Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

‘I’m not so sure it’s fantasy, Noakes.’ As Markham placed his hand upon a manila file, Noakes was struck by his boss’s suddenly careworn expression.

  ‘That the report from Children’s Services then, Guv?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Markham pinched his nose as if to ward off a migraine. ‘It seems there were some safeguarding concerns raised in an ISI Inspection a while ago after children reported having nightmares about a hooded figure in the dormitories. The inspectors didn’t make a big deal out of it – dispensed the usual bland advice about TV and internet access needing to be more strictly monitored, blah-blah.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Noakes sounded doubtful. ‘You think they didn’t take it seriously enough?’

  ‘Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, Sergeant. The inspection took place a year or so before those two students absconded … stories about a night-time prowler take on a more sinister hue in retrospect.’

  ‘Child Protection didn’t get involved then?’

  ‘No.’ Markham sighed. ‘Maybe with St Mary’s being a choir school there was an assumption that students would be more “temperamental” than your average Tom, Dick and Harry … so it didn’t set any alarm bells ringing and there wasn’t any official follow-up as such.’

  ‘Any connection with the matron’s disappearing act? Irene something or other—’

  ‘Irene Hummles. Could well be, Noakes. Apparently, she would have been the youngsters’ first port of call for advice and support. The pastoral side of things was mainly down to her.’

  Markham appeared to have come to a decision.

  ‘I think we need to speak to the new matron. That’s assuming they appointed someone.’

  ‘Cynthia said Alex Sharpe’s wife Kate stepped into the breach. She’s still doing the job apparently.’

  ‘Ah, a de facto appointment. Guess it makes sense with him being Director of Music,’ Markham acknowledged.

  Noakes thought back over his visit to St Mary’s. ‘The boys didn’t seem very keen on Sharpe,’ he commented, ‘but they had to admit he’s a brilliant musician. In fairness to the man, he’s probably had it tough what with the last principal breathing down his neck the whole time.’ The DS chuckled. ‘Sharpe doesn’t stand any monkey business from the boys, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Just as well. I had the impression Nat and Julian were in danger of being spoiled by Cynthia and the canon.’

  Noakes was meditative. ‘Woodcourt’s a stand up guy … for a sky pilot.’ He scratched his head. ‘Could have sworn I’ve seen him some place before … can’t think where.’ He gave up chasing the fugitive memory and added, ‘Nat’s a nice little fella. Couldn’t get a handle on Julian. Dreamy-looking, bit of a bookworm too. But handy with his fists apparently. Cynthia told me he’s proper protective of Nat – watches over him and fights his battles as though they were brothers.’

  Markham thought back to his first sight of Julian in the visitors’ parlour. Olivia had said the boy put her in mind of a portrait seen in a gallery, ‘Unknown Young Nobleman’; that he looked as though he belonged in a mysterious, cypress-shaded Renaissance city where doubleted gallants lived hard and died young. Certainly, there was an aloofness, as though his thoughts were turned inward upon some dark conundrum that he did not choose to share.

  The DI recalled his thoughts to the present. ‘Yes, that’s a very close bond between the two lads,’ he said gravely. ‘Rudderless little souls, but it looks like each has found an anchor in the other.’

  It was clear to Noakes that something about Nat and Julian had struck an answering chord with his boss. He wondered idly if Markham had any thoughts of fatherhood. Thirty-one or two, wasn’t he? What could be holding him back? Noakes vaguely recalled hearing canteen gossip about ‘a tough childhood’ but, by some unspoken compact, he and the guvnor had never exchanged life stories. Probably all the better for their working relationship.

  He became aware that Markham was addressing him.

  ‘If I could intrude upon your valuable time, Detective.’ There was a decided edge to the DI’s tone. ‘I said we need to get back to St Mary’s. I want to see Kate Sharpe and then take a closer look at the main building.’

  ‘Isn’t that just flats for Woodcourt and Sharpe plus some offices?’ Noakes noticed that Markham’s eyes were glittering with a peculiar intensity. What the hell was he driving at?

  ‘There are attics too, Noakes, apparently disused. Do you remember our chat with Canon Woodcourt about that painting … “The Forty Martyrs’’?’

  Noakes was nonplussed. ‘Sure. The one with the saints who’d been executed for being Catholics. Pretty rum, I thought, showing ’em all together like they were at a party.’

  ‘Never mind all that!’ Markham was peremptory. ‘Do you recall asking Woodcourt about one saint in particular?’

  Noakes’s brow cleared. ‘You mean the fellow who built the secret rooms and hidey holes?’

  ‘The very one!’ Markham thumped the desk for emphasis.

  ‘Don’t you see, Noakes,’ he continued intently, ‘there could be concealed hiding places. Woodcourt mentioned rumours of a priest hole at St Mary’s when he said that parts of the site go back to Elizabethan times.’

  Noakes looked sceptical. ‘Are you expecting to find another body, Guv?’

  ‘Yes,’ was the grim response. ‘I have a feeling that Irene Hummles may never have left St Mary’s. Olivia asked about the matron’s quarters when the boys gave her the grand tour. Julian said the matron used to live on the top floor of the main building until she “went away”.’

  ‘But wasn’t there a full investigation when the woman disappeared? Surely they’d have turned the place over.’

  Markham pulled another manila file towards him, his lips a thin line.

  ‘Looking at the case papers, I have a feeling the search was rather superficial.’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘DCI Sidney – DI Sidney he was then – seems to have been keen to save the cathedral authorities and Sir Philip Soames undue embarrassment, particularly in view of previous extensive coverage about missing students.’

  Noakes might have guessed it! Typical Slimy Sid. No way was he going to put posh folks’ noses out of joint as he slithered up the greasy pole! Aloud he said, ‘We’re not doing an official search then, Guv?’

  Markham grimaced. ‘This is under the radar, Noakes. Call it copper’s hunch… Discovery of the bodies at the grottoes got me thinking about unsolved mysteries connected with St Mary’s. Irene Hummles apparently vanished into thin air four years ago. But she took nothing with her—’

  ‘So, not setting up a new life,’ pondered Noakes, ‘or faking her own death.’

  Markham shook his head. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Could it have been suicide?’

  ‘Highly probable given the depression and drinking. But they never found a body and – get this, Noakes – she’d made an appointment to see a counsellor at the Health Centre’s Addiction Clinic on the very same day she disappeared.’

  ‘Sounds like she’d turned a corner,’ conceded Noakes, ‘so why top herself?’

  ‘Exactly! The timing’s all wrong. So you see, Noakes, I think she’s still there.’ Markham shivered even though it was stuffy and close in his little office. ‘As if,’ he said slowly, ‘a seam in the backdrop of one of those paintings had opened, drawn her in and closed, without leaving so much as a mended tear in the canvas.’

  ‘Creepy,’ agreed the DS with feeling.

  ‘Let’s go, there’s no time to be lost!’

  Alex Sharpe’s better half was an unprepossessing woman. The Princess Diana hairstyle – superabundance of frosted highlights – couldn’t compensate for protuberant eyes, doughy complexion and sad, downturned mouth. Her voice was equally dull, a low contralto without inflexion. As Markham shook hands, he caught a distinct whiff of alcohol, sherry at a guess. For all that she dressed the part of the school matron – calf-length, plum-coloured corduroy skirt and prim white blouse with pie-crust collar – there was the sense of troubled water
s.

  Markham’s eyes exchanged telegrams with Noakes’s. They’re not very lucky with their pastoral team.

  The Sharpes’ flat too was depressing. Furnished as impersonally as a Premier Inn hotel room, the living room had no charm or character, no cosy little touches to indicate that the space was truly lived in. Just chintzy frills and flounces, lurid spongy carpet and anodyne chocolate-box pictures on the eau de nil walls.

  Mrs Sharpe droned on colourlessly about Irene Hummles, giving no clue whatsoever as to the character of the woman. For all the surface monotony of the recital, however, there were signs of repressed tension in the way Kate Sharpe’s fingers kept restlessly pleating and unpleating a fold of her voluminous skirt.

  At the mention of Nat and Julian, a look of genuine affection glanced across her features so that, for a fleeting instant, she looked almost pretty. Her hands too were momentarily stilled, but immediately afterwards the nervous fidgeting resumed with redoubled vigour. Something was troubling her, but what?

  Eventually, Markham gave Noakes the look that meant, Come on, we’re getting nowhere fast. Let’s wrap this up.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Sharpe.’ Noakes did his best to force some conviction into the statement.

  Markham took pity on his subordinate. With equally false bonhomie, he said, ‘I believe Nat and Julian gave Noakes here the full VIP treatment.’

  A blank look greeted this sally.

  God, she was heavy weather!

  ‘I mean, they took him into pretty much every nook and cranny. A comprehensive tour eh, Noakes?’

  It was the DS’s cue.

  ‘Actually, sir, we didn’t get around to this part of the site. Julian mentioned some spooky attics or some such but there wasn’t time.’ He smiled winningly at the lumpen woman opposite. ‘Any chance of you showing us what’s up there, Mrs Sharpe?’

  Kate Sharpe turned so white that Markham thought she was going to faint. Instinctively, he put out a hand to steady her. Guiding her to the sofa, he asked, ‘Are you feeling quite all right, Mrs Sharpe?’

  ‘I’m getting over the flu, Inspector.’ She laughed shakily. ‘Probably a case of too much Night Nurse.’

  One thing was clear. No way was she going to accompany the two men. No way was she going to climb the stairs to the attics.

  In that instant, Markham knew with absolute certainty that he was on the right track.

  The two officers emerged onto the landing outside the Sharpes’ flat. On the other side of the main staircase was a door with a neat name-plate indicating Canon Woodcourt’s residence. To the left of the Sharpes’ apartment, a narrow flight of stairs led to the upper regions. The next floor up seemed innocuous enough – offices for the accountant and PA to the principal, and a little kitchenette from which came the clatter of teacups and a cheery hum of voices. Easy, then, for Markham and Noakes to slip unobtrusively past, continuing up the stairs to the floor above.

  The door to the attic floor was unlocked. What lay beyond was disappointingly ordinary. Nothing to see save broad transoms in a musty, cobwebby space. A grimy skylight afforded the only natural light. Great louring clouds passed across the dormer like a dark hand before a face, blotting out even that feeble illumination.

  A half-hearted attempt had been made to convert Irene Hummles’ former flat to office space, but clearly the dormer was unused, loose wires trailing along ill-fitting skirting boards. Dreary porridge-grey carpeting covered the uneven floorboards.

  Markham and Noakes stood silently for a few minutes while their eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Then they moved slowly forwards.

  Despite its air of abandonment, the long space looked surprisingly clean. No beetles, rats or cockroaches.

  Almost too clean.

  Markham scanned the wainscoting. Nothing out of the ordinary. No unevenness or warping to signal a hidden space.

  He began to feel foolish. What must Noakes be thinking? It was just like a modern loft. Nothing Elizabethan about it. Boxes, lumber, a pile of mouldy old clothes.

  Lumber.

  Markham caught his breath. Something was nagging at him. The lumber was not scattered haphazardly about as one might expect. There seemed something almost contrived about that neat pyramid against the back wall at the gable end.

  Cat-like, he moved swiftly across to the pile of jumble and cleared it away from the wall.

  There it was. The tell-tale knot. Sinking to his knees, Markham gently pressed it and a panel slid open, exposing one end of a rough sack, like a winding sheet.

  He could barely bring himself to touch what he had uncovered. Though there was no reek of putrefaction and he knew who was concealed beneath the hessian folds, it was still a moment of profound sadness.

  Somehow Markham’s legs were moving, taking him across the floor of the attic, far away from the pitiful package. His heart was racing. He felt odd, as though he was somehow there but not there. The blood rushing in his ears, it was as though he was pitching headlong down an abyss. Without a word, Noakes moved up on his other side.

  All unknowing, the DS echoed Olivia’s death knell for the two bodies excavated in the grottoes. ‘It’s OK, Guv. She wanted to be found. She was ready to be found.’

  Outside, the night clouds trailed low, like medieval funeral pennants. A feeling of complete peace washed over Markham. As Noakes moved away to make the necessary phone calls, he bowed his head in silent respect and breathed a prayer for the repose of Irene Hummles’s soul.

  May she receive merciful judgement in the same measure as those who murdered her receive eternal damnation.

  7

  Let It Come Down

  ‘This is a disaster, Markham, a disaster!’

  Nothing like stating the blindingly obvious, thought Markham sourly, as he and Noakes sat ‘in conference’ with DCI Sidney.

  While Sidney ranted, Markham’s eyes wandered round the Hall of Fame, as the DIC’s inner sanctum was irreverently known.

  Bloody hell, talk about tooting your own horn! The walls were plastered with blow-ups of Sidney rubbing shoulders with the great and good, his Humpty Dumpty bonce bobbing up and down between celebrities like that of a demented photobomber.

  Not that the man was remotely photogenic, reflected Markham as he watched Sidney’s bald head glisten sweatily under the strip lighting, the overcrowded mouth stretching in something between a grimace and a snarl. His superior’s fledgling beard – an uneasy compromise between five o’clock shadow and full face rug – entirely failed to produce the macho impression that was no doubt intended. Prominent on Sidney’s desk sat a silver-framed studio portrait of a strong-jawed Valkyrie spouse and two sturdy, unsmiling boys; somehow, this undermined the message of all-conquering hero implicit in the photographic montage.

  ‘Well, what have you got to say about it?’

  Sidney’s normally seesaw tones had risen to apoplectic pitch.

  ‘I agree, it’s a most unfortunate development, sir,’ Markham replied leadenly. ‘Not least for Irene Hummles.’

  Sidney’s sallow complexion flushed. ‘Naturally, I’m appalled the poor woman ended up like that.’

  Naturally.

  ‘But my current priority is to fend off the press who are literally baying for blood over this fiasco. I mean, how the hell did the search teams manage to miss the body?’

  The DCI looked at Markham accusingly as if holding him personally responsible for the catastrophe.

  ‘Of course, you can talk about human error and promise an imminent review of search techniques,’ continued Sidney.

  Oh, so it’s me in the hot seat for the press conference, thought Markham, his face impassive.

  ‘They had sniffer dogs, for God’s sake. And there must have been some stench of decomposition…’ The DCI’s face twisted with distaste.

  ‘Officers thought they were on a missing person enquiry and looking for someone who was alive – suicidal and gone off to some lonely spot to end it all,’ said Markham. ‘In fact,’ he contin
ued, recalling a witness statement in the file on Irene Hummles’s disappearance, ‘didn’t Preston’s number two tell them he’d seen Irene leaving the school grounds on the day she vanished? That would automatically have set the team on the wrong track, so they didn’t bother with cadaver dogs and the ordinary ones missed the scent. Then it could be the body wasn’t stowed in the attic to start with but kept elsewhere in the school and quietly brought back up to the flat after the initial checks by police.’

  ‘You know what the Gazette’s like,’ chipped in Noakes helpfully. ‘They’ll get tired of calling us The Keystone Cops and move on to someone else.’

  Sidney’s basilisk glare would have turned a lesser man to stone, but Noakes gamely persisted. ‘All we can do is the usual, sir. Apologize to the family, talk about valuable lessons being learned…’ He trailed off as the other’s face turned from red to purple.

  ‘Oh, that’s a great consolation!’ the DCI exploded, glaucous eyes bulging. ‘Guaranteed to get the cathedral and school off my back. To say nothing of Sir Philip Soames, who has already called to convey,’ Sidney air quoted savagely, ‘his profound disappointment at the shadow which has been cast over St Mary’s good name by recent discoveries which he believes to be unconnected with the school.’

  Markham spoke quietly. ‘I sympathize with Sir Philip’s feelings, sir, given his family ties to the place, but he must accept there’s a strong likelihood of there being a connection between those bodies in the grottoes and Irene’s murder.’

  ‘I don’t think he accepts any such thing,’ came the terse response. ‘You and Noakes had better get over there post haste and do some damage limitation.’

  As the two men got to their feet, Sidney snapped, ‘Not so fast, Inspector. What’s this I hear about your lady friend?’ The appellation dripped with innuendo, but Markham kept his voice level.

  ‘Sir?’ Always best to play the dumb wooden top when Sidney went for the jugular.

  ‘Don’t fence with me, Inspector.’ It was a hiss. ‘I’ve heard that Miss Mullen has accepted a job at the school.’

  Markham had always striven to keep his relationship with Olivia well under wraps, shrinking with proud sensitivity from any exposure of their romance to police canteen culture. He was clearly no match for Sidney’s intelligence network, however. Best to admit what the DCI’s informant had already told him.