Having obtained the green light from Markham, Noakes received this reproof with equanimity.
‘By the by, did anything useful turn up in Dowell’s flat?’
‘Looks like he lived for his work, guv. No social life to speak of an’ nowt juicy in the paperwork . . . Kept all his medical stuff at The Anchorage . . . ’cept for textbooks an’ stuff.’ The DS wrinkled his nose. ‘There were tons of those . . . Like some musty ole second-hand bookshop.’
‘Anything leap out at you?’
‘Nah . . . It was all tranny bollocks.’ As ever, the DS was setting out his stall with a vengeance, the DI reflected wryly.
Burton cleared her throat disapprovingly. ‘Largely material on gender variant young people and non-binary options, sir.’ A scorching look at her colleague. ‘Also, trans hostility and adolescent nonconformity.’
Noakes was having none of it. ‘Like I said. Bollocks.’
DC Doyle grinned as though to say, ‘you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.’
The DI sighed. ‘Save it for the pub, Noakesy. In the meantime, let’s adjourn next door or there won’t be anything left . . .’
As it happened, Eileen Ledwidge had organized a generous spread: thick-cut sandwiches with a range of fillings, quiche, sausage rolls, canapés, scotch eggs, scones and two types of cake. Fresh percolated coffee, tea and soft drinks were also on offer. Parishioners from St James’s circulated with expressions of kindly hospitality, doing their best to infuse some warmth into the sad little gathering.
‘Full marks to the padre’s missus,’ Noakes said expansively. ‘There’s nothing stingy about this lot.’
And with that, he headed off to do the buffet justice, Burton and Doyle following the good ship Noakes like two tugboats in the wake of a steamer.
The DI didn’t feel particularly hungry, but he enjoyed the coffee, which was excellent.
After a minute or two, Burton came over to him with a paper plate. ‘Have a cheese and pickle sandwich, sir,’ she said awkwardly. ‘They’re really good and,’ with a faint blush, ‘you need to keep your strength up.’
‘That’s very considerate, Kate.’ He took one to oblige her. It was surprisingly tasty, and he felt revived.
‘What next, sir?’
‘Well, we didn’t get very far with rounding up the residents earlier,’ he said. ‘At least, not those we needed to interview.’
‘Sorry about that, boss.’ She looked crestfallen. ‘Everyone seemed to be lying low.’
That was one way of putting it.
‘More like the bush telegraph alerted them to stay out of our way,’ he said grimly.
‘I’ve done you a briefing note on all the alibis, sir, but—’
‘I know, they don’t take us much further forward.’ For a moment, his handsome face looked hollow with fatigue, high cheekbones seeming almost to pierce the skin.
‘Gary Coslett did a good job of stonewalling us,’ she said. ‘It was obvious that he thought Mrs Bussell was an interfering old bat and there’d been a few run-ins, but he wouldn’t be drawn on specifics.’
‘Do you think he saw anything, suspects anyone . . . ?’
‘Difficult to tell, what with “shifty” being his default expression.’
‘You don’t think he was planning to branch out — graduate from assault to burglary?’
‘You think he could be our prowler, sir? What about the make-up mirror?’
‘Maybe that find is unconnected, Kate.’
But even as he said the words, he recalled the cool, smooth sensation of the compact in his hand . . . his conviction that it had been dropped by the killer . . . that it was a talisman of some kind, just like the school badge clutched in Marian Bussell’s dead hand.
‘I’ll check with Laneside, sir. Dig a little deeper — see if there have been any complaints about Coslett.’
Suddenly, Stacey Macmillan materialized at the DI’s elbow. With a somewhat strained smile, Burton gestured vaguely in the direction of the buffet. ‘Back in a minute, sir.’
Markham murmured the conventional pleasantries while observing the woman closely. There was something unusual about her, he thought. She seemed to be — fizzing — in a state of heightened emotional excitement.
Of course, he reflected, funerals and memorial services had that effect on some people, but this was something different. Almost an expression of one-upmanship. As though she was privy to some huge joke that tickled her fancy enormously.
Noakes ambled over. Getting his second wind, thought Markham affectionately.
The DS smiled affably at Stacey.
‘Hit the spot that did,’ he said. ‘Reckon we needed it an’ all . . . to gee everyone up, like.’
God, he made it sound as though next up was the hokey-cokey.
Mercifully, she didn’t take offence. ‘You’re right,’ she agreed, ‘especially on a day like this.’
‘You seem a very close-knit community, Ms Macmillan.’
‘Stacey, please.’ Noakes watched the interchange with an expression of lascivious benevolence, a reflection of his complete faith in Markham’s pulling power.
The DI tried not to wince.
‘Well, like any neighbours we had our ups and downs,’ the woman continued. ‘Always the way with strong personalities . . .’
‘Who wanted to be top dog then, luv?’
Stacey blinked, clearly taken aback by Noakes’s directness. Even so, she rallied smartly.
‘Our two schoolmarms had words from time to time.’
‘Oh yes?’ Markham was all polite interest.
‘Marian thought Mary Atkins was a bit . . . showy. Tended to put herself forward a bit too much, made the story all about her instead of turning the spotlight on the kids.’ She screwed up her face as if trying to remember, though Markham suspected she recalled Mrs Bussell’s words exactly.
‘She “colonized campaigns” was how Marian put it.’
‘Is that how you saw it, Stacey?’
She gave an affected titter that set his teeth on edge. ‘Well, maybe Mary can be just the teensiest bit pushy, makes the odd faux pas.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘Dawn said it was a case of reinventing the wheel. Mary had a habit of forgetting that Marian was the one who put sexual health on the agenda at Hope . . . and took a lot of flak for it too. Dawn said to hear Mary you’d think she discovered LGBT.’ Stacey bit her lip as though worried that she had been indiscreet.
Little drops of poison, thought Markham. But did it amount to anything?
‘Yes, Marian could be a bit . . . well, sharp sometimes. Didn’t suffer fools, if you know what I mean. Ken was the same — never backed away from a good old ding-dong.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. He lit into Julian a few times and had the odd spat with Martin, enjoyed setting people straight about medical matters. Got on well enough with Lucy and Jeff, though. And he respected Simon.’
So, there were occasional ructions between Kenneth Dowell and other residents — Julian Hoskinson and Martin Henley for starters.
‘He was an atheist too, you know, so it was a bit sticky between him and the Ledwidges.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Which is why it’s so nice of them to organize all this.’ A careful pause. ‘They never held it against him — or Marian.’
‘Was she an atheist too?’
‘Oh no, Marian was C of E. But she was like Ken in other ways . . . a freethinker, very independent. Whereas Eileen and Brian are conservative.’ Another tinkle. ‘Well, it goes with his job.’
Again, the DI detected a current of suppressed excitement bubbling beneath the surface of the woman’s prattle.
There was something else, he thought. Something she didn’t want to share with anyone just yet. But secrets could be dangerous. He knew that by now the manner of Kenneth Dowell’s death was bound to have got out. The little butterball in front of him could be in no doubt that Dowell had died because he knew too much.
Noakes too had picked up something in her manner.
‘’S important you don’ hold out on us, luv,’ he said. ‘If there’s owt you need to tell us, now’s the time.’
For one second, she seemed to waver, her eyes flickering round the room. But then she laughed confidently. ‘You can count on me for that, Sergeant. Ooh,’ she squealed, ‘coffee cake. Must just get myself a slice.’ And she sashayed away.
They looked after her retreating figure.
‘Reckon that one’s got a hot date,’ Noakes said.
‘You don’t think she’s sitting on something to do with the investigation?’
‘Well, she was more’n keen to spew venom about Atkins an’ the rest of ’em . . . like a right little puff adder. If she knew summat, I don’ see her keeping it to herself.’ He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘’Sides, she wouldn’t have been all Happy Larry if she knew who the murderer was . . . not after what happened to Dowell.’
It was true, and yet . . .
The DI was lost in thought, but that made no odds. Noakes was used to it and waited in companionable silence till the guvnor was ‘back on terra cotta’.
‘I need you and Doyle to keep her in sight, Noakes.’ Markham came to with a start and glanced about him. He realized that the room had emptied during his reverie. ‘They’re clearing up.’
‘I’ll jus’ . . .’ The funeral baked meats had not yet disappeared.
Markham eyed his subordinate resignedly.
‘Alright, alright. Stuff your pockets . . . get Mrs Ledwidge to do you a doggy bag. But I want you—’
He broke off in consternation.
‘What is it, guv?’
‘Hold on a minute . . . I can’t see her, Noakes.’ He muttered to himself. ‘Surely she can’t have finished her cake that quickly . . .’
From the other side of the room, Burton registered the body language and was at the DI’s side.
‘Sir?’
‘Kate, I want you to check the cloakrooms. See if you can locate Stacey Macmillan for me — quick as you like.’ Burton promptly headed for the exit.
He turned to his other DS. ‘Noakes, get hold of Doyle and check where everyone went.’
‘He said he was gonna help with the wheelchair. Coleman came with the Ledwidges . . . Think the padre asked for a hand.’
It felt as though a shard of ice was lodged beneath Markham’s breastbone.
‘He’s got her,’ the DI said.
8. Hidden Watcher
‘What? You mean the murderer’s snatched her?’ Noakes was startled. ‘’S not possible, guv.’ The grizzled head swivelled from side to side. ‘She was here a minute ago . . . stuffing her face . . .’
But his expression was uneasy. Unbidden, a segment from Sky’s True Crime channel rose to the surface of his mind. A documentary on Ted Bundy, the serial killer who slipped through university campuses, sports resorts and schoolyards, preying on his victims in plain sight. He remembered one case in particular: a young woman, two days into a week-and-a-half ski trip, who got into a hotel lift and was last seen walking along the corridor to her second-floor room in search of a magazine while her fiancé waited downstairs in the lounge. Caryn Campbell, that was her name. They interviewed scores of folk, searched lift shafts and crawl spaces, kitchens and utility rooms, but never found hide nor hair . . . until her frozen corpse eventually turned up in a snowbank four miles away.
Bundy’s nickname was the ‘Phantom Prince’ . . . was that what they had on their hands here? A killer who’d slipped like a ghost in and out of a church hall and spirited Stacey Macmillan away?
‘I tell you he’s got her,’ the DI repeated hoarsely. ‘Right under our noses.’ Markham’s long, lean body was taut as a bow spring. ‘Think, Noakes,’ he said urgently. ‘You said Stacey looked like she had a hot date . . . Well, she did — with her murderer.’
‘You mean cos she had summat on him?’
‘That’s right . . .’ Markham looked tormented. ‘Only I don’t think she realized the significance of what she knew.’
‘She looked excited about summat for sure . . . kind of keyed-up an’ pleased with herself. But she wouldn’t have been all smug an’ cheerful like that if she thought this bloke had killed them women an’ Dowell . . . I mean, no way . . .’
It was true. Stacey Macmillan struck Markham as possessing a healthy sense of self-preservation. But this time it had let her down.
‘She didn’t realize the danger in time,’ Markham said again. He whirled round on his subordinate so fast, the latter jumped. ‘Get out there with Doyle . . . I need the premises sealed off.’
But he feared it was already too late.
As Noakes headed for the exit, Burton reappeared.
‘No sign of her in the cloakrooms, sir.’
‘Did anyone clap eyes on her?’
‘One of the parishioners said she thought she’d seen her by the Ladies’.’
‘Thought she’d seen her?’
Burton grimaced. ‘Sorry, boss. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s a reliable sighting . . . more like the old dear was trying to be helpful.’
‘And that’s it . . . no one else noticed her?’
‘Most people have made tracks — worried about the weather and wanting to get back indoors. There’s a couple of helpers stayed behind to clear up but otherwise . . .’ She gestured helplessly.
Noakes was back.
‘Doyle had loaded up Coleman an’ the Ledwidges before I got there,’ he muttered. ‘Proper little boy scout.’
‘So they’ve left,’ the DI said flatly.
‘Yeah, guv.’ Noakes looked sheepish. ‘The rest of ’em set off walking round the same time . . . prob’ly halfway down Chapel Street by now.’
‘All of them?’
‘Far as I can tell, yeah. Looks like it . . . Leastways, I checked with one of the Mrs Mops an’ she was positive they’d done a bunk.’ The DS shrugged. ‘Can’t blame them what with it being brass monkeys.’
‘Shona and the teachers from Hope as well?’ It was a forlorn hope.
‘The whole caboodle, guv . . . Filled their boots an’ then scarpered.’
‘So no witnesses.’ The DI’s heart sank.
Doyle came panting in, glowing from his exertions.
‘No joy, sir?’ And on Markham signalling a negative, ‘I clocked the others leaving together — in a little gang.’ The young DC bit his lip. ‘But Stacey wasn’t with them . . . I figured she was helping to clear up.’
‘She was talking to me and Noakes. Then she mentioned getting herself some cake.’
‘Coffee cake,’ the DS put in with a reminiscent smile. ‘Home-made an’ all.’
Somehow Burton fought down an acid rejoinder.
‘Did she say anything interesting?’
‘She was batting her eyelashes at the boss . . . all come-hither, like.’ Noakes burlesqued a Lothario leer.
‘Anything apart from that?’
‘Bitching about the neighbours really.’
‘Oh?’ Burton’s antennae were on high alert.
‘Yeah, had a bit of a rant about Mrs B an’ Mary Atkins squabbling over who did the most for them LGBT weirdoes.’ His colleague frowned. ‘Y’know, like, who did the most campaigning,’ he hastily amended. ‘Sounded like Dawn MacAlinden put her oar in too . . . saying Atkins was a loudmouth, allus wanting to be queen bee an’ needed to put a sock in it.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I kinda got where she was coming from.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Jus’ that Mrs B was a clever clogs . . . an’ Dowell too.’ Noakes scratched himself vigorously under his off-colour cable-knit sweater like a restless yeti. ‘Plus she said it was a bit sticky with the Ledwidges on account of them being God Squad.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Dowell was an atheist an’ Mrs B . . . well, no disrespect,’ he said quickly, ‘but she was a bit of a lefty.’
Markham was growing impatient.
‘Nothing stood out, Ka
te,’ he said heavily. ‘Mildly malicious titbits by way of spicing up the conversation.’
Once she saw a snogeroo with the handsome inspector wasn’t on the cards any time soon, Noakes privately concluded.
‘Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree, boss,’ Doyle said frankly. ‘I mean, an abduction . . .’ He gestured round at the virtually empty space where two middle-aged women were busy at the far end of the room wrapping leftovers in clingfilm, casting the odd furtive glance at the detectives. ‘How could he have grabbed her without anyone noticing?’
‘There’s a little pantry affair back there,’ Burton said unexpectedly. ‘With a fridge and microwave. Round the back of the loos.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Bit unhygienic if you ask me . . . it’s only a cubbyhole really.’
‘Show me.’ The DI’s face was dark and urgent.
The church hall’s reception room was on one side of a narrow hallway with cloakrooms on the other. Burton led them past the loos and opened the door to a pokey utility room. There was barely room for the four of them to squeeze inside.
‘I see what you mean,’ Noakes grunted. His Muriel’s lot organized things much better down at the Women’s Guild, he reflected complacently, what with them being allowed to use St Mary’s Cathedral. Lots of space in that nice bright kitchen behind the crypt. Not slumming it like in here with the smell of overcooked cabbage and Dettol. Rank.
At least they had a stacked washer-dryer. Fairly new by the look of it. Happen it came in handy with the down and outs. Noakes had only the vaguest idea about parochial outreach — and what it comprised — but he knew from the missus that smelly laundry played its part . . . and one time there’d been that cat got stuck in the dryer. Smudge, that was its name, daft little beggar . . . he remembered Muriel saying it gave her quite a turn.
Afterwards, he hardly knew what made him shuffle sideways past Markham and the others for a closer look at the appliances. Like a magpie, he was always drawn to shiny things and the unit sported a gleaming chrome surround that looked strangely out of place in the malodorous little storeroom.
Or maybe it was thinking about the cat spinning round and round . . .
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 158