‘Whatever binds them together may be impossible to break.’
‘Sidney’s given us forty-eight hours, guv. After that, it’s the Bletherer an’ we all know what that means . . .’
Out of nowhere, a lurid blue streak darted across the window. Such was the tension in the room that Burton barely registered the lightning flash.
The DI felt a great wave of affection flood him as he contemplated the other three. For all the disparity between them in age and character, they reminded him of eager children.
‘We could invite them to the station as witnesses,’ he said. ‘They’re likely to be anxious . . . off balance . . . keen to know what we’ve found out.’ He sighed. ‘But it means showing our hand . . . most likely for no return.’
‘What about Chris Burt?’ Doyle said suddenly.
‘Go on, Constable.’
‘Well, we thought he was scared, boss — like he might have been threatened to keep his mouth shut . . .’
‘By Jenni or Jayne?’
‘It could’ve happened like that . . . if he was traipsing around the surgery in that funny sly way he has—’
‘An’ one of ’em caught him . . . when he saw summat he shouldn’t have seen.’ Noakes took up the narrative with relish. ‘Mebbe found ’em in a clinch . . .’
‘You’re in penny dreadful territory now, Noakes.’
The DS was not to be discouraged. ‘Well, mebbe nowt sexual,’ he conceded. ‘But he could’ve seen Shawcross going into Harte’s office or summat like that . . . so they told him to keep it zipped or else.’
Support came from an unlikely quarter.
‘You may be onto something there, sarge,’ Burton said. ‘Who knows what titbits Burt may have picked up . . . or overheard . . .’
Noakes’s pug-like physiognomy was transformed by a glow of delight. He positively preened, as Markham told Olivia later.
He wondered which of the two women might have threatened the hapless caretaker.
Jenni. It had to be her, he thought. The steel magnolia.
‘Let’s have Mr Burt in,’ he told them. ‘And make sure Sidney gets to hear about it.’
Noakes’s grin was so wide it almost split his craggy face.
‘It’ll be a pleasure, boss,’ he said.
* * *
There was a rap at the door and one of the civilian staff who covered CID at weekends came in.
‘Hello, Joyce, what can we do for you?’
‘There’s been a report of arson over at the community centre, Inspector. Just been called in.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Simon McLeish is over there and says not, sir.’
The DI’s broad shoulders sagged with relief. The chief of Bromgrove’s Fire Investigation Team was a safe pair of hands. Someone to be relied on.
‘Thanks, Joyce.’ The woman bustled away.
He got to his feet and the others followed suit.
‘We need to speak to Chris Burt now,’ he declared.
A great fear for the caretaker had suddenly taken possession of him.
Silently, Markham cursed himself. Burt was the unknown quantity in all of this — the hidden variable. Who was to say how that vulnerable soul might react to the trauma of the last week? They should have got him into some sort of protective custody at the very least . . .
None of the DI’s inner turmoil showed on his face, which was hard as chiselled granite.
‘We’ll take your car, Noakes,’ he said calmly.
As they piled out of the office, lightning forked again, illuminating the little group in an unearthly light.
It seemed like an omen.
15. Resolution
The rain had started up again and thunder fulminated in the distance, but Kate Burton felt oddly relaxed, cocooned in the car with Markham sat beside Noakes in the front and Doyle in the back next to her.
‘Sodding climate change,’ Noakes muttered, glowering through the windscreen. ‘Enough to make me an eco-thingy.’
Burton smiled to herself. At that moment, she felt oddly at peace with all the world. Even Noakes. A phrase from English GCSE — Romeo and Juliet — came to her suddenly. A lightning before death. Something to do with people being inexplicably happy right before they die. Somehow it summed up her strange feeling of contentment and weightlessness as the climax of the investigation drew nearer. Times like this, she wouldn’t swap her job for anything in the world.
Doyle’s mind was working along more prosaic lines. ‘I still don’t get it,’ he said.
‘Get what?’ Noakes squinted balefully at them in his wing mirror.
‘Stealing those appointment books . . .’
The DC had more than a touch of OCD, Burton reflected, but his habit of wrestling with knotty details would make him a fine detective.
‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘we hadn’t twigged the diaries were important . . . and even if something did put us on to them, Jenni could’ve made up a story . . .’
‘Didn’t want to risk it,’ Burton said thoughtfully. In the darkness of the vehicle, she frowned. ‘She and Jayne couldn’t be sure we’d take Peter Elford’s “suicide” at face value. They must have been afraid we’d start digging . . . and then who knows what we might have turned up . . . Actually,’ she admitted humbly, ‘I should have impounded the diaries straight away.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Kate,’ Markham said. ‘We found Mr Elford on Wednesday . . . the break-in was later that night, remember? So they moved quickly.’
‘Even so, sir.’ Her voice was small. ‘I feel stupid for being taken in by Jenni Harte. She brought me tea and I just thought, what a nice thing to do . . . when she was probably doing a recce to find out what we knew . . . see if we were on to them . . .’
‘Don’ beat yourself up.’ This, surprisingly, was Noakes. ‘They’re medical professionals, see . . . it’s the Florence Nightingale thing . . . kinda lulls you into a false sense of security. You trust ’em, don’tcha?’
‘That’s true, Sergeant.’ The DI was warmed by this show of esprit de corps. ‘It’s why our politicians get sentimental over the NHS.’
‘D’you reckon Peter Elford knew about Rebecca Shawcross and that teacher — the one who committed suicide after she made stuff up about him?’ Doyle was still unravelling the threads. ‘Is that why he didn’t turn Jenni in . . . cos he thought Shawcross was a wrong ’un?’
‘Possibly,’ Markham said. ‘He was the kind of man who made it his business to know where the bodies were buried.’
‘Perhaps Rebecca gave him the brush-off and he harboured a grudge . . . she could even have been going to report him . . .’ Burton ruminated.
Doyle’s mind was busy with possibilities. ‘Maybe he fancied his chances with Jenni . . . y’know, sexual blackmail . . .’
‘But she was a lesbo!’ Noakes swerved dangerously.
‘Which would have added savour to the situation from his point of view, Sergeant.’ And might explain the malicious way his body was posed in death.
‘My missus jus’ won’t believe this.’
Markham had a feeling that Muriel Noakes’s predilection for true crime made her shock-proof, but kept this thought to himself.
‘You weren’t wrong about there being two killers in this case, Noakes,’ he observed with a view to distracting the other from the imponderables of sexual diversity.
‘Oh aye?’
‘Yes. It was when we discussed whether Chris Burt had the nous to carry out the killings. You suggested someone else might be “pulling the strings” . . . and that’s exactly the scenario we’ve got here . . . Jenni Harte manipulating Jayne Pickering.’
‘Oh yeah.’ They were stuck behind a lorry moving an inch at a time, so Noakes’s mind had time to cogitate. ‘Doctor Troutface said the way Shawcross talked to him was dead mechanical . . . robotic, like someone had coached her.’ The traffic was moving again. Noakes ground his gears with unnecessary vigour. ‘Makes you wonder what the chuffing hell went on in them �
��therapy” sessions.’
Some kind of unholy bonding, perhaps over shared trauma. With Rebecca Shawcross gone, it was unlikely they would ever get to the truth.
The rain continued to come down relentlessly.
‘Jeez, will you just look at it,’ Noakes groused. ‘When you think how nice an’ sunny it was when we were sitting on that patio the other day.’ Markham noticed the DS avoided all mention of the fountain.
It was interesting, he reflected, how they had felt liberated that afternoon, as though evil had temporarily lifted from the community centre.
And it was true. Jenni Harte had taken Jayne home after Rebecca Shawcross’s funeral. The premises were free of their malignant presence.
But now? Was the arson attack their doing?
‘Who d’you think set this fire, boss?’ Doyle asked, almost as though he could see into the DI’s mind. ‘I mean, it might’ve been a prank that got out of hand. Students or local lads messing about . . . wouldn’t be the first time . . .’
‘You could be right, Doyle.’
But Markham felt uneasy.
‘Or p’raps Burt’s gone off on one,’ grunted Noakes.
‘How d’you mean, sarge?’
‘Well, he’s . . .’ In an unusual concession to Burton’s sensibilities (quid pro quo), the DS groped for an inoffensive epithet, ‘special needs, right?’ Waiting until he’d overtaken a bus, he amplified, ‘The stress got to him or summat . . . mebbe he was worried about us picking him up . . .’
Given the line Sidney was taking, it would not have been an unreasonable assumption on the caretaker’s part.
‘So, he shoots off and tries to burn the place down?’ Doyle sounded incredulous.
‘You got a better idea, Sherlock?’
‘What about Harte and Pickering? They’ve murdered four people between them, so arson’s pretty much all in a day’s work.’
‘Bit extreme, though.’ Burton joined the debate. ‘I mean, what’s the point? They don’t know about Leo Cartwright coming to see us . . . From their point of view, it’s just a case of sitting tight and brazening things out.’
‘Mebbe one of ’em lost it.’ Noakes’s imagination was clearly gripped by the idea of a Wicker Man-like conflagration. ‘Don’ serial killers like setting fires? I read somewhere it’s one of the signs or summat.’
‘Along with cruelty to animals and bedwetting.’ Burton was a stickler for accuracy. ‘But it usually happens in childhood.’
They turned into Gwydrin Crescent, then round the corner into the community centre car park. It had finally stopped raining, but the day seemed prematurely dark and still.
Simon McLeish, a sandy-haired man, thin and spare with a strong Northern Irish accent, crunched across the gravel towards them.
‘Not much to see really, Inspector.’ The fire chief was a man of few words.
‘Where did it start?’
‘The covered storage area round the back where the bins are.’
‘No major damage, then?’
‘It didn’t get a chance to take hold. A local woman . . . neighbour or some such . . . she called it in. Seemed to think there might be prowlers.’ He waved towards the fire engine. ‘I’ve parked her there for the time being. One of the team’s looking after her.’
‘Who was first on the scene, Mr McLeish?’
‘“H” division. I didn’t attend initially, but then I heard it was the community centre and . . . well, with everything that’s happened, I thought I’d better take a look.’
‘It’s definitely arson?’
‘Oh yes, without a doubt. I’ve got the area screened off and taken some samples . . . That’s about it for now, but no doubt you’ll set up your own checkpoint.’ His voice held a question.
‘The night patrol would have clocked off in the small hours.’ Markham’s lips tightened. ‘Somehow the static unit must have missed it.’
‘I spoke to your lads across the road there . . . They didn’t notice anything amiss.’ He grinned. ‘Just as well Miss Marple was on the scene. You’d better come and have a word.’
The mystery woman turned out to be Thelma Macdonald. When she climbed out of the front cab, Markham knew in his core that she was badly afraid for her brother.
The sudden rush of dread was like ice water down the back of his neck. But he remained outwardly calm.
‘Thelma.’ He spoke as reassuringly as possible, forcing any treacherous tremor from his voice. ‘Good to see you and what a godsend that you happened to be on the spot.’
Gently, he took the woman’s pudgy hands in both his own before relinquishing them.
It was almost as though some unspoken pledge had passed between them. I will find him.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’
Her breath came stertorously in ragged spasms, but she brought herself under control. ‘I went over to Chris’s flat. I’d brought him a hotpot, you see. What with everything that’s happened . . . finding Tariq . . . he didn’t seem himself . . .’
‘You’re a good sister.’ The hotpot sealed it for Noakes.
A shaky smile. ‘He didn’t answer, even though I kept ringing and ringing the doorbell, and calling his mobile.’
Imperceptibly, Markham nodded to Burton. ‘Might he have gone out — to the shops perhaps . . . or into town?’ she asked.
‘Never at the weekend,’ she replied firmly. ‘He doesn’t like crowds . . . I usually keep him well stocked up.’
Under the cosh alright, thought Noakes, but his gaze was compassionate. She’d probably spent her life looking out for little bruv.
Burton smiled and nodded. ‘I’m the same,’ she said. ‘Can’t stand too many people. Always make my other half do the weekly shop.’ They might have been neighbours chatting across the fence.
Well done, Kate. That’s it, keep things nice and easy.
‘D’you have a spare key to the flat, Thelma?’ asked Burton.
She looked embarrassed. ‘There’s a loose brick in the front porch. We keep the spare under that. It must sound very careless . . .’
‘Not at all. Horses for courses.’
‘It’s not as if he’s got anything worth stealing.’ An awkward laugh. ‘And who’d want to hurt him?’
Tears were not far away.
‘So, you came round to the community centre then, Thelma. Is that right?’ Burton kept her on track.
‘I just thought he might have wandered over here. When he’s troubled in his mind, he likes to potter round the place.’ Her voice held a plea. ‘He doesn’t do any harm. It just seems to soothe him . . . makes him feel useful.’
‘Nowt wrong wi’ a bit of pottering.’ Noakes gave her arm a clumsy pat. ‘Clears the mind.’ He himself didn’t know where he’d be without his garden shed.
‘But there was no sign of Chris?’ Burton prompted.
‘No.’ She found her voice with difficulty.
‘What did you do?’
‘I walked round to the back . . . That’s when I saw a lot of smoke coming from one of the bins. I opened it . . . the rubbish was on fire.’ Her breath caught. ‘I thought I’d better call 999 rather than try to put it out myself.’
‘Did you see anyone — hear anything . . . ?’
‘I assumed it was prowlers . . . not quite myself . . . the stress . . .’
‘No shame in it,’ Noakes said stoutly. ‘Four murders’d do anyone’s head in.’
‘I suppose I could have checked inside,’ she said apologetically. ‘We know the alarm code and still have our keys.’
Another mistake, thought Markham grimly. But with the police in situ and the centre more or less closed to ordinary traffic, there had seemed no reason to cause unnecessary hassle.
He brought his attention back to woebegone Thelma Macdonald. ‘You were quite right not to go in, Thelma. As it is, by calling the emergency services so promptly, you prevented a major fire.’
A flush of pleasure that, as it subsided, left her ashy pale.
‘
What do you think’s happened to Chris, Inspector?’ Her voice thick with emotion, she told them, ‘He’s a good man . . . but people don’t always understand . . . don’t make allowances.’
People like DCI Sidney.
Markham beckoned to McLeish who was hovering awkwardly nearby. ‘Mr McLeish, would you mind checking inside with Doyle and Noakes . . . Just give the place a once-over in case Chris is . . . in some sort of difficulty . . .’
The trio headed off towards the building.
‘In the meantime, Thelma, we’ll do a circuit round the back,’ he said.
* * *
The little garden was dank and forlorn, but the walk seemed to revive Thelma. There was no sign of her usual officious bombast, and the DI realized that beneath the magisterial exterior lay a shy and vulnerable woman. Perhaps the surgery reception represented the one thing she could actually control. In some ways, she reminded him of Muriel Noakes.
Markham noticed her sidelong glances at the water feature — snatched, horrified peeps. He knew what she was picturing.
He took her arm. Kate was on the other side.
‘It’s alright, Thelma. Tariq’s in a better place. No one can hurt him now.’
She gulped. ‘Everyone liked him, Inspector. And he was always so good with Chris . . . gave him his dignity, you know.’ It was a poignant tribute.
The other three rejoined them.
‘Nothing to report, Inspector.’ McLeish was brusque as ever, but his voice softened when he turned to Thelma. ‘Try not to fret . . . folk generally turn up safe and sound.’
But the DI felt increasingly anxious. Chris Burt was a creature of habit, of routine. It was a feature of his condition. Which meant they were looking at an abduction . . . or worse.
But he kept his tone tranquil.
‘Mr McLeish, I want you, Noakes and Kate to accompany me to Chris’s flat while Doyle waits here with Thelma.’ He held her eyes steadily. ‘We’re going to find your brother, Thelma. And when we do, you’ll need to be strong.’
‘Same as you’ve allus been,’ Noakes added, with such a gracious, gentle deference of tone that Burton blinked in surprise. Her fellow DS never ceased to confound expectations.
Over the woman’s head, Doyle’s eyes met Markham’s.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 147