Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

‘Get out of it! She’d have to have been desperate . . . I mean,’ the DS gestured at the bungalow in disbelief, ‘does this look like a love shack?’

  From the look on Burton’s face, she certainly considered the location to be less than aphrodisiacal.

  ‘An accomplice?’ she said desperately. ‘In it with Coslett?’

  ‘But where’s the motive, Kate?’ Markham leaned back in his rickety chair, trying to ease his aching back muscles. ‘Coslett’s a singularly unattractive character who’s fallen out with most of the residents at some time or other . . . But a killer . . . I just don’t see him for it. There was a finesse about those first murders . . .’

  Even as he said this, the DI heard Sidney’s dulcet tones in his ear.

  ‘That “copper’s hunch”, Markham . . . Don’t let it lead you by the nose . . . Good solid legwork’s the thing . . . None of your famous flair!’

  ‘Maybe this woman’s the killer.’ Doyle looked uncertainly round at his colleagues. ‘An outsider with a grudge . . . and then Stacey caught on to her.’

  ‘We’re going round the pigging mulberry bush here,’ Noakes scowled. The sugar rush was making him irritable. ‘Next thing we’ll be pinning it on Princess Di back from the dead or summat.’

  ‘You’re right, Noakesy. Better stick with what we’ve got.’

  Which was a big fat zero.

  ‘Let’s divvy up the witness statements,’ Markham said finally, ‘and see if anything jumps out.’

  ‘I’ve got background on the other residents here too, sir. Tracked most of them down via the uni and social services. All accounted for . . . alibis seem to be in order.’

  ‘Not like this chuffing lot.’ Noakes cast a baleful look at the sheaf of papers on the table in front of them.

  Conscientiously, they applied themselves to silent scrutiny and for the next hour there was peace, interrupted only by the odd postprandial belch from Noakes or the assiduous swish of Kate Burton’s highlighter pen.

  Suddenly, the DI’s mobile pinged. He glanced at the incoming text.

  ‘Olivia,’ he said simply, with the transfigured expression that always caused Kate Burton a wistful pang. ‘Reminding me of our hot date with the carol singers at Hope.’

  ‘I’ve got the PM on Stacey,’ she said, glad of an excuse to avoid seeing the two of them together.

  ‘Are you sure, Kate?’ The DI’s expression was solicitous. ‘It’s been a hard day and you look done in.’

  His kindness made her want to cry, but she answered woodenly enough, ‘It’s good experience, sir.’

  There was no arguing with that.

  And no question of her fellow DS attempting to dissuade her.

  More mince pies for the rest of us, his face seemed to say.

  At the sight of her pinched pallor, some latent chivalry stirred in Doyle.

  ‘I’ll come with you, sarge,’ he offered.

  He was amply rewarded for this good-natured impulse by Markham’s warm smile of approval. ‘Excellent. Always go for safety in numbers when dealing with Dimples.’

  * * *

  Out at his car, Markham tossed the keys to Noakes.

  ‘You drive, Noakesy. I’ve got spots in front of my eyes from all that paperwork.’

  Nothing loath, the other settled himself at the wheel of the BMW with the air of a man who knew how to appreciate a top-of-the-range automobile.

  ‘D’you reckon we’ll get the chance to have a word with the gruesome twosome . . . Mary Atkins an’ Councillor Callaghan, guv?’ He ran his hands almost caressingly over the steering wheel. ‘We didn’t manage a go at them this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, I should think so.’ Though the mere thought of it set a pulse beating at his temples. It promised to be a long evening . . .

  ‘What the fuck!’

  Noakes braked so suddenly that Markham’s head bounced off the headrest.

  A woman was rapping frantically at the rear window.

  The DS was out of the vehicle in an instant. Wrapping his arms around the distraught figure, clad only in a flimsy housecoat and slippers, he bundled her into the back of the car.

  ‘Mrs Ledwidge!’

  The woman was wild-eyed, almost unkempt, the normally immaculate beehive straggling about her face in untidy strands.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Brian,’ she stuttered through lips that were blue with cold. ‘He’s gone missing.’

  11. Close to Home

  Markham swiftly shrugged off his cashmere overcoat even as Noakes was tugging at his disreputable parka.

  ‘You’re alright, Noakesy. Put mine round Mrs Ledwidge.’

  Watching in his rear-view mirror, he waited while the DS shuffled Eileen Ledwidge into his guvnor’s coat with little pats and clumsy words of reassurance.

  The woman looked less pinched and wretched now, though her teeth continued to chatter, from a combination of shock and the cold.

  ‘In a moment, we’re going to get you back inside, Mrs Ledwidge,’ the DI said easily. ‘Don’t want you catching pneumonia.’

  Noakes was now chafing her livid hands between his big paws.

  ‘Your Bri would never forgive us,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a carol concert at the school.’ The words came out thickly. ‘We’re supposed to be going.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time.’ Again, the easy, relaxed tone belied the tension Markham was feeling. ‘We were heading that way ourselves for a look round, but the concert doesn’t start till half eight and it’s not six o’clock yet.’

  ‘Loadsa time, luv.’ But Noakes’s eyes met Markham’s in the mirror and telegraphed, this ain’t looking good.

  ‘We’ll come back with you to number sixteen, Mrs Ledwidge. I reckon you could do with a hot drink, and then you can talk us through your husband’s movements. In the meantime, I’ll put out an alert.’

  Her hands clutched convulsively at Noakes.

  ‘It’s jus’ routine, luv.’ The DS was as soothing as possible. ‘Don’ fret yourself.’

  ‘Do you feel able to stand, Mrs Ledwidge?’ Markham asked gently.

  A dumb nod.

  ‘Right. I’ll come round to your door, then the sergeant and I will get you indoors. It’s just a few hundred yards.’ He smiled at her. ‘I can carry you if necessary.’

  ‘Yeah, the guvnor’s a dab hand at the fireman’s lift.’

  Most women would have killed to be in Eileen Ledwidge’s shoes and enjoy a ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ moment with the dishy DI. There wasn’t likely to be much of that going on with the Rev.

  Where the chuff was Brian Ledwidge? He was the type you could set your watch by . . . Noakes was starting to get a very bad feeling about it all . . .

  * * *

  Once inside the Ledwidges’ tastefully appointed townhouse, Markham set Noakes to sorting well-sugared tea and biscuits. ‘Reckon she could do with summat a bit stronger,’ Noakes observed. ‘There’s whisky on that drinks trolley in the dining room.’

  ‘Alright, you can put a shot in her tea but don’t go overboard, Sergeant. I need her coherent.’

  ‘Got you. Don’ worry, guv. She won’t be sparko.’

  Thankfully the Ledwidges’ living room was toasty warm. Markham noticed there were cups and saucers yet to be cleared away.

  ‘I had some of the neighbours round earlier,’ Eileen Ledwidge said awkwardly, like a hostess who had slipped up. ‘It’s a bit messy.’

  ‘Mrs Ledwidge, if that’s your idea of mess, then there’s no hope for the rest of us!’ Again, he kept it light and charming. ‘No, don’t get up,’ as she made to rise from the black leather sofa. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of pointing my sergeant in the direction of your kitchen. It’s all equal opps in CID these days, so it’s turn and turn about when it comes to making the tea. He does quite a decent brew.’ A wry grin. ‘He’ll be rooting through your biscuit tin as well.’

  Some colour returned to her face.

  ‘You’re welcome, Inspector.’ This appeal to her nurturin
g instincts was well judged. ‘I expect you’re having to eat on the hoof at the moment.’

  ‘Well, Noakes’s requisitioning skills are second to none, so we do pretty well. Ah, talk of the devil . . .’

  The DS lumbered in carrying a tray laden with mugs of tea and a plate of custard creams. As he handed Eileen Ledwidge her mug (mercifully, he hadn’t used her best bone china), the DS gave his boss a surreptitious wink, from which Markham deduced that the necessary medicinal ingredient had been added.

  Number sixteen’s curtains weren’t drawn and in the distance the snowy playing fields gleamed an eerie ivory. Markham wondered whether Brian Ledwidge, like Kenneth Dowell, had somehow blundered out there into a deadly ambush.

  He gave Noakes an imperceptible nod. Following the DI’s gaze, the other went to draw the heavy maroon drapes. ‘Don’ want any draughts getting on you, luv,’ he muttered, though the triple glazing made this unlikely.

  For a few minutes, they sipped (or slurped) their tea.

  Markham willed himself to be patient as the minutes ticked by.

  ‘I feel a bit idiotic,’ Eileen Ledwidge said finally. ‘Making a fuss when it’s most likely nothing.’ The familiar surroundings had recalled the woman to herself, but she still had a wild-eyed look and her voice pleaded for reassurance. ‘It’s just so unlike him. He went out . . . but he said he’d be back by quarter to six . . . and when he says he’ll be back by a particular time you can always count on it . . .’ A shaky hiccough. ‘He always says, “Punctuality is the politeness of kings.”’

  ‘An excellent precept, Mrs Ledwidge.’ The DI held her eyes. ‘When did you last see Mr Ledwidge?’

  ‘He went over to see Dan MacAlinden around four . . . sort of a pastoral call.’

  Poor old MacAlinden. Noakes did his inward eye-roll. Probably the last thing the man needed was the likes of the Rev praying over him. All psalms and preaching.

  ‘Brian really missed that side of his ministry after retiring,’ she continued, making Noakes flush guiltily, as though she had caught him out. ‘Being alongside people in their hour of need . . . That’s why he enjoyed the hospital chaplaincy work . . . there was time to make a connection.’

  ‘And after he’d been to see Mr MacAlinden?’ Markham prompted.

  ‘He arrived back around four. Most of the residents were going to the concert, what with Mary making such a thing about it . . . there’s to be some kind of tribute for Marian and Dawn, and Brian was going to help with the prayers.’

  Her hands had started to shake. Gently, Markham relieved her of her mug and set it down on the tray.

  ‘To be honest, no one felt much like a carol concert,’ she said tremulously. ‘All pretty shell-shocked about Stacey, you see . . . and then the police interviews . . . and everything.’

  ‘That’s totally natural, Mrs Ledwidge. You’d been through the wringer.’

  ‘Simon rounded up the neighbours for me. I think they were glad to have something to fill up the time before going out. Nothing fancy,’ she added timidly, as though worried it might be considered tasteless to throw a party after four people had died. ‘Just coffee and cake . . . more for comfort than anything else.’

  Noakes needed no convincing that cake was the perfect antidote to misery. Scouting round the kitchen, he’d seen the remains of a coffee and walnut confection but had heroically restricted himself to the custard creams. ‘Good on you, luv,’ he said kindly through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Thass what I call looking out for folk.’ Markham was amused to notice the DS punctiliously sweeping the crumbs from his trousers onto a plate, as though to convince Eileen Ledwidge he was a fit person to be entertained in her elegant drawing room.

  ‘So they were all here, were they?’ Mentally, Markham positioned the protagonists.

  ‘Yes, that’s right . . . even Lucy managed to get time off work . . .’ she faltered slightly, ‘in the circumstances.’

  Yeah, it’s not every day four of the neighbours snuff it.

  But Noakes’s voice was soft and encouraging as he took over the questioning. ‘So, were folk still noshing — er, having refreshments when Brian came back?’

  ‘Well, someone said they should be making a move and see you at Hope, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Okay, so the party was breaking up,’ the DS pressed her. ‘Did you notice anything unusual . . . anything about your fella or one of the others?’

  She put a hand to her straggly hair, ineffectually attempting to tuck it back into a semblance of neatness.

  ‘Well, Brian looked a bit dazed.’

  ‘Dazed. How come?’

  ‘He came in and looked round at everyone . . . then he went quite pale and sort of stiffened. Like he’d seen a ghost or been shot in the back or something.’

  ‘You’re sure about that, Mrs Ledwidge?’ Markham interposed.

  ‘He definitely wasn’t himself. I thought it must have been too much for him going round to see Dan MacAlinden . . . too emotional. Or maybe it was what happened to Stacey . . . delayed shock or something.’

  Noakes took up the reins again. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. Brian just said a quick hello to everyone and went upstairs to . . . well, freshen up, I suppose . . .’

  Freshen up? Why did posh folk always have to talk like that when they meant using the bog? The DS shook his head at this eccentricity before zeroing in on the tableau Eileen Ledwidge had described.

  ‘He didn’t talk to anybody in particular?’

  ‘No . . . they were leaving and anyone could see he was wiped out.’

  ‘When he did this shot-in-the-back thing, did you notice if he was looking at any of ’em?’

  ‘Not really, Sergeant.’ She twisted her wedding ring round and round. ‘The light caught his glasses so I couldn’t tell.’

  Markham remembered the thick specs and Ledwidge’s exophthalmic stare.

  ‘So, Mr Ledwidge was upstairs . . . getting washed and changed?’

  Trust the guvnor to buy into all that middle-class crip crap.

  ‘That’s right, Inspector.’ She hesitated, the wedding ring rotating ever faster till it looked as though she must be about to wrench her finger off. ‘I didn’t want to crowd him. I decided to have another coffee before tidying up.’

  ‘Go on, Mrs Ledwidge, you’re doing well.’

  ‘Well, Brian came downstairs about ten minutes later—’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About quarter past four. His colour still wasn’t good. I told him we could pass on the concert . . . said I’d ring Mary. But he said it was nothing, just heartburn, and he’d be fine but there was something he had to do first.’

  ‘You’re sure those were his exact words, Mrs Ledwidge?’

  ‘Something he had to do or someone he had to talk to.’ She looked anguished. ‘I wasn’t really paying attention . . . I suppose deep down I was relieved I didn’t have to ring Mary to cancel. She wouldn’t have been best pleased.’

  From what Markham knew of Mary Atkins, he reckoned it was an accurate prognosis.

  ‘Did your husband say anything else?’

  ‘He was holding his mobile and it pinged, so I knew he’d got a text.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He read it and put the phone in his jacket pocket. Then he told me he had to go out for a bit but he’d be back in time for the concert.’

  ‘He didn’t say where?’

  ‘I didn’t like to ask. He looked so strange . . . almost as though he’d had an out-of-body experience . . . or something surreal had happened.’ The words tumbled out with startling vehemence, ‘You must think me a strange sort of wife, but that’s how it is being married to a clergyman. You learn not to pry . . .’

  ‘Nowt weird about that.’ Noakes was matter-of-fact. ‘It’s in the job description for a vicar’s missus.’

  Eileen Ledwidge visibly relaxed. ‘Pretty much,’ she said. ‘Though it took some getting used to.’

  Well done, Noakes
y. The DS had his own inimitable brand of TLC to which everyone, be they juvenile recidivist or elderly curmudgeon, invariably responded.

  ‘Did he take the car, luv?’

  ‘Yes, he did. I thought there must be some crisis at the hospital and they needed a chaplain . . . for anointing the sick.’

  Personally, Noakes couldn’t think of anything he’d like less than Brian Ledwidge popping up at his sickbed, Bible at the ready, but he preserved a sympathetic expression.

  ‘Your husband didn’t actually say he was going to the hospital, Mrs Ledwidge?’

  ‘No, Inspector . . . I just assumed. He often gets called out like that at short notice.’

  ‘Did you see him leave, Mrs Ledwidge?’

  ‘Yes, I waved to him in the car park, but he didn’t see me . . . probably concentrating on his driving with the weather being so bad.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anyone with him? Didn’t see him stop to speak to anyone?’

  ‘No, he just drove away . . . I tried his mobile later on, but he must have switched it off.’

  Markham nodded reassuringly, as if perfectly satisfied, though a gnawing sense of fear was tightening its grip on him.

  ‘I’m going to get someone over here to stay with you, Mrs Ledwidge.’

  Instant alarm in her eyes.

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something bad.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘You think he’s got my Brian?’ She was half out of her seat.

  ‘Easy, luv.’ Noakes laid a restraining hand on her arm and, with gentle force, pressed her back down. ‘We need you here, back at base . . . in case your fella phones the main line or comes home while we’re out doing the rounds.’ Sincere compassion softened the hangdog features, making them almost handsome. ‘You’re far better here, luv, believe me.’ He didn’t want her accompanying them to a grave site . . . or worse. ‘We’re gonna do everything we can.’ As solicitous as any nurse, he whisked a chenille throw off the sofa arm and tucked it round her. ‘Me and the guvnor are going next door in the kitchen.’ He extended a stubby thumb and little finger. ‘Gotta few phone calls to make an’ then we’ll be right back. You try an’ have a bit of shut-eye in the meantime.’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later the two men eyed each other across Eileen Ledwidge’s high-spec granite worktops.