7. In the Blink of an Eye
The team decided to walk to St James’s. Crunching along snowy Chapel Street, they felt secretly relieved to get away from New College Close, which had begun to feel increasingly oppressive. It was turning bitterly cold and a stiff breeze had whipped up, but the contrast with the stale fug of their incident room was invigorating.
‘Do any of our suspects have criminal records?’ the DI enquired as they tramped along.
‘Gary Coslett got community service for assault,’ Burton said. ‘Spent conviction. Nothing since.’
‘Figures,’ grunted Noakes. ‘’S got “scrote” written all over him, that one.’
‘So, our Mr Coslett has a bit of a temper. Hmm,’ Markham reflected. ‘Interesting . . . I need to see those Residents’ Association minutes, find out if either Mrs Bussell or Ms MacAlinden had any run-ins with the management company.’
‘I’ll speak to Mr Ledwidge about it after the service.’
‘Excellent, Kate. Anyone else known to us?’
‘Julian Hoskinson, sir. Cautions for public order offences — went to a lot of demos, bit of an eco-warrior.’
‘One of them nose-ringed crusties, you mean.’ Noakes stomped along as though to trample the anathematized breed beneath his feet.
‘What about the rest of the close — anyone else raise a red flag?’
‘No one, boss,’ Doyle chipped in. ‘I’ve followed up on all the rest and run checks with the uni and social services . . . Clean as a whistle.’
‘Call-outs to domestics, neighbours’ bust-ups?’
‘Someone rang in about a barney at the good doctor’s.’
‘Doctor O’Connor?’ Markham was startled.
‘Something and nothing, sir. From the sound of it, a nuisance caller, though they sent uniforms round to check.’ Doyle had due reverence for the medical profession. ‘Most likely an ex-patient making trouble.’
‘Right.’ Markham was thoughtful. ‘Anything else?’
‘Brian Ledwidge tends to get up people’s noses from time to time,’ Doyle said cheerfully. ‘Y’know, all spit and polish, not letting standards slip . . .’
‘Quite right too,’ growled Noakes. ‘Only way to make Coslett pull his finger out.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it worked, sarge. And him jackbooting around just pissed the rest of them off. He took a bit of flak for it. Marian Bussell nicknamed him “Mister Mind How You Go”.’
And now she and her friend were dead.
‘Some sort of feud was it?’ asked Noakes.
‘Nah.’ Doyle was enjoying the conditions, kicking up drifts of snow like an overgrown schoolboy. ‘Sounded like everyone just took the mick. The solicitor guy called him Captain Mainwaring.’
‘Retired solicitor.’ Burton was always punctilious about detail. ‘Simon Gailey.’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Him and Bussell were friends. The writer bloke went round there quite a lot too.’
‘Jeff Coleman.’
How does she do it? Noakes asked himself. Memorize all them names like some freaking index card.
But, noticing how she nearly overbalanced into a deceptively deep rut that was concealed by the snow, he shot out a meaty ungloved paw and hauled her upright.
‘Ta, sarge.’ Huge myopic brown eyes blinked their gratitude and he found himself hoping to fuck they could keep her safe this time round. He still had nightmares over the team’s investigation into murders of staff at the Newman psychiatric hospital when Burton decided to go it alone and nearly got herself killed.
Happily unaware of these dark thoughts, Burton went on, ‘Jeff Coleman and Mrs Bussell had some sort of friendly rivalry going. It took him years to make it as a writer, but Harlequin — that’s his publisher — were falling over themselves to sign her up. She liked to try ideas out on him and Gailey . . . Ouf!’ She circumvented another treacherous dip. ‘Dowell would call round now and again too.’
‘Proper little writers’ circle,’ Noakes observed. ‘An’ now three of ’em have snuffed it.’ He puffed and panted, squinting ahead with narrowed eyes like some overweight arctic explorer.
On that sobering note, he pushed open the frosted lychgate and led the little party up the path towards St James’s Parish Church.
It was rather a beautiful building, Markham concluded, lagging behind the others who were in a hurry to get out of the cold. Two slender belfry towers, like minarets, jutted up from a triangular gable end. In the snow, the church’s classical façade had the spun-sugar delicacy of a fairy tale castle. Around it on three sides, white-clad monuments and tombs formed a spectral honour guard.
Inside, he admired the vaulted ceiling with its aquatint coffering and the exquisite stained-glass east window behind the altar.
Noakes was less than impressed by what looked like a somewhat girlish King David in a flowery meadow playing his harp for an audience of pudgy cherubs.
‘You don’t know if he’s Arthur or Martha in that get-up,’ the DS grouched, contemplating the betunicked figure with pronounced distaste. ‘At least if they’ve got beards, you c’n tell if it’s prophets or whatnot.’
Markham steered his grumpy colleague round to another window on the far left-hand side of the church.
‘There you go, Sergeant,’ he said drily. ‘Saint James. With beard.’
‘’S more like it,’ the other replied. ‘Looks a bit miserable, mind.’
‘So would you if you were about to be beheaded.’
‘Why’s he holding that little plate with them prawn cracker thingies?’
‘They’re seashells. That’s his symbol, Noakesy. He was a fisherman, remember?’
‘Oh aye.’ The DS revolved on his heels like a restless bullock. ‘It’s a bit fussy for C of E . . . all them blues an’ pinks.’
By contrast, Markham found the décor unexpectedly charming, from the soft blush-pink of the three painted arches behind the main shrine and its adjoining bijou side-altars, to the blue-carpeted five-bay nave. Italianate-style statues of the saints with their respective symbols lined the ivory-hued walls at regular intervals. He spotted Saint Catherine with her wheel and Saint Cecilia bearing the palm of martyrdom. The embellishment and baroque attitudes chimed with his Catholic upbringing and made him feel oddly safe. He would have liked to wander the interior, taking it all in at his leisure, but became aware that Burton and Doyle were awaiting instructions, hovering warily in the porch as though they were in danger of ‘catching’ religion if they ventured too far into the interior. Suppressing a sigh, he made his way to the back of the church, trailed by Noakes muttering various uncomplimentary comments about ‘weirdiness’ under his breath.
‘What time’s kick-off?’ the DS asked when they reached the others.
Burton glanced at her watch. ‘They should be along in a few minutes, sarge.’
‘Right,’ Markham said. ‘We’ll make ourselves unobtrusive,’ he glanced pointedly at Noakes who affected an air of sunny innocence, ‘at the back.’
They shuffled awkwardly into a pew over to the left and waited.
It wasn’t long before the residents of the close arrived in ones and twos.
As always, it seemed to Markham that individual identities were somehow subsumed — rubbed out — by the religious building. As though the church were simply swallowing them into its cavernous belly like Jonah disappearing into the whale.
Gradually, however, the small congregation became distinct to him, settling into their pews with the self-conscious awkwardness characteristic of attendees at such occasions. Brian Ledwidge appeared from a door at the back of the main altar wearing a dark purple stole and holding a prayer book.
Then the memorial service began.
It was a stilted affair, due in part to Ledwidge’s stiff and mechanical delivery. Markham winced as the priest mangled a set of sonorously beautiful prayers for the dead before reminding himself, with a pang of compunction, that the man was labouring under a double burden of personal grief and pastor
al responsibility. There were no eulogies, possibly because the mourners didn’t trust themselves to speak. Formal tributes would doubtless wait until the funerals.
His eyes slid over the little group huddled at the front of the church.
Lucy O’Connor and Martin Henley had the lock-jawed look of a couple who have just concluded a quarrel. In light of what Doyle had told them earlier, the DI wondered if there might be trouble in paradise. Certainly, they seemed far from comfortable together, with the poker-backed posture of two people on the defensive.
Simon Gailey was dignified in a cashmere tailored coat. While Martin Henley was more obviously handsome, the older man’s refined, ascetic features possessed a quiet distinction that made the other appear almost coarse. Catching sight of Gailey’s profile, silver wings of hair brushed back from the temples, Markham was struck anew by his patrician good looks — the phwoar factor of a well-preserved Nigel Havers.
Stacey Macmillan would doubtless agree with this verdict judging from the surreptitious sidelong glances she was directing Gailey’s way. It occurred to the DI that it might pay to cultivate Stacey, who struck him as an inveterate gossip.
No smiles were squandered by Stacey on Julian Hoskinson who sat on her right, though the charity worker’s appearance was considerably less grungy than his signature style. He still had that famished, anorectic look, but there was no sign of any distracting lip stud or bracelet. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he wore a perfectly respectable charcoal herringbone suit topped with a chunky car coat. The entire ensemble actually looked quite expensive, causing the DI to ask himself whether Hoskinson might not be one of those trustafarian socialists.
Jeff Coleman had been wheeled into the church by Simon Gailey and sat in the right-hand transept. The writer appeared startlingly worn and ravaged, his deep-set eyes like two burning coals against the pallor of his face. Markham wondered if there was any truth in Stacey’s assertion that he’d cherished a secret tendresse for Marian Bussell. Or whether he resented her late-life flowering as a writer when, from the sound of it, his own path to success had been strewn with thorns and thistles. Either way, as Noakes put it not at all sotto voce, he looked like something out of a Transylvanian horror movie.
Eileen Ledwidge sat next to Dawn MacAlinden’s widower who wore a glazed expression as though none of the proceedings made any sense. Markham knew from the family liaison officer that he was in a very bad way mentally, still clinging to his belief that Dawn’s death was an accident despite all evidence to the contrary. Eileen’s kindly face reflected her concern that the occasion might prove too much for him.
On the other side of the widower, with the air of a warder taking him into custody, was Councillor Penny Callaghan, her resemblance to Ann Widdecombe more pronounced than ever. Boot-faced, she bellowed out responses with her usual trademark bray.
Sitting in the row behind was Mary Atkins, enveloped in a monstrous black poncho. ‘Bleeding hell, it’s Zorro,’ Doyle quipped as he craned to look before subsiding back into his seat at a glare from Kate Burton.
Poncho aside, Hope’s assistant head looked distinctly subdued, even making allowances for the sombreness of the occasion. In fact, Markham thought she looked nervous. But then, it was hardly to be wondered at with a murderer on the loose.
And, with a cold sensation like icy water in the pit of his stomach, Markham felt a sudden, cast-iron certainty that the killer of Marian Bussell, Dawn MacAlinden and Kenneth Dowell was right there in church with them, joining in their prayers for the souls of the dead.
The little two-manual pipe organ wheezed into life and they made a stab at ‘Abide with Me’, the DI’s melodious tenor doing its best to obliterate whatever noises Noakes might feel himself impelled to make.
At the end of the service, the team loitered once more at the back, making what passed for polite conversation with the mourners.
‘Inspector.’ It was Simon Gailey. ‘This young lady would like a word.’
The DI recognized Shona Townley, looking waif-like in a blanket coat that was several sizes too big for her.
‘Hello, Shona,’ he said warmly. ‘I didn’t spot you before.’
‘Me and a few teachers from Hope were in the side-chapel, Mr Markham,’ she said shyly. ‘We knew it was supposed to be for residents, but what with me . . .’ she stuttered slightly, ‘finding them . . .’
‘Of course you wanted to be here,’ Markham finished smoothly. ‘And very fitting that staff from Hope came along too.’
She was clearly relieved but continued to linger, eyes riveted on him.
‘Was there something else, Shona?’
Simon Gailey tactfully melted away.
‘Do you want to talk to me on your own?’
At her nod, he steered the schoolgirl gently towards a recessed bay whose three lancet windows commemorated Bromgrove’s fallen dead from the two world wars, with what looked like various archangels scooping up youthful heroes in a range of battle uniforms.
‘What is it, Shona?’
She looked about her apprehensively, for all the world as though she didn’t want even the inscrutable archangels to hear.
The DI checked behind him. Burton had clocked the situation and was ensuring no one approached.
‘The coast’s clear,’ he encouraged her. ‘Don’t be frightened, no one’s listening.’
‘Did you find Mrs B’s scrapbook, Mr Markham?’
His spine tingled.
‘Nothing like that turned up, Shona,’ he said with assumed casualness. ‘Why — was it important?’
‘Dunno,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But it might’ve been.’ Her face fell. ‘Jus’ thought I should mention it . . . in case there might be a clue in there or somefink. She was going to show me it, y’see — her treasures an’ all that. Pictures of school when she was there.’
Markham suddenly felt more convinced than ever that there was a connection between these murders and Hope Academy. But he allowed nothing of this to show on his face.
‘Thanks for telling me, Shona,’ he said. ‘I’ll look into it right away.’ With a gentle pressure of his hand on her arm, he added, ‘Of course, it might be that she was wandering a little in her mind. Maybe she wished she’d compiled a scrapbook without actually getting round to it.’
He wanted to draw the teenager away from the subject of the missing scrapbook. For her own safety. Equally, he didn’t want to alarm her.
‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for the moment,’ he continued easily. ‘Sounds like the past was important to your friend.’
‘Yeah, I reckon it was.’ Her voice was sad. ‘Now I’ll never know if there was something special she wanted to show me, cos I missed a week an’ didn’t call round.’
‘I’m sure your visits were a comfort to Mrs Bussell.’ The DI’s voice carried conviction. ‘As well as being a link with the past.’
The wan features brightened a little.
‘D’you really think so?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘I better go now. The rest’ll be waiting for me.’
‘When does school break up for the holidays, Shona?’
‘Twenty-third of December, Mr Markham.’
‘Goodness, that’s late. They keep your nose to the grindstone all right.’
She smiled shyly.
‘Oh, I don’ mind . . . Want to go to uni, so I need to get the grades.’
‘What’re you hoping to study?’
‘History.’ Then, somewhat self-consciously, ‘Mrs B got me interested. Told lots of good stories . . . about wars an’ the princes in the tower.’
Markham’s mouth twisted as he recalled how that particular episode of Plantagenet history had figured in a recent investigation.
‘Well,’ he said recollecting himself, ‘history’s about all our stories. I’m sure yours will turn out to be a good one.’
Another smile — more confident this time — and she was gone.
Noakes shambled over. ‘Well,
whatever you said seems to have cheered her up, guv. Don’ look quite so peaky.’
Burton and Doyle joined them.
‘Shona mentioned Mrs Bussell having a scrapbook, some sort of album of mementoes from her teaching days.’
‘Nothing like that turned up when the crime scene was processed, sir.’ Burton was quick to see the significance. ‘You think the murderer took it because there was something incriminating in there?’
‘Possibly, Kate.’
‘Mebbe it was like a trophy or summat.’ Noakes had recently discovered the joys of Sky’s True Crime channel. ‘Like he wanted to keep it as a reminder of the kill.’
‘That’s another possibility, Sergeant.’
Doyle spoke up. ‘Or he could’ve been curious, taken a look and seen someone he recognized—’
‘You mean, from his schooldays?’ Noakes butted in. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. Another nutcase from Hope . . . Traumatized from getting too many detentions from Bussell or summat barmy like that.’
‘Could be, sarge,’ the DC replied equably. ‘Or maybe there was just something in there that, well, struck a chord or something.’
‘Yeah, there’s no saying how a sicko’s mind works,’ his colleague agreed.
‘Whatever the motive, the scrapbook’s missing.’
‘Could it have been a figment of Mrs Bussell’s imagination, sir?’ Burton asked hesitantly. ‘Old people have fancies sometimes.’ She thought of her own aunt’s long decline as she said it.
‘From the way the residents spoke, it didn’t sound like she’d lost her marbles,’ Doyle put in.
‘Hmm.’ Markham looked back into the church, which had relapsed into silence and shadow. His eyes fell on a strange little icon of Christ with downturned mouth, sad hooded eyes and right hand raised in blessing . . . or was it warning?
‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s be on our way.’
‘What about the eats? ’S only next door.’
Opportunities for refuelling invariably loomed high in Noakes’s order of priorities.
‘We’ll put in an appearance,’ the DI said heavily, ‘stay long enough to be polite — and for you to stock up on sausage rolls. But for God’s sake be discreet about it, Sergeant. It won’t exactly enhance our reputation if the locals see you hoovering up all the edibles in sight.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 157