Sidney’s expression turned thunderous and he looked as though he was about to let rip, when there came a soft tap at the door. Miss Peabody sidled into the room with her usual air of being attendant on a capricious and wildly unpredictable caliph.
‘What is it, Miss Peabody? I told you no interruptions.’
She whispered in his ear and the two policemen saw him change colour.
‘There’s been a development, Markham,’ he said finally in quite an altered tone of voice. He turned to Penny Callaghan. ‘Councillor Callaghan, please accept my apologies but . . . investigative matters, you understand.’
Having bowed the stumpy, ill-favoured woman out of the office, the DCI turned to Markham and Noakes.
‘A body’s been found at the playing fields behind Beech Drive.’
‘Who?’
‘One Kenneth Dowell. I understand you met him yesterday.’
‘The psychologist?’ Noakes burst out. ‘No way!’
‘Foul play, sir?’
‘Your other DS,’ Sidney glanced with distaste at Noakes, ‘appears to think so.’
Markham realized it was as he had subconsciously feared all along.
That the murders of Marian Bussell and Dawn MacAlinden were just the start.
And a short time later, contemplating the corpse of Kenneth Dowell, strung out between the goalposts of the redundant football pitch with a gaping wound where his throat had been, he knew his fear to be well founded.
5. Wheels Within Wheels
Afterwards, in the bungalow-cum-incident room, Kate Burton had been unable to stop shaking. The DI kept her busy organizing hot drinks and biscuits, and the bustle of sorting the refreshments seemed to do the trick. Gradually some colour returned to her cheeks.
‘What took you out to the playing fields, Kate?’ he asked once they were settled with mugs and chocolate digestives.
‘I just thought I’d have a nosey round, see if anything else turned up — like that make-up mirror — in case someone was watching the close.’
Noakes and Doyle exchanged meaningful glances.
Got a touch of the bleeding Miss Marple, thought Noakes, but he refrained from comment.
‘And then—’ She came to an abrupt halt and took a gulp of well-sugared scalding hot tea. ‘When I saw him, my first thought was some kids had been messing about, got a dummy from somewhere and put it in goal for a joke.’ Another gulp of tea. ‘Once I got closer, I realized it wasn’t a dummy . . .’ She trailed off.
‘It’s alright, Kate, take your time.’
The kindness in Markham’s voice made her want to cry. Her eyes suspiciously bright, she continued, ‘The head was hanging down, but there was something familiar about him. Then I clocked who he was — the psychologist. He was at that meeting in the church hall.’
‘Big, scary-looking bloke,’ Noakes said dunking his third digestive. ‘Though he looked . . . I dunno . . . well, a bit out of it yesterday — like he’d seen a ghost or summat.’
It was a typically shrewd observation.
‘Could just’ve been the shock of living next door to a double murder scene,’ Doyle put in.
‘Nah.’ Noakes was decisive. ‘It was more than that — like summat had dawned on him an’ he couldn’t take it in.’
‘You mean, he suddenly twigged who the killer was?’ the young DC pressed.
‘Well he deffo looked gobsmacked . . . Couldn’t get away fast enough at the end while the rest of ’em were up for a bit of a natter.’
‘If he experienced some sort of revelation about the killer’s identity, he could have wanted to be by himself,’ Markham said thoughtfully, ‘figure out what he was going to do.’
‘Well the poor bastard obviously ruled out coming to the cop shop,’ Noakes grunted.
‘Blackmail?’ This was Burton, clutching her mug for dear life. ‘And the killer somehow lured him to a meeting on the playing fields?’
‘Dowell looked like he could handle himself,’ Doyle mused. ‘I mean, six foot three or four. So the killer’s gotta be strong.’
‘Not necessarily, Constable.’
Doyle was all alert interest.
‘If Mr Dowell was taken by surprise or somehow disabled, then it wouldn’t have required vastly superior strength. Dimples said a woman could’ve done it given the right circumstances.’
‘You’re not saying a woman pegged him up, guv?’ Noakes was incredulous. ‘I mean, I could see it if it was just the throat slashing. But rigging him up like some creepy Jack Frost? That’s gotta be a bloke.’
‘Maybe the adrenaline made her super-strong or something,’ Doyle suggested. ‘You know, like those cases where folk lift cars off accident victims. I’ve read about it happening in America.’
‘Huh, America,’ Noakes snorted as though to say I rest my case.
‘If it was a woman, she could have had an accomplice,’ Burton offered. ‘Or maybe someone else came by afterwards. Someone with a grudge who hated Dowell and,’ she swallowed hard, ‘did that to the body.’
‘Pur-lease.’ Noakes had heard enough. ‘This ain’t sodding Jackanory.’ In his vehemence, he dropped half a biscuit into his tea. Burton fastidiously averted her eyes as he fished and slurped his way back to a state of equilibrium. ‘It’s gotta be a bloke.’
‘We’re not ruling anything out here, Sergeant,’ the DI said in a tone of mild reproof. Uneasily, he added, ‘Whoever our killer is, there’s a morbid . . . artistry about the way they operate.’
The pathologist had agreed with him on that. ‘Bit of a showman your boy,’ he said contemplating the crystals which hung from the corpse in long spiky strands reminiscent of drizzle icing. ‘I’d say he positively enjoyed this.’ The body, head sagging forward, had been secured in its cruciform pose — like some horrible parody of Salvador Dalí’s Christ of Saint John of the Cross — by a combination of guy ropes and crampons.
‘’S like summat out of an S & M movie,’ was Noakes’s more prosaic verdict. ‘Santa’s grotto with a twist.’
‘More like Satan’s grotto, you mean,’ Doyle shuddered.
‘Dimples believes Mr Dowell had ingested alcohol shortly before his death,’ Markham told the team.
‘What — you mean he had a drink with the killer?’ Doyle boggled.
‘Like the two of ’em were toasting each other out there in the snow . . . Bring a bottle!’ Noakes chuckled grimly. ‘Thought I’d heard it all, boss, but that beats everything!’
‘No, hold on a minute.’ Burton said with an intensity that made the others stare at her. ‘Remember the Rohypnol they found in the women’s bloodstream: a sedative to enforce compliance.’
‘Yeah, but c’mon.’ Noakes’s scepticism was undiminished. ‘It was easy-peasy with them — slipped into their cuppa . . . never saw it coming. But Dowell knew what was what—’
‘He knew he was meeting a murderer,’ Doyle agreed eagerly. ‘Would have been cautious.’
‘Fair enough,’ Burton said. ‘But if the killer’s someone he knows — maybe even likes — he might have relaxed his guard. I mean,’ she was warming to her hypothesis, ‘a quick swig from a hip flask, accepting the offer of something to warm him up . . . Where’s the harm in that when it’s brass monkeys outside? And don’t forget, we didn’t tell anyone the women were drugged so Dowell won’t have been thinking along those lines.’
‘Even so.’ But it was clear the DC was coming round.
‘If Mr Dowell was distracted or disorientated, his usual warning instincts might not have kicked in,’ Markham observed. ‘As Noakes said, he looked “gobsmacked” at that meeting. Could have been so off-balance that self-preservation took a back seat.’
‘What now, guv?’
‘Well, Dimples is sorting the PM.’
He didn’t want Kate Burton attending but, to his surprise, Doyle spoke up stoutly. ‘I’ll take that, sir. Good CPD,’ he added as Noakes’s shaggy eyebrows shot up.
‘The killer chose the meeting place well.’ Burton didn
’t want to show how relieved she was that her young colleague would be the one reporting to ‘Stiff Central’.
‘Yeah,’ Noakes concurred. ‘SOCOs’ll get sweet FA what with all that snow.’
‘I suppose we got nothing useful from the sweep of Mrs Bussell’s flat, Kate?’
‘No, sir,’ came the gloomy response. ‘Everything was wiped clean.’ Her frown deepened. ‘And in any case, half the close could’ve left trace evidence in there. Like Dimples always says, if it’s a disorganized killer or a bloodbath then you’ll get results with luminol or whatever else the techies have in their box of tricks. But otherwise . . .’ She shrugged despondently.
‘Proper little ray of sunshine, ain’t he?’ Noakes grouched.
‘Just telling it as it is, sarge. Unless our man slips up or we get majorly lucky, forensics is a dead end.’ She flushed. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, ‘unfortunate choice of words.’
‘What about next of kin?’
‘Mr Dowell was single,’ Markham said sombrely, ‘parents deceased. There was a sister, but she’s gone too. Breast cancer.’
‘So he had no one, guv.’ For all his external belligerence, there was a chord in Noakes that was easily touched.
‘Well, I understand he was “wedded to his work”.’
‘Oh aye. Who came up with that?’
‘I spoke to an administrator at The Anchorage. You and I are going to head round there, Noakes, and see if we can glean anything.’
‘Like what?’
‘His clinical interests, recent state of mind, any unusual calls or visitors . . . It may be that the killer’s identity came to him like a bolt from the blue. But equally, there may be clues in his work profile.’
Noakes looked far from convinced.
‘D’you remember what that lot at The Anchorage were like during the art gallery investigation, boss? They’re so hung up on client confidentiality an’ GDPR, it’ll be a freaking miracle if we get anything out of them.’
‘Nonetheless.’ Noakes knew that tone of voice. It meant the guvnor was not for turning. ‘We need a handle on Mr Dowell. If his routine altered in any way, or a colleague noticed something different about him, then I want to hear about it.’
‘Mrs Bussell got some hate mail, didn’t she?’ Doyle piped up. ‘Well maybe Dowell did too. Or he could’ve let something drop at work . . .’ The DC faltered slightly under Noakes’s mocking gaze which said teacher’s pet louder than words. ‘Something about the prowler . . . he might’ve seen them as well. Or maybe someone from the close visited him at the clinic.’
‘Good thinking, Constable.’ Doyle coloured with pleasure at the approval in Markham’s voice. The DI’s tone was notably drier as he added, ‘Since we’ve got “sweet FA” from forensics, the best bet is to probe our victim’s background.’
‘Maybe we should be looking for a patient,’ Burton said suddenly.
‘Somehow I think it’s more complicated than that, Kate.’ Absent-mindedly, the DI crumbled the biscuit he had barely touched. ‘Too risky for the killer given we could get a warrant for patient files. If Mr Dowell had anyone from the close on his books—’
‘They’d be suspect numero uno,’ Noakes concluded.
‘Or at the very least we’d be taking a keen interest in them,’ the DI agreed.
‘Why the chuffing hell didn’t Dowell come to us?’ Noakes kicked the table leg angrily, almost oversetting their drinks. ‘What made the daft git think he could sort it himself?’
‘He was a psychologist, sarge,’ Doyle countered. ‘Prob’ly thought he had everything under control . . . Maybe it wasn’t even blackmail and he thought he could make the killer turn himself in.’
It was an interesting perspective, thought Markham. Intellectual arrogance or hubris could work all kinds of mischief.
He noticed the wistful look on Kate Burton’s face and recalled his resolution not to keep her at arm’s length. Burton needed affirmation that she was as important to him as Noakes, even though his complicity with her fellow DS ran far deeper than he could put into words or even explain to himself.
‘Kate, I want you and Doyle to go house-to-house here. Not so much to establish residents’ movements — the killer’ll have that off pat . . . More to suss out their reactions . . . You’re our behavioural boffin, so check out the body language.’ He paused before adding with grave deliberation, ‘Whoever did this will have been on a huge high before crashing back down to earth. See if there’s anyone who strikes you as being unusually worn-out or drained.’
‘Right, boss.’ She lit up at the prospect of some psychological profiling then hesitated. ‘How much do we tell them about the way Mr Dowell died?’
‘The bare minimum.’ It was said with a grimace. ‘Gavin Conors and the crew from the Gazette will come sniffing around, but get Gary Coslett to see them off. Put a couple of uniforms on it if necessary. As far as the residents are concerned, give it the usual — unexplained circumstances . . . don’t have the full picture . . . unhelpful to speculate at this stage . . . press conference tomorrow, blah blah.’ Channel your inner Sidney, in other words. ‘Obviously it’ll leak.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Too grotesque not to. But, in the meantime, be as vague as you like. Talk about exposure and hypothermia if you must. Let’s keep them off-kilter, off-balance . . . and see what crawls out of the woodwork.’
The DI felt stiff and cold. Through the small window, which looked out across Beech Drive towards the playing fields, a leaden sky seemed to bear down oppressively upon the winter landscape. It was only early afternoon, yet the light was already starting to fail.
‘Right, Noakes,’ he said, ‘Let’s make tracks for The Anchorage. And after that we’ll swing by Hope Academy.’
‘Eh?’ The DS was startled. ‘What can they tell us about Dowell?’ His face fell. ‘Don’t tell me he was a student there an’ all. At this rate, we’ll be looking for some psycho with history going back to the pigging playground.’
Markham gave a thin smile. ‘Relax, Sergeant. I just want to have a word with Mat Sullivan. I understand he’s somewhat in Mary Atkins’ confidence, may be able to fill us in on Marian Bussell’s career history.’
‘Oh, I geddit.’ The other sagged with relief. ‘Jus’ so long as we don’ have to listen to Atkins spouting crap.’ The tips of his ears turned pink. ‘Any chance we’ll see your Olivia around?’
‘If we play our cards right, we should be able to talk her into having a quick cup of tea before she settles down to a mound of marking.’ The DI smiled inwardly at his sergeant’s susceptibility, which had to be the worst-kept secret in CID. The old mastodon was even brushing off his horrible tweed jacket and smoothing down his tufty hair as though to make himself presentable for Markham’s girlfriend. ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘We need to see what staff at The Anchorage can tell us.’ With the lure of Olivia’s company to come, Noakes submitted with better grace than might have been expected.
* * *
An hour and a half later found them with Mat Sullivan and Olivia in the latter’s classroom on the third floor of the ‘bunker’.
‘Got a good view up here,’ observed Noakes looking out towards Bromgrove South Municipal Cemetery. ‘Lucky you an’ the guvnor get off on graves an’ things.’
It made them sound like a pair of necrophiles, thought Markham, watching with amusement as his colleague toured the classroom, stroking the spines of classics on the shelves of Olivia’s little bookcase with shy curiosity. To Noakes it was as though the DI’s girlfriend, with her slender delicacy and dreamy ethereality, was a priestess at the altar of Culture, a shrine whose mysteries simultaneously awed and repelled him.
‘Here’s your tea, George. Creosote, just as you like it. And yes, I’ve got Wagon Wheels — top drawer of the filing cabinet.’
‘So,’ she said as they drew chairs up to her desk. ‘How goes it with the investigation?’
The two detectives exchanged glances.
‘Oh no,’ she breathed. ‘There’
s been another one, hasn’t there?’
Quietly and succinctly, Markham recounted the discovery of the morning. There was no softening the horror of it, his lover’s lively imagination quick to supply all the fearful detail implicit in his sober account.
Mat Sullivan, the tall, lanky deputy head — a ‘beanpole with specs’ — looked equally appalled.
‘My God, Gil. What’s going on in that close . . . you got Hannibal Lecter running amok or what?’
‘Oh, nothing as tasteful as fava beans and chianti,’ Markham replied.
‘Jus’ burying alive an’ throat slashing.’
‘No leads on this latest victim, then?’
‘None to speak of, Mat. He was a psychologist at The Anchorage. Married to the job by all accounts.’
‘The admin woman passed us over to one of Dowell’s colleagues. Awful woman.’ Noakes rolled his eyes expressively. ‘Doctor Skanky or summat.’
‘Skelthorne,’ Markham corrected him.
‘Well, she was a right pain in the—’ the DS looked at Olivia and blushed, ‘proverbial. Same as last time.’
‘Last time?’
‘We had dealings with the lady during the art gallery investigation, Mat. Noakesy found that she didn’t improve on acquaintance.’
‘Too right. Talk about mealy-mouthed . . . It was all “confidentiality” an’ “ethical concerns”.’
Olivia laughed at the munchkin falsetto.
‘You mean your well-oiled charm got you nowhere, George?’
‘Well.’ A sly glance at Markham. ‘The boss sweet-talked her into telling us about Dowell’s research stuff, which was better’n nothing.’
‘Mr Dowell’s main area of interest was body dysmorphic disorder or “BDD”,’ the DI elaborated.
‘Folk with hang ups about how they look.’
‘Something of a simplification, Noakes.’
‘Well yeah,’ the DS winked at the two teachers. ‘Miss Clever Clogs went all University Challenge on us.’ The falsetto again. ‘“Suicidal ideation” an’ “social interference”. But that’s what it boils down to. The missus says it’s the media’s fault . . . If it weren’t for . . . Instagram an’ all them daft sites, people wouldn’t get into such a state.’
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