‘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
