It sounded as though Julian Hoskinson’s emporium was edgier than he had been led to believe. Might be worth getting Doyle in there for a recce.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, showered and refreshed, he stood outside gulping down lungfuls of sharp, clean air. Home, he decided and then froze.
On his way into the gym, he had noticed a crudely fashioned, lopsided snowman on the pavement at the corner of Marsh Lane. Nothing unusual about that — it was the festive season after all. The local kids had used pebbles and bits of rock for its features, and a gaudy scarf was knotted about its neck.
But it wasn’t these makeshift adornments that made him pause.
Something was there that hadn’t been there before.
The snowman now sported a policeman’s helmet. Tilted at a rakish angle, it seemed almost to be mocking Markham.
He looked up and down the street but it was deserted, all vanilla marzipan perfection with its carpeting of snow. Little flurries swirled about him as though trapping him in some toy Christmas globe. The effect was uncanny, making him feel momentarily as if Bromgrove were a phantasmagorical landscape.
Letting himself into his car, he sat lost in reflection for some time.
Snowmen, he recalled wryly, were one of George Noakes’s pet hates. ‘Sly,’ the DS was wont to declare emphatically. ‘Like they’re grinning about summat wicked.’
Oddly enough, Olivia shared this superstition. ‘They give me the creeps, Gil. Half human, half demon . . . It’s not so bad if they’ve got arms. But when they’re just a torso plonked there staring at you. Like they’re full of hate.’ Markham had never really thought about it before, but now, under the influence of the time and place, he felt oddly unsettled. As though something malign was lurking just out of sight on the periphery of his world . . . watching and waiting.
The connection with Hope Academy — the ‘ranty’ hate mail sent to Mary Atkins — bothered him. There seemed to be a lot of bad feeling swirling around the school. But at least this time there was no danger of Olivia being caught up in the maelstrom, and he intended to keep it that way.
With one last keen glance along the snowy avenue, he started the engine.
* * *
In the event, the press conference on Wednesday, 11 December passed off better than Markham could have anticipated.
Chris Carstairs had been as good as his word, so it had proved relatively easy to lay a false trail for the little cluster of reporters who had braved the elements to attend.
Not that Gavin Conors hadn’t tried it on, of course, circling the subject of Hope Academy with the relentless zeal of a truffle hog.
But Kate Burton had deftly sidestepped all the traps and stuck undeviatingly to her script. Without directly saying so, she suggested a scenario of randomized sex offences with possible links to other cases, throwing in a discussion of ‘bottom-up geographical profiling’ and ‘locatedness’. Noakes might have called it ‘moron-speak’ but the press pack lapped it up, not least because of the flattering implication that these were exclusive insights unavailable to the common herd. ‘You’ll appreciate that at this stage we don’t wish to jeopardize ongoing investigations,’ Burton concluded smoothly after a mini disquisition on crime mapping, ‘but the public can be assured we are pursuing a number of very promising leads.’ Her tone conveyed the impression that further questioning would be in singular bad taste.
Pursuing a number of very promising leads.
She actually sounded as though she believed it, thought Markham lurking at the back of the room.
But the DCI was well pleased.
‘Excellent, excellent, Sergeant,’ he flashed his shark’s smile at Burton who recoiled slightly. ‘Crucial at this stage to keep an open mind and consider all possibilities.’
Yeah right, Markham couldn’t help scoffing under his breath. If by considering all possibilities, you meant not incriminating anyone important.
Slimy Sid stroked the insignia on his upper sleeves. ‘We bear a heavy responsibility,’ he intoned, for all the world as if he was the CID equivalent of Atlas, thought Markham with bitter humour. Mercifully, after a few more platitudes and a beady-eyed glare at Noakes’s disreputable-looking parka, he vanished into the upper regions.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Noakes growled at Sidney’s departing back. ‘Did you see the way he kept admiring his reflection? An’ flashing his gnashers at that bird from the Courier . . . prob’ly thinks the pips are a turn on.’
‘Well done, Kate.’ The DI ignored his subordinate’s muttered imprecations. ‘That bit about responsible journalism hit home, I think.’
‘Yeah, well done,’ Noakes echoed, giving credit where credit was due. ‘Fannying about with all them statistics really threw them off the scent . . . An’ you could tell they got off on all the psycho mumbo jumbo.’
There had to be a compliment in there somewhere, Burton thought desperately.
‘Thanks, sarge,’ she said weakly as Markham smothered a smile.
Doyle too was enthusiastic. ‘Reckon they’ll leave us alone after that.’
Not for long, thought Markham grimly.
‘Right.’ Noakes was rubbing his hands. ‘After that, I reckon we deserve a bacon butty.’ He looked at Burton who clearly wasn’t up for a grease-fest. ‘Or that granola stuff you like,’ he added with the air of one making a vast concession.
‘You’ve got ten minutes to grab something,’ the DI said firmly. ‘And then it’s back to the close. I want an update on the residents’ movements and then we can get some of them in.’ He locked eyes with each of his team in turn. ‘There’s something uniquely horrible about the way our victims died. I’m worried about an escalation.’
Noakes stared at him.
‘Like our killer’s gonna go on the rampage, guv?’
‘More like he’ll eliminate anyone he perceives as a threat . . . and take a perverted pleasure in doing so.’ Markham’s voice compelled attention. ‘This is an exceptionally dangerous individual whose camouflage has so far served him well. So we have to move fast, otherwise we’re looking at more tragedies before Christmas.’
* * *
Their little incident room felt cold and bleak despite the radiators being on full blast. Burton had magicked up a fan heater from somewhere, which helped take the chill off the room. Gradually they began to thaw out.
‘Have you got anything for us then, Sergeant?’ Markham asked Noakes.
‘No one at that poncey clinic recognized any of the residents,’ came the reply.
‘D’you want me to get a warrant for patient records, boss?’
‘Might as well, Kate, but I doubt it’ll yield anything. Whoever did this knows they’ve got nothing to fear from a paper trail.’
She scribbled industriously in her pocketbook.
‘What about Mr Dowell’s finances?’
‘I’m seeing the manager of the Halifax later, guv, but sounds like he had no worries money-wise . . . His flat was mortgage free an’ all.’
Still, thought Markham, it could have been a case of ‘much wants more’.
‘I want the flat searched with a toothcomb, Noakes.’ Markham shifted impatiently in his uncomfortable chair. ‘See if we can dig up anything useful in his papers . . . maybe something about that mysterious research of his.’
Observing Burton’s expression of intense interest, the DI updated her on what they had learned from their visit to The Anchorage.
‘BDD,’ she said eagerly. ‘I had to do a paper on that for my degree, sir. Well, it was about Pure O actually.’
Noakes and Doyle leaned in. Little Miss Holier-Than-Thou and the drugs scene!
‘It’s a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder that centres on intrusive thoughts . . . No obvious external signs like repetitive actions or hand washing.’ She tried not to laugh at her colleagues’ crestfallen expressions. Clearly they were hoping to learn she’d dabbled with hallucinogenics as opposed to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Men
tal Disorders.
Markham’s eyes met Burton’s in a moment of amused complicity, and she felt herself turn red.
‘If anything turns up in the house search, then you can check it out for us, Kate,’ the DI said. ‘It’s a complex area,’ he added before going on to relate what he and Noakes had learned at Hope.
‘The transgender debate’s gotten pretty vicious in recent years,’ she mused. ‘You get people on one side saying experts are making up the science — that the whole trans thing’s a delusion and unnatural. And then on the other side it’s like there’s a tripwire, so anyone who says anything critical about the trans community is labelled transphobic and a bigot.’
Going by the expression on Noakes’s face, Markham suspected his wingman would regard ‘bigot’ as the ultimate compliment. From the nervous looks Burton darted at her fellow sergeant, he could see she knew it too.
Oblivious to these undercurrents, Doyle chipped in. ‘Yeah, you’ve even got students doing demos against lecturers who say you can’t self-declare — y’know, decide you’re a different sex.’
Markham didn’t feel equal to exploring the brave new world of gender fluidity.
‘The point is,’ he interjected hastily, ‘it’s all very contentious . . . Passions running high on all sides.’
‘So some religious fanatic — or someone with conservative views — may have been angry with Marian Bussell and Mary Atkins for being on the wrong side,’ Burton said slowly. ‘And with Dowell too.’ She turned to Markham. ‘But where does Dawn MacAlinden fit in, sir? Was she some kind of campaigner for trans rights? Or was she an accident — killed because she happened to be in Marian’s flat and he couldn’t let her get away?’
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself, Kate. How does Dawn fit in?’ He raked a hand through his hair, achieving an effect of Byronic dishevelment as opposed to Noakes’s startled porcupine look. ‘You see, I don’t believe she was just collateral damage . . . I think he wanted to kill her too. It was all part of the masterplan.’
‘Maybe it’s got nothing to do with all this transgender stuff and there’s something else that links the vics.’
‘You could well be right, Doyle. But at this stage it’s a common factor. And the poison-pen element points to the killer being a committed hater.’
‘What about them two from the Newman?’ Noakes demanded. ‘Doctor Wasserface an’ the Boy Wonder.’
‘Doctor O’Connor and her partner, Martin Henley,’ Burton amended patiently.
‘Yeah them.’
‘Well, they’re not specialists in gender reassignment or anything like that. Doctor O’Connor works in the field of oppositional defiant disorder while Mr Henley’s field is autism and complex needs.’
‘What’s all that mean when it’s at home?’ Noakes asked rudely.
Before Burton could get started on the clinical details, Doyle said with a cheeky grin, ‘Means they’re not messing about with folks’ bits, sarge.’
Noakes did one of his more theatrical eye-rolls.
‘Which isn’t to say they don’t have experience of trans issues,’ Markham pointed out. ‘Or that their paths mightn’t have crossed with practitioners in that field.’ He turned to Burton. ‘We need to check if Dowell was on their radar, or if he did any work at the Newman.’
Burton’s shiny bob bent over the pocketbook again.
When she looked up from her notes, the DI asked, ‘Any word from Dimples on time of death for Mr Dowell?’
‘He reckons between ten and eleven on Monday night, sir.’
‘Residents’ whereabouts?’
‘As you’d expect, sir. Safely tucked up in bed or watching the telly — except for Julian Hoskinson.’
‘What was Mr Hoskinson up to?’
‘Sampling the delights of Ducky.’
‘Hmm . . . That’s the new bar off Abercrombie Street, isn’t it?’
‘Yes that’s it, sir.’ A furtive look at Noakes. ‘It’s, er, pansexual.’
‘She means anything bloody goes,’ the other rumbled.
‘Presumably we’ve got witnesses to corroborate.’
‘Any number, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘Though I’m not sure how reliable.’
Noakes muttered something under his breath, eliciting a knowing smirk from Doyle.
‘Anyone else out and about?’
A quick riffle through her notes.
‘Oh, Doctor O’Connor was on call. And Mr Ledwidge was out at Bromgrove General — he’s one of the chaplains there, apparently. sometimes gets asked to bring the sacrament, his wife said.’
‘Anyone vouch for them?’
‘Well, Doctor O’Connor drove home around ten thirty. Mr Ledwidge paid a visit to the hospital chapel and didn’t get in till around midnight — said there wasn’t anyone else in the chapel when he was there.’
‘Any of ’em could’ve done for Dowell,’ Noakes said grimly. ‘Them alibis aren’t worth diddly squat.’
The DI took a deep breath. Earlier feelings of wellbeing from his workout at Doggie’s and the successful press conference were fast evaporating.
‘What about the residents’ whereabouts for last Thursday afternoon? Where are we up to with Mrs Bussell and Ms MacAlinden?’ Markham was punctilious about according victims due respect. Burton realized she had never heard him refer to the dead by just their surnames, though this was commonplace in CID.
‘Dimples says the time frame’s late afternoon to early evening. He can’t be absolutely positive about when they were knocked out with the sedative, but their bodies went into the base of that bed around six or seven p.m.’
She began ticking off suspects on her fingers.
‘Mary Atkins, Lucy O’Connor, Martin Henley and Stacey Macmillan were all at work in the afternoon.’
‘Continuously? In sight of colleagues?’
‘Looks like it, yes. Though O’Connor and Henley left around three because she wasn’t feeling too well — coming down with something.’
‘So they’re each other’s alibi then.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
His expression said it all. Unsatisfactory.
‘Stacey was doing a few hours in the newsagents — McColl’s — round the corner.’
‘I thought she was retired.’
‘She is. Just helps out now and again . . . Headed for home around 2 p.m.’
Again, she couldn’t be ruled out.
‘Mary Atkins had meetings after school. Didn’t leave till gone eight.’
‘How about the non-workers?’
‘The Ledwidges were playing mah-jong with Jeff Coleman and Simon Gailey.’
Noakes snorted incredulously. ‘’S like one of them farces,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Anyone for tennis?’
‘Well Jeff Coleman isn’t, sarge.’ Doyle’s eyes danced. ‘In a wheelchair, remember?’
The DS ignored him. ‘Very cosy,’ he said sourly. ‘What time did the party break up then?’
‘They can’t be sure about that, sarge, but Eileen Ledwidge thinks it was around three-ish. She went off to phone her daughter while the men stayed chatting for a bit.’
‘What did they do after that?’
‘Coleman went off to work on his latest book. Gailey wanted to watch Judge Rinder or Judge Judy . . . some legal programme.’
‘What was Julian Hoskinson up to?’
‘Minding the shop apparently. Says he closed early because it was quiet . . . about four thirty.’
‘A perk of being your own boss, I suppose,’ Markham sighed.
But singularly unhelpful in terms of establishing an alibi.
‘Councillor Callaghan?’
‘Closeted with the Works Committee down at the town hall . . . finished up two-ish.’
‘Jesus wept.’ Noakes could stand no more. ‘They could all have done it.’ He scowled at Burton. ‘Can’t Dimples narrow it down some more?’
‘No can do, sarge.’ She blew a stray lock of fringe out of her eyes. ‘You
know what he’s like. Got quite narked when I tried to push it.’
‘The bodies were semi-embalmed,’ Markham pointed out.
Silence fell over them like a pall as their thoughts travelled back to those desiccated corpses.
‘None of us were at the women’s PM, right?’ Noakes said finally. ‘Happen Dimples is in a snit about it.’
‘I doubt it,’ Markham said drily. ‘It’s hardly a spectator sport, and you may recall we had our hands full at the time.’ He turned to Doyle. ‘I believe you attended Mr Dowell’s, Constable.’
The young DC’s wan expression suggested it was an experience with which he could well have dispensed, but he pulled on his game face. ‘I’ve emailed you a summary, sir. There were traces of Rohypnol like DS Burton thought.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What now, guv?’
‘Let’s see who we can round up.’ The DI’s fingers drummed the table. ‘Probe the cracks in their stories . . . Anyone strike you as looking unusually strained, Kate?’
‘A couple of them, sir. But, to be honest, there’s some sort of cold or flu bug doing the rounds that could account for it.’
‘Hmm. Well let’s press on anyway. We can start with Gary Coslett, find out exactly what he’s been up to.’
Good luck with that, guv.
‘Oh by the way, sir . . .’
‘Yes, Doyle.’
‘Sorry, I forgot to mention it before . . . There’s a service for the victims later this afternoon — at St James’s. Not a funeral, obviously — what with the bodies not being released yet — more like,’ he looked around him as though for inspiration, ‘a memorial service . . . for people to pay their respects, Mrs Ledwidge said.’ He looked at his colleagues’ glum faces. ‘There’ll be eats afterwards in the church.’
‘Now you’re talking my language, son.’ Noakes turned hopefully towards Markham.
‘Yes, we’ll be there, Constable,’ the DI said.
Outside, pewter skies held the threat of more snow.
Looking towards Beech Drive, Markham saw that the playing field goalposts had been taken down. As if the previous night’s gruesome descent from the cross had never been.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 156