‘The Amber Tells?’ Clearly the title wasn’t doing much for Noakes.
‘Apparently it’s a term used in psychotherapy to describe the warning signs when a patient’s in danger of relapsing.’
‘Oh . . . like traffic lights?’ The DS blinked. ‘Bit weirdy.’
‘That was Bex. Nothing if not unconventional.’
‘Would it be possible for us to take a look at the manuscript, Mr Cartwright?’ Markham asked courteously.
‘She had it on a pen drive, Inspector, but there’s no sign of it in her desk in the English office.’
‘Oh well.’ The DI was casual. ‘I just thought it might give us some insight into her state of mind.’ He turned to Sullivan. ‘Let us know if it turns up, won’t you?’
‘Will do.’
A knock at the door and a buxom, efficient-looking blonde sporting the obligatory executive suit and shoulder-length power blow-dry appeared. A flash of Colgate-white gnashers.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. No, please don’t stand.’ Noakes hadn’t made a move in that direction, but Markham, ever the gentleman, rose to his feet.
Almost coquettishly, she waved him back into his chair. ‘You won’t remember me, Inspector Markham. Mary Atkins. I was an NQT in food technology on your last visit.’ She smiled benevolently at Noakes. ‘That’s a newly qualified teacher.’
‘Oh aye, luv.’ The DS squinted at her lanyard. ‘An’ now you’re what . . . assistant head?’
The megawatt smile never wavered. ‘That’s right, Sergeant. I’ve ascended to the dizzy heights of senior leadership.’
Wonder who she slept with to manage that, Noakes speculated with a jaundiced look in his eye. How the heck did you get from freaking cookery to be boss of the rest?
‘In my day we only had the head an’ a deputy, luv.’ His tone stayed just the right side of patronizing. ‘Now there’s all these other fancy management positions I can’t get my tongue around . . . assistant this an’ executive that . . . keeping tabs on everyone. Makes you feel sorry for all them front-line drones . . . you know, the ones that do the heavy lifting.’
‘That’d be me,’ Cartwright interjected. ‘And I’m more than grateful that Ms Atkins is here to oil the wheels, believe me.’
Right little charmer, ain’t he, thought the DS sourly.
The drama teacher’s boss inclined her head graciously as he adroitly distracted her from Noakes’s lèse-majesté.
‘We were all devastated by the news of Rebecca’s . . . death.’ She hesitated. ‘It said on last night’s news bulletin that she was found strangled.’
‘That’s correct, Ms Atkins.’ Details of the fridge, garrotte and surgical twine were not for general consumption, though Markham had no doubt they would sooner or later seep into the public arena. ‘There’ll be a press conference shortly.’ Slimy Sid would see to that, he thought grimly. ‘But in the meantime I just wanted some background.’
‘Whatever we can do to help, Inspector.’ She was eyeing Leo Cartwright interrogatively, so the DI felt it expedient to add, ‘Mr Cartwright has just been giving us a flavour of Ms Shawcross’s character.’
Flavour being the operative word, thought Noakes as he recalled the victim’s unorthodox love life.
‘She was extremely popular with staff and students alike. A dedicated and inspirational teacher.’
Wasn’t that always the way. Now they’d get all that ‘not an enemy in the world’ bollocks. Noakes braced himself for the eulogy. Christ, it all came flooding back. That whole circus after Ashley Dean was murdered. Talk about a trip down memory lane!
But the DI forestalled any further platitudes. ‘Perhaps it might be possible to speak to some of Ms Shawcross’s sixth-form students and anyone who was in the study annexe on Monday afternoon.’ The assistant head’s smile appearing somewhat strained, the DI added, ‘In the presence of an appropriate adult, naturally.’
Aye, aye. Noakes’s antennae were twitching. For some reason, Superwoman didn’t want them chatting to the students. Now why might that be? P’raps Shawcross’s ‘friends with benefits’ weren’t limited to the likes of Leo Cartwright . . .
‘Of course, Inspector. If you’re agreeable, I’ll set that up for tomorrow. Mr Cartwright can suggest some responsible pupils.’
For responsible read discreet.
At that moment, Markham’s mobile rang.
‘Excuse me.’ He listened intently and then, after a few tense minutes, ended the call.
‘We’re needed back at base, Ms Atkins, so you’ll have to excuse us.’
He had the distinct impression she was relieved.
* * *
Out in the car park, the tarmac shimmered through a heat haze. Behind them, the school looked uglier than ever. There was an urgency to Markham’s movements as they returned to the car.
‘What’s up, guv?’
‘That was Kate. Peter Elford’s been found dead at home.’
Noakes paused in his Formula One revving. ‘What . . . you mean there’s been an accident?’ And then, as Markham paused, a strange expression on his face, ‘Or what — he’s topped himself . . . cos it was him who did for Shawcross?’
‘From what Kate told me, it appears he may have been engaged in some sort of autoerotic practice or ritual that went wrong.’
‘Solo sex games . . . You’re having me on, guv — Elford!’
‘Eyes on the road please, Noakes. Yes, Elford. He was meant to attend a meeting at the town hall this morning but didn’t turn up. It wasn’t like him, so they sent someone round to his flat. The caretaker had spare keys.’
‘But chuffing Nora — we only saw him yesterday an’ he was fine!’ Noakes thumped the steering wheel.
‘He was recently divorced, apparently. Being treated for depression too.’ The DI frowned. ‘Recent events could have tipped him over the edge so that he took risks . . . But I agree, the timing feels hinky.’
‘Everything about this bleeding case is hinky.’ Noakes scowled. ‘That drama teacher was hiding summat. When you said that about Shawcross being a pupil at Hope . . . he looked dead shifty . .
