‘Why’d Mr Elford tell you to leave the patients alone?’ The DC was using his gangling frame to good effect. Chris Burt seemed to shrink. ‘Was he worried about you making a pest of yourself or something? Worried about you being . . . inappropriate?’
‘No . . . nothing like that . . . I wouldn’t.’ Glaucous eyes held an expression of panic and the irresolute, spatulate fingers were restlessly pleating his brown overalls.
The man had been frightened at some point, thought Markham. Badly frightened. But when and how?
‘Did you ever have a run-in with Ms Shawcross?’ Doyle’s voice became insinuating. ‘I mean, patients can be stroppy sometimes, right? My mum works as a hospital receptionist and you wouldn’t believe the stories she tells.’
Something shifted at the back of Burt’s eyes.
Well done, Doyle. That’s triggered something.
For all his vacant looks, Markham suspected the caretaker took more things in than he appeared to. What if it was Rebecca Shawcross who had frightened him . . . warned him off because he had seen or heard something she wanted kept secret?
‘Ms Shawcross was a striking woman,’ the DI said matter-of-factly. ‘The kind of woman you’d notice.’
An ugly blush suffused the caretaker’s scrawny neck and he muttered something incoherent. Markham nodded as though their interviewee was perfectly intelligible.
‘We believe she was writing a book,’ he said inconsequentially, waiting for Burt’s colour to subside. ‘Something medical.’
‘Might’ve been doing some research with the staff,’ Doyle observed, following Markham’s lead. ‘You know, for background.’ The DC forced a somewhat unconvincing laugh. ‘Perhaps she was even getting ideas for characters. Who knows, it might make you all famous one day . . .’
Again, that almost imperceptible responsive flicker in the watery eyes. But Markham had seen it.
‘So, no doubt she appeared downstairs in the surgery from time to time,’ the DI said as though this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Maybe even after hours . . .’
‘Might’ve done,’ the other mumbled.
Doyle leaned forward. ‘Did you ever see her take anything? See her in any of the offices perhaps . . . anywhere that she shouldn’t have been?’
‘I jus’ keep my head down an’ get on with it, like Mr Elford allus said to do.’ The man’s right leg was juddering and the rank, ammonia-like smell of his sweat filled the cramped space.
His interrogators exchanged glances. Let’s take that as a yes.
The DI dismissed Burt with a kindly smile. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a cuppa, Mr Burt. I know this is a stressful time for all of you. We appreciate the help you’ve given.’
His smile faded as soon as the caretaker disappeared into the corridor.
‘Chris Burt saw something,’ he concluded flatly.
‘Not going to tell us though, is he, sir?’ Doyle looked exasperated. ‘Been told to mind his own beeswax too often by the look of it.’
‘Hmm . . . By Elford, Ms Shawcross . . . and maybe someone else . . . someone who frightened him . . .’
‘God, he was like a wind-up speaking toy,’ the DC said disgustedly. ‘Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Hey, you don’t think he’s in any danger, do you, sir?’
‘I don’t think so, Doyle.’ Markham spoke slowly. ‘Whatever he thinks he saw or heard, he hasn’t been able to piece it together in any coherent fashion. Or, if he has made some sense of it, then he’s too cowed and confused to open up. Keep your eyes down and your nose clean, that’s the poor man’s motto for getting through life.’
‘He could’ve been threatened, sir,’ Doyle said eagerly.
‘Go on.’
‘Told by someone that they’d see he took the rap if he spoke out of turn. Could’ve been Shawcross . . . could’ve been the killer . . .’
‘Or it could be a case of autosuggestion.’ Markham’s face darkened. ‘He’s a fearful sort of character. It’d be too easy to make him think the police would fit him up on account of his learning disability . . . a ready-made prime suspect.’ Actually, he reflected grimly, if Sidney got so much as a whiff of Chris Burt’s e-fit, that wasn’t such an improbable scenario.
‘Are we going to have another crack at him, sir?’ Doyle was endearingly gung-ho, ever keen to justify his place on Markham’s team.
‘I think we’ll have to back off for now, Doyle.’ The soft hiss of rain floated through from outside like a sibilant warning.
Time is running out.
‘What about the appointment books, sir? The ones that were stolen.’
‘Noakes has a theory about that, Doyle.’ Markham raked impatient fingers through his dark hair with its frosting of silver at the temples. ‘He thinks after Ms Shawcross was killed, maybe Peter Elford was having a good ferret round, snooping through people’s papers and files,’ his mouth twisted, ‘though doubtless he justified it to himself as a security check . . .’
‘And found something,’ Doyle breathed. ‘Something incriminating . . .’
‘Yes, something that contradicted the killer’s version of events . . . or something that showed a connection between Ms Shawcross and the killer—’
‘A connection no one knew about.’
‘Indeed.’ Markham looked steadily at his subordinate. ‘And Mr Elford used this knowledge for blackmail.’
‘Stupid bugger.’ Doyle blushed. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘That’s alright, Constable. You’re correct. Elford took a terrible risk.’
‘Must’ve been something about the killer which convinced him he was safe.’
‘Or he persuaded himself they had some kind of bond.’ Some kind of special complicity.
‘And the killer took all the appointment books in the building so we couldn’t tell whose contained the clue.’
‘Spot on, Doyle. Easy to disable the alarm — they’ll all have known the code. Then collect up all the diaries and make it look like a burglary . . . only they didn’t have time for “window dressing”. Most likely Mr Burt disturbed them.’
‘Couldn’t they just have Tipp-Exed whatever it was out . . . ripped out the page . . . blagged their way out . . . ?’
‘Didn’t want to take the risk . . . panicked and decided to make a clean sweep. . .’
The smell of sweat and bleach was making the DI queasy. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Let’s regroup in our own room. We’ll feel better after a coffee.’
The two men got to their feet, shaking themselves vigorously as though to slough off invisible contaminants.
* * *
As they passed in front of reception, Markham spied a familiar figure.
‘Gilbert!’
It was too late to slink past now that Muriel Noakes had seen him.
She appeared to be on confidential terms with Thelma Macdonald, the two women talking animatedly across the counter.
The DI was about to glide on by with a courteous inclination of the head, when something stopped him. She was wearing a virulently patterned floral shirtwaister of the sort worn by minor royals to open a garden party, her Sherman tank physique straining against the silk fabric. The fearsomely lacquered hair — heaped as high as ever — was in its usual bouffant. The affected bray grated on his nerves as much as ever. And yet . . . he detected a newly helpless quivering about the heavily painted lips.
‘Muriel, what a delightful surprise.’ He nodded to Doyle. ‘Why don’t you review what we’ve got. I’ll be along shortly.’
The DC made an oddly ceremonious little bow to Noakes’s ‘missus’ who inclined her head regally, taking it as her due. Always so important to encourage shy young men.
‘Ms Macdonald, I wonder if I could prevail upon your good nature to find a quiet nook for us,’ he said. ‘The constraints of my job mean I don’t often have the pleasure of a catch-up with Mrs Noakes.’
Muriel bridled with gratified vanity as they were led to the small family ber
eavement room with its flounced chintz sofa and magnolia painted walls.
Gilbert Markham was such a charmer. There was something so vulnerable and unassuming about him. Putty in Olivia Mullen’s hands.
Her feelings about Markham’s girlfriend were decidedly mixed, a certain reluctant fascination contending strongly against resentment at the way Olivia twisted men like George round her little finger. All that doe-eyed waifish vulnerability didn’t fool her one bit. It was just an act. Nothing but a big put-on. But her husband just couldn’t see it. Men were so easily fooled . . .
‘How are you keeping, Muriel?’ Even now, after all this time, Markham’s lips tried to form the words ‘Mrs Noakes’. The use of her Christian name felt somehow wrong, almost like an invitation to intimacy — heaven forbid he should ever be invited to call her ‘Mu’!
‘Oh, one mustn’t complain, Gilbert.’
Thank God for that.
She lowered her voice an octave and leaned in closer, almost asphyxiating him with a blast of Arpège. After the bleach-fest in Chris Burt’s broom cupboard, it made him feel light-headed.
‘I was concerned about George’s PSA scores, Gilbert. A letter came from the surgery.’ A faint blush. ‘I opened it in case of there being anything urgent . . . Prostate, you know.’
If she’d said ‘prostrate’, it would have finished him off. He could never forget having sat through the desk sergeant’s discussion of his wife’s ‘hysterical-ectomy’. Any lèse-majesté with Muriel Noakes would not be easily forgiven.
As it was, he managed to preserve an expression of impenetrable gravity, assisted by a perception that, beneath all the pearl-clutching affectation, the woman was really concerned about her husband.
‘They want to talk to him about high scores and risk factors.’
‘Try not to worry, Muriel. They’re very hot on “preventive medicine” these days.’ He bloody well wasn’t going to talk about ‘the Big C’. When his mother was wasting away in hospital, he’d wanted to punch everyone who used that incongruously chirpy phrase.
‘If only I could do something about his weight, but he always says he was a “chunky” child . . .’
Markham’s lips twitched. The light-headed feeling was back again.
‘I’ll do my best to keep him on the straight and narrow, Muriel. Can’t have him holding you back in the Paso Doble.’
A tinkle of silver bells.
Hang in there, Markham. The poor woman needs a lift.
Mercifully, at that moment Muriel’s attention was distracted.
‘I mustn’t keep you from the investigation,’ she trilled coyly. ‘It’s thanks to you and the thin blue line that we can all sleep safely in our beds.’
Oh God. Any moment now and he’d be joining in this surreal dialogue. Nothing’s gonna hurt you tonight, ma’am. Not on my watch.
Chivalrously, he helped her up from the depths of the sofa, relieved that by some miracle she wasn’t going to subject him to the third degree.
‘I didn’t know the young teacher who died.’ Though no doubt Thelma Macdonald had been happy to dish the dirt. ‘But Peter Elford will be a heavy loss to the practice.’
Markham’s senses went on red alert. This sounded like an opening gambit. He ushered her towards the door.
‘Though he wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ she went on. ‘There was the Patient Voice business . . .’
‘Patient Voice?’
Muriel was delighted to offer him the inside track. ‘Like a customer service survey, Gilbert. I believe some complaints came out of it, went all the way to the Health Ombudsman.’ She was working herself up to a Sarah Bernhardt-style climax. ‘So very sad the way medical professionals have to watch their backs all the time . . . enough to put one off public service altogether. And, of course, some people are never satisfied.’
‘Indeed, Muriel, indeed.’
They were at the door. He submitted to a peck on both cheeks, feeling like an actor in a second-rate soap opera, an impression heightened by the flutter of intrigue and mystery with which Mrs Noakes departed.
Then she was gone and he could think clearly once more.
He needed to keep a more stringent watch on Noakesy. There’d be no ill-health retirement if he had any say in the matter . . .
* * *
Back in the incident room, Doyle was flicking languidly through some papers but sat up straighter when Markham came in. He knew better than to make any wisecracks about assignations with battleaxes, merely enquiring cautiously, ‘Mrs Noakes offer anything useful, sir?’
‘Possibly, Doyle.’ The DI walked across to the percolator thoughtfully provided for them by the Patients’ Committee and poured himself a black coffee. ‘I want you to locate the practice complaints file — or whatever passes for one round here.’
‘What am I looking for, sir?’
‘Gripes, whinges . . . anything official against Peter Elford.’
‘Right you are, boss.’
‘And while you’re at it, see if there’s an incident book or anything like that for the library and study centre upstairs. Try leaning on Shirley Bolton and Thelma Macdonald. I’m sure they’ll be susceptible to your boyish charms,’ he added dryly.
Doyle endeavoured to look bashfully modest. And failed by a mile.
‘Think Shawcross was up for high jinks with the sixth-formers? Every lad’s fantasy,’ he said.
Markham sighed. ‘Somehow I doubt there was a re-enactment of The Graduate going on here, but those two ladies didn’t care for her.’ It occurred to him he needed to have a follow-up with Matthew Sullivan about his interviews with the students at Hope. Mat’s insights were always useful and just might give them a handle on the librarian’s hostility.
Markham’s coffee had the consistency of treacle but he didn’t really care. It was hot and strong, and at least it had gotten his synapses firing once more. Outside it had stopped raining, the skies had lightened and there was even the sound of birdsong.
‘Have the PM reports come in?’ he asked.
‘Got them here, sir. Plus Burton’s notes for Elford.’
Good luck with that, Doyle thought to himself. Burton’s sheaf looked bulkier than Grey’s Anatomy.
‘Before you shoot off, let’s get the staff back in,’ Markham said briskly. ‘They’re all on site today, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, boss. I’ll go and round ’em up,’ came the reply, as though Doyle was a competitor on One Man and His Dog and only wanted a collie to complete the look.
‘Did anything jump out at you and Kate?’ he enquired, almost as an afterthought. ‘Anything about the way they presented — nervousness, tics, evasiveness, overall body language?’
‘Not to speak of, sir. Oh no, hold on . . . the nice midwife . . . well, she seemed a bit fidgety.’ He rubbed his five o’clock shadow sagaciously. ‘A bit jittery. Burton thought it was like she was trying to make her mind up about something . . .’
Markham felt a prickle at the base of his spine.
Loraine Thornley, he thought, cosy and bosomy. What was it Noakes had said about her? Straight out of central casting.
‘Remind me, Doyle,’ he spoke so sharply that the other jumped, ‘where did we place her for the murders?’
‘Not alibied for either,’ he said promptly. ‘Writing up notes or out on her rounds.’
The young DC stared at Markham, his eyes on stalks. ‘You don’t think she could be the killer do you, boss?’ He shuffled his feet. ‘Reminds me of my nan . . . I saw her handing out Werther’s Originals to some kiddies in reception who were caterwauling about having their jabs. Not a peep out of ’em after that.’
‘See if you can find her for me, Doyle. Quiet as you like. She might have had a chance to mull it over . . . might be ready to talk now.’
His colleague bounded off like a red setter, restless for action.
The DI shut his eyes. Tried to switch off the warning voices in his head.
Some minutes passed before Doyle returne
d, followed by a distraught-looking Thelma Macdonald.
‘Something awful,’ she stuttered, and a feeling of dread came over the DI. ‘Loraine had an appointment to get her bloods and blood pressure done.’ The doughy jowls swung pendulously, keeping time with her agitated jerks of the head. ‘With her being staff, Maureen Stanley was going to do it.’ She gave a little wheeze of distress.
The DI pressed the woman gently into a chair. Every cell in his body was screaming for answers, but he spoke with calm authority.
‘It’s alright, Ms Macdonald. Take your time.’
‘Maureen was running a few minutes late. When that happened, everyone knows to wait in her room. When she got there, she thought Loraine was snatching forty winks . . . It looked like she was sleeping, see. Maureen felt bad about disturbing her . . .’
The DI and his DC looked at each other. A long look.
Thelma Macdonald burst into noisy tears.
‘But she was dead, Inspector. Stone cold dead.’
Markham pressed a snowy handkerchief into her shaking hands.
‘You’re being very brave, Thelma. Very brave.’
Snot and tears streaked her face.
The boss won’t be wanting that hankie back any time soon, Doyle thought and promptly felt ashamed of himself. But somehow none of this felt real. Like they were all in some bad play or pantomime.
‘What did you see, Thelma?’ Again, the reassuring informality, tender toned as a lover.
‘Maureen gave Loraine a tap on the shoulder. She didn’t want to startle her, see.’ A violent hiccough. ‘But then Loraine sort of toppled sideways . . . nearly fell out of the chair.’ She mopped frantically at her face, smearing mascara so that she looked like a demented panda. ‘Maureen noticed the sleeve on her right arm was rolled up . . . and saw the needle prick . . . Someone had injected her with a syringe.’ She looked helplessly up at Markham.
‘Well done, Thelma.’ The tears began to flow again as she took in his sincere compassion.
Crime in the Heat Page 11
