‘Probably making hay while he got the chance.’ Doyle chewed his biro savagely. ‘By all accounts he’s leading a dog’s life — and it’s all because of Elford.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
‘Well, obviously his sumo-wrestler sister kept an eye out for him, but even so . . .’ The DC mimed something landing from a great height. As though poor Chris Burt was an insect just asking to be splatted.
A thought struck him. ‘How about the little trainee receptionist? The one who found Shawcross.’
‘Shelly.’ Another flick through the papers. ‘In late to work, but she had permission. Delayed shock from the other day.’
‘Well, that’s all of them then. What about HR? Anything juicy in Shawcross’s medical records?’ he enquired hopefully.
‘Nothing to speak of.’ Her brows furrowed thoughtfully. ‘Though there’s some reference to her attending a social skills training course at the adolescent unit in Bromgrove General . . . assertiveness, confidence-building . . . something like that. It’ll have to be checked out, but I can’t see it leading anywhere.’
‘Prob’ly just the usual teenage angst.’ Doyle spoke with all the authority of his twenty-seven years. ‘What about the school?’
‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten about Hope.’ Burton looked at her watch. Almost the end of the school day, so no risk of Doyle being distracted by a bevy of big-haired Lolitas. ‘How about you get over there and check out Shawcross’s personnel file. The drama teacher’s too while you’re at it.’ She produced a formidable scowl. ‘Don’t stand for any nonsense from the team in the office.’
Doyle got to his feet with alacrity. Before she had time to change her mind. Things were definitely looking up. This pokey office was driving him mad. And they were just going round in circles.
‘You can count on me, sarge. “Protect and Serve” — that’s my motto.’
This elicited a reluctant smile. ‘Go on, get out of here.’
* * *
Once Doyle had disappeared, Burton’s shoulders slumped dejectedly.
The ginger ninja was right. They weren’t any further forward. Nothing to show the DI. Just a sense that during the course of the afternoon she had missed something. Something crucial . . .
A knock at the door.
It was Jenni Harte with a steaming mug. Burton thanked her and took a cautious sip.
‘Builder’s,’ Burton said ecstatically. ‘Perfect. And you remembered the sugar. I thought—’ She stopped short. Reddened.
The other grinned. ‘You thought I’d inflict some kind of foul herbal concoction on you. The sort that tastes like pee.’ She gestured ironically at her floating shift dress and amber beads. ‘On account of the ethnic get-up and all.’
It was so exactly what George Noakes would have said that Burton burst out laughing and felt some of the day’s tension evaporate.
‘My mum always told me, “Never judge a book by its cover.” And she was right!’
She smiled at the likeable therapist. ‘I feel better now.’
‘I imagine it’s been a hard day, Sergeant.’ The delicate features were shadowed. ‘Peter Elford wasn’t . . . well, he wasn’t the easiest . . . bit of a martinet, to be honest.’ She pleated the gauzy material of her shift with long slender fingers. ‘But he fought our corner with the council when it came to funding. Wasn’t a pushover. Really cared about this place.’ A shy smile then, ‘I’ll leave you to it’ and the visitor was gone.
A class act, Burton determined. No nosey parker questions about how Elford had died. Just practical concern for her comfort. She rubbed the small of her back. Maybe there was something to be said for this counselling lark. Jenni Harte definitely had a soothing effect.
She contemplated the paperwork in front of her without enthusiasm. Should she call it a day? Go home and unleash her domestic goddess on Colin? God, that would be a turn-up for the books. Her stolid, unexciting fiancé wouldn’t know what had hit him!
Burton squared her shoulders defiantly as she continued her restless inner dialogue.
Yes, why not! She reached for her mobile. She’d give the DI a progress report and then take these statements home with her. See if anything jumped out at her later on . . . preferably after a long, cool glass of something alcoholic. No doubt Markham would resort to his own traditional post-Sidney anaesthetic and punch his way to equilibrium in the boxing ring at Doggie’s while Doyle and Noakes repaired to their favourite hostelry.
Bugger! She’d forgotten about the PM at five. For a moment, every instinct in her screamed to arrange a substitute. But then pride stiffened her spine. No, she told herself, she had to see it through. Otherwise Dimples and the rest of them would be insufferable.
Okay. She’d call Markham on the way to the mortuary and get Elford over with. It’d probably put the mockers on her romantic dinner with Colin but she’d salvage the evening somehow . . .
As Burton locked the incident room, a sudden misgiving made her turn round sharply. For a moment she thought she saw something — a shape, a shadow — flit round the corridor at the far end.
But when she turned the corner, there was no one there.
And on a shelf in the mortuary of Bromgrove General the body of Peter Elford waited to give up its secrets.
6. Conundrum
Burton was correct in her assumption that the DI’s antidote of choice to DCI Sidney would be a bout in the ring at Doggie Dickerson’s insalubrious gym.
The proprietor was a seedy Fagin-lookalike who presided over his dingy empire with an easy come, easy go lackadaisicalness which Markham found suited his needs perfectly. Not for him the clinical perfection of the town’s top-end spas and temples to the body beautiful. No, he was far more at ease in Doggie’s grimy, run-down premises on Marsh Lane where local villains and Bromgrove’s finest sparred happily
