Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Shock affects people in different ways, Kate. And remember, these aren’t people in the prime of life.’ The DI smiled at her. ‘But this is all very interesting. Sounds like you’ve been busy.’

  She blushed with pleasure at his warmth while Noakes watched with a jaundiced eye. How the guvnor didn’t notice she had a thumping great crush was beyond him, but that poor sap of a fiancé was bound to figure it out eventually.

  ‘Well, I just dropped in on a few of them, boss . . . said I wanted to check they were okay after the memorial service.’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘How were the medicos?’

  ‘Well, Doctor O’Connor had gone back to the Newman but the boyfriend was in.’ She made a moue of distaste. ‘Smarmy character but seemed pretty relaxed. Said there’s a lot of sick people out there.’

  ‘He’s pinched Sidney’s line,’ growled Noakes.

  ‘Indeed,’ the DI said with a thin smile.

  ‘So we’re gonna play along with this psycho-on-the-loose bollocks are we, guv?’

  ‘That’s not quite how I would have put it, Noakes, but essentially yes.’ He contemplated his two sergeants intently. ‘Of course, it’s true that our killer is sick. I’d say violent images and fantasies have been part of his thought processes for a long time.’

  ‘Maybe he’s slipped under the radar and committed other crimes, sir.’

  ‘That’s one possibility, Kate. So we need to check all unsolved and cold cases.’

  ‘On it, boss.’

  She would be. Mentally, Noakes made a variety of faces.

  ‘Was Martin Henley able to give you anything about Dawn MacAlinden’s job at the Newman?’

  ‘Just that she was a nurse with the adolescent mental health team.’

  ‘Gender identity?’

  ‘No, boss.’ A quick flick through her notes. ‘Eating disorders and developmental delay.’

  ‘So, it’s unlikely she crossed paths professionally with Kenneth Dowell.’ The DI’s frustration was clear.

  ‘Looks that way . . . Mr Henley said they really only knew Dawn and Kenneth Dowell as neighbours.’ She shrugged. ‘Seemed like he was being straight up about it.’

  ‘What about Henley and his missus?’ Noakes asked, recalling the couple’s demeanour at the memorial service. ‘Pick up any signs of trouble?’

  ‘Not really, sarge. I mean, they’re both in stressful jobs and all relationships have their ups and downs. He’s a bit in love with himself, but didn’t seem uncomfortable or antsy . . . laughed it off when I brought up the student who complained . . . Totally laid-back . . . Though, hold on a minute—’ More thumbing through her notes. ‘He did say something about some nuisance calls.’

  ‘Nuisance calls?’

  ‘Don’t know how relevant it is, sir. He just said they’d had a couple of calls a few months back where someone rang up . . . The caller didn’t say anything. It was just a weird high-pitched shriek or maybe hysterical laughter . . .’

  She looked helplessly at the dark, intent figure of her boss whose six-foot-two frame fairly vibrated with the desire to find something that would turn out to be physical evidence they could link to the killer they were hunting.

  ‘Henley didn’t seem to attach any great significance to it . . . said they had the odd crackpot ring them, but they took it in their stride. This one stood out — maybe cos of how they cackled down the phone.’

  I wonder, Markham thought, I wonder . . .

  ‘Did Mr Henley have anything to say about the other residents?’

  ‘Not really. Mind you . . .’ A thought occurred to her. ‘He said something about Jeff Coleman being an old fraud.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Stacey Macmillan told him Mr Coleman’s capable of walking unaided. He’s got motor neurone disease but it’s not end-stage yet, so he can manage a few steps. Apparently he “likes to have everyone dancing attendance”.’

  ‘God, that’s poisonous,’ whistled Noakes. ‘Any idea if it’s true?’

  ‘I’ll follow it up, but I don’t see Coleman having the strength for these murders. And anyway, he was out in the car park with the Ledwidges and Doyle when Stacey was strangled . . .’ She consulted her notes again. ‘Simon Gailey’s friends with Coleman. I’ll try sounding him out.’

  ‘Gailey? Oh yeah, the solicitor bloke.’ Noakes dug some dirt from under his fingernails, a process which the DI devoutly hoped would not be repeated in front of the DCI. ‘Bit of a silver fox that one. From the way she was eying him up, I reckon our Stace fancied her chances.’

  Burton said carefully, ‘She’d be barking up the wrong tree, then. He’s a confirmed bachelor, apparently.’

  ‘What, you’re saying he’s a poof?’

  Burton’s self-control these days was ironclad — at any rate, proof against George Noakes. ‘From something Martin Henley said,’ she continued, ‘he’s not a ladies’ man.’

  ‘Bleeding waste with them looks.’ Noakes could hardly be described as a connoisseur of male beauty, but Simon Gailey had clearly made an impression.

  ‘Anything on Gailey, Kate?’

  ‘Nada, boss. I got the impression he doesn’t miss much but is too discreet to spill any beans. Penny Callaghan rates him.’

  Noakes blew a raspberry, signalling this was hardly a recommendation in his book.

  Markham rose and walked to the window, his back to the other two. In the carpark below, two PCs were chucking snowballs at each other before suddenly becoming aware of the figure watching from CID. Self-consciously, they headed for their squad car.

  In truth, the DI barely registered their presence. He was thinking of birdlike Stacey Macmillan choking in her death throes — eyes and lungs on fire before the blood vessels burst and flooded into the brain and there were no more words . . .

  He turned to his colleagues. ‘Where are we with the media, Kate?’

  ‘Blackout since yesterday, sir, but Barry Lynch says that Crime File reporter from the Courier’s got wind . . . tip off from someone at St James’s.’

  ‘Okay, tell him to release it . . . but low-key, with the minimum of detail — “A woman was found dead yesterday”, that kind of thing. No further information till next of kin informed, et cetera.’ He regarded her levelly. ‘The ex-husband’s in Australia along with a sister. No other relatives.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘But the journos don’t need to know that.’

  ‘Dimples is doing the PM this afternoon, sir. I’ve said I’ll attend . . . It’s alright, boss, honestly,’ she said before he could raise any objection. ‘I want to do it.’

  Thank Christ for that, Noakes thought. Watching the pathologist Stryker-ing away to Classic FM always gave him the creeps.

  ‘Right then.’ Markham looked at his watch with a sinking feeling. ‘Time for our appointment with the DCI, Noakes.’

  The other grunted.

  ‘Hook up with Doyle, Kate, and see what’s out there in terms of cases in the same ballpark as ours.’ Deadpan, he added, ‘So we can give the DCI A, B and C categories in due course.’

  And with that, the meeting broke up.

  As her distinguished-looking boss crossed the outer office area trailed by Noakes, Burton reflected with amusement that they resembled some kind of variety act.

  It didn’t augur well.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, the two men contemplated each other glumly across Markham’s desk.

  ‘This case is starting to feel like a chuffing powder keg, guv.’

  Noakes had never said a truer word.

  The DI’s ears still rang with Sidney’s hectoring tones.

  ‘You do realize, Inspector, that any time a murder is still unsolved within forty-eight hours of its discovery, the chances of its being solved diminish in direct proportion to the time that passes.’

  No shit, Sherlock.

  ‘If you’re in over your head, Markham, then you should say so . . . No detective should become overly possessive of his case to the detriment
of the real goal.’

  No wonder Olivia had nicknamed the DCI first cousin to Judas Iscariot, so transparent was his jealousy of CID’s rising star.

  ‘We have to stop this bandwagon rolling, Markham.’

  Bandwagon, bandwagon!

  It had been vintage Sidney and a toss-up as to which of his two subordinates most wanted to beat him to a pulp. In the event, despite both men slowly tautening with anarchic fury, neither had cracked.

  ‘D’you think he’s really going to sic Mystic Meg on us, guv?’

  This referred to Sidney’s latest suggestion that they should be open to all offers of help including, apparently, the services of an importunate psychic who insisted she ‘saw things’ and felt a connection with the victims.

  Unusually, considering the nutty Norahs that CID investigations attracted as a rule, this one came with impressive credentials, being the well-to-do widow of an ex-councillor who also happened to play bridge with the DCI’s wife.

  ‘So far as one can tell, all she’s come up with to date is some dotty vision of a heart dripping with blood,’ the DI said heavily.

  ‘Mebbe we c’n give her that make-up thingy we found on the playing fields,’ Noakes sniggered. ‘See if she gets any vibes off it.’

  ‘Or why not go the whole hog and have a séance?’ Markham said acidly. ‘Ask her to make contact with the Other Side and see if the victims can point us in the right direction . . . tap once for “yes” and twice for “no”.’ He brought his hand down on the table with a thump. ‘What a sodding mess.’

  It was rare for the guvnor to swear and there was a discernible thrum beneath his regular voice, but Sidney had been more aggravating than usual. Worse even than his Gypsy Rose wheeze was the reference to a criminal profiler who came ‘highly recommended’.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Noakesy,’ the DI burst out, ‘before Sidney’s psychic and this boffin from the university descend on us.’

  Nothing loath, the other replied simply, ‘Where to, guv?’

  ‘New College Close. I want to check in with Mr MacAlinden and see where we’re up to with the witness statements. Then this evening we’ve got a carol concert at Hope.’

  ‘Very nice,’ his DS replied without notable enthusiasm.

  ‘There’ll be mince pies.’

  ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ suddenly acquired new lustre.

  ‘Reckon we could do with summat Christmassy.’

  The DI turned away to hide a smile.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Our suspects await.’

  10. Stasis

  The MacAlindens occupied a ground-floor flat whose living room looked out on the communal garden.

  As the two detectives made their way up the path, Markham was struck by the gloom of the day. There was precious little light and it would be dark before 4 p.m. Somehow, it matched his mood. He didn’t share Olivia’s enthusiasm for Narnia-like snowfields. The peaty embers of autumn were far more to his taste, and he invariably felt a pang when they were succeeded by monochrome winter tints. Perhaps he had seasonal affective disorder, winter depression or whatever they called it these days, but more likely it was just a reaction to the way this time of year made everything seem shrunken, hard and dry . . . like the corpses of the dead stiffening in Bromgrove General’s morgue.

  That interview with the DCI had been more dispiriting than usual. To have his efforts disparaged was a bitter pill, though on Sidney’s watch he had grown used to being undermined. And now he’d have to fend off paraprofessionals like this criminal profiler, though he could probably get Kate Burton to deal with that . . .

  He checked himself guiltily. Kate needed more experience in the field as opposed to being used to deflect Sidney. But there was no denying she was good at it. The DCI had gone a bundle on that stuff about potential questioning techniques for their suspect — the only problem being that they didn’t as yet have anyone who fitted the bill.

  Ahead of him, Noakes was stamping his feet impatiently at the MacAlindens’ front door.

  Jolted out of his reverie, the DI moved to catch up.

  * * *

  It was a stuffy, overheated flat. Fussy and cluttered, the interior festooned with crocheted doilies and Franklin Mint china. Dawn’s widower seemed even more desiccated and diminished than the last time they had seen him, while a monstrous yucca plant thrived in the corner of the front room as though sucking up all the oxygen.

  At least the family liaison team seemed to have brought him round to some sort of acceptance of what had happened to his wife.

  ‘I know she was murdered, Mr Markham,’ he said with a trembling of the lip. ‘And most likely the same person did for Marian and Ken.’ He made no reference to Stacey Macmillan, and the DI felt profoundly thankful the grapevine hadn’t yet brought him the news of her death. As soon as they were finished here, he’d alert the lead victim support officer so she could break it to him gently.

  ‘I saw her in a dream the other night, you know . . . my Dawn.’

  ‘Happen the missus jus’ wanted to check in with you . . . see you’re alright,’ Noakes said comfortingly. For someone who affected to have no truck with Mystic Meggery, the DS was adjusting rapidly.

  It was the right thing to say. The widower brightened. ‘We were walking down Beech Drive together. I could hear her talking, though I couldn’t see her mouth move. She kept smiling at me and I heard her say over and over, “I’m okay, I’m okay now, Dan. Don’t worry about me, everything’s okay.”’

  Noakes was touched. ‘Sounds like she really wanted to give you a lift, mate,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘She kept pointing to her heart too. Like she was saying, “I love you”.’

  Suddenly, Markham remembered the psychic’s vision of a heart dripping with blood. No more than a coincidence, he told himself, but he could see Noakes, too, was struck by it.

  ‘Your Dawn was the caring sort,’ the DS said with unwonted softness.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t a pushover . . . called a spade a spade, if you know what I mean. But yes, she was one of life’s givers. That’s why she found it hard to cut off at the end of the day . . . tended to bring the job home with her, so we got into the habit of going for a walk down the lane at the back last thing before turning in. She said being outside with nature helped remind her what was important . . . get things in perspective.’

  To Markham’s ears, it sounded like a good prescription. But it hadn’t helped Dawn MacAlinden to lead a long and happy life. Listening to the bereft widower, Markham felt an uprush of anger at the killer so strong it almost made him choke. But he fought it down. The last thing the man needed was to see the lead detective in his wife’s case succumb to undisciplined emotion.

  Noakes gestured to a photograph album open on the coffee table in front of Dan MacAlinden’s armchair. ‘Nice to see ’em in a proper book,’ he said approvingly. ‘Can’t be doing with all that digital messing about.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Dawn used to say. She had no time for folk showing pictures on their smartphones or whatever they’re called.’

  Confidingly, the man handed the burgundy leather volume over to Noakes. ‘I was looking at pictures from when Dawn was a student at Hope,’ he said. ‘That’s her with the long, dark hair . . . the one with plaits . . .’

  The two detectives leaned in curiously.

  ‘She was a bonny lass,’ the DS observed. Then, ‘That’s her best friend?’ he asked, pudgy finger pointing to a slim, fragile-looking girl with delicate features and ash-blonde hair. He turned over the pages. ‘Seem to be quite a few of ’em together.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Joined at the hip in those days apparently . . . Can’t remember the name . . . Sian . . . Silvia . . . something like that.’

  ‘My Nat was like that when she was at Hope,’ the DS said complacently. ‘It was Tracey this an’ Tracey that.’ A slight frown. ‘They drifted apart when her mate went to uni.’ There was something in his manner
that suggested the wrong girl got the breaks.

  ‘Dawn kept up her connections with school.’ Dan MacAlinden handled the album almost reverentially before replacing it on the coffee table and suddenly Markham recalled the scrapbook that had vanished from number seven. ‘Marian Bussell was one of her old teachers . . . They were pretty thick together.’

  ‘That’s a tribute to them both,’ smiled Markham. ‘I’m not sure my teachers would be quite so thrilled if I came calling!’

  ‘Marian was feisty, Mr Markham.’ It was the same adjective Mary Atkins had used to describe the murdered woman. ‘Very progressive in her attitudes . . . quite a social conscience. Dawn always liked that about her.’

  ‘Did they . . . er, campaign together then?’ Noakes phrased his question with unusual circumspection. ‘Go on demos . . . that kind of thing?’ The DI suppressed a smile. Clearly his subordinate was entertaining visions of a monstrous regiment of hairy-legged dungaree-wearing women descending on Bromgrove’s civic institutions.

  ‘Not really.’ The other smiled affectionately. ‘I used to call them the “armchair rebels” cos they were so civilized about it.’

  Noakes waited expectantly.

  ‘It was more about writing letters to local papers and pestering the council than anything else. Marian was quite vocal about minority rights . . . made a fuss about getting Section 28 repealed, that sort of thing.’

  ‘The legislation that banned local authorities from promoting homosexuality in schools,’ Markham explained. Then, before Noakes could ask what was wrong with that, he went on, ‘I understand Mrs Bussell was at the forefront of broadening the school’s pastoral curriculum.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. She was into LGBT rights and all that, long before the local authority ever made a thing of it. There was a cousin of Marian’s who committed suicide at boarding school . . . Don’t know if it was on account of him being gay or transgender or what, but it kind of fired Marian up.’

  So, a personal tragedy was the key to Marian Bussell’s zealotry.

  ‘An’ your Dawn was into the LGBT stuff, right?’ It was obvious Noakes struggled to understand the appeal of this particular crusade, but his tone was respectful. ‘Was it summat to do with her job . . . helping kids . . . ?’