Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Markham’s girlfriend twitted him about his ‘bromance’ with Noakes, but he knew she, too, had a soft spot for the big lumbering DS. And despite Noakes’s much-vaunted contempt for ‘arty-farty types’, he had fallen hook, line and sinker for flame-haired Olivia’s willowy charms and happily listened to her witty repartee with an attentive devotion to match any medieval troubadour. ‘A voice like music,’ he’d say when his bossy wife Muriel taxed him with this misty-eyed reverence. ‘Like when they sing in the cathedral.’ To which ‘the missus’ responded with a brittle laugh. Noakes was fiercely loyal to his overbearing other half, but on some issues he would not be budged and she had learned to tread carefully where Olivia Mullen was concerned. ‘She’s bewitched my husband,’ Mrs Noakes pronounced to members of the Women’s Guild, with a long-suffering air calculated to convey the impression that charity precluded any confidences on the subject of conniving hussies. Privately, she consoled herself with the reflection that her husband’s boss — whose cultivation and handsome looks caused something of a flutter in the redoubtable lady’s breast — was being cruelly imposed upon but would no doubt come to his senses in time.

  Outside work, Noakes was a keen ballroom dancer, being surprisingly light on his feet for all his bulk. To watch him cha-chaing and fishtailing as if his life depended on it was to realize he possessed hidden depths. Not that his pursuit of the county glitterball was likely to raise him in DCI Sidney’s esteem.

  As he listened to the DS holding forth to his captive audience in the outer office, Markham resolved anew to resist any defenestration of his team at all costs. George Noakes was his wingman and that was that. Having been in many tight corners with him, he knew he could trust the other with his life. The man was family.

  Lingering in the corridor, the DI’s thoughts turned to the other two members of his team, or ‘Markham’s gang’ as they had been resentfully dubbed.

  DS Kate Burton should have taken her Inspector’s exams by now but showed no inclination to leave him. ‘Joined at the hip,’ as Sidney put it in his unpleasantly insinuating way. ‘Looks like you’re a habit the lady just can’t break.’

  Burton was Noakes’s polar opposite. Smart as a new pin where the other was a sartorial disaster, she had faced a struggle to join the force due to parental resistance (‘no job for a woman’ had been her father’s initial response), eventually joining CID by way of a degree in psychology. Earnest, diligent and decidedly right-on (or ‘tree hugger’ as Noakes put it), the combination of Burton and her fellow DS had got off to a distinctly rocky start. Over time, however, a wary truce had broken out, with Burton learning to give as good as she got and exhibiting a certain dry humour in the process. Gradually too, Noakes came to appreciate her tenacity, doggedness and loyalty to their DI, whose meteoric rise in CID and natural hauteur meant he was by no means beloved by all. Markham’s bagman had long since guessed that Burton carried a torch for her boss but never betrayed her secret, watching compassionately as she wrestled with her feelings before finally getting engaged to a stolid and unexciting DS in Fraud. The DI had no idea of Burton’s ever having looked in his direction. The possibility simply never crossed his mind, though Olivia had intuited the hopeless infatuation. Like Noakes, she said nothing.

  Though he might not have picked up on any romantic signals, Markham valued Burton’s professionalism and physical courage — neither of which had been found wanting. He sensed also that Kate Burton was wistfully envious of the easy rapport that existed between himself and Noakes and yearned to gate-crash the party. With the start of this new investigation, he silently vowed to ensure she had her full share of the action.

  The final member of the unit was DC Doyle, or the ‘ginger ninja’ as he was affectionately known on account of being a gangling carrot-top. Keen to get ahead, he was currently midway through a distance-learning degree in criminal law. Where his sessions down the pub with Noakes had once revolved around football and matters of the heart, he was now quite as likely to ask the latter to quiz him on PACE or other esoterica from the law enforcement training manual. ‘Worse than bleeding Mastermind,’ the older man grumbled, but Markham could tell he was secretly pluming himself on his newly acquired role of academic mentor.

  Yes, he and his team — the ‘Four Musketeers’ as Olivia called them — would crack this case, though it promised to be more daunting than any they had yet encountered.

  Two bodies. Two women: one middle-aged, one elderly. Two neighbours.

  In the case of Mrs Marian Bussell there was no next of kin to be notified. Dawn MacAlinden’s husband, a customer service manager at Bestway Cash and Carry, had collapsed when Markham and Noakes broke the news of his wife’s death and had to be sedated. At least there were no children to compound the misery.

  ‘Poor bugger jus’ didn’t take it in,’ said the DS afterwards, looking badly in need of a stiff drink. ‘Seemed to think it must’ve been some kind of accident.’

  Better by far the bereaved husband should believe the entombment was random happenstance than have to confront a refinement of cruelty that had left seasoned detectives speechless.

  The DI squared his shoulders and took a deep, steadying breath.

  Time to get the briefing underway.

  The hunt for a killer had begun.

  2. The Cast Assembled

  ‘There you go, folks.’ DC Doyle was characteristically upbeat. ‘An espresso for you, sir. Then we’ve got a soy caramel macchiato plus a gingerbread and cream hot chocolate. And a decaf cappuccino for me.’

  The DI shot Noakes a quizzical look.

  ‘Gingerbread and cream hot chocolate, Sergeant. Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you meant to be on a health kick?’

  ‘Cutting out treats jus’ encourages cravings.’ The other’s response was suspiciously glib. ‘Anyway, I’ve got quinine an’ salad . . . the missus does me a packed lunch, see.’

  Markham’s lips twitched. ‘I believe that’s quinoa, Noakes. Foodies go wild for it.’

  ‘Whatever,’ the other said gloomily. ‘Looks like a pile of bird droppings to me.’

  DS Kate Burton made a strangled sound, as though her macchiato had gone down the wrong way, while Doyle grinned at her discomfort.

  As ever, Burton and Doyle looked dapper — suited and booted as behoved ambitious young detectives keen to make their mark in CID. Noakes, by contrast, would not have been out of place in a remake of Moby-Dick, sporting some sort of fisherman’s gansey topped by a mustard wind-slicker that finished halfway up his back. A truly hideous bobble hat decorated with capering reindeer completed the ensemble, though he now rolled this into a ball and stuffed it into the back pocket of a pair of baggy oatmeal cords that had clearly seen better days.

  Mercifully there was no risk of the DCI joining them, since he was sequestered in a breakfast meeting with Superintendent Bretherton. Markham shuddered to think how he would react to Noakes’s Captain Ahab look . . . but with any luck the team would be safely out of the station before Slimy Sid came prowling.

  Burton smoothed her brunette bob into place, took a pristine pocketbook from her leather satchel and whipped on a pair of rimless reading glasses which magnified her eyes, transforming them into huge brown lollipops. Her button-nosed face turned towards the DI with an air of alert intelligence.

  Doyle and Noakes exchanged wry glances.

  Scary.

  ‘Right,’ the DI said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  Carefully and succinctly, he talked Burton and Doyle through the events of the previous day.

  ‘Two bodies.’ Doyle was having difficulty taking it in. ‘Under a bed . . . I mean,’ he struggled to visualize it, ‘where would they fit?’

  Markham came to his rescue. ‘I believe they call them sleigh beds, Constable. Old-fashioned and ornate . . . often come with large bases . . . wooden and very heavy.’

  ‘There was a case of some woman in America who was kidnapped and kept locked under a bed for years,’ said Burton, her tone preoc
cupied. ‘It was a husband and wife who took her. They were in it together — sort of brainwashed her, so when they let her out from time to time she was too frightened to run away.’

  ‘Wow.’ Doyle was intrigued. ‘She got away in the end, right?’

  ‘Oh, it went on for years. Sometimes she was locked in the box under the bed for twenty-three hours at a time. But eventually the wife cracked and turned her husband in.’ She blinked owlishly. ‘The point is, it’s perfectly possible to imprison someone under a bed.’

  ‘Dimples thinks they were most likely put there some time on Thursday evening—’

  ‘After the killer slipped ’em a Mickey Finn or summat.’

  ‘Correct, Sergeant.’

  ‘When did they come round, then?’ Doyle was pale beneath his freckles.

  ‘The doc thinks a few hours later.’

  ‘Christ.’ The young DC’s complexion was milk-bottle white. ‘And they weren’t found till Sunday . . .’

  ‘Dimples is doing the PM this morning, but unofficially he thinks Mrs Bussell — the older lady — suffered a cardiac arrest soon after she came round.’

  ‘What about the other one?’ Burton’s voice sounded small and lost.

  ‘Asphyxiation and shock, but he can’t be sure about the time frame till later.’

  ‘So she lay next to her friend’s corpse and suffocated.’

  ‘That’s the most likely scenario, Constable.’

  ‘Too frightened to cry out in case she used up oxygen. Fucking hell—’ The DC suddenly realized what he’d said and flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘That’s alright, Doyle.’ The DI’s face was grim. ‘An unimaginably horrible way to die . . . Self-locking steel hasps made it impossible to escape. Though, from the condition of the younger lady’s fingernails, it would appear that she tried.’

  ‘And no one had a clue?’ Doyle’s voice was the merest thread, and he looked like he had lost all enthusiasm for his frothy cappuccino.

  ‘It sounds almost incredible, but in that block of flats it’s just retirees — pretty much housebound — and some university people who’d already broken up for the holidays.’

  ‘Plus the hallway was all scruffy an’ smelly cos the management company couldn’t be arsed to look after the place,’ put in Noakes. ‘The walls were rank . . . like they had fungus growing on ’em. With it being like that, folk likely wouldn’t have noticed any extra stink for a while.’

  Burton wanted to get off the subject of decomposition. ‘Were there any signs of a struggle, sir?’

  ‘No, Kate. I’d say Mrs Bussell knew the killer. There was no indication the place had been turned over.’

  ‘He’d put a school badge in her hand.’ Noakes prepared to enjoy the effect of this revelation on the other two.

  ‘What! A badge! Which school?’ they burst out, practically in unison.

  ‘Hope Academy,’ the DS told them with lugubrious relish. ‘You might know that place’d turn up again like a bad penny.’

  ‘Mrs Bussell taught history there,’ Markham clarified. ‘And Dawn MacAlinden was one of her former pupils as well as being a neighbour.’

  ‘Guess where MacAlinden worked?’ Noakes’s triumphant expression alerted the other two to the fact that the coincidences were not yet at an end. ‘Yeah, that’s right . . . the pigging Newman Hospital. Like we haven’t seen enough of that shithole to last a lifetime!’

  Burton could be quite prissy about language, but when she recollected the history of the team’s association with the Bromgrove psychiatric facility, she was obliged to concede that ‘shithole’ pretty well summed it up. Lightning couldn’t strike twice in the same place, could it?

  ‘You said they were found holding hands, sir?’

  ‘That’s right, Kate.’

  ‘As in posed . . . ?’

  ‘It’s possible the murderer was making a point, yes.’ Markham’s keen grey eyes were steady on her face. ‘Or it could be that they reached out for each other.’

  Silence fell on the little group. From the outer office came sounds of boisterous whooping and cheering. Prob’ly one of the lads messing about with that mistletoe, Noakes thought, brightening momentarily. DI Chris Carstairs hoping to strike lucky with the blonde bird from Vice . . .

  Burton’s voice jerked him back to reality.

  ‘Any likely suspects yet, sir?’

  ‘I’ve drawn up a list of residents we need to interview as soon as possible,’ the DI said, handing each of them a photocopied sheet.

  ‘On the side nearest to Bromgrove Old Road the close has two blocks of flats, with six apartments in each spread over three floors,’ he continued. ‘Then there are six town houses and, facing towards Chapel Street, a further two blocks with five flats on two floors.’

  ‘That’s a lot of people.’ Doyle was dismayed.

  ‘I’ve narrowed it down.’

  Noakes looked sharply at the boss. So Markham had gone door-to-door with the woodentops last night after sending him home, which explained the violet shadows under his eyes. Typical, the DS thought, with reluctant admiration.

  ‘There are twenty-eight addresses,’ the DI said. ‘But a significant number are rented to postgrads and staff from the university — the majority of whom are away from Bromgrove for Christmas. Then there are several retired couples where serious health issues would appear to preclude any murderous enterprise. Of course, this is not to say we won’t be checking out all the residents, but thanks to the university and social services, we can rule out a fair number.’ He paused, raking his thick dark hair impatiently, a characteristic mannerism at times of extreme fatigue. ‘These are the names I want to focus on,’ he continued, gesturing to the list he had given them.

  ‘Did they know the victims, sir?’

  ‘They were members of the Residents’ Association along with Mrs Bussell and Ms MacAlinden, which strikes me as a useful starting point, Kate.’ He smiled at her kindly. ‘Also, I believe they all had contact with the victims in varying degrees.’

  His team scrutinized the list.

  ‘So, first up we’ve got Brian and Eileen Ledwidge. Retired vicar and his wife. Then there’s Penny Callaghan—’

  ‘She’s that weirdy woman from the council,’ Noakes interjected. ‘Almighty pain in the arse. Never stops banging on about equal opportunities an’ diversity.’

  Burton looked as though she was about to say something then thought better of it.

  ‘Correct, Sergeant. Though I think we’ll stick to “Councillor Callaghan” as opposed to “pain in the arse”, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sure, guv,’ the other replied sheepishly.

  ‘Jeff Coleman’s a retired writer — Mills & Boon, apparently.’

  ‘Hey, I recognize that name.’ Noakes was quite excited. ‘The missus is allus getting his books outa the library.’

  Markham suppressed a grin. He suspected Muriel Noakes would prefer not to have it known that the writer of The Panting Savage and Between the Covers was her go-to author, as opposed to the Pulitzer Prize-winning variety.

  ‘Is that so, Sergeant? I look forward to consulting with her in due course.’

  ‘Coleman’s in a wheelchair, ain’t he, guv?’

  ‘That’s right, Noakes, though I don’t have the full background on his medical condition.’

  He returned to his notes.

  ‘Simon Gailey’s a retired solicitor. Doctor Lucy O’Connor works as a registrar at the Newman. Her partner Martin Henley is a staff nurse there. I believe he’s also had some input into the delivery of mental health and wellbeing at Hope Academy.’

  There was an audible groan from Noakes. Not that bloody school again!

  ‘Then we’ve got Stacey Macmillan — middle-aged neighbour, divorced, used to work in the newsagent’s round the corner. Kenneth Dowell, retired psychologist from The Anchorage.’

  ‘Christ, this is like freaking déjà vu,’ muttered Noakes balefully.

  ‘Yep, I know, Noak
esy.’ His boss’s tone was mild. ‘Ghosts of cases past and all that.’ The coincidences were starting to feel eerie, his team remembering only too well the role the private psychotherapy centre had played in an earlier investigation. ‘You’ll just have to approach this investigation with a clean slate,’ he added bracingly.

  The DS grunted and returned to slurping up the last of his hot chocolate. Burton’s face wore a distinctly pained expression, but she had long learned to avert her eyes from Noakes’s matutinal rituals. She supposed it could have been worse. Doyle could have brought burgers . . .

  ‘Mary Atkins,’ she ruminated, returning to the list. ‘That name rings a bell . . . Doesn’t she work at Hope?’

  ‘Correct, Kate.’ There was a mischievous glint in the DI’s tired eyes as he added, ‘Noakes and I had the pleasure of consulting with her during the community centre case.’

  Noakes’s thunderous expression at this piece of information would have done Captain Ahab proud.

  ‘Oh, gimme a break!’ he exploded. Seeing Doyle’s interrogative glance, he explained, ‘She’s that assistant head from Hope — fat bird — ever so caring.’ He made it sound like a communicable disease.

  The DC smirked. ‘Got off on the wrong foot with her did you, sarge?’

  ‘She’s one of them clipboard johnnies — dead smarmy, talks bullshit like you wouldn’t believe . . .’

  ‘Ms Atkins is typical of the new breed of school leader,’ Markham said reasonably. Then, with a hint of steel, ‘Not to everyone’s taste, granted—’ There was a muffled expletive from Noakes. ‘But no doubt in a position to give us a good deal of useful information.’

  ‘Yeah,’ came the riposte, delivered with a sly grin. ‘Got the feeling she wouldn’t mind a one-on-one with you, guv.’

  Burton didn’t doubt this was true. Women tended to fall like ninepins before the handsome DI’s lethal blend of old-world courtesy and reserved charm. But no one ever got past first base. Markham had an air of untouchability that enveloped him like an invisible forcefield. Only with Olivia Mullen did his guard come down.