‘How did you know, Inspector?’
‘Call it a bolt from the blue,’ Markham replied drily. ‘Look, Mr Cartwright, cards on the table. I suspect SLT doesn’t want us unearthing any . . . shall we say . . . unsavoury episodes from the past, but we’re aware Ms Shawcross may have experienced some kind of trauma while she was at school.’ The drama teacher watched him, hypnotized, as though Markham was a snake-charmer. ‘Whatever it was, she needed counselling for it . . . treatment at Bromley General . . .’
Cartwright licked his dry lips.
‘It may have nothing to do with her murder. But you’ll appreciate, we need the full picture.’
‘Look, Inspector . . . I’ve got a double free after lunch.’ He looked nervously at the door. ‘I can’t talk here, but—’
‘Where would you like us to meet you?’
‘There’s a pub round the corner. The Red Lion. We should have some privacy in there. I’ll take a chance — sign out with an appointment. I’ve got a mate at OneDental in town, so he’ll back me.’
Jeez, the pettifogging bureaucracy. Like teachers were little kids. It’d do my head in, thought Noakes.
The door crashed open and Mary Atkins reappeared, trailed by an aproned minion.
‘Here we go, Inspector.’ The assistant head beamed insincerely. ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Or do you need either of us,’ a basilisk glance at her colleague, ‘for anything else?’
Markham could do insincerity with the best of them. ‘You’re spoiling us, Ms Atkins.’
Oh for Chrissake. It was worse than the Ferrero Rocher advert.
But mercifully, she didn’t linger. Flirtation with the scrummy DI was clearly not a spectator sport. Better to wait till they could be à deux. Sweeping Leo Cartwright before her, she made her exit, with one lingering appreciative glance in Markham’s direction.
‘Don’t say a word, Noakesy.’ Markham began to pour the tea.
The DS contented himself with glowering balefully at the door before ramming a chocolate digestive into his mouth.
* * *
An hour and a half later, the two men sat back in their secluded booth at The Red Lion and took stock.
‘What did you make of that then, guv?’
Leo Cartwright had been apologetic.
‘Sorry about all the navel-gazing.’ He grinned at Noakes. ‘I could see you had a cob on, Sergeant.’
‘In my day the teacher stood at the front an’ spouted while we took notes. There was none of this touchy-feely hoojah.’
‘It wasn’t totally self-indulgent, you know. They’d been doing existential authors in general studies — Camus, Sartre — themes of alienation and rejection . . . The creative writing was an offshoot from that.’
‘Right.’ Noakes was laconic, patently unconvinced.
‘It tied in with theatre studies as well.’
‘You’re not telling me Tyrone’s the next Ian McKellen!’
‘You’d be surprised, Sergeant. English and drama tend to . . . unlock the hidden potential in lads like Tyrone.’
‘Bloody well hidden, if you ask me.’
Pleasantries over, Cartwright had given them a nugget. ‘Bex made a complaint about a teacher . . . name of Phil Carmichael. Taught art.’
‘What sort of complaint?’
‘We were coming up to GCSEs. I didn’t know much about it at the time . . . it was all hushed up very quickly. One minute Mr Carmichael was there, the next minute — pouf — he was gone . . .’
‘How long had Mr Carmichael been at the school?’
‘He was an NQT—’
‘Yeah, we know. Newly qualified teacher,’ Noakes put in before the other could translate.
‘That’s right, a newbie. Nice guy from all that I could tell.’
‘There’s something more, isn’t there, Mr Cartwright?’
‘Look, you didn’t get this from me, right?’
Markham nodded gravely.
‘I heard later that whatever Bex said about him . . . well, Carmichael was arrested . . . had to leave teaching . . .’
‘And then what?’ The DI was remorseless. ‘Did he face charges?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Cartwright’s face was troubled. ‘Word on the grapevine a few years later was that he’d committed suicide.’
‘Cos of what she’d accused him of?’ Noakes’s voice was flat.
‘I don’t know.’ Cartwright looked wretched. ‘But yes, Sergeant, more than likely it played a part.’
‘I don’ remember owt about a case like this.’ Noakes looked puzzled. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells . . . I was coppering in Bromgrove, but there wasn’t anything about it in the local rags.’ He screwed up his features in an expression of fierce concentration.
‘Her dad might have had something to do with its never getting out.’
‘Her dad?’
‘He died in a road accident when she was in the upper sixth. Councillor Shawcross.’
Now Noakes looked across the table at his boss and whistled. ‘So Ted Shawcross was the reason that story never saw the light of day.’
‘Before my time, Sergeant.’ Markham’s coffee was cooling, but he gulped it down anyway. ‘What kind of man was he?’
‘The devious, controlling sort.’ The DS thumped the table making their coffee cups bounce.
Heads turned.
‘Hearing you loud and clear, Noakesy. Just don’t smash the place up, okay?’
‘Sorry, boss. But he was a nasty bugger. Eyes too close together,’ the DS added as though this was the clincher that explained it all.
‘Anything specific to tell me, Sergeant?’
‘Rumour had it he was involved in a couple of scams. But he was always too quick for the Fraud boys . . . always managed to wriggle his way out of trouble. “Teflon Ted”, they called him. Prob’ly had one of our lot on the inside tipping him off.’
‘Hmm,’ Markham mused. ‘So her father closed it all down.’
‘D’you think it’s why she got clobbered then, guv?’
‘Garrotted, Noakes,’ the DI corrected mildly. ‘Well, this might be motive for murder, don’t you think?’
‘God yes.’ The DS spoke feelingly. ‘All
