Markham had not taken to him one bit. Perhaps it was the pointy little beard that he stroked throughout in an orgy of self-regard. With Sidney caressing his own goatee in tandem, their double act had been one of the more nauseating spectacles the DI could remember witnessing in that office.
‘It’s not as if he really told us anything new,’ Kate Burton agreed. ‘I mean,’ she ticked off the ‘key characteristics’ identified by Macfadyen, ‘resentment of authority figures, conflicted sexuality, subservience to a domineering parent, troubled childhood — they’re all standard markers for a serial killer.’
‘Yeah, but Sidney loved it,’ her fellow DS growled. ‘Reckon he sees hisself on telly . . . one of them crime investigation documentaries, co-presenting with some breakfast TV dolly bird hanging on his every word.’
Markham chuckled despite himself.
‘Well, if it comes down to it, I’ll take Sidney over Professor Macfadyen any day. Though they’re both pretty irritating.’
‘God yes.’ Burton nodded with feeling. ‘Buttering each other up good-o. And that stuff with the beards . . . yuk!’
‘Dickheads,’ Noakes said succinctly.
‘Unfortunately, we’re obliged at least to pay lip service to the Professor’s insights,’ Markham said soberly. ‘Brian Ledwidge’s murder has raised the stakes.’
His interview with Eileen Ledwidge and her daughter Catriona the previous night had been unbearably poignant, the more so for some indefinable sense that the husband and father had been a stranger whose secret hopes and fears would now remain a mystery forever. Noakes, blessedly, behaved as though the chilly, self-contained clergyman had been the perfect paterfamilias, creating a narrative to which the two women could cling in their grief. ‘Your Brian couldn’t have helped other folk so well if he hadn’t had you to come home to . . . A padre ain’t no ordinary Joe . . . needs a team behind him.’ It was exactly the right thing to say. Mother and daughter sat up straighter and bore themselves more proudly on hearing those words.
Markham had skated over the circumstances in which Ledwidge had been found. His family could hear the full account at a later date. For now, it sufficed to tell them his body had been found concealed in a building at the school.
Death had occurred by suffocation. ‘Plastic bag over the head,’ was the pathologist’s verdict. Of course, no such bag had been found, but Dimples was positive and the SOCOs had identified microscopic fragments adhering to the papier-mâché mask as well as traces of diethyl ether. ‘Relatively painless and no signs of a struggle, so likely he didn’t see it coming.’
‘Why tog the body out like that?’ Noakes asked as they conferred in Markham’s office. ‘He was taking one hell of a risk messing around with that dressing-up box.’
‘He must have been confident the coast was clear,’ Doyle observed.
‘Plus they were upstairs, so he’d have advance warning of anyone coming in,’ added Burton.
‘But more even than that.’ Markham’s expression was unusually tense. ‘It seems to have been an ungovernable urge. Obviously Mr Ledwidge was a threat to be eliminated. But unlike Stacey, where the risks of discovery were far greater, he had an opportunity to savour the moment . . . to work though some kind of inner conflict by enacting this ritual . . .’ He regarded the team steadily. ‘Our man took a chance. The compulsion was that powerful, he couldn’t resist.’
‘So fixing a bloke up to look like a . . . Chinky princess,’ Burton threw her eyes up to heaven at this but held her peace, ‘makes him feel good . . . fuck. What kind of psycho are we after?’
‘Someone who has been affected by an incident or events in his past life — something that’s had a devastating impact on him, Noakesy.’
‘Watch it, guv, you’re starting to sound like the Prof.’ Noakes scratched his chin in some sort of Pavlovian response to Macfadyen and his beard. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me chummy didn’t get enough cuddles at bedtime or it’s something to do with dodgy potty training.’
‘I don’t like speculative hypothesizing any more than you, Sergeant, but — let’s face it — we’ve got nothing else to go on.’
The DI turned to Burton.
‘Did you glean anything from the residents’ initial statements, Kate?’
Out came the pocketbook.
‘They all turned up at school at more or less the same time, sir. After that, they wandered off to look at displays . . . have a gander at the different departments, that kind of thing.’
‘I didn’t know it was supposed to be open house.’ Markham was startled.
‘Well, Mary Atkins wanted to make it like an open evening. Bit of PR for the school, if you get my drift.’
‘Mighta known it’d be about that self-promoting cow hogging the limelight.’ Noakes was furious. ‘So, thanks to her being a glory-hunter, we’ve got no way of knowing where they all were. Jesus.’
‘Take it easy, sarge, you’ll give yourself a coronary.’ Doyle’s tone was soothing. The DC turned to Burton. ‘Wouldn’t they have had kids going round with the visitors . . . y’know, student guides . . . volunteers?’
‘Theoretically, yes.’ Burton pulled a face. ‘Problem was, not all of them turned up . . . So the reps were spread a bit thin, apparently.’
‘Prob’ly swigging lager behind the bike sheds.’ Noakes had no very high opinion of pupil philanthropy.
‘So, we can’t pin down suspects’ movements?’ The DI’s voice was leaden.
‘’Fraid not, boss,’ Burton said apologetically. ‘They all went off doing their own thing from the sound of it.’ She scanned her notes. ‘Lucy O’Connor and Martin Henley asked to see the science labs . . . fair enough, I suppose, with them being medics. Julian Hoskinson and Simon Gailey fancied a dekko at drama and art—’
‘Hey up,’ Noakes had his hunting-dog face on. ‘Remember what Eileen Ledwidge said about Hoskinson going into meltdown an’ slashing mannequins in the charity shop . . . That studio set-up would be right up his street with all them dummies an’ masks an’ things.’
‘They were able to go into the drama theatre on the main site, but the art block was locked, sarge,’ Burton said. ‘They’d have needed a teacher to let them in.’
‘It was unlocked when we got to it, Kate,’ Markham said.
She blinked. ‘Oh, right . . . maybe one of the teachers forgot.’
‘Or maybe Nutty Boy nicked some keys.’
‘Did anyone see Gailey or Hoskinson hanging round the art annexe, Kate?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, boss. Apparently, they were happy enough looking at the theatre gizmos . . . the lighting box and sound systems. Mat Sullivan offered to take them over to the annexe, but Gailey said not to bother as he had enough on his plate.’
‘Where were Penny Callaghan and Mary Atkins?’
‘Conducting tours of the school . . . kind of everywhere at once.’
‘You mean greasing up to anyone they fancied was important,’ said Noakes with a sour expression.
‘More than likely,’ his colleague said helplessly. ‘Though they had Dan MacAlinden under their wing for some of the time too.’
‘Of course.’ Markham was thoughtful. ‘There was going to be a tribute to Mrs Bussell and Dawn, wasn’t there?’
‘That’s right, sir. Mat Sullivan said it wasn’t too bad actually. Councillor Callaghan kept things fairly dignified . . . Ms Atkins followed her lead, so nothing OTT.’
‘Any chance you could get hold of those speeches for me, Kate? Just on the off-chance there’s something to give us a handle on the two women.’
‘No problem, sir.’ A quick scribble. ‘The head’s PA should be able to help out.’
‘What about Hop-Along?’
This time Burton shut her eyes as if in prayer, but since no response was apparently forthcoming from the deity, she clamped down on any PC cavil.
‘You mean Mr Coleman?’ she said po-faced.
‘Yeah . . . an’ remember that bit of goss about him being
able to walk? Nothing to say he couldn’t have done it if he took Ledwidge by surprise.’
The DI turned to her enquiringly. ‘Kate?’
She looked somewhat flustered. ‘Sounds as if people took it in turns to check Coleman was okay, boss. There was a sixth-former who gave him the guided tour. He wanted to see drama and music, so she left him to it . . . Gailey and Hoskinson were within shouting distance, and anyway he’s used to looking after himself. It’s a power wheelchair he’s got, so he can whiz round no trouble most of the time.’
‘Did he whiz round to the art block, though?’
‘Someone was bound to have noticed if he did, sarge.’ Burton rumpled her bob distractedly. ‘I mean, even if he walked it . . . with that many people around, someone would’ve clocked an abandoned wheelchair . . .’
Noakes pursed his lips. ‘Could’ve parked it in one of them soundproofed little music studios . . . If Hoskinson an’ the rest of ’em were distracted, easy-peasy . . .’
The DI felt a prickle at the base of his spine as he recalled the role Hope Academy’s music rooms had played in a previous investigation. As long as he lived, he would never forget discovering the body of the head’s PA in that airless practice cubicle with the Hummel piano standing next to the wall.
‘D’you think there’s any possibility of narrowing down Coleman’s whereabouts, Kate?’
More ferocious scribbling.
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ A gossamer frown puckered her well-groomed eyebrows. ‘But it was a bit easy come, easy go . . . access all areas.’ Markham could see she was loath to concede Noakes’s point about a glory-hunt, but there was no help for it. ‘I think Mary Atkins and Councillor Callaghan were doing some sort of damage limitation, on account of Mrs Bussell and Dawn having links with the school and ending up dead . . . kind of saying, “we’ve got nothing to hide, move along.”’ She consulted her notes. ‘There’s an Ofsted inspection due any day now. Last night was their way of putting on a show.’
Like the psycho they were chasing.
Markham got up from his desk and moved across to the window.
Swollen with more snow, the cloudy sky seemed almost to crouch closer to the earth. Beyond the car park, Bromgrove’s town centre stretched into the distance, its array of faintly winking Christmas decorations only underscoring the bleakness of the perspective. For the hundredth time that week, the DI wished passionately that he had a view of Hollingrove Park and its ethereal winterscape.
He swung round to face the team.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘Marian Bussell and Dawn MacAlinden are somehow the key to all of this. Their murders were personal . . . keenly desired and planned.’ He pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose in a characteristic gesture of concentration. ‘Those that followed were different. Kenneth Dowell confronted the killer and may have tried blackmail, so he had to die—’
‘Pegging Dowell out though, guv . . . whoever did that got his rocks off making it look like some kind of sicko movie.’
‘True, Noakes. With Dowell, it wasn’t just necessity . . . the killer staged a tableau for some reason.’ The DI’s gaze was remote, as though by a supreme exercise of will, he could enter the mind of a killer. ‘With Stacey, it was more utilitarian. She knew something and he couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut, so he pounced after the memorial service.’
‘Same with Ledwidge, sir,’ Doyle took up the baton eagerly. ‘He guessed something . . . put two and two together . . . challenged the killer . . . came over all pastoral and tried to make him hand himself in.’
‘Yes, like Stacey, he was a threat that had to be eliminated. But, as with Mr Dowell, the killer found himself with room to be . . . inventive.’
Kate Burton’s expression made Markham feel glad she hadn’t witnessed the grotesque desecration of Brian Ledwidge’s corpse, arriving with Doyle only as his sheeted remains were being stretchered off the premises.
‘There’s got to be some . . . well, some sexual hang-up, sir,’ Doyle ventured. ‘If the killer couldn’t resist putting Ledwidge in a woman’s costume . . .’
‘Oh aye.’ Noakes was laconic. ‘Professor Cracker thinks we should be looking for a cross-dressing wooftah.’
Burton didn’t miss a beat. ‘He did say it might point to sexual fetishism with homosexual indicators.’
‘Same difference.’
This time it was Markham who closed his eyes. Unleashing George Noakes on Bromgrove’s ‘alternative’ communities really didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Trouble is none of ’em really fits the bill,’ Noakes observed regretfully. ‘Apart from Julian Hoskinson . . . but it’s not like he digs fancy dress . . . a bit AC/DC, but no one’s said owt about drag.’ The air of magnanimity with which this was uttered had to be heard to be believed. Noakes clearly felt he had scaled the summits of political correctness in making such a concession.
Burton smiled weakly. ‘Well, the consensus at Ducky seems to be that there’s nothing particularly flamboyant about him.’
‘’Sides from him wearing a bangle.’ Noakes wasn’t prepared to abandon his fondly cherished prejudices just yet.
‘Have another word, Kate. And check out a few LGBT dating websites . . . Chris Carstairs might be able to help on this. See what you can find out about that incident in the charity shop . . . maybe Gailey can shed some light.’
‘He’s old-school, sir,’ said Doyle. ‘I tried pumping him about Hoskinson last night, but he wasn’t having any. Coleman neither. They sort of closed ranks.’
‘Fuck it!’ Noakes was so vehement, they all jumped. ‘This is a pigging serial an’ we’ve got five of their friends stiffening in the morgue . . . They can stuff the “after you, Claude” bullshit.’
‘Admirably put, Sergeant.’ Markham’s tone was dry, but he came out strongly for his wingman. ‘This isn’t a time for false delicacy or sparing feelings. I want to put pressure on all of them.’
‘Including Eileen Ledwidge, sir?’
‘Yes but go easy, Kate. Check in with family liaison first . . . kid gloves.’
‘Got it, boss.’ She pretty nearly clicked her heels, Markham noted with amusement.
‘What about tomorrow morning, sir?’ Doyle had no intention of being left out of things.
‘What about it, Constable?’
‘The LGBT demo.’ The big gangling DC looked embarrassed. ‘The DCI wants a stakeout.’
Noakes snorted with derision. ‘That was for his new best friend . . . Trying to impress Macfadyen by giving it Miami Vice an’ all that.’
‘I’d forgotten,’ the DI said flatly. ‘But you’re right, Doyle, we need to be there.’
Another puff and snort, as though Noakes was a train ready to steam away.
Before the locomotive could get properly fired up, Markham said hastily, ‘Mat Sullivan mentioned there were tensions at Hope around LGBT issues . . . Marian Bussell and Dawn MacAlinden got drawn into it all.’
‘That’s right, sir.’ Now Burton was busily riffling through a folder while Noakes and Doyle exchanged dire glances over her shiny chestnut head. ‘Sullivan said there was lots of toxic stuff swirling around . . . parents and locals getting into a state over transgender issues. Mrs Bussell was very hot on individual rights and kids getting to make decisions about their own sexuality . . .’
Markham recalled Julian Hoskinson’s resentment at the ex-teacher’s desire to turn him into a cause.
Burton continued, ‘Dan MacAlinden said Dawn was on the same page as far as LGBT rights were concerned, but she was worried kids were getting rushed into decisions about transitioning before they were ready . . . decided not to make waves about it . . . got back in her box after Lucy O’Connor and Kenneth Dowell more or less told her to shut up.’
Kenneth Dowell, like his neighbour Marian Bussell, had been on the liberal side of the argument. If the killer was indeed sexually conflicted, Markham wondered, why had such progressive types had to die? And then there were the Ledwidges. What was it Hoskinson
had said? ‘Good people but deep down not keen on queers.’ Was the ritual costuming of Ledwidge a defiant two-fingered salute to religious fundamentalists?
He felt a wild urge to be out of the station. To be doing something. The other three watched him expectantly. ‘Noakes, you’re with me. We’ll take Dan MacAlinden and Mary Atkins.’
Burton’s face had fallen, but she brightened when the DI said, ‘You’ll be our diplomat, Kate.’
That’s one word for it, Noakes thought smugly.
‘See where you get with the sexual angle.’ Markham rolled his shoulders, somehow losing none of his dégagé elegance in the process. Observing how Kate Burton’s eyes rested hungrily on the DI’s impressive musculature, enhanced rather than concealed by his immaculately cut pin stripe, Noakes amused himself with various uncharitable reflections on the subject of her fiancé Colin Pugh. A right little no-mark but fluent in tree-hugger BS. He figured Burton must’ve gone for him on the rebound, once she saw there was no hope of anything with the DI.
‘You and Doyle might want to probe into the mystery of the headscarfed female too,’ Markham was issuing instructions. ‘Get a facial composite out of Coslett. And see if it rings a bell with anyone on Chapel Street or Bromgrove Old Road . . . the newsagents or one of the local shops. Take the make-up compact along for good measure . . . one of the locals must have noticed something.’
‘You reckon she’s mixed up in it somehow then, boss?’
The DI wore an expression of brooding intensity. ‘Someone was flitting in and out of the close like a ghost, Constable, and I want to know who.’
‘As in the prowler?’
‘Yes . . . and maybe the poison-pen writer as well.’
‘Given what Professor Macfadyen said about fetishes and the way Mr Ledwidge was . . . dressed up . . . could it be a bloke in drag?’ Burton was hesitant. ‘Doing it as some kind of sexually motivated ritual?’
‘Or mebbe he jus’ wanted to disguise hisself.’ Noakes was scornful. ‘Don’ mean it was owt kinky . . . I mean,’ he scowled portentously, ‘can you honestly see any of that lot going all Mrs Doubtfire . . . ?’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 165