Crime in the Heat

by Catherine Moloney

  Suppressing a sigh, Markham sat down behind his desk, whereupon Noakes promptly set aside his dogeared copy of the Gazette while Burton eagerly whipped out her police notebook. Looking at the two faces turned towards him — Burton’s tip-tilted features in amusing contrast to Noakes’s weather-beaten jowliness — the DI felt a wave of affection. Along with Olivia, they were family. The only real family he had ever known.

  ‘Any chance of securing DC Doyle for this investigation?’ he asked.

  ‘DI Carstairs nabbed him for this morning, guv,’ Noakes grunted. ‘But he promised we c’n have him back later.’

  ‘Good.’ Markham leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the loose spring digging into his back. ‘Right, Noakes, why don’t you talk us through the potential suspects.’

  The DS cleared his throat portentously and fished into his jacket pocket for an envelope on which he appeared to have scribbled some notes. A sound that might have been a whimper escaped Kate Burton, swiftly repressed.

  ‘Well, it helps that all the medicos were off on a jolly.’

  Burton frowned.

  ‘Doing CPD.’ The silly bitch loved her acronyms. ‘Continuous professional development,’ he enunciated sonorously. ‘Up in Leeds. ’Cept for two of ’em.’ He squinted ferociously at his horrible handwriting. ‘Doctor Neil Troughton — he’s the locum — an’ the ANP Maureen Stanley,’ he continued triumphantly, as though to demonstrate he could ‘do’ acronyms with the best of them.

  ‘Troughton was pretty calm.’ Noakes shrugged. ‘But then, it’s all in a day’s work for him, ain’t it? I mean, death . . . The professional training would have kicked in.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Markham steepled his fingers. ‘What about his colleague?’

  ‘She looked dead upset . . . could’ve been putting it on, of course.’ Noakes grinned evilly. ‘Got the feeling she fancies Troughton. Fussing around him with cups of tea and whatnot . . . went bright red whenever she spoke to him . . .’

  Burton’s disapproving look was back, but Markham didn’t halt the flow. Noakes was good at picking up vibes that loftier types tended to miss.

  ‘Who else was in the vicinity yesterday, Sergeant?’ Markham prompted.

  Noakes began counting them off on his stubby fingers. ‘Well, there was the receptionist Shelly. Poor little cow. She was hysterical. Mum had to come and collect her . . . we can rule her out—’

  ‘We’re not ruling anyone out, Sergeant,’ the DI interposed mildly.

  ‘Yeah, well I don’t see Shelly for it, guv.’ The DS stuck to his guns, but Markham let it pass. Noakes was the doting father of a teenaged daughter Natalie, trainee beautician and undisputed doyenne of Bromgrove’s less salubrious nightspots. Oblivious to the ‘extracurricular’ activities of his own daughter, Noakes had a soft spot for young girls and was good with them too.

  ‘Go on, Sergeant.’

  Noakes resumed his roll call. ‘Right . . . bloke called Peter Elford’s the community-centre administrator. All Brylcreemed hair and smarm. Seemed efficient, mind,’ the DS conceded grudgingly, ‘but deffo in love with himself.’ A brief scowl and he continued. ‘There’s a caretaker who reports to him . . . Chris Burt . . . middle-aged . . . not sure he’s the full shilling, if you get my drift. Special needs or summat like that. Anyway,’ he went on hastily before Burton could accuse him of inappropriateness towards minorities, ‘Elford bosses him round good-o. Burt’s sister Thelma Macdonald’s the surgery office manager. Sour-faced, bit of a harridan . . . She was over in the library visiting her mate when we found the body.’

  ‘Who’s the mate?’ Burton was scribbling vigorously.

  ‘Another harridan.’ Burton’s pen stilled. ‘Sorry . . . the head librarian Shirley Bolton.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s jus’ that they didn’t seem to care about that poor cow being found dead in the fridge.’

  ‘You can’t necessarily read anything into that, Sergeant. Shock affects people in different ways,’ Markham put in.

  ‘Yeah, I know, guv.’ Noakes shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s jus’ . . . well they didn’t even seem surprised.’

  Interesting. What was it about Rebecca Shawcross that could have marked her out as a candidate for murder?

  ‘Then there’s Loraine Thornley, the community midwife. Nice, kindly woman,’ Noakes said approvingly. ‘Now she was proper upset. You could tell. One of the phleb–phleb—’

  ‘Phlebotomists?’ suggested Burton helpfully.

  ‘That’s right.’ Noakes accepted the prompt with more grace than in former days. ‘One of them girls . . .’ He consulted his notes once more. ‘Jayne Pickering, the phleb thingy . . . healthcare assistant or what have you. She looked after Loraine, gave her a lift home.’

  ‘Any other personnel?’

  ‘A counsellor or therapist woman . . . Jenni Harte. All floaty clothes . . . ethnic scarves and bangles . . . you know the type. Born-again hippie.’

  Burton’s lips compressed, but she said nothing. The entente cordiale was holding. But only just. Watch it, Noakesy, the DI warned him in silent semaphore. Thin ice.

  Message received and understood.

  The DS cleared his throat. ‘An’ there was another therapist or trick cyclist. Asian guy. Very quiet. Seemed a decent sort. He and Jenni were reviewing a case together . . . didn’t hear or see anything.’

  Noakes had run out of fingers.

  ‘Is that the whole dramatis personae then, Sergeant?’ The DI’s voice was dry.

  ‘Pretty much, guv.’ Noakes ran pudgy hands through his hair so that the frowsy thatch stood on end in porcupine quills. Not a good look. ‘There’s a sixth-form study annexe,’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘or learning centre or whatever the new-fangled name is . . . That’s on the first floor with the library. The surgery’s downstairs.’

  Hormonally challenged seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. They had to go in the mix too.

  ‘Are the students supervised?’ Burton, as ever, wanted specifics. ‘I mean, presumably there are teachers in there with them?’

  Noakes scratched his chin. ‘I think they sort of do shifts . . . from Hope Academy.’ Or ‘Hopeless’ as it was known locally. ‘There’s a few classrooms and an ICT suite . . . all mod cons . . . not like in my Nat’s day when it was chalk ’n’ talk. Now it’s all fancy gimmicks.’

  Seeing that Noakes was gearing up for a paean to ‘the good ole days’, Markham took over.

  ‘Students and staff will need to be checked out, obviously.’

  Noakes noticed a shadow pass across the guvnor’s face. Blink and you’d miss it, but he’d seen it there.

  ‘’Course, we won’t let anyone bother your Olivia, guv,’ he said gruffly, the tips of his ears turning pink with consternation.

  Looking at this unlikeliest of Sancho Panzas, Markham was strangely moved. Even Burton, that stickler for protocol and propriety, echoed, ‘It’s probably got nothing to do with the school, boss. And anyway, Olivia was nowhere near, so like Noakesy said she’s got nothing to worry about . . .’

  Burton felt the familiar hollow ache when she saw how the DI’s normally austere features softened at the mention of his girlfriend. No one had ever looked at her like that and doubtless never would. Least of all dependable, unromantic Colin . . .

  She pulled herself together. Noakes was wearing that expression again. The one that suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. The last thing she needed was her fellow DS’s pity!

  Whatever bound her enigmatic boss and the ethereal Olivia together, it was an unbreakable bond and that was the end of it. Besides, she had come to like the dreamy-souled English teacher whose fragile appearance concealed a roguish wit. Everyone knew it had taken months of therapy and a lengthy period out of mainstream teaching for Olivia to recover from the Hope Academy murders. Burton sincerely hoped this new investigation wouldn’t trigger a setback.

  ‘Thanks, both of you.’ Markham smiled at them. ‘I’m sure Olivia will cope.’

  He sounded more confident than he felt.
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  There was a smart rap and DC Doyle’s carrot top appeared round the door.

  ‘What happened with Carstairs, lad? Thought he wanted you,’ Noakes blurted out.

  ‘He could tell I was pining for you, sarge,’ the other grinned. He turned to the DI. ‘Do you want me on this one, sir?’

  No affectation of casualness. No assumed indifference. That was the refreshing thing about Doyle. He made no secret of his preference for Markham’s maverick unit above all others.

  ‘Indeed I do, Constable.’ Markham’s voice was warm. ‘Come on in.’

  There was no chair for him in the minuscule space, but the loose-limbed, gangling young detective leaned against the doorframe nodding affably to Burton.

  ‘Sharp suit,’ Noakes grunted.

  ‘Knew you’d like it, sarge, what with you being a fashion aficionado. Hugo Boss.’

  Pleasantries over, Markham quickly briefed the new arrival before handing out tasks.

  Then he turned back to Doyle.

  ‘I need you and Kate to set up an incident room in the community centre. Usual pack drill. Get the office manager on side while you’re about it. We’re going to want access to HR records and all the rest of it.’

  Noakes was waiting expectantly.

  ‘You and I will get the administrator—’

  ‘Peter Elford.’

  ‘We’ll get Mr Elford to give us the guided tour . . . see what we can glean before starting on interviews.’

  ‘Has the DCI been briefed yet, sir?’

  ‘A pleasure deferred, Constable,’ Markham replied deadpan. His subordinates knew all too well that the boss looked forward to sessions with Sidney with about as much enthusiasm as most people await root canal work. As far as Slimy Sid was concerned, the name of the game was always ‘operation cover up’. Anything that risked staining Bromgrove’s civic reputation — and thereby potentially the DCI’s own — was to be avoided at all costs. Markham was willing to bet Sidney was already dusting off his favoured bushy-haired stranger theory with a view to distancing Bromgrove’s great and good from anything vaguely scandalous or embarrassing. God, it would be like the Newman Hospital case all over again.

  The DI’s mind drifted briefly back to the team’s investigation of Bromgrove’s psychiatric facility when they had uncovered a can of worms which included both police and medical malfeasance. Corruption in high places — Sidney’s ultimate nightmare. Little wonder he had wanted to pin any wrongdoing on the nearest available nutter!

  He suppressed a groan. Sidney could wait. For now, they needed to get a handle on the centre and its habitués.

  ‘Do we have any kind of motive yet, sir?’ Burton enquired.

  ‘According to Dimples, Ms Shawcross wasn’t sexually assaulted. But other than that . . .’ The DI shook his head. ‘She was likely taken by surprise. Let’s hope it was over quickly.’

  An explosion of fiery pain and then . . . nothing.

  For an instant, his eyes were remote, unseeing.

  Rebecca Shawcross had been so young. Only in her mid-twenties. Pray heaven there was some unseen realm, some bright and happy place beyond the grave that victims were called upon by God to populate. He had to cling to that thought lest thoughts of all those he had been unable to save should drive him mad.

  The other three waited respectfully, accustomed by now to Markham’s moments of introspection when he was ‘talking wi’ dead folk’ as Noakes was apt to put it.

  Then he was back with them. ‘It was a vicious attack,’ he said quietly. ‘Nasty and vicious.’

  ‘An’ shoving her in a fridge like that.’ Noakes shook his head. ‘Like she was some kind of specimen . . .’

  Burton was thoughtful. ‘Could a woman have done it, sir?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Kate.’ The DI flexed his long slender hands as though measuring their strength. ‘If we’re right and the attacker had the advantage of surprise, he or she could have been taken down Ms Shawcross in a trice.’

  Ms Shawcross. Always that respect for the victim. No gallows humour ever on Markham’s watch.

  ‘But let’s not speculate,’ he said briskly. ‘We’ll have the PM results by this evening at the latest. In the meantime, I want to get a feel for the centre.’

  He was a great believer in that — letting the murder scene speak to them.

  * * *

  Outside, drizzle was still falling softly as they headed for the car park, rain pattering steadily and relentlessly on the tombs of St Chad’s.

  Time to track a killer.

  2. A Neighbourhood of Spies

  It had stopped drizzling by the time Markham and Noakes drew up in the community centre car park, but the day was still dull and overcast, lending no lustre to the unbeautiful square building in front of them.

  ‘Could do wi’ summat to brighten the place up,’ the DS grunted. ‘One of them art installation jobbies or whatnot.’

  ‘You surprise me, Sergeant.’ Markham’s tone was quizzical. ‘I seem to recall you not being very keen on them when we visited the “psychos” at the Newman. In fact, I had the distinct impression you considered art therapy a poor substitute for hypodermic syringes.’

  ‘Well, I know more about it now than I did then,’ Noakes said huffily. ‘What with all them visits to the art gallery when we were on the Alex Carter case.’

  The DI somehow repressed a sarcastic rejoinder, having observed no signs of his sergeant’s cultural sensibilities having undergone any such transformation. If anything, Noakes had seemed even more stoutly opposed to Pre-Raphaelite art at the conclusion of their investigation than at the beginning.

  ‘None of that Victorian bollocks,’ the DS qualified beadily, as though only too aware of what Markham was thinking. ‘Summat nice an’ ordinary . . .’ He cudgelled his brains for inspiration. ‘Summat cheerful.’

  ‘Well, I believe there’s some sort of fountain or water feature round the back, Noakes, but that’s about it.’ Time to meet the old warhorse halfway. ‘You’re right, though. It doesn’t exactly raise the spirits.’

  The DS was mollified. ‘Surgery’s on the ground floor,’ he reminded his boss. ‘Library an’ sixth-form annexe upstairs.’

  ‘Have the SOCOs finished yet?’

  ‘Pretty much, guv. Should be done by end of today. Only essential staff allowed in for now.’

  ‘Fine.’ Markham spoke briskly. ‘I want things running normally again as soon as possible. Least possible disruption to the community, if you get my drift.’

  No need to mention the DCI’s obsession with civic PR.

  Noakes nodded grimly.

  A man was waiting for them in the entrance porch.

  ‘Peter Elford. The one who thinks he’s God’s gift,’ Noakes muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  Hmm. Elford certainly wasn’t anyone’s idea of an Adonis, thought Markham, being short, sallow and shifty looking with beaky nose and eyes set too close together. What was it Noakes had said about him back at the station — ‘all Brylcreemed hair and smarm’? Well, the coiffure may have been lacquered into place and there was a certain preening self-consciousness about the man, but he appeared presentable enough and perfectly in command of himself and the situation apart from a certain wariness about the eyes.

  Introductions followed.

  At times, Markham thought he detected the slightest hint of a Northern inflection ruthlessly suppressed. ‘Your colleagues are setting up an incident room for you in the surgery seminar room, gentlemen. It’s at the end of the corridor behind reception. I’ll make sure you all have keys by the end of the day.’

  ‘Excellent, sir.’ Certainly Elford couldn’t be faulted for efficiency. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could give us a tour of the building and introduce us to key personnel. Obviously, we’ll be conducting interviews with everyone who was in the building yesterday afternoon, but a walk-through would be useful if you have the time.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. Whatever I can do to help . . . I didn’t know Ms Shaw
cross personally.’ That remains to be seen, thought Markham. ‘But it was a shocking attack.’

  Grudgingly, despite feeling a certain visceral antipathy to the administrator, Markham gave him credit for concision and lack of gush.

  Elford ushered them forward to the surgery reception counter where a large doughy-looking woman presided, her piggy eyes surveying them from behind milk-bottle specs.

  Jesus, what a Ten Ton Tessa, thought Noakes. Unable to turn around without the use of tugs — not the best advert for healthy living.

  Noakes took a step backwards as she simpered at them.

  Or rather, not so much at him but Markham. The DI’s dark good looks had her fluttering like a schoolgirl.

  ‘This is Thelma Macdonald, the surgery office manager,’ Elford said. ‘She’s in overall charge of the administrative staff.’

  More introductions.

  The woman raised a self-conscious hand to her fine blonde hair, ill-cut in an approximation of a gamine crop.

  Markham smiled charmingly. ‘Ms Macdonald, I hope our investigation won’t cause you too much disruption,’ he said with customary old-world courtesy. ‘We appreciate that this is a very distressing time for everyone who works here.’

  She didn’t look too distressed from where Noakes was standing. In fact, the DS thought, she looked keyed-up . . . almost triumphant in a queer, gloating kind of way.

  ‘I understand you were in another part of the building when Ms Shawcross’s body was discovered.’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector. I don’t normally leave the junior receptionists unsupervised . . .’ She bridled self-importantly at the idea. ‘But yesterday was unusual in that most of the medical staff were away.’

  ‘CPD,’ put in the DS unctuously. Might as well get maximum mileage from this new-found acronym.