‘She was difficult to get to know. Bit of an ice maiden. Liked her privacy . . . Not that I blame her,’ Olivia added quickly. ‘Schools can be such snake pits.’
‘Her dad died in a car crash when she was quite young. Mum’s in a nursing home, advanced Alzheimer’s.’ Sullivan’s voice was sombre. ‘I believe she was very faithful about visits.’
Markham thought back to the afternoon’s agonizing interview and Noakes’s tenderness with that wreck of a human being. He only wished the DS’s detractors could have witnessed his infinite patience and the way he coaxed a tearful smile from the bewildered woman whose daughter was forever frozen in time for her as a toddler. Afterwards, with hands clenched, Noakes had said, ‘That poor lass drew the short straw all right, guv. But we’ll see the bastard doesn’t get away wi’ it.’
‘Whoever killed her, we’ll get them Noakesy,’ Markham had replied.
But now he felt at a loss. The dead woman felt like an enigma, unknowable.
Suddenly, he experienced an unnerving flashback to the autopsy room and the moment he’d had to contemplate Rebecca Shawcross’s remote white beauty, before Dimples Davidson set to work with his Stryker. Afterwards, having skipped lunch, he sat queasily watching the pathologist and Noakes chomp their way through cheese baguettes while mulling the forensic implications.
‘It would have been over very quickly, Markham,’ Davidson said, observing the DI’s downcast expression. ‘Hardly enough time even to be afraid.’
‘That garrotte was pulled so tight she was nearly decapitated,’ put in Noakes ghoulishly.
‘She would’ve been unconscious within seconds,’ the doctor insisted, raising his voice to drown out Noakes. ‘Taken by surprise and then — finito. No defence wounds or signs of a struggle. She never saw it coming.’
‘Likely someone she knew then?’ the DS mumbled through a mouthful of cheese and pickle.
‘Man or woman?’ Noakes enquired.
‘Could’ve been either. With the girl being caught off guard, it wouldn’t have required a massive amount of strength.’
Just overpowering hatred, Markham reflected grimly. With an effort, he dragged himself back to the present.
‘Any ripples at school?’ he asked carefully, gently stroking Olivia’s long red hair. ‘Anything contentious . . . ?’
‘Rebecca was very popular with the sixth form,’ Olivia answered. ‘But then, she did a lot of work on school drama productions — Guys and Dolls last year, that kind of thing . . . really threw herself into it.’
‘True,’ Sullivan concurred. ‘The kids respected her for that.’
‘Any, er, liaisons with other staff?’
‘She was friendly with Leo Cartwright in drama, but I don’t know if it went further than that.’ Sullivan’s tone was guarded. ‘I mean, God knows at Hope, it’s such a goldfish bowl. Good luck to anyone who gets it on without the whole bloody place knowing.’
Remembering the way the world had fallen down about Matthew Sullivan’s ears during the Hope Academy murder investigation, Markham couldn’t blame him for wishing to shield his colleagues from intrusive police enquiries.
‘I want to pay a visit, Mat,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing too heavy, I promise. Just a quick word with this Leo Cartwright and an invitation to folk to let us know if they remember anything. Something they didn’t notice at the time, perhaps . . . something which only struck them as being odd in hindsight.’
‘Just like old times.’ But neither Sullivan nor Olivia looked thrilled at the prospect.
Sullivan roused himself. ‘Don’t worry, Gil, I’ll square it with Doctor Abernathy and our “executive head”.’
Markham grinned. He knew Sullivan had the unworldly Abernathy eating out of his hand. And he had every confidence in his friend’s ability to deal with the higher echelons.
‘Will Noakes be coming, too?’
Olivia burst out laughing at the resigned expression on Sullivan’s face. ‘Better buckle on that Kevlar vest. George doesn’t have much time for “leftie liberals” like you!’
‘Oh, I think I’ll just about pass muster,’ her friend said wryly. ‘Don’t forget I play centre-back for the Bromgrove Wanderers, so much will be forgiven.’ He gave a theatrical shudder at the thought of Noakes’s likely response to the earnestly PC senior leadership team. ‘It’s the rest of ’em I feel sorry for.’
‘Don’t worry, Mat, I’ll keep him under control,’ Markham laughed. ‘Tomorrow morning suit you? Elevenish?’
‘Fine.’ Sullivan frowned. ‘What about the students?’
‘Find me a few form reps, prefects, kids she taught . . . basically anyone she was close to. Get whoever’s responsible for safeguarding and child protection onside — that way there’s no comeback.’
And with that, the talk passed to other things.
* * *
Outside the shadows lengthened and, in the ancient graveyard, the cypresses stirred and whispered restlessly as if full of secrets they could share if they would.
3. Auld Lang Syne
‘Phew, it’s gonna be a scorcher today, guv,’ Noakes grunted as he and Markham stood in the car park at Hope Academy eyeing up the dreary sixties architecture, which strongly resembled that of a Soviet Gulag. ‘Can’t think why they make kids do GCSEs an’ A levels when the weather’s like this.’ He kicked a pebble wrathfully. ‘Our Nat said it ruined her chance of getting decent grades.’
Reflecting that Natalie’s less than stellar academic attainment was more likely to have been affected by her discovery of what passed for Bromgrove’s nightlife than any meteorological factor, the DI smiled sympathetically. ‘Well, Hope’s hardly a fun factory at the best of times.’
The two men lingered, lost in thought as they recalled the horrific murder investigation they had worked on previously, and the web of sexual intrigue and festering secrets they’d uncovered at the heart of Hope Academy. In addition to discovering the mutilated body of the first victim, Olivia had been closely bound up in what followed. Now that she was back in school doing what she loved, Markham prayed her professional equilibrium would not be undermined by further unsavoury discoveries connected with her colleagues. After Matthew Sullivan had left them the previous evening, he’d realized just how troubled she was at the prospect.
‘You don’t think this has anything to do with school do you, Gil?’ she’d asked him.
Markham had been reluctant to alarm her but met her eyes steadily.
‘Well, given that the community centre houses Hope’s sixth-form study annexe, we’ve got to consider it as a possibility.’
This morning, Noakes was clearly thinking along similar lines.
‘It couldn’t be one of this lot, could it, guv?’ he asked jerking a thumb at the cement frontage, which Markham had once heard described as a cross between a women’s prison and a branch of B&Q.
‘They say lightning never strikes twice, Sergeant, but who knows . . .’ The DI shivered despite the warmth of the day then straightened his shoulders. ‘Apparently Rebecca Shawcross was a pupil here before going off to university and teacher training. And there’s this Leo Cartwright—’
‘The drama teacher.’
‘Yes. According to Mat Sullivan, they were friendly.’
Noakes’s shaggy brows dropped. Sullivan had at one time been a suspect in the Hope Academy murders and the revelation of his homosexuality — kept firmly under wraps for so long — had undoubtedly unsettled CID’s least politically correct policeman. Even so, the DS had gradually warmed to him and they had bonded over a love of the beautiful game. Noakes also respected the way Sullivan, in his capacity as newly appointed deputy head, had worked to restore the school’s morale and reputation after the bombshell scandals that had rocked it, allowing himself to be co-opted for five-a-side training and other extracurricular activities. The DS had even given a talk to the Year 9s, which, Sullivan told Markham, had gone down a storm. ‘He went off-message, if you get my meaning,’ he later told his friend with a
sly wink. ‘And the kids loved it.’ The DI shuddered to think what Sidney would have made of Noakes’s doubtless beyond-the-pale pronouncements on twenty-first-century policing — more The Sweeney than right-on shibboleths from the DCI’s playbook — but he was nonetheless pleased. There was no denying his sergeant’s gift for connecting with the vulnerable and the disaffected. Not that Noakes was an exemplar of Mother Teresa-like compassion, but something about the man inspired trust in the least likely quarters.
Though not with Hope’s senior leadership team who had all loathed Noakes on sight, their antipathy being reciprocated in spades. With a wry grin, Markham recalled how the DS had nicknamed the previous deputy head ‘Godzilla’, and sent up a silent and doubtless unavailing prayer that his subordinate’s approach would be more diplomatic this time around.
‘I think we can pretty much rule out any connection with the teaching staff, given that Shirley Bolton was covering the study annexe on Monday afternoon while students were doing their Enrichment activities. Only a couple of students were in the annexe that day. They used their swipe cards to get in, so there’s a record.’
‘We’re here to suss out Leo Cartwright then, guv?’
‘Pretty much. If he and Ms Shawcross were friends, he can give us a sense of what she was like . . .’
‘Think they were playing hunt-the-salami?’
Markham shot him a look and Noakes hastily amended, ‘I mean, d’you think they were . . . er . . . in a relationship?’
‘Possibly. But there’s no indication of Cartwright having been anywhere near the community centre . . . if he’s alibied for the relevant time, then he’s not our man.’
Noakes squinted up at the building’s meanly proportioned windows. ‘P’raps he got someone else to do it.’
‘Suborned one of the students, you mean?’
‘Yeah . . . or,’ Noakes was building up a head of steam, ‘mebbe some kid had a crush on her an’ snuck into the surgery after she choked him off . . .’ Markham winced at the infelicitous turn of phrase.
‘Hmmm . . . I suppose anything’s possible, but no one saw any of the pupils downstairs in the surgery. Everyone’s got to sign in.’
The DS snorted. ‘Easy-peasy for someone to sneak in wi’ little Shelly on duty and that Thelma one having swanned off to see her chum upstairs. An’ as for the caretaker bloke — Chris Burt — he’s as much use as a chocolate teapot! No, depend upon it, guv, it was Skive City that afternoon.’
‘Point taken.’ Markham frowned. ‘But Peter Elford was around too.’
‘He said he was in his office next to the supplies room, working on spreadsheets an’ budgets . . . I can believe it,’ Noakes nodded grimly. ‘He looks the type to get his jollies from a pile of paperwork. Prob’ly hoping to catch one of the docs out over their expenses.’
The DI repressed a sigh. Noakes’s prejudices once formed were fiendishly hard to shift. And he had taken an instant dislike to the self-important administrator.
‘Let’s not get carried away here, Sergeant.’ Markham’s voice was firm. ‘There’s nothing to suggest Ms Shawcross was in a relationship with either Leo Cartwright or any of her students.’
‘Thelma an’ Shirley didn’t like her,’ Noakes said stubbornly.
‘True.’ The DI recalled Shirley Bolton’s defensiveness and his feeling that both she and Thelma Macdonald were withholding something. ‘But it could simply have been the fact that Rebecca was a lovely-looking young woman . . . or perhaps that she just rubbed them up the wrong way.’
‘Yeah.’ Noakes scratched his stubble ruminatively. ‘The librarian seemed to think she was hoity-toity . . . like she fancied herself a cut above or summat.’
‘Or it’s possible she had a run-in about a medical appointment.’ Markham shrugged expressively. ‘You know what surgeries are like these days.’
‘I could imagine that Thelma throwing her weight around. Literally. She’s the type knows more than the bleeding doctors. My missus—’
Markham swiftly interposed, eager to forestall a recital of Muriel Noakes’s grievances past and present. ‘It could have been Ms Shawcross who flew off the handle, Sergeant. Maybe she was anxious about a health problem and lost it for some reason.’
‘We’ll need to see her medical records, guv . . . I’ll get Burton onto it. Right up her street.’
‘Good. And in the meantime,’ Markham gestured to the Gulag, ‘let’s see what Mr Leo Cartwright has to say.’
* * *
At least the two detectives had arrived after the start of lessons, so they didn’t have to brave the usual mad stampede in the corridors.
‘Same old puke-coloured walls,’ Noakes grunted, eyeing the scuffed eau de Nil paintwork with disfavour.
There was definitely something bunker-like about Hope, thought Markham, notwithstanding the cacophony of posters clamouring for attention with their headache-inducing primary colours and PC slogans. A lingering smell of burgers and cabbage overlaid the scent of JaysWax and polish in a combination which made the DI’s stomach lurch uneasily.
Mercifully, they were swiftly whisked off to Matthew Sullivan’s office at the rear of the ground floor.
‘Blimey, mate, no risk of them spoiling you,’ Noakes said looking round the distinctly shabby office with its strictly functional furniture and uninspiring view of the potholed netball courts. ‘Shouldn’t you have a few perks . . . what with being deputy head an’ all?’
‘We’re in a new era of virtuous cost-cutting, Noakesy.’
‘Oh aye, after the way the previous lot cooked the books, guess it stands to reason you’d want to be Captain Sensible.’
Sullivan chuckled at the pained expression on the DI’s face. ‘It’s all right, Gil. You know I always enjoy your sergeant’s frankness. Very refreshing given the usual doublespeak that prevails here.’
‘’Ow’s old Aber Wotsisface?’ enquired the DS nothing abashed.
‘Doctor Abernathy’s with the lower sixth just at the moment. Pearls before the proverbial, but at least he’s enjoying John Donne’s sonnets.’
‘Still wear the Batman gown?’
‘Indeed he does. Hope’s very own answer to Mr Chips.’
‘Nice old git. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.’
While Sullivan and Markham boggled at this encomium, there was a gentle knock at the door and a fresh-faced young man, dark hair curling over his collar in a way that immediately had Noakes narrowing his eyes, came into the office.
‘’Lo, Mat. This the fuzz, then?’ He held out his wrists in mock self-depreciation, putting on an exaggerated Cockney accent. ‘It’s a fair cop, guvnor. I’ll come quietly.’
‘Let’s have some respect, Leo.’ But Sullivan’s tone was mild. It was obvious he was fond of his youthful colleague. He turned to Markham, ‘Would you like me to make myself scarce?’
‘Not at all.’ Markham was genial, as though to compensate for his subordinate who was regarding Cartwright’s over-long hair, rolled up shirtsleeves and what looked like stonewashed denim with the darkest suspicion.
‘The drama department’s always had a relaxed vibe compared with our more straitlaced subject areas,’ Sullivan said propitiatingly.
More’s the pity, Noakes added mentally. But he didn’t actually say it aloud.
Cartwright flung himself into one of the three drab olive-green conference chairs lined up in a row on the other side of his boss’s desk.
Introductions followed.
Mercifully for Noakes’s blood pressure, the teacher’s playful facetiousness gave place to a more sober tone. ‘Bex was a mate. Whatever I can do to help you nail the shit who did this, just say the word.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Markham responded with his trademark quiet courtesy. ‘Can you take us through your timetable on Monday.’
It transpired that the drama teacher had been filming GCSE assessments, with a roomful of adolescents and two members of the English department able to place him at Hope from 10 a.m. till 4 p.m.
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As far as opportunity and means were concerned, Leo Cartwright appeared to be in the clear. Of course, there was always motive . . .
‘I understand you were close to Ms Shawcross.’
‘Not as close as I’d like to have been, Inspector.’ Cartwright’s tone was rueful.
‘Someone else on the scene was there, mate?’
Noakes’s relish of the fact that this cocky upstart hadn’t made it to first base with his babelicious colleague verged on indecent, but Cartwright responded good-naturedly enough. ‘We were “friends with benefits”.’
‘Eh?’ The DS was nonplussed.
Sullivan tried not to laugh at the look on Noakes’s face. ‘I think,’ he said tentatively, not trusting himself to look at Markham, ‘that Leo means he and Rebecca enjoyed an on-off relationship . . . a sort of open arrangement.’
‘That’s right,’ Cartwright concurred cheerfully. ‘You know, sex without strings.’ Suddenly, he appeared to register Noakes’s aghast expression. ‘Not that I didn’t want to be exclusive,’ he added hastily, ‘but it wasn’t on the cards and I never played the possessive boyfriend.’
Whatever Noakes had been expecting to learn about the behaviour of young teachers at Hope Academy, it clearly didn’t encompass anything as left-field as this. Markham felt a pang. For all the old horror’s Yorkshire down-to-earthness, he was curiously innocent in his reverence for The Professions. And now here was another ideal shattered.
‘Do you know if there was anyone who might have enjoyed a more, shall we say, serious relationship with Ms Shawcross?’ Markham asked.
‘I had the feeling there was someone, but I took good care not to pry. With Bex, the barriers came up if I pushed too hard.’
The DI tried another tack. ‘I understand she was a pupil here.’
Was it his imagination or had he touched a nerve? Leo Cartwright looked suddenly wary . . . watchful . . . as though afraid of being caught out over something.
What was it?
Sullivan was quick to notice. ‘Rebecca was one of Hope’s success stories,’ he said lightly. ‘Dad was a local councillor . . . very proud of her. He was killed in an accident just before she took her A levels. Even so, she got two Bs and a C — enough for her first-choice university.’
Crime in the Heat Page 4