‘Something amusing you, Sergeant?’
Noakes immediately assumed an air of impenetrable stolidity. ‘Just taking it all in, sir.’
Giving up on Markham’s village idiot, the DCI turned his attention back to his quarry. ‘I presume you’ll be liaising with the sex crimes team — what with the likelihood of a mentally disordered offender being at large.’
By a supreme effort of will, Markham managed not to meet Noakes’s eyes. Only ten minutes in and the agenda was clear.
Talk about the Self Preservation Society, thought Noakes disgustedly. Anything to steer us well clear of the local big wigs and ensure we pin this on some local whack job.
The DI knew better than to put up any resistance. ‘Naturally, sir.’ His tone was one of iron-clad courtesy. Not servile. Obsequiousness was simply not in his repertoire. ‘DI Carstairs is covering that angle.’ He’d square it with Chris Carstairs later when they did their evening workout at Doggie’s. His suave fellow DI owed him a few favours and was more than capable of throwing sand in Sidney’s eyes for as long as it took them to get a lead. If necessary, Carstairs and Kate Burton could rustle up some data-rich spreadsheets between them . . . or, better still, get some Cracker type from the university’s psychology department to do an offender profile.
It wasn’t that the DCI was a bad man, Markham told himself with a flicker of compunction. In fact, he knew Sidney to be capable of great kindness to officers facing personal crises. It was just that his relentless tunnel vision — the product of too many years marinating in the upper echelons of the police service — invariably served them ill when it came to taking an imaginative view of an investigation. He felt quite sure that the key to these murders lay somewhere in the community centre, and that they had almost certainly already met the killer. But the DCI was under great pressure from the town’s Citizens-Police Liaison Committee, especially in the wake of the corruption uncovered by Markham’s most recent investigations. Local schools, churches, hospitals, the theatre, the art gallery — all had harboured a worm in the bud . . . all had festering secrets to be dragged with mandrake-like shrieks into the light. Small wonder if Sidney was hankering to pin these latest killings on some mythical bushy-haired stranger.
‘I understand there may be a connection with Hope Academy, Inspector.’
The DCI’s snitches had clearly been busy. Time to tread carefully.
‘Well, Rebecca Shawcross was a teacher at Hope, sir. And, of course, the school’s sixth-form study annexe is based in the community centre.’
‘But you’re not suggesting any school personnel are involved.’
‘Highly unlikely, sir.’ Markham’s ‘bedside manner’ came to his rescue. ‘Our visit there was more a question of building a picture of the victim . . . Had her colleagues noticed anything unusual?’ He had a sudden burst of inspiration. ‘Had anyone been seen hanging around the school — stalkers, unwanted attention — that kind of thing.’
No way was he prepared to enlighten Sidney about the extracurricular dimension, though a salacious gleam in Noakes’s eye suggested his sergeant would have enjoyed witnessing the effect of such revelations.
‘Good, good.’ The DCI clearly liked the stalker theory.
‘I believe your lady friend is back teaching at Hope . . .’
Somehow Sidney always larded any reference to Olivia with a thick layer of innuendo.
‘That’s right, sir.’ Keep it short and sweet.
‘Not caught up in this investigation I trust, Inspector? I seem to remember she has rather an unfortunate knack for drawing attention to herself . . . There was all that drama at St Cecilia’s, for example . . .’
As though Olivia was some sort of exhibitionist crime-scene groupie, Markham thought savagely. Hardly surprising that she harboured a deep-seated antipathy towards his boss, invariably describing him as first cousin to Judas Iscariot.
Noakes’s beefy face flushed red. Oh no, was he about to plough in like some medieval knight bent on defending his lady’s honour?
‘Ms Mullen didn’t ask to be attacked, sir. An’ she was dead brave when it happened.’
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 rumour
s. ‘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.’
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.
Crime in the Heat Page 7