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 continued, 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.
‘Olivia had been head hunted by St Mary’s well before the latest developments.’ Permissible to bend the truth in the circumstances.
‘Well, you know your own business, I suppose.’ The DCI’s voice would have curdled milk.
Too bloody right, so back off!
‘But I trust, Inspector, that the high standards of personal and professional conduct that I expect of my officers will not be compromised by any conflict of interest.’
For an instant, Markham wished passionately that he could give vent to a cathartic burst of contempt and punch the man’s lights out. A glance at Noakes, mutely sympathetic, helped him bring his feelings under control.
‘Of course, sir.’ He did his finest impersonation of a plank of wood. It appeared to satisfy the other.
‘Right, just so long as that’s understood. Press conference later, and I’d advise you to be word perfect. One other thing. Have we got ID for the bodies in the grottoes?’
‘Yes, sir. Though I’m not sure it takes us much further. It’s in my report.’ Markham passed over a folder. ‘Two casual workers. Looks like they were on the payroll of one of the subcontractors via the Community Jobs Initiative for the long-term unemployed. I’ll see if Edward Preston – he’s the architect – can flesh it out for us.’ Not the most fortunate choice of words, he realized, as Sidney’s scowl deepened.
‘You do that, Inspector.’
With a regal wave of the hand, the DCI indicated that the interview was over.
As they headed to the cathedral, Noakes stole a sideways glance at the DI who drove stony-faced, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
He reckoned it was DCI Sidney’s sneering reference to Olivia which had got under Markham’s skin. For the umpteenth time, he wondered about the relationship between the red-haired schoolmarm and his guvnor whose chilly impenetrability repelled any exchange of confidential chit-chat. ‘S. E. X.’ was his wife’s verdict, delivered with pursed lips. But Noakes sensed something much deeper. As though Olivia was somehow Markham’s centre of gravity.
He blinked in surprise. Fancy his coming over all poetical. Such was the bewildering effect that Olivia had upon him, as though an exotic bird of paradise had strayed into a pigeon fancier’s coop.
Completing the short journey in silence, they drew up in the cathedral car park.
Canon Woodcourt hurried out of the narthex to greet them before ushering the two men into a quiet office tucked away to the side. Observing Noakes’s look of apprehension as he took in the prayer room sign, Woodcourt chuckled.
‘It’s all right, Detective. You don’t have to worry about speaking in tongues or anything like that. This is just our all-purpose spa
ce for anything from Mums ’n’ Tots to bereavement counselling.’ Switching the Vacant panel to Meeting in Progress, he announced, ‘Nobody will disturb us in here.’
Markham stifled a groan as he saw that a reception committee awaited them. Dr O’Keefe, Sir Philip Soames, and a third man who he guessed was Alex Sharpe were sitting at an oak refectory table.
They had barely taken their places before Sharpe went on the offensive.
‘In the first place, I want to say that I strongly object to your badgering my wife when she was unwell and I wasn’t available to support her.’
Some knight in shining armour you’d have been, thought Markham, flinching at the strident, hectoring tones which, from the way he shifted in his chair, also grated uncomfortably on Sir Philips’s ears. The man’s a bully, he said to himself, taking in the jutting jaw, double chins and suspicious curranty eyes. No wonder that poor pug-faced woman looked as though she’d had the life sucked out of her.
‘We paid the briefest of visits, Mr Sharpe, and there was no question of harassment. I apologize if any distress was caused to Mrs Sharpe, but we were anxious to speak to Irene Hummles’s former colleagues.’
Markham’s voice was courteous but his expression deadly.
‘Naturally we appreciate you were just carrying out your inquiries, Inspector,’ said Woodcourt pacifically, quelling Sharpe with a look. ‘But this has been the most terrible shock to our community here. Distressing enough to learn that the grottoes had been defiled, but to discover that Irene’s body was literally mouldering above our heads all this time … she was a devout woman, but didn’t even receive a Christian burial.’
Taking off his spectacles, the canon began to polish them vigorously with a snowy-white handkerchief.
Quietly and unobtrusively, O’Keefe left the group, reappearing moments later from what Markham assumed was a galley kitchen. Woodcourt gave him a grateful look and sipped from a glass of water.
‘I suppose there’s no doubt as to the identity of the remains, Inspector?’
This was Sir Philip.
‘We’ll receive formal confirmation later today, sir, but I would say no doubt at all.’
‘I assume the tragedy has its roots in Ms Hummles’s private life,’ resumed Soames. He turned to Woodcourt, ‘I’m sorry, Canon, but one must presume that all was not what it seemed.’
Markham declined to be intimidated. ‘With respect, Sir Philip, it isn’t as cut and dried as that. Given the discovery at the grottoes and the fact that Irene was known to be upset about two missing students, we must consider the possibility that the answer to these mysteries lies here at St Mary’s.’
As though in response to some internal prompting, Markham made no mention of Nat, Julian and the Night Watchman.
Sir Philip leaned across the table and Markham felt the full blast of his personality.
‘You know what this means. The proud heritage of St Mary’s, devotedly nurtured by generations of my family, will be besmirched by prurient sensationalism and scandal-mongering.’
His voice was low but insistent, its fierce sibilance shredding the silence like a scythe. The remarkable eyes blazed in their deep, bruised sockets.
You had to hand it to the DI, thought Noakes in admiration, as Markham regarded Sir Philip calmly. The man had the strength of a steel wall.
‘Be assured, Sir Philip, we will proceed as sensitively as possible and with all due respect for St Mary’s reputation, but it would be negligent to focus exclusively on Irene’s personal history—’
‘That’s rich, talking about negligence when your lot ignored what was right under their noses!’ sneered Sharpe.
Markham continued inexorably as if there had been no interruption. ‘—and it stands to reason that we must focus on the place where she was last seen alive.’
‘We are a family at St Mary’s, Inspector.’ The Canon sounded choked. ‘Irene was well-loved. It’s inconceivable that anyone here could have wished her ill.’
O’Keefe laid a concerned hand on Woodcourt’s shoulder and patted it reassuringly. Clearly, the short period of their acquaintance was enough for there to have sprung up a strong mutual respect.
The principal raised his eyes anxiously to Markham. ‘This has been terribly unsettling for the school, Inspector. My telephone has been ringing off the hook. Parents, journalists,’ he sighed exasperatedly, ‘and nosy parkers by the dozen. There was a gaggle of journalists and snoopers hanging around earlier, shouting intrusive questions and frightening some of the boys. Took me an age to get shot of them.’
‘We can help you with that, sir,’ said Noakes, pulling out his police notebook. ‘I’ll get our press office to field enquiries and generally run interference.’
A look of relief washed over O’Keefe’s face, the strain of his baptism of fire suddenly very apparent.
‘Of course, staff are deeply concerned as well,’ he added. ‘I mean, three bodies discovered on site in quick succession. I’m half expecting a flurry of resignations.’
‘Let’s get the weekend over,’ advised Markham, ‘and then I’ll do a briefing first thing on Monday morning followed by interviews. We’ll try to cause as little disruption to your timetable – and to the cathedral services – as possible.’
O’Keefe nodded. He shot Sharpe a warning look. ‘I promise you’ll be afforded every assistance, Inspector.’
At that moment, the door burst open and Edward Preston breezed into the room with the exuberance of a red setter.
Markham had to admit that Noakes’s rather jaundiced pen portrait for once had not exaggerated. The architect’s glowing good looks irradiated the prayer room, his bright handsome head casting Alex Sharpe into the shade. The Director of Music appeared to feel diminished by the contrast.
‘Good of you to spare a moment of your precious time,’ he muttered sarcastically.
‘Not at all,’ replied Preston, quite unruffled and in perfect command of the situation. Looking straight at Markham, he declared, ‘I’m not sure I can shed any light, Inspector, but please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’
Markham passed him a sheet of paper. ‘We’ve got IDs for the bodies in the grottoes, sir. Jacob Smith and Colin Saunders, two casual labourers working for one of the subcontractors under a local enterprise scheme. Photos and details are there.’
Preston scrutinized the sheet carefully but his face was blank. ‘Sorry, Inspector, I don’t recognize either of them. But,’ an air of constraint clouded the perfect features and a note of embarrassment crept into his delivery, ‘as you probably know, there have been interruptions to the restoration work, so I haven’t been on site throughout. But that’s not to say one of my team mightn’t remember them. Leave this with me and I’ll ask around.’
Good, thought Markham, at least I can count on O’Keefe and Preston. The canon’s too shell-shocked to be much use right now and Sharpe has clearly decided we’re fascist oppressors. Well, two out of four’s something, I suppose.
Woodcourt seemed to have drawn strength from Preston’s youthful vigour. Rousing himself with an effort, he smiled bravely at his colleagues.
‘Right, I must get ready for Evensong. There will be special prayers for Irene, of course, with a full requiem in due course for the repose of her soul, as she would have wanted.’ His lip trembled. ‘We’ll pray for God’s mercy towards her … and towards us all.’
O’Keefe accompanied the canon to the door, gently murmuring words of comfort.
Sir Philip intoned solemnly, ‘May her soul be reborn in the astral light.’
That’s not C. of E.!
The look Noakes sent Markham was more expressive than if the DS had uttered the words aloud. Luckily, Sir Philip promptly took his leave, not however before informing Markham that he looked forward to receiving a full briefing ‘at your earliest convenience’.
Sharpe followed suit, ostentatiously consulting his watch, leaving Preston to escort the two policemen off the premises. He looked disturbed
, and threw them both an apologetic glance.
‘You’re not seeing us at our united best, just now, gents.’ The pleasant, genial tones were troubled.
‘We understand, Mr Preston.’ Markham was bracing. ‘It’s been a shock.’
The young man pumped their hands gratefully and strode off in the direction of the grottoes.
‘Officers!’
Oh God, not some busybody parishioner-cum-rubbernecker. That’s all we need!
On second thoughts, this was no gossiping bedlam, Markham told himself as he took in the fine-boned face, sleek grey bob and observant brown eyes.
With her neat tweed jacket and skirt, colourful silk scarf knotted at the throat in an understated bow, sensible handbag and sturdy brown loafers, she looked what she was. An English, middle-class gentlewoman, without artifice or pretension, who reminded him of a much-loved aunt lost some years before.
Noakes too seemed to approve, smoothing his hair and straightening his tie, as though ready for inspection.
‘My apologies for ambushing you, gentlemen.’ It was a well-bred voice. ‘My name is Georgina Hamilton.’
Noakes did a double-take.
The one who’d reported desecration of graves in the cathedral cemetery. Miss Marple herself!
Fortunately, neither the DI nor Mrs Hamilton observed his confusion. Doing his best to look alert and intelligent while Markham performed the introductions, he cleared his throat. ‘How can we help you, madam?’
Markham noticed that Mrs Hamilton was looking around furtively as though nervous.
‘Why don’t we pop back into the cathedral prayer room for a moment,’ he suggested. ‘It isn’t locked and there’s time for a chat before anyone arrives for Evensong.’
No sooner said than done.
‘I was the one who called at the police station about interference with graves in the cemetery,’ she announced without preamble after they had sat down. ‘I know, I know,’ she said dryly, rightly interpreting the awkward silence. ‘No doubt I was dismissed as the archetypal neurotic female of a certain age.’ Her eyes twinkled disarmingly. ‘Possibly even alcoholic to boot.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 9
