Crime in the Heat

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Only cos Bazza had them two bouncers over by the door so Gavin Conors decided to keep it zipped . . . An’ where did they come from anyhow? Are they Lynch’s minders or what?’

  Doyle grinned. ‘Maybe he needs protection, what with getting up so many people’s noses.’

  Noakes clearly appreciated this sally. ‘Yeah, wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Never mind where Lynch’s muscle came from,’ Burton snapped. ‘The point is, it meant an easy ride for all of us.’

  ‘Easier than I was expecting at any rate, Kate.’ Markham’s relief was very evident. ‘You and Carstairs did a great job with those glossy handouts. You could see Sidney was impressed with the graphs and statistics.’

  ‘Assaults in the NHS. Yeah, nice one, sarge.’ Doyle was enthusiastic. ‘Distracted ’em from asking awkward questions about randy teachers or dodgy doctors. And Sidney loved it . . . all that heroes-on-the-frontline stuff . . . He was practically purring.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ This was Noakes. ‘A real tear-jerker. Sidney’ll be lifting the best bits for his next speech, jus’ you see if he don’t.’

  Burton supposed there was a compliment in there somewhere. If she looked hard enough.

  ‘Excellent work, Kate. I mean it,’ Markham’s sincerity brought the colour to her cheeks. ‘It’s bought us some time and got the DCI off our backs . . . temporarily at least.’

  She would always remember this moment and the warmth in the DI’s dark eyes. Even the suspicion of a smirk hovering about Noakes’s lips couldn’t spoil it.

  ‘Old octopus-hands looked like he fancied a debrief afterwards, sarge,’ Doyle grinned.

  ‘Thanks for lowering the tone, Constable,’ she said icily. ‘Barry Lynch is one of those conceited creatures who thinks he’s God’s gift. Ask those poor girls in the typing pool.’

  ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ Noakes observed sententiously.

  ‘Right,’ the DI interposed hastily, ‘let’s save The Life and Times of Barry Lynch for the pub, shall we?’

  ‘With pleasure.’ Burton shuddered, oblivious of the others’ winks and nudges.

  ‘We’ve got a funeral to go to.’

  The DI’s reminder had a sobering effect.

  Noakes tugged at his tie and smoothed down the lapels of his ill-fitting jacket which was obtrusively shiny with a couple of grease spots. He looked like a mafioso in a low-budget movie, but on the whole Markham reckoned it could have been worse. Burton and Doyle were eminently respectable. The latter’s trousers were perhaps suspiciously close to being drainpipes, but the overall effect was upmarket and smart while the DI’s own dark grey pinstripes would hopefully distract the eye from Noakes’s highly idiosyncratic tailoring.

  ‘Are we going to the eats afterwards?’ came the inevitable plaintive cry.

  ‘Yes, Noakes, but let’s show some decorum, shall we?’

  ‘Eyes and ears open, sarge — not gobs.’

  The DS affected not to hear Doyle’s raillery.

  ‘Right, guv. Decorum. Got it.’

  * * *

  Afterwards, Markham reflected that it had been the most depressing funeral he had ever attended. And God knew, he’d been to plenty.

  Timings for mourners’ ‘slots’ were pinned to a noticeboard at the entrance to the little crematorium in Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery, a compact, timber-clad structure which bizarrely resembled a cross between a ski lodge and Scandinavian sauna.

  ‘Shawcross is down for twenty-five minutes . . . Frigging pitiful,’ Noakes muttered. Markham was hard pushed to disagree.

  A little regiment of bouquets was lined up next to the gravel path beside the crematorium’s memorial garden.

  Burton squinted down at the card on one of them. ‘Rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’ she read out, puzzled. ‘Bit odd, isn’t it? I mean, they usually say “in loving memory” or something like that . . . something conventional.’

  ‘Yeah, sarge. Creepy.’ Doyle leaned down to take a closer look. ‘It’s a line from Agatha Christie’s Sparkling Cyanide . . . the one where the murderer does it with poison.’ He looked around nervously. ‘The same way Loraine Thornley died.’

  ‘Could mean chummie’s inside,’ Noakes jerked a thumb at the interior of the building. ‘Sitting in there wi’ the audience — er, congregation — whatever.’

  But once they were in the crematorium chapel, no one stood out to Markham.

  That was the thing about funerals. They somehow smoothed everyone out, erased people’s individuality. Something to do with getting dressed up in one’s Sunday best and not looking conspicuous . . .

  The DI glanced across to the trestle and sent up a silent prayer for Rebecca Shawcross. Halfway down the right-hand aisle Olivia’s head was turned in the same direction and he guessed she was trying to reconcile ‘the remains’ in the casket with her memories of a laughing, dancing, joking, singing colleague . . . Requiescat in pace.

  Markham knew that Rebecca, like him, had been a lapsed Catholic. Somehow he wished she could have had the full panoply of a requiem mass — what Noakes would have called ‘all the bells and whistles’. Presumably it wasn’t deemed appropriate. Had someone been afraid that would make the occasion too press-worthy? He spotted the dead woman’s mother at the front of the chapel. Her bird-like frame swamped by her shapeless coat, she was flanked by two women in nurse’s uniform. How much was she taking in, he wondered. The one good thing about her Alzheimer’s was it meant she wouldn’t think of her daughter being trapped in this funny vaulted space, stuck in a box headed for the furnace and the chimney . . . to Joan Shawcross, Rebecca would remain forever young, unblemished and beautiful.

  In the end, the service was pretty much a blur. A peculiar mishmash of Christian and humanist elements presided over by a kind-looking woman from the Methodist church down the road.

  Mary Atkins, her features set in a perpetual smile, did the eulogy. At which point Noakes started to fidget, twisting his limbs into all sorts of queer shapes and rubbing his nose almost as though he hoped to erase it. Burton looked a small armoury of daggers at him, but he didn’t stop until the assistant head was finished and the canned music (Andrea Bocelli singing ‘Pie Jesu’) started up. Syrupy platitudes from senior teachers were quite inimical to Noakes’s concept of paradise. Nor was he enthused when two beefy women, well past their grand climacteric, launched into a rendition of the duet from The Pearl Fishers.

  ‘Why’re they singing that tune from the airport advert?’ he asked Doyle, earning further daggers from Burton. When the plump lady minister announced, ‘And finally, dear brothers and sisters’, he relapsed into a series of the broadest and most unmitigated grins, clearly anticipating the gustatory part of the proceedings with eager relish.

  Afterwards, Markham noticed some pupils from Hope awkwardly eyeing one another up on the grass verges of the memorial garden, teenage Lolitas making the most of an opportunity for incipient flirtation with the dropping of mobiles, mislaying of handbags and sundry other ruses aimed at the dull-eyed male of the species. Oddly enough, the sight raised his spirits. Life goes on, he thought. The world keeps turning. And maybe these kids Rebecca Shawcross taught are all the better for having known her . . .

  Suddenly, his attention was caught by raised voices and a minor commotion over by the bouquets.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked Kate Burton who came crunching over the gravel towards him.

  ‘Crisis over,’ she answered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Jayne Pickering got a bit emotional, mouthing off at Thelma and Shirley. Called them hypocrites because they were always bitching in corners about people and — excuse my French, sir — didn’t give two fucks about Rebecca Shawcross or anyone except themselves.’

  ‘Where’s she now?’ Markham’s eyes scanned the crowd.

  ‘Jenni Harte calmed her down. She and Tariq are going to take her home . . . sit with her . . . make a cup of tea and what have you.’

  ‘Good. This is all too soon after her aunt.’


  ‘Yeah,’ Noakes came up with Doyle. ‘Poor cow’s all tranked out . . . Don’t know what the quack gave her, but she looks like a freaking zombie. Anyway,’ he rubbed his hands, ‘is it back to the community centre now, guv?’

  ‘Yes, Noakes.’ Markham resigned himself to the inevitable. ‘But just remember the watchword, eh?’

  ‘Got you, boss.’ Noakes turned to Doyle who was blushing at the attention from Hope’s buxom belles. ‘Just remember you’re a married man, mate. Or as good as.’

  The DC tore his eyes away. Didn’t want any adverse whispers getting back to his new squeeze in Traffic.

  Markham seemed to be trying not to smile — and succeeding without difficulty when he saw the DCI’s bonce bobbing above the crowd. Sidney wouldn’t want to share any potential PR op, so it was time to make himself scarce.

  ‘Come on, troops.’

  As they made their way towards the car park, he thought of that lonely trestle in the chapel behind them. Somehow he wished he’d been there for the ‘chimney bit’ — to wish Rebecca Shawcross godspeed. As it was, he vowed once again to bring the community-centre killer to justice, more than ever convinced that whoever they were after had been right there gloating and exulting at having pulled it off . . .

  I’ll get them, he called to the dead girl’s spirit. And for an eerie moment, he imagined he saw her rise from the coffin and wave him on his way.

  * * *

  In the event, despite the minor drama at the crematorium, the buffet back at the study annexe passed without incident.

  Noakes somehow restrained himself from demolishing everything in sight, telegraphing his self-denial to Markham via a series of winks and nods which threatened to undermine his superior’s composure. As promised, Olivia was an angel on the DS’s shoulder, even managing to talk him out of a flapjack-fest in favour of quiche and healthier dainties. Catching her lover’s eye, she semaphored, I’m on it. From the goofy, dazzled look on Noakes’s face, it was clear Olivia had his number.

  Markham noticed Tariq Azhar slip unobtrusively into the room and gratefully help himself to an orange juice. God, the man was seriously good-looking with his dancer’s physique and those liquid eyes — in the mould of Art Malik or some other Asian heartthrob. Could there have been anything going on between him and Rebecca Shawcross? Was the therapist a spurned lover of hers?

  Azhar caught his glance and came over.

  ‘Jenni’s stayed with Jayne, Inspector,’ he said. ‘She was worried about her being alone.’

  ‘Your colleague struck me as having a soothing effect.’

  ‘She’s brilliant with the bereaved.’ It was said without a trace of professional jealousy. ‘Always seems to find the right words . . . creates time and space. Never rushes them.’

  Shirley Bolton bore down on them with a plate of brownies, looking somewhat discomfited after the scene with Jayne Pickering. The DI noticed she was watching him closely out of the corner of her eye, as though she wanted to speak to him.

  Azhar seemed to sense this too. Politely, he took the plate from her. ‘Let me take over for a bit, Shirley.’ He gestured to one of the ‘break out’ zones. ‘Why don’t you take a load off?’ The slang sounded incongruous coming from this soft-voiced, elegant young man.

  The DI gestured her to an easy chair.

  Vibrantly, almost garishly dressed, in a rainbow-hued maxi dress, she caught Markham’s sideways glance at her attire. ‘I had a long jacket over it in the chapel but didn’t want to wear head-to-toe black.’ She paused awkwardly. ‘She was such a young girl . . . in her twenties . . . It didn’t seem right for us all to come here looking like crows. I just wanted to bring a touch of beauty . . . something . . .’ A deep breath. ‘I think she would’ve liked a flash of colour.’

  The DI was oddly touched but remained on his guard. ‘And why not, Ms Bolton? I seem to recall that white was the colour of mourning in France at one time. Didn’t they call Mary, Queen of Scots, La Reine Blanche for that very reason?’

  A wry smile. ‘That’s right, Inspector. The Queen knew it was a good look. “The whiteness of her face rivalled the whiteness of her veils.”’

  ‘Was that the reason for Ms Pickering’s . . . outburst earlier? Did she misinterpret your intention — with the bright colours?’

  ‘What, you think she imagined I was dancing on poor Rebecca Shawcross’s grave?’ The woman looked startled and then bit her lip. ‘Though it’s true I wasn’t her greatest fan.’ Her eyes darted round the room and came to rest on a little group huddled by the magazine racks. Markham recognized Leo Cartwright, Maureen Stanley, Doctor Troughton, and one or two other medical staff from the surgery. A few feet away Thelma Macdonald stood talking to Shelly and some of the receptionists, keeping one eye on her brother with an air of sublime protection. She appeared to have recovered her self-possession after the appalling discovery of the previous day. Chris Burt, meanwhile, somehow contrived to look ‘cobwebby’ even in a respectable dark lounge suit. Markham noticed that, on the side furthest from his sister, one hand was busily occupied stuffing sausage rolls into his pocket from a fast-emptying plate on the buffet table. It appeared his sergeant might have competition when it came to hoovering up the funeral viands.

  ‘Look, Inspector, not everyone in this place is quite what they seem.’

  Suddenly, Shirley Bolton had his full attention.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Ms Bolton?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘I don’t want to talk here . . . too many people watching.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Markham was determined there would be no repeat of what had happened with Loraine Thornley. Secrets can kill. ‘I suggest you come down to the incident room in half an hour or so.’ Unnecessary to tell her that she should aim to avoid attracting attention in the meantime.

  Maureen Stanley hadn’t taken her eyes off them since they’d started talking. Now the nurse was moving their way. Close up, Markham decided there was something avid, almost hungry, about her. He supposed it was down to her dilapidated appearance, like a house that could find no buyers.

  ‘I’ll be off shortly, Shirley,’ she said in carefully modulated tones, behind which a Northern accent was discernible. ‘Doctor McCaffery wants to go over some slides with me and Doctor Troughton.’

  ‘Fine, fine, Maureen.’ Shirley Bolton sounded distracted. Then she remembered her manners. ‘I’m sure we’ll catch up later on.’ An afterthought struck her. ‘Doctor McCaffery . . . now where have I heard that name before? Doesn’t he practise at the Newman?’

  There was a certain reserve in the ANP’s manner. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He and Doctor Troughton did some research on neural regeneration.’ Now the woman seemed anxious to be gone. With a bob of the head in Markham’s direction, she headed towards the stairs. The DI watched her thoughtfully. She had a curious gait — a sort of awkward jogtrot, perhaps left over from some early accident she’d sustained.

  The Newman, he thought, remembering those entries Rebecca Shawcross had written in Hope Academy’s sign-out log. ‘Research’ and ‘Newman’. Were these murders connected with the psychiatric hospital and, if so, what was the link? It appeared Doctor Troughton had some affiliation with the place, and there were quite likely others . . .

  People seemed to be drifting away.

  Suddenly Olivia was at his side.

  ‘It was grim, wasn’t it?’ she said sympathetically.

  ‘Awful,’ he replied.

  ‘At the end, though, I had the strangest feeling that maybe it was a tragedy for us but not for Rebecca . . .’ She met her lover’s startled gaze. ‘Yes, even though she was murdered . . . As though she’d somehow escaped from an intolerable situation that was only going to get worse.’ Her eyes were sad. ‘As though she was never going to make old bones. Sorry,’ she gave an embarrassed laugh, ‘this sounds like I’m into ESP or something.’

  Markham put an arm around her.

  ‘No,’ he said tenderly. ‘You’re just very intuit
ive.’ He pondered a moment. ‘I had an impression of Rebecca as being a bit of a vamp . . . a neurotic troublemaker. Interesting that you have a sense of her as a victim caught in a trap . . .’

  There was a hint of tears in her voice. ‘At least now she’s thrown it all off and moved on to her next adventure. Well done, Bex.’

  Matthew Sullivan read the situation at a glance and came over to them. ‘I’m driving her back to school, Gil.’ And to Olivia. ‘Come on, hon. You look done in.’

  In little groups and knots, the mourners dispersed.

  Suddenly, Burton was at Markham’s side.

  ‘I’ve had a call from the General Register Office, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. What have they got for us?’

  The DS drew him into an alcove, her face alight with suppressed excitement.

  Markham felt the stirrings of hope. Was this to be the longed-for breakthrough?

  ‘They gave me a name, sir.’

  Doyle and Noakes had joined them now, sensing that something was up.

  ‘Phil Carmichael—’ she began.

  ‘The teacher who killed himself . . . the one Shawcross fingered as a paedo—’

  ‘He had a stepbrother.’

  Three pairs of eyes were riveted on her.

  ‘He’s been here under our eyes the whole time . . .’

  The room seemed to hold its breath.

  ‘Doctor Neil Troughton.’

  11. An Opening

  ‘I didn’t have any idea who she was . . . only found out by chance.’

  ‘An’ you expect us to believe you?’

  ‘Whether you believe me or not, Sergeant, it happens to be the truth.’

  Doctor Neil Troughton had none of the defiance or bluster of a guilty man, but Markham knew appearances could be deceptive. Certainly Noakes was openly sceptical, having on receipt of the bombshell discovery let loose a battery of expletive adjectives without any substantive to accompany them. As far as the DS was concerned, Troughton’s connection to Phil Carmichael pretty well concluded matters and all that now remained was to slap on the handcuffs.