‘Help me move it,’ was all he said.
The DI and Noakes responded with alacrity.
And there it was. A keyless wooden door which immediately yielded to Markham’s touch.
Not another tunnel, thought Burton. She still had nightmares about the George Baranov murder case . . . that labyrinth underneath the Royal Court Theatre with its claustrophobic recesses. From the way Noakes was shifting from one foot to the other, like an ostrich with piles, it was obvious he remembered it too.
If he was aware of their discomfort, Markham ignored it.
‘Come on,’ he said simply. ‘We need to get our lad and the others out of there.’
Our lad. It was the nearest he had ever come to admitting this was his family. At that moment, Burton felt she would follow him to the ends of the earth.
* * *
Evil is banal.
Markham heard those words in his inner ear as they rounded a corner and emerged into the underground shelter, which was basically a brick vault with a rickety wooden table and chairs in the middle. In one corner of the low roof was a collapsible folding grille through which he could see a square of sky.
He felt as if he was falling into an abyss. He had no doubt that this was where Chris Burt’s charred remains were intended to be found while the murderers escaped through the gully grating into the community-centre garden.
Then they realized the plan had somehow gone awry. They must have crept back into the main building, only to encounter Doyle and his charge.
Seated stiffly at the table, as though for a group portrait gone wrong, were Thelma, Chris Burt and the young detective, pale beneath his freckles. Behind them stood Jenni Harte and Jayne Pickering. The latter held a cigarette lighter and a rag with oil on it.
Noakes locked eyes with her.
‘There’s nowhere to go, lass,’ he said before anyone else could make a move, the gruff Yorkshire vowels broader than usual. ‘An’ you don’ want to make it any worse for yourself.’
‘I was trying to stop her,’ Jenni Harte said in her Mata Hari soft, measured tones.
Noakes ignored her.
Markham held his breath as the DS moved towards Jayne Pickering who did not take her eyes from his.
When he was inches away from her, Noakes stopped.
‘We know what happened,’ he said.
She made a sound like a strangled sob.
‘You can’t bring ’em back. But you c’n still make good.’ He added almost conversationally, ‘That’s the way your aunt’d see it . . . She wouldn’t want your life to go down the plughole.’ A contemptuous flick of the eyes towards Jenni Harte. ‘Not for that bitch.’
Slowly, slowly, the wild gaze focused on him.
He moved closer.
Then, tenderly as a lover, he drew the girl towards him and slipped the lighter from her shaking hand.
* * *
‘You’re just going to have to get used to the limelight, George,’ said Olivia. ‘Column inches in the Gazette. Interviews with the Courier. The whole caboodle.’
The team had repaired to their favourite watering hole, The Grapes, following the memorial service for Peter Elford and Loraine Thornley. One of the oldest pubs in Bromgrove, its old-fashioned charm and exuberant landlady Denise had long cemented its place in their affections. Their usual booth in the Snug was ready and waiting, and a cheerful fire blazed merrily in the hearth. On that drizzly June afternoon, they were glad of it.
‘Plus you’ll be flavour of the month with Sidney from now on, sarge.’ Doyle winked at Olivia. ‘All that lovely publicity . . . Shouldn’t wonder if Barry Lynch doesn’t try for a slot on Look North. I c’n see it now . . . George Noakes, the Reluctant Hero . . . You’ll need a whole new wardrobe.’
‘Stop it, you two,’ Markham admonished as he observed his number two’s discomfiture. While Muriel Noakes would doubtless enjoy the trappings of celebrity, her spouse showed no enthusiasm at the prospect.
‘She was jus’ a poor mixed-up lass.’ The ‘reluctant hero’ stared into his pint. ‘That other one got her claws into the poor cow good and proper, so she didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Pickering was going to take us all with her until you stepped in, sarge.’ Doyle shuddered. ‘She’d completely lost it . . . Jenni had no control over her at the end.’
The therapist’s sangfroid had been chilling, reflected Markham. But her tool had crumbled and given them enough to ensure the soft-voiced Svengali went to prison for a very long time.
‘It was really thanks to Leo Cartwright we cracked it,’ Noakes said. He pulled a face. ‘Him and his ruddy metaphors.’
Olivia laughed. ‘I’ll be sure to tell him that, George.’
‘His head’s big enough already,’ the other muttered, but her raillery had its usual effect and his grizzled features contracted in a curiously endearing sheepish grin.
‘Harte was a real piece of work,’ Burton said quietly. ‘I can still hardly believe that she was the one who slit Tariq’s throat . . . He was her best friend.’
‘She was a sociopath,’ Markham pointed out. ‘Capable of mimicking human responses but, in reality, devoid of empathy. And four people paid the price for it.’
They sat in silence, recalling the service they had just attended. Peter Elford’s teenaged children standing to attention like soldiers, rigid with tension, bony shoulders prominent under suits bought for the occasion.
‘Elford might’ve been a blackmailing sleazeball,’ said Noakes, ‘but them kids loved their dad.’
‘What did Harte mean back there in the air-raid shelter, right at the end?’ Doyle piped up suddenly.
‘I don’ remember her saying owt.’
‘She definitely said something to Pickering . . . under her breath when we were taking them out.’
‘What was it then?’
‘It was dead quiet . . .
