Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘What did Coslett have to say?’ Olivia interrupted his brown study.

  ‘That Dawn MacAlinden and Mary Atkins both reported seeing a pair of gloved hands coming through the top of the curtains when they were in their living rooms on their own late at night.’

  She stared at him. ‘Hands? As in, an intruder . . . burglary?’

  ‘That’s the odd part.’ His face was troubled. ‘They just reported seeing these hands and nothing else.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well, apparently they screamed and then the hands disappeared.’ He grimaced. ‘It was obvious Coslett thought they’d been at the gin . . . Made them feel daft, so they didn’t go to the police.’

  ‘Were there any signs of a break-in?’

  ‘That’s just it. Both flats have French doors. They weren’t sure they’d locked them properly, dah-di-dah . . .’ He sighed heavily. ‘In the circumstances, it was easy for Coslett to brush them off.’

  ‘What do you think, Gil?’

  ‘Possible attempted burglary . . . or some local sicko trying to spook them.’ Even as he said this, he knew he didn’t believe it.

  Olivia did not press him, though the image of those snaking hands disturbed her.

  ‘There you go,’ she said lightly, ‘the bushy-haired stranger. Sidney’s villain of choice.’

  Markham sent her a look that was full of gratitude.

  ‘By the by, Gil,’ she continued, ‘it’s the carol concert at school tomorrow evening.’ She flashed him a winning smile. ‘Our esteemed assistant head has corralled half of Bromgrove into attending . . . What you might call a three-line whip. There’ll be mince pies and mulled wine, so no doubt tongues will be loosened.’

  Noakes’s belt would certainly be loosened once he heard about the mince pies, Markham reflected wryly.

  ‘Might be a chance to catch Mary Atkins and the rest of them unawares,’ she said persuasively. ‘Plus you might pick up some titbits about Marian Bussell.’

  ‘You had me at the mince pies,’ he grinned.

  She gave him a mock slap.

  ‘Marvellous. Having you and George there will make it more bearable.’

  And with that their talk turned to other things.

  9. A Lit Fuse

  Thursday morning dawned cold and crisp with a hard frost.

  There was no sign of a thaw as yet, Markham noted with a sense of relief as he drank piping hot black coffee. He hated it when the snow turned to black sludge.

  Idly, he wondered if they would have a white Christmas, as opposed to a rain-puddled washout, and smiled to himself as he thought of Olivia’s child-like eagerness on that score. The snow’s crystalline delicacy entranced her, so for his lover’s sake he hoped the town might wear its mantle a while longer.

  His smile faded as he looked out of his study window at the blanketed cemetery and recalled that there would be no more Christmases for four souls in Bromgrove.

  He had passed an uneasy night in which an old childhood nightmare resurrected itself.

  Hands coming out of darkness towards him.

  Hands invading, burrowing . . . molesting . . .

  Last year’s investigation in Bromgrove’s art gallery had featured hands too. Pale hands gleaming in the darkness . . . Reaching out to snatch a little boy . . .

  And now he was on the track of another faceless wraith. He needed just one magic irrefutable connection to this phantom killer. And still it eluded him.

  Come on, Markham, snap out of it, he told himself. With Sidney to face, this was no time to get fanciful.

  But the interview with Gary Coslett the previous evening had unsettled him.

  Noakes, predictably, had been sceptical. ‘Grade A creep, guv,’ he’d growled. ‘Prob’ly into a bit of prowling hisself . . . perk of the job. Looks the type to get off on women’s knicker drawers.’

  But no sweat beaded on Coslett’s forehead and the man’s body language betrayed little tension. His close-set eyes, beneath the heavy hooding of their upper eyelids, watched the two detectives with blank passivity. He might as well have been made of clay or plastic for all the animation he displayed.

  And Markham remembered what Dimples Davidson had said about the artistry of these murders — the sense of there being some malign choreography in play, a puppeteer enjoying his string-pulling.

  What if those hands snaking through the living-room curtains represented the eruption of an urge that could no longer be repressed? An urge that was subsequently channelled into the staged murders of Marian Bussell, Dawn MacAlinden and Kenneth Dowell?

  Stacey Macmillan’s murder felt different from the others. Impulsive. Hurried. No time to savour, to enjoy his handiwork — his revenge. Just that moment when he yanked her from her life into oblivion. Trapped like a rabbit in a snare.

  If the killer was decompensating, unravelling, then they were up shit creek without a paddle. No knowing where he might strike next.

  Was there any chance of them making an arrest by Christmas? Or would the killer be sitting down to a turkey dinner and opening presents with a clear-eyed smile, hiding what lay beneath his mask?

  What were they up against here? Some brilliant maniac who could take on experienced detectives and thumb his nose at them? A sociopath destined to slip through the cracks?

  He thought of Dawn MacAlinden’s widower, struggling to hold his world together even as it shattered into shards, and the blind unfairness of it all. It was down to him and the team to give the victims a voice.

  But Markham hadn’t the faintest clue how he was going to stave off Sidney. Olivia’s bushy-haired stranger theory was all well and good, but when Chris Carstairs’ pool of potential candidates ran dry, it’d be back to square one. And their superior would only dig his heels in at any suggestion of a link with the local community. As far as Slimy Sid was concerned, anything was better than that — even if it came down to a Ted Bundy wannabe. Though somehow Markham couldn’t see the DCI settling down to a nice cosy chat with Noakes about their top ten serial killers!

  They’d have to resort to the usual palaver — run a dummy investigation alongside the real one. Funnel the kooks and whack jobs Sidney’s way while digging deeper into New College Close and the residents’ backgrounds.

  He’d arranged with Coslett to conduct further interviews this afternoon when hopefully some of those alibis could be tested. Impossible that somebody somewhere hadn’t picked up on any unusual behaviour or something that seemed out of place.

  Markham frowned as he recalled Coslett’s surly intractability. Having finally got hold of the Residents’ Association minutes, it was clear he’d gotten into any number of ill-tempered altercations with virtually all the inhabitants of the close, but nothing stood out as supplying a motive for murder. It seemed site security was a perennial grumble among the residents, but again this was more of a running sore than all-out war.

  The only remotely useful piece of information was Coslett’s reference to reports of an unidentified woman having been seen on the premises ‘behaving suspiciously’.

  ‘Chuffing red herring,’ had been Noakes’s verdict. ‘Jus’ wants to get the fuzz off his back . . . Any strange woman’s most likely some slapper he’s bonking.’

  And it was true that Coslett had been notably short on detail. ‘Some bird in a headscarf . . . looked posh,’ was all he volunteered.

  ‘Did you see the lady yourself, sir?’ Markham persisted, resisting a wild impulse to slam the man up against a wall and beat the information out of him.

  ‘Nah, but the sky pilot at number sixteen was positive they’d seen her.’

  ‘I take it you mean Mr Ledwidge?’

  A dangerous look in Markham’s eye convinced the other that discretion was the better part of valour.

  ‘Yeah . . . him and his missus do the Neighbourhood Watch stuff.’

  Afterwards, when the DI had sent Coslett about his duties, Noakes exploded. ‘Just as well the Ledwidges kept an eye out,’ he fumed. ‘What
with that one holed up watching porn back at base.’

  ‘Scandi noir as I recall, Sergeant.’

  ‘And the rest!’

  Noakes was still mulling the latest nugget. ‘You don’ think it’s got owt to do with the murders do you, guv? Sapphire an’ Steel at number sixteen could’ve imagined they saw summat . . . y’know, got carried away playing bobbies.’

  ‘Hmm. Fuss-pots they might be, but the Ledwidges strike me as being on the ball.’

  ‘Mebbe it’s one of them gyppos — er, travellers, boss . . . The council’s trying to shift ’em from Hollingrove Park . . . Happen one of ’em came this way on a thieving spree.’

  ‘But whoever it was “looked posh”, Noakes. Doesn’t sound like your average petty criminal.’

  ‘Won’t be anyone Coslett’s banging neither . . . that’d be some bimbo with one of them Oompa Loompa fake tans.’ Ironically, this description was a perfect match for the charming Natalie Noakes, apple of her father’s eye.

  ‘Well, whoever this mystery lady is, we need to rule her out.’

  In the meantime, perhaps this would suffice as a bone for Sidney to chew on . . .

  Downing the dregs of his coffee, Markham roused himself from his thoughts and let himself quietly out of the apartment, making his way round to the garages at the back of The Sweepstakes. The raw air scoured his lungs and made him catch his breath, but he was grateful for the bracing shock. It would keep him in the zone — where he needed to be.

  For a moment in the carpark he started at the sight of an unfinished snowman.

  ‘Just kids,’ he muttered to himself, ‘just kids.’

  But as he headed towards the station, he remembered once again the effigy on Marsh Lane with the policeman’s helmet set atop its lumpy head like a challenge.

  I’m watching you. I’m watching.

  * * *

  At the station, he found Noakes nose-deep in a tin of Quality Streets.

  ‘Sheryl from typing,’ he said in answer to the DI’s enquiring look. ‘Early Crimbo prezzie.’

  ‘Well, go easy on the toffee fingers, Sergeant. There’s the little matter of your sugar intake, remember.’

  ‘The missus is on it,’ the other said glumly. ‘Pigging green veg every meal an’ fruit salad for afters . . . I mean, I ask you!’ The new regime clearly constituted a cruel and unusual punishment.

  ‘Cheer up . . . Olivia wants you and Muriel to come round for supper. She’ll do all your forbidden treats — no sprouts or spinach, I promise!’

  ‘Champion.’ His DS beamed at the implied compliment to his wife. Markham had never been able to fathom the bond between easy-going George Noakes and his overbearing, snobbish spouse, but there was no doubting his devotion. Markham suspected the woman’s brittle affectations concealed a vulnerable core. But, in the meantime, her shrill ‘Gilbert’ affected him like the scraping of fingernails down a blackboard. Still, it was a small price to pay to see his wingman happy.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Down to business. We’ve got an appointment with the DCI in half an hour.’

  The two men walked into Markham’s office where Kate Burton was waiting for them, perched on one of the chairs in front of his desk — her bum half on, half off, as Noakes put it to himself, like there was summat in the police training standards against taking a load off.

  The DI made an approving inventory of Burton’s wardrobe: wine-coloured trouser suit with softly flared cuffs and a mandarin collar; crisp fitted T shirt; black ankle boots. Nothing to raise anyone’s hackles. While Noakes on the other hand . . . well, the best that could be said for his crumpled off-white chinos and fawn sweater was that they didn’t sport the wearer’s usual breakfast detritus all the down the front. And the appalling bobble hat appeared to have been ditched. His ensemble should just about pass muster with Sidney, though the mere sight of Markham’s number two generally elicited a dyspeptic reaction from the DCI.

  Suppressing a sigh, the DI settled himself behind the desk while Noakes lurched over to the window. He turned his face away, staring moodily out at the station car park.

  ‘Morning, Kate. What’ve we got? Anything for the DCI?’ As in, smokescreen, he wanted to add.

  ‘I did some digging on Gary Coslett, sir.’ Faintly pink-cheeked despite the chill of the office, she riffled through her notes.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Noakes was all interest now. Kicking the refractory radiator as though he wished it was the caretaker, he ambled over and took the other chair. ‘What’s he been up to then?’

  ‘Nothing criminal as such,’ his colleague replied carefully. ‘But there has been the odd issue with student volunteers . . .’

  ‘Like Shona, you mean?’ Noakes’s face darkened. ‘The lass who visited Mrs B . . . community service, right?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Shona who reported Coslett, but there were a couple of other sixth formers who complained he was always hanging round . . . stood too close to them, invaded their personal space, that kind of thing. And one girl said he liked to sneak up on her and scare her.’

  ‘Scare her how?’ Markham’s voice was sharp.

  ‘’S not clear, sir. She got cold feet and backed off . . . said it was all a misunderstanding. Apparently, a couple of times he appeared round the side of the building and said, “Boo!” Or came up behind people without warning.’ Burton cleared her throat. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure there was all that much to go on . . . Another kid said Martin Henley tried to chat her up.’

  ‘He’d be the type to fancy his chances.’

  ‘It didn’t come to anything, sarge . . . and you know how silly girls can be at that age. I’ve put Doyle on it, though, just in case. But anyway, Mary Atkins arranged it so they visited in twos. For some reason Shona wasn’t paired up with anyone for her visits to Mrs Bussell.’

  ‘Anything else, Kate?’

  ‘Apparently, Brian Ledwidge “had a word” with Coslett and Henley . . . nothing heavy, just the usual about being extra careful around any teenage visitors.’

  ‘How about the other residents?’

  ‘No problems with Julian Hoskinson. Apparently he was “cool”.’

  ‘Getting down wiv da kidz,’ Noakes sneered, but Burton affected not to hear.

  ‘There was a girl who said Jeff Coleman “freaked her out”.’ More air quotes.

  ‘Bleeding snowflakes.’ Again, Burton ignored CID’s very own Greek chorus.

  ‘Any specifics?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, sir. The feedback was all part of something called Student Voice.’

  ‘Kids having a whinge.’

  This time, Burton grasped the nettle.

  ‘It’s how they do things down at Hope, sarge . . . letting pupils have their say.’

  Noakes’s scowl made it abundantly clear what he thought of such democratic sentiments.

  ‘Letting ’em make mischief, more like. I mean, take that poor fucker in the wheelchair . . . What did they reckon poor ole Stephen Hawking was gonna do to them!’

  Burton’s lips were tightly compressed, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘It’s all about safeguarding these days,’ she said patiently.

  ‘Guilty till proven innocent, that’s what it is.’

  ‘So you’re saying you’d give Gary Coslett the benefit of the doubt then, sarge? Seeing as kids are malicious and make stuff up.’

  Touché. Markham’s lips twitched at the mutinous expression on Noakes’s face.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. Then, ‘Well done, Kate. It’s enough to make Coslett a — what do they call it on those cop shows? — person of interest.’

  Of interest to Sidney at any rate.

  ‘Well, he raises a few red flags, sir.’

  Burton had a keen interest in clinical models of deviant behaviour, with a habit — deeply irritating to Doyle and Noakes — of drawing on the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The DI was willing to bet she’d be brushing up on ‘sociopathic signifiers
’ — window peeping, cruelty to animals, fire setting, bed wetting — the minute he and Noakes left the office. He wasn’t sure she’d get anywhere with Coslett in terms of useful backstory, but the truth was they didn’t have any other promising suspects.

  Kate Burton sensed Markham’s despondency, acutely conscious that he didn’t have a trace of ego and cared only for those whose lives had been devastated by murder. She knew all too well how any perceived failure to save victims ate away at him. They were forever imprinted on his memory as real human beings, not just numbers or notches on a scorecard.

  ‘There’s a few strange characters in that close,’ she went on. ‘Real eccentrics.’

  Markham was diverted. ‘Who might those be, Kate?’

  ‘According to the Ledwidges, there was some incident at that charity shop in town . . .’

  ‘Lili’s?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Julian Hoskinson had a meltdown . . . cut some dummies into pieces . . .’

  ‘What?’ Noakes leaned forward, piggy eyes alight with interest. ‘How come?’

  ‘No one knows what upset him . . . But a friend of Mrs Ledwidge was in there — said he started slashing mannequins in the window display or something.’

  ‘Slashing.’ Her fellow DS had all the eagerness of a mastiff on the scent. ‘Scratch the surface with them brotherhood-of-man types an’ there’s allus summat right nasty underneath.’

  Having long since come to terms with Noakes’s world view, she observed mildly, ‘I’m not sure we can read all that much into it, sarge . . . But it’s strange alright.’

  Her face was thoughtful.

  ‘What is it, Kate?’

  ‘Brian Ledwidge, when he was talking about the murders . . . He kept repeating that God had his purpose and it wasn’t for them to second-guess what happened.’

  ‘Well he’s a padre, ain’t he? It’s the sort of stuff they spout . . . in the job description, innit?’

  She looked doubtful. ‘It wasn’t so much what he said but the way he said it . . . sort of cold and mechanical . . .’