‘Yes, I’m wondering if there wasn’t some sort of emotional rupture that could have scarred a vulnerable teenager.’
‘But where does Mrs B fit in?’ Noakes sounded genuinely bewildered. ‘Did she put her oar in . . . keep ’em apart or summat?’ Grizzled head on one side, he added, ‘Feels a bit thin, boss — even if the whole heartbreak hotel story fits with what Mrs Thing said about seeing this girl dripping blood an’ the rest.’
‘Agreed.’ Markham was thoughtful, his eyes remote. He was suddenly aware of how bitterly cold it was. If they waited here in the car park much longer, they must surely become rooted to the spot.
‘There was something about those pictures,’ he mused. ‘That girl’s features seemed . . . well, familiar . . . I could swear I’ve seen her, or someone very like her, quite recently.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Noakes stamped his feet to get the circulation moving. ‘Where?’
‘That’s just it . . . I can’t nail it down . . . But I know I’ve seen that face, Noakesy, I just know it.’
The DI came to a decision. ‘Let’s head to Hope. See if we can refresh Ms Atkins’ memory.’
‘I can’t wait to see how she reacts when we tell her ’bout Ledwidge’s panto get-up,’ his sergeant said happily.
* * *
In the event, the assistant head’s horror was everything Noakes had hoped for, though at a look from Markham, he refrained from any embellishment of the basic facts.
They were sitting in the well-appointed, comfortable office that had once belonged to Helen Kavanagh, whose memory was lamented by nobody. The DS couldn’t help reflecting that Atkins had bagged a much cosier berth than Mat Sullivan — a perk of her caring responsibilities, no doubt. There was something about the room’s chintzy frills and flounces that reminded him of the rape victim suite back at the station. At least the tea was good and she didn’t stint on the biscuits — they’d missed out on those at Dan MacAlinden’s and it was getting on for elevenses.
Mary Atkins, however, had little appetite for the chocolate bourbons, looking as if they had turned to sawdust in her mouth. The ringing shouts of children in the background, happily rampaging at their break, offered an eerie soundtrack to the detective’s stark account of their discovery the previous night.
‘I know how important the school’s reputation is to you, Ms Atkins,’ Markham said kindly. ‘And I can imagine how careful you must have to be when it comes to disclosing information, what with safeguarding and confidentiality being such a minefield.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘But five innocent people are dead . . . We need to apprehend whoever is doing this.’ In other words, time to ditch your scruples and come onside.
The woman just stared at them slack-jawed, her usual bombast and platitudes gone.
‘Look, luv,’ Noakes waded in. ‘Your mate Mat told us you know everything about everything . . . finger on the pulse an’ all that. He said if anyone c’n help with background stuff, it’s you.’ Might as well give Sullivan a leg up the promotion ladder. Perhaps he could even wangle a decent office out of it.
Something about Noakes’s avuncular bonhomie (and flattery) unblocked Atkins’ tongue. But her next words were totally unexpected.
‘I think it’s someone who transitioned,’ she said.
Noakes froze, a biscuit halfway to his mouth, before regaining his sangfroid. ‘As in, had the op, luv?’
Mutely, she nodded.
‘Was it a lad or a lass?’
Her voice sounded almost rusty as she replied, ‘A female student.’
‘Er, right.’ The DS cleared his throat. Didn’t want the guvnor regretting he didn’t have Kate Burton there to handle the sensitive stuff. ‘So she . . . went an’ had the hormones . . . ?’ He gestured awkwardly to his torso. ‘Got her bits an’ bobs chopped off . . . ?’
If the context hadn’t been so serious, Noakes’s attempt to signal his nonchalance would have been funny, since it was clear he hadn’t the foggiest what was involved in the process.
‘Well, radical surgery like that comes further down the line, Sergeant.’ At least Noakes’s ignorance was helpful inasmuch as it resulted in Atkins finding her voice. She just couldn’t resist the opportunity to impart her knowledge. ‘It starts with counselling about being in the wrong body, with chest binders and other interventions before they move on to the physical treatment . . . puberty suppressants and cross-sex hormones.’
Noakes was looking distinctly queasy, but he gamely ploughed on. ‘Thass a good thing, right? Cos they might not be sure about it . . .’ Desperately, he tried to remember some of the psychology Burton regularly inflicted on them. ‘They might be autistic or summat . . . Or it could jus’ be a phase . . . Mebbe they don’ like the way they look . . . Or mebbe they get upset when some lad knocks ’em back.’ It was touching to watch Noakes, red-faced and way out of his comfort zone, endeavouring to show he wasn’t transphobic. ‘Could even be they’ve read summat on the internet makes them think it’s a good idea . . . Or p’raps they’re just gay . . .’
Before the DS could get on to the subject of hysterical rectomies, thereby undoing whatever progress he was making in the assistant head’s good opinion, Markham interjected, ‘And, of course, there could be any number of background issues . . . sexual abuse, for example.’
He did not see the deeply compassionate look Noakes shot him, unaware that the other had long since intuited those demons from his boss’s troubled childhood.
‘That’s quite true, Inspector.’ A shadow crossed the woman’s face. ‘It’s such a momentous decision to change gender . . . And I don’t need to tell you there’ve been major concerns about young people being rushed into setting out on that path . . .’
‘Did something like that happen at Hope?’ Markham prompted gently. ‘Was a pupil encouraged by someone on your staff to believe she was really a boy . . . maybe even pushed towards having surgery?’
The assistant head took a shaky breath. ‘Look, Inspector . . . I wasn’t here at the time . . . But I believe there was a case like that.’ In a flat monotone, she recited, ‘There were behaviour issues . . . intense one-on-one friendships with girls that invariably ended in tears. The girl in question had difficulty accepting their romantic interest in boys.’ Nervously, Mary Atkins plucked at her lanyard before continuing, ‘She became obsessed with the idea that she was different, ugly . . . and out of that came the idea that she was in the wrong body — a classic case of body dysphoria.’
‘And the teacher behind it?’ Markham was gentle but inexorable. ‘Was it Marian Bussell?’
‘As I understand it — and, look, we’re talking about years ago — there were quite a few teachers caught up in the . . . well, the excitement round children’s rights. It sort of came out of their awareness of the way minority groups had been treated as second-class citizens . . . tapped into that sense of injustice and all the new psychology springing up around sexual difference.’
‘But the teachers weren’t trans activists as we would understand the term?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that. They were just well-meaning people like Marian who made it their hobby horse. Quite naïve most of them.’
Markham recalled the story of Marian Bussell’s cousin — the one she had lost to suicide — but merely gestured to Atkins to continue.
‘I believe Marian became close to this girl . . . counselled her and that kind of thing.’ Impatiently, she burst out, ‘Of course, nowadays there’d be other professionals involved . . . no question of well-meaning teachers going it alone. But at the time . . .’ Mary Atkins looked wretched. ‘I don’t know how it all ended, but I do know the then-head was uneasy — the parents had complained — and he put a stop to it when she was in the sixth form.’
‘Did she complete her schooling . . . go on to university?’
‘Oh yes, she was very bright. Read English at Leeds.’
‘But she still went ahead an’ got the makeover . . . changed into a man?’ Noakes wanted to be clear about th
is part.
‘I heard on the grapevine she followed that route then later regretted it and wanted to change back. But something went wrong with that . . . and afterwards, she more or less went under the radar.’
But she’s back, thought Markham. She’s back.
‘We need a name for this student, Ms Atkins.’
The assistant head had recovered her self-possession.
‘Martine Simisola Knowlson.’
‘Simisola?’ Noakes looked bewildered. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘A Yoruba name. The family had African connections . . . but she must’ve quite liked it. Called herself Simi.’ Mary Atkins hesitated. ‘I would imagine she goes by a different name these days.’
‘You don’t know if she resumed contact with Marian Bussell at any point?’
‘I doubt it . . . If it’s true that she wanted to detransition, then she may well have blamed Marian for what happened . . . I suspect Marian later came to view the whole transgender debate differently, but by then it was too late.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about this, Ms Atkins? You must have realized it could be significant.’
‘But that’s just it.’ More twisting of the lanyard. ‘It only dawned on me gradually . . . I got some ranty correspondence but put it down to bigoted parents who objected to our curriculum being so progressive.’
That’s one word for it, thought Noakes dourly.
‘I didn’t even know about Martine — Simi — until I went looking in student records. The files are pretty rudimentary going that far back so I had to ask around and, to be honest, people were reluctant to talk about it.’ She pulled a face. ‘Particularly given all the hostility we’re facing at the moment with our pastoral initiatives . . . I mean, it doesn’t help to be reminded how we got it so badly wrong back in the day.’ She looked at the two men, as though imploring them to understand. ‘And anyway, it seemed so far-fetched . . . Plus Councillor Callaghan said it was almost certainly an ex-mental patient with no connection to the school.’
The detectives exchanged looks, mentally consigning that interfering functionary to the furthermost circle of hell.
‘I’m sorry.’ There was a new humility about the woman that made her almost likeable.
‘What about Dawn MacAlinden?’ Noakes wasn’t letting her off the hook just yet.
‘Well, that was another reason why I didn’t think there could be any connection with . . . ancient history. Dawn was just a schoolgirl at the time . . . no involvement in all the drama surrounding Martine.’
‘You referred to “intense friendships with girls that ended in tears”.’ Markham watched her closely. ‘So Martine’s relationships with female classmates were clearly volatile . . . Had she been spurned or rejected by Dawn, it would have intensified her feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred.’
Atkins’ hamster cheeks visibly paled. ‘You mean, she seethed about something like that all those years and then killed Dawn for it?’
‘Yes,’ the DI said simply.
‘But Dawn had no part in pushing her to change sex. In some ways, I felt she was on the other side of the argument from Marian. She was worried about the huge numbers of girls wanting to be boys and the way hormone blockers were being handed out willy-nilly . . . said people were ignoring things like normal adolescent angst . . .’
‘Who can say what happens in a disordered mind, Ms Atkins? Hatred of the woman Martine held responsible for ruining her life could have fused with deep resentment of that teenage classmate who refused to accept her for who she was . . . Somehow they became interchangeable.’
‘But that’s monstrous.’ Her hands were shaking. ‘Monstrous.’
‘Not really, luv.’ Noakes’s voice was kind. ‘When you think how muddled kids are at that age . . . all over the place really while they sort themselves out.’ It was the father in him speaking. Privately, he could only thank his lucky stars their Nat knew what was what. No messing about with any of this wrong-body hoo-ha. ‘Like the guvnor says, who knows what happened in this lass’s brain . . . Summat screwy, that’s for sure.’
‘But waiting all those years for revenge . . . I mean, she must have stalked them . . .’ The assistant teacher sounded tremulous. ‘Are you positive about this, Inspector?’
‘It’s a scenario that I think explains some of the . . . features in these murders.’
Not least the freaking kimono thingy and Mikado mask Ledwidge was wearing.
‘You didn’t keep any of those abusive letters you received?’ Markham asked.
‘No, I got rid . . . didn’t want them around.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ Markham murmured, inwardly cursing the loss of evidence.
‘We’ve beefed up security on site,’ she said desperately.
Not before time, Noakes’s expression seemed to say.
‘Do you think she — he might come back here?’
‘I’d say it’s unlikely but,’ a thought struck him, ‘the LGBT demo will be taking place outside school tomorrow, won’t it?’
‘They won’t be allowed onto our campus, but yes. The demo is scheduled to come past the cemetery and then along Beaconsfield Road at the bottom of the school drive.’
‘Angry parents and suchlike?’
‘Protestors from both sides most likely.’ Clearly about as welcome to the beleaguered assistant head as a cold cup of sick.
‘Try not to fret, luv. I mean, look at the weather . . . mebbe some of ’em’ll get cold feet.’ Enchanted with his pun, Noakes repeated, ‘yeah, cold feet . . . Or p’raps they’ll slope off an’ do some Crimbo shopping an’ leave your lot in peace.’
She didn’t look particularly reassured by either of these helpful hypotheses.
‘Course there’s free speech an’ all that . . . They’ve got a right to protest, after all.’ The DS was keen to demonstrate his understanding of democratic processes, though the way he sniffed as he made this observation suggested he might not be a card-carrying libertarian.
‘There will be a police presence, Ms Atkins,’ Markham was swift to interpose. ‘Plain clothes as well as uniformed . . . But in the meantime, I’d ask you to keep the personnel on site to a minimum and take no unnecessary risks.’
* * *
‘She’s not gonna sleep a wink tonight,’ Noakes observed comfortably as they left the school after exchanging some stilted pleasantries. ‘Imagining this Martine one coming for her.’
They had reached the car.
‘Look, guv, are we deffo going with this?’ Noakes dropped his keys and then dove into the snow for them with a flurry of expletives. ‘I mean, we can’t jus’ come out an’ start asking folks if they’re a tranny!’
Markham waited till they were seated in the car and he felt some faint warmth suffusing his toes before replying, ‘Transsexual please, Noakes. And no, that’s not likely to achieve anything.’ Except a slew of complaints to Sidney. ‘Back to base,’ he said knuckling his eyes wearily. ‘Who knows, Kate and Doyle may have something for us . . .’
We need a break in this case, he thought. And we need it now.
The car passed by Bromgrove South Municipal Cemetery on the other side of the school drive, its snowbound sleepers oblivious of the wickedness that flourished all around them . . .
Noakes was huffing and puffing over the steering wheel, as though in contrapuntal dialogue with his wheezing Fiesta.
Markham felt a great wave of affection for his lumbering number two.
‘How are you and the lady wife fixed for tonight?’ he enquired. ‘Got any plans, or do you fancy taking pot luck with me and Olivia?’
‘Nowt special, guv,’ came the reply. Noakes knew that any previous arrangement would be readily jettisoned for the chance to dine with Gilbert.
‘Excellent. That’s settled then . . . Let’s say eight-ish.’
Olivia would kill him for the short notice, but the DI needed Noakes close at hand. And with it being Friday night, churlish not to include Muriel.
* * *
Back at the incident room, they found Burton and Doyle. The latter looked somewhat glassy-eyed, hailing their arrival with a relief that suggested he’d had about as much as he could take of his colleague’s diagrams and bar charts.
‘Nothing stands out from the carol concert speeches, sir,’ Burton said earnestly. ‘Nothing controversial . . . just a string of clichés.’
That figured.
‘Well, Kate, I think we may finally be getting somewhere.’
Without preamble, the DI brought them up to date on developments.
By the time he had finished, the young DC’s eyes were out on stalks.
‘Bloody hell, boss . . . But no one here fits the bill. And anyway,’ his response was an echo of Mary Atkins’, ‘that means they must’ve been building up to it for years. How could anyone manage to live like that? It’d send you nuts . . .’
‘Thass the whole point,’ Noakes said with a superior expression. ‘Them being a nutcase.’
Burton said thoughtfully, ‘Slow-burn for the longest time . . . and then whoosh!’
Gazing wistfully at her trusty Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, she longed to start brandishing the psychological precedents for such a personality. But neither Doyle nor Noakes wanted to encourage her in this, so instead she asked, ‘Could we be looking for a relative of this Martine . . . a family member affected by what happened . . . looking for revenge?’
‘Yeah, I said it could be a rellie,’ Noakes said loftily. ‘What with none of ’em here being a tranny — sorry,’ with magnificent condescension to Burton, he corrected himself, ‘transsexualist.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 167