So Noakes had picked up on that too.
‘I want anything Hope’s HR department has got on Rebecca Shawcross,’ the DI said decisively. ‘And Cartwright’s personnel file too.’
‘I’ll get Doyle round to the school pronto, guv. All those teenage girls with their Oompa Loompa fake tans oohing and aahing over him . . . he’ll think he’s died an’ gone to heaven.’
Unlike Peter Elford whose soul had departed this life in circumstances that sounded distinctly hellish. Staring fixedly ahead, Markham stiffened in anticipation of the dread discovery.
4. Stranger Than Fiction
Peter Elford’s flat was pleasant but unremarkable, situated on the first floor of a nondescript three-storey red-brick building named Troutbeck Court. It was near the town centre and what an estate agent would call ‘well presented’, reflected the DI inconsequentially as he took in the tidy communal front garden and the predominance of glass and timber in the entrance lobby.
DC Doyle met them there, along with an inoffensive white-haired man whom he introduced as Mr Jones the caretaker. When he spoke, Mr Jones was quavery of voice. From the nervous glances the young detective was casting at the older man, he was clearly concerned Jones might keel over on him.
‘I’m just going over to the lodge to make Mr Jones a cuppa and take his statement, sir,’ he said pointing to a small white bungalow on the other side of the front lawn.
‘Might want to put a slug of brandy in it,’ Noakes added eyeing up the caretaker whose ashen-faced horror and speechlessness told the tale of what awaited them inside.
‘Excellent, Constable.’ Markham approved the arrangement, adding solicitously, ‘We’ll be across shortly, Mr Jones, but in the meantime you’re in good hands.’
‘Through there, sir. Burton’s waiting for you.’ Doyle looked as though he could do with a shot of something stronger than tea himself.
* * *
Markham’s initial impressions were of bland Habitat-style décor and lots of chrome. All very Location, Location, Location, so that he half expected Kirstie and Phil to come sashaying in and scoring the place for saleability.
But when Kate Burton, grim-faced, ushered them through the arch that connected the living and dining areas, any impression of suburban irreproachability was abruptly dispelled.
Peter Elford, clad in only his underpants, was slumped across the pine dining-room table. With a black bin bag over his head, the community centre administrator had a length of what appeared to be surgical twine tied around his neck. Upended on the tastefully patterned mauve carpet was a well-thumbed paperback.
Forbidden Flowers by Nancy Friday. What Noakes would doubtless term ‘a mucky book’.
‘Jesus,’ Noakes breathed. ‘Jesus.’
Markham disliked profanity but, taking in the profoundly bleak scene before them, he too was badly shaken. The only sound in the room was a bad-tempered bluebottle bashing itself against the French window.
Burton found her voice. ‘Looks like some kind of sex game gone wrong, guv.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I haven’t touched the body, obviously, but I took a quick look in his desk.’ She gestured to a roll-top on the other side of the room. ‘Ugly divorce and the ex-wife being difficult about access to the kids — boy and girl, both in their teens . . . So all this,’ she gestured helplessly, ‘must’ve been . . . well . . . some sort of safety valve.’
‘Mebbe he had a guilty conscience too . . . assuming he offed Shawcross.’
‘Let’s not make any assumptions,’ Markham said heavily.
‘Quite right,’ came a voice from the door. Dimples Davidson had arrived. Behind him were two SOCOs, already gowned up.
The threesome contemplated the tableau in silence.
‘Poor bastard,’ Davidson said finally. ‘I’ll just get togged up, Markham, and do the necessary.’ He gestured to the SOCOs who began to set up screens.
‘Let’s take a breather outside.’
The three police officers walked blindly out into the drowsy front garden. Already there was a little knot of residents standing beneath a monkey puzzle tree murmuring in low voices.
‘I’ll get rid of ’em, guv,’ Noakes muttered observing the stony look on his boss’s face.
Burton joined him. With a combination of tact and elbow (the former Burton, the latter Noakes), they had soon managed to shepherd the little throng back indoors.
Damn and double damn. Now Gavin Conors from the Gazette had rolled up.
‘D’you have any comment for our readers, Inspector?’ He signalled to the accompanying photog — another spiv in snooker-player attire — to start snapping pictures of the building. ‘Is there any connection with the murder at the community centre?’
‘Fuck off.’ Noakes was back, glowering at Conors like a gorilla ready to charge. Go ahead, punk, make my day.
The reporter wrestled with himself. He and Noakes ‘had form’, so to speak, and he was clearly tempted to take a pop. However, prudence won out in the shape of his companion who eyed Noakes with the air of one who didn’t much fancy his chances in a contest of man versus gorilla.
‘C’mon, Gav,’ he muttered. ‘They ain’t worth it.’
With a baleful glance at his old adversary, the Gazette’s boy wonder backed off muttering imprecations about freedom of the press and police oppression.
‘Like as not freaking Neighbourhood Watch tipped ’em off.’ Noakes cast a furious glance back at Troutbeck Court where the net curtains were doubtless twitching.
‘Easy, Noakesy. At this rate you’ll give yourself a coronary.’
Burton blinked at the unusual softness in Markham’s voice and wondered for the umpteenth time what it was about her splenetic, socially inept colleague that inspired such forbearance. He’d come very close to fisticuffs with Gavin Conors, which would have brought Sidney down on them like a ton of bricks.
‘Let’s see what Dimples has for us.’ The DI looked as though he knew precisely what she was thinking.
Back in the stuffy, airless flat,
