‘Are we going to have another crack at him, sir?’ Doyle was endearingly gung-ho, ever keen to justify his place on Markham’s team.
‘I think we’ll have to back off for now, Doyle.’ The soft hiss of rain floated through from outside like a sibilant warning.
Time is running out.
‘What about the appointment books, sir? The ones that were stolen.’
‘Noakes has a theory about that, Doyle.’ Markham raked impatient fingers through his dark hair with its frosting of silver at the temples. ‘He thinks after Ms Shawcross was killed, maybe Peter Elford was having a good ferret round, snooping through people’s papers and files,’ his mouth twisted, ‘though doubtless he justified it to himself as a security check . . .’
‘And found something,’ Doyle breathed. ‘Something incriminating . . .’
‘Yes, something that contradicted the killer’s version of events . . . or something that showed a connection between Ms Shawcross and the killer—’
‘A connection no one knew about.’
‘Indeed.’ Markham looked steadily at his subordinate. ‘And Mr Elford used this knowledge for blackmail.’
‘Stupid bugger.’ Doyle blushed. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘That’s alright, Constable. You’re correct. Elford took a terrible risk.’
‘Must’ve been something about the killer which convinced him he was safe.’
‘Or he persuaded himself they had some kind of bond.’ Some kind of special complicity.
‘And the killer took all the appointment books in the building so we couldn’t tell whose contained the clue.’
‘Spot on, Doyle. Easy to disable the alarm — they’ll all have known the code. Then collect up all the diaries and make it look like a burglary . . . only they didn’t have time for “window dressing”. Most likely Mr Burt disturbed them.’
‘Couldn’t they just have Tipp-Exed whatever it was out . . . ripped out the page . . . blagged their way out . . . ?’
‘Didn’t want to take the risk . . . panicked and decided to make a clean sweep. . .’
The smell of sweat and bleach was making the DI queasy. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Let’s regroup in our own room. We’ll feel better after a coffee.’
The two men got to their feet, shaking themselves vigorously as though to slough off invisible contaminants.
* * *
As they passed in front of reception, Markham spied a familiar figure.
‘Gilbert!’
It was too late to slink past now that Muriel Noakes had seen him.
She appeared to be on confidential terms with Thelma Macdonald, the two women talking animatedly across the counter.
The DI was about to glide on by with a courteous inclination of the head, when something stopped him. She was wearing a virulently patterned floral shirtwaister of the sort worn by minor royals to open a garden party, her Sherman tank physique straining against the silk fabric. The fearsomely lacquered hair — heaped as high as ever — was in its usual bouffant. The affected bray grated on his nerves as much as ever. And yet . . . he detected a newly helpless quivering about the heavily painted lips.
‘Muriel, what a delightful surprise.’ He nodded to Doyle. ‘Why don’t you review what we’ve got. I’ll be along shortly.’
The DC made an oddly ceremonious little bow to Noakes’s ‘missus’ who inclined her head regally, taking it as her due. Always so important to encourage shy young men.
‘Ms Macdonald, I wonder if I could prevail upon your good nature to find a quiet nook for us,’ he said. ‘The constraints of my job mean I don’t often have the pleasure of a catch-up with Mrs Noakes.’
Muriel bridled with gratified vanity as they were led to the small family bereavement room with its flounced chintz sofa and magnolia painted walls.
Gilbert Markham was such a charmer. There was something so vulnerable and unassuming about him. Putty in Olivia Mullen’s hands.
Her feelings about Markham’s girlfriend were decidedly mixed, a certain reluctant fascination contending strongly against resentment at the way Olivia twisted men like George round her little finger. All that doe-eyed waifish vulnerability didn’t fool her one bit. It was just an act. Nothing but a big put-on. But her husband just couldn’t see it. Men were so easily fooled . . .
‘How are you keeping, Muriel?’ Even now, after all this time, Markham’s lips tried to form the words ‘Mrs Noakes’. The use of her Christian name felt somehow wrong, almost like an invitation to intimacy — heaven forbid he should ever be invited to call her ‘Mu’!
‘Oh, one mustn’t complain, Gilbert.’
Thank God for that.
She lowered her voice an octave and leaned in closer, almost asphyxiating him with a blast of Arpège. After the bleach-fest in Chris Burt’s broom cupboard, it made him feel light-headed.
‘I was concerned about George’s PSA scores, Gilbert. A letter came from the surgery.’ A faint blush. ‘I opened it in case of there being anything urgent . . . Prostate, you know.’
If she’d said ‘prostrate’, it would have finished him off. He could never forget having sat through the desk sergeant’s discussion of his wife’s ‘hysterical-ectomy’. Any lèse-majesté with Muriel Noakes would not be easily forgiven.
As it was, he managed to preserve an expression of impenetrable gravity, assisted by a perception that, beneath all the pearl-clutching affectation, the woman was really concerned about her husband.
‘They want to talk to him about high scores and risk factors.’
‘Try not to worry, Muriel. They’re very hot on “preventive medicine” these days.’ He bloody well wasn’t going to talk about ‘the Big C’. When his mother was wasting away in hospital, he’d wanted to punch everyone who used that incongruously chirpy phrase.
‘If only I could do something about his weight, but he always says he was a “chunky” child . . .’
Markham’s lips twitched. The light-headed feeling was back again.
‘I’ll do my best to keep him on the straight and narrow, Muriel. Can’t have him holding you back in the Paso Doble.’
A tinkle of silver bells.
Hang in there, Markham. The poor woman needs a lift.
Mercifully, at that moment Muriel’s attention was distracted.
‘I mustn’t keep you from the investigation,’ she trilled coyly. ‘It’s thanks to you and the thin blue line that we can all sleep safely in our beds.’
Oh God. Any moment now and he’d be joining in this surreal dialogue. Nothing’s gonna hurt you tonight, ma’am. Not on my watch.
Chivalrously, he helped her up from the depths of the sofa, relieved that by some miracle she wasn’t going to subject him to the third degree.
‘I didn’t know the young teacher who died.’ Though no doubt Thelma Macdonald had been happy to dish the dirt. ‘But Peter Elford will be a heavy loss to the practice.’
Markham’s senses went on red alert. This sounded like an opening gambit. He ushered her towards the door.
‘Though he wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ she went on. ‘There was the Patient Voice business . . .’
‘Patient Voice?’
Muriel was delighted to offer him the inside track. ‘Like a customer service survey, Gilbert. I believe some complaints came out of it, went all the way to the Health Ombudsman.’ She was working herself up to a Sarah Bernhardt-style climax. ‘So very sad the way medical professionals have to watch their backs all the time . . . enough to put one off public service altogether. And, of course, some people are never satisfied.’
‘Indeed, Muriel, indeed.’
They were at the door. He submitted to a peck on both cheeks, feeling like an actor in a second-rate soap opera, an impression heightened by the flutter of intrigue and mystery with which Mrs Noakes departed.
Then she was gone and he could think clearly once more.
He needed to keep a more stringent watch on Noakesy. There’d be no ill-health retirement if he had any say
in the matter . . .
* * *
Back in the incident room, Doyle was flicking languidly through some papers but sat up straighter when Markham came in. He knew better than to make any wisecracks about assignations with battleaxes, merely enquiring cautiously, ‘Mrs Noakes offer anything useful, sir?’
‘Possibly, Doyle.’ The DI walked across to the percolator thoughtfully provided for them by the Patients’ Committee and poured himself a black coffee. ‘I want you to locate the practice complaints file — or whatever passes for one round here.’
‘What am I looking for, sir?’
‘Gripes, whinges . . . anything official against Peter Elford.’
‘Right you are, boss.’
‘And while you’re at it, see if there’s an incident book or anything like that for the library and study centre upstairs. Try leaning on Shirley Bolton and Thelma Macdonald. I’m sure they’ll be susceptible to your boyish charms,’ he added dryly.
Doyle endeavoured to look bashfully modest. And failed by a mile.
‘Think Shawcross was up for high jinks with the sixth-formers? Every lad’s fantasy,’ he said.
Markham sighed. ‘Somehow I doubt there was a re-enactment of The Graduate going on here, but those two ladies didn’t care for her.’ It occurred to him he needed to have a follow-up with Matthew Sullivan about his interviews with the students at Hope. Mat’s insights were always useful and just might give them a handle on the librarian’s hostility.
Markham’s coffee had the consistency of treacle but he didn’t really care. It was hot and strong, and at least it had gotten his synapses firing once more. Outside it had stopped raining, the skies had lightened and there was even the sound of birdsong.
‘Have the PM reports come in?’ he asked.
‘Got them here, sir. Plus Burton’s notes for Elford.’
Good luck with that, Doyle thought to himself. Burton’s sheaf looked bulkier than Grey’s Anatomy.
‘Before you shoot off, let’s get the staff back in,’ Markham said briskly. ‘They’re all on site today, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, boss. I’ll go and round ’em up,’ came the reply, as though Doyle was a competitor on One Man and His Dog and only wanted a collie to complete the look.
‘Did anything jump out at you and Kate?’ he enquired, almost as an afterthought. ‘Anything about the way they presented — nervousness, tics, evasiveness, overall body language?’
‘Not to speak of, sir. Oh no, hold on . . . the nice midwife . . . well, she seemed a bit fidgety.’ He rubbed his five o’clock shadow sagaciously. ‘A bit jittery. Burton thought it was like she was trying to make her mind up about something . . .’
Markham felt a prickle at the base of his spine.
Loraine Thornley, he thought, cosy and bosomy. What was it Noakes had said about her? Straight out of central casting.
‘Remind me, Doyle,’ he spoke so sharply that the other jumped, ‘where did we place her for the murders?’
‘Not alibied for either,’ he said promptly. ‘Writing up notes or out on her rounds.’
The young DC stared at Markham, his eyes on stalks. ‘You don’t think she could be the killer do you, boss?’ He shuffled his feet. ‘Reminds me of my nan . . . I saw her handing out Werther’s Originals to some kiddies in reception who were caterwauling about having their jabs. Not a peep out of ’em after that.’
‘See if you can find her for me, Doyle. Quiet as you like. She might have had a chance to mull it over . . . might be ready to talk now.’
His colleague bounded off like a red setter, restless for action.
The DI shut his eyes. Tried to switch off the warning voices in his head.
Some minutes passed before Doyle returned, followed by a distraught-looking Thelma Macdonald.
‘Something awful,’ she stuttered, and a feeling of dread came over the DI. ‘Loraine had an appointment to get her bloods and blood pressure done.’ The doughy jowls swung pendulously, keeping time with her agitated jerks of the head. ‘With her being staff, Maureen Stanley was going to do it.’ She gave a little wheeze of distress.
The DI pressed the woman gently into a chair. Every cell in his body was screaming for answers, but he spoke with calm authority.
‘It’s alright, Ms Macdonald. Take your time.’
‘Maureen was running a few minutes late. When that happened, everyone knows to wait in her room. When she got there, she thought Loraine was snatching forty winks . . . It looked like she was sleeping, see. Maureen felt bad about disturbing her . . .’
The DI and his DC looked at each other. A long look.
Thelma Macdonald burst into noisy tears.
‘But she was dead, Inspector. Stone cold dead.’
Markham pressed a snowy handkerchief into her shaking hands.
‘You’re being very brave, Thelma. Very brave.’
Snot and tears streaked her face.
The boss won’t be wanting that hankie back any time soon, Doyle thought and promptly felt ashamed of himself. But somehow none of this felt real. Like they were all in some bad play or pantomime.
‘What did you see, Thelma?’ Again, the reassuring informality, tender toned as a lover.
‘Maureen gave Loraine a tap on the shoulder. She didn’t want to startle her, see.’ A violent hiccough. ‘But then Loraine sort of toppled sideways . . . nearly fell out of the chair.’ She mopped frantically at her face, smearing mascara so that she looked like a demented panda. ‘Maureen noticed the sleeve on her right arm was rolled up . . . and saw the needle prick . . . Someone had injected her with a syringe.’ She looked helplessly up at Markham.
‘Well done, Thelma.’ The tears began to flow again as she took in his sincere compassion.
Markham turned to Doyle. ‘You know what has to be done, Doyle. I want you to call this in and get the crime scene secured. Then make contact with Burton and Noakes. I want them back at base as soon as possible. Whatever they are doing, this takes priority.’
‘Understood, boss.’
‘Was Loraine poisoned, Inspector? Murdered?’ Her voice was the thinnest whisper.
Markham knelt down and took her hot, damp hand.
‘I think that’s what happened, Thelma, yes.’
‘Because of something she knew? Something she kept to herself?’
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
At that moment, Shelly came panting into the room, gaped at Thelma in dismay and herself burst into tears.
‘Loraine didn’t suffer did she, Inspector?’ The office manager was imploring. ‘She was such a kindly soul. The patients loved her.’
‘I think she didn’t have time to be afraid, Thelma.’ Markham hoped to God it was true. Though there must have been that heart-stopping moment when she realized this was the end . . .
‘Shelly,’ he said to the snuffling teenager. ‘I want you to look after Ms Macdonald. Make her a cup of tea, with plenty of sugar. Can you do that for me?’
The girl nodded, and he could tell she was proud of the commission in the midst of her pain. Placing an awkward arm round Thelma, she supported her into the corridor.
* * *
The DI placed a hand on the table to steady himself. It felt as though the incident room was spinning around him.
Eventually the world was the right way up once more.
Three murders. Three.
The words of Noakes’s parting benediction came back to him. ‘When shall we three meet again?’
‘In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’ he whispered hoarsely, completing the quotation as though it were some kind of incantation, as though the souls of those three victims hovered a little way above his head waiting for him to make his next move.
He took a deep breath.
Now he was ready.
9. Backs to the Wall
Later that Thursday afternoon, the team sat closeted in their incident room at the community centre. Noakes’s steak and kidney pie from Greggs sat on the table between t
hem. Kate Burton could have sworn it was curling at the edges. For a wonder, Noakes’s appetite seemed to have vanished. At any rate, it appeared food was the furthest thing from his mind.
‘The look on ’er face.’ He shook his head. ‘Horrible.’
Dimples Davidson had closed Loraine Thornley’s eyes, but their expression had indeed been one of stark terror. As though whatever she saw had seared her eyeballs, as though an indelible image of evil had been imprinted on her retina, never to be erased.
‘Is the press conference still going ahead, sir?’
Markham’s lips were tightly compressed.
‘Yes, Doyle. The DCI wants us to pull out all the stops — PR to reassure the community, that kind of thing.’
‘Reassure the community! Jesus wept!’ Noakes kicked a leg of the conference table by way of venting his frustration. ‘What does he expect us to say? That there’s a serial running around wi’ a syringe!’
‘Look at it from his point of view, Sergeant. This one’s making ripples. And Sidney’ll have the chief constable on his back. Somehow we’ve got to reassure the public.’
‘How’re we supposed to do that, guv?’ Another kick at the table leg. ‘We don’ have the foggiest!’ He raised his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Professor bleeding Plum in the library wi’ a candlestick!’
Interesting that Noakes too had that sense of a game waiting to be played out.
‘What did you get from Bromgrove General?’ Markham asked wearily.
Kate Burton smartly flipped open her notebook while Noakes and Doyle exchanged meaningful glances.
‘Unresolved personal conflict resulting from child protection disclosures, guv.’ She screwed up her eyes, looking more than ever like a myopic basset hound, thought Markham affectionately.
‘Basically, Shawcross got a fit of the glums after she ruined a nice young fella’s career,’ Noakes translated.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 137