Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  The little party contemplated the water feature in silence. It felt curiously isolated, for all that the SOCOs were busy shrouding the site with tarpaulin and arc lights.

  Azhar’s body had been manoeuvred out of the narrow cavity by Dimples Davidson and his team with a dexterity which somehow belied the horror of what had been done to the young Asian. For his throat had been cut in a single savage slashing stroke that had almost decapitated him. ‘The vic was a slight man,’ the pathologist said in answer to the question which hung in the air. ‘A single assailant could have done it and then wedged him into this . . .’ he regarded the fountain with distaste, ‘thing.’

  ‘D’you think it had any significance, doc — him being deposited in an upright position like that?’ Burton knew the memory of Azhar’s emergence from the garden niche would haunt her for a long time to come. ‘Could it have been a ritual . . . ?’

  ‘More likely to have been convenient . . . easier than sticking him in one of those wheelie bins round the side,’ came the grim response.

  ‘Didn’t the Incas an’ prehistoric folk bury their dead standing upright . . . out of respect, if they’d been warriors, like? I saw it on Tomorrow’s World,’ Noakes mumbled defensively.

  Burton felt inclined to laugh, but there was something oddly comforting in the thought that Tariq Azhar hadn’t been brought low . . . left supine or humbled in the dust.

  Davidson was troubled by no such reflections.

  ‘I doubt the sicko who did this was paying any kind of tribute to that poor lad,’ he said dryly. ‘More a case of expediency . . . With the weekend coming up, they wouldn’t have expected the body to be found for a while . . . maybe even days.’

  ‘Time of death, doc?’

  ‘Tch, tch . . . you know me better than that, Inspector.’ The stock rebuke.

  ‘The body must have been left in the fountain recently.’ Burton’s voice was strained. ‘We were out here just a couple of hours ago.’ She shuddered reflexively. ‘I even stood inside to see what it felt like.’

  Davidson relented. ‘He’s been dead no more than an hour. Most probably killed where he was found.’ He glanced at the paper-suited SOCOs quietly moving about their tasks like a sinister priesthood. ‘Right, I’ll be off. Good luck, Markham.’ He recalled Tariq Azhar’s sensitive, refined features with a sharp pang that was unusual for him on such occasions. ‘The feel of not to feel’ was the bluff pathologist’s clinical maxim, but now and again a particular case got under his skin. ‘I’d like to see whoever did this go down for a very long time.’

  The team watched his retreating figure in silence.

  Then, ‘You know what Sidney’s gonna say.’

  ‘Only too well, Noakes.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit, Burt’s looking good for it, guv. I mean, like, he was out here getting all touchy feely over the fountain an’ just fell over the body? Pur-lease.’ Dave Elson nodded his approval.

  ‘What do you think, Doyle?’ The young DC was looking unusually introspective.

  ‘I don’t think he’s got what it takes. Sorry, sarge,’ with an apologetic duck of the head to Noakes, ‘but he’s just the local saddo. ’Sides, when me and the boss interviewed him, he seemed frightened . . . almost as though he’d been threatened. That’s right, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Constable,’ Markham confirmed. ‘He was definitely scared.’

  ‘Guilty conscience,’ Noakes growled, eliciting a further approving nod from PC Elson.

  ‘No, Sergeant, I don’t believe so,’ the DI said slowly.

  ‘Oh, come on, boss.’ Noakes wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘Burt’s got sex pest an’ all-round nutter written all over ’im.’

  More vigorous bobs of the head from Elson. Talk about nodding dog, thought Burton.

  ‘He may have fancied Shawcross and other attractive women he saw round the centre,’ she said decisively, ‘but no way was he ever going to do anything about it . . . Too much under the cosh for that.’

  ‘Shirley Bolton said he was sharper than he looks,’ Noakes persisted stubbornly. ‘All that simpleton stuff . . . could be a cover . . .’

  ‘True, sarge,’ Burton conceded, ‘but there’s the way he walks — all uncoordinated and shambling. That doesn’t look put on to me.’

  ‘Can’t see him cutting someone’s throat and then getting the body in there,’ Doyle pointed at the fountain, with its eerie nimbus from the arc lights. ‘He doesn’t look able to tie his own shoelaces, let alone pull off something like that.’

  ‘Okay, Columbo, you tell us who did it then,’ Noakes said amicably.

  ‘No idea, sarge,’ the youngster admitted. ‘But it looks like Tariq agreed to meet the killer here . . .’

  It struck Markham with a chill that Tariq Azhar’s murderer had most likely observed their activities that afternoon from some vantage point before checking that the coast was clear and summoning the Asian to his death.

  ‘No mobile with the body,’ he mused. ‘So our man probably lured Tariq here with a call or text and then made sure to take the phone away after he was done.’

  ‘Jus’ like Elford.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. The same pattern. And no doubt the same forensically aware modus operandi, so very unlikely we’ll get useful trace evidence.’

  Markham looked exhausted, thought Burton, with dark smudges under the eyes. But he spoke with calm authority.

  ‘Elson, I want you to ensure the area’s as secure as it can be. There are uniforms front and back now, but give everywhere a final once-over please.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’ If he was disappointed that Chris Burt’s arrest did not appear to be imminent, the patrolman gave no sign of it. ‘I’ll drive by the librarian lady’s place after that, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please. Regular checks,’ he sighed, ‘but I think she’s safe for tonight . . .’

  Elson plodded off on his mission.

  ‘I don’t think she’s in danger,’ Markham repeated. ‘Tariq Azhar was the immediate threat, not Shirley.’

  ‘But why, sir?’ Burton burst out. ‘I mean, everyone liked him . . . he didn’t seem wary of anyone . . . he was relaxed as you like at the wake, no sign of anything wrong . . .’

  The DI rubbed his eyes as though to clear them.

  ‘We need to know what he was doing after the wake — where he went, who he talked to. Something happened which made him a threat . . .’

  ‘He guessed the killer’s identity,’ Burton hazarded.

  ‘Yes, I think that’s right, Kate.’ Markham spoke with growing conviction. ‘Ronnie Shaw spoke of Rebecca having someone at the centre “in her pocket”. The way she spoke, it sounded like it may have been a sexual liaison . . . something illicit . . . something furtive and naughty that she almost hugged to herself . . .’

  ‘And Tariq suddenly twigged who she was getting off with . . .’ Noakes looked bemused. ‘But none of ’em fits . . .’

  ‘What if it was a woman,’ Burton said suddenly.

  ‘What!’ Noakes’s jaw dropped, heightening his resemblance to an outraged pachyderm. ‘You gotta be kidding me.’

  ‘Think about it, sarge,’ she said earnestly. ‘Ronnie said the heroine of Rebecca’s novel was “sexually fluid” and Rebecca herself was obviously . . . well . . . unconventional when it came to sex . . . may even have had issues round men after what happened with Phil Carmichael . . . The secret attraction at the centre could’ve been a woman.’

  ‘D’you honestly see Shawcross having a wing ding with them crones — Macdonald an’ Bolton? Pur-lease.’

  ‘Maybe it was a sixth-form student.’ But Burton sounded defeated.

  ‘You’re quite right, Kate. We need to keep an open mind,’ Markham said, noting her dejected posture.

  She visibly brightened at his approval, the basset hound chirpiness reasserting itself. Silly bint, thought Noakes. It’s like watching Crufts . . . in a minute she’ll sit up and beg.

  ‘We could get Leo Cartwright back in, boss.’ D
oyle was anxious to have his twopenn’orth. ‘Didn’t Cartwright say he’d seen Tariq down the squash courts at the sports centre? What if Cartwright knows more than he’s saying?’

  Markham recalled Cartwright’s interest in Rebecca Shawcross’s missing novel. Suddenly, he heard Matthew Sullivan’s voice. ‘I caught him having a root round her workstation the other day . . . said he was looking for some manuscript or other.’ What if that manuscript had turned up?

  ‘It’s nine o’clock now,’ the DI said. ‘Saturday tomorrow.’ Four murders in a week, he thought, his heart in his boots. The DCI would be peppering. ‘Let’s get Cartwright in first thing tomorrow and press him hard. If Rebecca was having therapy,’ he caught Noakes’s jaundiced eye, ‘or pursuing a clandestine sexual relationship, his insights could help us.’

  ‘D’you reckon he’s been holding back, boss?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Doyle.’ Markham sighed. ‘Maybe out of misplaced loyalty . . . or maybe he’s got his own agenda . . . But it’s end game now, so we go in hard.’

  ‘We could lift him tonight, boss.’ Doyle was eager.

  ‘Your zeal is most commendable, Constable. But we’re all shattered. Besides,’ he tried not to groan, ‘there’ll be the DCI first thing tomorrow and I don’t want to do anything precipitate until I see the lie of the land.’

  Which, translated, meant he needed to gauge the feasibility of fending off Sidney with more BS courtesy of Chris Carstairs. He’d be lucky if the DCI didn’t insist on Chris Burt’s immediate detention. The caretaker was the ideal candidate from his superior’s point of view, being mere plankton as opposed to a big fish of the civic ecosystem.

  God, what a night!

  ‘We’re getting closer,’ he said quietly. ‘The net’s closing in. Maybe with Cartwright we’ll find something to bait the trap.’

  * * *

  Unsurprisingly, Markham slept badly.

  Six a.m. saw him at the little breakfast bar sipping black coffee while Olivia made toast.

  ‘You were tossing and turning all night, Gil,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Bad dreams?’

  ‘Noakes said something about Incas and Aztecs burying their dead upright. I kept seeing a seated mummy in a cave . . . someone was unwrapping the bandages . . . It had Tariq Azhar’s face . . .’

  ‘That’s Horizon for you,’ she said lightly putting a plate of thickly buttered wholemeal in front of him.

  ‘Tomorrow’s World, actually.’ He grimaced. ‘Noakes is full of surprises these days . . . But I just couldn’t get that image out of my head.’

  ‘You liked Tariq,’ his girlfriend said.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Didn’t you say he was in a relationship with someone at the centre?’

  ‘That was Noakes’s theory . . . he figured Tariq had something going with the other therapist Jenni Harte . . . But I think they were just very good friends.’ Suddenly he put his toast down, all appetite gone.

  ‘What is it, Gil?’

  ‘I have to break his death to her later today. The centre’s shut, obviously, but she’ll need to know . . . being the one who was closest to him.’

  ‘What about family?’

  ‘One brother in America and parents in Pakistan.’ He sighed heavily. ‘They’ve been notified . . . the brother’s a professor at Johns Hopkins, but his wife has some form of leukaemia, so it may be a week or more before he can coordinate the travel arrangements. But then,’ he concluded sadly, ‘Tariq isn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘What’s the plan for today?’ Olivia asked softly.

  ‘Sidney first . . . followed by an interview with Leo Cartwright . . . then we’ll likely have another crack at Chris Burt . . .’

  Olivia laughed mirthlessly. ‘I suppose Sidney’ll have you waterboarding the caretaker.’

  ‘Well, he’s not the only one to favour Guantanamo-style tactics . . . Noakesy’s keen to pin it on Burt too.’ He grinned. ‘Not often he and Sidney see eye to eye, but in this case . . .’

  ‘What do you think, Gil?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe it’s Burt. He’s got Asperger’s for one thing . . . and for another, he just doesn’t look like a killer to me.’ Markham toyed with his toast. ‘I think he may have his suspicions, though . . .’

  ‘You mean, he may know who the murderer is?’

  ‘Yep.’ He chewed unenthusiastically before swallowing more coffee. ‘But something tells me he’s been warned off . . . Doyle noticed it too . . .’

  ‘How’s Doyle doing these days?’ Olivia liked the boyish DC.

  ‘Enthusiastic as ever and enjoying the law degree, I believe.’

  ‘What about his love life?’

  Markham chuckled. ‘Seems to be on an even keel . . . Obviously Noakes is on hand with appropriate advice.’

  ‘CID’s very own agony uncle.’ His girlfriend was clearly tickled by the thought. Then she became serious once more. ‘D’you think Leo knows something too?’

  ‘There may be something . . . some detail . . .’ Markham struggled to formulate his thoughts. ‘Something he knows but doesn’t realize is significant . . .’

  ‘A clue to the murderer’s identity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Olivia stared into her mug of black coffee as though its depths held an answer to the riddle.

  ‘And you’ve ruled out the doctor — Phil Carmichael’s stepbrother?’

  ‘Doctor Troughton — or, as Noakes calls him, “Doctor Troutface”? Carmichael’s suicide gave him a motive alright and he’d confronted Rebecca, but I don’t think he killed her . . . And not just because of the Hippocratic oath or anything like that . . . After Shipman, we know what doctors are capable of . . .’ He took another swill of coffee. ‘He was upfront about hating her, but as for homicidal violence . . . no,’ he shook his head.

  ‘Sounds like any of them could’ve done it, Gil.’

  ‘That’s just it.’ He threw up his hands as though in supplication. ‘Any of them could’ve administered atropine to Loraine Thornley. It would just have been a question of going to the supplies cupboard, watching and waiting . . .’

  He stirred his coffee moodily and swallowed the dregs. Wordlessly, Olivia poured him another cup.

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart . . . Should put me on a caffeine drip, then it could go straight into the vein!’

  A tight smile, but her expression was grave. ‘And no chance of breaking anyone’s alibi?’

  ‘Loraine was fretting about someone having said they were in one place when in fact they were somewhere else . . . but that might not have had anything to do with why she was killed . . . there could have been some other reason . . . something we’ve missed . . .’

  ‘Who was it she caught out in a lie?’

  ‘Could’ve been the nurse — Maureen Stanley. A ferrety, neurotic sort of woman with a thumping great crush on Doctor Troughton . . .’

  Olivia was startled. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes . . . though Troughton never suspected it . . . looked like he was going to have a coronary when we suggested she might have killed Rebecca out of jealousy or from some mad idea of avenging his stepbrother’s death.’

  ‘Blimey!’

  ‘The thing is, Maureen Stanley couldn’t have murdered Peter Elford. Her alibi for that one’s solid. She was seeing patients . . . in and out to Troughton between times.’

  ‘No possibility of him covering for her?’

  ‘Not a chance. She kept all the patient appointments . . . Kate checked.’

  ‘By the by, what does Kate think?’

  ‘As flummoxed as the rest of us . . . even her trusty time and motion graphs are no use.’ He forced a smile. ‘Muriel Noakes suggested there’d been complaints about Peter Elford via Patient Voice — that’s some sort of in-house survey — but when Kate followed it up, turned out to be something and nothing . . . Elford was a bit of a tin-pot tyrant, but there was nothing significant.’

  ‘You haven’t canvassed Muriel for her . . . insights?’<
br />
  Markham wagged an admonishing finger at her, but his eyes gleamed. ‘Haven’t seen her since our little chat about Noakesy’s dodgy PSA scores.’

  ‘Hmmm. You know she sniffs out scandal faster than a truffle hog.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ His voice held an undertow of despondency. ‘But any scandal at the centre’s stayed well under wraps.’ He held out his cup for a refill. ‘According to a contact at the Newman, Rebecca could’ve been seeing someone . . .’

  ‘Professional or personal?’

  ‘Possibly both.’

  Olivia stared at him. ‘God, she was a dark horse.’ Then, ‘You don’t think it was a student, Gil . . .’

  An impatient rake of the thick black hair, which was in need of a trim, Olivia noted idly.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more. But what I do know is the top brass will be baying for blood if we don’t arrest someone soon.’

  She began clearing away. ‘Best of luck, sweetheart . . . At least you’ll have Sunday to catch your breath.’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ he said grimly. ‘There’s a service of remembrance for Peter Elford and Loraine Thornley at Medway Methodist Church.’

  ‘No funeral services . . . ?’

  ‘The bodies won’t be released for some time.’ He stood up. ‘I think there was some special exception made for Rebecca—’

  ‘On account of her dad being a councillor . . . ?’

  ‘I assume it was something like that . . . didn’t press for details . . . I could tell Dimples wasn’t happy, but they’ve opened an inquest so presumably it was all kosher.’

  ‘You know, Gil, I think that’s where it all went wrong for Rebecca . . . in her childhood . . . something to do with her father . . .’

  ‘Shirley Bolton seemed to think there was some early trauma, though whether we’ll ever get to the bottom of it . . .’ He shrugged eloquently.

  ‘Poor girl,’ Olivia said softly. ‘Poor little girl . . . At least now that she’s dead, no one can hurt her anymore.’

  ‘True, sweetheart.’

  Though three innocent people had paid dearly for whatever lay hidden in Rebecca Shawcross’s past. And, with a sense of something close to despair, at that moment he felt further than ever from solving the conundrum.