‘But Elford wasn’t a poof.’ He brought himself up hastily. ‘Sorry, boss . . . he wasn’t into blokes, was he?’
The DI’s headache was getting worse. ‘There’s possibly quite a lot we don’t know about Mr Elford, Sergeant. His sexual tastes for one thing.’
‘Eh?’ The DS had the air of a beached guppy fish.
‘Mr Elford might have been into S&M, rough sex . . . or any number of “alternative” scenarios . . . none of them exclusively heterosexual.’ Gingerly, Markham massaged his temples as though by this means he could banish his migraine. ‘The killer could have shared these proclivities. Possibly that’s how they lulled Elford into a sense of false security . . .’ Noakes was now looking distinctly queasy, rummaging for his bandana hankie and mopping his face vigorously. ‘Or it’s possible there’s some other connection — not necessarily romantic.’
There was a pause while the DS recovered his sangfroid.
‘But whoever it was wanted to make us think Elford was into secret perving an’ went too far by accident . . .’
‘Indeed.’ Markham’s face was grave. ‘Only they didn’t know about that council appointment and panicked.’
‘What d’you reckon to the twine tied round his neck, guv? Same signature as Shawcross. P’raps they were trying to finger him as the killer. Y’know, like suggesting he kept the twine like a trophy or summat.’
‘That’s the part that disturbs me most, Noakes.’ The DI was extremely pale, his resemblance to a chiselled effigy more than usually pronounced. ‘There was something spiteful . . . twisted about it.’
‘Well, it’s the warped sickos wot keep us in business, guv,’ the other said, mugging cheerfully.
‘Hmmm.’
At that moment, there was a soft tap and a woodentop put her head round the door. ‘Sir, sorry to disturb,’ the diminutive brunette murmured as Noakes leered affably.
‘What is it, Constable?’
‘DCI Sidney wonders if you could spare ten minutes to brief him on the community centre investigation, sir.’
The DI was willing to bet Slimy Sid hadn’t put it so politely. And by sending a personal emissary, he’d ensured there’d be no escape for Markham.
‘Thank you. I’ll be up directly, Constable,’ he dismissed her with a charming smile which belied the throbbing at his temples.
‘God, that’s all we need, boss.’ Noakes was out of his seat and sidling towards the door. ‘Sidney on the freaking rampage.’
‘You’re coming too, Sergeant.’ The DI’s tone brooked no argument. ‘Safety in numbers.’
* * *
Miss Peabody, the DCI’s PA and barometer of his moods, was waiting patiently in the outer office.
‘’Lo, luv. ’Ow’s his nibs?’
The PA pushed a strand of greying marcelled hair back from her forehead and made the flustered beaver-like noises with which she customarily greeted Noakes’s sallies. Markham suspected that, for all her yoked subservience to the great panjandrum of Bromgrove Police Station, she rather enjoyed his sergeant’s subversive attitude.
There was no time to read the runes. Ushering the two men into the holy of holies, the PA beat a hasty retreat.
At least Sidney’s office felt deliciously chill, the louvre blinds slanted and a top-of-the-range cooling fan bringing Markham’s temperature back to normal.
The DCI eyed them with his irritable rattlesnake glare and waved them to two chairs in front of his desk.
Christ, thought Noakes, he’s one ugly bastard. Bonce like a boiled egg and that frigging goatee to hide the eczema. Prob’ly fancies himself as Bromgrove’s answer to Jason Statham. Idly, his eyes wandered over the Hall of Fame, as the DCI’s collage of himself rubbing shoulders with the great and good was irreverently known. Oh yeah, there were a couple of new ones . . . Sidney bowing and scraping before Princess Anne like some latter-day Uriah Heep . . .
A discreet warning cough from the DI recalled Noakes to himself.
‘Two murders in less than forty-eight hours, Inspector.’
He made it sound as though Markham was personally responsible.
‘At the heart of our community.’
Here it came.
‘Where citizens have a right to feel safe.’
It was a case of waiting for the DCI to exhaust his stock of platitudes.
Noakes wriggled on his seat. Urgent semaphore for ‘get to the frigging point’.
And, finally, Sidney did.
‘This is top priority, Markham. There’s to be no repeat of what happened last year.’ Translated from Sidney-speak, this meant nothing that could remotely embarrass the DCI’s Five Pillars: the Council, the Local Education Authority, Bromgrove NHS Trust, the Newman Special Hospital Authority, and, last but not least, Bromgrove CID. The guiding principle being that nothing should be permitted to imperil Sidney’s chances of an OBE and eventual retirement to the sunlit uplands, garlanded with honours.
He shot Markham a gimlet glance. ‘Are the two deaths connected?’
‘We think so, sir.’
Sidney looked as though he were battling incipient neuralgia. ‘Linked to the community centre?’
‘I believe that’s where the answer lies, sir.’
‘Not proceeding on the basis of one of your famous hunches, I hope.’ Said with a sinister tremolo, teeth bared in what could have been either a smile or a snarl.
The DI preserved an expression of Sphinx-like imperturbability.
Noakes didn’t know how the guvnor managed it. Tuning out the DCI’s nasal honk, he allowed himself to drift off, smiling dreamily as he played out various Tarantino-style fates for Sidney in his head.
‘Something amusing you, Sergeant?’
Noakes immediately assumed an air of impenetrable stolidity. ‘Just taking it all in, sir.’
Giving up on Markham’s village idiot, the DCI turned his attention back to his quarry. ‘I presume you’ll be liaising with the sex crimes team — what with the likelihood of a mentally disordered offender being at large.’
By a supreme effort of will, Markham managed not to meet Noakes’s eyes. Only ten minutes in and the agenda was clear.
Talk about the Self Preservation Society, thought Noakes disgustedly. Anything to steer us well clear of the local big wigs and ensure
