Markham wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the old unreconstructed Noakes as opposed to this ‘woke’ impersonator. From the expression on her face, he guessed Burton felt the same. Doyle merely grinned with lazy tolerance.
Hastily, the DI said, ‘Any luck with Coslett and the locals, Kate?’
Out came the pocketbook and scary glasses.
‘A cashier at Bestway Cash and Carry was pretty sure she’d seen a woman in a headscarf going into the close, though she didn’t get a really good look . . . slight and silver-haired, wearing a Puffa jacket. The scarf looked like it was expensive . . . Liberty or Hermès . . .’
She riffled through the pages and unfolded something paperclipped to the back. ‘We got an e-fit courtesy of Coslett.’
They passed it round.
‘Looks like that Camilla Parker Bowles,’ Noakes snorted, ‘the one who married Prince Charles.’
‘She’s the Duchess of Cornwall these days, sarge.’
‘Whatever . . . same horsey features.’
‘This face isn’t so much horsey as refined . . . good bone structure.’ Markham seemed very struck by it. ‘There’s a resemblance to the girl in Mr MacAlinden’s album.’ And the one the psychic had described.
‘She our prowler then, guv, this Sloaney character?’
‘Feels very much like it, Noakes.’
‘Looks a bit upmarket to be skulking out in the snow spying on folk,’ Doyle ventured.
It was true. Markham looked back at the e-fit. It was the eyes. No hint of madness in them. No hint of the rage that had been stoked for decades.
‘What about the make-up compact — ring any bells?’
‘Oh yes, now that was interesting.’ More riffling. ‘There was a lady at the antiques centre — you know, that nice place behind the tearooms — used to be an old church, then they relocated it brick by brick . . . well, she thought it might’ve come from their stock.’
‘Really?’ Markham’s heart skipped a beat.
Burton hated to deflate him. ‘Problem being, it’s an old-fashioned set-up . . . paper receipts, old-fashioned logbook with a record of purchases, but nothing to identify who bought what . . .’
‘What about credit card sales?’ Doyle could hardly credit the benightedness.
‘Oh, they’ve got the card machine alright, but if someone paid in cash — and apparently most of their customers prefer it — then they just note down the item in the ledger and do a receipt for the amount.’
Noakes was fed up of hearing about this retro blast-from-the-past.
‘So did any of ’em at Antwacky Central remember selling this thing or what?’
‘One of the assistants thought she might’ve made the sale.’
‘Might’ve?’
‘Well, the description in the book was in her handwriting and it matched the compact . . . cloisonné, 1920s Art Deco . . . flapper girl . . . cost a hundred and seventy-five pounds . . . a cash sale.’
‘Did she remember the customer?’ Markham’s tone was eager.
‘Middle-aged woman, she said . . . very Home Counties . . . asked if they had anything in the Egyptian style.’
‘So we’re looking for some bird with a thing for King Tut,’ Noakes said with heavy sarcasm.
Burton checked her notes. ‘She was after something with Isis on it, actually . . .’
The deity with both male and female features.
‘Interested in African tribal art too.’
The Yoruba connection.
‘Anything else on the residents, Kate?’
‘Nothing coming out of the woodwork, sir.’ Despite the attempt at crisp efficiency, her voice was downbeat. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of Councillor Callaghan all day, but the town hall’s giving me the run-around.’
‘Anything new from Dimples or forensics?’
A dispirited shake of the head. Attending the PM on Stacey Macmillan the previous evening had been awful, though seeing her distress Davidson had eased back on the dark humour which was his stock-in-trade on such occasions. Doyle had been uncharacteristically subdued afterwards, as though the sight of that bubbly little woman on the slab was guaranteed to haunt him for days. Neither of them was in a hurry to volunteer for Brian Ledwidge.
‘Once we’ve got someone in the frame, maybe they’ll be able to pinpoint a viable DNA profile . . . At the moment, it’s the usual stuff about cross-contamination and multiple transfers.’
‘Like a freaking stuck record.’ Noakes was sympathetic.
‘The climbing equipment used on Dowell came from Halfords in town, but the e-fit didn’t jog anyone’s memory.’
The DI surveyed his disconsolate team.
‘Any chance the DCI’s magic woman could have another try at contacting Martine?’
Three pairs of eyes were riveted on Doyle who blushed to the roots of his carroty hair.
‘You mean have a séance?’ Noakes sniggered. ‘I c’n see us now . . . sitting in CID with candles an’ a crystal ball . . . an’ Sidney’s fortune teller croaking, “Is anybody there?” We’d never live it down, son.’
Doyle mumbled something inaudible. Markham suspected Noakes’s raillery on the subject was by no means exhausted but cut him off at the pass.
‘Mrs Shaw was very different from what I was expecting, Constable. She had some interesting insights and I may well consult her again.’ That should squelch his number two. ‘In the meantime,’ looking at their wan faces, ‘I suggest we sleep on it.’
Doyle’s dejection lifted.
‘You mean we’re finished for the day, sir?’
‘Well, I imagine you’re not raring to rendezvous with Professor Macfadyen or the DCI,’ Markham said drily. ‘And there’s the LGBT march tomorrow, which means an early start.’ He dredged up an encouraging smile. ‘I suggest you hunker down here for now . . . sift through the witness statements, have a brainstorm.’ And avoid Sidney. ‘There’ll be another press conference either tomorrow or Sunday, so before you clock off why not prepare a summary of,’ here his tone became ironic, ‘progress to date.’
‘I’ll make a brew,’ Doyle said with alacrity, casting a wary glance at Burton who was clearly itching to get stuck into her beloved spreadsheets.
The DI raised an eyebrow at Noakes. ‘A quick word, Sergeant . . .’
Outside, it was bitterly cold with something almost metallic in the air.
‘You look done in, guv. Are you sure about me an’ the missus coming round for our tea?’
‘Absolutely, Noakes. If we don’t make an effort, our other halves will desert us for better quarters.’
The DS laughed dutifully, relieved that the guvnor was cracking one of his weirdy jokes. It meant he wasn’t beaten yet.
* * *
Olivia rose wonderfully to the challenge of preparing a dinner for four from scratch, cheerfully decanting a family-size Waitrose macaroni cheese from its foil container into an oven tray. ‘I’m going to pretend it’s home-made, so don’t let me down, Gil.’
‘Perish the thought.’ As an afterthought, ‘Any chips with that? You know what Noakesy’s like.’
‘There’s some triple-cooked in the freezer,’ she replied, ‘and Cartmel sticky toffee pudding. I’ll do a salad too and you can rustle up a cheeseboard . . . hopefully that’ll distract Muriel from George’s gallant attempts to eat himself into an early grave!’
Markham chuckled. ‘I’ll be sure to keep her well plied with Merlot . . . that ought to help.’
‘Oh, she’ll be so busy drooling over you that the rest of us won’t get a look-in,’ his lover said with some asperity.
Markham slid an arm round her waist. ‘Thanks for this, dearest. I know Muriel isn’t the easiest.’
‘She can’t stand me, Gil. But,’ with her head mischievously on one side, ‘I will just have to follow Oscar Wilde’s advice: “Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.”’
A burst of laughter concluded the exchange.
* * *
In the event, their e
vening passed smoothly enough. Muriel Noakes kept her claws sheathed and even threw out the odd compliment to Olivia, admittedly of the double-edged variety but surprising for all that. ‘With your figure, you can get away with anything,’ was one such gem, accompanied by a complacent glance at the knitted tangerine two-piece brought out to dazzle Noakes’s charming boss.
She’ll be bitching about make-do-and-mend hippies with those cats at the Women’s Guild, her hostess thought wrathfully as Muriel looked up at Markham through heavily mascaraed eyelashes like some monstrous reincarnation of Barbara Cartland. But then, seeing how Noakes basked in his wife’s dodgy affectations, glowing with misplaced pride at her dubious allure, Olivia bit down on any waspish sallies.
They were enjoying the cheeseboard when Muriel said, ‘I didn’t realize Margery Bastin’s former solicitor is one of your suspects, Gilbert.’
‘Who might that be, Muriel?’
‘Simon Gailey.’ She gave a coquettish simper, as though piquing him on a rival’s charms. ‘Such a sweetheart. And so knowledgeable about all kinds of subjects. Cynthia Alderman says they never had such a good talk as he gave to their women’s group in Medway last year. What that man doesn’t know about vintage jewellery . . . He could give the Antiques Roadshow a run for their money.’
Markham was suddenly very still. ‘I didn’t know Mr Gailey’s interests were so wide-ranging.’
‘Oh yes. And so distinguished-looking . . . those silver wings of hair and cheekbones to die for . . . like one of those silent movie stars.’
She babbled on. But it was as though a veil had fallen between them and he could not hear the rest for the clamour in his brain.
Simisola.
Simi.
Simon Gailey.
‘Guv.’ Noakes was looking at him in consternation, alarmed by his boss’s pallor.
‘It’s alright, George.’ Markham stood up. ‘We need to get back to the station right now.’ He bowed slightly. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, ladies. Duty calls.’
‘I’ll get your coat.’
Out in the hallway, Olivia leaned into him.
‘What is it, Gil?’
‘I know, Liv. I know who the killer is!’
14. Beyond Anyone’s Reach
‘Nah, guv.’ Noakes was obdurate. ‘Not Gailey. I mean . . . if you’d said Julian — sorry, Jules — Hoskinson, I might buy it . . . But you’re barking up the wrong tree. Gailey’s kosher . . . respectable solicitor . . . plays dominoes with the vicar, for God’s sake.’
‘Mah-jong.’
‘Same difference. Anyway, we’ve all seen him . . . good-looking bloke for his age an’ nice with it . . . everyone likes him . . . used to visit Marian Bussell an’ all. Nah.’ The DS wasn’t having it. ‘No way Sidney’ll wear this . . . not to mention Professor Fanakerpan.’
Markham had hurriedly convened a council of war in CID. The outer office was deserted, a trail of half-eaten mince pies and assorted sweet treats providing clear evidence that their fellow officers had started the weekend early. Everywhere was hushed and still. Only a cleaner, dull-eyed and incurious, moved from desk to desk emptying bins and wiping surfaces.
‘What makes you think it’s Gailey, sir?’ Burton asked cautiously.
‘Something one of my neighbours said this evening about Gailey giving a talk to the local women’s group about vintage jewellery.’
Instinctively, the DI knew not to mention that the Noakeses had been dining at The Sweepstakes. Hearing that her fellow DS had such privileged access would only hurt Kate Burton. Noakes, quick on the uptake, understood and said nothing.
‘So he knows about antiques, boss,’ Doyle too was unconvinced. ‘But that’s not unusual, is it? Retired . . . money to burn . . . er, cultured.’ He didn’t dare look at Noakes whose lips were forming the word poofy.
‘It was the way my . . . friend . . . spoke about him.’
Markham was finding it difficult to articulate how things had suddenly crystallized in his mind.
‘She was talking about his matinée idol looks — almost as though he was Rudolph Valentino — said he was like a silent movie star. And I remembered looking at Gailey during the memorial service . . . thinking there was something classical, almost Grecian, about his profile . . . those wings of silver hair swept back from the temples . . . It hit me suddenly that he was the spit of that fey-looking girl in Dan MacAlinden’s photograph album.’
Rudolph Valentino. Grecian profile. Silver wings. Christ, the guvnor couldn’t be having a mid-life crisis, could he? The way he was talking, it sounded like he was thinking of batting for the other side. And where did that leave Olivia . . .
‘Easy, Noakesy.’ Markham could read him like a book. ‘This DI’s not for turning. Nothing like that.’
Beetroot-red, Noakes muttered, ‘I didn’t mean ter imply . . . It’s jus’ . . .’
‘I know, I know.’ His sudden panegyric about Gailey’s charisma had taken them by surprise.
Noakes had found his second wind. ‘Okay, so Gailey’s got a touch of the Fred Astaire about him . . . don’ make him a murderer,’ he said stubbornly.
‘I think Gailey is a transgender male, Noakes . . . one who passionately wishes he could revert to his former state.’
Complete silence for several minutes.
‘But why, guv?’ Noakes was genuinely trying to understand. ‘Why’d he — she — want to cross over in the first place?’
‘It’s likely we’ll never know, Sergeant.’ The DI’s face darkened momentarily. ‘Perhaps she was sexually abused as a child. Or maybe for a time she just felt she’d been born into the wrong body . . . wanted for whatever reason to become a different person . . . take on a different identity.’
Noakes swallowed hard.
‘D’you reckon she went the full monty then, guv?’ He looked embarrassedly at Kate Burton whose composure was impenetrable. ‘Got a set of the full tackle?’
‘Mary Atkins said Martine opted to seek surgical treatment . . . so it sounds like the full female-to-male transition did pan out. It just didn’t make him happy.’
‘An’ then . . . he wanted to . . . cross back?’ Noakes ruffled his hair wildly, so that it stood up in all directions, the wayward tufts ample testament to his confusion.
‘I think he wanted to reverse it, yes. But he couldn’t wave a magic wand—’
‘Or maybe he was afraid detransitioning would be even more harrowing than the first lot of surgery.’ Burton was starting to come round to the theory.
‘What a frigging mess.’ Despite himself, Noakes was sympathetic. ‘Imagine living like that . . . not knowing if you’re animal, vegetable or mineral . . .’
It was an odd way of putting it, but the DS was now so far out of his comfort zone as to be practically on another planet, therefore allowances needed to be made.
Doyle pressed, ‘But what about the alibis. Weren’t Gailey’s solid?’
‘Weak for Mrs Bussell and Ms MacAlinden.’ With Burton it was a case of virtually instant recall. ‘Over at the Ledwidges playing cards or whatever, but that finished around three and then he was just watching telly.’
‘What about the others, Kate?’
Ms Spreadsheet happily obliged. ‘For Dowell, he was supposedly tucked up in bed — so worth zilch. With Stacey, there was a window of opportunity before the residents headed off down Chapel Street . . . Could’ve done Ledwidge too . . . with the end-of-term chaos at Hope, people were floating about no questions asked.’
‘Didn’t you say Gailey went round drama and music with Hoskinson, sarge?’ Doyle’s expression was intent as he wrestled with the coordinates.
‘The concert started at half eight.’ Concentration puckered Burton’s brow. ‘Before that, there was the open-evening arrangement with visitors pretty much free to roam. And folk from the close joined in . . . looking at different departments, touring classrooms, admiring kids’ work, that kind of thing.’ She traced concentric circles on Markham’s desk with her fingertips, rea
soning it through. ‘Now, we know Ledwidge arrived early—’
‘To meet the killer.’
‘That’s right, sarge . . . The killer knew Ledwidge had suddenly recognized him at Eileen’s tea party and sent a text suggesting they met up at Hope . . . When Ledwidge got that text, he raced straight off to the school . . . If the killer had somehow blagged his way in, he could have done the business, waited until the open evening got underway and then blended in with everyone else . . . When Gailey popped up in drama and music, people most likely assumed he’d been there all along or wandered over from another part of the building . . . No one’d realize he’d been hidden away in the art block all that time . . .’
Doyle frowned. ‘You could say the same for the rest of them, though . . . I mean, no one’s sure who arrived when cos that receptionist didn’t bother with the signing-in book and just swiped folk through.’
Dopey bint, thought Noakes.
Burton sighed. ‘Yes . . . None of the residents’ faces meant anything to her and we drew a blank with the student volunteers. So there’s nothing to say one of the others couldn’t have pulled it off . . . met Ledwidge, killed him and then melted back into the crowd.’
‘I don’t think it was any of the others.’ Markham’s voice was quietly certain. ‘Jeff Coleman would have attracted too much attention—’
‘Yeah, too bleeding risky him having a Lazarus moment an’ legging it to the art block,’ Noakes agreed.
‘Whoever made that appointment with Ledwidge had the confidence — the chutzpah — to count on being able to smooth-talk his way into the school.’
Such a sweetheart. Muriel Noakes’s words echoed in Markham’s ears.
‘I don’t see Julian Hoskinson having the presence of mind for that, but Gailey is suave.’ There was something infectious about the DI’s enthusiasm. ‘I believe he wangled his way inside somehow, then slipped into the art block, laid his hands on a set of keys . . . or, most likely, found the annexe unlocked and sneaked inside before texting Ledwidge to say where he was.’
‘What about the doc or lover boy . . . What’s to say they didn’t think of it?’ Noakes’s tone conveyed the impression that where Martin Henley was concerned, anything was possible.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 168