‘It wasn’t her specialism strictly speaking, but she saw quite a few children who were being treated for gender problems.’ He paused. ‘I think she worried some of them might’ve been rushed into taking pills . . . puberty blockers and other stuff . . . without them having a proper chance to see if it was what they really wanted . . .’
‘Did she raise her concerns with the hospital authorities?’
‘Oh, it didn’t get that far, Mr Markham, though I remember the subject coming up at one of our residents’ socials.’ He grimaced at the memory. ‘Dawn got slapped down by Doctor O’Connor and Ken Dowell. After that, she decided to leave it to the big boys. “Not really my bag is it, Dan?” she said. “Better not make waves.”’
‘But Mrs Bussell didn’t mind making waves?’
Dan MacAlinden gave a weak laugh. ‘Oh no, she was up for anything. Never say die!’ Suddenly, his face crumpled as he realized what he had said.
Noakes’s voice was kinder than Markham had ever heard it.
‘’S good your Dawn an’ Mrs B had each other at the end . . . for comfort, like.’
The widower looked at Markham’s big awkward sergeant and blinked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it helps to remember that.’
* * *
Markham decided the man had had enough for one day.
‘We’ll be on our way, Mr MacAlinden. Don’t want to wear you out.’
‘I haven’t offered you any tea, Mr Markham.’ It was poignant to see how he suddenly woke to the obligations of hospitality.
Never in the history of their long association had the DI known his subordinate to willingly pass up the chance of sustenance, but on this occasion he was firm. ‘Don’ you be worrying about that.’ Noakes patted MacAlinden’s arm reassuringly. ‘We’ll be drowning in it by the end of the day.’
As they passed into the hall, Markham asked casually, ‘By the way, sir . . . Nothing to get alarmed about, but have you ever happened to see an unfamiliar lady in a headscarf about the place? It’s just that we’re just trying to trace any unidentified visitors and other residents have mentioned her.’
Keen eyes watched Dan MacAlinden steadily.
‘Now you mention it, there was someone,’ he answered vaguely. ‘It was a while back . . . Dawn said she only saw the woman from behind, but she was sure she knew her from somewhere . . . something about the way she moved . . .’
‘Jus’ the once was this?’ Noakes too was very casual.
‘I’m not sure . . . might have been a couple of times. Dawn didn’t think anything of it. I remember her laughing and saying Gary Coslett must have gone upmarket — dating Sloaney types — because she’d seen this elegant piece who walked like a dancer.’ He screwed up his features, remembering. ‘We figured maybe she was married and that’s why she was sneaking in and out.’
‘Ah, the eternal triangle!’ Markham chuckled.
He had a gut feeling the mysterious headscarfed female — who matched the description of the prowler given by Eileen Ledwidge — was somehow central to their investigation. But he could not as yet see how.
In the vestibule, on a ledge by the door was a glass case with what looked like skeletonized vertebrae.
‘Fossils,’ Dan MacAlinden said following the DI’s gaze. ‘Dawn was into beachcombing. A regular Mary Anning . . . never found a T-Rex, though.’
Markham found that the sight of the tiny bones affected him disagreeably, reviving memories of jumbled human remains retrieved from sludge. The little hallway suddenly felt unbearably hot. But he forced himself to linger, to make inconsequential chit-chat with the bereaved man for whom he sensed visitors would now increasingly be a rarity. His Dawn had been the umbilical cord that connected him to the bustling outside world, and now that cord had snapped.
‘How’ve your employers been?’ Noakes asked fiercely, as though fully prepared to take up the cudgels against any uncompassionate jobsworths down at Bestway Cash and Carry. ‘They’ve been great.’ But MacAlinden’s voice was hollow. ‘Told me to take as long as I need.’
‘See you do, mate,’ the DS urged him.
They were just at the threshold when the man clutched at Markham’s sleeve.
‘You’ll get him won’t you, Mr Markham, the one who did this to Dawn and the others?’
Markham wondered how much he knew about Kenneth Dowell’s equally ghastly end and could only hope the family liaison team had sugar-coated it as much as possible.
Gaze and tone steady, he replied, ‘I promise you, Mr MacAlinden, we’ll get him.’
* * *
The rest of the day flew by in a kind of dream.
Before they knew it, the team was taking stock in what Doyle called the ‘hut’, which felt colder than ever despite Kate Burton’s convector heater sputtering away in the corner.
Outside it was now completely dark and deserted, though throughout the afternoon there had been a steady stream of residents passing through the incident room.
Doctor O’Connor and Martin Henley had arrived together.
Lucy had been cool and collected.
Markham’s hopes that she might yield insights about Dawn MacAlinden and the LGBT debate were dashed, as it seemed barely to have registered on her radar. ‘The subject might’ve come up in passing,’ she said, ‘but I honestly don’t recall . . . Dawn and I moved in different circles.’ Professionally and socially was the implication.
It was pretty much the same with her partner. Mention of Dawn MacAlinden elicited no more than blank indifference. But there was a flare at the back of Henley’s cold blue eyes when it came to Marian Bussell. ‘Bit of a busy-body,’ he said tightly. ‘Too much time on her hands.’ When pressed, he backtracked. ‘Oh, I suppose there was no great harm in her. She was just one of those women who never got used to retirement . . . too interested in other people’s business.’
‘I wonder what “business” he meant?’ Burton wondered after they had left.
‘Mebbe Mrs B fancied herself a marriage guidance counsellor . . . them two deffo don’ look like they’re getting along.’ Noakes chuckled. ‘P’raps that bird in the headscarf was having a fling with Henley . . . He’s the sort to play away.’
‘Neither of them reacted when we brought up the subject of the mystery woman, Sergeant. They genuinely didn’t seem to know anything about that.’
‘Henley looked shifty when you mentioned Stacey though, guv.’
Aware that the latest murder would shortly be hitting the headlines, Markham had chosen to inform residents of Stacey Macmillan’s death as succinctly as possible: Stacey’s body was found in St James’s parish hall and police were treating the circumstances as suspicious.
‘It’s possible Mr Henley and Stacey enjoyed a flirtation.’
‘Not likely he killed her though, boss. Not with the missus sticking to him like superglue.’
Jeff Coleman seemed even less promising as a suspect for Stacey Macmillan’s murder.
‘Not unless he suddenly moved like the clappers . . . I mean, throttling Stacey an’ then back into the wheelchair cool as you like . . .’ Noakes was sceptical.
The DI looked interrogatively at Doyle who frowned with concentration.
‘Brian Ledwidge said Coleman had gone to use the disabled loo, sir. We met up outside and got him into the car. I guess it’s possible . . . people were dashing around and Eileen Ledwidge was flapping about getting off before it got dark, so everyone was a bit distracted.’ He whistled. ‘But even so . . . It’s quite a stretch given Coleman’s condition.’
‘Don’t forget what Stacey said to Martin Henley . . . according to her, he has some mobility,’ Burton reminded them.
Coleman himself had been entirely unfazed when this was put to him. ‘I can manage a few steps on occasion,’ he agreed. ‘And I use crutches too. But mostly it’s the wheelchair.’
‘I checked with the orthopods at Bromgrove General where he goes for physio, boss.’ Burton again. ‘There are periods of remission when he’s able to walk, but it
’s irregular.’
The writer’s upper body was strong and muscular. Could he somehow have dragged Stacey Macmillan off her feet and into a chokehold? His alibis for the two other women and Kenneth Dowell weren’t watertight, so could this be their man?
Coleman claimed to have been friendly with Marian Bussell and Kenneth Dowell, but Markham sensed a certain waspishness beneath that urbanity of his. Had he been jealous of Marian Bussell for overtaking him as a writer? Of Dowell for those bona fide academic credentials which trumped his own achievements as a lowly teacher? Had jealousy curdled into something murderous, lit by some as yet unidentified touchpaper? Or had there been some personal dynamic at work between them, and if so where did Dawn MacAlinden fit in?
There was no mistaking Brian Ledwidge’s prickly resentment of Mrs Bussell and Kenneth Dowell, though it wasn’t until he was called away to an ailing parishioner at St James’s that his wife became confidential. ‘My husband’s a good man,’ she said defensively. ‘Marian and Ken had a habit of cutting him down to size . . . taking cheap, intellectual pot shots.’ Markham gained the impression they had looked down on her as well for being a housewife and wondered how much she had really liked these people with whom she lived cheek by jowl.
‘Must get tiresome allus having to do the Mrs Vicar bit,’ Noakes observed shrewdly after they had left. ‘Turning the other cheek an’ all that.’ But the couple’s horror at the news of Stacey Macmillan’s death appeared unfeigned. It was impossible to glean their genuine opinion of the woman, though a certain tightening of Eileen Ledwidge’s lips at the mention of her name suggested she wasn’t a fan.
Julian Hoskinson had displayed a surprising degree of emotion when speaking of Stacey. ‘She could be catty,’ was his verdict, ‘but she was a lot of fun too and very kind . . . no side to her.’ It was an interesting remark. ‘It wasn’t easy for me to fit into the close,’ he continued. ‘But Stacey took me just as I was.’
‘And other people didn’t?’ Markham prompted.
‘Well, Marian kind of wanted to turn me into a cause, Inspector.’ The charity worker sighed. ‘I was quite closeted when I moved in and she tried to . . . well, co-opt me . . . get me to come out, on the basis that I owed it to myself to be truthful. Always quoting Ian McKellen or some other luvvie activist at me — all that born-again gay bollocks. I just couldn’t be doing with it. Stonewall, Peter Tatchell, LGBT, all the “change from within” speechifying . . . it’s just not me.’ Noakes was surprised to find himself rather warming to Hoskinson by this point.
‘Stacey accepted me for what I was,’ the young man repeated. ‘She and Simon were good listeners when my love life went off the rails.’ Ah, thought Markham, the slashed mannequins.
‘They didn’t judge, whereas Brian and Eileen . . . well, you’ll know what they’re like by now . . . good people but deep down not keen on queers.’
‘What about Mr Dowell?’
‘Oh, he was very much in Marian’s camp . . . used to lecture me about how the country would be healthier if people who were LGBT let society know about it and lived without disguise. God,’ a spurt of bitterness, ‘as if it’s not hard enough being gay without folk making a religion of it . . . like we all have to become bleeding leaders of men or something.’
‘Must’ve been rough, mate.’ Noakes surprised everyone, not least himself, by this muttered admission.
‘Ken was so intense . . . made me wonder what skeletons were lurking in his cupboard.’ Suddenly, he flushed. ‘Sorry, poor taste,’ he mumbled.
‘That’s a bloke with a lot of baggage,’ Noakes mused after he left.
‘No alibi worth mentioning, what with him being his own boss,’ Burton added.
‘Located anyone able to vouch for him yet, Kate?’ The DI found himself hoping they could rule Hoskinson out.
‘Sorry, sir.’ A wry smile. ‘They all know him down at that nightclub place — Ducky or whatever it’s called — but I can’t pin anyone down to specifics.’
‘All off their faces.’ But Noakes was less vociferous than might have been expected.
Simon Gailey confirmed Hoskinson’s occasional boyfriend trouble. He looked troubled when Markham raised Eileen Ledwidge’s story about the slashed mannequins. ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said slowly. ‘Julian took some homophobic flak when he opened Lili’s. There was trolling too . . . internet abuse,’ he explained, ‘so maybe it had something to do with that.’
‘Bit of an, er, emotional fella.’ Noakes felt the ground cautiously.
‘True. But he’s had a tough upbringing. Got a lot of guts.’ Gailey, with lawyerly discretion, did not expand on this, but Markham saw the sympathy in his eyes.
‘I take it he didn’t want to be a poster boy for LGBT.’
The other grinned, eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘God no, Inspector. Jules is too much his own man for that.’
Jules. Noakes was sniffing the wind. ‘Are you and he close then, sir?’
‘Not in the biblical sense, Sergeant,’ came the riposte. Noakes was visibly unprepared for such frankness. ‘We bonded over mutual interests . . . cinema, theatre, the arts generally.’ Another grin. ‘Plus he was able to vent to me when Marian and the others got too much. Hearts in the right place, but they could be a bit . . . relentless. Jules is a very private person — quite secretive until he trusts you. Once you’ve prised him open it’s different.’
‘Think Gailey’s a wooftah as well, guv?’ Noakes got down to brass tacks though the solicitor was barely out the door.
‘If he is, he’s not telling.’ The DI certainly didn’t see the sophisticated retiree as a habitué of Ducky. ‘Sounds like he was a peacemaker — good at smoothing down ruffled feathers.’
‘Jesus,’ Noakes paced the pokey room morosely. ‘None of ’em seems to be a fit . . . even though most of their alibis are shite.’ He was like a caged animal at the circus, thought Burton idly.
‘I’ll brew up,’ Doyle said to no one in particular, padding out to the bungalow’s front room in search of Coslett’s kettle before heading to the manky lean-to for some water.
Markham had never thought he would experience actual nostalgia for the creature comforts of Bromgrove CID, but at that moment he felt positively homesick for his sliver of an office with its unrivalled view of the station car park. At least there was always the chance of scrounging a half decent coffee from somewhere, whereas chez Coslett it was like bivouacking at Dunkin’ Donuts.
And indeed, right on cue, the DC returned with three mugs of builder’s and a paper bag of cinnamon buns.
‘Good thinking,’ Noakes said approvingly while Burton declined with a slight shudder.
‘Sorry, sarge.’ The young detective turned to her apologetically. ‘They didn’t have any samosas.’
Just as well. The mere thought of it made Markham feel quite nauseous.
‘Anything in the unsolved files to help us, Kate?’ he enquired.
She shook her head dispiritedly. ‘Nothing so far, boss.’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘But no doubt the DCI’s profiler will say our killer’s in there somewhere.’
‘Bleeding Cracker types,’ Noakes growled through a mouthful of bun. ‘They don’t allus get it right, y’know. There was the Jigsaw Man—’
‘The what?’ To Doyle, it sounded like a serial killer’s moniker.
‘Smartarse psychologist who screwed up after that poor lass was murdered on Wimbledon Common.’
‘Oh yes,’ Burton perked up. ‘I remember that. The Rachel Nickell case. We did a module on it at uni . . . The profiler helped the police set up a honeytrap operation, but the judge said it was illegal and there was a big hoo-hah about it . . . and anyway, they got the wrong man because the real killer was in Broadmoor all along.’
‘Thass right.’ Noakes winked at her as if as to say, We students of the human mind.
The DI’s lips quirked.
‘Well, we’ll have to pay due deference. But in the meantime—’
‘We’ve
got sod all.’
‘Quite, Noakes.’
‘Jus’ saying, guv.’
A thought occurred to Markham. ‘That album or scrapbook Shona mentioned — the one with mementoes of Mrs Bussell’s career — did it ever turn up?’
‘No sign of it, sir.’ Burton hesitated. ‘Maybe it never existed in the first place.’
‘Oh, I think it did, Kate.’ And he recounted the visit to Dawn MacAlinden’s widower.
‘Dawn kept lots of photographs from her childhood and schooldays,’ he concluded. ‘I’m willing to bet Marian Bussell was the same . . . It was a shared pleasure for them, reminiscing about the past.’
‘Remember the Ashley Dean case,’ Doyle said unexpectedly. ‘In the end, it all came down to a photo, didn’t it?’
It was true. An earlier investigation at Hope Academy was blown wide open after Burton and Noakes came across an old school picture on the microfilm reader in Bromgrove Central Library. Markham had never forgotten that electric moment when the killer’s face swam into focus from the grainy newsprint.
Was history repeating itself? Did Marian Bussell’s missing album hold the crucial clue that would see all the pieces slip into place? Or had the killer simply seized it on a whim . . . ?
‘None of our suspects seem to be showing any outward signs of tension,’ he said at last. ‘Or at least, no more than you’d expect from people caught up in a murder investigation.’ Then, he tried another tack. ‘Have we gleaned any more about the woman in the headscarf?’
‘No, sir.’ Burton narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Coslett’s trying to send us in the wrong direction.’
‘But Eileen Ledwidge mentioned her too, didn’t she?’ Doyle pointed out. ‘When she was talking about a prowler.’
‘And Mr MacAlinden said Dawn caught a glimpse of her,’ Markham added.
Noakes guffawed. ‘Thought she might be some posh totty of Coslett’s, sneaking in and out the back way . . . as if!’
‘You know what they say about some women liking rough trade, sarge.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 162