Thinking back to those murders in St Cecilia’s parish church, when the body count had nearly included Olivia herself, Markham flinched.
The DCI looked at the DS in astonishment, but Noakes was on a roll.
‘She understands how folks’ minds work an’ all cos she’s so brainy.’
‘Perhaps we should ask her to consult with the police on this case then, Sergeant.’ Sidney’s tone could have stripped sandpaper.
Markham forced a jovial laugh and jumped in before his number two could make matters any worse. ‘Olivia’s more than happy to leave criminal profiling to the experts, sir. And as for the rest . . . all she wants is a quiet life these days.’
God, he was making his girlfriend sound like the little woman waiting at home for him with pipe and slippers. But it did the trick.
‘Glad to hear it, Inspector. “Behind every man there’s a great woman”, as they say. But best not to make a habit of involving one’s other half!’
The DI didn’t know which was worse. The ghastly fake bonhomie or the crocodile-like menace.
Mercifully, at that moment they were interrupted by Miss Peabody with the announcement that the chief constable was on the line. Stroking his pips with reflex unctuousness, Sidney dismissed them. ‘I want regular updates, Inspector. Press conference tomorrow at the latest.’
‘That went well,’ grinned Noakes once they found themselves back in the corridor. ‘’Specially that bit ’bout your “lady friend”.’ The DS sniggered and whistled the chorus of ‘Stand by Your Man’, much to the amusement of two passing typists from human resources.
‘Hmm. I don’t see Olivia channelling her inner Tammy Wynette at Sidney’s behest . . . But at least she’s well on the periphery of this case, so there’s nothing for him to complain about on that score.’
‘Oh, he’ll find something to get his knickers in a twist about, never fear, guv.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Markham replied grimly. ‘A touch of — what do the politicos call it? — “constructive ambiguity” appears to be required if we’re going to keep the DCI at bay.’
Noakes guffawed appreciatively. He was always up for a spot of subterfuge. ‘You mean Chris Carstairs?’
‘Indeed. He owes me for our help with that immoral earnings investigation last month.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Noakes’s expression was speculative. ‘Sailed a bit close to the wind did our Mister Carstairs. Didn’t exactly do things by the book . . . or at least, not Sidney’s book any road.’
‘Which is why he will naturally wish to oil the wheels for us, Noakesy, and blind Sidney with statistics.’
‘Him and Burton.’ The DS rolled his eyes. ‘A match made in heaven.’
‘Just thank your lucky stars you’re not going on spreadsheet duty.’
‘What’s next then, guv?’ Wistfully sniffing the air, ‘Seeing as we missed out at lunchtime . . .’
‘An army marches on its stomach. No doubt that’s what they’ll inscribe on your tombstone, Sergeant. A uniquely fitting epitaph.’
‘No, guv.’ Noakes was determined to have the last word. ‘It’ll be like that Spike Wotsisface . . . I told you I was ill!’
* * *
While Markham and Noakes were refuelling in the station canteen, DS Burton and DC Doyle sat in their sliver of the incident room at the community centre. Around them all was quiet, with the subdued hum of a skeleton staff faintly audible in the background. The news of Peter Elford’s death seemed to have struck everyone dumb and an eerie hush prevailed. Now and again a telephone call rang shrilly through the building before being abruptly cut off as though strangled at its inception.
Burton had issued no details of how Elford’s body had been found. ‘Suicide’ was the shocked whisper that had spread through the building like wildfire following her announcement, and she was in no hurry to contradict the rumours. ‘Just routine,’ she’d repeated mechanically over and over before interviewing each staff member in turn.
‘Fancy a Hob Nob, sarge?’ Doyle waved the packet in his colleague’s direction.
‘Better not. I’ve got the PM on Elford later.’
‘Glutton for punishment, you are.’
‘I see it more as professional development,’ came the huffy response.
Jeez, this was going to be a long afternoon, reflected the young DC glumly. Better start talking shop. A dissection of last night’s footie could wait till he and Noakes were in the pub.
‘The statements from this lot,’ he waved a hand languidly towards the corridor, ‘don’t get us much further forward.’
Burton brightened. Small talk had never been her forte, at least not the kind favoured by Doyle and Noakes.
‘Well, at least they’re all accounted for,’ she said looking at the sheaf of papers in front of her. ‘All present and correct, doing whatever they were supposed to be doing.’
‘Lemme see.’ Doyle began ticking them off. ‘Most of them were in the centre except for the midwife woman—’
‘Loraine Thornley.’
‘That’s the one. She was out with the healthcare assistant . . . Jayne something or other.’
‘Jayne Pickering,’ Burton chimed in without even having to look at the papers. Maddening really.
‘Right. Well, those two were doing home visits in Medway. So, they’re each other’s alibi for the time Elford was murdered.’
‘Assuming he was killed this morning,’ Burton added punctiliously. ‘Unofficially, Dimples puts it some time between eight and ten thirty.’
‘Yeah, well, Thornley and Pickering were out till eleven thirty. Then the two witches—’
‘Thelma Macdonald and Shirley Bolton,’ the DS corrected him firmly.
‘What a pair.’ Doyle’s eye-roll was worthy of Noakes at his satirical best. ‘I mean, what happened to “Don’t speak ill of the dead” and all that? Sounded like those two had a wax model of Shawcross stashed away somewhere . . . y’know, for sticking pins in . . . like some kind of sodding voodoo.’
‘She’d got a few people’s backs up alright,’ Burton conceded.
‘If you believe them, she was giving poor old Elford the eye.’ Doyle chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Him and half the sixth form.’
Burton grimaced. A fragment of schoolgirl history suddenly came back to her. Tricoteuses. That’s what they called the cackling crones who sat at the foot of the guillotine during the French Revolution, knitting and watching the heads of the aristos being chopped off. The community centre had its very own gruesome twosome. Best not to encourage Doyle, though.
‘They were in reception and the study centre. In plain sight the whole time,’ she sighed.
‘Then there’s Doctor Troughton and Maureen Stanley . . . the sister or whatever she is—’
‘ANP. Advanced nurse practitioner.’ There was no catching Burton out.
‘Right, well, those two were either with patients or,’ Doyle simulated a Noakesian leer, ‘“consulting”.’
Another gusty sigh from Burton. ‘It’s not unheard of for doctors and nurses to fraternize professionally,’ she said frostily, clearly averse to any kind of Carry On innuendo.
‘That’s also what Jenni Harte and the nice Asian bloke were doing, sarge,’ Doyle riposted cheekily, quite unabashed. ‘Fraternizing professionally.’
Trust him to remember the name of the pretty one, Burton thought acidly. Aloud she contented herself with, ‘Tariq Azhar. That’s the name of the other counsellor.’
‘Yup, as I say, nice fella. Think I’ve seen him down the squash courts at the sports centre.’
‘Oh well then,’ his colleague said with heavy sarcasm, ‘a sportsman . . . he must be beyond reproach.’
Doyle hated it when she took that get-back-in-your-box snippy tone. Where was Noakes when you needed him?
‘So those two were working on that research paper thingummy jig.’
‘Oppositional Defiance Disorder in Adolescents.’ Burton reeled it off breezily.
Whatever the fuck
that was. God, he’d forgotten how she got off on all that psychiatric mumbo jumbo when they were on the Newman Hospital case. Poring over those creepy manuals till he and Noakes wanted to brain her with them!
‘Whatever.’ He sounded like a sulky teenager himself, but that was the problem with Burton — she always brought out the stroppy git in him.
‘What about Lurch?’ he said.
‘Lurch?’ The frost was back.
‘The caretaker.’
‘You mean Chris Burt.’
‘That’s him.’ Doyle tried and failed to repress a yawn. ‘He doesn’t have an alibi. Mooching around on various “errands”, wasn’t he?’
‘True,’ Burton conceded with a weary frown, riffling through her papers. ‘There was the odd sighting, but no one seems to have had eyes on him continuously.’
‘Probably making hay while he got the chance.’ Doyle chewed his biro savagely. ‘By all accounts he’s leading a dog’s life — and it’s all because of Elford.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
‘Well, obviously his sumo-wrestler sister kept an eye out for him, but even so . . .’ The DC mimed something landing from a great height. As though poor Chris Burt was an insect just asking to be splatted.
A thought struck him. ‘How about the little trainee receptionist? The one who found Shawcross.’
‘Shelly.’ Another flick through the papers. ‘In late to work, but she had permission. Delayed shock from the other day.’
‘Well, that’s all of them then. What about HR? Anything juicy in Shawcross’s medical records?’ he enquired hopefully.
‘Nothing to speak of.’ Her brows furrowed thoughtfully. ‘Though there’s some reference to her attending a social skills training course at the adolescent unit in Bromgrove General . . . assertiveness, confidence-building . . . something like that. It’ll have to be checked out, but I can’t see it leading anywhere.’
‘Prob’ly just the usual teenage angst.’ Doyle spoke with all the authority of his twenty-seven years. ‘What about the school?’
‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten about Hope.’ Burton looked at her watch. Almost the end of the school day, so no risk of Doyle being distracted by a bevy of big-haired Lolitas. ‘How about you get over there and check out Shawcross’s personnel file. The drama teacher’s too while you’re at it.’ She produced a formidable scowl. ‘Don’t stand for any nonsense from the team in the office.’
Doyle got to his feet with alacrity. Before she had time to change her mind. Things were definitely looking up. This pokey office was driving him mad. And they were just going round in circles.
‘You can count on me, sarge. “Protect and Serve” — that’s my motto.’
This elicited a reluctant smile. ‘Go on, get out of here.’
* * *
Once Doyle had disappeared, Burton’s shoulders slumped dejectedly.
The ginger ninja was right. They weren’t any further forward. Nothing to show the DI. Just a sense that during the course of the afternoon she had missed something. Something crucial . . .
A knock at the door.
It was Jenni Harte with a steaming mug. Burton thanked her and took a cautious sip.
‘Builder’s,’ Burton said ecstatically. ‘Perfect. And you remembered the sugar. I thought—’ She stopped short. Reddened.
The other grinned. ‘You thought I’d inflict some kind of foul herbal concoction on you. The sort that tastes like pee.’ She gestured ironically at her floating shift dress and amber beads. ‘On account of the ethnic get-up and all.’
It was so exactly what George Noakes would have said that Burton burst out laughing and felt some of the day’s tension evaporate.
‘My mum always told me, “Never judge a book by its cover.” And she was right!’
She smiled at the likeable therapist. ‘I feel better now.’
‘I imagine it’s been a hard day, Sergeant.’ The delicate features were shadowed. ‘Peter Elford wasn’t . . . well, he wasn’t the easiest . . . bit of a martinet, to be honest.’ She pleated the gauzy material of her shift with long slender fingers. ‘But he fought our corner with the council when it came to funding. Wasn’t a pushover. Really cared about this place.’ A shy smile then, ‘I’ll leave you to it’ and the visitor was gone.
A class act, Burton determined. No nosey parker questions about how Elford had died. Just practical concern for her comfort. She rubbed the small of her back. Maybe there was something to be said for this counselling lark. Jenni Harte definitely had a soothing effect.
She contemplated the paperwork in front of her without enthusiasm. Should she call it a day? Go home and unleash her domestic goddess on Colin? God, that would be a turn-up for the books. Her stolid, unexciting fiancé wouldn’t know what had hit him!
Burton squared her shoulders defiantly as she continued her restless inner dialogue.
Yes, why not! She reached for her mobile. She’d give the DI a progress report and then take these statements home with her. See if anything jumped out at her later on . . . preferably after a long, cool glass of something alcoholic. No doubt Markham would resort to his own traditional post-Sidney anaesthetic and punch his way to equilibrium in the boxing ring at Doggie’s while Doyle and Noakes repaired to their favourite hostelry.
Bugger! She’d forgotten about the PM at five. For a moment, every instinct in her screamed to arrange a substitute. But then pride stiffened her spine. No, she told herself, she had to see it through. Otherwise Dimples and the rest of them would be insufferable.
Okay. She’d call Markham on the way to the mortuary and get Elford over with. It’d probably put the mockers on her romantic dinner with Colin but she’d salvage the evening somehow . . .
As Burton locked the incident room, a sudden misgiving made her turn round sharply. For a moment she thought she saw something — a shape, a shadow — flit round the corridor at the far end.
But when she turned the corner, there was no one there.
And on a shelf in the mortuary of Bromgrove General the body of Peter Elford waited to give up its secrets.
6. Conundrum
Burton was correct in her assumption that the DI’s antidote of choice to DCI Sidney would be a bout in the ring at Doggie Dickerson’s insalubrious gym.
The proprietor was a seedy Fagin-lookalike who presided over his dingy empire with an easy come, easy go lackadaisicalness which Markham found suited his needs perfectly. Not for him the clinical perfection of the town’s top-end spas and temples to the body beautiful. No, he was far more at ease in Doggie’s grimy, run-down premises on Marsh Lane where local villains and Bromgrove’s finest sparred happily alongside one another in the ring. ‘No names, no pack drill’ was Doggie’s motto, and somehow it worked.
Sitting in the ‘sauna’ (a locker room with sundry showers in need of regrouting), a towel round his hips, Markham exhaled in satisfaction, Chris Carstairs having succumbed to his onslaught in record time.
‘Christ, Markham. I dunno what you’re on, but please can I have some?’ Carstairs clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Or was Sidney worse than usual today?’ He grinned, well aware that the gym was his colleague’s safety valve after confrontations with the DCI.
‘It’s the community centre case, Chris.’ No point beating around the bush. ‘Sidney wants to pin the murders on a local perv PDQ.’
‘Ah, I’m with you.’ The other DI’s grin broadened. ‘I take it you’d like some intel to get him off your back.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’ Markham had the pleasurable sense of muscles and tendons unsnarling . . . unknotting. His headache seemed to have vanished.
‘My pleasure, mate. I haven’t forgotten your help with Councillor Taylor and his merry men. Good to put an end to that racket.’
‘Even if your methods owed more to The Sweeney than Critical Incident Procedure — eh, Chris?’
‘Pre-cise-ly, Markham.’ Carstairs towelled himself off vigorously, buoyant even after his pummellin
g in the ring. ‘Reckon George Noakes approved.’
‘Indeed. Though I’m not sure that’s necessarily a point in your favour.’
‘How’s the old villain doing? I see Sidney hasn’t managed to put him out to grass.’
‘Not for want of trying,’ was the grim reply. ‘Noakesy’s fine. Just a bit kerflummoxed by the — how shall I put it? — “gamey” way our second victim presented . . .’
‘Oh yeah . . . I heard about that.’ Hardly surprising, since CID leaked like a sieve. ‘But the autoerotic stuff — it was a set-up, right?’
‘Looks like it.’ An unwelcome image of Peter Elford’s pathetic corpse, crumpled like a marionette across his dining table, flashed across Markham’s consciousness.
‘You reckon your second vic was blackmailing the killer, then?’
‘It’s the most likely scenario . . . Could have had personal reasons for staying shtum — some kind of sexual angle, though whether gay or heterosexual, who can say.’
The other whistled. ‘No wonder Noakesy’s hot under the collar. Who’d have thought that boring old medical centre would turn out to be a hotbed of seething passions. Talking of seething passions, who’re you gonna give me to work up the Vice angle? Some luscious lovely, I trust.’
‘Down, Rover!’ It was Markham’s turn to grin. ‘Kate Burton’s a whiz when it comes to cooking the books for Sidney.’
Carstairs’ face fell. ‘Oh God, no. Not that extraordinarily earnest DS with eyes like lollipops.’
‘The very same.’
‘Oh God,’ Carstairs said again. ‘No chance of a leg over there.’
‘None whatsoever. She’s engaged to Colin Pugh in Fraud and the personification of virtue.’
‘I got the impression she only had eyes for you, Gil.’ Carstairs’ gaze was curious, his tone slyly mischievous.
‘Get out of it, Chris. Married to the job and — one day — Colin. That’s Kate Burton.’
‘If you say so.’
At that moment, the eponymous Doggie appeared, horsehair wig askew and nicotine-stained teeth bared in the nearest approximation he knew to a welcoming smile.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 133