The DI knew better than to put up any resistance. ‘Naturally, sir.’ His tone was one of iron-clad courtesy. Not servile. Obsequiousness was simply not in his repertoire. ‘DI Carstairs is covering that angle.’ He’d square it with Chris Carstairs later when they did their evening workout at Doggie’s. His suave fellow DI owed him a few favours and was more than capable of throwing sand in Sidney’s eyes for as long as it took them to get a lead. If necessary, Carstairs and Kate Burton could rustle up some data-rich spreadsheets between them . . . or, better still, get some Cracker type from the university’s psychology department to do an offender profile.
It wasn’t that the DCI was a bad man, Markham told himself with a flicker of compunction. In fact, he knew Sidney to be capable of great kindness to officers facing personal crises. It was just that his relentless tunnel vision — the product of too many years marinating in the upper echelons of the police service — invariably served them ill when it came to taking an imaginative view of an investigation. He felt quite sure that the key to these murders lay somewhere in the community centre, and that they had almost certainly already met the killer. But the DCI was under great pressure from the town’s Citizens-Police Liaison Committee, especially in the wake of the corruption uncovered by Markham’s most recent investigations. Local schools, churches, hospitals, the theatre, the art gallery — all had harboured a worm in the bud . . . all had festering secrets to be dragged with mandrake-like shrieks into the light. Small wonder if Sidney was hankering to pin these latest killings on some mythical bushy-haired stranger.
‘I understand there may be a connection with Hope Academy, Inspector.’
The DCI’s snitches had clearly been busy. Time to tread carefully.
‘Well, Rebecca Shawcross was a teacher at Hope, sir. And, of course, the school’s sixth-form study annexe is based in the community centre.’
‘But you’re not suggesting any school personnel are involved.’
‘Highly unlikely, sir.’ Markham’s ‘bedside manner’ came to his rescue. ‘Our visit there was more a question of building a picture of the victim . . . Had her colleagues noticed anything unusual?’ He had a sudden burst of inspiration. ‘Had anyone been seen hanging around the school — stalkers, unwanted attention — that kind of thing.’
No way was he prepared to enlighten Sidney about the extracurricular dimension, though a salacious gleam in Noakes’s eye suggested his sergeant would have enjoyed witnessing the effect of such revelations.
‘Good, good.’ The DCI clearly liked the stalker theory.
‘I believe your lady friend is back teaching at Hope . . .’
Somehow Sidney always larded any reference to Olivia with a thick layer of innuendo.
‘That’s right, sir.’ Keep it short and sweet.
‘Not caught up in this investigation I trust, Inspector? I seem to remember she has rather an unfortunate knack for drawing attention to herself . . . There was all that drama at St Cecilia’s, for example . . .’
As though Olivia was some sort of exhibitionist crime-scene groupie, Markham thought savagely. Hardly surprising that she harboured a deep-seated antipathy towards his boss, invariably describing him as first cousin to Judas Iscariot.
Noakes’s beefy face flushed red. Oh no, was he about to plough in like some medieval knight bent on defending his lady’s honour?
‘Ms Mullen didn’t ask to be attacked, sir. An’ she was dead brave when it happened.’
Thinking back to those murders in St Cecilia’s parish church, when the body count had nearly included Olivia herself, Markham flinched.
The DCI looked at the DS in astonishment, but Noakes was on a roll.
‘She understands how folks’ minds work an’ all cos she’s so brainy.’
‘Perhaps we should ask her to consult with the police on this case then, Sergeant.’ Sidney’s tone could have stripped sandpaper.
Markham forced a jovial laugh and jumped in before his number two could make matters any worse. ‘Olivia’s more than happy to leave criminal profiling to the experts, sir. And as for the rest . . . all she wants is a quiet life these days.’
God, he was making his girlfriend sound like the little woman waiting at home for him with pipe and slippers. But it did the trick.
‘Glad to hear it, Inspector. “Behind every man there’s a great woman”, as they say. But best not to make a habit of involving one’s other half!’
The DI didn’t know which was worse. The ghastly fake bonhomie or the crocodile-like menace.
Mercifully, at that moment they were interrupted by Miss Peabody with the announcement that the chief constable was on the line. Stroking his pips with reflex unctuousness, Sidney dismissed them. ‘I want regular updates, Inspector. Press conference tomorrow at the latest.’
‘That went well,’ grinned Noakes once they found themselves back in the corridor. ‘’Specially that bit ’bout your “lady friend”.’ The DS sniggered and whistled the chorus of ‘Stand by Your Man’, much to the amusement of two passing typists from human resources.
‘Hmm. I don’t see Olivia channelling her inner Tammy Wynette at Sidney’s behest . . . But at least she’s well on the periphery of this case, so there’s nothing for him to complain about on that score.’
‘Oh, he’ll find something to get his knickers in a twist about, never fear, guv.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Markham replied grimly. ‘A touch of — what do the politicos call it? — “constructive ambiguity” appears to be required if we’re going to keep the DCI at bay.’
Noakes guffawed appreciatively. He was always up for a spot of subterfuge. ‘You mean Chris Carstairs?’
‘Indeed. He owes me for our help with that immoral earnings investigation last month.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Noakes’s expression was speculative. ‘Sailed a bit close to the wind did our Mister Carstairs. Didn’t exactly do things by
