‘Well, mebbe someone else is pulling the strings, guv. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘True.’ A shiver ran up Markham’s spine at the thought of a shared psychosis.
‘Or p’raps the two murders ain’t connected, guv. Burt could’ve done the first while some other nutcase did for Elford.’
‘I don’t see it, Sergeant. Too much of a coincidence.’
Gloomily, Noakes nodded. ‘You c’n bet Sidney’ll plump for the two nutters theory every time,’ he added by way of Parthian shot.
‘Which is why I’ve got Carstairs and Kate plying him with intel on local misfits.’
The DS grunted.
The two men leaned against Noakes’s souped-up Fiesta lost in their own thoughts.
In what seemed like no time at all, Elson reappeared with the caretaker.
‘What have you got to report, gentlemen?’ Markham asked.
Elson swallowed, clearly not at all happy about being lumped in with a prime suspect. ‘Mr Burt says nothing appears to have been disturbed, sir. Just a couple of appointment books missing . . .’
Markham was suddenly alert. ‘Appointment books?’
He turned to the caretaker whose upper lip was beaded with sweat.
‘Which appointment books were taken, sir?’ he asked gently.
Noakes was blessed if he could see where this was leading, but the guvnor definitely looked interested.
‘Most of ’em. Doctor Troughton’s an’ the rest . . .’ Clearly reassured by something in Markham’s kind, steady gaze, the man was anxious to please. ‘Nurse Thornley and Miss Stanley . . . the therapists. Jayne — that’s the healthcare assistant girl — she doesn’t have one yet cos she’s in training.’
‘Wouldn’t they put appointments on the computer?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Burt looked more vacant than ever but somehow managed to gather his wandering wits. ‘But they write ’em in longhand too . . . like a backup. Thelma says that way there’s no mistakes.’
Markham nodded encouragingly. ‘What about the other people in the building? Was everyone’s diary taken?’
Dave Elson interposed. ‘Yes, sir. Looks like they were just snatched off the desks in a hurry.’
Markham pondered the significance of the thefts.
‘I s’pose folk write personal things down in the diaries, do they? Like their own private stuff?’ Somehow Noakes subdued his usual cantankerous growl and addressed the caretaker with a clumsy approximation of Markham’s gentleness.
‘’S right.’ Burt was keen to propitiate Markham’s rottweiler. ‘The midwife says it’s like her bible . . . got her whole life in it.’
‘What about the study annexe upstairs, Mr Burt? Was anything missing from there?’
‘The library lady’s book . . . that was gone.’
‘Her diary?’
‘Thassit . . . they all have the same . . . big, black notebook thingy.’
‘Just one more question, Mr Burt, and then I’ll let you get back to your evening.’ Markham spoke as though the poor specimen in front of them had been interrupted in the middle of a posh dinner party. You couldn’t make it up, as Noakes told ‘the missus’ — avid for any details of Gilbert Markham — in a burst of conjugal unreserve later that night.
‘Do staff know the combination for the alarm code?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I mean, they need to know for when they work late.’
So presumably they were keyholders. Access all areas. Which suggested the break-in had been faked to make it look like some random crime — spur of the moment. Only something (the caretaker, perhaps) had spooked the intruder before there was time to chuck furniture around and complete the impression of some druggie bent on trashing the place.
‘Mr Burt, you’ve been a great help.’ The DI spoke warmly.
The caretaker looked as though he could scarcely credit what he was hearing. Dave Elson and Noakes appeared hardly less sceptical.
But somehow, unbelievably, that was it.
‘Dave, would you please make sure Mr Burt gets home safely?’
He only lives at the bottom of the freaking garden. But Elson clicked his heels, did a crisp about-turn and towed the caretaker away.
‘Jeez.’ Noakes whistled. ‘One of ’em broke in.’
‘Looks very much like it.’ Markham’s eyes followed the retreating figures of Dave Elson and the shambling caretaker.
‘So, he or she knew there was summat in an appointments diary . . . or personal stuff written down somewhere that might lead back to them . . . an’ pinched everyone’s so we wouldn’t know whose it was.’
‘I think they were most likely disturbed or took fright before they had the chance to trash the place and make it look like a regular burglary,’ Markham said, his face a picture of frowning concentration.
‘I want those computer schedules checked, Noakes,’ he continued. ‘But I suspect this clue, this personal detail won’t turn up on the IT systems.’
‘Elford must’ve been poking his nose in, guv . . . ferreting about . . . then come across summat that linked Shawcross an’ the murderer.’
‘Yes, Sergeant, I do believe you’re right. And that’s why he had to die.’ Markham’s face was very sombre.
‘Well, at least it looks like Shawcross an’ Elford are linked.’
‘Indeed.’
The DI was silent for a long minute then spoke decisively. ‘Right, Noakes, Mr Burt needs interviewing after we’ve swung by Hope and spoken to those students.’
This was more like it.
‘Plus, we re-interview all the community staff. Maybe there’s a discrepancy . . . or an alibi we can break.’
‘Sounds like a plan, guv.’
The long Wednesday evening drew to a close. But the community centre gave nothing away.
Darkness fell and the cinder-block complex was quiet once more.
7. Distant Rumbles
Yada, yada, yada. Shoot me now, George Noakes thought glumly as he watched yet another student — radiant with acne and eloquence — expatiate on how ‘Miss Shawcross was really, like, amazing and inspirational . . . totally understood where we were coming from.’
Which is more than I chuffing well do.
God, he couldn’t remember his Nat spouting any of this Californian New Age bollocks when she was in the sixth form. Mind, he reflected with satisfaction, Nat was a sensible girl . . . had her head well screwed on. Knew what was what. Wouldn’t be doing with mañana hippie types. And quite right too.
How much more of it did they have to suck up? The guvnor looked engrossed, but Noakes knew him well enough to realize the boss was just gliding above the conversation, antennae alert to pick up the slightest clue relevant to their purposes.
Mary Atkins, the assistant head, sat in on the interviews, head cocked coquettishly on one side (in tribute to the DI’s charisma), clipboard on knee, oozing professional ‘concern’ from every pore. What a pseud. Noakes’s mind drifted fondly back to his own schoolteachers, trailing their little heaps of cigarette ash, reeking of BO and nicotine. They’d never get through teacher training the way it was today, and yet he never doubted they really cared. Like good ole Doctor Abernathy who promptly made himself scarce at the announcement that the police would be ‘asking some questions about Rebecca Shawcross’s creative-writing sessions’. Couldn’t have looked more petrified if Atkins had suggested a group striptease.
It was close and stuffy in Atkins’s office that Thursday morning, despite the fact that it was far more comfortably appointed than Matthew Sullivan’s.
Sullivan, like Abernathy, had made himself scarce. Leo Cartwright was the only other member of staff present, and he looked shit-scared for some reason. Noakes wondered why. I mean, the odd bonk with Shawcross wouldn’t lose him his job, would it? On the other hand, diddling sixth-formers would be a different matter. The DS smiled to himself. Always best to take the darkest view of human nature. That way you were never disappointed.
He tune
d back in.
Now a pimply youth was in the hotseat.
‘She really dug it . . .’
Jesus, he really couldn’t be doing with much more of these spotty nerks coming over all Bruce Springsteen. It was a bloody big waste of time. Usually on occasions like this, he’d roll his eyes, blow out his cheeks and convey his contempt via a few surreptitious ape impressions. But he had a feeling Miz I-Feel-Your-Pain wouldn’t take kindly to any such spectacle.
Suddenly, he became aware of tension in the air and Markham looking his way.
Hey up, must’ve got something.
‘Go back a bit will you, Tyrone.’ The DI’s manner was calm, unhurried, though Noakes detected a gleam at the back of his eyes that meant he’d struck a seam. ‘So, Ms Shawcross was particularly interested in that story you entered for the inter-schools competition . . . the one about PTSD?’
‘Yeah, post-traumatic stress disorder.’
Translating for Plod cos he thinks we’re thick as mince, thought Noakes wrathfully.
But Markham was unruffled. ‘Can you tell us some more about it?’
Cue intensely compassionate face from the assistant head.
‘That’s if you feel able to, Ty.’
Ty? Oh for fuck’s sake.
Stow it, Noakesy. We’re on to something here.
So the DS assumed an appropriately solicitous expression. With a flicker of amusement, Markham reflected that it lent his subordinate an unfortunate resemblance to Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Back to Tyrone, whose mouth seemed to be perpetually agape. Catching flies.
‘Something about a victim of child abuse, is that right?’ Markham prompted.
Noakes’s eyes swivelled to the boss’s face.
Though the guvnor rarely spoke about it, his DS had long since pieced together the bare fragments of Markham’s early biography. The abusive stepfather, the brother long since lost to drink and drugs, the mother who’d looked the other way and died before her son had a chance of finding closure. Noakes was a strange compound of bone-headedness and the most delicate sensibility. Without any overt acknowledgment from him, the DI was aware that his wingman knew and, more importantly, fully comprehended his troubled hinterland without the need for words. It was enough that sympathy, trust and affection were all there. A given.
No one could have deduced from Markham’s face that he had anything other than a professional interest in the sixth-former’s disclosures, but Noakes knew that, somewhere deep within, an old pain briefly flared and died.
Tyrone swallowed a yawn. Noakes could have thumped him.
‘It was my girlfriend Fran — she’s at Holy Cross — gave me the idea.’ Might have known, the DS reflected sourly. This Neanderthal didn’t look the type for anything deeper than Top Gear.
‘Oh yes?’ Markham’s courteous interest never faltered.
‘Yeah. She said how about a student who accuses his teacher of something.’ An embarrassed sliding of the eyes towards Mary Atkins whose fixed smile must have been giving her lockjaw.
‘How does the story develop?’ Markham enquired as Tyrone sputtered to a halt.
‘Well, the teacher gets loads of grief . . . loses his job . . . all kinds of stuff . . . Even though he hasn’t ackshually done anything wrong.’
‘What about the student?’
It was like trying to get blood out of a stone.
‘Oh, right . . . well, he never, like, meant to do it?’
Noakes couldn’t help himself. ‘Why did he, then?’
‘He was dead . . . confused . . . being bullied. It was, like, him getting back at everyone . . .’ A momentary clearing of the dull features. ‘Sort of putting two fingers up at the world.’
Bet he hadn’t come up with that by himself.
‘So nowt happened to the little scrote, then?’
The assistant head looked pained.
‘I think what my sergeant wants to know is whether there was some kind of moral outcome.’ Tyrone’s face was a study in bewilderment, so Markham clarified. ‘Did the student pay any sort of price — suffer for his wrongdoing?’
‘Like an eye for an eye.’ Noakes had always felt a relish for certain passages of Sunday School scripture.
‘Nah.’ The sixth-former clearly hadn’t engaged with notions of atonement or redemption. ‘He jus’ always feels . . . emotional . . . about what happened . . . An’ then later on he finds out the teacher killed himself an’ realizes he never got a chance to say sorry, like . . .’
Something about Noakes’s face suggested he found this denouement distinctly less than satisfactory. Typical frigging snowflake.
‘And Ms Shawcross liked your idea?’
‘Yeah . . . she looked dead weepy when I read it out.’
‘Weepy?’
‘Dead moved, like.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Jus’ that she was interested in PTSD an’ writing something herself.’
‘Did she ever show you any of her own work?’
‘Nah. Fran tole me to ask, but Miss Shawcross said she didn’t want to, like, pollute my thoughts . . . yeah, pollute them,’ he concluded with a certain swagger as though they’d been his own thoughts to begin with.
Not much danger of any big idea getting a toehold in your brain, mate, Noakes thought, mixing metaphors as he was inclined to do in moments of purest exasperation.
Tyrone sat cheerfully picking his nose while the assistant head and Leo Cartwright exchanged glances.
Some invisible signal must have passed between the two teachers, because Mary Atkins piped up brightly (and, of course, caringly), ‘If that’s all for now, Inspector, perhaps we could let Tyrone get back to his lessons.’ And with false bonhomie, ‘We know you wouldn’t want to miss any more of functional maths, Ty.’ Ho ho.
‘Of course, Ms Atkins.’ Markham smiled warmly at Hope’s answer to Smike.
‘You’ve been a great help, Tyrone. That’s all for now.’ And off he shuffled.
‘Well, Inspector, nearly half ten. How about I arrange some tea and biscuits for you and the sergeant.’ Atkins glanced meaningfully at Leo Cartwright who took the hint.
‘A colleague’s covering my class, Inspector, so if you’ve finished with me . . .’
‘Just one more quick word, Mr Cartwright, and then we’ll leave you in peace.’ The DI gave the assistant head the special smile he reserved for simpering women. ‘Some refreshment would be delightful, Ms Atkins.’ It was effectively a dismissal, so the woman had no choice but to leave them, though Noakes was willing to bet she’d be back sharpish. Didn’t want Leo Cartwright spilling any beans while she was gone.
The DI was clearly thinking along the same lines. As the door closed behind her, he turned to the drama teacher. ‘You and Rebecca Shawcross were pupils here together, weren’t you?’ he said without preamble, his voice low and urgent.
Cartwright a student at Hope too! He’d kept that under wraps. Noakes’s piggy eyes narrowed on the uncomfortable-looking teacher.
‘How did you know, Inspector?’
‘Call it a bolt from the blue,’ Markham replied drily. ‘Look, Mr Cartwright, cards on the table. I suspect SLT doesn’t want us unearthing any . . . shall we say . . . unsavoury episodes from the past, but we’re aware Ms Shawcross may have experienced some kind of trauma while she was at school.’ The drama teacher watched him, hypnotized, as though Markham was a snake-charmer. ‘Whatever it was, she needed counselling for it . . . treatment at Bromley General . . .’
Cartwright licked his dry lips.
‘It may have nothing to do with her murder. But you’ll appreciate, we need the full picture.’
‘Look, Inspector . . . I’ve got a double free after lunch.’ He looked nervously at the door. ‘I can’t talk here, but—’
‘Where would you like us to meet you?’
‘There’s a pub round the corner. The Red Lion. We should have some privacy in there. I’ll take a chance — sign out with an appointment. I
’ve got a mate at OneDental in town, so he’ll back me.’
Jeez, the pettifogging bureaucracy. Like teachers were little kids. It’d do my head in, thought Noakes.
The door crashed open and Mary Atkins reappeared, trailed by an aproned minion.
‘Here we go, Inspector.’ The assistant head beamed insincerely. ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Or do you need either of us,’ a basilisk glance at her colleague, ‘for anything else?’
Markham could do insincerity with the best of them. ‘You’re spoiling us, Ms Atkins.’
Oh for Chrissake. It was worse than the Ferrero Rocher advert.
But mercifully, she didn’t linger. Flirtation with the scrummy DI was clearly not a spectator sport. Better to wait till they could be à deux. Sweeping Leo Cartwright before her, she made her exit, with one lingering appreciative glance in Markham’s direction.
‘Don’t say a word, Noakesy.’ Markham began to pour the tea.
The DS contented himself with glowering balefully at the door before ramming a chocolate digestive into his mouth.
* * *
An hour and a half later, the two men sat back in their secluded booth at The Red Lion and took stock.
‘What did you make of that then, guv?’
Leo Cartwright had been apologetic.
‘Sorry about all the navel-gazing.’ He grinned at Noakes. ‘I could see you had a cob on, Sergeant.’
‘In my day the teacher stood at the front an’ spouted while we took notes. There was none of this touchy-feely hoojah.’
‘It wasn’t totally self-indulgent, you know. They’d been doing existential authors in general studies — Camus, Sartre — themes of alienation and rejection . . . The creative writing was an offshoot from that.’
‘Right.’ Noakes was laconic, patently unconvinced.
‘It tied in with theatre studies as well.’
‘You’re not telling me Tyrone’s the next Ian McKellen!’
‘You’d be surprised, Sergeant. English and drama tend to . . . unlock the hidden potential in lads like Tyrone.’
‘Bloody well hidden, if you ask me.’
Pleasantries over, Cartwright had given them a nugget. ‘Bex made a complaint about a teacher . . . name of Phil Carmichael. Taught art.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 135