At any rate, he bent down to give it the once-over.
Then ‘Over here, guv.’ All signs of lethargy gone.
‘Oh fuck.’ Doyle swayed in shock, clutching Burton so tightly his fingerprints were still visible hours later.
A face was pressed up against the window of the bottom unit, its features squashed and distorted as though reflected in some diabolical hall of mirrors. More gargoyle than human being.
They had found the missing woman.
* * *
Markham had initially feared Stacey Macmillan’s remains would have to be scooped out of the washer like some sort of human soup.
But the machine had not been switched on and the pathologist recovered her intact.
‘Strangulation and then shoved inside,’ Dimples Davidson put an end to their fevered imaginings. ‘A small woman, so it wasn’t difficult.’ Tight-lipped, he added, ‘Dislocation of various joints, but she was beyond pain by then.’
Doyle’s complexion was greenish-white.
‘Her face behind that window . . . all swollen and bulging,’ he stuttered, ‘like a helium balloon. It looked like she was gurning at us.’
‘Not going to throw up on me are you, lad?’ Dimples eyed him beadily, fearful for his well-polished brogues.
‘He’ll be fine, doc.’ Noakes put a steadying hand on his colleague’s arm. ‘Once he’s got a few pints down him.’ The DS’s invariable anaesthetic of choice.
Watching as the body was stretchered away, Burton found herself thanking God it wasn’t a case of disarticulated remains. Ever since her very first murder case — the sex killing of a teenage girl whose skeleton eventually turned up in the woods on Bromgrove Rise — she’d been haunted by the cries of a desperate parent: ‘How will we put her together again!’
Once the sombre little procession was out of sight, Davidson bringing up the rear, Markham turned back to his team.
‘How did he manage it, sir?’ Burton measured the distance from the loos to the little utility room. ‘It’s only yards, but even so . . .’
‘Must be one strong son of a bitch,’ Doyle burst out with unusual vehemence.
‘Not necessarily.’
They all looked at Noakes.
‘It’s the element of surprise, see . . .’ The DS was clearly gratified by their attentiveness.
‘No need for muscle if they don’ see it coming.’ He cleared his throat portentously. ‘Like with that Ted Bundy bloke . . . He got ’em in car parks an’ corridors, even nabbed one university student as she walked down a path with her boyfriend watching from a window. In the end, they only got him cos he slipped up using some stolen car plates.’
‘That’s right,’ Burton’s interest was piqued. ‘He was a clean-cut law student, wasn’t he?’
‘Yeah . . . volunteered at a crisis centre an’ all. Sort of American version of the Samaritans an’ no one suspected a thing . . . Some woman who worked there with him wrote a book about it.’
‘How’d he pull it off then?’ Doyle was momentarily distracted from thoughts of tumble dryers.
‘Smooth-talking psycho,’ Noakes replied sagely. ‘Plus he used different disguises to make folk trust him — arm in a sling, crutches, that kind of thing. My missus read about it.’
For all the horror of the scene, Markham felt a twinge of amusement watching this outbreak of amity. Next thing, they’d be setting up a CID book club.
But Burton was never one to stray too far from the job in hand.
‘Stacey was streetwise,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But she never saw it coming.’
‘Must’ve trusted the killer,’ Doyle ran with it. ‘He lulled her into thinking she was safe . . . she had nothing to worry about . . .’
‘Took a hell of a risk, though.’ Noakes ran a hand distractedly through his frowsy thatch, looking more than ever like a demented middle-aged rapper rather than a lean, mean, crime-fighting machine. ‘I mean, lifting her in broad daylight.’
‘On the other hand,’ the DI said, ‘he gauged it well. The party breaking up . . . people anxious to get home . . . everyone a bit distracted . . . disorientated after the service.’
That’s how it was with the predatory animal, calculating the moment of peak vulnerability before cutting the weakest from the pack.
‘It would have been the work of seconds,’ Markham continued, ‘provided he held his nerve.’
‘A cool bastard alright,’ Noakes concluded with reluctant admiration. ‘But if Stacey didn’t realize he was the killer, why’d she have to die?’ Another scratch of the head. ‘She was a chatterbox . . . chuntered on a bit, but no real harm in her.’
‘She knew something, Noakesy,’ the DI said quietly. ‘Hadn’t joined up the dots, though . . . Didn’t make a connection with the murders—’
‘But he couldn’t risk her blurting it out,’ Burton concluded eagerly.
‘That’s right, Kate.’
‘So whatever she found out was crucial, then?’ Doyle re-joined the fray. ‘A clue?’
‘Correct.’
Markham thought back to the gossipy little woman making doe eyes at him over the buffet.
‘Whatever she knew,’ he said, ‘it titillated and intrigued her.’
‘Something scandalous?’
‘Hmm . . . I think that’s quite probable, Kate. She was a News of the Screws type . . . the sort to pore over sensational stories in the tabloids . . .’
‘Shame Gavin Conors wasn’t onto her then,’ Noakes groused. ‘Sounds like she could’ve given him summat well juicy for Conors Confidential.’
It was gallows humour. Noakes was as shocked as the rest of them and no fan of the Gazette’s sleazeball gossip columnist.
‘Maybe she just enjoyed holding something over one of the other residents,’ Burton speculated. ‘Something embarrassing . . . something that put them in her power . . .’
‘You mean blackmail?’ Doyle asked.
‘Not exactly . . . or more like emotional blackmail rather than the financial kind. Something that gave her the upper hand.’
‘Yeah okay,’ Noakes said, won over by this reasoning. ‘She was divorced, bored . . . on the pull . . .’
‘Are we looking for a bloke then? I mean, if she was trying to use this . . . secret or whatever it was to hook a guy . . .’
‘I think we have to be wary of making any assumptions.’ In the dim light of the corridor, the DI’s face was all planes and angles. Could do with getting some cake down him, Burton thought idly, then cringed at her own triviality. Luckily the gloom hid her tell-tale blush.
‘Yeah.’ Noakes was warming to his role as CID’s true crime pundit. ‘Could be some lesbo set-up . . . Like with that Rose West.’
Burton was sufficiently distracted by this reference to the Cromwell Street serial killer as to overlook the distinctly un-PC designation. For his part, Doyle simply boggled. ‘You think Stacey wanted a wingding with one of the residents, sarge?’ he said faintly.
‘Mebbe,’ his colleague replied complacently. ‘She could’ve been desperate enough.’
There were so many things wrong with this assertion that Burton literally didn’t know where to start. Before she could read Noakes the riot act, Markham cut in.
‘We’re not ruling anything out,’ he said firmly. ‘And there was apparently some tension between Stacey and Mary Atkins.’
‘Not the sexual sort surely, boss,’ Burton qualified with a shudder.
‘No, more ideological you might say.’ Seeing the mystified look on her face, the DI hastened to explain. ‘She didn’t like Ms Atkins claiming all the credit for promoting LGBT rights down at Hope.’
‘Said Atkins was hogging the limelight,’ Noakes added bluntly. ‘An’ Mrs B didn’t like it.’
‘Ms MacAlinden wasn’t enamoured either,’ the DI continued. ‘There was that remark about “reinventing the wheel”.’
‘I can see Stacey being happy to get one over on another woman . . .’ Burton reasoned it out with herself. ‘Bu
t,’ she shook her head, ‘I don’t see Atkins for the murders.’
‘P’raps that were Stacey’s mistake,’ Noakes countered lugubriously. ‘Jus’ couldn’t get her head round the idea of it being a teacher an’ then . . .’ He mimed strangling someone.
‘But where does Dowell fit in?’ Doyle was bewildered. ‘Nobody’s said anything about bad blood between him and Atkins.’
‘True, Constable.’ Markham sounded weary. ‘Stacey said there were a few spats between Mr Dowell and various residents . . . He was a man of strong opinions from the sound of it.’ His heavy sigh seemed to whistle eerily in the deserted building. ‘But nothing about that points to Mary Atkins.’
Silence fell over the little group. By common accord, they returned to the main reception room where two scared helpers watched round-eyed as paper-suited investigators bent to their work. To Burton’s overwrought senses, the SOCOs looked like extra-terrestrials from another planet.
‘Get rid of the women and anyone else still hanging around please, Doyle,’ Markham said. ‘Take contact details and the rest of it, but after that they’re free to go.’
Looking through the bay window that fronted Taggart Terrace at right angles to Chapel Street, Markham saw that it was already growing dark outside, the orange street-lamps’ neon phosphorescence lighting the winter landscape so that it seemed to pulse with an unearthly radiance.
He wondered if that snowman on the corner of Marsh Lane was still standing. The one with the policeman’s helmet. Irrationally, he found himself hoping it had melted or someone had knocked it down. The thought of it squatting there like a malevolent troglodyte made him shiver.
Noakes was stamping his feet impatiently. The ugly wall-clock said 5:30.
Markham took the hint.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Briefing at six sharp tomorrow morning before I update the DCI.’ He turned to Burton. ‘I want a media blackout, Kate, so square it with Barry Lynch, will you?’
Noakes grimaced. Old Octopus-Mitts would be only too eager to corner Kate Burton in the press office.
She kept her expression studiously neutral. ‘Better take Doyle along for protection,’ the DI added, eliciting a reluctant grin.
‘On it, boss.’
‘What a chuffing mess, guv,’ Noakes said once the other two had left. Then, ‘What’re we gonna tell Sidney?’
‘Well, even with Chris Carstairs’ help, we can’t blind him with criminal profiling mumbo jumbo forever.’
‘Him and that Callaghan bint don’ want shit on their doorstep.’
It was an accurate if crude summing up of the situation.
‘Tough.’ It was the nearest Markham got to a snarl. ‘Let’s head back to the close, Noakesy. We can track down Gary Coslett while the SOCOs do their stuff.’
‘Thinks he’s Jason Statham or summat, the cocky little git,’ his DS muttered. ‘Swaggering about down there doing sod all. Hey,’ a thought struck him, ‘d’you think Stacey gave him the glad eye?’
‘As you said, she was bored and lonely.’ There was compassion in Markham’s voice. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she engaged in some banter . . . Bit of a long shot, but it’s possible she might have let something slip.’ Impatiently, he brushed a dark lock of hair out of his eyes. ‘Then there’s Dawn MacAlinden.’
‘What about her, guv?’
‘Well, she’s faded into the background somewhat. But I don’t think her murder was accidental.’
‘Not “collateral damage”.’ Noakes brought it out with a flourish.
‘Precisely.’ Markham paused. ‘She was a nurse at the Newman . . . I’d like to know more about her work. If it was psychotherapy, then she may have crossed paths with Kenneth Dowell.’
‘Plus she’d have known Doctor Lucy an’ the Boy Wonder.’ The DS snorted. ‘Them two didn’t look quite so loved-up today . . . I’d put money on them having had a barney right before they came out. He said summat when they were by the buffet an’ she looked daggers at him.’
‘Interesting.’ Markham rubbed his tired eyes. ‘We’ll get Coslett to round up the residents for tomorrow afternoon.’ His expression was bleak. ‘Not much likelihood of cracking anyone’s alibi for Stacey, but at least we can rattle a few cages.’
And hope that eventually someone makes a mistake.
As the two men trudged back the way they had come, Noakes said, ‘Funny ain’t it, guv . . . how we call her “Stacey” not “Mrs Macmillan”. Not all correct like with the others . . . y’know, Mister an’ Missus . . .’
‘True.’ Markham glanced at his subordinate, whose corned-beef complexion had acquired a purplish tinge, especially round the nose.
‘Mebbe it’s cos they were poshos but she was more, well, down to earth.’
‘And also because we spent time with her, Noakesy. Whereas the other murder victims are an unknown quantity.’
‘Yeah.’ The DS huffed and puffed to keep up with Markham’s long strides. Considerately, the DI slowed his pace to match the older man’s. ‘You’re right, guv. Makes a difference when you’ve talked to ’em . . . seen ’em close up.’
Noakes relapsed into silence. But Markham knew that Stacey Macmillan’s voice would join the invisible victims’ chorus that formed the soundtrack to their professional lives . . . Like a sonar device whose frequency was inaudible to their fellow men.
* * *
Later that evening, Markham updated Olivia on the events of the day, grateful for the wood burner melting the icy chill that had somehow seeped into his very bones.
He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until his girlfriend dished up a steaming beef casserole followed by bread-and-butter pudding and a deliciously runny brie with his favourite Châteauneuf du Pape. By mutual consent they stayed off the subject of murder until it was time for coffee, at which point Markham adjourned to his favourite wingback armchair while Olivia curled up at his feet, stretching luxuriously with the sinuous grace that characterized all her movements.
‘Be sure to bring George back for a meal some time, Gil,’ she said. ‘You can lure him with the promise of jam roly-poly or one of those nursery puds he likes.’
‘He’s meant to be on the straight and narrow after that health scare, but you should have seen him at the memorial do — tucking into the buffet good-o.’
Olivia chuckled. ‘Well, he was off the leash, wasn’t he? Right now, Muriel’s probably dishing up chickpea cobbler with broccoli on the side.’
‘Talking of Muriel, we should really have them both round.’
His lover looked resigned to her fate. ‘Fair enough, but she’ll only flirt with you all evening in that awful arch way she has while implying that I snared you by unspeakable sexual chicanery.’
Markham laughed. ‘Think of it as team bonding . . . And anyway, we owe it to Noakes.’ A mischievous grin. ‘He’s desperate for the two women in his life to get on.’
‘When hell freezes over,’ Olivia replied philosophically but her eyes were twinkling. ‘Our Muriel believes I’m a brassy piece . . . “on the make”. She’s just waiting for you to come to your senses.’
‘Then she’ll wait a long time.’ Markham’s eyes were tender.
‘Was it very bad today, Gil?’ Her voice was soft with concern.
‘There’s been another one, Liv.’
He recounted the day’s events and the discovery of Stacey Macmillan’s body, but he kept to himself the image of those bloated features stamped with the imprint of the woman’s final agony.
‘She won’t have suffered, Liv. Choked from behind according to Dimples. No defence wounds. It would have been over very quickly . . . before she even knew it was happening.’
Pray God that it was so.
‘But how, Gil?’ An echo of DC Doyle’s bewilderment. ‘Grabbing her in a corridor . . .’
‘I think Stacey’s card was marked,’ Markham said slowly. ‘She was a blabbermouth and she’d come across something important . . . something the killer couldn’t risk getting out. So she had
to die.’ He took a long draught of his coffee before continuing. ‘And then suddenly, he saw his chance.’
‘You think he hadn’t planned to kill her there, then?’
‘Who knows what he had in store for her.’ Markham repressed a shudder. ‘But that moment in the church hall was too good an opportunity to pass up.’
‘But what if he’d been interrupted? Caught with his hands on her? It was taking such a risk . . .’
‘My bet is he’d have carried it off. Said she was sick and he was helping her . . . something like that. With the memorial service, people would have assumed she was overcome with emotion.’ His gaze was brooding, reminiscent. ‘Thinking back, she was hyper . . . almost giddy. I got the feeling she might have had a drink or taken something before the service.’
Olivia nodded slowly. ‘Dutch courage, Gil? Something to pep her up . . . for a romantic encounter?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Could well have been.’
And then those gloved hands lifting her off her feet, fastening like talons round her throat, snapping the hyoid bone . . .
‘Poor woman,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor woman.’
‘They’re processing the scene, but we won’t get anything,’ he said leadenly. ‘This one’s forensically aware. Plus the world and his mother have tramped through that building.’
‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ she said gently.
‘Groundhog Day more like, given that I’ve got Sidney first thing.’
‘Can’t you throw him a bone, Gil?’ Olivia had no great opinion of the DCI’s intelligence. ‘Something to get him off your back . . .’
‘I suppose I can play up the prowler angle.’
‘Prowler?’ She caught herself. ‘Oh right, now I remember. You mean the Peeping Tom or whoever dropped that compact mirror in the playing fields.’
‘That’s the one.’ He hesitated as though wondering how much to tell her.
‘Go on, Gil. I can tell there’s something else.’
‘Well, Gary Coslett told us an odd little story before we called it a night.’
‘Coslett . . . the creepy caretaker, right?’
‘And all-round sexist pig.’ Markham’s brows contracted as he recalled Coslett’s indignant rejection of any understanding between himself and Stacey Macmillan. You’re joking, aincha . . . She’s ancient! I’m not that hard up!
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 159
