My name is Legion . . .
Sullivan was watching him with concern.
‘Can I get you another, Gil?’ he asked gesturing at his friend’s empty mug. ‘Looks like you could do with another shot of the sugary stuff.’
‘Better not, Mat, though I can’t say I’m not tempted.’ He sighed. ‘God, these moon chairs are surprisingly comfortable, aren’t they?’
‘Why not curl up and have a crafty kip, mate?’ Sullivan winked. ‘I won’t snitch.’
‘Knowing my luck, someone from the Gazette’d be bound to snatch a picture op. Can’t you just imagine it? Top Cop Asleep on the Job or some such helpful headline.’
‘Cue spontaneous combustion of your DCI.’ Sullivan’s shoulders heaved.
‘Yep, that’s about the size of it.’ The other’s amusement was infectious and Markham broke into a grin despite himself.
‘I’m dreading the press conference tomorrow,’ he confided. ‘We’ve got sweet FA.’
‘Sounds like a job for Kate Burton. I seem to recall your telling me she’d mastered the gentle art of bluff.’
‘Not on this scale, Mat. I mean, we’re talking three murders, for God’s sake. That means a serial.’
‘You need to buy yourself some time, Gil.’
‘Don’t I know it. But how?’
‘You’ll think of something.’ The other slapped him heartily on the shoulder. ‘You always do. When it comes to the crunch.’
‘Think of me tomorrow, Mat . . . sandwiched between that prize shit of a PR man, one Barry Lynch, and DCI Sidney . . . watching poor old Kate serve up some phooey to keep ’em all off our backs.’
Sullivan struck a mock Churchillian pose and intoned the battle-cry, ‘Never give in. Never despair. Never, never, never, never.’
Heads swivelled once again.
‘Shut up, for God’s sake.’
But the banter had cheered him up. Markham felt lighter, more buoyant, better able to go back and face whatever awaited him at the community centre.
Sullivan leaned towards him, serious now. ‘You’ll do it, Gil,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll see Bex and those poor souls get justice. I know you will.’
Sudden tears pricked his eyes. Odd that these few words of trust should mean so much.
‘Thanks, Mat.’
‘You’re welcome, mate.’ A flashing smile. ‘And if that story with the dinosaur title turns up, bags I the finder’s fee.’
Markham was still chuckling when they bade each other an affectionate farewell and went their separate ways.
10. That’s for Remembrance
Friday morning dawned fine and clear.
Markham and Olivia breakfasted together on their minuscule balcony, savouring the summer peace.
His girlfriend had been in bed when Markham arrived home the previous night and now listened with concerned interest to news of the latest developments.
‘But no breakthrough yet, Gil?’
‘None to speak of, dearest.’ He toyed with his food.
‘Did you go to see the poor woman’s next of kin?’ She knew how Markham dreaded those conversations but was nevertheless punctilious about doing them, never leaving the task to junior officers.
‘Her niece Jayne . . . healthcare assistant at the practice . . . I couldn’t get near her for most of the day. She was all over the place. They had to give her a shot of something to calm her down, poor kid. I’m not sure she really registered anything I said . . .’
‘No other family, then?’
‘No, it was just the two of them.’ He paused. ‘They shared a house in Pelham Place.’
Olivia’s cup of coffee was halfway to her mouth but she set it down abruptly.
‘I’m sorry, Gil,’ she said softly. ‘That’s where you found Brian Shaw’s body in the ballet investigation, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he forced a shaky laugh. ‘The residents must feel that street’s jinxed.’ Suddenly, he badly wanted to speak of other things.
‘I met Muriel Noakes at the surgery yesterday.’
Olivia was instantly diverted. ‘Oh God. Commiserations, Gil. How was She Who Must Be Obeyed? Driving all the receptionists round the twist?’
‘Well, oddly enough she wasn’t as obnoxious as usual.’
‘Really?’ His girlfriend chuckled. ‘What’s brought about this Damascene conversion, then?’
‘She was worried about Noakesy.’
Olivia’s affection for his lumbering sergeant ran deep. Markham had never been able to fathom the basis for their mysterious affinity, but there was genuine warmth and respect on both sides. And Noakes never spoke of his girlfriend’s ‘book-learning’ in anything other than tones of hallowed respect. ‘I think she must have cast a spell on my husband,’ was Muriel’s acid verdict, and there was some truth in that. Markham often caught him contemplating Olivia with the same rapt attention a knight of the Round Table might have bestowed on the celestial Guinevere. Yes, at some strange, subterranean level, Olivia had tapped an unexpectedly poetic strain in Noakesy, transforming him into CID’s least likely troubadour — and leading to much twitting of Noakes in the station canteen. Devoted to his bossy, strident wife, the only other manifestation of Noakes’s aestheticism was his light-footed dexterity on the dance floor. Though, from what Muriel had said about his weight issue, it looked as though his virtuosity might now be under threat.
‘What’s amiss with our George?’
‘Prostate trouble, apparently, though mercifully we didn’t get down to the nitty-gritty details.’
‘You’ll keep tabs won’t you, Gil?’ she said with almost maternal solicitude for his number two. ‘He’s Robin to your Batman, y’know.’
‘Not without losing a couple of stones he isn’t.’ Markham chuckled, before adding more seriously, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep a close eye.’ Another chuckle. ‘And so will Kate Burton. Once I invoke her reforming zeal, there’ll be no more sneaky pies or pasties. Doctor Kellogg, here we come!’
Olivia gurgled. ‘Oh dear. Kate’d give Torquemada a run for his money.’ But it was said affectionately. She respected the DS’s terrier-like tenacity and had long since intuited her hopeless infatuation with Markham — an infatuation made all the more poignant by Kate’s gallant attempts to conceal it. George Noakes had guessed it too, she knew, but neither of them had ever said a word and kept Kate’s secret inviolate.
‘So, what’s on the agenda for today?’ she asked. ‘C’mon, Gil, get some toast down you. I’m wolfing the lot here!’
‘You could scoff an entire Warburtons’ factory and not put on an ounce,’ he responded admiringly. ‘But me . . . middle-aged spread and all that.’
‘Don’t be daft, you need to keep your strength up . . . for fending off Sidney, if nothing else.’
Markham groaned. ‘As if I needed reminding!’ He poured himself another black coffee. ‘It’s the press conference this morning.’
‘Oh bad luck, sweetheart. I suppose that means Gavin Conors and his cohorts will be out in force.’ She grimaced. ‘You’ll have your work cut out stopping a punch-up . . . Doesn’t George absolutely loathe Conors?’
‘Indeed . . . a feeling entirely reciprocated.’ He too gave a grimace. ‘I read Noakesy the riot act last night. There’s to be no deviation from the agreed script.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘The Gospel According to Sidney. “Unprovoked attack on an attractive young woman . . . Too early to say whether these cases are linked . . . Police following a number of promising leads . . . Tragically, surgeries and medical facilities attract unbalanced attention . . . Public should be vigilant but no cause for alarm” blah blah blah.’
She stared at him, incredulous. ‘Does Sidney seriously believe this is down to some homicidal fruitcake with a “thing” for surgeries?’
‘You’re missing the point, dearest.’ Markham grinned sourly. ‘What matters is to avoid any breath of scandal. No suggestion of doctor-nurse shenanigans or anything nasty in the loc
al civic woodshed . . .’
‘Such as?’
‘Inappropriate behaviour by teachers . . . breach of professional standards . . . dodgy goings-on at Hope Academy . . . And that’s just for starters.’
He filled her in on the Phil Carmichael story and the likelihood that Rebecca Shawcross was by no means the wholesome young woman she appeared.
Olivia looked stunned. ‘What does Mat Sullivan have to say about Rebecca?’
‘He didn’t really want to go there. Told me he never really knew her that well . . . Compared her to an iceberg . . . y’know, ninety-nine percent submerged.’
‘Did you bring up all this about her accusing an NQT?’
‘He said he didn’t really know much about it, though it was obvious he’d heard something.’ Markham munched his wholemeal toast half-heartedly and washed it down with a gulp of black coffee before continuing, ‘Noakes and Kate were down at the council offices when Loraine’s body was discovered. Some tight-lipped harridan in HR confirmed the bare bones of Carmichael’s case, but they didn’t get much joy beyond that. So it’s omertà all round . . . Reading between the lines, I’d say the paperwork and any pertinent records were discreetly disposed of.’
‘Can they do that, Gil? I mean, isn’t it illegal to stage cover-ups?’
‘Oh, I’d say it happens quite a lot, love. And Rebecca’s father was a councillor . . . had quite a lot of influence, apparently. A slippery character according to Noakes.’
‘Who told you about Phil Carmichael in the first place?’
‘Leo Cartwright. But he asked me not to quote him . . . Afraid he’d get into trouble. At the moment, it’s all pretty nebulous. That’s one reason why I held off pumping Mat.’
‘One reason?’
‘Well, I know this sounds bizarre . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Try me,’ his girlfriend said encouragingly.
‘I couldn’t bear to make Mat pick over another squalid episode from the school’s archives. He looks so happy in the new job. It felt like there’d be something heartless in making him talk about more skeletons in Hope’s closet . . .’
‘You’re right, Gil.’ She smiled warmly at him. ‘After what Mat went through in the Ashley Dean investigation — the accusations, the spiteful gossip, his private life being raked over — it’d be too close to home.’
‘Of course, we’ll end up chewing it over eventually. I’m just putting off the evil hour.’
‘Where do you think Leo Cartwright fits in?’ Olivia asked curiously.
Markham chose his words carefully. He’d refrained from disclosing Rebecca Shawcross’s ‘liberated’ lifestyle, including that friends-with-benefits arrangement with the drama teacher. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, he told himself, though in fact he was actuated more by a reluctance to unsettle Olivia than any respect for the dead. Like Mat Sullivan, she had been badly affected by the previous murder investigation at Hope Academy, and he shrank from filling her with mistrust for a colleague. Also, he reflected soberly, it might be dangerous if she knew too much.
‘Mat says Cartwright’s no murderer,’ he stated simply.
‘I agree.’ She nodded vigorously, copper tendrils spiralling round her lovely face. ‘A bit full of himself sometimes . . . a bit overly keen on “getting down wiv da kids”. But that’s par for the course in drama.’ She grinned. ‘And SLT scare the bejesus out of him . . . he turns into a right bottom feeder when any of them hove into view.’
‘Ah yes, I noticed his . . . deferential manner towards your esteemed assistant head.’
She made a sound that sounded very much like ‘Pshaw!’
They smiled at each other.
‘D’you know,’ said Olivia finally, ‘watching Mary Atkins in action makes me almost wistful for the likes of “Killer” Kavanagh.’ This being the sobriquet bestowed by Hope’s staff on a previous deputy head of unhappy memory.
‘Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.’
The meal ended on a burst of shared laughter.
‘I’ll see you later at the crematorium. Twelve o’clock.’
She was serious once more. ‘I’ll be there, Gil.’
‘There’s some sort of bun fight afterwards . . . in the study annexe down at the community centre.’ He checked himself. ‘Sorry, bun fight’s not very respectful . . .’
‘“Funeral baked meats”,’ she intoned with mock piety.
‘Indeed.’
‘Will you be letting George near the vol-au-vents?’
‘Oh God. I suppose I’ll have to risk it. He’ll be in full eat-all-you-can mode, with everyone looking at us askance and marking the police down as complete barbarians.’
She giggled.
‘I’ll do my best to steer him towards the, er, healthy options.’
‘Well, if anyone can persuade him to walk in the paths of virtue it’s you, Liv.’
‘What about Kate?’
‘Well, Noakesy and Kate are quite . . . scratchy with each other at the moment, what with the stress of this case. It’s tough for Doyle playing piggy in the middle.’ He patted her arm. ‘Any “lifestyle tips” will be better coming better from you.’
‘Righto, sweetheart. I aim to please.’ She looked at him searchingly. ‘You’re really worried about this case, aren’t you?’
‘I just can’t seem to get a grip on it, Liv. And this third death . . .’
‘Hang in there, Gil.’ She gave a roguish laugh. ‘And keep George on a leash at the press conference.’
‘No bloodshed,’ he promised and kissed her.
* * *
‘If that dickhead had said “I think we got away with it” just one more sodding time . . .’
Markham laughed. In the circumstances, he felt he could cut Noakes some slack. ‘That’s Barry Lynch’s catchphrase, Sergeant.’
‘And he was pretty much right,’ piped up Doyle. ‘We did get away with it.’
‘Only cos Bazza had them two bouncers over by the door so Gavin Conors decided to keep it zipped . . . An’ where did they come from anyhow? Are they Lynch’s minders or what?’
Doyle grinned. ‘Maybe he needs protection, what with getting up so many people’s noses.’
Noakes clearly appreciated this sally. ‘Yeah, wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Never mind where Lynch’s muscle came from,’ Burton snapped. ‘The point is, it meant an easy ride for all of us.’
‘Easier than I was expecting at any rate, Kate.’ Markham’s relief was very evident. ‘You and Carstairs did a great job with those glossy handouts. You could see Sidney was impressed with the graphs and statistics.’
‘Assaults in the NHS. Yeah, nice one, sarge.’ Doyle was enthusiastic. ‘Distracted ’em from asking awkward questions about randy teachers or dodgy doctors. And Sidney loved it . . . all that heroes-on-the-frontline stuff . . . He was practically purring.’
‘Oh aye.’ This was Noakes. ‘A real tear-jerker. Sidney’ll be lifting the best bits for his next speech, jus’ you see if he don’t.’
Burton supposed there was a compliment in there somewhere. If she looked hard enough.
‘Excellent work, Kate. I mean it,’ Markham’s sincerity brought the colour to her cheeks. ‘It’s bought us some time and got the DCI off our backs . . . temporarily at least.’
She would always remember this moment and the warmth in the DI’s dark eyes. Even the suspicion of a smirk hovering about Noakes’s lips couldn’t spoil it.
‘Old octopus-hands looked like he fancied a debrief afterwards, sarge,’ Doyle grinned.
‘Thanks for lowering the tone, Constable,’ she said icily. ‘Barry Lynch is one of those conceited creatures who thinks he’s God’s gift. Ask those poor girls in the typing pool.’
‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ Noakes observed sententiously.
‘Right,’ the DI interposed hastily, ‘let’s save The Life and Times of Barry Lynch for the pub, shall we?’
‘With pleasure.’ Burton shuddered, oblivious of t
he others’ winks and nudges.
‘We’ve got a funeral to go to.’
The DI’s reminder had a sobering effect.
Noakes tugged at his tie and smoothed down the lapels of his ill-fitting jacket which was obtrusively shiny with a couple of grease spots. He looked like a mafioso in a low-budget movie, but on the whole Markham reckoned it could have been worse. Burton and Doyle were eminently respectable. The latter’s trousers were perhaps suspiciously close to being drainpipes, but the overall effect was upmarket and smart while the DI’s own dark grey pinstripes would hopefully distract the eye from Noakes’s highly idiosyncratic tailoring.
‘Are we going to the eats afterwards?’ came the inevitable plaintive cry.
‘Yes, Noakes, but let’s show some decorum, shall we?’
‘Eyes and ears open, sarge — not gobs.’
The DS affected not to hear Doyle’s raillery.
‘Right, guv. Decorum. Got it.’
* * *
Afterwards, Markham reflected that it had been the most depressing funeral he had ever attended. And God knew, he’d been to plenty.
Timings for mourners’ ‘slots’ were pinned to a noticeboard at the entrance to the little crematorium in Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery, a compact, timber-clad structure which bizarrely resembled a cross between a ski lodge and Scandinavian sauna.
‘Shawcross is down for twenty-five minutes . . . Frigging pitiful,’ Noakes muttered. Markham was hard pushed to disagree.
A little regiment of bouquets was lined up next to the gravel path beside the crematorium’s memorial garden.
Burton squinted down at the card on one of them. ‘Rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’ she read out, puzzled. ‘Bit odd, isn’t it? I mean, they usually say “in loving memory” or something like that . . . something conventional.’
‘Yeah, sarge. Creepy.’ Doyle leaned down to take a closer look. ‘It’s a line from Agatha Christie’s Sparkling Cyanide . . . the one where the murderer does it with poison.’ He looked around nervously. ‘The same way Loraine Thornley died.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 139