He was so lost in the contemplation of his shortcomings, that he came to with a start. ‘Eh?’
‘I said, your appointment is with Doctor Neil Troughton at 4:45 . . .’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly. ‘If you’d like to sit down.’
God, the poor lass probably thought he was losing his marbles.
With an embarrassed duck of the head, he lurched away from the counter and plonked himself down in the farthest corner of the room.
Some sort of creepy aquatic-style soundtrack was playing over speakers. The kind of stuff that was meant to keep you calm. Unfortunately, it made him want to pee. He’d just have to hold it in. Didn’t want them thinking he was nuts and incontinent.
Trying to ignore his importunate bladder, Noakes contemplated the video footage playing on a wall-mounted screen. And promptly wished he hadn’t. How to examine your stools.
God, the whole set-up was starting to make him feel like some sort of decrepit coffin-dodger.
Catching sight of his reflection in a glass-fronted literature display unit, he sucked in his paunch and smoothed down the rumpled salt-and-pepper thatch that, despite his best efforts, declined to lie flat. There was nothing to be done about his pug-like features (‘lived-in,’ he told himself hopefully), but the regimental tie was bound to create a favourable impression. Granted, he needed to lose some poundage, but no way was he joining that poncey gym Muriel kept rabbiting on about. Spinning classes. Pilates. Tai chi. Avocado smoothies. Lycra.
Jesus. There had to be another way.
Perhaps he might check out Bromgrove Police Boxing Club, the place in Marsh Lane that Markham visited whenever he wanted to beat seven bells out of DCI Sidney (or Slimy Sid, as their senior officer was popularly known). The proprietor ‘Doggie’ Dickerson looked a right old villain, but at least there’d be no danger of encountering the kind of right-on veganistas who invariably brought him out in hives.
Strange that his fastidious, famously discerning boss should be perfectly comfortable slumming it at Doggie’s. But that was Markham. Hidden depths . . .
He had never quite fathomed how he was still at Markham’s side and acting as his bagman in the face of the DCI’s ill-disguised desire to have him put out to grass. But the rising star of CID had stubbornly resisted all Sidney’s attempts to remove Noakes. At a level deeper than words, they were an unbreakable team. He felt a glow of gratification at the thought.
It was raining heavily now, the privet hedge just visible through the waiting-room window drooping dankly as though it shared his despondent mood. Welcome to the Great British Summer.
Around him the community centre was eerily quiet. It was a modern but not particularly inspiring cinder-block complex that housed the surgery, local library and a sixth-form study annexe for students of Hope Academy.
This was the dead time, he thought, yawning as he looked at his watch and wondered what the hell was keeping Doctor Neil Troughton. Quarter past five. Weren’t appointments meant to be bloody ten minutes these days? So, was the previous patient yakking on? Or was the good doctor catching up on his admin? Either way, Noakes was getting restless at the hold-up.
The little receptionist seemed to have disappeared. He shifted uncomfortably on the trendy modular seating, which was hopelessly unsuited to a man of his girth.
Time for another shufti at the in-house entertainment. Oh, chuffing hell. Now it was, You and your prostate.
He couldn’t face any more of the triple bill. Might as well get a coffee from that machine in the corridor. Bound to taste like gnat’s piss but it would pass the time . . .
Noakes got to his feet then froze.
What was that?
Sounded like a scream followed by pounding footsteps.
He waited.
‘Mr Noakes?’ The girl from the front desk was back. White-faced and barely able to speak, she looked as though she was in shock.
For a big man, Noakes could move surprisingly fast.
‘Here, luv. What’s up?’ He manoeuvred himself behind the counter and pressed her gently into a chair.
‘There’s a body in the refrigerator,’ she stammered eventually.
Refrigerator? ‘Where would that be then?’
‘The minor ops treatment room.’
‘Can you show me, luv?’
She nodded vigorously, lank blonde ponytail swinging with the force of her agitation.
They passed through double doors and along a corridor to the rear of the building where the receptionist halted in front of another door.
‘C’mon, luv. Don’t be afraid,’ Noakes urged gently.
The stainless-steel refrigerator stood at the far end of the room, its lid flipped open and yawning in front of him.
‘I can’t look again, Mr Noakes.’
‘That’s alright . . .’ Noakes squinted at her name badge, ‘Shelly.’ He patted her arm reassuringly. ‘You jus’ stand here an’ be look-out.’
* * *
The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.
The boss’s words came to Noakes as he looked down at a woman’s slim body concertinaed into the narrow space, turned on its side, long dark hair obscuring the face.
Somehow, with an ineffable weight of sadness, the DS knew instinctively that she was beautiful.
Voices at the door.
Shelly’s voice. ‘It’s Doctor Troughton, Sergeant.’
Noakes waved him over.
Neil Troughton looked calmly at the recumbent figure.
‘Can you identify her, sir?’
‘Yes,’ the other replied impassively. ‘It’s one of our patients. Rebecca Shawcross.’
1. And So It Begins
Gilbert Markham sat on ‘his’ bench round the back of Bromgrove Police Station, savouring a few brief moments’ peace. It was shortly after 6 a.m. on Tuesday and he was soon to be plunged into the hurly-burly of a new investigation. A fine drizzle softened the outlines of St Chad’s cemetery and deepened the lush green hues of neighbouring Hollingrove Park, lending them a gentle beauty which charmed the eye and soothed the soul of the young DI.
His eyes wandering to the parish church’s ancient tombs, he recited a silent prayer for Rebecca Shawcross. As a lapsed Catholic, the dead woman’s final destiny remained veiled in mystery, but he knew for certain there would be no rest for him until her killer was brought to justice.
Reluctantly, he dragged his thoughts back to the impending murder enquiry. What did he know of Bromgrove Community Centre? Architecturally undistinguished. A sort of one-stop shop for various community services.
His mouth quirked as he recalled George Noakes’s ill-concealed relief at the cancellation of his annual check-up after the previous day’s dramatic discovery. The old devil had been sporting a startling tweed ensemble that — taken with his florid complexion and overflowing gut — had given him the look of a down-at-heel gamekeeper, so presumably Muriel had issued some sort of fatwa against his usual garb. Most of the time, she wisely averted her eyes, but a visit to the local GP meant family pride was at stake. Markham wasn’t sure that her intervention on this occasion had resulted in a significant improvement. Noakes’s appearance invariably raised DCI Sidney’s blood pressure (‘For God’s sake, Markham, the man’s a disgrace. Looks like Worzel Gummidge and offensive to boot’), but luckily Slimy Sid was on an away-day and hopefully wouldn’t clap eyes on the DS till much later.
Markham knew his insistence on keeping Noakes around as his number two had done him no favours with the top brass, but somehow he didn’t care. That the DS had no filter was part of his appeal. In a world of palm-greasing and PC virtue signalling, integrity ran through George Noakes like a stick of rock. He also had an unexpected gift for empathy and kindness, something in his unvarnished authenticity touching a chord with tongue-tied teenagers and truculent old-time criminals alike. Markham had long since detected Noakes’s susceptibility to the charms of his willowy teacher girlfriend Olivia, which manifested itself in a sort of chivalrous devotion tha
t was as funny as it was touching. Mrs Noakes, needless to say, regarded these troubadour tendencies with a distinctly jaundiced eye, but Noakes proved unexpectedly stubborn in his allegiance to Olivia. ‘She’s good for the guvnor’ was his stolid response to any acid asides about ‘highly strung types’.
Olivia, in turn, had taken to Noakes in a big way. Neither she nor Markham had ever been able to fathom his fierce loyalty to the snobbish, bossy Muriel, but they knew the couple was rock solid for all that. It had come as a surprise to learn that the Noakeses were regulars on the competitive ballroom dancing circuit, hence the need for the DS to get his weight under control. ‘I can’t see George switching from Greggs pasties to kale smoothies,’ Olivia had giggled. At least the check-up was a step in the right direction . . . and now Noakes had wriggled out of it.
Markham wanted his usual team for this case. DS Kate Burton was no doubt inside already raring to get started. He smiled at the thought of his other keen-as-mustard DS.
A greater contrast to George Noakes could hardly be imagined. In many ways, Kate Burton was the yin to Noakes’s slovenly yang and the epitome of a thrusting young officer, her focused ambition in sharp contrast to Noakes’s shambling slobbishness.
Initially antagonistic to each other, the two sergeants had slowly bonded over the course of some dangerous assignments, with Noakes gradually learning to appreciate the doggedness of his female colleague (whose entry to the police had initially been blocked by paternal resistance — ‘No job for a woman’) as well as her devotion to Markham. Privately, he suspected this went much further than professional regard though, as she was now engaged to a DS in Fraud, Burton had presumably ceased to sigh for the moon. Noakes had never betrayed her secret to Markham or DC Doyle, the youngest member of the team with whom he enjoyed setting the world to rights in Bromgrove’s various hostelries. Even so, he figured the guvnor must have an inkling.
In fact, if such a possibility ever crossed his mind, Markham had dismissed it, being notably devoid of vanity or self-regard. But he sensed Burton’s envy of the easy complicity that he and Noakes shared and had made a resolution to draw her closer. Beneath the somewhat disconcerting earnestness and eager-beaver intensity, which had initially repelled her male colleagues, lay an unexpected vulnerability. She had certainly loosened up considerably since her arrival in CID, to the point where a wary camaraderie had sprung up between herself, Noakes and Doyle. While still occasionally bristling at Noakes’s more outrageous outbreaks of political incorrectness, she had learned to give as good as she got, a mischievous sense of humour coming to her aid in their various incident room exchanges.
Burton should be chasing further promotion and taking her Inspector’s exams. Yet Markham had the feeling she was holding back for some reason — a desire not to outgun her boringly conventional fiancé, perhaps? Or maybe she just wanted to stay close to the action as one of ‘Markham’s gang’? Either way, he felt selfishly relieved that it looked as though he was going to be able to hang on to her a bit longer.
Yes, Burton and Noakes should work well in harness on this one. Noakes could be relied upon to detonate the H-bomb in terms of forcing potential suspects to reveal their hidden vices while Burton, ever the diplomatist, kept management and the local authority at bay.
Hopefully DC Doyle would be available too. The ‘ginger ninja’, as he was affectionately known, was a hard worker and keen to rise within CID having begun a part-time degree in criminal law through distance learning. He could also be a useful buffer between Noakes and Burton, his youthful ingenuousness proving invaluable whenever their entente cordiale showed signs of unravelling.
Better head inside and get a jump on the day. The fabled ‘golden hour’ had yielded precious little in terms of information gathered at the community centre.
Rebecca Shawcross had been an English teacher at Hope Academy, where Olivia now worked. Markham frowned, recalling the last time his girlfriend had been caught up in a murder investigation. Traumatized, she’d ended up leaving her job at Hope, questioning whether she’d ever be able to teach again. She’d since returned to her role and to the school. He could only pray that none of this led back to the academy, awakening old ghosts.
The victim had been strangled with some sort of rudimentary garrotte. Surgical twine, according to the pathologist Doug ‘Dimples’ Davidson. Dimples had also given him the time of death unofficially: somewhere between 1 and 3 p.m. on the day of Noakes’s appointment.
At least the surgery hadn’t been teeming with people on account of the majority of staff attending a conference in London. Always helpful to have the field of suspects narrowed down. Noakes was due to do this morning’s briefing on the community centre personnel, after which Markham would dispatch Burton and Doyle to set up an incident room.
The DI cast a last wistful look at the gauzy outlines of Hollingrove Park before moving purposefully towards the station and the day ahead.
* * *
In contrast with the lush verdure of the park that was its neighbour, CID looked somehow staler than ever, the distinctly tired-looking décor in dire need of sprucing up. Even the huge yucca plant donated by the station’s green-fingered custody sergeant had an air of dejection.
When pigs fly, thought Markham resignedly turning to his Lilliputian office with its unrivalled views of the station car park.
The two sergeants were already waiting for him, a faint aroma of grease suggesting that Noakes’s fitness regime had been sidelined for the time being. Burton sat virtuously sipping black coffee, prim as a schoolgirl, her nut-brown pageboy gleaming with health. She always dressed smartly but soberly, as though any distinctive mark of personal taste would’ve risked undermining her professional persona. Today’s outfit was another of what Noakes called her Chairman Mao trouser suits, but the overall effect was one of irreproachable neatness.
The DI was relieved to see Noakes had toned his look down since the previous day, being no more than ordinarily scruffy in crumpled linen separates (mismatched) and less than pristine white shirt. Just enough to pass muster with the DCI, though the hideous vermillion tie vied with Noakes’s complexion to give the overall impression that here was a prime candidate for apoplexy, heart attack, stroke or all three.
Suppressing a sigh, Markham sat down behind his desk, whereupon Noakes promptly set aside his dogeared copy of the Gazette while Burton eagerly whipped out her police notebook. Looking at the two faces turned towards him — Burton’s tip-tilted features in amusing contrast to Noakes’s weather-beaten jowliness — the DI felt a wave of affection. Along with Olivia, they were family. The only real family he had ever known.
‘Any chance of securing DC Doyle for this investigation?’ he asked.
‘DI Carstairs nabbed him for this morning, guv,’ Noakes grunted. ‘But he promised we c’n have him back later.’
‘Good.’ Markham leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the loose spring digging into his back. ‘Right, Noakes, why don’t you talk us through the potential suspects.’
The DS cleared his throat portentously and fished into his jacket pocket for an envelope on which he appeared to have scribbled some notes. A sound that might have been a whimper escaped Kate Burton, swiftly repressed.
‘Well, it helps that all the medicos were off on a jolly.’
Burton frowned.
‘Doing CPD.’ The silly bitch loved her acronyms. ‘Continuous professional development,’ he enunciated sonorously. ‘Up in Leeds. ’Cept for two of ’em.’ He squinted ferociously at his horrible handwriting. ‘Doctor Neil Troughton — he’s the locum — an’ the ANP Maureen Stanley,’ he continued triumphantly, as though to demonstrate he could ‘do’ acronyms with the best of them.
‘Troughton was pretty calm.’ Noakes shrugged. ‘But then, it’s all in a day’s work for him, ain’t it? I mean, death . . . The professional training would have kicked in.’
‘Hmm.’ Markham steepled his fingers. ‘What about his colleague?’
‘Sh
e looked dead upset . . . could’ve been putting it on, of course.’ Noakes grinned evilly. ‘Got the feeling she fancies Troughton. Fussing around him with cups of tea and whatnot . . . went bright red whenever she spoke to him . . .’
Burton’s disapproving look was back, but Markham didn’t halt the flow. Noakes was good at picking up vibes that loftier types tended to miss.
‘Who else was in the vicinity yesterday, Sergeant?’ Markham prompted.
Noakes began counting them off on his stubby fingers. ‘Well, there was the receptionist Shelly. Poor little cow. She was hysterical. Mum had to come and collect her . . . we can rule her out—’
‘We’re not ruling anyone out, Sergeant,’ the DI interposed mildly.
‘Yeah, well I don’t see Shelly for it, guv.’ The DS stuck to his guns, but Markham let it pass. Noakes was the doting father of a teenaged daughter Natalie, trainee beautician and undisputed doyenne of Bromgrove’s less salubrious nightspots. Oblivious to the ‘extracurricular’ activities of his own daughter, Noakes had a soft spot for young girls and was good with them too.
‘Go on, Sergeant.’
Noakes resumed his roll call. ‘Right . . . bloke called Peter Elford’s the community-centre administrator. All Brylcreemed hair and smarm. Seemed efficient, mind,’ the DS conceded grudgingly, ‘but deffo in love with himself.’ A brief scowl and he continued. ‘There’s a caretaker who reports to him . . . Chris Burt . . . middle-aged . . . not sure he’s the full shilling, if you get my drift. Special needs or summat like that. Anyway,’ he went on hastily before Burton could accuse him of inappropriateness towards minorities, ‘Elford bosses him round good-o. Burt’s sister Thelma Macdonald’s the surgery office manager. Sour-faced, bit of a harridan . . . She was over in the library visiting her mate when we found the body.’
‘Who’s the mate?’ Burton was scribbling vigorously.
‘Another harridan.’ Burton’s pen stilled. ‘Sorry . . . the head librarian Shirley Bolton.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s jus’ that they didn’t seem to care about that poor cow being found dead in the fridge.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 127