‘Her diary?’
‘Thassit . . . they all have the same . . . big, black notebook thingy.’
‘Just one more question, Mr Burt, and then I’ll let you get back to your evening.’ Markham spoke as though the poor specimen in front of them had been interrupted in the middle of a posh dinner party. You couldn’t make it up, as Noakes told ‘the missus’ — avid for any details of Gilbert Markham — in a burst of conjugal unreserve later that night.
‘Do staff know the combination for the alarm code?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I mean, they need to know for when they work late.’
So presumably they were keyholders. Access all areas. Which suggested the break-in had been faked to make it look like some random crime — spur of the moment. Only something (the caretaker, perhaps) had spooked the intruder before there was time to chuck furniture around and complete the impression of some druggie bent on trashing the place.
‘Mr Burt, you’ve been a great help.’ The DI spoke warmly.
The caretaker looked as though he could scarcely credit what he was hearing. Dave Elson and Noakes appeared hardly less sceptical.
But somehow, unbelievably, that was it.
‘Dave, would you please make sure Mr Burt gets home safely?’
He only lives at the bottom of the freaking garden. But Elson clicked his heels, did a crisp about-turn and towed the caretaker away.
‘Jeez.’ Noakes whistled. ‘One of ’em broke in.’
‘Looks very much like it.’ Markham’s eyes followed the retreating figures of Dave Elson and the shambling caretaker.
‘So, he or she knew there was summat in an appointments diary . . . or personal stuff written down somewhere that might lead back to them . . . an’ pinched everyone’s so we wouldn’t know whose it was.’
‘I think they were most likely disturbed or took fright before they had the chance to trash the place and make it look like a regular burglary,’ Markham said, his face a picture of frowning concentration.
‘I want those computer schedules checked, Noakes,’ he continued. ‘But I suspect this clue, this personal detail won’t turn up on the IT systems.’
‘Elford must’ve been poking his nose in, guv . . . ferreting about . . . then come across summat that linked Shawcross an’ the murderer.’
‘Yes, Sergeant, I do believe you’re right. And that’s why he had to die.’ Markham’s face was very sombre.
‘Well, at least it looks like Shawcross an’ Elford are linked.’
‘Indeed.’
The DI was silent for a long minute then spoke decisively. ‘Right, Noakes, Mr Burt needs interviewing after we’ve swung by Hope and spoken to those students.’
This was more like it.
‘Plus, we re-interview all the community staff. Maybe there’s a discrepancy . . . or an alibi we can break.’
‘Sounds like a plan, guv.’
The long Wednesday evening drew to a close. But the community centre gave nothing away.
Darkness fell and the cinder-block complex was quiet once more.
7. Distant Rumbles
Yada, yada, yada. Shoot me now, George Noakes thought glumly as he watched yet another student — radiant with acne and eloquence — expatiate on how ‘Miss Shawcross was really, like, amazing and inspirational . . . totally understood where we were coming from.’
Which is more than I chuffing well do.
God, he couldn’t remember his Nat spouting any of this Californian New Age bollocks when she was in the sixth form. Mind, he reflected with satisfaction, Nat was a sensible girl . . . had her head well screwed on. Knew what was what. Wouldn’t be doing with mañana hippie types. And quite right too.
How much more of it did they have to suck up? The guvnor looked engrossed, but Noakes knew him well enough to realize the boss was just gliding above the conversation, antennae alert to pick up the slightest clue relevant to their purposes.
Mary Atkins, the assistant head, sat in on the interviews, head cocked coquettishly on one side (in tribute to the DI’s charisma), clipboard on knee, oozing professional ‘concern’ from every pore. What a pseud. Noakes’s mind drifted fondly back to his own schoolteachers, trailing their little heaps of cigarette ash, reeking of BO and nicotine. They’d never get through teacher training the way it was today, and yet he never doubted they really cared. Like good ole Doctor Abernathy who promptly made himself scarce at the announcement that the police would be ‘asking some questions about Rebecca Shawcross’s creative-writing sessions’. Couldn’t have looked more petrified if Atkins had suggested a group striptease.
It was close and stuffy in Atkins’s office that Thursday morning, despite the fact that it was far more comfortably appointed than Matthew Sullivan’s.
Sullivan, like Abernathy, had made himself scarce. Leo Cartwright was the only other member of staff present, and he looked shit-scared for some reason. Noakes wondered why. I mean, the odd bonk with Shawcross wouldn’t lose him his job, would it? On the other hand, diddling sixth-formers would be a different matter. The DS smiled to himself. Always best to take the darkest view of human nature. That way you were never disappointed.
He tuned back in.
Now a pimply youth was in the hotseat.
‘She really dug it . . .’
Jesus, he really couldn’t be doing with much more of these spotty nerks coming over all Bruce Springsteen. It was a bloody big waste of time. Usually on occasions like this, he’d roll his eyes, blow out his cheeks and convey his contempt via a few surreptitious ape impressions. But he had a feeling Miz I-Feel-Your-Pain wouldn’t take kindly to any such spectacle.
Suddenly, he became aware of tension in the air and Markham looking his way.
Hey up, must’ve got something.
‘Go back a bit will you, Tyrone.’ The DI’s manner was calm, unhurried, though Noakes detected a gleam at the back of his eyes that meant he’d struck a seam. ‘So,
