Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Impossible not to feel sympathy for the sallow, beaten man in front of them.

  Noakes broke the silence. ‘What did Shawcross say?’

  ‘Just came out with a load of psychological jargon about “conflicted family dynamics” and “sexual ambivalence” . . . Said she was “confused about her identity”,’ Troughton air-quoted angrily. He swallowed, visibly struggling to bring himself under control. ‘It was eerie . . . her delivery was so clinical, almost robotic, as if someone had coached her.’

  ‘Didn’t apologize then?’

  Troughton’s hands clenched and unclenched. ‘She said Phil was a “casualty of the process” . . . A casualty!’

  ‘Did you lose it, mate?’ Noakes’s voice was insinuating now. ‘If it’d been me, I’d have lamped her.’

  ‘Oh, I wanted to, Sergeant, but . . . it wouldn’t have brought Phil back . . .’

  ‘The two of you were very close.’ Burton’s voice was soft.

  ‘Well, we were a unit . . . though there was an age gap, obviously. But our personalities blended very well together . . . Phil was a kind, gentle, sweet soul. Too sensitive for his own good.’

  ‘What did Shawcross accuse him of?’

  ‘Inappropriate touching . . . sexual suggestions . . . grooming, if you like. But,’ his voice was suddenly fierce, ‘the case was dropped . . . they couldn’t make any of it stick . . . insufficient evidence. Plus she had form . . .’

  ‘Form?’

  ‘Word had it she was the school bike.’ From such a mild-looking man the sudden crudity was almost shocking. Even Noakes was taken aback.

  The school bike.

  Markham wondered what it was in Rebecca Shawcross’s background that had prompted her to concoct a story about the young art teacher. Some sort of teenage rebellion, an adolescent crisis? Or had there been something uglier at work there — domestic sexual abuse, perhaps? With Ted Shawcross dead and his wife long since lost to the twilight world of Alzheimer’s, he doubted they would ever know the truth.

  ‘Is it possible your colleague, Nurse Stanley, could have . . . misinterpreted your wanting to do Ms Shawcross’s review yourself?’

  With customary acuity, Burton had put her finger on a possible scenario. One which suggested another suspect for Rebecca Shawcross’s murder.

  Noakes too saw where this was going. He winked broadly at Burton and lumbered in to deliver the coup de grậce.

  ‘Cherchez la femme!’ he pronounced in an execrable French accent.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I don’t follow you . . .’ Troughton looked at the DS as though he had taken leave of his wits.

  ‘Look for the woman,’ Noakes translated ponderously, clearly very pleased at dazzling his audience with this smattering of culture.

  ‘I still don’t—’

  ‘I think Sergeant Noakes is suggesting that Ms Stanley might have supposed you to have some kind of sexual interest in Rebecca Shawcross and that this triggered a jealous explosion of rage.’

  ‘Yeah, a love triangle thingy,’ Noakes confirmed happily.

  Troughton looked appalled.

  ‘I don’t have feelings of any kind for Ms Stanley,’ he said stiffly. ‘She is a dedicated, thoroughly professional colleague . . . but that’s where it begins and ends.’

  ‘What if she wanted more, though?’ the DS said with man-of-the-world mateyness.

  The doctor’s horror-struck expression might have been comic in other circumstances, thought Markham. Watching Troughton closely, he saw another expression cross his features. One of troubled conjecture.

  ‘What is it, Doctor?’

  ‘These rooms aren’t particularly well sound-proofed,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘So Ms Stanley could have . . . overheard your conversation with Rebecca Shawcross.’ Burton’s eyes were fastened on Troughton with an earnestness which clearly unnerved him.

  ‘Eavesdropping.’ As ever, Noakes wasn’t one to mince words.

  ‘No,’ the GP stammered, ‘she wouldn’t have. It would’ve been unethical.’

  Noakes shook his head pityingly.

  None so blind as those who will not see.

  ‘If Nurse Stanley’s got the hots for you an’ earwigged your little chat with Shawcross, she might’ve had the idea of clobbering her . . . y’know, as payback for what she did to you.’

  Dumbfounded silence was the only response from the other side of the table.

  Noakes looked decidedly gratified at the effect of his hypothesis, but Markham decided his witness had had enough for now. ‘I’d ask you to keep everything said in here today confidential, Doctor.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone about Phil, Inspector . . . It would be like a betrayal of his memory.’ Again that sudden fierceness. ‘And that little bitch has done enough damage already.’ He brought himself up short. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, she didn’t deserve to die like that . . . no matter what she did.’ He bit his lip. ‘But when I looked down at her body, all I could think was karma . . . like there was finally some justice for Phil and he could at last rest in peace . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t be human if you’d felt otherwise, Doctor.’ Markham’s compassion was unfeigned.

  ‘How did you part from Ms Shawcross?’ Burton asked. ‘Sounds like it was all very calm between you in the end.’

  ‘We just looked at each other and she walked out.’ His tone hollow with regret, he added, ‘I didn’t put up much of a fight for Phil . . . couldn’t even get that right.’

  ‘Don’ be too hard on yourself, mate,’ Noakes said gruffly. ‘Sounds like you said what needed to be said . . . you did right by your Phil . . . I bet he knows that an’ all.’

  No hint of handcuffs in the offing now, Markham reflected wryly, amused despite himself by Noakes’s volte-face.

  The doctor was clearly touched. Making a pretence of polishing his spectacles on his sleeve, he pulled himself together.

  ‘Thank you, officers,’ he said quietly, once more the nondescript locum. ‘I take it I’m free to go now?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Markham escorted him to the door then paused.

  ‘Just one last thing, Doctor . . . I believe you sometimes work with a Doctor McCaffery from the Newman Hospital?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Troughton’s expression was perfectly open and ingenuous. ‘We’ve co-authored various papers . . . In fact he’s due to see me and,’ he paused, suddenly self-conscious, ‘Nurse Stanley about some histology results. Presumably we can still have our meeting here, or should I reschedule?’

  ‘No, that’s fine . . . Just have a word with DC Doyle who’s on gatekeeping duties and he’ll sign your visitor in.’

  ‘Well, back to the chuffing drawing board,’ Noakes sighed once the door had closed behind the locum. ‘Unless we think poor ole Doctor Troutface did for Shawcross.’

  ‘Unlikely, I would say,’ Markham replied. ‘That was a broken man alright.’

  ‘What about Maureen Stanley?’ Burton was doodling maniacally in her pocketbook, a habit with her at times of intense cogitation.

  ‘Tell us your thoughts, Kate.’

  ‘Well, maybe she had some motive of her own for killing Rebecca Shawcross . . . something we don’t know about as yet . . . And then she overheard the conversation between Doctor Troughton and Shawcross and saw how she could get away with murder . . .’

  ‘By framing the doc, you mean?’ Noakes looked dubious.

  ‘She might have been calculating on Phil Carmichael’s story eventually pointing to Troughton as the most likely suspect.’

  ‘Nah.’ Noakes shook his head with decision. ‘She’s deffo got a thing for the doc. You could tell jus’ by the way she looked at him . . . like she wanted to ’ave him for lunch or summat . . .’

  Burton stuck to her guns. ‘If he slapped her down or she realized she wasn’t going to get anywhere romantically, that could be a reason to want to get back at him.’

  ‘S’pose it’s possible,’ Noakes conceded. ‘Women go a bit funny
round that age . . . turn into bunny boilers . . . hormones, y’see . . . Like in that film Fatal Attraction—’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to the menopause,’ Burton countered frigidly.

  Noakes looked affronted. ‘I’m not saying every woman goes Looney Tunes, obviously. Jus’ the ones who can’t get a grip.’ He drew himself up. ‘My missus says it’s all about strength of mind,’ he added magisterially as if that settled the matter.

  Stop digging, Noakesy, Markham pleaded silently as Burton continued to regard her colleague with stony displeasure.

  Somehow, he really didn’t feel up to hearing about Muriel Noakes’s prescription for middle-aged equilibrium. Especially not if it involved any revelations about his sergeant’s sex life.

  ‘It’s an interesting theory, Kate,’ he said, decisively cutting off any further debate about female psychobiology.

  ‘I bet the doc gives Stanley a wide berth at that meeting with wotsisface from the Newman.’ Noakes chuckled wickedly. ‘No getting cosy with their heads together over them slides.’

  ‘I’m sure Doctor McCaffery will be an effective chaperone, Sergeant.’

  ‘At least now the poor sod knows which way the wind’s blowing . . . Fancy not twigging she’s after him!’

  ‘Perhaps natural modesty prevented him from picking up the signals.’

  Uh-ho, it was a bad sign when the guvnor started getting sarky. Adroitly, Noakes changed the subject.

  ‘Who’s next, guv? The library woman?’

  ‘Yes, I think we’d better speak to Shirley Bolton now.’

  The DS looked out of the narrow louvered window with all the wistfulness of a caged animal.

  ‘Why don’ we go round the back?’ he suggested. ‘It’s getting dead stuffy in here.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan, Sergeant.’ Markham smiled at his jaded subordinates. ‘We can get some fresh air and then see what Ms Bolton has to say. There’s a table and chairs on that patio next to the water feature.’

  ‘Little Shelly said it’s by some local sculptor. It’s an obel . . . obel summat or other . . .’

  ‘Obelisk?’ Burton supplied helpfully.

  ‘That’s the fella.’ Once upon a time, Noakes would have resented her superior knowledge, but time had mellowed him. ‘It’s hollow, so the kids like it cos it’s good for hide an’ seek . . . there’s a space for people to step inside.’ He looked ruefully down at his paunch. ‘Skinny folk, at any rate.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ Markham laughed. ‘Lead on Macduff!’

  Macduff? Oh yeah, now he got it. From that Shakespeare play with the witches. Pleased to think that he and the guvnor were sharing a literary allusion and with only the most sidelong of triumphant glances at his fellow DS, Noakes headed for the door.

  * * *

  It was a relief to get outside, though the back garden of the centre was little more than a stretch of lawn with a patio at its far end. A wooden table, four chairs and a wonky parasol in a rusting umbrella stand completed the amenities.

  Still, the sun had made an appearance and for a few minutes they basked in its warmth.

  Looking back at the community centre, Markham felt briefly as though the evil had receded before he recalled Loraine Thornley’s body stiffening in the morgue.

  His colleagues too seemed to feel they were under a dispensation, bickering amicably about the water feature.

  ‘Ackshually, come to think of it, it’s not really an obel-wotsit at all,’ Noakes observed. ‘More like a brandy snap wi’ the top cut off.’

  ‘That’s not a bad comparison, Noakesy,’ Markham laughed, surveying the grey stone. ‘The sides are too curved for a classical obelisk.’

  ‘Shelly said the idea was to put some kind of war memorial out here cos of its being a municipal space . . . good for the students from Hope too . . . remind ’em of the world wars an’ stuff.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Then they realized there wasn’t that much room, so the sculptor had to do summat modernistic and low-key otherwise it’d look a bit daft.’

  Burton wandered round the cylindrical monument. Loath as she was to concede anything to Noakes, she had to admit it did resemble a brandy snap. And the fountain didn’t appear to be working.

  ‘There’s a little plaque here at the base,’ she said crouching down. ‘The inscription says it’s dedicated to Bromgrove’s war heroes.’

  All quite right and proper.

  Burton momentarily disappeared from sight.

  ‘Oh yes,’ her voice was sepulchral, coming from inside the structure. ‘You can stand inside . . . it’s cool and echoey . . . And there’s little jet nozzles on the floor . . . must be a pump somewhere underneath . . .’

  ‘Are you going to give it a go, Noakesy?’ the DI teased, receiving only a grunt by way of reply.

  The DS didn’t look sold on the idea of a Marabar Caves experience, though Markham was willing to bet if Olivia had been there she’d have been able to coax her devoted cavalier into giving it a try.

  Burton reappeared.

  ‘Shall I fetch Shirley Bolton, sir?’

  Noakes squinted at her balefully. Kerr-ist . . . didn’t she ever knock off! Couldn’t imagine her ever doing a bit of sunbathing or anything that involved honest-to-god relaxation. No, it’d be all culture vulture stuff . . . museums and galleries a go-go. That poor bloody fiancé. It was probably highbrow yakety-yak yakking all day long . . . in bed too, like as not . . . He blushed guiltily, suddenly uncomfortable at the direction his thoughts were taking.

  Well aware of his sergeant’s inner monologue, the DI answered as though Noakes had spoken out loud. ‘Kate’s right, Noakes. We need to get a move on. The clock’s ticking and so far we’ve got nothing.’

  ‘I know, guv, I know. It’s jus’ . . . well, somehow it feels different out here . . . like whoever’s doing this took a hike . . .’

  The DS was highly sensitive to atmosphere. Interesting that he too felt something evil had temporarily dissipated . . .

  * * *

  Burton was back with Shirley Bolton.

  The librarian sank gratefully into the chair Markham pulled out for her and shrugged off her jacket.

  Chuffing Nora, thought Noakes, what’s with the psychedelic get-up.

  ‘I didn’t want to wear black, Sergeant,’ she said simply, catching the look. ‘Too depressing. I think Rebecca would have liked some colour.’

  ‘I’m sure she would,’ Markham said firmly.

  ‘I had a friend who died in a car accident . . . when I was at university,’ Burton said unexpectedly. ‘She was a Catholic and I remember the priest at her funeral saying that he thought death was similar to birth . . . like when babies are born, they don’t know what they’re being born into — a new world with their families . . . He said death’s the same . . . travelling into another dimension bigger than we are . . .’ She came to an abrupt halt, embarrassed at her disclosure.

  ‘That’s a beautiful analogy, Kate.’ The DI’s smile warmed her more than the summer sun.

  ‘Yes,’ Shirley Bolton said softly. ‘That’s just it. I felt somehow . . . with her being so young . . . it shouldn’t be all darkness and gloom.’

  Suddenly, Markham remembered Olivia talking about Rebecca Shawcross moving on to her next adventure. For all the horror of her death, both women saw it as the liberation of a troubled soul.

  Noakes was looking thoroughly apprehensive, as though he feared someone might burst into verse at any moment.

  Back to business.

  ‘When we were at the wake, Ms Bolton, you said, “Not everyone in this place is quite what they seem.” Can you perhaps tell us what you meant by that?’

  The woman looked nervously towards the community centre.

  ‘You’re quite safe here. If anyone asks about this interview, just tell them I wanted to know more about Rebecca Shawcross. You can give the impression I wanted to know if she’d upset anyone lately . . . if she had a stalker.’ He kept his tone deliberately
light. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger.’ At least, not unless the killer believed she possessed knowledge that was dangerous.

  ‘It was something Loraine said to me. She told me . . . I think I’ve got this right . . . someone had lied about their alibi.’

  Markham felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. A sixth sense that, here at last, they might have something.

  But he gave no outward sign of it, crossing one long leg over the over and leaning back languidly in his chair for all the world as though this was an inconsequential al fresco chat. Should keen eyes be watching, there would be nothing in his demeanour to suggest a breakthrough.

  ‘Did Loraine mean an alibi for the time Rebecca was killed . . . or could she have been talking about when Peter Elford died?’

  ‘Peter was murdered too, wasn’t he?’ she said fearfully. ‘Me and Loraine didn’t believe it was suicide despite all the talk.’

  Gently, Kate Burton drew her back to the point. ‘What else did Loraine tell you? This could be very important, Shirley.’

  The woman folded and refolded the fabric of her maxi dress, as though by this means she could marshal her scattered thoughts.

  ‘She just said someone told the police they were in one place when she’d seen them somewhere else.’ Again, that anxious plaiting of her costume. ‘I said she should report it . . . but then she more or less clammed up . . . said it would get this person into trouble if it turned out they’d given a false alibi . . . and anyway they weren’t the killer and it was just a misunderstanding . . . She kind of shut me down after that, and I didn’t want to upset her by harping on it.’

  ‘So she didn’t say anything else after that, luv?’ Noakes was disappointed.

  ‘No, that was it.’

  ‘When did you have this conversation with Loraine, Ms Bolton?’

  ‘Wednesday . . . we had a quick coffee in town before going home. The Neighbourhood Café. It’s a nice vintage place.’

  The DI felt a sharp stab of pain as he recalled Ned Chester, arts correspondent of the Gazette and aficionado of vintage tea shops. Victim of another murderer.

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ he said quietly. ‘Did you see Loraine at all on Thursday?’