Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  But Noakes’s role as his wingman was non-negotiable. No amount of pressure from the gold braid mob would induce him to part with the stolid and plain-spoken veteran who always ‘had his back’. Whenever evil stalked his dreams, it was invariably to George Noakes that he turned. As though, by some unfathomable scientific principle, there was something in Noakes’s blessedly normal pH which neutralized the demon and forced the genie back into the bottle.

  Superintendent Collier was bemused by the nature of their bond. ‘For God’s sake, Markham,’ he had barked in his usual aggressive semaphore, ‘the man’s a throwback. A complete bloody Neanderthal. Professional Standards has a file an inch thick. Beats me why he wasn’t booted out long ago.’

  But Markham knew better. He had a high regard for Noakes’s native guile and wisdom, and a sneaking sympathy with the DS’s notorious disregard for the fashionable tenets of political correctness. Oddly enough, Markham’s teacher girlfriend Olivia Mullen had taken to Noakes in a big way despite the fact he clearly regarded her as some sort of seductress who had ensnared Markham by means of sexually suspect, if not necromantic, practices. ‘He’s a great big teddy bear,’ Olivia had laughed when Markham apologized for his DS’s latest gaffe. ‘Doesn’t know what to make of arty-farty leftie types like me. I bet that wife of his, the redoubtable Muriel, crosses her fingers whenever she claps eyes on me. Isn’t that how you’re supposed to ward off witches!’

  Olivia.

  Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Noakes persisted in regarding Olivia as some sort of belle dame sans merci. She had certainly cast a spell over Markham despite being, at thirty-seven, five years his senior.

  He recalled the moment he had caught sight of her from the window of his third floor flat in The Sweepstakes – a complex of upmarket apartments and townhouses at the end of Bromgrove Park, off Bromgrove Avenue – as she moved into one of the ground floor studios in the block opposite his own on a windy Saturday afternoon in November.

  To be more accurate, Markham had heard Olivia before he saw her, a full-throated, joyous peal of laughter breaking through his frowning perusal of local authority crime statistics and drawing him across to the French window.

  At first all he could see was that she was tall, with a mass of unruly copper hair whipping across her face. A girlfriend was with her, helping to empty the contents of what looked to be a hired van. The boxes of books which gradually covered the pavement, and which appeared to constitute the bulk of his new neighbour’s possessions, were greeted like old friends, the two women pulling out volumes at random and exclaiming happily over each new discovery.

  All rather touching and unworldly, reflected Markham. He wondered idly what line of work they were in. Certainly didn’t look the corporate executive type. The shorter woman was wearing some sort of floaty ethnic get-up topped by a Doctor Who style scarf, while her willowy companion sported a voluminous sloppy joe jumper and leggings.

  Social workers, perhaps. Or no, more like teachers, he decided, spotting a couple of sturdy laundry bags piled high with exercise books.

  At that moment, as though she sensed Markham’s scrutiny, the tall woman looked up and met his gaze head on.

  He caught his breath.

  It was an instant attraction, the most perturbing that he had ever experienced. Not reducible simply to the stranger’s pre-Raphaelite allure – flame-red hair, graceful physique and ethereal colouring, it resided in something else … an immediate sense of psychic affinity. As though the remarkable grey-green eyes had seen beyond his iceberg cold exterior to the passionate man beneath.

  Not at all put out by being spied on, the new arrival smiled. A look of mischievous amusement as if they were partners in a shared complicity. To Markham, it felt like the sun had suddenly come out. And then, with a rueful quirk of her lips, she was gone.

  Discreet enquiries established that she was a supply teacher at a local comprehensive school, a job she apparently combined with freelance writing. Longing, but at the same time fearing, to meet the woman who had affected him so deeply, he finally encountered her at The Sweepstakes monthly residents’ meeting.

  Markham’s colleagues would have been amazed to see how their legendarily chilly boss unbent to the newcomer, with her teasing irreverence and gentle, unaffected charm. His habitual proud reserve melted, all barriers were swept away, and the social part of the evening flew by on wings, the two of them trading anecdotes about their daily skirmishes with officialdom. By the time they parted, he was surprised by the strength of his desire to see her again.

  That was the start of it.

  As time went by, the cord of communion between them became stronger. Quick-witted and with an endearingly roguish sense of humour, there was an innocence about Olivia’s underlying character which had somehow survived unscathed through all the sordid politics, back-stabbing and petty treacheries of school life. When he was with her, Markham felt himself to be sustained by an endless spring of solace and refreshment. Apart from her, he was like a man dying of thirst. When it came to the grim realities of his job, she never pushed or probed, just listened with a grave-eyed earnestness and generous sympathy that was all her own.

  She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them.

  One summer evening, around eight months after their first meeting, as they strolled in Bromgrove Woods, drinking in the beauty of bosky, sun-dappled coppices, Markham asked Olivia to move in with him. With the open-hearted tenderness, lack of self-regard and entire absence of affectation which set her apart from other women, her complexion glowing with exercise and happiness, she agreed without hesitation.

  Since then, their mutual affection and regard had only deepened.

  Markham knew that Olivia had been badly hurt by men. With characteristic frankness and child-like candour, she withheld nothing, gamely laughing as she described the shattering of her romantic ideals. And yet, he frequently reflected, there was something oddly chaste about her. Like those classical goddesses he remembered from rainy days in art galleries as a child.

  He did not lift the veil on his own past, waiting for her to ask about the emotional scars that he so clearly bore. Every other woman he had ever known tried to poke around in his psyche, but not Olivia. She remained silent, confident that he would admit her to that inner sanctum when the time was ripe, letting their dialogue develop at its own pace. For that he loved her even more.

  Every morning as he looked down at Olivia lying next to him, her auburn tresses spilling across the pillows as though she was floating underwater, Markham was surprised anew by a fierce rush of protectiveness. He feared for her even as he loved her, and the fear intensified the love. Currently working at Hope Academy (popularly known as ‘Hopeless’), Olivia insisted that she relished the challenges posed by a gritty comprehensive, but Markham sensed she was ready for a change and suspected that she missed being part of a regular school community.

  His thoughts turned to their conversation over dinner the previous evening when Olivia told him she had been contacted by an old friend, Cynthia Gibson, who currently taught at St Mary’s Choir School.

  ‘That beautiful house next to the cathedral?’ Markham vaguely recalled a crocodile of startlingly shiny and well-scrubbed boys glimpsed goose-stepping purposefully across a forecourt towards a gracious building in honey-coloured stone.

  ‘That’s the one. An oasis of peace compared to—’

  ‘What you’ve been used to,’ interposed Markham smoothly.

  She smiled at him gratefully. Such an incandescently trusting look, that it took his breath away. He vowed to himself that nothing and no-one would ever hurt her again.

  ‘So, what does Cynthia want then?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘She was rather cagey over the phone.’ Olivia was thoughtful. ‘We were very close at one time, then lost touch. You know how it is.’

  Markham smiled rather sadly. ‘Only too well.’

  ‘Anyway, she’d heard on the grapevine t
hat I was doing supply at Hope and wondered if I might be interested in a permanent role at St Mary’s.’ Olivia strove to sound casual, but Markham detected the underlying note of interest.

  Equally nonchalant, he replied, ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Might give it a shot. We’re going to meet up tomorrow for a chat. Their principal – Roderick Strange, the one everyone called the Brylcreemed Dracula – has been poached by King’s. Cyn likes the new man, so presumably he’s on-side.’

  Playing it very low key, Markham refrained from pressing further, but he was pleased to detect the resurgence of energy and optimism in Olivia’s voice. Perhaps this was the fresh start that she needed…

  Recalling himself with a jolt to the present, Markham reluctantly abandoned his daydreams of Olivia and moved away from the office window to his cluttered desk. Contemplating the towering piles of paperwork which covered every inch, he experienced a fierce impulse to sweep the whole lot onto the floor. Only the thought of the alarm this would cause Miss Purcell, his timid mouse of a PA, stayed his hand.

  He liked to think of himself as a ‘copper’s copper’ – despite his meteoric rise through the ranks and what Noakes regarded as the disadvantage of a degree in psychology – and shuddered at the thought of becoming a careerist technocrat. Slowly but surely, however, he felt himself being sucked into a quagmire of unction and smarm.

  Oh God, as luck would have it, tonight was the buffet supper for Bromgrove’s Police and Church Partnership Committee. That meant Collier and assorted local worthies. The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible. Markham exhaled sharply in frustration.

  Raking his unruly mop of thick black hair, he shuffled through a sheaf of correspondence until he located the agenda. All the usual suspects would be there. His eye fell upon a name. Dr Desmond O’Keefe, Principal, St Mary’s Choir School. Well, well. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be entirely a waste of time. He brightened at the thought that he might even be able to do some networking on Olivia’s behalf.

  Did he dare risk taking his DS? Mrs Noakes was a prominent member of St Mary’s Women’s Guild, which seemed almost a guarantee for Noakes’s good behaviour. On the other hand, there was always a chance that his fierce Anti-Ecumenism (no quarter given to anyone outside the Anglican Communion) might ruffle feathers. Hastily, Markham scanned the list of attendees. It looked like a C of E affair, so there were no Rabbis or Mullahs to be outraged. Yes, on balance, he thought the old war horse could join the party. If nothing else, it would be diverting to watch his reactions to the proposals for a civic prayer event to be hosted by Bromgrove Police Station.

  Markham sighed. Before the evening’s schmoozing, there were acres of statistics and data to be digested. Better get to it. He hoped that Olivia’s meeting with Cynthia would be productive. With any luck, he would have some useful information for her before the night was over.

  While Markham grappled with the contents of his in-tray, Olivia sat savouring the conventual peace of the visitors’ parlour at St Mary’s Choir School.

  The aroma of beeswax from the highly polished wooden flooring mingled pleasingly with the heady scent of lilies displayed on a mahogany sideboard. A fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth, and the only sound was the steady ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The December morning sun streamed onto the room’s linenfold panelling through recessed mullioned windows which gave onto an inner cloister garth.

  Altogether it was a cosy room. The only discordant note was struck by various gargoyles ornamenting the window reveals: it seemed to Olivia that the snub-nosed little creatures smirked as though they knew something to her disadvantage.

  The parlour featured two paintings. In the first, a lugubrious Madonna hovered over a whey-faced child, his right hand extended in benediction. The second was familiar to her. It depicted the English and Welsh Catholic martyrs in a sort of ‘group portrait’ – all looking incongruously joyful, with tonsured priests celebrating an open-air service next to Tyburn gallows; presumably the jollity being meant to underscore the power of the church triumphant. As a piece of propaganda, Olivia had to concede that it was remarkably effective. She had heard that St Mary’s was not merely a choir school of some renown but also a shrine with custody of various holy relics. Well screened from prying eyes, if the relics were ever to be removed from the school – so superstition had it – the school and its inhabitants would fall under an eternal curse.

  Shuddering pleasurably at thoughts of heroic witness, romantic intrigue and mystery, Olivia gave herself up to enjoyment of the excellent coffee that had been brought to her. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, she set down her cup on the antique reproduction side table with deuil blanc napkin, closed her eyes and drifted off into a reverie.

  ‘Liv!’ Her nickname.

  Olivia opened her eyes to find Cynthia Gibson regarding her quizzically.

  ‘Same old Liv. Away with the fairies.’

  Olivia jumped up and the two women embraced before drawing their high-backed tartan armchairs into a conspiratorial huddle.

  Looking more closely, Olivia was struck by the alteration in her friend’s appearance. The Cynthia Gibson of remembrance possessed the perky irrepressibility, crisp curls and curviness of a Fragonard heroine. The woman opposite her, however, looked hollowed-out and somehow withered, almost as though a secret canker was eating her up from inside, while the trademark chestnut curls were scraped into a witchy plait which snaked halfway down her back. She gazed at Olivia with a greedy intensity which the latter found faintly unnerving.

  Blimey, they must be slave-drivers in the independent sector, Olivia told herself. Cynthia looks completely done in. Easy does it, she checked herself, repressing her initial impulse to come straight out and ask what was wrong.

  ‘How’s tricks then, Cyn? Impressive set up you have here. All very Tom Brown’s Schooldays.’

  Her light tone did the trick. Cynthia’s wary expression lightened and she rolled her eyes playfully.

  ‘Might have guessed you’d like the manicured lawns with the hint of smells ’n’ bells! Bit of a far cry from Hopeless!’

  There was a pause. Olivia noticed the way her friend kept glancing furtively around the room. Almost as though she expected there might be a bogeyman hiding in the walls. A vein pulsed at the corner of her mouth. Olivia waited patiently. The ticking of the clock sounded abnormally pronounced.

  ‘I’ve got a class shortly, so I need to be quick. Liv, there’s an English job coming up here very shortly and I think you should apply for it.’ She gave a swift indrawn hiss of breath. ‘I know you’ve done wonders at Hope for one thing.’ She had clearly done some research. ‘And for another,’ Cynthia’s eyes locked onto Olivia in unashamed appeal, ‘I could do with a friend. This place is such a goldfish bowl…’ She gestured impatiently at their imposing surroundings. ‘You’d be like a breath of fresh air!’ Leaning closer, she urged, ‘Seriously Liv, you’d be a shoo-in. And you’d be able to get stuck into the pastoral side too. Responsibility galore if you want it.’ Her tone was almost wheedling now. That was what discomfited Olivia most of all – confident, self-possessed Cynthia Gibson pleading like a supplicant.

  Gently, Olivia laid a slender palm on her friend’s clenched fist.

  ‘We had good times back in the day, Cyn. And you need all the allies you can get in our line of work!’

  It seemed as though her friend’s whole frame tingled with hope.

  With a spasmodic movement, Cynthia snatched away her hand and jumped to her feet.

  ‘So, you’ll think about it then?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘I guess I’m ready for a change, and a permanent position would be good.’ Olivia smiled wryly. ‘But aren’t you in a bit of an interregnum right now, what with Voldemort moving on? What’s the new principal like?’

  Cynthia’s strained expression softened.

  ‘Oh, Dr O’Keefe’s a huge improvement. No more Sturm und Drang, thank God!’ More soberly, she added, ‘
I think you’d fit in really well here, Liv. Obviously this is on the QT, but if you’re interested in going ahead I can fix up a meeting with Dr O’Keefe and Dick Woodcourt. He’s one of the residentiary canons at the cathedral and our Chair of Governors.’

  A bell rang somewhere in the distance.

  Cynthia pulled a face. ‘God, the tyranny of the school timetable! I’d better get off.’

  She thrust a card at Olivia. ‘It’s got all the school contact details. We must catch up properly, Liv.’

  ‘When the two of us get time to draw breath.’ Olivia laughed, rising to her feet.

  Suddenly Cynthia stiffened and fell silent. Following her gaze, Olivia noticed that the rectangular bar of sunlight at the bottom of the parlour door had disappeared. Cut off.

  The goldfish bowl. A neighbourhood of voluntary spies.

  Cynthia squeezed Olivia’s hand and walked her to the door.

  There was no-one in the corridor outside.

  Striding across the forecourt of St Mary’s Choir School, Olivia looked back at its elegant neo-Italianate façade. It might just have been her fancy, but she could have sworn she saw a bloodless face pass from window to window like a wandering light until it fixed itself in one and watched her.

  2. St Mary’s

  It was some time before Olivia could dispel the troubling impressions left by her interview with Cynthia.

  After their conversation, she wandered through Bromgrove Park, lost in thought. Despite the brilliant sunshine striking fire out of the spindly birches to create a winter canopy of spun gold, she felt cold inside.

  For a moment, walking across the forecourt at St Mary’s, she had felt her neck prickle, as though a pair of hostile eyes was boring into the back of her head. And she could have sworn there was something else too. The sound of a sly, malicious snicker.