Markham wanted his usual team for this case. DS Kate Burton was no doubt inside already raring to get started. He smiled at the thought of his other keen-as-mustard DS.
A greater contrast to George Noakes could hardly be imagined. In many ways, Kate Burton was the yin to Noakes’s slovenly yang and the epitome of a thrusting young officer, her focused ambition in sharp contrast to Noakes’s shambling slobbishness.
Initially antagonistic to each other, the two sergeants had slowly bonded over the course of some dangerous assignments, with Noakes gradually learning to appreciate the doggedness of his female colleague (whose entry to the police had initially been blocked by paternal resistance — ‘No job for a woman’) as well as her devotion to Markham. Privately, he suspected this went much further than professional regard though, as she was now engaged to a DS in Fraud, Burton had presumably ceased to sigh for the moon. Noakes had never betrayed her secret to Markham or DC Doyle, the youngest member of the team with whom he enjoyed setting the world to rights in Bromgrove’s various hostelries. Even so, he figured the guvnor must have an inkling.
In fact, if such a possibility ever crossed his mind, Markham had dismissed it, being notably devoid of vanity or self-regard. But he sensed Burton’s envy of the easy complicity that he and Noakes shared and had made a resolution to draw her closer. Beneath the somewhat disconcerting earnestness and eager-beaver intensity, which had initially repelled her male colleagues, lay an unexpected vulnerability. She had certainly loosened up considerably since her arrival in CID, to the point where a wary camaraderie had sprung up between herself, Noakes and Doyle. While still occasionally bristling at Noakes’s more outrageous outbreaks of political incorrectness, she had learned to give as good as she got, a mischievous sense of humour coming to her aid in their various incident room exchanges.
Burton should be chasing further promotion and taking her Inspector’s exams. Yet Markham had the feeling she was holding back for some reason — a desire not to outgun her boringly conventional fiancé, perhaps? Or maybe she just wanted to stay close to the action as one of ‘Markham’s gang’? Either way, he felt selfishly relieved that it looked as though he was going to be able to hang on to her a bit longer.
Yes, Burton and Noakes should work well in harness on this one. Noakes could be relied upon to detonate the H-bomb in terms of forcing potential suspects to reveal their hidden vices while Burton, ever the diplomatist, kept management and the local authority at bay.
Hopefully DC Doyle would be available too. The ‘ginger ninja’, as he was affectionately known, was a hard worker and keen to rise within CID having begun a part-time degree in criminal law through distance learning. He could also be a useful buffer between Noakes and Burton, his youthful ingenuousness proving invaluable whenever their entente cordiale showed signs of unravelling.
Better head inside and get a jump on the day. The fabled ‘golden hour’ had yielded precious little in terms of information gathered at the community centre.
Rebecca Shawcross had been an English teacher at Hope Academy, where Olivia now worked. Markham frowned, recalling the last time his girlfriend had been caught up in a murder investigation. Traumatized, she’d ended up leaving her job at Hope, questioning whether she’d ever be able to teach again. She’d since returned to her role and to the school. He could only pray that none of this led back to the academy, awakening old ghosts.
The victim had been strangled with some sort of rudimentary garrotte. Surgical twine, according to the pathologist Doug ‘Dimples’ Davidson. Dimples had also given him the time of death unofficially: somewhere between 1 and 3 p.m. on the day of Noakes’s appointment.
At least the surgery hadn’t been teeming with people on account of the majority of staff attending a conference in London. Always helpful to have the field of suspects narrowed down. Noakes was due to do this morning’s briefing on the community centre personnel, after which Markham would dispatch Burton and Doyle to set up an incident room.
The DI cast a last wistful look at the gauzy outlines of Hollingrove Park before moving purposefully towards the station and the day ahead.
* * *
In contrast with the lush verdure of the park that was its neighbour, CID looked somehow staler than ever, the distinctly tired-looking décor in dire need of sprucing up. Even the huge yucca plant donated by the station’s green-fingered custody sergeant had an air of dejection.
When pigs fly, thought Markham resignedly turning to his Lilliputian office with its unrivalled views of the station car park.
The two sergeants were already waiting for him, a faint aroma of grease suggesting that Noakes’s fitness regime had been sidelined for the time being. Burton sat virtuously sipping black coffee, prim as a schoolgirl, her nut-brown pageboy gleaming with health. She always dressed smartly but soberly, as though any distinctive mark of personal taste would’ve risked undermining her professional persona. Today’s outfit was another of what Noakes called her Chairman Mao trouser suits, but the overall effect was one of irreproachable neatness.
The DI was relieved to see Noakes had toned his look down since the previous day, being no more than ordinarily scruffy in crumpled linen separates (mismatched) and less than pristine white shirt. Just enough to pass muster with the DCI, though the hideous vermillion tie vied with Noakes’s complexion to give the overall
