‘Did you ever have a run-in with Ms Shawcross?’ Doyle’s voice became insinuating. ‘I mean, patients can be stroppy sometimes, right? My mum works as a hospital receptionist and you wouldn’t believe the stories she tells.’
Something shifted at the back of Burt’s eyes.
Well done, Doyle. That’s triggered something.
For all his vacant looks, Markham suspected the caretaker took more things in than he appeared to. What if it was Rebecca Shawcross who had frightened him . . . warned him off because he had seen or heard something she wanted kept secret?
‘Ms Shawcross was a striking woman,’ the DI said matter-of-factly. ‘The kind of woman you’d notice.’
An ugly blush suffused the caretaker’s scrawny neck and he muttered something incoherent. Markham nodded as though their interviewee was perfectly intelligible.
‘We believe she was writing a book,’ he said inconsequentially, waiting for Burt’s colour to subside. ‘Something medical.’
‘Might’ve been doing some research with the staff,’ Doyle observed, following Markham’s lead. ‘You know, for background.’ The DC forced a somewhat unconvincing laugh. ‘Perhaps she was even getting ideas for characters. Who knows, it might make you all famous one day . . .’
Again, that almost imperceptible responsive flicker in the watery eyes. But Markham had seen it.
‘So, no doubt she appeared downstairs in the surgery from time to time,’ the DI said as though this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Maybe even after hours . . .’
‘Might’ve done,’ the other mumbled.
Doyle leaned forward. ‘Did you ever see her take anything? See her in any of the offices perhaps . . . anywhere that she shouldn’t have been?’
‘I jus’ keep my head down an’ get on with it, like Mr Elford allus said to do.’ The man’s right leg was juddering and the rank, ammonia-like smell of his sweat filled the cramped space.
His interrogators exchanged glances. Let’s take that as a yes.
The DI dismissed Burt with a kindly smile. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a cuppa, Mr Burt. I know this is a stressful time for all of you. We appreciate the help you’ve given.’
His smile faded as soon as the caretaker disappeared into the corridor.
‘Chris Burt saw something,’ he concluded flatly.
‘Not going to tell us though, is he, sir?’ Doyle looked exasperated. ‘Been told to mind his own beeswax too often by the look of it.’
‘Hmm . . . By Elford, Ms Shawcross . . . and maybe someone else . . . someone who frightened him . . .’
‘God, he was like a wind-up speaking toy,’ the DC said disgustedly. ‘Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Hey, you don’t think he’s in any danger, do you, sir?’
‘I don’t think so, Doyle.’ Markham spoke slowly. ‘Whatever he thinks he saw or heard, he hasn’t been able to piece it together in any coherent fashion. Or, if he has made some sense of it, then he’s too cowed and confused to open up. Keep your eyes down and your nose clean, that’s the poor man’s motto for getting through life.’
‘He could’ve been threatened, sir,’ Doyle said eagerly.
‘Go on.’
‘Told by someone that they’d see he took the rap if he spoke out of turn. Could’ve been Shawcross . . . could’ve been the killer . . .’
‘Or it could be a case of autosuggestion.’ Markham’s face darkened. ‘He’s a fearful sort of character. It’d be too easy to make him think the police would fit him up on account of his learning disability . . . a ready-made prime suspect.’ Actually, he reflected grimly, if Sidney got so much as a whiff of Chris Burt’s e-fit, that wasn’t such an improbable scenario.
‘Are we going to have another crack at him, sir?’ Doyle was endearingly gung-ho, ever keen to justify his place on Markham’s team.
‘I think we’ll have to back off for now, Doyle.’ The soft hiss of rain floated through from outside like a sibilant warning.
Time is running out.
‘What about the appointment books, sir? The ones that were stolen.’
‘Noakes has a theory about that, Doyle.’ Markham raked impatient fingers through his dark hair with its frosting of silver at the temples. ‘He thinks after Ms Shawcross was killed, maybe Peter Elford was having a good ferret round, snooping through people’s papers and files,’ his mouth twisted, ‘though doubtless he justified it to himself as a security check . . .’
‘And found something,’ Doyle breathed. ‘Something incriminating . . .’
‘Yes, something that contradicted the killer’s version of events . . . or something that showed a connection between Ms Shawcross and the killer—’
‘A connection no one knew about.’
‘Indeed.’ Markham looked steadily at his subordinate. ‘And Mr Elford used this knowledge for blackmail.’
‘Stupid bugger.’ Doyle blushed. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘That’s alright, Constable. You’re correct. Elford took a terrible risk.’
‘Must’ve been something about the killer which convinced him he was safe.’
‘Or he persuaded himself they had some kind of bond.’ Some kind of special complicity.
‘And the killer took all the appointment books in the building so we couldn’t tell whose contained the clue.’
‘Spot on, Doyle. Easy to disable the alarm — they’ll all have known the code. Then collect up all the diaries and make it look like a burglary . . . only they didn’t have time for “window dressing”. Most likely Mr Burt disturbed them.’
‘Couldn’t they just have Tipp-Exed whatever it was out . . . ripped out the page . . . blagged their way out . . . ?’
‘Didn’t want to take the risk . . . panicked and decided to make a clean sweep. . .’
The smell of sweat and bleach was making the DI queasy. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Let’s regroup in our own room. We’ll feel better after a coffee.’
The two men got to their feet, shaking themselves vigorously
