretaker across a stained Formica table in the cubbyhole which was nominally his ‘office’ but looked more like a cupboard. A tiny cracked window admitted some badly needed ventilation.

  ‘We can chat in the staffroom if you’d prefer, Mr Burt.’ Markham wasn’t at all sure that being wedged between mops and bottles of Dettol was likely to establish a mood of easy confidence. Certainly Doyle looked thoroughly uncomfortable, his ginger head almost touching the sloping roof.

  The caretaker shook his head. Most likely he wanted to escape the officious Thelma, his sister having already thrust herself forward as an ‘appropriate adult’ before being courteously but firmly rebuffed by the DI. Chris Burt had the mental capacity to cope with questioning, and would no doubt close up like the proverbial clam if his sibling was hovering in the vicinity. There was something else too. Markham had the feeling Burt didn’t want to be seen talking to the police . . . that he was scared. Perhaps, like Markham, he was sensitive to an indefinable menace hanging in the air. A sense that someone was watching and waiting in the wings. Almost as though the community centre was some horrible version of Cluedo, poised for a malevolent genius to set the pieces in motion.

  ‘What were your impressions of Ms Shawcross?’ Markham enquired gently. ‘Did you see much of her?’

  ‘Not really. Not to talk to. Mr Elford said not to bother patients . . . said they wanted to be private.’

  ‘But she wasn’t just a patient, was she? I mean, you’d have seen her with the students upstairs from time to time.’

  Burt ducked his head awkwardly. There was something terribly vulnerable about his bald cranium with its sparse grey fringe round the base. Difficult to imagine him as a predator. More like an ageing Granville in Open All Hours. But Markham knew appearances could be highly deceptive. The harrowing Newman Hospital investigation had been proof of that. He nodded to Doyle to take over the questioning. Time for them to play good cop, bad cop.

  ‘Why’d Mr Elford tell you to leave the patients alone?’ The DC was using his gangling frame to good effect. Chris Burt seemed to shrink. ‘Was he worried about you making a pest of yourself or something? Worried about you being . . . inappropriate?’

  ‘No . . . nothing like that . . . I wouldn’t.’ Glaucous eyes held an expression of panic and the irresolute, spatulate fingers were restlessly pleating his brown overalls.

  The man had been frightened at some point, thought Markham. Badly frightened. But when and how?

  ‘Did you ever have a run-in with Ms Shawcross?’ Doyle’s voice became insinuating. ‘I mean, patients can be stroppy sometimes, right? My mum works as a hospital receptionist and you wouldn’t believe the stories she tells.’

  Something shifted at the back of Burt’s eyes.

  Well done, Doyle. That’s triggered something.

  For all his vacant looks, Markham suspected the caretaker took more things in than he appeared to. What if it was Rebecca Shawcross who had frightened him . . . warned him off because he had seen or heard something she wanted kept secret?

  ‘Ms Shawcross was a striking woman,’ the DI said matter-of-factly. ‘The kind of woman you’d notice.’

  An ugly blush suffused the caretaker’s scrawny neck and he muttered something incoherent. Markham nodded as though their interviewee was perfectly intelligible.

  ‘We believe she was writing a book,’ he said inconsequentially, waiting for Burt’s colour to subside. ‘Something medical.’

  ‘Might’ve been doing some research with the staff,’ Doyle observed, following Markham’s lead. ‘You know, for background.’ The DC forced a somewhat unconvincing laugh. ‘Perhaps she was even getting ideas for characters. Who knows, it might make you all famous o
ne day . . .’

  Again, that almost imperceptible responsive flicker in the watery eyes. But Markham had seen it.

  ‘So, no doubt she appeared downstairs in the surgery from time to time,’ the DI said as though this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Maybe even after hours . . .’

  ‘Might’ve done,’ the other mumbled.

  Doyle leaned forward. ‘Did you ever see her take anything? See her in any of the offices perhaps . . . anywhere that she shouldn’t have been?’

  ‘I jus’ keep my head down an’ get on with it, like Mr Elford allus said to do.’ The man’s right leg was juddering and the rank, ammonia-like smell of his sweat filled the cramped space.

  His interrogators exchanged glances. Let’s take that as a yes.

  The DI dismissed Burt with a kindly smile. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a cuppa, Mr Burt. I know this is a stressful time for all of you. We appreciate the help you’ve given.’

  His smile faded as soon as the caretaker disappeared into the corridor.

  ‘Chris Burt saw something,’ he concluded flatly.

  ‘Not going to tell us though, is he, sir?’ Doyle looked exasperated. ‘Been told to mind his own beeswax too often by the look of it.’

  ‘Hmm . . . By Elford, Ms Shawcross . . . and maybe someone else . . . someone who frightened him . . .’

  ‘God, he was like a wind-up speaking toy,’ the DC said disgustedly. ‘Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Hey, you don’t think he’s in any danger, do you, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Doyle.’ Markham spoke slowly. ‘Whatever he thinks he saw or heard, he hasn’t been able to piece it together in any coherent fashion. Or, if he has made some sense of it, then he’s too cowed and confused to open up. Keep your eyes down and your nose clean, that’s the poor man’s motto for getting through life.’

  ‘He could’ve been threatened, sir,’ Doyle said eagerly.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Told by someone that they’d see he took the rap if he spoke out of turn. Could’ve been Shawcross . . . could’ve been the killer . . .’

  ‘Or it could be a case of autosuggestion.’ Markham’s face darkened. ‘He’s a fearful sort of character. It’d be too easy to make him think the police would fit him up on account of his learning disability . . . a ready-made prime suspect.’ Actually, he reflected grimly, if Sidney got so much as a whiff of Chris Burt’s e-fit, that wasn’t such an improbable scenario.

 

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