‘She’s beautiful alright,’ Olivia said reluctantly. ‘Pure and mysterious . . . almost above sex somehow . . . Neither one thing nor the other.’
‘Hmmm.’ Markham revolved the compact once more. ‘That pose with the cigarette holder’s pretty suggestive.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Gil. It’s so stiff and unnatural . . . like Anubis or one of those deities you see on frescoes in the Egyptian pyramids.’
‘Isn’t Anubis the one with a human body and dog’s head?’
‘Yep — the God of death and mummification.’
Patron saint of embalmers. Horribly apt but somehow not exactly what Markham wanted to hear.
‘Did anyone recognize it — any of the people who turned up to St James’s?’
‘Not a flicker,’ he said glumly. ‘No one has a clue where it came from.’ He thought hard for a moment. ‘Or else they made a damn good job of hiding the fact.’
Olivia picked up on his despondency.
‘What were they like then?’ she enquired cheerfully. ‘The folk from the close?’
‘That’s just it, Liv. They were the epitome of suburban normality . . .’
Markham thought back to the afternoon in that chilly church hall warmed by convector heaters that had been supplied by the current incumbent.
The ‘weirdy’ Labour councillor Penny Callaghan hadn’t joined them due to ‘pressing business elsewhere’. (Spending taxpayers’ money, according to Noakes.) Apparently, he would be meeting her the following morning with DCI Sidney when no doubt the focus would be firmly on civic damage limitation. He knew he could expect any suggestion that the double murder was connected with Hope Academy to be closed down in double quick time.
Of the others, no one had really stood out, though he’d quite warmed to the solicitor Simon Gailey and Kenneth Dowell from The Anchorage. Gailey was a slender, lean-featured man with the whippet good looks of a Battle of Britain squadron leader. Silver-haired and distinguished-looking, his natural air of command was allied to a self-deprecating charm which took some of the tension from the occasion. Dowell too was what he would call a ‘player’ — tall and rangy, though less conventionally good-looking than the solicitor on account of his beetling brows and beaky nose. ‘Strange sorta trick cyclist,’ Noakes muttered. ‘The kind who’d say “pull yourself together” soon as look at you.’ Not someone to mess with, though once or twice Markham caught the psychologist looking lost in thought, almost dazed, as though wrestling with some private conundrum.
Stacey Macmillan was a bubbly little woman with a peroxide perm and an expansive manner. ‘Motormouth,’ said Noakes sotto voce, but his expression was kindly.
Jeff Coleman, wheelchair-bound, was no one’s idea of a romantic novelist. ‘Fuck, it’s Stephen Hawking,’ DC Doyle observed when he set eyes on the hunched wizened figure. Burton’s glare at this witticism was ‘ball-shrivelling scary,’ but Markham had to admit the description was apt. From snatches of overheard conversation, he gathered that Coleman, who looked to be in his seventies or thereabouts, had been a regular visitor to Marian Bussell. ‘I think he might’ve been sweet on her,’ confided Stacey, though Markham detected no marks of especial sorrow in the man. ‘He said he was her — what d’you call it — mentor.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘She wanted to try her hand at writing,’ the other replied vaguely. ‘Books about the past — right up her street seeing as she used to teach history.’
Coleman turned out to be suffering from motor neurone disease — Doyle threw Kate Burton a triumphant look on hearing this — ‘but slow moving at the moment, Inspector,’ the writer informed them, ‘so I still have a reasonably decent quality of life.’ The DI found his quiet stoicism and lack of pretension attractive. ‘I was at the chalkface, too, in an earlier incarnation,’ he said, ‘but took early retirement.’ His lopsided face, the once handsome features furrowed with pain, grimaced. ‘Just as well all things considered. Teaching’s hard enough for the able-bodied, let alone if you have a disability.’ Clearly he had been fond of Marian Bussell, but Markham wasn’t sure it went much further than that. ‘She showed promise as a writer,’ he told them with professional detachment. ‘After I introduced her to my own editor at Harlequin, she emailed them some ideas . . . I believe they were very keen.’ The DI made a mental note to check out the publisher in due course.
‘My missus . . . she’s a big fan of yours,’ Noakes put in.
‘What a delightful boost to my flagging ego,’ the other replied with a disconcertingly impish grin. ‘Clearly a lady of taste and discernment.’ Noakes puffed out his chest as though to proclaim, you hear that! His satisfaction was mightily compounded when Coleman assured him, ‘I’ll be sure to get you a signed copy of my latest, Sergeant.’ Cue much shuffling of feet.
‘Could you put “For Muriel” in the cover?’ the DS said, to his colleagues’ ill-concealed amusement.
‘It will be my pleasure,’ came the gallant response, marred only by the wheezy cackle peculiar to sufferers of MND.
Doctor Lucy O’Connor was an attractive pony-tailed brunette who looked far too young to be a psychiatric registrar. However, her appearance belied the calm good sense that was no doubt an asset in her profession. She indulged in no gush or flowery platitudes about the dead women, contenting herself with a quiet but sincere expression of regret. ‘I didn’t know them very well,’ she said, ‘what with my hours being somewhat antisocial. But they always talked good sense at residents’ meetings — forthright but kindly, if you know what I mean.’ She flashed a smile. ‘Not afraid of taking on Laneside and Gary Coslett either.’ Markham made another mental note to get hold of the Residents’ Association minutes from Brian Ledwidge — assuming, of course, that such records existed. Judging from what he’d seen of Ledwidge, the DI thought it more than likely they did.
Martin Henley, Doctor O’Connor’s partner, was a good-looking young man who struck Markham as being well aware of the fact. Certainly, he seemed to enjoy the way Stacey Macmillan batted her eyelashes whenever he looked in her direction. The DI felt an immediate antipathy towards him but, aware that his dislike was instinctive and had no rational foundation, was careful to give no hint of his aversion.
Noakes, needless to say, felt under no such constraint. ‘A male nurse, then?’ he said in a disparaging tone which was only marginally on the right side of being offensive. ‘Ain’t that a bit girly? Not get the right grades to do medicine?’
An angry colour ran up under Henley’s tan. ‘Senior staff nurse, actually,’ he shot back and Markham heard a Northern twang as the BBC accent momentarily slipped. Henley’s sapphire blue eyes were chips of ice as he looked at the Neanderthal.
‘You must forgive my sergeant,’ the DI said pleasantly. ‘The training on sexist stereotypes somehow went right over his head.’ Noakes merely smirked. Henley was too cocky by half, but that flash of temper showed another side to him. From the uneasy way Lucy O’Connor monitored the exchange, it was clear she had to box clever round her man’s ego.
Talking of ego . . . Mary Atkins, AHT from Hope Academy, was another one full of it. So woke and PC, she literally made Markham’s teeth ache. But he tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, reminding himself that the ability to spout fluent gibberish was pretty much an article of faith for assistant headteachers these days.
And yet underneath all the twittering and come-hither coquettishness (for it was clear, as Doyle later told Noakes in the pub, that she thought the DI was hot stuff), Markham detected discomfort in her manner and in the nervous way her eyes darted round the room.
‘Obviously Marian was at Hope well before my time, Inspector. Quite a character by all accounts . . . very feisty.’
Feisty. An interesting choice of word.
But before he could pin her down, she was off again.
‘And so sweet that Dawn kept in touch with her old teacher — very caring of her.’
‘Did you know Dawn well, Ms Atkins?’ Burton interru
pted the flow.
Markham sensed that, for some reason, this question was unwelcome, but the woman’s professional patter was equal to it.
‘Ships that passed in the night, unfortunately. Everyone’s so time-poor these days, don’t you find?’
Glutinously saccharine as ever, the DI learned nothing useful beyond the fact that Mary Atkins’ admiration of him was apparently undimmed.
Olivia chortled appreciatively at his pen-pictures. Being a teacher at Hope, she particularly enjoyed hearing his impressions of the school’s assistant head.
‘Atkins is an awful woman, Gil, but pound to a penny if there’s anything juicy in Marian Bussell’s past — anything to do with Hope — she’s bound to know about it. We call her the “keeper of secrets” cos she’s got a mind like a freaking rolodex.’
Markham grinned.
‘Well, whatever she knows, she wasn’t giving me a sniff of it.’ He kneaded his girlfriend’s shoulders, a habit of his at such moments of introspection, as though it aided the deductive process. Olivia groaned pleasurably as the long sensitive fingers massaged away the strain of a day in the swamp of fear and loathing, as she was accustomed to thinking of Hope.
‘I could have a word with Mat, if you like.’
Mat Sullivan was Hope’s deputy head and a long-standing friend of both, in addition to being one of the few teachers not inimical to Noakes.
‘That would be great, Liv.’ Markham hesitated, only too aware how Sullivan had suffered after coming under suspicion in a previous investigation. ‘But not if he feels it might compromise him.’
‘Oh, he’s good at managing Atkins.’ Olivia chuckled. ‘Him being gay’s the icing on the cake . . . gives her a chance to flash those right-on credentials.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Leave it to me, Gil.’
By way of diversion, he told her about Noakes requesting Jeff Coleman’s autograph.
‘The others won’t let George live that down in a hurry.’ She chuckled before adding, ‘Puts paid to Muriel pretending she reads nothing but Dostoevsky and Dickens.’
‘It was quite touching the way Noakesy got it in. Though, as you say, I’m not sure “the missus” will thank him for it.’
The note of despondency was back.
‘You sound bushed, dearest.’
‘I’m no further forward really, Liv. They’re the people who knew the victims best, but I just don’t see any of them being killers. Though . . .’ His hands tensed on her shoulders.
‘What is it?’
‘There was this moment when I had the strangest feeling of real malevolence in the room . . . a pulsing hatred . . . like some sort of forcefield.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And then it was gone.’
‘And you didn’t connect this . . . aura with anyone there?’
‘No.’ Another deep sigh. ‘They all seemed perfectly decent and ordinary. Apprehensive and on edge, naturally, but no more than you’d expect.’
‘What about alibis?’
‘Well, we won’t be doing formal interviews till tomorrow, but it looks like Mary Atkins, Kenneth Dowell, Doctor O’Connor and her partner, and Stacey Macmillan are strongest on that front since they were apparently all at work . . . assuming Dimples is correct on time of death.’
She looked up at him expectantly.
‘Looks like it happened sometime late Thursday afternoon. Traces of Rohypnol in the vics’ bloodstreams—’
‘What?’ Olivia was startled. ‘The date rape drug?’
‘A very effective muscle relaxant and hypnotic,’ her boyfriend said grimly. ‘Which explains how he was able to subdue them so easily. No signs of a struggle, so they were happy to let him into the flat.’
‘Which means he must have been known to them.’
‘Seems the most likely explanation.’
‘God how horrible,’ she said feelingly. ‘And they were in that contraption for what . . . four days?’
‘Mrs Bussell had a heart attack,’ Markham said quietly. ‘But in the case of the other lady . . . we’re looking at suffocation.’ He decided to spare Olivia the heartrending detail of those torn fingernails.
‘God,’ she breathed again, almost in invocation, then, ‘What about the rest? Your other suspects?’
‘I won’t know about Councillor Callaghan till tomorrow. The retirees — that’s the Ledwidges along with Messrs Gailey and Coleman — seem to have been blamelessly occupied, though we’ll need to drill down into the details. Oh, I almost forgot . . . some long-haired activist turned up just when everyone was packing up.’
‘Activist?’
‘Well that’s what Noakes called him.’
‘Ah,’ this was said in a tone of deep comprehension. ‘Nose-piercing and Save the Rainforest bangle, then?’
Markham laughed.
‘Lip stud actually, but you’re right about the bracelet — LGBT Pride, I believe.’
‘My,’ Olivia whistled. ‘That’ll have brought the old silverback out swinging.’
‘Luckily Noakesy’s mind was firmly on his chippy tea, so our friend got off lightly.’
‘What kind of activist is he?’
‘Name of Julian Hoskinson, runs that charity shop Lili’s in town.’
‘Oh, I know who you mean.’ Olivia was animated now. ‘Tall and thin, sallow-skinned with wide-spaced eyes . . . looks a bit like a heroin addict, but perfectly polite.’
‘That’s him.’ Markham’s voice was hopeful. ‘D’you know the background?’
‘He came to one of my evening classes at the university, but I never really got to know him. Quite shy and buttoned up for all the druggie look.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The shop’s pretty nice actually, and he doesn’t try to shove propaganda at you.’
‘Why Lili’s?’
‘After Lili Elbe, you know, the Danish transgender woman.’
‘Oh right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Probably best if I get Kate Burton to recce this one.’
‘Well, if George goes crashing in with his size twelves there’ll be a mass exodus of customers followed by unwelcome publicity courtesy of the Gazette,’ she agreed.
‘Is it just Hoskinson runs the shop?’
‘There’s the odd student helper, but it’s pretty much his own show. I think he gets a grant of some sort from the council.’
A conversational gambit for tomorrow’s meeting with Penny Callaghan, then.
‘Did you . . . did you tell the residents all the details, Gil?’ She had shaken her abundant hair over her face so he couldn’t see its expression. ‘The Rohypnol . . . and how they died?’
‘We kept it general . . . talked about them being trapped and how it appeared to be deliberate. Nothing about the school badge in Marian Bussell’s hand.’
‘I’d forgotten about that.’ Now she pushed the masses of hair back, and he saw the apprehension in her eyes. ‘There must be some link to Hope, Gil . . .’
‘Not necessarily, love.’ Markham knew his girlfriend was still traumatized by the earlier murder investigation at her school. ‘We’re dealing with a maniac here. Who can say what was going through his mind? We don’t know if he brought the badge along on purpose. Or if it was already in the flat and he just snatched it up on an impulse — put it in Mrs Bussell’s hand to throw us off the scent.’
‘Or as some kind of sick joke.’
He yawned theatrically.
‘Right, enough of the ghoulish speculation for one night. I vote we settle down to a boxset . . . something daft and mindless.’
‘You’re on.’ Olivia’s face brightened. ‘I’ll just clear away and then Father Ted it is.’
His laughter followed her into the kitchen.
* * *
The meeting next morning with DCI Sidney and Councillor Penny Callaghan was every bit as sticky as Markham had anticipated. Though there was some comfort to be taken in the fact that Noakes had jettisoned his fisherman’s get-up and was wearing a more or less coordinated suit and jacket — at leas
t, to the extent that they were both sludge-brown and did not provoke Sidney’s long-lived wondering frown.
Ms Callaghan (definitely a Miz) was a thick-set woman with a badly dyed, pudding-bowl haircut and pendulous jowls. Sidney, needless to say, was deferential to the point of obsequiousness and only too eager to follow her lead in ruling out any possible link between the ‘atrocity’ in New College Close (she made it sound like the handiwork of some lone wolf Uber Bomber) and the local secondary school.
The DCI stroked his newly cultivated goatee — which hirsute accessory he no doubt fondly imagined counterbalanced his bald bonce yin/yang-style — and murmured agreement when she allowed him to get a word in edgeways. Markham noticed that Penny Callaghan featured prominently in several pictures on the photomontage in Sidney’s office that CID wags had irreverently dubbed the ‘Hall of Fame’. He also seemed to recall she was on the Police Liaison Committee, which was no doubt why Sidney was keen to keep her onside and do nothing to jeopardize the eventual award of his gong.
But Markham was damned if he was just going to roll over.
‘Obviously at this stage we don’t want to narrow our lines of enquiry, Ms Callaghan,’ he said, ignoring Sidney’s gimlet gaze. ‘In the case of Mrs Bussell, social services were involved. There are also links between Hope Academy and both victims.’ He beamed charmingly at his boss and Ms Pudding Bowl. ‘Then there’s the property management company Laneside, which maintains New College Close — on the council’s list of approved contractors, I believe. There are connections to an outreach charity and local psychiatric facilities as well.’ Pause for dramatic effect. ‘Cases like this really go to the heart of the community.’
‘I hardly think,’ she began, but the DI cut her short.
‘Of course, as you say,’ though she hadn’t, ‘it’s early days so we don’t want to rule anything out.’ A certain steeliness entered his voice. ‘Least of all, lest this should give the unfortunate impression that the local authority sought to . . . close down legitimate avenues of enquiry.’ He produced his most insincere smile and concluded with cheery insouciance, ‘“Without fear or favour”, that’s our watchword isn’t it, sir?’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 153