Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  As far as Noakes was concerned, The Oracle had spoken.

  ‘Muriel has a point about the role of the media,’ said Olivia tactfully. ‘It’s something Mat’s incorporating into our personal development curriculum . . . the extent to which social media makes kids unhappy with their bodies or pushes them into believing they’re in the wrong body. The unit on LGBT doesn’t just deal with sexual variation but looks at other stuff, so the kids understand it’s complex and there’s an overlap with BDD and conditions like autism.’

  ‘Yep,’ Sullivan confirmed before sighing, ‘but I have to tread carefully. Some parents kicked up a fuss last year over the LGBT scheme of work . . . decided it meant kids would be turning into drag queens or transgendering overnight.’

  Noakes guffawed appreciatively.

  ‘In fact the whole point of it was to challenge online culture and promote honest dialogue—’

  ‘But the mums an’ dads jus’ thought you were pervs.’

  Sullivan smiled weakly. ‘I’m beginning to feel it’s an occupational hazard.’

  ‘Too right,’ Olivia agreed fervently. ‘Here we are trying to combat all this “crowd madness” and warn against medicalizing kids because of fads . . . and then we get accused of promoting some creepy agenda.’

  ‘It was better in the old days,’ Noakes ruminated. ‘When kids learned what they needed to know behind the bike shed.’

  Natalie Noakes certainly favoured the practical approach, thought Markham, doing his best not to meet Olivia’s eye.

  ‘It’s a hugely emotive field,’ Sullivan mused. ‘Folk mutilating themselves in search of some perceived ideal of beauty, gender dysphoria, trans activism . . . yes, really incendiary.’ A thought struck him. ‘Did your victim face any hostility from headbangers?’

  Markham looked quizzical.

  ‘Y’know, bible-basher types, people who think dysphoria’s a delusion, anti-liberals, the ones who say it’s all gone too far.’

  ‘Outraged of Bromgrove,’ Olivia laughed.

  ‘It’s interesting you should say that, Mat.’ Markham stood up and walked across to the window with its view of the cemetery, a Jaffa-red winter sun sinking slowly down behind the crosses and monuments, gilding them with a lurid glow. For a brief moment, he contemplated the scene then turned back to his friends. ‘Apparently, there were sporadic outbreaks of “unpleasantness” and the occasional “angry rant letter” but “nothing of any significance”.’

  ‘Didn’t they keep the hate mail — in a ‘nutters’ file or something — just in case anything ever happened?’

  ‘It would appear not, Mat.’ Markham restlessly paced the room. ‘It’s not an NHS clinic. These private places are pretty much a law unto themselves. I think if there ever was anything threatening, it’s been binned.’

  ‘Or they’re jus’ not gonna talk about it,’ Noakes added. ‘Keep everything nice and shiny. According to them, it was all business as usual with Dowell. No unexpected visitors. No problems. No nothing.’

  ‘Don’t frighten the horses,’ Olivia said wryly. She thought for a moment. ‘Would the “unpleasantness” mean demos and placards, or criminal damage — that kind of thing?’

  ‘I’ll get Kate to check the station records,’ Markham replied, ‘but from the sound of things it was more a case of the local God Squad making their feelings known.’ He paused next to a vibrant wall display entitled `Sex and Cross-Dressing in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night’. Weirdly apt in the circumstances. ‘As Mat said, the whole LGBT arena can get pretty toxic. But I still think this case is about New College Close.’

  ‘None of the residents happened to be on Dowell’s books, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, we eventually got sight of the appointments diary and drew a blank. Ran the list of residents’ names past the administrator — ditto.’

  ‘We c’n get a warrant for their records, guv.’

  ‘True, Noakes, but I doubt it’ll get us any further forward.’ Markham re-joined them at Olivia’s desk. ‘This killer’s three steps ahead of us, nothing to fear from a trawl.’

  ‘Didn’t you say Marian Bussell got some hate mail, Gil?’ Observing the weary droop of her lover’s broad shoulders beneath the immaculately cut pinstripe, Olivia saw her chance to give him a lift.

  ‘Hate mail?’ Sullivan sat up straighter. ‘Now that is interesting . . .’

  ‘How so, Mat?’

  ‘We had a spate of that here a while back. Well, Mary Atkins did.’

  Noakes twitched reflexively, eyes darting towards the door as if he expected his nemesis to materialize in a puff of smoke.

  ‘Take it easy, George,’ Olivia chuckled. ‘She’s off boring the governors right now.’ Pushing the biscuits towards him, she added kindly, ‘Have another of these . . . for the shock.’

  ‘She opened up a bit when I got on to the subject of the murders,’ Mat explained. ‘Said some crackpot parent had been sending her nasty letters.’

  ‘She definitely said it was a parent, Mat?’

  ‘Not in so many words, Gil. But that’s how I understood it. Apparently, they were the ranty type like poor Mr Dowell got. Y’know, accusing her of twisting kids’ minds and encouraging sodomy.’

  ‘I guess it’s too much to hope that she kept them.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. She told me she flushed them straight down the loo. The poor cow looked upset, so I didn’t press it.’

  ‘Why her, Mat?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘I c’n answer that.’ It was Noakes.

  ‘Be my guest, Sergeant.’

  ‘It’s cos she’s a bleeding-heart pain in the you-know-what.’ The DS warmed to his theme. ‘No cause so nuts or new age she don’ want a piece of the action. Allus getting herself plastered across the Gazette whenever they need a tree hugger to interview. Like being wet an’ woke’s some kind of sodding religion. Didn’t she do that wacko interview last year about us all needing to be more — what was it — oh, yeah, child-centric . . . an’ stop judging kids who want to self-identify . . . The missus nearly choked on her cornflakes.’

  Again, Markham carefully avoided meeting Olivia’s eye.

  ‘No argument there,’ Sullivan conceded with a grin. ‘But in fairness to her, someone’s got to trot out the progressive claptrap and at least she looks like she believes it.’

  ‘Whereas you and I are just born-again fascists,’ Olivia said deadpan.

  ‘Something like that,’ her friend agreed affably.

  ‘Ms Atkins told me that Marian Bussell was “feisty”,’ Markham said suddenly. ‘Any idea what she might have meant by that, Mat?’

  ‘Not the foggiest . . . unless . . . hold on . . . I seem to remember someone saying she was the only one of the old guard who was remotely broad-minded.’

  ‘Mad lefty, then?’ prompted Noakes.

  Sullivan smiled what Olivia liked to call his undertaker’s smile. ‘Not as such . . . But quite radical for the times . . . Keen on young people deciding their own destinies . . . Youth autonomy, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Like I said. Mad lefty,’ the DS grunted. ‘An’ we’re not short of those . . . There’s Penny Callaghan an’ the charity shop fella Julian Hoskinson for starters. Mebbe this is all about some commie conspiracy.’

  ‘Okay.’ Markham threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘So the killer’s targeting anyone left of centre. In which case, where does Dawn MacAlinden fit in? Was that poor woman some kind of flag-bearer for individual rights?’ He exhaled deeply. ‘Or is this poison-pen stuff just a complete red herring and we’re missing some other connection . . . something crucial.’

  Mat Sullivan looked at his old friend in concern.

  ‘Hey, Gil,’ he admonished, ‘don’t beat yourself up. Or rather, why not take some time out and pound the flesh at Doggie’s.’

  ‘I second that,’ Olivia echoed softly. ‘You know you always feel better after a bout in the ring.’

  ‘Never been able to persuade you to take it up, though, have I, Mat?
’ her boyfriend observed.

  ‘Well, all that Rocky stuff’s not really my scene.’

  ‘Plus we need him for five-a-side,’ sniffed Noakes.

  ‘You can hold the fort for a while, can’t you, George?’

  As ever, the DS was putty in Olivia’s hands.

  ‘Course I can. I’ll hook up with Burton an’ Doyle, boss. See what they’ve got on the house-to-house . . . Let Miss here get on with the marking.’ He cast a respectful look at the piles of exercise books, as though they were a portal to another world. If only, thought Olivia ruefully.

  ‘Go on, guv,’ Noakes urged. ‘Burton c’n organize some photos of the residents and we’ll get them across to The Anchorage — see if they recognize any of ’em. Then there’s Dowell’s finances . . . I’ll get Doyle on that while I check out the climbing equipment the killer used.’

  ‘You’ve succeeded in twisting my arm,’ Markham smiled at his subordinate.

  Sullivan got to his feet. ‘I’ll see you off the premises,’ he said before adding mischievously, ‘just to make sure you don’t get abducted by any tree huggers in the guise of assistant heads.’

  * * *

  After they had gone, Olivia was too restless to start work. She made herself another drink and carried it over to the window. Night had fallen, but the snow still gleamed blue-black in the darkness. Somewhere out there lurked a killer, she thought. Someone with a shard of ice for a heart. With a little shudder, she turned back to her classroom and the light.

  6. Tightrope

  Markham was well aware that his penchant for cathartic workouts at Doggie’s — as Bromgrove Police Boxing Club was known — featured high on the list of his offences as reckoned up by DCI Sidney.

  ‘Doggie’ Dickerson was an army veteran whose antecedents no one cared to examine too closely (least of all the manner in which he had acquired his nickname). How he had become proprietor of the boxing club was wreathed in mystery, but his dingy premises in Marsh Lane were now as much of an institution as the police station itself.

  Physically, Doggie was a cross between Fagin and some sort of military relict from the Napoleonic Wars, his accessories including a peculiar horsehair wig and an eyepatch, depending upon the effect he wanted to produce. With his wonky jaw, yellow tombstone teeth, twisted features (‘nerve damage’) and nicotine-stained fingers, he was no one’s idea of a health guru. ‘Looks like a pimp or a drug dealer,’ Sidney spluttered. ‘And as for the clientele — half the local villains go there.’

  It was quite true that Doggie didn’t exactly ‘vet’ his customers. But his formula — ‘no names, no pack drill’ — seemed to work, with youthful delinquents, ex-cons, a variety of malefactors and Bromgrove’s finest all happily slugging it out side by side. Normally on opposing sides in the battle of life, they called a truce in the no man’s land of the gym where only grit and physical courage counted. Markham found this bizarre freemasonry curiously soothing and never dreamed of abandoning it for more select purlieus such as The Sanctuary or Body Works.

  Doggie had taken an instant shine to Markham, whom he was prone to call his ‘fav’rite ’spector’ (another black mark in Sidney’s ledger). Over the years, they had become quite cosy, the old reprobate most recently sharing confidences of a romantic nature. Surprisingly, he was never short of girlfriends, the latest of whom — Marlene, bingo caller at The Pavilion with a décolletage that was one of the wonders of Bromgrove — had a keen interest in the supernatural, horoscopes and what Noakes derided as ‘mystical hocus pocus’. In honour of which, Doggie had taken to wearing flowing kaftans reminiscent of an eastern Grand Vizier. Appropriate enough, given that the gym was pretty much his personal empire. A potent waft of Jack Daniel’s told Markham that Marlene hadn’t yet converted her seedy lothario to the joys of chai lattes and soya smoothies, which he found reassuring. An alcohol-free Doggie would be a step too far.

  Now, after a therapeutic pummelling in the ring, Markham relaxed in what was euphemistically dubbed ‘the sauna’ — in reality, a manky locker room with a few shower stalls of dubious salubriousness and a grimy window that was invariably jammed shut. His opponent, DI Chris Carstairs from Vice, slumped down next to him breathing hard.

  ‘By rights I should have had you back there, Gil.’ Carstairs pinched his spare tyre ruefully.

  ‘New squeeze bit of a domestic goddess is she, Chris?’

  ‘Something like that,’ the other grunted then waggled his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Dynamite between the sheets, so I’ll get another workout later on.’

  ‘Too much information, mate.’ But Markham’s lean, angular face wore an expression of amused tolerance.

  ‘Heard you’ve got your plate full with those New College Close murders.’ Shop talk was generally verboten at Doggie’s, but Carstairs was an old ally. ‘I suppose Sidney’s trotting out the usual playlist.’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Markham grimaced. ‘You know how it is with him. Anything to avoid a scandal of the “pervs in high places” variety.’

  Carstairs whistled. ‘D’you think it’ll come to that?’

  ‘Well, we’ve got a smattering of local worthies in the mix, along with the local school and a psychotherapy clinic.’

  ‘Ah. Tricky.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Markham’s muscles were aching, but it was a pleasurable tension. Unlike what awaited him back at the station. ‘Then there’s the LGBT angle . . .’

  ‘LGBT . . . How come?’

  ‘Well, I’m not clear how it fits together, but it looks like two of our vics may have got on the wrong side of the transgender debate.’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘Yep. And just for good measure we’ve got Councillor Callaghan, various church folk, a local activist and medics from the Newman all potentially in the frame. Plus subplots including poison-pen letters, prowlers and a dodgy caretaker.’ Markham smiled wearily. ‘You can imagine how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow morning’s press conference.’ As in not at all.

  ‘Anything you need from me, Gil?’ Carstairs was all sympathy.

  ‘It’s the usual story. I just need to blindside the press and Sidney really. Buy the team some time.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some kind of kinky element to these murders . . . ?’ Carstairs paused delicately. ‘Women in a box under the bed? That bloke strung up between goalposts . . . ?’

  ‘Kinky’s one word for it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll look out some of our unsolveds, rustle up a few stats from the S & M files. Might help to give it a sex maniac slant and direct attention away from folk in high places.’

  ‘I don’t want to start a panic, Chris. You can imagine the headlines: Ted Bundy Comes to Bromgrove.’

  The other chuckled.

  ‘Nothing like that, I promise.’ He began to towel himself vigorously. ‘Just enough to send them all haring off in the wrong direction. With any luck, you’ll fan speculation it could be a case of sex games gone wrong.’

  ‘What — two respectable women trapped like that and the local trick cyclist strung up with his throat cut?’ Markham sounded sceptical.

  ‘Give it a touch of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll,’ his colleague urged.

  Well, there was the Rohypnol . . .

  ‘C’mon, Gil. Let your Uncle Chris help out.’

  Markham laughed reluctantly.

  ‘Seeing as I’m out of other ideas . . . I’ll get Kate Burton over to you first thing tomorrow.’

  Carstairs sighed theatrically. ‘Not exactly Linda Lovelace, that one . . . more like a girl guide. But there’s no denying she’s thorough.’

  ‘She’s good at press conferences,’ Markham agreed before adding heavily, ‘knows how to handle the journos. Unlike Noakes.’

  ‘Weren’t there fisticuffs between him and Gavin Conors on that last case — the community centre one?’

  ‘Pretty nearly.’ Markham frowned, remembering. ‘Sidney did his nut.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Carstairs did a mean imitation of the DCI
’s honk, ‘“We’re all on the same side in the fight against crime.”’

  ‘Noakesy’d rather be dead in a ditch than play nicely with anyone from the Gazette.’

  ‘Well if you feed Conors and the rest of ’em a few choice titbits — strictly non-attributable — and chuck in a bit of Cracker-style analysis, it should get them off your back for a while and keep Sidney happy . . . Everyone’s a winner.’

  ‘Worth a try. Thanks, Chris.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Then, with an air of exaggerated astonishment, ‘Fuck me! It’s the Marsh Lane Swami!’

  Utterly unabashed, Doggie twirled his latest voluminous robe, embroidered with what looked like hieroglyphics, and beamed at the two detectives.

  ‘Triffic, ain’t it?’ he said with his trademark snaggle-toothed grin.

  ‘Where’d you get it, Dogs?’

  ‘Marlene bought it from some shop in town. All new age an’ Zen,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Would that be Lili’s by any chance?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Yeah, thass the one.’ Doggie was clearly pleased its fame had gone before it.

  ‘Kindred spirits, you two.’ Carstairs waved cheerily and disappeared into a shower cubicle.

  ‘D’you shop there as well then, Mr Markham?’ There was a touching wistfulness about the enquiry.

  ‘Not as such, Doggie.’ Time to be diplomatic. ‘But I understand it’s very popular with the “in” crowd.’

  The old villain nodded sagely. It was probably the first time anyone had ever intimated that he was on-trend.

  ‘’S a bit way out,’ he volunteered shiftily, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Y’know . . . alternative. I’m not into the makeovers an’ dressing up. But Mar says it’s got a bit of a vibe. Always smells nice, too, what with them joss stick thingies.’

  Markham tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Never fear, Doggie, your secret’s safe with me.’

  To his relief, the other gave a nervous cackle — ‘You will ’ave your little joke, Mr Markham’ — and lurched off.

  Makeovers and dressing up. For one awful minute there he’d been afraid Doggie was going to disclose he had a bit of a yen for drag.