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CRIME IN THE CATHEDRAL

Prologue

 

Jenny Kinsella and Anna Morland were used to taking the shortcut through Bromgrove’s municipal cemetery on the way to their weekend shift as volunteers at St Mary’s Cathedral relics centre.

  Mind you, as they cut across the graveyard on the morning of Saturday 6 December, each was privately glad to have the other for company.

  Snow was forecast for the weekend but had not arrived as yet, a dank drizzle giving the bare trees, ancient sooty headstones and dark stone slabs an even more forlorn aspect than usual. The pewter coloured sky had a sullen, brooding cast that only added to the dreariness of the day and heightened the lonely desolation of the burial ground.

  Over to the left was St Mary’s Cathedral, a mid-Victorian edifice described in the guidebooks as Byzantine-revival with gothic embellishments, the building sporting a blue slate cupola that clashed rather garishly with the red and white geometric pattern of its striped buttresses. The choir school lay beyond the cathedral on the north side with the prestigious St Mary’s College, an independent establishment of some renown whose pedigree dated back to Tudor times, on its southern perimeter. Tucked behind the college was the relics centre on the site of a converted library. Appropriately enough, Jenny’s regular job was as an archivist at Bromgrove’s Central Library while Anna taught History at Medway High, an undistinguished local secondary whose staff could only look in envy at the college’s superior facilities and cutting-edge amenities.

  It was something of a coup to have wangled their roles as volunteers at the relics centre given its close association with the college whose staff managed the place on behalf of the cathedral.

  The two women had begun working there at approximately the same time and now enjoyed an easy friendship based on a mutual interest in history and respect for the centre’s ethos. Neither was a regular church-goer nor especially devout, but the whole subject of religious relics nonetheless held a fascination for them and they enjoyed the startled reaction of others when it came up in conversation.

  ‘Surely it’s all a bit pagan,’ was the scandalised response from one of Jenny’s colleagues. ‘A bit, well, nutty.’ Anna’s head of History was more tolerant, chuckling benevolently on hearing where she went at weekends. ‘I suppose it’s harmless.’ was his verdict. ‘Catholic types seem to go a bundle on that sort of thing, don’t they. I remember there was quite a hoo-ha in the 1990s when someone claimed to see the face of Mother Teresa in a cinnamon bun…. ended up being rechristened the “Nun Bun”…. And isn’t there a dead bishop in Italy whose blood supposedly liquifies as a warning that something bad is going to happen.’ ‘St Januarius,’ Anna told him stiffly. ‘And it happens to be a big deal in Naples. People take it very seriously, including all kinds of scientists.’ She didn’t like it when people made fun, and in any event the cathedral was actually C of E not Catholic.  ‘Sorry, Anna,’ he replied, not sounding remotely contrite. ’You can tell I’m one of the doubters when it comes to miracles and marvels. I think what did it for me was when I read about the “miracle of Monteverde” – you know, that one where crowds started flocking to a little church after parishioners reported that a white statue of the Virgin Mary turned reddish in the evening. Apparently it turned out to be an effect of new interior lighting so the excitement died down. Then a month or so later, the statue’s cheeks turned red and people got excited all over again…. There was an investigation and they found out someone was rubbing the statue with lipstick.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘That was me finished with the whole palaver.’

  Marguerite Gristhorpe, the centre’s director who taught History at St Mary’s College, was amused when Anna related her line manager’s comments.

  ‘I suppose you could say that I belong to the “rationalist current” which sees relics as historical artefacts worthy of academic study,’ she observed mildly. ‘And anyway, you don’t have to be a hard-core believer to find them intriguing…. Barrie Schwortz, one of the leading researchers of the Turin Shroud, happened to be Jewish….You could say he didn’t have a horse in the race,’ she laughed. ‘There’s a story that he asked his mother what she thought and she replied that yes it had to have belonged to Jesus. When he wanted to know what made her say that, she answered, “Barrie, they wouldn’t have kept it for two thousand years if it were anyone else because nobody would care.” The more he thought about it, the more he realised his mother was right. Besides, Jewish law decreed that burial cloths had to go into the grave, so there must have been some compelling reason to keep that one out.’

  Anna was hooked. ‘Did that mean he believed it was evidence of the Resurrection?’

  ‘He believed it was genuine alright, but as to how it was formed, in the end he decided it had something to do with a chemical reaction…. didn’t stop him devoting his whole life to researching it, though.’

  Observing how Anna’s face fell at hearing this, she added, ‘’It’s a world-class mystery, but seeing is a question of science while believing is all about faith…. Personally, I try to keep an open mind…. don’t want to exclude the idea that God works in the real world and this can sometimes be through miracles.’

  Anna thought this seemed reasonable. She liked Dr Gristhorpe and was disappointed when one day the woman suddenly disappeared from her job without any explanation and Nigel Dunn, headteacher at St Mary’s College, took over as acting director. The college staff who had part-time roles managing the centre were all tight-lipped about the change of personnel and Dr Gristhorpe’s abrupt departure remained a mystery. Cheery Alex Boulter from the English department had vanished around the same time, so perhaps he was mixed up in it though Anna didn’t see how and didn’t like to pry. She and Jenny didn’t particularly care for officious Suzanne Hayne, the textiles teacher who was Nigel Dunn’s number two at the centre. The other teachers who floated in and out were a bit cliquey and didn’t seem keen to mix with outsiders, but that was okay because she and Jenny could always moan to each other when the college folk lorded it over the volunteers. Dr David Gillespie, chaplain to both the college and the centre, was a real sweetheart and always made them feel appreciated, so at least that was something, especially on a gloomy winter’s day when it was hard to summon up enough enthusiasm to venture out.

  Now, as though reading her mind, Jenny said, ‘I wasn’t sure about coming in…. With it being so near to Christmas, the place is bound to be dead and I’ve got tons of shopping to do….haven’t got half my family’s presents yet.’

  Anna grimaced sympathetically. ‘It’s just Suzanne in today…. if we’re lucky, she’ll shut up shop early.’

  Jenny rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t see that happening. She’s such a stickler.’

  Leaving the cathedral and college behind, they approached the relics centre, a two-storey six-bay red brick neo-classical edifice whose only exterior ornamentation was a richly pedimented central section for the main entrance. Mullioned windows and a verdigris copper lantern on the roof over the main entrance took the building out of the run of municipal libraries, but it was nevertheless hardly an architectural landmark.

  Glad to get out of the damp, the two volunteers passed through a linoleum-floored foyer to a small impersonal staff room at the far end of the hallway next to stairs leading up to the first floor. Depositing their things in metal lockers, they were relieved there was no sign of Suzanne Hayne.

  ‘I could do with a coffee,’ Jenny announced, heading for the galley kitchen at one end of the room. The centre didn’t open to visitors for another hour, and everywhere was quiet.

  ‘Suzanne must be upstairs,’ Anna replied, surprised she wasn’t waiting for them. ‘I’ll just let her know we’re here.’ It wouldn’t do for Ms Bossy Boots to decide they were taking advantage, she thought grimly as she went up the stairs to the first floor and pushed open the door to the relics room.

  After the modern foyer, it came as a stunning contrast.

  An ornately carved mahogany screen at the far end was divided into three sections like a 3D pop up greetings card showing the transection of a church, with pinnacled church towers, those on the right and left twin-steepled while the centrepiece boasted three spires. Within each tower were rows of curved glassed-in alcoves containing reliquaries and monstrances of various shapes and sizes. Labels boasting exquisite calligraphy described the contents and provenance of each treasure.

  The right-hand wall was entirely covered by an ornate columbarium of hand-carved solid walnut with rows of glassed-in arched niches containing ornamented funerary urns and an overarching curved pediment surmounting the whole. Again, the same immaculate signage proclaimed the history of each item. On the left hand side were oak cabinets containing racks of silver and gold medallions, pouches and pendants arranged on trays lined with crimson silk, while a gleaming display case of chased gold stood in the middle of the room. As yet this centrepiece was empty but there were rumours the centre might be in the running to acquire a first-class relic from the Vatican or one of the American collections, possibly even a complete set of bones if they played their cards right. Next to the gold display case was another with borders of black onyx which would eventually house visiting relics. Anna’s colleagues at Medway struggled to get their heads round this, one declaring, ‘That’s downright creepy…. just like being in a morgue.’ But the relics room didn’t feel creepy to Anna, more like a very special museum…. or some kind of stairway to a mysterious realm that shimmered just out of sight. And anyway, thanks to all the panelled wood, the place felt warm and comforting, not frightening at all….

  Then suddenly the world seemed to stop turning on its axis and time stood still.

  A figure was lying  face down in front of the mahogany reredos, the face turned away.

  But Anna recognised the distinctive Hermes scarf with its vibrant bird pattern and in a blinding instant knew why Suzanne Hayne hadn’t been there to greet them.

  The improvised garotte was cinched so tightly that the dead woman’s neck seemed reduced to half its normal size.

  Stairway to Heaven, Anna thought feeling light-headed.

  Then the hysteria kicked in and she began to scream.

1

Reveille

 

Sunday 7 December saw DI Gilbert (‘Gil’) Markham lounging in his favourite wingback armchair next to the French windows of his second floor apartment at The Sweepstakes, an upmarket complex off Bromgrove Avenue. While awaiting the arrival of George Noakes and DI Kate Burton, his closest allies in Bromgrove CID, he savoured the late afternoon hush as flakes of snow drifted down in cottony clusters from a clear cold sky. Outside in the landscaped gardens, the grounds held a new beauty, with nothing to spoil the pristine perfection that reminded him of sugar paste icing, though no doubt the caretaker would be out in due course to sweep paths and ensure they weren’t too slippery to walk on.  There was rain forecast for later, but even if it turned to sleet, his surroundings would still retain their fairytale charm, winter downpours merely sheathing the spindly trees in ice so that they resembled glistening wraiths summoned from some supernatural realm.

  The impression of the uncanny was heightened by his apartment’s proximity to the municipal cemetery next door, its yews and cypresses and ancient monuments blanketed with a white counterpane that smoothed everything out – all the tussocky hummocks, mounds and tumuli – in a vista of uniform purity.

  The neighbourhood of the graveyard was one reason why Markham had wanted the apartment. No doubt it would seem downright morbid to many, but by virtue of his profession he felt somehow closer to the dead than to the living, and more especially the murdered dead whose suffering it was his mission to requite. While he believed that for Christians “Death is swallowed up in victory”, he also wanted to give his victims some kind of temporal triumph – conquest over adversity and the comeuppance of their enemies in the here and now. Having these legions of sleeping souls close at hand represented a guarantee against careerism and complacency. Moreover, no matter how hollow he might feel inside, amidst the car crash of his personal history, it meant there was still a reason for him to get up in the mornings….

  There was no denying he found Christmas a difficult period, not least because it reminded him of his bleak childhood experiences at the hands of an abusive stepfather whom the festive season invariably wound up to a pitch of unnatural cruelty. His brother Jonathan, lost to drink and drugs years ago, hadn’t managed to escape the long shadow cast by their dysfunctional upbringing, and Markham lived with a species of “survivor’s guilt” that he could only assuage by throwing himself heart and soul into investigations of violent homicide.

  Christmas was difficult for another reason too. His separation from long-time partner Olivia Mullen, an English teacher at Hope Academy (popularly known as ‘Hopeless’) had left him feeling distinctly unmoored, even though paradoxically they now got on far better than when they had been a couple – fewer rows about him being consumed by his job, for one thing – and continued to enjoy regular meet-ups, swapping horror stories about their respective bosses and thrashing out professional dilemmas. While he missed their intense physical connection (the sexual spark had never dimmed), there was no doubting that Olivia seemed less tormented now that they lived apart, though her spiky wit was as stimulating as ever.  Like himself, there were ghosts from her past that she had never been entirely able to exorcise, but at least now they were both more forgiving with a greater understanding of each other’s psyche. This equilibrium had come at great cost, but he was glad they had entered a calmer phase in their relationship.

  Savouring his mug of extra strong black coffee, Markham smiled as he spotted a robin redbreast perched on the balcony railing outside his window, recalling what Noakes had told him about the bird being a sign that the soul of a deceased friend or relative was watching over you. Perhaps Joanathan was trying to send him a message….

  Despite the grey afternoon light that was already turning to shadows, it was warm and cosy in the flat, Markham appreciating the heat from his wood burner and the vivid hues of the red and gold vintage wallpaper and carpet that gave the room an almost womb-like feel. His study next door was far more austere, almost monastic in its cell-like plainness, but the living room still retained multiple signs of Oliivia’s influence, from the ballet prints and figurines that proclaimed her obsession with Dance to the comfortably upholstered armchairs and overstuffed Chesterfield where Noakes liked to sprawl. Surrounded by carefully chosen antiques and bookshelves crammed with an eclectic selection of volumes, Markham felt that this was his safe space, a place to think and plan ahead.

  Things were pretty stagnant in CID at the moment, he reflected, with the department gradually winding down for the festive season. At least he had managed to have his own specialist team (or ‘Markham’s gang’ as it was enviously dubbed) officially designated the ‘Heritage Crime Unit’ subsequent to the success of recent investigations connected with nefarious goings-on at the Tower of London and neo-Pagan activities in Hollingrove Park. There had even been headlines in the national press about Bromgrove CID’s growing reputation for solving crimes ‘with an historical twist’, his superiors proving themselves not at all averse to such publicity and inclined to claim the credit for ‘dealing with the unusual’. Seeing as the team was effectively becalmed, he figured it was time for a council of war with Noakes and Kate Burton, with a view to plotting a plan of action going forward and calculating the chances of a fruitful collaboration with the Community Crime Team despite Noakes’s scornful disparagement of the publicity-hungry DCI who led that section. ‘No way is Bertie Big Bollocks gonna let you muscle in on his territory,’ his friend had warned like some kind of Greek chorus whenever the subject had come up.

  Now Markham’s thoughts turned to his right-hand man, always there for him through thick and thin.

  George Noakes was a former DS who after retiring initially worked as security manager for a local private nursing home before setting up as a private eye (Medway Investigations). Markham knew, however, that his old friend continued to hanker after CID and regularly retained his services as a civilian consultant in the face of hostility from the higher echelons who had practically expired with relief when the grizzled veteran departed the force with his carriage clock.

  DCI Sidney (‘Slimy Sid’ to the troops) had also recently retired, it being rumoured that a career in media punditry beckoned. Chief Superintendent Ebury-Clarke, or ‘Toadface’ as he was known, was now their line manager and likely to prove a far tougher nut to crack where Noakes was concerned, Markham reflected frowning. The superintendent’s antipathy was of long duration, dating back to the then DS’s irreverence on the occasion of a police seminar on criminal profiling, Ebury-Clarke’s face darkening when he invited his audience to keep copies of the training manual to which Noakes whipped out his favourite riposte, ‘Ta, but reckon I’ll wait till the film comes out.’

  Nor had Ebury-Clarke been convulsed when Noakes disingenuously asked a visiting superintendent from Liverpool what it was like trying to keep the peace ‘between North and Scouse’, following this up with a quip about how Mancunians regarded Liverpool as the ultimate holiday spot ‘or last resort, geddit.’ Noakes just about got away with those gems but was less fortunate when he sidled up to DCI  Quayle from the Isle of Man and asked him, ‘What has three legs and flies?’ before answering quick as a flash, ‘Manx trousers’. That piece of “bantz” had kept Markham busy with Personnel for days. At least now that Noakes was a civilian, there was less risk of such pleasantries landing Markham in trouble with the lanyard brigade. While it was undoubtedly true that, as Olivia put it, Ebury-Clarke was ‘even more of a Pontius Pilate than Sidney’ – always ready to sacrifice subordinates on the altar of progressive pieties or whichever milquetoast policies were fashionable with the top brass –Markham couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy for the superintendent’s predicament at inheriting Noakes from the DCI.

  Markham’s frown deepened as his thoughts turned to Noakes’s close bond with his ex, the two sharing a subversively un-PC perspective on life which regularly got them both into hot water. Indeed, Olivia’s favourite pastime by far was regaling the other with hair-raising tales from the chalkface. Only the other evening over a takeaway she had let rip with her usual verve. ‘It’s incredible how culturally illiterate the kids are….. When I told my sixth formers we’d be looking at Moby Dick, one of them said that he “didn’t like them sexy films” and when I explained it was about whales insisted that he “didn’t like foreigners neither.” No shadow of a lie, George!’ 

  ‘I c’n go one better’n that,’ Noakes replied, determined to outdo her ‘At our pub quiz in The Grapes the other night I heard this bloke ask his mate who painted the Mona Lisa. I couldn’t believe it when the other fella told him it had to be Cammell Laird cos they always did all the Isle of Man boats.’ Olivia had appreciated the joke, though Markham prevailed on his friend not to share it with Kate Burton who took a dim view of elitism.

  Yes, the more un-PC and xenophobic the better as far as Noakes was concerned, there having existed a perpetual state of internecine warfare between himself and ‘the Hurty Feelings lot’ in his time at Bromgrove Station. ‘CID’s loss is my gain,’ was Olivia’s verdict, her own mischievous streak finding an echo in Markham’s wingman despite the fact that he was anything but an intellectual – she liked to tease him that his favourite words were ‘wotsit’ and ‘thingyo’ – and strongly inclined to scoff at anything that smacked of high culture. For all that one would have said they were poles apart, Olivia understood Noakes’s psychological peculiarities and linguistic ploys like no-one else, hence his barely disguised panic at her breakup with his friend. Markham knew his wingman had by no means given up hope of a reconciliation, which was one reason why he was anxious to keep the fledgling relationship with fellow DI Kate Burton under wraps for the time being.

  At least he didn’t have to worry about the two junior members of his team monitoring his love life, since Carruthers and Doyle – with the self-centredness of youth – were far more preoccupied with their own affairs. DS Carruthers, as the nephew of Superintendent ‘Blithering’ Bretherton, had initially been treated warily by the others lest he be prone to spying for their superiors. Over time, however, he had shown that he was his own man and no snitch. Even Noakes had unbent towards him, to the extent that they now enjoyed an almost affectionate relationship, with Carruthers addressing the older man by the honorific ‘sarge’. Of course, it helped that they were both mad keen on The Beautiful Game, happy talking for hours about the chances of their beloved Bromgrove Rovers winning the league. A shared interest in psychology (Carruthers was a psychology graduate) and true crime documentaries was another bond, though neither man matched Burton’s devotion to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, her invariable go-to for criminal profiling. Physically speaking, Carruthers was less than prepossessing with his slicked-back hair, deathly pallor and horn-rimmed specs – to say nothing of a penchant for leather trench coats with collar turned up – but this off-putting appearance and tendency to cutting sarcasm belied an unexpected sensitivity which had been revealed after a crisis in his rocky personal life that very nearly saw him being kicked off Markham’s team for illicit dealings with the local press. Markham had stuck by him, however, and Carruthers reciprocated the loyalty even to the extent of postponing taking his inspector’s exams because he was so determined to remain in the DI’s unit.

  DS Doyle, lanky and ginger-haired, was easy-going and affable where Carruthers was spikily sardonic, however shared his fellow sergeant’s determination to remain in Markham’s orbit. He didn’t lack ambition, having obtained a degree in criminal law through part-time study, but showed no inclination to take his inspector’s exams despite the fact that his teacher fiancée Kelly was keen to see him rise up the ladder. Markham had no doubt that Kelly would prevail in the end and Doyle would move to pastures new, but in the meantime he liked having the youngster on his team.

  It was a relief to Markham that both sergeants were oblivious  of how things stood with himself and Kate Burton.

  The relationship with his fellow DI, a fast track psychology graduate like Carruthers, had been a slow-burn business unsuspected by all save Noakes and Olivia, whose resentment of his growing affection for Burton was a factor in their eventual breakup.

  Burton’s earnest and buttoned-up exterior, together with schoolmarmish and “culture vulture”  tendencies, meant that it was a good while before Noakes warmed to her. Over the years, however, he had come to respect her fierce work ethic, devotion to Markham and refreshing reluctance to ‘smarm her way to the top’. Like Doyle and Carruthers, he was almost protective towards her, particularly after she sank into a deep depression following the death of her father and ended her engagement to  Professor Nathan Finlayson of Bromgrove University’s criminal profiling department (nicknamed ‘Shippers’ by Noakes by virtue of his resemblance to the serial killer Harold Shipman). Early in Burton’s tenure with CID, Noakes guessed that she nursed a secret passion for her boss, but with the passage of time he convinced himself that their connection was merely platonic and there was no reason to fear that Olivia’s supremacy would ever be seriously challenged despite the separation.

  For all Burton’s earnest demeanour, she was well able to hold her own in CID with a razor-sharp line in repartee when it came to squelching bumptious colleagues and puncturing male machismo. Although Noakes was always highly apprehensive at signs of any digression into culture or ‘ornithologies’ (while being secretly proud of his guvnor’s reputation for being a walking thesaurus and specialist in ‘Big Words’), he greatly enjoyed her notorious putdown of tightwad DI Chris Carstairs when she declaimed Rudyard Kipling while waiting for him to stand a round of drinks in the pub: ‘If you can keep your wallet, when all around you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…..,’ she quoted pointedly much to her colleague’s discomfort.

  She was a staunch ally too and no backstabber, unlike many in CID. ‘I guess you could think of our team as being like an orchestra, sir,’ she had told Toadface when he baulked at Markham’s continued deployment of Noakes. ‘An orchestra?’ Ebury-Clarke’s eyes bulged alarmingly. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ she continued with utmost sincerity. ‘In the sense of harmony being produced from diversity,’ surely Toadface’s favourite word, Markham thought trying to keep a straight face. ‘I mean, that’s how an orchestra works, isn’t it….. you’ve got separate sections using a variety of instruments playing from different scores and with different standards of excellence…. all leading to a beautiful end-product.’ The superintendent clearly didn’t know how to take this analysis, but as Burton maintained an inscrutability that appeared to preclude piss-taking, he merely muttered something uncomplimentary about George Noakes having nothing remotely melodious about him. ‘He spoke as though sarge was some kind of flugelhorn, Burton chuckled afterwards, but she had gained her point and Noakes continued to be a fixture, though for how long was anyone’s guess.

  Despite the fact that Markham had first claim on the trio’s services for ad hoc homicide and major crime investigations, his police colleagues were currently attached to other divisions in CID, though he knew they were hoping for something “juicy” to come their way should the heritage initiative yield dividends.

  In the meantime, his friends were looking forward to the festive season, though Noakes had uncompromising views on everything from Christmas cards (robins were de rigueur while anything PC was verboten) to carols (traditional organ music got the thumbs up while secular ‘kumbaya BS an’ tambourines’ were out). As for his attitude to Yuletide revelry, he invariably prefaced the arrival of Advent with his favourite anecdote about the little lad in the grotto who marched up to Father Christmas, punched him on the nose and announced: ‘That’s for last year.’

  The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of Burton and Noakes together, the DI having given the latter a lift.

  ‘How goes it with you, Noakesy?’ Markham asked once his friend was settled on the Chesterfield with a beer and bowl of Pringles to hand and Burton had made herself a coffee.

  ‘The missus reckons it’s such a dangerous job being a private eye that I need to take out a whole-of-life insurance policy,’ the other lamented. ‘More like a hole-in-wallet policy if you ask me…. with Crimbo coming up an’ all.’

  Markham’s lips twitched at this. Noakes pretended to be dyed-in-the-wool “bah humbug” but when Olivia organised a pre-lit pop up tree for his office he had been decidedly pleased. Now he said darkly, ‘D’you remember during Covid when that Boris Johnson wanted to cancel Crimbo. Jus’ as well he didn’t go through with it. His lot may not even know where “Up North” is, but I reckon we’d have given ’em summat to think about if he tried it on.’ Burton looked wary at this observation, aware that Noakes struggled to find enough expletives in the English language to express his dislike of BoJo and the former PM’s bubble Westminster world. Markham knew she had already decided on her Christmas present for Noakes. ‘A bumper quiz book,’ she confided when the subject of gifts came up. ‘He’s so annoying at pub quizzes. Won’t write down any of my correct answers because he always thinks his are better…… it doesn’t help that he insists on being in control of the pen and paper even when I’m team captain.’ Markham chuckled. ‘D’you remember that year when he had to do the questions for CID’s Christmas Quiz and practically every one was something about James Bond?’ Her face softened at that. ‘At least it was better than Malcolm the Magician – that geeky bloke from IT – and Noakes complaining loudly about him dropping his balls.’ Impishly, she added, ‘I thought about giving sarge one of those “pampering” hampers with lots of men’s grooming products – smoothing leg cream and the like – just for the fun of seeing how he would react.’ ‘It would probably be unprintable,’ Markham told her. ‘Yes, I thought better of that in the end,’ she grinned. ‘Quiz book and selection box it is!’

  Noakes was by no means done with his grievances. ‘No sooner have we got Crimbo out of the way then it’s Lent an’ all that fasting,’ he groused. Privately, Markham reflected that considerations of abstinence were unlikely ever to have troubled his portly wingman whose diet was appalling. As Doc McPherson who conducted the CID fitness assessments put it, Noakes’s idea of a vegetable was not the same as the rest of the world’s. ‘It doesn’t mean just eat as much cake and biscuits as you fancy so long as there’s a raisin somewhere in it,’ he pointed out drily in one of their perennial set-tos.

  It had to be admitted, Noakes’s general appearance was not exactly that of a lean, mean detecting machine. An unfortunate haircut had resulted in unruly tufts of salt and pepper thatch that left him looking like Magwitch or worse. When pressed, he admitted that he had realised there had been a bit of a disaster on the trainee barber holding up the mirror and promising to fix it for free. ‘That’s what comes of your expecting change from a fiver, sarge,’ Burton chided, but her eyes gleamed with merriment. Together with his pouchy features and shaggy eyebrows, it was not at all a good look. Markham was willing to bet that the minute Carruthers  set eyes on Noakes, he would take a crafty picture on his iPhone and disseminate it throughout CID, no doubt with sarcastic caption attached. The DI could only hope that Noakes’s beloved reindeer bobble jumper wouldn’t make too many appearances in CID lest this give Ebury-Clarke yet more ammunition to shoehorn him out of his civilian role.

  Now he said heartily, ‘Cheer up, Noakesy. If you like, we’ll lend a hand getting out your agency’s Christmas greetings. These days pretty much everything goes by e mail.’

  Noakes was emphatically of the dinosaur generation, reminiscing at regular intervals about the old-fashioned, huge typewriters he remembered from his youth before electric machines came in. He struggled terribly with all the functions available on his laptop, frequently ringing up Olivia because he’d either locked himself out or some really important document had disappeared into the ether. Despite having been dragged kicking and screaming into buying an iPhone, he was still unreconciled to its usefulness.

  Noakes smirked at the reference to e mail. ‘I remember the year when Bishop wossname sent out that circular but got the editing all wrong so it started, “Jesus Christ it’s Christmas again.”’

  Burton’s laughter at this was somewhat forced, perhaps prompting Noakes’s hasty qualification, ‘No disrespect mind.’ While baffled by her recent sabbatical at a local convent when it appeared she was considering leaving the police to become a nun (a reaction to the death of her father), he had done his best to be understanding and sympathetic. His relief when she returned to CID had taken him by surprise and it was almost comical to see how he attempted to hide his pleasure at her decision under a veneer of gruffness. No-one was deceived, however, for it was well known that ‘sarge’s bark was worse than his bite’ and underneath it all he liked to have Burton in her usual place at the helm.

  ‘None taken, sarge,’ she said cheerfully, listening with affectionate tolerance as he waxed lyrical about the tribulations of the Christmas season and the nightmare of ‘getting the prezzies right.’ Hearing that he had been shanghaied into playing Father Christmas for one of his wife’s charities, she teased him, ‘I hope you’ve got the hang of your “Ho-Ho-Ho”, sarge.’

  ‘I’ve had it up to here with Lapland an’ fairies an’ gnomes,’ he scowled. ‘Mind you, some of them Nativity plays are hilarious. Doyle said his Kelly had a right job of it with the kids in her primary school. The lad who was the narrator got so carried away, he started ad-libbing an’ finished off by saying, “All the Angels were that made up, they were singing an’ dancing like crazy.”’ He sniffed tetchily. ‘Ackshually, it’s a wonder they even bother with a Nativity these days at all…. Too busy being chuffing inclusive, so it’s all about Chaunka an’ Divali whereas our lot get palmed off with some manky “Winter Festival” or “Happy Holidays” bollocks.’ This being a well-worn theme with her colleague, Burton heard him out with a sigh which expressed her conviction that none of that diversity awareness training appeared to have done him much good. Perhaps it was something to do with being a Yorkshireman. At any rate, he didn’t look like being cured of his regressive tendencies any time soon.

  ‘What’re you getting Muriel?’ she asked politely.

Noakes’s countenance brightened as it always did at mention of ‘the missus’. ‘One of them photo albums from a company that takes all your holiday snaps an’ puts ’em in a book. It’ll be the pics from our  trip to Tenerife, so I just have to make the cover title an’ do a few captions an’ whatnot .’ Good luck with that, Markham thought wryly, pretty sure that Mrs Noakes would have high standard when it came to bylines.

  Muriel Noakes was a snobbish social-climber whom Noakes had met (most improbably) on the ballroom dancing circuit. Decidedly partial to Markham, she was not at all a fan of Olivia whom she considered too bohemian and neurotic (not to mention too skinny) to be a worthy helpmeet for the handsome inspector who always treated her with the kind of old-world courtesy and respect that was vanishingly rare nowadays. ‘Dear Gilbert deserves better,’ she told Noakes with regal condescension on hearing the news of the separation. It irritated her not a little that her husband remained in thrall to Olivia’s pre-Raphaelite charms – the abundant red hair, translucent pallor and witchy grey-green eyes – and wit (‘so sharp she’ll cut herself one of these days’), but she contented herself with the reflection that Markham had disentangled himself from the siren’s clutches and would doubtless find somebody infinitely more suitable in due course.

  Daughter Natalie (not Noakes’s biological daughter but definitely the apple of his eye) shared her mother’s dislike of Olivia and felt a certain vicious satisfaction over the separation while being careful to maintain an appearance of sympathy and concern. Again like Muriel, she had all the time in the world for Markham whom she christened ‘DI Dreamboat’. Although now safely married to a local health club entrepreneur (despite the best efforts of his scary mother), she had the softest of soft spots for the inspector whom she had known ever since he used to fish her out of the town’s less salubrious dives in the heady days when she was the doyenne of the teenage nightclub scene (or what passed for such in Bromgrove). Natalie liked to think that now she was the proud possessor of a BA in History (the result of being a ‘late developer’ who flunked her A levels to become a beautician), she was on more of an equal footing with Markham, and it was true that he had called on her in more than one investigation having a healthy respect for  her native shrewdness and guile. Whereas Olivia couldn’t stand either Natalie or her mother – while doing her best to hide this ‘for George’s sake’ – Markham saw beneath their sharp-elbowed pushiness to the vulnerability beneath, this having become particularly apparent when ‘the prodigal daughter’ had a miscarriage and fault lines in the Noakeses’ family dynamic were cruelly exposed. Things appeared to have been smoothed over since then, and it was clear that for all his grumbling Noakes was happily anticipating a big family get-together. ‘What’re you doing for the holidays, guv?’ he now enquired affably having hoovered up his Pringles.

  Markham and Burton avoided each other’s eyes, only too well aware that Noakes, as Olivia’s self-appointed cavalier, would be swift to detect signs of any nascent romance. As yet it was the earliest of early days, having only recently admitted that there was something between them. Markham couldn’t even put a name to it, but he knew that with Kate Burton he always felt ineffably soothed as if he had come home. Quiet and self-contained, most people saw her pass and thought a colourless shadow had gone by, but he knew different. There was a sexual attraction too, though with him it sprang from tenderness and the strong impulse to protect. So far they hadn’t even gone to bed together – both suffering from stage fright, he put it to himself – but every day brought them closer. Olivia’s jealousy of Markham’s closeness to his fellow DI had been weirdly prescient in that she recognised the threat Kate posed and was never able to convince herself that nothing would come of it. Ironically, in the end her frequently expressed resentment ensured that Kate’s hold upon his affections tightened while her own was prised loose.

  Noakes, of course, knew none of this, although he may have had his suspicions, not least because Burton had visibly blossomed. No longer the frumpy figure of yore, she now wore fit and flare dresses that flattered a gamine frame while the depressing Rachel Reeves pageboy had been ditched for a much softer, choppy bob that set off her retroussé features even when she whipped out the outsize spectacles that were her equivalent of armour.

  Suddenly aware that Noakes was waiting for an answer, the piggy eyes fastened on his face, Markham was about to deflect this interest in his festive plans when his mobile rang.

  Saved by the Bell!

  Seeing that his caller was DI Chris Carstairs, he moved away to take the call in his study, smothering a grin as he heard Noakes embark on a description of Natalie’s plans for an upwardly mobile Christmas Eve party.

  When he returned to his guests five minutes later, his face was sombre, it being immediately apparent that something momentous had been divulged.

  As succinctly as possible, he informed them of the discovery of a body at  St Mary’s Cathedral Relics Centre.

  ‘The victim was strangled on Friday evening some time between 8 and10 pm…. A couple of volunteers found her when they came in on Saturday morning. Her name is Suzanne Hayne, a textiles teacher at St Mary’s College who also worked part-time at the centre.’ Seeing that they appeared thoroughly discombobulated, he continued, ‘Carstairs said a DI from the Community Crime team got the call-out and apparently DCI Reynolds,’  Noakes’s Bertie Big Bollocks, ‘asked to be SIO….. But Reynolds is swamped with  hate crime investigations,’ there was an eloquent snort from his wingman at this, ‘and he’s preparing those affray cases for trial, so Carstairs suggested to Ebury-Clarke that we were a better bet.

  ‘And?’ Noakes prompted eagerly.

  ‘Well, it looks like we’ve got the gig,’ Markham smiled.

  ‘I’ll schedule a team meeting for first thing tomorrow morning, sir,’ Burton said quietly, punctilious as ever about deferring to his seniority even though they were now the same rank.

  Noakes ambled off into the kitchen where he could be heard rooting round for more Pringles (Markham kept a cupboard full of unhealthy snacks expressly for such raids). In high good humour, he even topped off the others’ coffee without being asked.

  When they were settled, he asked.

  ‘What’s the deal with this relics wotsit then?’

  ‘It’s the building that looks like a library… just behind St Mary’s College,’ Burton replied promptly.

  ‘I know the one,’ Markham said slowly.

  It was indeed fairly undistinguished, he thought, recalling the understated façade. Clearly the main attraction lay within.

  ‘Have you been inside, Kate?’

  ‘It’s not been open all that long, guv, doesn’t have a website yet…. Even with the cathedral being Anglo-Catholic , there was local opposition to having it in Bromgrove. To be honest,’ she added hesitantly, ‘I’m not sure how I feel about displaying relics of saints.’

  ‘Well creepy,’ Noakes nodded vigorously.

  ‘I suppose it’s not really so different from how the Russians exhibited Lenin’s embalmed body in that mausoleum at Red Square,’ she said slowly, ‘or the way they displayed Stalin’s corpse in a glass case until he became such a pariah that they stuck him in the ground behind Lenin’s shrine…. The Americans are into that kind of thing too…. I read somewhere that the biggest draw at the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library is his wife’s bloodstained gloves she wore to the theatre the night he was assassinated….. It must be something to do with having that physical connection with great figures from history….and if you’re religious, then there’s something comforting about being able to look at the faces of people who’ve lived holy lives.’

  ‘Yeah, but with the RCs we’re not talking just faces…. With them lot it’s all sorts,’ Noakes protested with a shudder. ‘Body parts and organs…. blood and bones…. shrivelled mummies…. skeletons…. You name it, they can’t wait to get cracking, like it’s some sort of horrible bric-a -brac.’

  ‘You make them sound like Burke and Hare,’ Markham said with a hint of asperity, referencing the infamous Victorian body snatchers.

  Noakes appeared momentarily discomfited, suddenly recalling that his boss was RC, albeit lapsed, and Burton similarly inclined.

  ‘I c’n see what you mean though, luv,’ he said emolliently. ‘We’re not talking about Russian tyrants here…. more like folk who fought the good fight an’ finished the course.’ Evidently he thought there was nothing like a quotation from St Paul for making amends. Clearing his throat, he continued, ‘Anyroad, I’m not saying all shrines and whatnot are dodgy…. That one at St Cecilia’s were okay,’ he said, referring to a sculpture they had come across in an earlier case which was the copy of a famous statue executed after the martyred saint’s incorrupt body was exhumed. ‘I mean, that sort of thing’s dignified… not like obsessing over bits of skin and stuff,’ he added lamely.

  Markham chuckled. ‘I seem to recall during our trip to the Little Flower Institute you were quite taken with all the relics and religious artefacts,’ he observed, reminding his friend of their visit to a London shrine where they had the chance to examine memorabilia connected with St Therese of Lisieux.

  ‘‘That exhibition were tasteful as it goes,’ Noakes said, pursing his lips with the air of a seasoned aficionado. ‘I mean to say, we’re not talking fingernails or bits of bone…. thass more like taxidermy or summat.’ Burton winced audibly at this but he sailed on regardless. ‘It had bits of costume,’ habits, Burton mouthed silently, ‘an’ stuff on loan from her convent, kind of like travelling relics…. a writing case an’ stuff she used plus lots of photographs an’ little 3D models to show how they lived back then. Yeah, proper tasteful.’ Loftily, he chose to pass over what they had learned about the saint’s right arm being enshrined in a basilica and her ribcage inside an effigy at the convent while other parts of her skeleton travelled the world.

  Burton shot Markham a mischievous look that said she wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘There was some of the other sort though, sarge,’ he pointed out. ‘That knotted rope and the little iron cross with spikes that she used on herself. Then there were all those velvet lockets and pouches with locks of hair and that kind of thing…. There was even a bit of cloth with her “last tears”.’

  Noakes scowled. ‘It weren’t unhealthy or screwy. They were nice folk down there, not barm cakes…. kept  everything respectful.’ It was obvious he wasn’t going to be drawn into any dubious discussion of S&M or necrophilia.

  Markham suppressed a smile, reminding himself that his friend had taken quite a shine to that particular holy woman and her relics, almost as though he held power of attorney over St Therese. Mind you, the DI felt a queer internal shiver, “barm cakes” wasn’t an inaccurate epithet to describe some of those they had come across in the course of previous cases – individuals who had been utterly taken over by their delusional mania for figures from the past.

  ‘’Sides, it’s not a case of worshiping the relics thesselves, Noakes continued, ‘more like remembering  about what holy folk did when they were wandering about in their earthly body.’

  There was something touching about Noakes’s earnest attempt to signal respect for another religious denomination despite the fact that his sturdy Methodism meant he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Romish magical mystery tours or ‘voodoo bollocks’.

  ‘I reckon you’re right about how a physical connection matters, sarge,’ Burton said kindly. ‘I mean, just think about the obsession with stuff that belonged to Princess Diana.’

  Noakes looked pleased. ‘Thass right,’ he said. ‘Princess Di’s brother went for tasteful,’ he pronounced, his mind travelling back to Muriel’s account of a visit to Althorp. ‘All nice an’ dignified with the museum an’ her grave on that little island. No whipping out her organs an’ sticking them in formaldehyde like pickled onions, nowt like that.’

  Markham could see that Burton was anxious to get off the subject of pickled onions.

  ‘I remember down at the Tower of London, you were quite impressed by that story about St Thomas More’s head being rescued from London Bridge and preserved as a relic by his daughter,’ he pointed out slyly.

  ‘That were a daughter looking out for her dad,’ his friend replied with some hauteur. Of course it was predictable that the besotted father of Natalie would make an exception in that case, the DI thought wryly, remembering that during the St Therese investigation he had even bought her a rosary with what Olivia called ‘the biggest, shiniest beads you ever saw…. would’ve qualified as an offensive weapon if you swung it round.’ His ex had laughed fit to burst at Natalie’s reaction, the dedicated nightclubber declaring that ‘the Madonna look’ (the pop star, not the Virgin Mary) was all the rage.

  Noakes hadn’t finished. ‘Any road, the daughter went an’ made sure her dad’s skull got buried in a church in the end…. all right an’ proper.’ Satisfied that he had pre-empted any further impertinence, he sank back with a grunt as his colleagues exchanged a glance of amused complicity.

  Noakes clearly had certain reservations about the grisly aspect of the relics industry, Markham thought wryly. However, he had shown surprising enthusiasm for the more genteel side of things, even going so far as to give Muriel (who enjoyed the occasional flirtation with Catholicism) a locket containing a third-class relic of St Therese (and certificate), so clearly he was prepared to make allowances in certain instances. The DI suspected, though, that despite Noakes’s professed aversion for the more gothic accents of the relics trade, there was a part of him that was fascinated by the sheer weirdness of it all. Yes, what Ebury-Clarke would doubtless call ‘the cranky religious setup’ had him well and truly hooked.

  ‘I s’pose them relic wotsits are big business,’ he said, getting his second wind.

  ‘Well, to serious collectors of religious memorabilia, they’d be priceless,’ Burton agreed. ‘Even in purely cultural terms, prized antiquities and heritage items are part of Christianity’s history.’ She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. ‘I remember looking up some statistics when we were on the Theresian case…. Between 1897 and 1925 more than seventeen million relics were sent out by St Therese’s convent. When there was a tour of relics to the US in 1999, it covered 106 cities and more than one million visitors turned out…. people were falling to their knees and smothering the plexiglass dome on top of the casket with kisses.’

  Uneasily, Markham reflected that intense commitment to the cult of relics could be a form of mental illness and wondered if the murder of Suzanne Hayne was religiously motivated.

  Noakes was thinking along similar lines.

  ‘Mebbe this poor lass got interrupted by a fruit loop who planned to nick summat cos they wanted to get up close an’ personal with some saint or other…. mebbe they felt it would help ’em pray better.’

  ‘Or they could have been stealing to order for someone,’ Burton theorised.

  ‘Do you know who’s in charge of the relics centre, Kate?’ Markham asked, curious to know the identity of its custodian.

  ‘I’m pretty sure it’s St Mary’s Cathedral,’ she replied.

  Markham’s heart sank. No doubt this meant they’d be fending off various interfering clergy.

‘Carstairs is going to e mail me some crime scene pictures and background,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll do some research into the whole relics scene,’ Burton assured him. ‘Len Knevitt might be able to help with that, seeing as he knew so much about Thomas More and those memorials at the Tower.’ There was a faint blush on her cheek as she mentioned the divorced London detective who had shown signs of becoming an admirer, but Markham knew now that he had no cause to fear DCI Knevitt as a rival. ‘By all means, Kate,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s a strange hothouse trade, so I’d be grateful for Len’s input.’ He sensed that Noakes’s eyes had sharpened on Burton’s face at the mention of Knevitt, but her expression remained guileless save for a faint self-consciousness that could easily be put down to her usual diffidence and modesty.

  So far so good. The last thing he wanted was Noakes taking up the cudgels on behalf of his ex just when they were embarking on a new investigation.

  ‘The cathedral lot won’t like it if stuff comes out about funny business going on with relics,’ Noakes pointed out. ‘I mean to say, summat embarrassing,’ he added for the avoidance of doubt. Then, ‘Your mates at Maryvale House won’t be happy neither,’ he went on, with a sly dig at the convent where Burton had taken her sabbatical.

  ‘More than likely, sarge,’ she sighed.

  ‘Then there’s the college to consider,’ the Greek chorus continued. ‘Happen folk’ll be worried ’bout parents thinking there’s summat gruesome going on.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt this case will be complex,’ Markham agreed, thinking that he would have to box clever in order to keep local journalists at bay, ‘but the cultural-heritage context makes our outfit the natural choice to investigate,’ he concluded firmly. ‘So we’ll have our briefing at 8 am sharp tomorrow and,’ with a pointed glance at Noakes, ‘let’s keep speculation about the supernatural angle out of it till we’ve had a chance to do a recce at the centre.’ No need to point out that Toadface would be easily triggered by anything that smacked of superstition or the miraculous. Markham knew beyond a doubt that his boss’s overriding priority would be pacification of ‘community interests’, so it behoved them at this stage to play down the spookiness.

  ‘Will you be able to join us tomorrow morning, Noakesy?’ he asked cordially.

  ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ the other rejoined cheerfully, leaving Markham in no doubt that his friend was up for it. ‘It’s pretty slack right now at the agency, so Mr Shah,’ referring to his kindly landlord, ‘c’n pass on anything urgent.’

  ‘Forensics are processing the crime scene, so we’ll have to interview suspects at St Mary’s College while the centre is out of bounds,’ Markham informed them. ‘Hopefully we can take a look round the place tomorrow afternoon before getting stuck in.’

  ‘All of us?’ Noakes enquired hopefully, obviously desperate not to miss out.

  ‘Yes, the whole team,’ Markham reassured him, adding with a smile. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t visited the centre before now given your interest in relics and such like.’

  His friend looked shifty. ‘Didn’t reckon the missus would like it,’ he confided. ‘I mean to say, medals an’ lockets an’ stuff like that’s kosher, but bits of bodies……’

  ‘Hmm, I see.’ Markham nodded understandingly, aware that he had felt a similar ambivalence about the relics centre and held back from calling in for the same reason. ‘Well, we’re on official police business tomorrow so no question of voyeurism or cheap thrills,’ though he had no doubt Muriel would be keen to hear all the gory details when Noakes reported back.

  After his friends had left, Markham adjourned to his study and stood a long time at the large picture window. With a pang of compunction, he realised that in his excitement at the prospect of a new case, he had omitted to think of the murdered woman who was at the heart of it. Carstairs had assured him that FLOs were comforting her husband and grown up children, so there was no requirement to make a bereavement visit, though he resolved to do so anyway. Meanwhile, before booting up his computer to review what Carstairs had sent, he murmured a brief prayer for Suzanne Hayne’s soul. However fear-filled her final moments, he trusted that she was now set free beyond the horizon that was the limit of human sight. The cruelty of murder was never more stark, he thought sadly with a last glance at the cemetery beyond his window where even the headstones and monuments were made beautiful by their skim of snow, than when it was committed during the season which of all others celebrated the joys of hearth and home. Now it was down to him and the team to focus on bringing the defiler to justice. Without the need for words, he knew that his colleagues would never forget the empty place at one family’s Christmas dinner table.

  That night, he slept badly, his dreams populated by mummified heads with shrivelled faces, cadaverous shrunk skin, milky sightless eyes and crumbling features. Rising early, it took three cups of black coffee to dispel his disquiet.

  The notorious case of the cathedral relics had begun.

2

Signs and Portents

 

 

It was usual for Markham to take some time by himself in the terraced graveyard of St Chad’s Parish Church, round the back of Bromgrove Police Station, at the start of an investigation.  On Monday morning, however, the lingering after-effects of nightmares populated by rotting corpses for once disinclined him to seek the company of the dead. Instead he hastened to CID whose humdrum normality appeared the most effective antidote to horrible imaginings.

  Recent renovations meant that the office was marginally less stale and dingy than formerly, though Markham and Burton were still stuck with their semi-glazed cubicles sporting unrivalled views of the station car park. There was a smattering of Christmas decorations –  paper chains, a couple of Santa banners and a forlorn little fibre optic tree – which hardly evoked festive glitz being already tired-looking and somewhat battered, as though the more subversive elements in the department had used them for target practice. Opened tins of Quality Street were dotted about the open-plan area, however – bestowed by grateful members of the public (unlikely) or a cheapo gesture by management (eminently probable) – so at least Noakes would be in clover, the DI reflected with a grin as he headed for the sanctuary of his cubbyhole.

  Early as it was, the team was waiting for him, Doyle and Carruthers looking bright eyed and bushy tailed while Burton was already setting out drinks and snacks from Costa. DCI Sidney had often sniped about how ‘Markham’s team certainly lived up to the saying that “an army marches on its stomach”,’ but creature comforts were a top priority for Noakes, and the DI had come to believe that the others liked the conviviality.  Chief Superintendent Ebury-Clarke was unlikely to be impressed should he find them slurping cappuccinos and gorging on chocolate muffins, however, so he counted on having the edibles cleared away before their boss arrived.

  Noakes, alas, was wearing one of his chunky festive jumpers, teamed with vermilion cords and his beloved George boots (since he was a proud alumnus of the Parachute Regiment). It was fortunate that the radiator in Markham’s cubicle had given up the ghost otherwise he would in no time at all have resembled a big red tomato. The two sergeants were unexceptionably attired in dark suits, while Burton (as confirmed by their surreptitious side-eyes) looked good in a burgundy jersey dress and suede knee-high boots. Hopefully three out of four would be good enough for Ebury-Clarke.

  Once the refreshments were polished off and all incriminating evidence disposed of, Markham passed round the crime scene pictures.

  ‘Poor lass,’ Noakes said softly. ‘Let’s hope she didn’t know what hit her.’

  ‘Suzanne Hayne aged 53, textiles teacher at St Mary’s College,’ Burton crisply brought the two sergeants up to speed. Turning to Markham, she added, ‘I’ve arranged with the FLOs for you to check in with her family later, guv.’ She knew he never shirked such courtesies.

  ‘What’s the deal with this relics place?’ Doyle asked as he scrutinised the crime scene shots.

  ‘It looks kind of like a cross between a chapel and an antiques shop,’ Carruthers murmured, evidently unsure what to make of it.

  Burton cleared her throat, usually the preliminary to a burst of pedagogy.

  ‘The interior’s been designed on the model of a European camarin,’ she told them. ‘A room that’s meant itself to act as a reliquary, though obviously in this case the dimensions are fairly modest and the centre is separate from the cathedral.’ Her brow furrowed as she added, ‘As yet they haven’t installed CCTV, but obviously that’ll have to change….. The college staff and volunteers all have keys…. Mrs Hayne often stayed late on a Friday, so people would have known her routine.’ 

  ‘Who owns the place?’ Carruthers wanted to know.

  ‘It’s cathedral property…. I believe they’re planning an extension with proper catalogues and digitised archives so that people can check out the relics properly…. look at certificates of authenticity…. provenance, stuff like that….. and a gift shop too.’

  ‘Kerching!’ Carruthers’s tone was cynical.

  ‘It’s a museum-cum-research centre,’ Burton said somewhat defensively. ‘Legitimate scholarship, not some sort of horror show. But they need the place to pay its way. After all, there’s no entrance fee, so stands to reason  ’

  Seeing how Carruthers raised his eyebrows at this, she continued stiffly, ‘It’s also somewhere for believers to come….. They did it in medieval times, remember… slogged off to churches and shrines that had saints’ bodies in search of favours or cures.’ Something in the earnestness with which she addressed her sceptical colleagues struck Markham as touching. ‘There’s this African American nun they dug up in Missouri a few years after her death,’ Burton persisted doggedly. ‘She hadn’t been embalmed and was buried in a cracked wooden coffin. But here’s the thing…. when they exhumed her remains so she could be moved from outdoors into the convent church, she was found intact and now thousands of visitors from all over turn up to her convent to pray at the shrine…. There’s been so many, they’ve had to build a second convent to cope with the overflow.’

  ‘Nice little cottage industry,’ Carruthers muttered, refusing to be impressed, ‘the same as those con artists flogging dust from Christ’s tomb on eBay.’

  Burton ignored him.

  ‘It’s just like us visiting the grave of loved ones,’ she insisted, ‘or cherishing family heirlooms…. only at a higher level because saints were people close to God and going to see their relics makes you think about what really matters – stuff that’s more important than performance targets, Instagram or,’ with sly emphasis, ‘the latest football results.’

  Markham chuckled. Touché, he thought watching their affronted expressions.

  ‘Okay, but I still reckon it’s downright freaky,’ Doyle said stubbornly.

  ‘Hocus pocus,’ Carruthers agreed.

  Seeing how crestfallen she looked, Noakes said kindly,’ Don’ mind them, luv. Miracles are dead important in the bible,’ he reminded the two sergeants sternly. ‘It says somewhere Jesus did so many that there wouldn’t be enough room in the whole world to write ’em down…. an’ St Peter cured all sorts too….. folk said you could get better jus’ from being in his shadow.’

  Burton swallowed hard, somewhat at a loss for words. ‘Cheers, Noakesy,’ she said finally.

  It was obvious he thought the two youngsters could do with further edification. ‘An’ speaking of St Peter,’ he added, ‘they went an’ put his bones on display, so happen the higher ups reckon praying next to body parts ain’t such a bad thing.’

  God help us if Noakesy gets started on scripture or biblical archaeology with Toadface, Markham thought trying not to laugh.

  Mercifully, his friend stayed in the background when the Chief Superintendent joined them a short time later. Rubicund, silver-haired with goitre-ish gooseberry-pale eyes and a notoriously short temper, he had the Napoleon complex typical of short men and all too obviously resented Markham’s chiselled good looks as a most unfair windfall in the genetic lottery. Regarding himself as a moderniser (in touch with every trendy initiative that came knocking), he looked askance at Burton’s bowdlerized account of the relics centre despite her determinedly unsensational tone.

  ‘It seems to me that there’s something, well, unnatural and unhealthy about this obsession with the remains of, er, holy people….. thoroughly morbid and unwholesome,’ he said with emphasis. The two sergeants exchanged glances at this as though surprised to find themselves on the same side as their irascible superior.

  ‘I’m sure the cathedral authorities would agree with you about not encouraging practices that seem excessive or bizarre,’ Burton replied deferentially. ‘Apparently Dean Harding – apparently he’s away travelling in the Holy Land – took some persuading that a relics centre wouldn’t cause scandal or expose the church to mockery.’

  Doyle grinned. ‘D’you remember that episode from Only Fools and Horses about a weeping Madonna…. The Miracle of Peckham –’ he began.

  ‘And the one in Father Ted about some holy statue with the priests getting worried it wasn’t doing good business,’ Carruthers interrupted eagerly before catching Burton’s eye and subsiding.

  Ebury-Clarke’s expression was full of distaste at this allusion to sitcoms.

  ‘A case in point,’ he snapped.

  Doyle was anxious to rectify the unfavourable impression. ‘There’s people who sell relics and stuff like that on eBay,’ he volunteered, recalling what Carruthers had said earlier.

  Ebury-Clarke looked even more aghast. ‘I can’t imagine the clergy condoning anything like that.’

  ‘I think the idea is that strictly speaking you’re not paying for the relics themselves,’ Burton interjected helpfully, ‘but for the reliquary – usually a theca, or locket – that contains them. There’s also an argument that buying a relic is one way to rescue it from mistreatment or desecration….The whole business started out as pretty much a Catholic affair…. every altar is supposed to contain a relic –’

  ‘The problem being there’s only so many body parts to go round,’ Noakes interrupted brightly. ‘An’ they like to send ’em out to different countries.’

  Seeing that the CS was distinctly unenthused by the thought of this travelling road show, Burton took over. ‘It’s a very strange concept to get one’s head around, sir, but you could say it shares common features with celebrity culture.’

  ‘Like people wanting to get their hands on a Jackie Kennedy outfit or an Elvis guitar,’ Doyle put in.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Ebury-Clarke said dubiously, though it was clear he was thoroughly uncomfortable with the whole notion.

  ‘Pure box office,’ Noakes sighed with a wistful inflexion which suggested he almost regretted that Methodism was unable to boast comparable attractions.

  ‘Do we know what kind of thing they were exhibiting at the centre?’ Ebury-Clarke asked, clearly still nonplussed by the whole concept of showcasing sacred items, like some sort of ghastly hangover from the Dark Ages.

  ‘I believe it covers a range of historical periods, sir,’ Burton said vaguely, a flinty glance at Noakes daring him to interrupt this sanitised explanation with anecdotes about skulls and bones. ‘Obviously the centre’s off limits to the public for the time being, but I’ve arranged for the acting director and chaplain to give us a guided tour this afternoon. Apparently there are exhibits connected with Charles I’s wife Queen Henrietta Maria on loan from various institutions…. owing to her being regarded in some quarters as a martyr figure.’

  Markham was impressed by the way Burton was managing to downplay the whole “juju” dimension in favour of something Ebury-Clarke would find more palatable.

  ‘Ah, historical artefacts,’ he said consideringly. Then, ‘Could Mrs Hayne have disturbed a burglar? Are we thinking this might be some sort of art theft gone wrong?’ Clearly the Chief Superintendent favoured larceny over anything to do with religious extremism. It was downright depressing, Markham thought, the predictability with which he grasped at a theory that promised the greatest chance of being unmessy and uncontroversial. It was DCI Sidney all over again. The DI merely gritted his teeth, however, and murmured, ‘It's a definite possibility, sir, given the vogue for such memorabilia.’

  The other puffed out his chest and made a harrumphing sound, apparently satisfied that he had marked their card.

  ‘What do we know about personnel involved with the centre?’ he rapped. Reluctantly he added, ‘Were there any issues with local people?’

  Burton was primed, whipping out her trust moleskin notebook with alacrity.

  ‘There’s James Kelshaw, head of the board of trustees… used to be headteacher at St Mary’s College. Then we’ve got the Reverend Dr David Gillespie who’s chaplain to both the school and the relics centre.’

  Ebury-Clarke’s vinegary expression suggested he considered it out of the question that two such worthies could be involved.

  ‘Mrs Hayne had a couple of helpers at the centre who also teach at St Mary’s…. Rowena Wardle, Art teacher who handled conservation…. Valerie Thorne from the English department and, of course, Nigel Dunn the acting director who’s also the current head at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Acting director?’ Ebury-Clarke scented a problem.

  ‘The previous director was one Marguerite Gristhorpe from the college’s History department. Apparently she left St Mary’s under a cloud, which was when Nigel Dunn stepped up. It appears he and the chaplain are running the show at the moment, but we’ll know more about the management structure when we see them this afternoon.’

  The other’s eyes narrowed. ‘You say this Gristhorpe  woman left under a cloud…. what exactly was the problem?’

  ‘I haven’t managed to ascertain the full background, sir, but she’s currently lecturing at the university. Looks like she’s one of a number of people who had run-ins connected with the centre.’

  ‘Who are the others?’

  Markham felt a wave of indignation rise up inside him. They’d only just taken over the investigation and Ebury-Clarke was firing questions at Kate like a machine gun. His colleague, however, appeared unruffled.

  ‘I understand there’s a Classics teacher name of Adele Williamson who made some waves, though not clear yet what that was about …. There were some local clergy whose noses were put out of joint by the centre getting all the limelight….. the Reverend Ashley Thorpe for one…. felt his shrine at Thomas Becket Church was sidelined….. then there was Father Pat Jordan, he’s the parish priest at St Cecilia’s…. didn’t like Protestants muscling in on relics.’

  It was apparent from the way the CS was shifting restlessly in his chair that he didn’t at all care for the notion of clergy as potential suspects.

  ‘There’s also a couple who got caught up in controversy after they claimed an exhibit had cured their daughter, only for the centre to give them the brush-off…. name of Marjorie and Leonard Woodleigh…. the daughter Julie had some sort of bone disease and they said after she touched the relic she was able to walk.’

  ‘I remember them two,’ Noakes piped up. ‘There was a feature in the Gazette about how they took the kid to the centre…. she went an’ touched summat she weren’t supposed to…. an’ the next thing was the parents were shouting about it being a miracle.’

  ‘What was it she touched?’ Ebury-Clarke asked curiously.

  ‘I believe it was a fragment of cloth in a display case that had inadvertently been left unlocked….  a piece from the cloak of one of the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales,’ Burton didn’t go into specifics but Markham had no doubt she knew all the details. ‘Apparently it was on loan from Cambridge University, so the centre wasn’t happy about all the commotion in the press as it made them look like careless amateurs.’

  ‘Any other disaffected parties?’ CS demanded in a sepulchral tone that suggested he was becoming less enamoured of this case by the minute.

 ‘There’s a lecturer from the university who got turned down for the job of director…. Dr Travis Bonar…. he was pretty browned off about it because he had helped the centre secure a sizeable grant from the council.’

  ‘Why didn’t they want him?’

  ‘As yet we don’t know the reason, sir…. possibly they didn’t feel he shared the college’s ethos… quite flamboyant and outspoken by all accounts.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s just about it really, sir….. Oh, apart from a teacher at St Mary’s who was sacked after allegations that he was over-familiar with female students…. a bit of a lothario…. Alex Boulter…. volunteered at the centre but no complaints about his behaviour there….. There was a sixth former, Jonathan Klyth, who got himself suspended after a break-in at the centre…. smashed a downstairs window and got in that way….. but they took him back in the end…. the CCT thought he’d got mixed up with Dunstan Kemp’s crowd.’

  Ebury-Clarke’s expression darkened. ‘The mouthy atheist who’s always shouting the odds about religion being a cover for child abuse?’

  ‘That’s the one…. though so far there’s no evidence to suggest that he had the relics centre in his sights,’ Burton said swiftly.

  ‘It strikes me as highly unlikely the clergy or St Mary’s staff could have anything to do with this poor woman’s murder,’ the CS pronounced. ‘Disgruntled lecturers and that sex pest teacher who was sacked are a different story…. The Woodleighs and dodgy activist also need checking out asap.’

  He was a worthy successor to Sidney, Markham thought sourly. Absolutely determined at all costs to steer the investigation away from the soi-disant respectable institutions in hopes of pinning it on head cases or embittered oddballs.

  ‘It would seem politic to liaise with senior clergy,’ the CS instructed.

  Oh god. Markham’s heart sank at the thought of going ten rounds with his old adversary Bishop McGettrick from the Catholic side.

  ‘I’ve briefed Bishop McGettrick’s chaplain, sir, and we should hear back from Dr Hodge’s office later today,’ Burton said blandly, the latter being McGettrick’s C of E counterpart.

  ‘Excellent, Inspector.’ A baleful glance at Noakes, who maintained an expression of sunny innocence, suggested Ebury-Clarke’s hope that the DIs kept their civilian consultant – an ecumenical abuser of pompous clerics – as far away as possible from McGettrick and Hodge.

  After delivering himself of the usual platitudinous injunctions about the need to ‘maintain community confidence in the police,’ the CS finally departed with one last flat-eyed stare at Markham’s wingman. Privately, the DI resolved to sort his friend’s expenses and other administrative preliminaries as soon a possible before there was any chance of the boss changing his mind.

  A collective letting out of breath followed Ebury-Clarke’s departure.

  ‘The Super’s got his knickers in a twist in case this has got anything to do with the nobs,’ Doyle grinned. ‘Pillars of the community and all that.’

  ‘Cry me a river,’ Noakes grunted unsympathetically. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s priests mixed up in it somewhere what with everything you read in the papers about ’em being corrupt and up to all sorts….. jus’ putting it out there,’ he qualified as Burton shot him a reproachful look.

  He sounded like a Puritan witchfinder general or Savonarola on steroids, Markham thought ruefully. Hopefully Burton’s genius for diplomacy would ensure the team didn’t step on any clerical toes.

  In the meantime, ‘Come on,’ he addressed the team. ‘Let’s get the incident room set up and then I want to take a look at the centre.’

                                                  …………………………………………..

Nigel Dunn, the centre’s acting director, was a bespectacled, short ,stocky man with cherubic round face, curling brown hair and well-trimmed beard. He had a disconcerting habit of bouncing on the balls of his feet after the fashion of an overexcited child (‘like he were desperate to spend a penny’, as Noakes put it afterwards). The chaplain Dr Gillespie was a silver-haired, slim individual of medium height with a lean sensitive face and gentle expression. The two men appeared to have a good relationship and formed an impressive double-act when it came to breaking down police resistance to the idea of relics, proving themselves to be both entertaining and erudite as they regaled their audience with tales of the weird and wonderful.

  ‘The UK’s not short on marvels involving religious relics,’ Dunn informed them with relish. ‘Legend has it that when the Archbishop of Canterbury laid his hand on the head of St Hugh of Lincoln after he was exhumed, it separated from his shoulders which everyone regarded as miraculous because the magnificent reliquary they’d prepared for his remains wasn’t long enough to contain both the head and body together.’

  ‘No way!’ Noakes, predictably was entranced. Even Carruthers and Doyle boggled.

  ‘Our friends on the continent were rather more, shall we say, hands-on when it came to incorrupt bodies,’ Dunn continued, clearly pleased with the reaction of his auditors. ‘When St Nicholas of Tolentino was exhibited for veneration in a wooden urn, a renegade German monk amputated his arms intending to take them to his native country. The amputator was foiled after the arms started bleeding.’

  ‘Eeugh!’ Doyle was revolted but fascinated.

  ‘They reburied the remains under a church pavement, but the arms were kept apart in specially designed silver cases.’

  ‘Don’ tell me, the arms kept bleeding on special occasions,’ Noakes scoffed.

  Dunn smiled puckishly. ‘Actually they did, Mr Noakes…. Later on the bones disappeared again – nobody ever discovered why – and were only found five centuries later in 1926 buried much further down under the pavement…. After that, they were moved to a specially designed crypt, with the remains arranged in a simulated figure covered by a religious habit and the skull covered in silver.’

  ‘What about the arms?’ Carruthers wanted to know, his usual veneer of bored insouciance abandoned.

  ‘They’re still contained in their medieval silver casings arranged in their normal positions beside the figure.’ Complacently, Dunn added, ‘Many saints have signs and portents associated with their remains. St Rita of Cascia’s body was seen to move from one side of her wooden sarcophagus to the other after it was exhumed,. There were even witnesses who claimed to have seen it levitating to the top of the bier….. In the case of other beati, there are records of knockings emanating from sepulchres and caskets along with mysterious odours and stories of eyes opening and shutting …. My personal favourite is Blessed Antonio Vici whose head and shoulders were said to raise themselves when a girl possessed by the devil was brought along to his shrine.’

  Doyle looked aghast. ‘That’s gross!’

  ‘Ackshually, it’s not all that unusual  behaviour for left footers,’ Noakes said. ‘They get off on that kind of thing…. heart tissue marked with little crosses…. oil an’ sweat an’ fluids oozing out of dead holy folk like God’s keeping ’em  fresh or summat…. all soft an’ spongy to show they were special….’

  Doyle looked as if he wanted to throw up while Dunn and Gillespie maintained an expression of polite interest.

  ‘I kind of got interested in RC weirdiness on a previous case,’ Noakes confided, looking somewhat shifty.

  Burton, clearly nervous that her colleague might be causing massive offence by casting believers as some kind of necrophiliac nutters, tried desperately to catch his eye and make him shut up pronto.

  Noakes was on a roll, however.

  ‘When saintly types got dug up, the popes an’ bishops an’ whatnot went mad sending bits of the bodies here, there an’ everywhere,’ he imparted ghoulishly, ‘especially if they had owt odd about ’em…. y’know a foot or hand that looked like it had marks of Christ’s wounds.’

  Gillespie nodded approvingly. ‘That’s right, if they bore the stigmata, it made them rare treasures indeed.’ Aware of the sergeants’ sceptical expressions, he said earnestly, ‘The Catholic faithful, especially in medieval times, had a totally down-to-earth attitude to relics as being tangible signs of the Resurrection and Christ’s Mystical Body. The church then was perfectly comfortable with all sorts of procedures that seem downright morbid and macabre to us….. propping mummified corpses up in a sitting position….. dispatching organs and body parts to far-flung places…. connecting bones together with silver threads and cords…. covering discoloured or blackened faces with contoured nets or masks of wax or precious metals –’

  ‘There’s one like that in Westminster Cathedral,’ Carruthers said unexpectedly. ‘Looked like Darth Vader. I saw it on a school trip…. gave me nightmares for months afterwards.’

  ‘That’d be St John Southworth,’ Gillespie confirmed. ‘He was hung, drawn and quartered under Oliver Cromwell. His relics are in a glass chest, dressed in priest’s vestments, with silver hands and a silver mask over the face.’ Observing Carruthers’s squeamish expression, he added sympathetically, ‘I can see how that might terrify a child, but like I said, it was a mind-set that saw no problem with preserving and displaying sacred remains.’ He chuckled. ‘It could be quite comical when different cliques started squabbling over who should get what…. there was a right old tussle in the 1500s between two convents over who had the greater claim to St Teresa of Avila’s body…. in the end one lot got her corpse while the others had to make do with her left arm…. and even that wasn’t complete, seeing as a priest decided to amputate her left hand and sever the little finger which he carried around on his person.’

  Doyle shook his head. ‘Gross!’ he exclaimed with feeling.

  ‘Oh it gets worse,’ the clergyman said mischievously. ‘After later exhumations, bits and bobs were scattered all over Europe… the left hand even ended up in a suitcase with General Franco at one point….. Various factions continue to fight over her remains to this day.’

  Shyly, Burton interjected, ‘I read there are ten sets of keys needed to get to her coffin.’ As her colleagues stared, she added defensively. ‘It was in the papers. There was another exhumation not long ago…. She was laid out in this silver and marble coffin…. people queued up to see her.’

  ‘That’s like death tourism.’ Doyle sounded appalled. ‘Freaking mental.’

  ‘There have been instances of it leading to unbalanced behaviour, certainly,’ Dunn acknowledged somewhat stiffly. Then, with a glint in his eye, he said, ‘There was a notorious case of a Portuguese woman who bit off the little toe of St Francis Xavier’s right foot so she could keep it for her own private devotions…. I believe the toe is still in the possession of her descendants.’ Doyle looked sick on hearing this, which Markham rather suspected was the director’s intention.

  ‘To be honest, I’d say the church had more to fear from the kind of chicanery that inflamed the likes of Martin Luther and led to the Reformation,’ Gillespie remarked mildly. ‘By which I mean the trade in everything from holy nails to the holy foreskin.’

  Noakes jiggled his feet uncomfortably at such frankness.

  ‘Not to mention so-called miracles such as vials of blood liquefying …. Oh yes,’ the chaplain nodded vigorously, ‘there was a pretty good business to be made for churchmen with an eye to the main chance.’ Gillespie grinned suddenly, his rather careworn face lighting up so that he looked much younger and almost handsome. ‘It was quite astonishing how many places claimed to possess the skull of John the Baptist. But, look,’ the tone of levity switched to one of serious reflection, ‘in the end it’s all a question of faith. Of course there are the stories of miracles and wonders brought about through relics – I remember the legend about St Vincent Ferrer that after his burial mourners laid the bodies of two newly dead on his tomb in France and they were restored to life.’ Noakes looked as though he would like to have said that he wouldn’t put anything past the French but thought better of it.

  ‘What matters is that relics act as testimony to the spiritual dimension of human living – something which takes us beyond the scientifically measurable and lifts us up to new levels,’ Gillespie wound up.

  Markham was thinking of Dunn’s epithet ‘unbalanced behaviour’.

  He moved to the right hand tower of the mahogany reredos with its curved alcove and its striking silver gilt monstrance in the central glassed-in niche. ‘Mrs Hayne was positioned just over here,’ he said quietly. ‘Can you tell us if there was any particular significance in the choice of location?’

  Watching their faces closely, he could detect only puzzlement.

  ‘The relics on that side come from St Sebastian,’ Gillespie said after a long pause.

  ‘The bloke they shot with arrows,’ Noakes volunteered promptly.

  ‘Well, that’s one of many stories about him,’ Gillespie replied. ‘He’s reputed to have  survived that ordeal before being beaten to death on the orders of the emperor Diocletian.’

  Noakes jerked a thumb at the monstrance. ‘Which bit of him have you got in there?’ he asked jovially.

  Dunn cleared his throat. ‘The saint’s relics were widely dispersed over Europe… he’s the patron saint of those suffering from the plague, hence his popularity in medieval times…. The fragments of bone in our monstrance here come from Italy.’ Looking self-conscious, he explained. ‘Nowadays the Catholic church doesn’t go in for, er, hacking bodies about. It’s really only when a holy person’s tomb is unsealed prior to them becoming a saint that any translation of the body takes place.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t be respectful to go interfering with corpses.’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Noakes,’ Dunn was anxious to reassure his portly inquisitor. ‘When such a person’s tomb is unsealed and the body examined, you can take some fragments of bone but there’s no more cutting off parts at will.’

  ‘In 1994 the Vatican made new rules that pieces of bone and flesh weren’t to be distributed willy nilly,’ Gillespie corroborated his colleague. ‘They can only be released for public veneration in a church or other approved site after a formal request,’ he explained. ‘The idea is that a relic should be visible, not just powder…. There are various caches of bones at certain convents and monasteries in Rome which handle that…. they use the latest technology, usually a microtome or high-tech instrument to slice wafer-thin fragments.’

  ‘Like a freaking bacon slicer,’ Doyle blurted, unable to help himself despite Burton’s repressive glower. Carruthers merely smirked.

  ‘You don’t want relics so small that you have to use a magnifying glass to view them,’ Gillespie said, the hint of a chill in his tone. ‘So slivers of bone are best, though of course vials of blood or locks of hair are equally acceptable.’

    It struck Markham that there was something thoroughly surreal about this conversation, but he could not help being drawn in. Listening to the two men, it had become increasingly apparent to him that emotions could well run high amongst adherents of the cult of relics, though whether enough to kill was another matter,

    ‘I think it’s a good thing if relics help people get in touch with saints,’ Burton ventured shyly. ‘Kind of like a visible link between heaven and earth…. a way of making them want to be holy.’

  ‘That’s absolutely right, Inspector.’ Markham could tell that Gillespie had taken quite a shine to his colleague. ‘The important thing to remember is that there’s no magic power in them and they aren’t meant to act as talismans,’ he went on earnestly. ‘People are supposed to venerate them not worship them. The idea is that relics themselves don’t perform miracles. God performs them through the intercession of saints.’

  ‘How did you get hold of Sebastian’s bits seeing as you’re C of E?’ Noakes wanted to get back to brass tacks, ignoring Burton’s pained expression at the interruption.

  ‘The cathedral liaised with various authorities in Rome which gave permission,’ Dunn said primly. ‘There was no objection seeing as the cathedral is “High Church” – Anglo-Catholic, if you like. Rather unusually, it honours Catholic as well as Protestant Martyrs, with a very striking modernist shrine dedicated to Catholic saints who suffered persecution. Also, this relics centre combines the functions of a repository and a place for reflection and prayer.’

  Before they left the centre, Burton asked if they could see the relics of Queen Henrietta Maria, proceeding to examine the various prayer books in their glass cabinet with rapt intensity while her male colleagues yawned and shuffled their feet, clearly dreading the prospect of her ‘going off on one’.

  ‘Many Catholics regard the queen as a saint for spearheading a Catholic revival in  England and trying to protect persecuted recusants,’ Gillespie told them, ‘though she was never officially canonised. She said the only positive aspect of marrying Charles I was that she would most likely end up by dying a martyr, but in fact she died of natural causes in France.’

  ‘An’ it were poor ole Chas copped it instead,’ Noakes chimed in.

  The other blinked rapidly, somewhat disconcerted by the casualness.

  ‘Many of Charles’s devotees are certainly passionate about his sanctity,’ he told them

  ‘There’s the Society of King Charles the Martyr…. ecumenical in spirit…. members venerate the king’s relics on his feast day,’ Dunn added.

  ‘Wasn’t he called The White King?’ Burton asked quickly, before Noakes had a chance to say anything tendentious. ‘Did it have something to do with holiness?’

  ‘Well, during the Civil War, a story did the rounds that Charles had been warned the only kings of England to have been crowned in white were Richard II and Henry VI, both of whom were murdered, so it was a bad omen that he went to his coronation in white satin. Actually,’ Dunn said pedantically, ‘the myth of the white king was more to do with the coronation being held on the feast of Candlemas, the feast of purification of the Virgin. Still, the Puritans never let truth get in the way of a good story…. Poor Henrietta Maria and her ladies were called witches and accused of dancing around in her private quarters while the king was being crowned, as if they were holding some kind of Black Sabbath. Even worse, there were all kinds of rumours that the queen’s priests took a perverted delight in asking about her sex life.’

  ‘Makes the Windsors look positively normal by comparison,’ Carruthers drawled.

  ‘Was Henrietta Maria into relics?’ Burton asked hastily.

  ‘Actually she was…. which made the poor woman even more of a stock villain because they were able to accuse her of superstition and idolatry. In reality, she was simply a pious Catholic with, as it happens, a great devotion to St Sebastian. She was also very excited when a small piece of the true cross was discovered at the Tower of London.’

  Carruthers converted a disbelieving snort into a cough as Burton shot him a hard look.

  ‘All in all, she had a bad press,’ Dunn concluded. ‘It came from people’s obsession with Jesuit priests and the fear that they were lurking round every corner and under every bed.’

  ‘She wasn’t all that bad looking,’ Doyle said, peering at the copy of a van Dyck portrait.

  ‘Even though she was reputed to have teeth protruding from her mouth like guns from a fort,’ the other smiled.

  Doyle laughed, surprised to find that the prissy director actually had a sense of humour.

  ‘In her widowhood, she was always going off to stay in convents, which was disruptive for the nuns so they complained about it.’

  Noakes directed a significant look at Burton who did her best to ignore it.

  ‘After she died, her heart and entrails ended up in a convent reliquary,’ Dunn finished.

  ‘Eww,’ Doyle shuddered before colouring up and muttering an apology.

  The director went on kindly as if he hadn’t heard. ‘She was a very controversial figure…. still is, given all the ecclesiastical tensions down the centuries between die-hard Protestants crying “no popery” and Anglo-Catholics who are into ritualism and relics…. The fact that the Public Worship Regulation Act 1874 stayed on the statute book until 1963 shows the strength of feeling between the high church and low church factions.’

  Some stilted conversation about Suzanne Hayne followed, her two colleagues confining themselves mainly to conventional expressions of regret. Markham decided not to push it, figuring that a more detailed probe could wait till in-depth interviews the following day. After some further largely inconsequential chit chat, it was time to call it a day.

  Huddled outside in the snowy car park afterwards, their breath drifting upwards in wispy smoke rings, Burton said, ‘Hearing all that about rifts and divisions amongst believers made me wonder if Mrs Hayne could have been targeted by someone obsessed with the idea of relics being some kind of Roman Catholic abomination. I mean, if Henrietta and her ladies in waiting were regarded as witches, then maybe the killer has a deranged fixation about women who work here…. views them as being in league with the devil or something like that… and seeing as the queen had a thing for St Sebastian, he dragged Suzanne’s body in front of that shrine to make some twisted point about idolaters.’

  ‘Or it could’ve been some fanatic who’s crazy about Charles and Henrietta and wanted to steal a relic associated with them so they could drool over it in private,’ Carruthers countered. ‘Only poor Mrs Hayne got in the way and interrupted them.’

  ‘Drool.’ Burton’s tone dripped acid.

  ‘Poor choice of words,’ Carruthers amended smoothly, ‘but from what Dunn said, it could just as easily be some crackpot with a mania for collecting sacred memorabilia as someone with a vendetta against religious types.’

  Always fair, the DI slowly nodded, acknowledging the truth of his observation. ‘The centre officially closed for the day at 5 pm, but Mrs Hayne didn’t normally lock up until she left the building, so someone could easily have gained access with an eye to filching an item.’

  ‘What d’you reckon to Squirrel Nutkin back there?’ Noakes asked Markham, jerking a pudgy finger at the building behind them.

  Markham smiled at the epithet, well used to his friend’s habit of bestowing monikers on suspects. In this case, it struck him as fairly apt, Nigel Dunn having struck him as rather like a benevolent marsupial straight out of one of Beatrix Potter’s stories.

  ‘What you might call a “boffin”,’ he said wryly, aware that the two sergeants had already classified the amiable director as a culture vulture like Burton. Mind you, he supposed that went with the territory.

  ‘Yeah, he whanged on a bit,’ Noakes agreed, ‘but him an’ the padre seemed on the level.’

  ‘Happy to witter on about the relics, but didn’t want to talk about the dead woman or the college,’ Carruthers pointed out. ‘Clammed right up about that side.’

  ‘I thought Dunn was on the spectrum,’ Doyle weighed in. ‘One of those who can chunter on for hours about their hobby but doesn’t do personal stuff.’

  Burton frowned at this glib diagnosis but it struck Markham the DS could well be right about emotional inarticulacy. Of course there was the possibility it was a well-honed performance that covered something else.

  ‘Gillespie seemed more normal,’ Doyle conceded, aware that Burton disapproved of his “spectrum” remark. ‘And he sounded genuinely upset about Hayne. I thought he was going to cry when he said she used to come to his prayer group.’

  ‘All that about slicing stuff up and sticking it on display was absolutely gross.’ It was clear that Doyle hadn’t entirely recovered from the discussion about keeping bodies intact and couldn’t imagine having a discussion with down-to-earth Kelly about microtomes and the like.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be so uncomfortable at the idea of honouring relics,’ Markham said meditatively., thinking back to what Gillespie had said. ‘After all, the whole point of Christianity is the belief that Jesus bridged the gap between human and divine and guaranteed the resurrection of the body, so what could be more natural than believers wanting to honour saints’ bones, garments and other objects that belonged to them.’

  Burton nodded approvingly. ‘Like the way people want to have a souvenir from someone they’ve loved,’ she said softly.

  The DI guessed his colleague was thinking of her recently lost father. From the kindly way Noakes was looking at her, it was clear he remembered too.

  Before Carruthers could chime in with some smart alec put down, Markham said, ‘Let’s get back to the station and take stock,’ reflecting that it was likely to be a long day. He was expecting Olivia over at The Sweepstakes later that evening, however, and quite looked forward to hearing what she made of it all. Now that they were in calmer waters and met as friends rather than lovers, he enjoyed her caustic and frequently insightful commentary on his work. Though a long way from being reconciled to the presence of Kate Burton in his life and unaware that things had turned serious between them, his ex appeared to have accepted the situation. By tacit agreement, they didn’t discuss their personal lives, though he often wondered how he would feel if he heard she was seeing someone.  Kate knew he still saw Olivia from time to time and had never shown the slightest resentment or jealousy. Which just went to show she was a class act. He didn’t care to consider the alternative explanation, namely that she remained serene because she wasn’t as deeply invested in their embryo romance as he was….

  With an effort dismissing thoughts of his strange “eternal triangle”, the DI headed for his car with Noakes in tow. They had a full schedule ahead of them the next day and he needed to be on top of his brief.

  Somewhere in that list of interviewees lurked a murderer.

                                                           -----------------------------------------

Olivia was on sparkling form that evening, attacking their (inevitable) Chinese takeaway with gusto. She had lost the slightly haggard, hollowed-out look that marked her in the early days of their separation, leading him to wonder if there was a new man in her life. She had grown out her somewhat severe Joan of Arc bob and the unruly waterfall of red hair gleamed in the soft light of his Tiffany lamps, lending her an otherworldly allure.

  She was vastly intrigued by his account of the team’s visit to the relics centre, listening with fascination as he described its strange interior.

  ‘I’m definitely going to pay a visit once it reopens,’ she told him. Then, ‘How did George find it all?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘Oh you know our Noakesy….. Dunn and Gillespie didn’t know what to make of him but did their best to be polite…. even when he asked playfully did they have anything on St Atistics…. Statistics geddit.’

  ‘Oh dear….. Wasn’t it GK Chesterton who defined satire by saying, “No-one who has ever seen a hippopotamus can deny that Almighty God has a sense of humour”? Well, I reckon the same applies to George.’

  He chuckled. ‘I don’t think Toadface sees the funny side.’

  ‘How’re you finding him after Judas Iscariot?’ this being her nickname for DCI Sidney.

  Markham sighed. ‘D’you know, he actually makes me feel almost nostalgic for Sidney…. even that adenoidal Dalek honk and the management speak.’

  She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Sidney wasn’t the worst,’ he sighed. ‘And you know what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder.’

  She gave a snort of derision. ‘Where’s he ended up then?’

  ‘Not too sure at the moment, but Carstairs heard he’s been touting his service to various media outlets.’

  ‘Oh god, can you just imagine him doing a podcast…. Poirot on antihistamines.’

  Markham grinned. ‘Well, I suppose I should just be thankful I didn’t get saddled with Bretherton.’

  She pulled a face. ‘He’s such a snob, he puts Muriel Noakes in the shade…. the type who says, “There’s no need to call me Sir, my good man.”’

  Amused, he said, ‘Ebury-Clarke should be alright provided I play down stuff about superstition and religious mania…. He’s not at all keen on that side of things…. finds the whole relics industry peculiar and totally baffling.’

‘Chaucer’s Pardoner carries a glassful of “pigges bones” around with him and passes them off as holy remnants…. and weren’t there any number of bogus relics doing the rounds in the Middle Ages? I remember reading about some cathedral which venerated the supposed brain of St Peter and then when they investigated in the 1950s it turned out to be a pumice stone.’

  Markham burst out laughing at this. Olivia’s irreverence was something of a tonic after the unsettling tour earlier, helping to dispel the queasiness he had felt.

  ‘There’s supposed to be thousands of purported relics of John the Baptist,’ she continued. ‘Then there’s all those pieces from the crown of thorns or splinters from the True Cross – most likely enough to fill a cargo ship.’

  Markham groaned. ‘Don’t go sharing any of that with Noakesy,’ he pleaded. ‘As things stand, he’s reasonably well disposed to our relic guardians down at the cathedral, but it wouldn’t take much for his “No Popery” side to rear its head.’

  Her eyes danced. ‘Okay, I won’t say anything about how John Calvin mocked relics of Mary’s breast milk on the basis that she couldn’t have come up with more of the stuff if she was a cow or continued nursing her whole lifetime.’

  ‘Cheers, Liv,’ he replied faintly. The last thing he wanted was Noakes haranguing the likes of Bishop McGettrick about the Protestant Reformation.

  Olivia, like the team earlier, was clearly fascinated by the relics trade. ‘There’s been lots of headlines over the years about fake discoveries by “relic archaeologists”,’ she pointed out. ‘So perhaps the murder’s got something to do with fraud.’

 ‘From the way Doyle and Carruthers were talking about eBay, you could see they were thinking about some kind of trafficking in body parts,’ Markham sighed, ‘but so far anything like that seems so far-fetched…..’ His brow furrowed. ‘Dr Gillespie said something to me before we left about there having been a tug-of-war down the years between the clergy and laity when it came to relics.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, apparently the Vatican became worried when the cult of relics was promoted too enthusiastically by lay people because it could be seen as challenging the clerical monopoly on spiritual authority…. So maybe that’s at the bottom of it, though I don’t see how….. Or it could have something to do with competing claims or just religious derangement…. According to Gillespie, “possession of the holy” has always made people behave in all kinds of unhinged ways…. one group of fanatical monks allegedly dumped the relics of a saint into a vat of wine and then drank it in an attempt to ward off disease.’

  She giggled. ‘Oh my days.’

  ‘Believe me, there’s extensive scope for nuttiness….. Don’t even get me started on the obsession with “incorruptibles”.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The idea that if a holy person’s body fails to decompose, it’s a divine sign that they’re a saint. Gillespie just touched on it before we left…. Dunn didn’t seem too keen to talk about it…. could probably tell Doyle and Carruthers were freaked out.’

  ‘What about George?’

  ‘Oh he lapped it up,’ Markham grinned at the memory. ‘Couldn’t get enough of the gory details…. though he looked a bit po-faced when Gillespie talked about corpses spontaneously raising their arms in benediction or the saint who covered his private parts with his hands when the body was being unclothed.’

  She giggled again. ‘Blimey, it’ll probably confirm all his darkest fears about RCs.’

  ‘Hmm….. He got pretty indignant at the idea that a lot of the bodies displayed in churches consist of physical remains hidden inside an “effigy” made to look real…. and he thought it’s a fraud on the paying public where they’ve used wax masks or silicone to cover faces that turned black.’

  ‘Presumably it doesn’t mean someone can’t be a saint if their body isn’t completely intact when they dig it up for the beatification or whatever.’

  ‘Oh no, remember Cardinal Newman,’ he laughed. ‘All they found of him was a few tassels from his red hat….. And there are plenty of others who decayed naturally. But it’s good for business, so to speak, if someone holy turns up supple and reasonably fresh… though anybody that’s been embalmed or artificially preserved wouldn’t count.’

  ‘You ‘re beginning to sound like an undertaker, Gil.’

   ‘Well, the subject holds a certain macabre fascination,’ he replied with a wry twist of his mouth. ‘Makes one see how this whole relics business might appeal to someone with a personality disorder…. someone of a  necrophiliac disposition, perhaps….. though whether that’s a trigger here, who can say……’

  ‘Any heads up on suspects yet?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘Dunn and Gillespie seemed on the level…. There’s a group connected with St Mary’s College… former headteacher who’s now head of the board of trustees at the centre…. a couple of teachers who volunteered at the centre….sounded like there were tensions behind the scenes –’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me…. Hope’s such a nest of vipers,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘Well looks like there was some jockeying for position alright…. Then there’s the previous director who taught at St Mary’s but lost her job for some reason…. lectures at the university these days along with some guy who got passed over the job. There’s a light-fingered sixth former in the mix along with a teacher who got the sack on account of fancying himself a “babe magnet”,’ Markham concluded sardonically.

  ‘Holy moly, that’s a lot to be going on with!’

  ‘Talking of “holy”, apparently there’s a cranky reverend and equally disgruntled Catholic priest with gripes about the centre…. plus a local family who got given the bum’s rush.’

  Olivia’s eyes widened as he filled her in about clerical disgruntlement and the Woodleighs.

  ‘Oh, and just to top it off, there’s some whack job atheist in the mix.’

  She whistled. ‘I’d say you’ve got your work cut out, Gil.’

  ‘Tell me about it! And of course Toadface wants it all squared away ASAFP.’

  With a jolt, he realised the conversation was becoming one-sided. Changing the subject, he said, ‘What are you up to at the moment, Liv…. demob happy now that term’s winding down…. doing some serious partying?’

  ‘I’m at the stage in life where I’d much rather be sat in front of a nice fire with a plate of mince pies and a bit of peace. I must be getting old, Gil,’ she parried deftly.

  ‘Never!’ he replied gallantly.

  After she had left, he realised that he had learned nothing about her private life.

  Keeping it light, he told himself, feeling an odd pang at the thought and aware the tug of physical attraction was still there.

  What was it he had said about Sidney…. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It was true of himself and Olivia too, he thought ruefully.

  Getting up to clear away the remnants of their feast, he tried to banish the troubling conundrum of his feelings for two very different women.

  Tomorrow would reveal the “runners and riders” in this investigation.

  And perhaps bring him face to face with a murderer.

Catherine

Moloney 2025

 

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