Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Yeah, save it for the pub, mate.’

  Noakes hoped Coslett would try and start something. Give him an excuse to deck the tosser.

  But the DS was doomed to disappointment. The facilities manager merely muttered, ‘What about extra security then?’

  ‘There will be thrice-nightly patrols, Mr Coslett.’ Sidney would go ape about the overtime, but there was no avoiding it. ‘Added to which, I will be arranging a discreet uniformed presence in the close this week to ensure residents aren’t pestered by journalists.’

  ‘Or murdered in their beds more like.’

  Markham ignored the sarcasm, deciding it was time to take the fight to the enemy. ‘And what, pray, does Laneside propose to do for the residents’ security and comfort?’ The DI’s tones were silky smooth but deadly. ‘I understand there’s been some . . . dissatisfaction over maintenance and repair.’

  ‘The communal areas,’ Burton put in helpfully.

  ‘That’s being attended to,’ came the sulky response.

  ‘You need new locks, buzzers — the whole caboodle, mate.’ Noakes was starting to enjoy himself.

  ‘Like I said, the company’s on it.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Mr Coslett. You can rest assured I’ll be taking a keen interest in progress.’

  Markham allowed a moment for this to sink in, noting wryly that his interlocutor looked less than thrilled at the prospect.

  ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘Have we got an incident room set up?’

  ‘In the back, sir.’ Burton pointed to a smaller annexe leading out of the room in which they were standing. Clearly the front room, wallpapered and carpeted in utilitarian grey rattan, was where Gary Coslett spent most of his time, with a ratty green sofa bed, television-cum-DVD atop a pine dresser, kettle and fridge comprising the essential creature comforts along with a large Playboy calendar at which Burton had already directed several disapproving glances. Box sets of various Scandinavian thrillers — Wallander, The Bridge, The Missing — littered a coffee table in front of the sofa.

  ‘I like to keep the office stuff separate,’ Coslett said defensively.

  ‘Of course,’ Markham said smoothly, accompanying his colleagues into the other room which had a desk, computer, phone line, heavily scarred oak table, gunmetal filing cabinet and four conference chairs that had seen better days. He was pleased to see Burton had already pinned up her trusty magic whiteboard and begun organizing files and paperwork into her customary neat piles. It was rather a cramped space — the gangling Doyle was already falling over his feet — and somewhat dispiriting with its blue flock wallpaper and cheap beige carpeting, but it would do. At least the radiators seemed to be working, so they wouldn’t freeze.

  ‘Have you got everything you need, Kate?’ he said jovially, loud enough for their surly host, who was lurking in the other room, to hear. ‘If not, I’m sure Mr Coslett will be able to help.’

  She grinned. ‘Mr Coslett’s vacating the bungalow for the duration, sir — to give us a free run. He’ll check in with us every day, though, to maintain continuity for the residents — a reassuring presence.’

  Noakes rolled his eyes.

  As there seemed nothing else to say, they re-joined Coslett.

  ‘Where’s the bog?’ Noakes demanded. ‘Or is it a Portaloo?’

  ‘Round the side.’ Coslett glowered at him. ‘The lean-to.’

  More mildewed cupboard than lean-to, Markham opined. He decided to dispense with a sanitary inspection.

  ‘Do you have a visitors’ log, Mr Coslett?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Why not?’ Markham’s glance was sharper than a skewer. ‘I would have thought with security being somewhat . . . lax . . . and so many residents being senior citizens, you would want to keep a record — tradespeople, service engineers, deliveries and so forth.’

  ‘Things kinda worked out without any need to sign people in and out. I’d get a call if there was a problem.’

  ‘Only you didn’t. Get a call.’ His words came out flinty. ‘Two women were murdered in Marian Bussell’s flat and the alarm wasn’t raised until days later.’

  ‘Obviously our systems failed,’ the other blustered.

  ‘No, you failed, Mr Coslett.’ The DI never raised his voice, but the air of menace was unmistakeable. ‘Not your systems.’ He almost hissed the words. ‘You.’

  ‘Nothing’s foolproof, Inspector.’

  Fool being the operative word, thought Noakes.

  Coslett took a step backwards. Markham stood very close to him. ‘You will listen to me and you will listen well. I expect you to assist my officers in trying to establish who may have been on these premises last week. I also expect you to step up your security. As in you personally.’

  Markham moved away leaving the manager visibly shaken.

  Noakes winked at him. ‘Less Wallander more caretaker, capeesh?’ Okay, he’d been deprived of the chance for a spot of police brutality, but the guvnor had put the frighteners on that little shit good and proper. All in all, a job well done.

  Back outside, they looked about them. Then Markham headed for the ginnel and cement steps which appeared to lead up from the car park to the front of the complex.

  ‘Hey, boss,’ Noakes was squinting behind him, uncertain.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

  ‘I jus’ thought I saw summat out there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Far end of the playing fields . . . sort of blurry . . . like someone’s out there . . .’

  ‘Dog walker? Children? Snowman?’

  ‘Nah . . . it’s gone now . . . must’ve imagined it. Reckon I’ve got snow blindness or summat.’

  Markham scanned the horizon. Nothing moved. All was filled up with snow. And yet, for an instant, he too had the curious sensation that they were in the crosshairs of a silent observer.

  It occurred to him that the playing fields offered a panoramic view of New College Close. On a dark night, the estate would glow, drawing the eye like a stage set illumined for action.

  ‘We’ll check it out, Noakesy. But first I want to have a word with the Ledwidges.’ He stamped his numb feet, watching his breath spiral upwards in a smoky cloud. ‘No doubt there’ll be a hot drink on offer,’ he added artfully.

  The DS didn’t need telling twice.

  * * *

  The Reverend and Mrs Ledwidge lived at number sixteen in one of the close’s terraced townhouses. Spread over three floors, it was clearly one of the close’s more expensive properties. As in Marian Bussell’s flat, the living room looked out over the car park towards the playing fields and the countryside beyond. With sanded oak floors, sleek minimalist fittings and high-end finish, the décor was somewhat at odds with the couple’s old-fashioned appearance. ‘Our daughter Catriona’s an interior decorator,’ Mrs Ledwidge explained when Markham politely complimented her on the property’s delightful aspect. ‘Gutted the house when we moved in and renovated it from top to bottom.’

  Prob’ly looking to cash in when Mum and Dad popped their clogs, thought Noakes. Mind, she’d be waiting some time from the look of things. The couple were in their seventies or thereabouts, but spry and very much on the ball.

  Brian Ledwidge was a soft-spoken man with a slight lisp. In appearance, he was not overly prepossessing, there being something lizard-like about the glaucous eyes behind thick bottle glasses and the way he punctuated his remarks with a croaky heh-heh-heh. His wife Eileen was a well-preserved bosomy woman with an ash-blonde beehive reminiscent of Coronation Street’s Bet Lynch. This must have been the attraction of opposites, thought Markham as she bustled off to make tea while her husband engaged in stilted conversation with the two detectives.

  On her return — with a tray of coffee and Bourbon biscuits (which raised her several notches in Noakes’s estimation) — the atmosphere lightened somewhat, though Markham noticed that Brian Ledwidge seemed ill at ease and jumpy. That was perhaps only to be expected given the nature of rec
ent events on his doorstep.

  Markham was grateful for the couple’s self-imposed restraint and the way neither of them fished for details of the gruesome discovery at number seven. Of course, as a clerical couple, circumspection and discretion were doubtless second nature to them.

  But it was time to cut to the chase.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have borne a grudge towards either of these ladies?’ he asked. ‘Anyone they’d quarrelled with . . . a dispute?’

  Eileen Ledwidge looked genuinely bewildered.

  ‘They were both well liked, Inspector,’ she said in her pleasant contralto. ‘Obviously Marian wasn’t so mobile anymore, but Dawn dropped in on her regularly and people generally kept an eye out.’ She bit her lip, suddenly looking upset. ‘We should have done more . . . the thing is, we’ve both had bad colds and didn’t want to risk infecting anyone else . . .’

  Her husband’s eyes were opaque behind the thick glasses. Markham found it disconcerting that they made it difficult to read his expression.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Eileen,’ he said in a sibilant murmur. ‘We weren’t to know . . . and anyway, there was a volunteer from Hope Academy visiting every week . . . community outreach or something like that.’ He looked enquiringly at Markham.

  ‘Unfortunately, she had to miss a week . . . otherwise we’d know more about Mrs Bussell’s state of mind in recent days.’

  ‘The lass thought Mrs B seemed a bit jittery . . . nervous, like, the last time she saw her,’ Noakes mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit.

  The couple looked at each other. An invisible signal seemed to pass between them.

  ‘I believe she’d been bothered by some hate mail a while back,’ Eileen said tentatively.

  ‘Hate mail?’ Markham contemplated them thoughtfully. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, she just said it was poison-pen stuff . . .’ The woman was vague. ‘Didn’t give any specifics. I think she just wanted to know if anyone else had been targeted, otherwise she wouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘And was anyone else in the close targeted, Mrs Ledwidge?’

  ‘Not to our knowledge, Inspector. I think it would have come up at the last residents’ meeting if anyone had been bothered in that way.’ She looked to her husband for confirmation.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Mrs Bussell was unusually . . . well, reticent on personal matters . . . but I can’t imagine others keeping it to themselves.’

  ‘What about Ms MacAlinden?’ asked Markham. ‘Did she mention anything like that?’

  ‘No, Inspector.’ Brian Ledwidge’s expression was inscrutable, but the DI noticed a muscle working in his jaw.

  Something was bothering the Reverend Brian Ledwidge. But what?

  He decided to change tack. Perhaps that would flush it out.

  ‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around the close lately, someone you haven’t seen before?’

  ‘No, nothing like that . . .’ But then Eileen Ledwidge seemed to recollect herself. ‘Hold on a minute,’ she said. ‘I did report a prowler to Mr Coslett . . .’

  ‘A prowler?’ Markham leaned forward. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Well I couldn’t be completely sure. To be honest, I feel a bit foolish about it now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Mrs Ledwidge.’ Markham’s voice was gentle and reassuring. ‘Any piece of information, no matter how slight, is valuable.’

  ‘Yeah, luv,’ Noakes’s guttural rumble echoed. ‘You’re our eyes an’ ears on this one.’

  The woman looked pleased. ‘I’m the Neighbourhood Watch Coordinator for the estate,’ she said. ‘So I tend to notice anything unusual or out of place.’

  The two detectives looked at her expectantly. Markham had the feeling that Eileen’s volubility was unwelcome to her husband, but for the life of him couldn’t imagine why.

  ‘It was down on the playing fields,’ she said at last. ‘When it was getting dark, I thought I saw someone standing there . . . very still, just staring up at our windows.’

  ‘Were you able to make out anything, Mrs Ledwidge? Anything about this person’s appearance?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said regretfully. ‘Though I think it might have been a woman. I could have sworn they were wearing a headscarf.’

  So likely not a Peeping Tom then, thought Noakes.

  ‘An’ that was all they did, luv? Jus’ stood an’ stared?’ Noakes pressed her. ‘They didn’t have a dog with them, did they? Or any kids? Nothing like that?’

  ‘No, whoever it was . . . I never saw anyone else around.’

  ‘How many times did this happen, Mrs Ledwidge?’

  ‘Oh, it was only half a dozen evenings or so last month, Inspector. And to be honest, I could have been making a fuss about nothing.’ With some compunction she added, ‘When people are in trouble — going through bad times — well, they quite often like to go off by themselves for a walk, don’t they? I suppose that’s why Mr Coslett didn’t think it was anything to worry about.’

  No, it’s cos he’s a work-shy git. But Noakes held his peace.

  ‘Mr Coslett didn’t report it to the police, then?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, Inspector. He told me it was probably like I said — a rambler, someone walking off stress — you know, Nature as healer.’

  Quite the philosopher, our Gazza, thought Noakes sourly.

  ‘But something about it made you uneasy, Mrs Ledwidge.’ Markham regarded her steadily.

  ‘Oh, it’s probably to do with the time of year.’ She laughed nervously. ‘November being All Souls’ month . . . ghosts and ghouls coming out to play . . .’

  Sensing her discomfort, the DI decided to bring the conversation to a close.

  ‘I believe you’re the Chair of the Residents’ Association, Mr Ledwidge,’ he said. ‘We’re most grateful to you for arranging access to St James’s for us.’

  ‘Not at all, Inspector.’ The other’s relief at getting off the subject of prowlers was almost palpable. ‘Most of us should be able to get down there later. Should we say from about one p.m.?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Was there some sort of argy-bargy with Gary Coslett before?’

  That’s right, Noakesy, press the man’s buttons, why don’t you?

  The close-shaven sallow cheeks flushed.

  ‘A simple misunderstanding.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘There’s been some concern about security on the estate. And with the . . . latest development—’

  ‘Of course, Mr Ledwidge, of course.’ Markham was emollient. ‘The police will be liaising with Mr Coslett on this.’

  Making sure the idle bugger finally pulls his finger out.

  * * *

  ‘What d’you reckon, guv?’ Noakes asked once they were back outside. ‘Think this prowler’s our killer? Mebbe they’re the poison pen too.’

  ‘Certainly sounds suspicious, Sergeant.’

  ‘The Rev was antsy.’

  So the DS had noticed it too.

  ‘Deffo summat he weren’t telling us,’ Noakes observed trenchantly.

  Before Markham could answer, DC Doyle came panting up.

  ‘How’s it going, Constable?’

  ‘The uniforms found something, sir,’ the DC said without preamble.

  The ‘something’ turned out to be a vintage lady’s powder compact.

  Exquisitely enamelled in silver and turquoise, it was of Art Deco design bearing the image of a 1920s hostess with shingled hair, dressed in a tuxedo and flourishing a cigarette holder.

  ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘On the playing fields, sir. At the back towards the woods. The silver caught the light, otherwise they’d have missed it in the snow.’

  Markham and Noakes looked at each other.

  ‘Can you show us where?’ the DI said.

  And with that, the trio headed back towards the car park and the lonely fields beyond.

  4. A Shock

  ‘It’s beautiful, Gil.’ Olivia Mull
en ran her fingers caressingly across the enamelled surface of the powder compact. Then suddenly she shivered convulsively.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Just got goosebumps for some reason.’ She dropped the compact on the table in front of her as though she had received an electric shock. ‘A negative vibe,’ she added weakly.

  The DI was back with his lover in their apartment at The Sweepstakes, an upmarket complex off Bromgrove Avenue. They had just finished their supper — roast chicken with all the trimmings followed by apple crumble — and were onto coffee. Having avoided shop talk during the meal, Markham felt able to mull over the events of the day. The living room, with curtains snugly drawn against the freezing winter night, was cosy with a wood burner’s aromatic scent and the desolate playing fields seemed a million miles away.

  He adjourned to a comfortable armchair while Olivia curled up on a low stool with her back against his knees, long red hair cascading about her so that she looked more than ever like a faery princess of legend.

  ‘By rights I shouldn’t have brought it home,’ he said, turning the pocket mirror round and round. ‘Ought to have bagged and logged it.’ He stroked the tumbling tresses. ‘But I wanted you to see it,’ he added tenderly.

  ‘D’you think it’s got something to do with the case, Gil?’

  ‘Well, Eileen Ledwidge from number sixteen mentioned having seen a prowler hanging around the playing fields—’

  ‘A prowler?’

  ‘She struck me as a sensible woman — husband’s the vicar at St James’s.’

  ‘So the killer could’ve been watching the close, spying on people and then dropped the mirror?’ She paused. ‘Or maybe the killer’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Anything’s possible.’

  ‘A woman . . .’ Olivia regarded the trinket warily. ‘High-maintenance at that. It’s cloisonné, Gil . . . looks quite expensive from where I’m sitting.’

  Markham contemplated the compact.

  The workmanship was exquisite, and the face of the blonde flapper girl — assuming that’s what she was — a marvel of androgynous airiness, as though illuminated by some divine aerosol.