He bowed his head out of respect as Peter Elford’s pitiful remains set out on their last journey. After a moment’s hesitation, Noakes and Burton followed his lead. Davidson, well used to the DI’s insistence on reverence for the deceased, paused in locking his medical bag and watched the sombre little procession wend its way out of the flat.
It felt hotter than ever indoors. The pathologist, florid and stocky, ran a sweaty hand through his thinning sandy locks. ‘I’m done here, Markham. Post-mortem at 5 p.m. All welcome.’
‘I’ll be attending, doc,’ Kate Burton piped up.
Davidson looked at her benignly. ‘Oh, Buggins’ turn is it, m’dear?’
‘No, she freaking volunteers, would you believe?’ Noakes’s voice cracked with incredulity.
‘Kate will be liaising with the scene of crime team on this one, Doug,’ the DI said firmly.
Dimples looked from one DS to the other and flashed his sawbones smirk. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he chuckled. ‘Turn and turn about, eh?’
‘Is this the same killer as did for Shawcross?’ Noakes demanded bluntly.
‘Now, now, Sergeant,’ the other clicked his tongue. ‘You know better than to ask me that.’ With a valedictory beam, he was gone.
‘’Scuse me, I’ve got summat to do.’ Noakes too vanished into the dining area, whence issued the sound of a resounding thwack. The buzzing, which had been droning on throughout their interview with Dimples, abruptly stopped.
The DS reappeared. ‘That sodding bluebottle was getting right on my tits,’ was all he proffered by way of explanation. Markham suspected he would’ve liked to have done something similar to Dimples Davidson, but the refractory insect was clearly an excellent substitute.
The two SOCOs were still flitting about the place like giant moths.
‘Let’s leave them to it,’ Markham said, before adding as an afterthought, ‘Did you check out the other rooms, Kate?’
‘Yes, sir. There’s two bedrooms. Looks like one’s been freshly decorated . . . in girlie colours . . . maybe for when the daughter comes to stay.’
‘Anything interesting in Elford’s room? Anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Nothing, sir. And just the usual in the bathroom cabinet — plus he was taking citalopram for depression.’
The sterile little flat was starting to depress Markham.
‘Whoever rigged up that scene back there hated Peter Elford,’ he said. ‘The way it was staged . . . nasty . . . cruel.’
Despite the heat of the day, Burton shivered. ‘So what had he done to deserve that? Could he have been blackmailing someone, d’you think, sir?’
‘Like Elford had summat on the killer . . . yeah,’ Noakes nodded approvingly before Markham could reply. ‘Had to be. I mean,’ he gave a derisive snort, ‘Mr Brylcreem was ’xactly the kind of bloke for that kind of caper . . . an’ the pervy stuff too,’ he added darkly.
It was obvious Noakes thought the manner in which Peter Elford had met his end represented condign punishment for being a prize dickhead on all fronts. And yet Markham knew that when it came to breaking the news of Elford’s death to the ex-wife and two teenagers, the DS would drop no clangers and, in some mysterious way, would convey that he knew at least a part of what they were feeling. Officers like Kate Burton were no less compassionate, but it was with the DI’s bear-like, shambling number two that the bereaved would feel their pain and sorrow were somehow safe.
‘To answer your question, Kate, yes I think it’s likely that Peter Elford knew something . . . had chanced upon something. It was in character for him to keep it to himself rather than come to us . . .’
‘Enjoyed holding it over the killer?’ Burton hazarded. ‘Power games?’
‘Quite possibly.’ The DI brushed an invisible speck from his immaculate pin stripe (how come he doesn’t sweat like the rest of us, thought Noakes irritably). ‘Or maybe he too had a grudge against Rebecca Shawcross and was prepared to maintain his silence . . . for a price.’ His voice very low, Markham added, ‘Whatever the reason, it cost him his life.’
Burton shivered again. ‘What’s the plan, sir?’
‘I want you to head back to the community centre and get statements from everyone we talked to yesterday — plus Shelly the receptionist and anyone else who was there on Monday.’ Markham ran a hand through his elegantly tousled black hair, amused to note that, even in the midst of a squalid crime scene, Kate had visibly brightened at the prospect of getting stuck in to her beloved time and motion graphs. ‘We’re also going to need everyone to account for their movements today. Even without Dimples’ report, we can assume Mr Elford died within a fairly narrow time frame this morning. Rigor hadn’t set in, and it looks like the killer had to abort some part of their plan because of that call from the council.’
‘Better check what Elford got up to last night as well,’ Noakes grunted.
‘Thank you, yes. See if you can pin down his movements. Who saw him, when and where? What time did he clock off yesterday? Who did he speak to last? Did anyone notice anything unusual about his behaviour?’
Burton had whipped out a notebook and was scribbling frantically. ‘That the lot, sir?’
‘Well, I need to brief you on our visit to Hope this morning.’
‘Anything useful from the drama teacher, sir?’
‘You betcha.’ Noakes waggled his eyebrows like Leslie Phillips. ‘He was having it off with Shawcross for one thing,’ he said with obvious relish.
‘What!’
‘We’ll give you the gory details later, Kate. Suffice to say, the scenario’s not exactly clear cut . . . so no likelihood that we’ll be arresting Leo Cartwright any time soon.’
She gulped. ‘Right.’
Noakes mopped his tomato-red face with a spotted handkerchief so large that it could have doubled as a bandana.
‘What about the neighbours here, guv?’
‘I’m going across to see the caretaker now. You’re on that with me, Noakes. Afterwards, we’ll get Doyle started on house to house. You never know, the killer might have done a recce . . . been watching the flats . . . Worth a try anyhow.’
‘And Elford’s family, sir?’
Markham was very still. Then, ‘Once we’ve spoken to Mr Jones, Noakes and I will pay a visit.’
There was no resentment in Burton’s open, earnest face. She never questioned his decisions as to the allocation of manpower, a quality which had earned Markham’s respect. He smiled warmly at her. ‘I’ll be briefing the DCI later today, which means a press conference for you to arrange, Kate. A chance to pour oil on troubled waters with our friend Gavin Conors.’
‘I’ll get on to Barry Lynch in the press office, sir.’
Noakes shuddered theatrically. ‘Surprised the MeToo lot haven’t caught up with ole Bazza. Frigging octopus if you ask the typists.’
‘Thank you for that, Sergeant. I’m sure Kate is more than a match for any Harvey Weinsteins amongst us.’
Noakes grinned, unabashed by the rebuke.
‘Right, let’s leave the scene of crime boys to it.’
* * *
Outside the flat, the heat seemed to rise up in a shimmering wall.
Noakes wiped his heavily perspiring face. ‘Mebbe Mr J’s got summat cold in his fridge,’ he ventured hopefully.
Kate strode purposefully towards her Mini Metro as her colleagues walked slowly over to the caretaker’s little bungalow.
And behind them, in the airless, sterile little flat where Peter Elford had met his end, white-clad figures moved to and fro like pensive ghosts.
5. The Paths of Glory
‘Well that was a downer an’ no mistake, guv.’
Markham nodded wearily, then shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie in an unusual break with his customary formality, though Noakes noted beadily that no soup-plate-sized sweat stains marred the DI’s crisp striped shirt. He remembered having a guilty peep at one of Muriel’s shlock horror books from the library (always discreetly hid
den beneath the latest Booker Prize winners in case she chanced to encounter anyone from the Women’s Guild). It was all about the Yorkshire Ripper, and a detail that stuck in Noakes’s mind was the fact that one of his mates had said the Ripper didn’t sweat. Even in the height of summer when they were working as gravediggers, Peter Sutcliffe never took off his leather jacket and never seemed to sweat. The writer quoted some trick cyclist who said this was typical of a serial killer. And the guvnor was just the same. So how come, then?
The DI interrupted this bizarre reverie. ‘You did well, Noakesy. Those hysterics came out of nowhere . . .’
Noakes gulped. It was true. Peter Elford’s wife, a brittle hatchet-faced blonde, had appeared to take the news of her ex-husband’s demise (‘suspicious death’) calmly, but then abruptly lost control, screaming and raving like a madwoman. Almost as though she was furious that Elford had escaped having to face the consequences of his deficiencies as a husband and father. Suddenly, the blonde hair had been in her eyes, her thin lips drawn back in a snarl, and her face streaked with saliva and tears.
Apparently not disconcerted in the least by the woman’s transformation from placid Barbie doll to shrieking maenad, Noakes took her in his arms and held her in a bear hug. ‘It’s okay, lass. We know you loved him . . . you jus’ got in a muddle.’ Talking her down from the ledge. ‘Now you’ve gotta be strong for the kids.’
Elford’s boy and girl had arrived not long after, brought home from school by a family liaison officer.
‘They were nice youngsters,’ the DS said sadly. ‘Their dad . . . well . . .’ he pulled an expressive face, ‘he might’ve been an arsehole . . . but he did a good job with those two.’
‘The divorce was ugly alright. But as a family they never had a chance to mend fences.’ Markham’s face hardened. ‘The killer took that away from them.’
His subordinate knew that look. Knew too that it boded ill for someone.
The DI’s office felt stale. Noakes lurched across to the grimy window and tugged irritably, eventually managing to crack it open a few meagre inches. Then he flopped back in his chair.
‘So, what was Elford’s game then, guv? Blackmail?’ The DS’s jowly face creased with perplexity. ‘D’you think he knew who the murderer was yesterday morning when he showed us round the centre?’
Markham thought back to the administrator’s demeanour. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I think whatever he found out, he pieced it together later that day.’
‘Stupid bastard must’ve thought he could handle it,’ opined the DS. Having screwed his jacket into a ball on entering the office, he now sat in his shirtsleeves looking for all the world like a superannuated bookie rather than one of CID’s finest. He scratched his bristly chin ruminatively. ‘Thelma an’ Shirley didn’t like Shawcross . . .’
‘Sour grapes, Sergeant.’
‘Mebbe.’ Noakes shook his massive head. ‘God knows, women are hard to make out.’
Not Muriel Noakes, Markham thought wryly. There was no doubting where the balance of power lay in that household.
‘Leo Cartwright knew summat too,’ Noakes persisted. ‘He was dead shifty back there at the school . . . like he knew something . . . something ’bout “Bex”,’ the DS air-quoted sarcastically, ‘but couldn’t decide whether to tell us . . .’
‘Perhaps what’s happened to Mr Elford will help concentrate his mind,’ Markham replied heavily. ‘Secrets can kill.’ It sounded like a warning you’d read on a cigarette packet. The image of a skull and crossbones flashed across the DI’s mind. He was starting to feel light-headed in the stuffy office, a dull headache beginning behind his eyes.
‘Mebbe Elford tried it on wi’ Shawcross an’ she gave him the old heave-ho.’ Noakes spoke with lugubrious relish. ‘Can’t see him reacting well to that.’
‘Or perhaps there was some other kind of history between them.’ Markham’s long slender fingers beat an impatient tattoo on the desk. ‘A patient complaint . . . something that got him into hot water.’ He sighed. ‘We need Kate to check it out discreetly.’
‘Either way, if he was blackmailing the murderer, he decided not to dob them in.’ The DS blew out his cheeks. ‘Must’ve had a reason. Mebbe he hated Shawcross . . .’ inspiration struck him, ‘or had a thing for whoever topped her. Hey, guv — that could mean a woman . . . someone Elford had the hots for . . . someone—’
‘Hold it there, Sergeant.’ Markham raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘It could equally well have been a man.’
That brought a halt to Noakes’s gallop, his discomfiture almost comical.
‘But Elford wasn’t a poof.’ He brought himself up hastily. ‘Sorry, boss . . . he wasn’t into blokes, was he?’
The DI’s headache was getting worse. ‘There’s possibly quite a lot we don’t know about Mr Elford, Sergeant. His sexual tastes for one thing.’
‘Eh?’ The DS had the air of a beached guppy fish.
‘Mr Elford might have been into S&M, rough sex . . . or any number of “alternative” scenarios . . . none of them exclusively heterosexual.’ Gingerly, Markham massaged his temples as though by this means he could banish his migraine. ‘The killer could have shared these proclivities. Possibly that’s how they lulled Elford into a sense of false security . . .’ Noakes was now looking distinctly queasy, rummaging for his bandana hankie and mopping his face vigorously. ‘Or it’s possible there’s some other connection — not necessarily romantic.’
There was a pause while the DS recovered his sangfroid.
‘But whoever it was wanted to make us think Elford was into secret perving an’ went too far by accident . . .’
‘Indeed.’ Markham’s face was grave. ‘Only they didn’t know about that council appointment and panicked.’
‘What d’you reckon to the twine tied round his neck, guv? Same signature as Shawcross. P’raps they were trying to finger him as the killer. Y’know, like suggesting he kept the twine like a trophy or summat.’
‘That’s the part that disturbs me most, Noakes.’ The DI was extremely pale, his resemblance to a chiselled effigy more than usually pronounced. ‘There was something spiteful . . . twisted about it.’
‘Well, it’s the warped sickos wot keep us in business, guv,’ the other said, mugging cheerfully.
‘Hmmm.’
At that moment, there was a soft tap and a woodentop put her head round the door. ‘Sir, sorry to disturb,’ the diminutive brunette murmured as Noakes leered affably.
‘What is it, Constable?’
‘DCI Sidney wonders if you could spare ten minutes to brief him on the community centre investigation, sir.’
The DI was willing to bet Slimy Sid hadn’t put it so politely. And by sending a personal emissary, he’d ensured there’d be no escape for Markham.
‘Thank you. I’ll be up directly, Constable,’ he dismissed her with a charming smile which belied the throbbing at his temples.
‘God, that’s all we need, boss.’ Noakes was out of his seat and sidling towards the door. ‘Sidney on the freaking rampage.’
‘You’re coming too, Sergeant.’ The DI’s tone brooked no argument. ‘Safety in numbers.’
* * *
Miss Peabody, the DCI’s PA and barometer of his moods, was waiting patiently in the outer office.
‘’Lo, luv. ’Ow’s his nibs?’
The PA pushed a strand of greying marcelled hair back from her forehead and made the flustered beaver-like noises with which she customarily greeted Noakes’s sallies. Markham suspected that, for all her yoked subservience to the great panjandrum of Bromgrove Police Station, she rather enjoyed his sergeant’s subversive attitude.
There was no time to read the runes. Ushering the two men into the holy of holies, the PA beat a hasty retreat.
At least Sidney’s office felt deliciously chill, the louvre blinds slanted and a top-of-the-range cooling fan bringing Markham’s temperature back to normal.
The DCI eyed them with his irritable rattlesnake glare and wave
d them to two chairs in front of his desk.
Christ, thought Noakes, he’s one ugly bastard. Bonce like a boiled egg and that frigging goatee to hide the eczema. Prob’ly fancies himself as Bromgrove’s answer to Jason Statham. Idly, his eyes wandered over the Hall of Fame, as the DCI’s collage of himself rubbing shoulders with the great and good was irreverently known. Oh yeah, there were a couple of new ones . . . Sidney bowing and scraping before Princess Anne like some latter-day Uriah Heep . . .
A discreet warning cough from the DI recalled Noakes to himself.
‘Two murders in less than forty-eight hours, Inspector.’
He made it sound as though Markham was personally responsible.
‘At the heart of our community.’
Here it came.
‘Where citizens have a right to feel safe.’
It was a case of waiting for the DCI to exhaust his stock of platitudes.
Noakes wriggled on his seat. Urgent semaphore for ‘get to the frigging point’.
And, finally, Sidney did.
‘This is top priority, Markham. There’s to be no repeat of what happened last year.’ Translated from Sidney-speak, this meant nothing that could remotely embarrass the DCI’s Five Pillars: the Council, the Local Education Authority, Bromgrove NHS Trust, the Newman Special Hospital Authority, and, last but not least, Bromgrove CID. The guiding principle being that nothing should be permitted to imperil Sidney’s chances of an OBE and eventual retirement to the sunlit uplands, garlanded with honours.
He shot Markham a gimlet glance. ‘Are the two deaths connected?’
‘We think so, sir.’
Sidney looked as though he were battling incipient neuralgia. ‘Linked to the community centre?’
‘I believe that’s where the answer lies, sir.’
‘Not proceeding on the basis of one of your famous hunches, I hope.’ Said with a sinister tremolo, teeth bared in what could have been either a smile or a snarl.
The DI preserved an expression of Sphinx-like imperturbability.
Noakes didn’t know how the guvnor managed it. Tuning out the DCI’s nasal honk, he allowed himself to drift off, smiling dreamily as he played out various Tarantino-style fates for Sidney in his head.
Crime in the Heat Page 6
