‘Familiar in the biblical sense?’ Olivia was intrigued.
‘More than likely . . . I believe the phrase is “generous with her favours”.’
‘Poor old Doggie.’
‘Oh, he’s proud as punch, strutting about like a prize rooster.’ Markham chuckled. ‘When he’s not tripping over his Gandalf kaftan, that is.’
They were sitting on the tiny balcony of their apartment, enjoying a postprandial glass of Chablis. Markham was particularly fond of the apartment’s view over Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery. It was a quirk that his girlfriend understood, sensing that he needed this memento mori as a reminder that the souls of the dead were never far away waiting for him to deliver the justice denied to them in life.
Comes the blind Fury with th’ abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life.
The cemetery spoke to Olivia of something far more atavistic, something pagan and obdurately immutable as opposed to Christian consolation. But she knew that, for her lapsed Catholic lover, the neat rows of mossy graves, monuments and tombstones symbolized another world that would set this one right.
The June air was still, almost torpid. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their wine and savouring the peace.
Eventually Olivia spoke. ‘I suppose I needn’t ask how it went with Sidney?’
‘Par for the course,’ Markham replied listlessly. ‘He issued the usual fatwa against relying on hunches.’
Olivia muttered some decidedly unladylike expletives into her wine.
‘But I’ve got Chris Carstairs on side. He and Kate can run interference — feed Sidney the kind of psychobabble he likes — accompanied by spreadsheets, Powerpoints, graphs . . . geographical profiling . . . Predictably, he’s desperate to avoid any sort of scandal involving the medical community or our friends down at the council.’
‘You mean desperate to stop his OBE going down the Swanee.’ She took a great gulp of wine. ‘God, he’s one poisonous piece of work.’
‘I can think of worse,’ Markham observed wryly.
‘Welcome to the swamp of fear and loathing . . . and I thought schools were bad!’
‘By the by. That reminds me, I had a call from Kate earlier. Apparently Doyle turned up something while he was at Hope this afternoon.’
‘What kind of something?’
‘Well, according to Leo Cartwright, Rebecca was writing a novel — something to do with psychotherapy — The Amber Tells. Apparently that’s a reference to trigger signs when someone with a mental health issue is in danger of relapsing.’
‘Clever,’ Olivia said appreciatively. ‘We have a system called RAG rating where the kids rate themselves red, amber or green for learning outcomes . . . red if they haven’t grasped something, amber if they’re on the way to getting it but need some help, and green if they’ve cracked it. The kids have coloured cards they hold up at the end of the lesson to show which “traffic light” applies to them. The Amber Tells . . . That’s a neat title . . . interesting play on words.’
‘There’s no sign of the manuscript,’ Markham frowned, ‘but Mr Cartwright was positive it existed.’
‘She certainly played her cards close to her chest. I never heard her mention anything about any novel-writing.’ Olivia looked at him keenly. ‘So what did Doyle uncover?’
‘Staff have to sign out when they leave the school premises during the day, don’t they?’
‘That’s right. On a tracker — name, time and destination. All to do with health and safety apparently . . . in case a fire breaks out and they need to account for everyone.’ Another gulp of wine. ‘In reality, it’s so management can track our whereabouts. Licence to snoop.’
‘You poor, oppressed wage slaves.’ Then Markham was serious again. ‘It appears that on three occasions when Rebecca was signing out in the afternoon, she wrote the words “Research” and “Newman”.’
‘What, the Newman Hospital?’ Olivia was startled. ‘I don’t get it . . . why would she be going there? Was it some kind of project for the senior leadership team?’
‘Doyle says not. No one seems to know anything about it.’
‘Perhaps it was something to do with CAMHS.’ Shorthand for the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services.
‘Doyle drew a blank there too . . . I imagine she was counting on its being sufficiently vague that people would assume it was related to professional development or the pastoral side of her job.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ Olivia drained the last of her wine. ‘Odd that she was so cloak and dagger about it . . . Maybe it was some sort of cover story because she was having treatment as an outpatient . . .’
‘Sidney’ll burst an artery if he thinks we’re sniffing round the Newman.’
‘Serve him bloody well right.’ Olivia was rarely uncharitable, but she was always happy to make an exception for Markham’s boss. ‘Anyway, you said he wants to pin this on a nutter. You’re spoiled for choice at the Newman.’
‘Would it were that simple.’
Olivia set her glass down on the glass-topped table, reached across and squeezed his hand sympathetically.
‘Well, at least it’s a lead, Gil.’
‘True. And we’ve precious few of those right now.’
Deftly, Markham steered the conversation away from the Newman Hospital. ‘Doggie got me thinking about whether Peter Elford’s death may have political overtones.’ He told Olivia about the MP found dressed up like a prostitute with an orange in his mouth. ‘A casualty of the Cold War according to Doggie.’
Olivia giggled. ‘Sounds like he’s been overdosing on Spooks or Foyle.’ Then, ‘But hold on a minute . . . there was a case like that . . . Yes, that’s right. Stephen Milligan—’
‘Was he Tory by any chance?’
‘As it happens, he was.’
‘Ah, case closed then.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll take Doggie’s insights more seriously next time round.’
Olivia fancied another glass of wine. What the hell, she told herself, the night is young, and padded off
