The message passed between them. We’re going to break down the door of Burt’s flat.
‘I’ll take Ms Macdonald inside, sir. We c’n have a brew in the staffroom.’
‘Excellent idea, Doyle.’ The DI smiled charmingly. ‘You see, I’m leaving you in good hands.’
The young DC offered her his arm. Almost as though they were a courting couple, thought Burton suppressing a wave of hysterical laughter. The tension was getting to her.
As soon as they were out of sight, she turned to Markham.
‘You think Harte and Pickering have got him, sir,’ she said baldly.
‘The poor bastard’s a threat,’ Noakes replied grimly. ‘They can’t be sure he won’t blab . . . An’ if he’s arrested, they can’t get to him . . .’
‘What’re you expecting to find over there, Inspector?’ McLeish gestured in the direction of Chris Burt’s flat.
‘I hope to God I’m wrong,’ the DI replied. ‘But it could be a staged suicide . . .’
‘Same as Elford . . . Jesus . . . It’ll kill his sister,’ Noakes said with a sort of desperate compassion.
Markham’s face looked suddenly gaunt, almost withered. For the first time, Burton had a glimpse of how he would look in old age. Still handsome, but his features a route map of all the pain and suffering he had witnessed down the years.
‘Let’s get over there. I’ll brief you on the way,’ he told the fire chief.
* * *
Less than thirty minutes later, the four were back at the community centre. Markham held a plastic evidence bag containing a dogeared piece of paper with some scrawled text.
I did the murders. It was the badness in me. Tell Thelma I’m sorry.
‘I don’ understand.’ Noakes was not so much truculent as bewildered. ‘The two of ’em planned to frame him an’ then make it look like he’d topped hisself . . . So why wasn’t he there?’
‘They could have been afraid of being interrupted,’ Burton said. ‘Maybe Chris mentioned that Thelma usually came round at weekends. After that call from the council to Elford’s, they’d be wary . . . Safer to move him.’
‘An’ leave the confession for us to find,’ Noakes rumbled. ‘Nice touch that.’
‘Maybe they planned to have him go out with a bang,’ McLeish offered. ‘You know . . . make the whole thing even more convincing by setting a fire . . . If he’s learning disabled, why not chuck pyromania into the mix? They’d count on you putting it down to his guilty conscience . . . or him wanting to take some kind of twisted revenge on the centre . . .’
‘Chuffing Nora, McLeish, you’ve got a bit of a twisted mind yourself to come up wi’ all that,’ Noakes said with reluctant admiration.
‘I aim to please,’ the other said dourly.
‘It fits, though,’ Burton breathed.
The DI agreed. There was a horrible kind of logic to it.
‘Let’s check in with Doyle,’ he said impatiently. ‘If they planned to have Chris incinerated along with the community centre, then where the hell is he?’
The staffroom, however, was empty.
It appeared Doyle had made cups of tea, but these had never been drunk.
Markham quickly instituted a search, but of the young DC and the receptionist, there was no sign.
Even with three firefighters and two men in the static unit watching the site, no one had been seen either entering or leaving the building.
Then suddenly, ‘Have you checked the air-raid shelter?’ The stockiest of the firefighters ambled across.
‘Air-raid shelter . . . What air-raid shelter?’ McLeish stared at him.
‘One of those Anderson jobbies . . . I think the Gazette did a piece on it yonks ago . . . Out in the back garden under that manhole. You get to it through the basement. All closed up now.’ He yawned and picked a zit on his chin. Clearly today’s call-out was only marginally more exciting than rescuing cats from trees. ‘There was talk of making some sort of war garden . . . y’know, to go with the statue thing . . . Digging for Victory and all that jazz . . . but it didn’t come to anything. Got cold feet cos of vandals.’
‘Thank you.’ McLeish dismissed him with a curt nod. Somewhat bemused, he rejoined the others and reported what he had learned.
‘What’s in the basement, Kate?’ Markham asked urgently. ‘I remember you showing me a map of the building, but I didn’t realize it connected with the garden.’
‘Me neither, sir. I checked it out with Shelly. It was just extra storage space as far as I could see . . . medical supplies and stationery . . . We came down the backstairs from reception . . . I don’t remember any door going outside.’
‘Lead the way, please.’ The DI’s face was taut and unsmiling. At her stricken expression, he added more gently, ‘Don’t blame yourself . . . You weren’t to know.’
‘Sounds like Bromgrove’s best kept secret,’ Noakes said consolingly. ‘Never heard owt about there being a bunker in the garden.’
* * *
The basement was just as Burton had described it.
McLeish surveyed the whitewashed space, his eyes coming to rest on a wheeled metal shelving unit on the left rear side of the room.
‘Help me move it,’ was all he said.
The DI and Noakes responded with alacrity.
And there it was. A keyless wooden door which immediately yielded to Markham’s touch.
Not another tunnel, thought Burton. She still had nightmares about the George Baranov murder case . . . that labyrinth underneath the Royal Court Theatre with its claustrophobic recesses. From the way Noakes was shifting from one foot to the other, like an ostrich with piles, it was obvious he remembered it too.
If he was aware of their discomfort, Markham ignored it.
‘Come on,’ he said simply. ‘We need to get our lad and the others out of there.’
Our lad. It was the nearest he had ever come to admitting this was his family. At that moment, Burton felt she would follow him to the ends of the earth.
* * *
Evil is banal.
Markham heard those words in his inner ear as they rounded a corner and emerged into the underground shelter, which was basically a brick vault with a rickety wooden table and chairs in the middle. In one corner of the low roof was a collapsible folding grille through which he could see a square of sky.
He felt as if he was falling into an abyss. He had no doubt that this was where Chris Burt’s charred remains were intended to be found while the murderers escaped through the gully grating into the community-centre garden.
Then they realized the plan had somehow gone awry. They must have crept back into the main building, only to encounter Doyle and his charge.
Seated stiffly at the table, as though for a group portrait gone wrong, were Thelma, Chris Burt and the young detective, pale beneath his freckles. Behind them stood Jenni Harte and Jayne Pickering. The latter held a cigarette lighter and a rag with oil on it.
Noakes locked eyes with her.
‘There’s nowhere to go, lass,’ he said before anyone else could make a move, the gruff Yorkshire vowels broader than usual. ‘An’ you don’ want to make it any worse for yourself.’
‘I was trying to stop her,’ Jenni Harte said in her Mata Hari soft, measured tones.
Noakes ignored her.
Markham held his breath as the DS moved towards Jayne Pickering who did not take her eyes from his.
When he was inches away from her, Noakes stopped.
‘We know what happened,’ he said.
She made a sound like a strangled sob.
‘You can’t bring ’em back. But you c’n still make good.’ He added almost conversationally, ‘That’s the way your aunt’d see it . . . She wouldn’t want your life to go down the plughole.’ A contemptuous flick of the eyes towards Jenni Harte. ‘Not for that bitch.’
Slowly, slowly, the wild gaze focused on him.
He moved closer.
Then, tenderly as a lover, he drew the girl tow
ards him and slipped the lighter from her shaking hand.
* * *
‘You’re just going to have to get used to the limelight, George,’ said Olivia. ‘Column inches in the Gazette. Interviews with the Courier. The whole caboodle.’
The team had repaired to their favourite watering hole, The Grapes, following the memorial service for Peter Elford and Loraine Thornley. One of the oldest pubs in Bromgrove, its old-fashioned charm and exuberant landlady Denise had long cemented its place in their affections. Their usual booth in the Snug was ready and waiting, and a cheerful fire blazed merrily in the hearth. On that drizzly June afternoon, they were glad of it.
‘Plus you’ll be flavour of the month with Sidney from now on, sarge.’ Doyle winked at Olivia. ‘All that lovely publicity . . . Shouldn’t wonder if Barry Lynch doesn’t try for a slot on Look North. I c’n see it now . . . George Noakes, the Reluctant Hero . . . You’ll need a whole new wardrobe.’
‘Stop it, you two,’ Markham admonished as he observed his number two’s discomfiture. While Muriel Noakes would doubtless enjoy the trappings of celebrity, her spouse showed no enthusiasm at the prospect.
‘She was jus’ a poor mixed-up lass.’ The ‘reluctant hero’ stared into his pint. ‘That other one got her claws into the poor cow good and proper, so she didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Pickering was going to take us all with her until you stepped in, sarge.’ Doyle shuddered. ‘She’d completely lost it . . . Jenni had no control over her at the end.’
The therapist’s sangfroid had been chilling, reflected Markham. But her tool had crumbled and given them enough to ensure the soft-voiced Svengali went to prison for a very long time.
‘It was really thanks to Leo Cartwright we cracked it,’ Noakes said. He pulled a face. ‘Him and his ruddy metaphors.’
Olivia laughed. ‘I’ll be sure to tell him that, George.’
‘His head’s big enough already,’ the other muttered, but her raillery had its usual effect and his grizzled features contracted in a curiously endearing sheepish grin.
‘Harte was a real piece of work,’ Burton said quietly. ‘I can still hardly believe that she was the one who slit Tariq’s throat . . . He was her best friend.’
‘She was a sociopath,’ Markham pointed out. ‘Capable of mimicking human responses but, in reality, devoid of empathy. And four people paid the price for it.’
They sat in silence, recalling the service they had just attended. Peter Elford’s teenaged children standing to attention like soldiers, rigid with tension, bony shoulders prominent under suits bought for the occasion.
‘Elford might’ve been a blackmailing sleazeball,’ said Noakes, ‘but them kids loved their dad.’
‘What did Harte mean back there in the air-raid shelter, right at the end?’ Doyle piped up suddenly.
‘I don’ remember her saying owt.’
‘She definitely said something to Pickering . . . under her breath when we were taking them out.’
‘What was it then?’
‘It was dead quiet . . . but something like, “Don’t tell them about the other one.”’
Despite the warmth of the Snug, Markham felt as though all the blood had drained from his body.
The other one.
Another victim?
An unknown accomplice?
He darted an anxious look at Olivia.
Kate Burton saw it.
‘She likely meant you to overhear, Doyle . . . wanted to taunt us. That’s always the way with sociopaths. They’re arrogant . . . it’s all about mind games with them.’
‘Yeah.’ Noakes too had clocked the chief’s sudden pallor and his unspoken concern for Olivia. He glared belligerently at his young colleague. ‘It’s case closed with the community centre.’
‘Whatever you say, Noakesy.’ The DC returned to his Pilsner, but Burton could tell he hadn’t finished with the subject.
Well, murder could wait. For now she was content to enjoy the warmth and camaraderie.
Markham’s voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Of course they’ll be seeing you back at the surgery for that check-up, Noakes,’ the DI said pleasantly. ‘Can’t have CID’s resident hero under par.’
The reply was inaudible, but Markham was implacable.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”,’ he said firmly.
The other three exchanged smothered smiles.
George Noakes would live to fight another day.
THE END
Book 8:
CRIME AT
HOME
A fiercely addictive crime thriller
Catherine Moloney
For Ma and Percy.
Prologue
Shona Townley had to admit she quite enjoyed the build-up to Christmas even though, at sixteen and a half, she affected profound indifference. Seriously uncool to look like you bought into all the cheesiness. But she liked seeing gaudy decorations appear in the town centre and little market stalls pop up in the unlikeliest places. And things were more chilled at school. It was obvious the teachers switched off the nearer it got to breaking up for the holidays. Out came the ‘fun’ quizzes and DVDs, though officially they were supposed to be hard at it right up until the end of term. Well, bollocks to that . . .
The only cloud on Shona’s horizon was her volunteering, or ‘community service’ as they called it at Hope Academy. She’d skived last week and felt bad about it. Mrs Bussell was a nice old biddy who’d taught history at Hope. Whenever Shona came visiting, she always got the tea and bickies out. Sometimes there was cake as well. And it was a laugh hearing her talk about what Hope was like in the olden days. All the staff wore batman gowns (come to think of it, Doctor Abernathy still did), and it was dead formal with prayers every morning. Nowadays there was just one assembly a week — usually Mindfulness or some rubbish like that — and most sixth formers didn’t bother with it. Apparently, the teachers smoked like chimneys back then and went down the pub at dinnertime — not like the current lot, always banging on about ‘healthy living’ and ‘emotional housekeeping’. It gave Shona a headache.
But community service was okay. Better than camping and shivering in fields like they did in other schools. She got to sit indoors and have a chat with the old folk. She quite enjoyed it, though it wouldn’t do to say so.
Which brought her back to Mrs Marian Bussell. Shona had skipped their session last Monday afternoon in favour of Costa and a catch-up with the gang from Medway High. Told herself she’d swing by later in the week but somehow never got round to it.
Shona bit her lip. The old lady would have been looking forward to that cuppa and a natter. She had the feeling Mrs Bussell was lonely. There weren’t any pictures of family in her ground-floor flat and she never mentioned her husband so he must be dead . . .
The sensation of guilt intensified. Mrs Bussell wouldn’t snitch on her to school, but that only made it worse. She vowed to stay twice as long this time round, make it up to her somehow. And next week she’d bring some of her mum’s mince pies and a prezzie. Maybe she could even lend a hand decorating the flat . . . there was that much tinsel at Hope, they were drowning in the stuff.
Slightly out of breath (too many Quality Streets, she told herself grimly), Shona rounded the corner into New College Close, a mixture of three-storey stone-fronted terraced flats and townhouses, which curved round a communal garden. Alright if you liked that sort of thing, she supposed, but not exactly cutting edge. Mind you, it looked picture-postcard in the snow — everything white and fleecy and perfect. There were no tracks other than hers this quiet Sunday afternoon and nothing stirred save for a little robin redbreast hopping in front of the frosted bushes. The sight of him made her feel quite poetical. Her spirits rose. Mum always said it was lucky to see one of them.
It would be okay, she told herself. Mrs B was bound to appreciate her coming round in her free time (on a weekend!). Maybe there’d be some more stories about Hope. She’d mentioned keeping a scrapbook or al
bum. Perhaps there’d be something in there she could use for that social history project she was supposed to be doing in general studies.
It was getting a bit nippy now the sun was going in, gilding the white landscape with vermilion shafts. Shona took a last appreciative survey of the garden. Much nicer than the undercroft car park and bins round the back with the lonely playing fields behind them (the college to which the development owed its name being long gone).
New College Close was much posher than Shona’s estate in Medway on the other side of Bromgrove. No ghetto blasters blaring. No kids skateboarding, smoking and squabbling. No doors banging off their hinges while adults bickered and bellyached. No druggies and smackheads. But she knew which she preferred. The Close was somehow too quiet, and she’d never clapped eyes on any of the neighbours — apart from once in the garden when she saw a man in a wheelchair talking to some bloke who looked like a vicar (any road, he was wearing one of those white collar thingies). It was the kind of place where folk most likely kept themselves to themselves and didn’t go butting in. They were retired people and professional types . . . genteel — yes, that was the word for it. But somehow not very friendly.
Mrs Bussell lived in number seven, a ground-floor flat in the corner terrace. Number eight, on the other side of the communal hallway, was for sale and currently empty. The door into the building was generally propped open during the daytime for deliveries and visitors. Otherwise it was left on the snib. Apparently, some residents had complained about the lack of security, but the management company didn’t want to know. ‘We could be murdered in our beds before they’d get off their backsides,’ was her elderly friend’s frequent complaint.
The entrance lobby had a dank, musty kind of smell which made Shona wrinkle her nose disdainfully. Wouldn’t hurt to give it a spritz with some air freshener, she thought. As it was, you half expected to see mushrooms growing out of the walls. With the price of these flats, you’d think they’d want to give a better impression.
To her surprise, she noticed that the door to number seven was slightly ajar and, for the first time, felt a stirring of unease.
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