Jealousy on the one hand or revenge on the other. Markham could see it was feasible.
‘But what about Elford, sarge?’ Burton pressed the oracle. ‘Assuming he discovered Stanley was the killer and tried to blackmail her, how’d she manage to take care of him? She couldn’t be in two places at once . . .’
‘Must’ve had an accomplice.’ Noakes was reluctant to see his theory go up in smoke.
‘Who, sarge?’
Her colleague was stumped. ‘Dunno,’ he said dejectedly. Doyle too looked deflated.
Time for a shot of encouragement, the DI thought.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘you could be right about there being two people involved.’
‘Really, boss?’ Doyle looked hopeful once more.
‘We’ve come across double acts before, haven’t we?’
Too right. Burton shuddered as she recalled previous investigations.
‘What about the drama teacher?’ Noakes asked. ‘I'm too sexy for my shirt, Too sexy for my shirt, So sexy it hurts,’ he crooned in a mock falsetto.
Doyle grinned at Burton’s aghast expression. Could be worse, he semaphored. At least Noakesy’s not throwing shapes.
The DI grimaced. ‘Leo Cartwright’s in the clear for Rebecca’s death,’ he said. ‘Filming GCSE assessments all day, remember.’
‘What about Elford’s?’ his subordinate persisted.
‘Well, he’s a form tutor and it’s registration at 8:30.’ Markham spread his hands, palms turned upwards. ‘Too big a stretch, Sergeant.’
‘A student — a sixth-former, then. Someone else Shawcross had messed with . . . an’ Stanley got ’em on board somehow . . .’ Noakes’s voice petered out.
‘Bit of a push, sarge.’ Burton echoed the DI’s misgivings.
Noakes’s underlip shot out. ‘Look, Shawcross was a screwed-up kid,’ he said contumaciously. ‘She messed wi’ folks’ heads.’ He ran greasy fingers through his wildly rumpled hair. ‘What about that creative writing shit — the PTSD hoojah . . . Could’ve been her own little playground for psychos . . . mebbe one of ’em hooked up wi’ Stanley . . . that lad we met at Hope . . . Tyrone . . .’
‘Tyrone couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, Sergeant,’ Markham pointed out.
And anyway, he was fairly certain Matthew Sullivan or Mary Atkins would have picked up on anything hinky like that.
‘On the other hand,’ the DI mused, ‘it won’t do to overlook the creative writing angle . . .’
‘What about that book she was writing — the one about traffic lights . . . ?’
‘It wasn’t The Highway Code, sarge.’ Burton sounded exasperated and Doyle smothered a grin.
‘Okay, okay . . . Well, you tell us then, since you’re up on all that crip crap.’
‘The Amber Tells,’ Burton had it off pat. ‘A novel about psychotherapy . . . the manuscript’s gone missing and they can’t find it.’
‘The Case of the Missing Book,’ Noakes mugged. ‘Jus’ like summat out of Agatha Christie.’ He looked meaningfully at Doyle. ‘You’re a fan, ain’tcha?’
The DC cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, but I don’t see how Shawcross’s book ties in,’ he said.
‘Me neither,’ Noakes concurred. ‘Too bleeding fantastic by half.’
‘What about those appointment books?’ Doyle asked suddenly. The other three looked at him. ‘You know, the ones nicked during that break-in.’
‘What about ’em?’ Noakes shot back truculently.
‘We thought Shawcross might’ve had an appointment with someone in the centre and that’s how Peter Elford made the connection with the murderer . . . cos he’d been snooping and put two and two together.’
‘That’s right, Constable.’
‘She could’ve been having therapy here on the quiet . . . unofficially, sir.’ Doyle’s eyes kindled with excitement.
‘Why would she need to keep it a secret?’ Noakes was mystified.
‘Dunno, sarge . . . P’raps there was something dodgy about it . . . maybe something unethical . . . Or maybe she just liked the idea of nobody knowing.’ The DC’s ingenuous, open countenance was comically at odds with his murky speculations. ‘She was the sort of person to get off on having secrets.’ His face fell. ‘Mind, I don’t see Jenni Harte or Tariq treating her on the sly.’
Burton agreed. ‘Can’t imagine either of those two doing anything unprofessional . . .’
‘They’re an item, yeah?’ Noakes was turning it over. ‘“Together Forever”.’ He clutched his chest histrionically.
Before he could segue into a soulful rendition of Rick Astley, Markham said dryly, ‘We don’t know that they’re a couple, Sergeant.’
‘Well, they look pretty bloomin’ loved-up from where I’m standing, guv . . . An’ they’re each other’s alibi for both Shawcross and Elford.’
‘Hmm . . . Shirley thought Tariq might have been susceptible to Rebecca’s charms,’ Markham pointed out. ‘That doesn’t sound like he and Jenni were a couple.’
‘And can you honestly see Jenni Harte throttling someone?’ Burton snorted her derision. ‘She’s just about the only normal person in the place . . . handled things brilliantly when Jayne Pickering freaked out at the funeral.’
The DI summoned up a mental image of Jenni Harte with her almost oriental delicacy of feature and gentle manner. She and Tariq Azhar struck him as being more like siblings than lovers, but still . . .
‘The therapy angle might lead somewhere,’ he said, smiling inwardly as he observed Doyle’s freckled face glow with pleasure. ‘We need to re-interview the two therapists.’ He considered carefully, steepling his fingers in a characteristic gesture. ‘Also Maureen Stanley and Jayne Pickering . . . If Maureen clocked off for a bit when she was meant to be supervising Jayne, then it’s something she didn’t share with us. We need to be clear what happened . . .’ His features hardened. ‘Something about Maureen’s disappearing act seriously spooked the killer and sealed Loraine Thornley’s fate . . . I want to know what it was.’
‘What line do we take with Jayne, sir?’ Burton looked troubled. ‘The poor kid’s just lost her aunt.’
‘At this stage, they’re all witnesses, nothing more. But you’re right, Kate.’ Markham recalled Jayne Pickering’s empty, zonked gaze. ‘We need to get her medically checked out before any interview.’
‘Otherwise that Gavin Conors will give us banner headlines. Police Harass Bereaved Teen. An’ Sidney’ll have our guts for garters.’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth, Sergeant.’
Three pairs of eyes watched him expectantly.
He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock.
‘I know it’s been a long day, but I want to check in with Kate’s contact at the Newman. If Rebecca Shawcross had someone from this centre “in her pocket”, then maybe we can identify who was treating her and why she had to die.’
‘Maybe someone from the centre was meeting her at the Newman.’ Myriad possibilities crowded into Burton’s mind. ‘For some reason they had to meet there . . .’
‘We’ll get to the bottom of it, Kate.’ Markham spoke with a confidence that he was far from feeling. ‘I’ll quite understand if anyone wants to get off. As I say, you’ve had a long day.’
‘No longer than yours, guv,’ Noakes said gruffly. ‘Like them musketeer fellas say, “All for one and one for all” . . .’
‘First the Bard and now Dumas. It’ll be the Open University next, Noakesy.’
‘Oh no, guv,’ the DS said darkly, ‘I saw Educating Rita wi’ the missus . . . it weren’t much cop, to be honest.’ He jangled his car keys. ‘Right, I’m driving.’ He shot Burton a venomous glance. ‘Otherwise we’ll end up listening to that poncey Radio 4.’
Markham realized he had been premature. It didn’t appear the groves of academe would be welcoming George Noakes any time soon.
* * *
The Newman Hospital was a strange mix of red-brick gothic and twenty-first-century modernism si
tuated in the quiet suburb of Medway. A Victorian clock-tower — part of the old workhouse — dominated the forecourt, which was flanked on either side by low, gunmetal grey extensions. The modern one-storey wings bore a disconcerting resemblance to U-boats or futuristic polytunnels. Deceptively compact, they in fact extended a considerable distance, being bounded at their perimeter by Medway Station.
While Markham was completing the formalities, handing in their mobiles and getting issued with lanyards, his colleagues waited in the reception area, a double-height atrium constructed to draw in as much daylight as possible.
‘Creepy as fuck,’ Noakes muttered, looking round apprehensively.
Burton was inclined to agree. Despite the pastel colours and cheery murals (not to mention the various ‘art installations’ they passed on their way into the building), the place had an antiseptic sterility that was somehow more sinister than if they’d been confronted with the usual stereotype of a mental hospital — high walls, barred windows, shuffling inmates and straitjackets.
She ran her eyes over the familiar signposts: Nile, Danube, Volga, Thames and Rhine (all the wards were named after famous rivers), flinching as she came to the last. Rhine. The intensive-care secure unit with its big steel doors, peepholes and plexiglass-reinforced nursing station. It was different from the acres of glass and brightly coloured day lounges which gave the rest of the building a contemporary feel. She hoped fervently they didn’t have to go into the patients’ living quarters. All the skylights, light tubes and ‘garden spaces’ in the world couldn’t take away that strange underwater sensation of moving through a hermetically sealed universe, from which all the oxygen had been sucked out.
Doyle too looked as though this visit was anything but a pleasure. Of course, remembered Burton, he had a learning-disabled sister. Apparently, he’d always dreaded she might end up in institutional care. And God knew, after what they’d discovered during the Jonathan Warr murder investigation — missing and abused patients, illicit lobotomies and medical cover-ups going back years — you’d have to say his fears weren’t entirely unjustified . . .
Presumably the thought had also crossed Markham’s mind.
‘We’ve got a choice,’ he said with a reassuring smile, handing out their security badges. ‘We can use one of the music studios, the multi-faith room or the visitors’ café.’
‘They do Wagon Wheels in the caff.’
Despite her disapproval of Noakes’s disordered eating habits, Burton was relieved to hear the option he’d chosen and she could tell Doyle felt the same.
‘It’s outside normal hours, but I believe they’re happy to arrange tea and biscuits,’ the DI said resignedly. ‘Though I can’t guarantee Wagon Wheels, Sergeant.’
Oh well, any port in a storm. The DS was already lumbering towards a set of double doors, as though impelled by some Pavlovian reflex.
* * *
When they were settled with their cuppas and (oh, joy of joys) Wagon Wheels, Markham admitted to himself that it was a good choice. He’d had more than enough of those swivelling CCTV lenses and winking red sensors on previous visits. The café had been redecorated too, which helped. The ghosts of murder victims past were never far away, but mercifully theirs wasn’t a malign presence — as though the Newman’s victims knew how hard Markham and his team had worked to give them a voice from beyond the grave.
‘Inspector Markham? Ronnie Shaw. Senior staff nurse. I spoke to one of your officers earlier.’
A diminutive, somewhat overweight but attractive blonde paused at their table. Dressed in a white shirt tucked into a pretty patterned turquoise skirt, hair curling on her shoulders, she looked the absolute antithesis of a warder or prison officer. Markham guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.
He stood and introduced the team.
‘Ronnie?’ Noakes didn’t normally approve of gender-neutral names.
The other grinned, not at all put out.
‘Veronica, but it got shortened very early on.’
‘Would you like some tea, Ms Shaw?’
‘I’m back on shift shortly, Inspector . . . we’ve got our own kitchens on the wards, so I’ll grab a cuppa later.’
‘Down to business then.’ He smiled at her. ‘I understand from Kate that you encountered Rebecca Shawcross here a couple of times.’
‘That’s right, Inspector.’ Her face was suddenly pensive, the merriment dimmed down to one-quarter strength.
‘Did you know her previously?’
‘No, but she mentioned having been treated at the General’s adolescent unit. I was curious about that, but with GDPR being so tight these days I wasn’t able to find out her background.’
‘’Ow come she was visiting this place?’ Noakes jerked a finger towards the hospital’s interior. ‘I mean, it’s not like folk c’n walk in an’ take a gander . . . like it’s a day out . . . a trip to Bedlam or summat.’
‘No indeed, Sergeant.’ The DI could tell she had warmed to Noakes, that something about his blunt honesty appealed to her. ‘That kind of voyeurism has no place in modern mental healthcare.’ She paused, choosing her words with care. ‘The local authority advertised a writer-in-residence programme and potential applicants were encouraged to visit the hospital . . . do a recce, if you like.’
‘What’s one of them, then?’ Noakes was sincerely baffled. ‘D’you mean someone sitting around doing poetry an’ arty stuff wi’ the patients?’
‘They’re called “service users”,’ interjected Burton, with an apologetic air.
‘Don’t worry about the jargon,’ Ronnie Shaw said lightly. ‘Everything’s so PC these days, I often get it wrong myself.’
Markham found himself liking this woman. There was something blessedly normal and grounded about her.
‘To answer your question, Mr Noakes, I’m not completely au fait with all the details, but I understand whoever gets the job will promote creative writing as part of a therapy package in addition to producing their own work.’
‘Wouldn’t they need some sort of medical or social care qualification?’ asked Doyle.
‘I don’t believe so, though I suppose it might give someone an edge.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Rebecca was a highly qualified English teacher and they’d no doubt have given her some training . . . maybe in counselling or something like that.’
‘Sounds a bit airy-fairy if you ask me,’ Noakes said suspiciously.
‘Not really, Sergeant. You see, creative writing’s increasingly being recognized as a valuable tool in psychiatric treatment . . . And there’d be no question of someone just being unleashed on the patients . . . the clinical team would have overall control.’
‘What about if someone who applied had their own mental health issues?’
‘That needn’t necessarily be an obstacle, Inspector. It would depend on the applicant’s overall profile . . . Arguably, it might even be an asset.’
Noakes’s face was a study in scepticism, but for once he kept his doubts to himself.
Ronnie Shaw spoke with grave deliberation. ‘Don’t get me wrong, we’re not free and easy here . . . The patients’ wellbeing comes first. There’d be no question of some screwball being allowed to wreak havoc.’ Satisfied that she had made her point, she added, ‘Rebecca Shawcross had the right credentials and she was working on a novel of her own.’
‘So she came in for a “taster” visit, is that right?’
‘Yes, Inspector. It was all very secret squirrel because she didn’t want her current employer to find out. Schools don’t like it when good teachers plan to jump ship.’
‘I see.’ The DI contemplated the nurse thoughtfully. ‘What did you make of her?’
‘An interesting character,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Very charismatic and engaging.’ She hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t have had any say in the vetting process, of course . . . The idea was just for her to come in and meet some of the nursing staff . . . feel the vibes, if you will.’
Noakes gave an instinctive shud
der as if he’d had enough of the Newman’s ‘vibes’ to last him a lifetime. But, with unwonted tact — perhaps in tribute to Ronnie Shaw’s likeability — he refrained from comment.
‘She was very excited about her writing project,’ the nurse said. ‘Something to do with PTSD. It was clear she’d done her research.’
‘Did she ever mention a collaborator?’
‘Oh no, Inspector. I got the feeling she wanted to play her cards close to her chest . . . But I gather it was about a teacher’s reaction to some sort of traumatic experience in the workplace . . . a psychological thriller, apparently . . . betrayal, revenge, those kinds of themes.’
‘Did she talk about her research methods?’
‘Not really . . . though, as I told Sergeant Burton, she mentioned having someone from the community centre in her pocket.’
‘Those were her exact words?’
‘Yes . . . She was kind of hugging herself as she said it . . .’
‘You didn’t get the impression this person was a co-author?’
The nurse considered the question then shook her head. ‘No . . . it was as though she was enjoying a naughty secret . . . Oh, I don’t know . . . something illicit . . .’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t wildly helpful.’
‘On the contrary, Ms Shaw. What you say is very interesting.’
The DI’s mind travelled back to the interview he and Doyle had conducted with Chris Burt. He recalled his conviction that the caretaker had witnessed something . . . had seen or heard Rebecca Shawcross meeting a mystery man or woman.
He could tell from the look of suppressed excitement on Doyle’s face that the younger man remembered it too.
Thelma Macdonald had hinted at it as well. Suddenly, he recalled Shirley Bolton’s words at the wake: ‘I wondered if there was some hidden attraction at the centre . . . Thelma said she caught her hanging around downstairs quite a lot when there was no reason for her to be there . . . Lurking, Thelma called it . . .’
Crime in the Heat Page 17
