* * *
As they passed in front of reception, Markham spied a familiar figure.
‘Gilbert!’
It was too late to slink past now that Muriel Noakes had seen him.
She appeared to be on confidential terms with Thelma Macdonald, the two women talking animatedly across the counter.
The DI was about to glide on by with a courteous inclination of the head, when something stopped him. She was wearing a virulently patterned floral shirtwaister of the sort worn by minor royals to open a garden party, her Sherman tank physique straining against the silk fabric. The fearsomely lacquered hair — heaped as high as ever — was in its usual bouffant. The affected bray grated on his nerves as much as ever. And yet . . . he detected a newly helpless quivering about the heavily painted lips.
‘Muriel, what a delightful surprise.’ He nodded to Doyle. ‘Why don’t you review what we’ve got. I’ll be along shortly.’
The DC made an oddly ceremonious little bow to Noakes’s ‘missus’ who inclined her head regally, taking it as her due. Always so important to encourage shy young men.
‘Ms Macdonald, I wonder if I could prevail upon your good nature to find a quiet nook for us,’ he said. ‘The constraints of my job mean I don’t often have the pleasure of a catch-up with Mrs Noakes.’
Muriel bridled with gratified vanity as they were led to the small family bereavement room with its flounced chintz sofa and magnolia painted walls.
Gilbert Markham was such a charmer. There was something so vulnerable and unassuming about him. Putty in Olivia Mullen’s hands.
Her feelings about Markham’s girlfriend were decidedly mixed, a certain reluctant fascination contending strongly against resentment at the way Olivia twisted men like George round her little finger. All that doe-eyed waifish vulnerability didn’t fool her one bit. It was just an act. Nothing but a big put-on. But her husband just couldn’t see it. Men were so easily fooled . . .
‘How are you keeping, Muriel?’ Even now, after all this time, Markham’s lips tried to form the words ‘Mrs Noakes’. The use of her Christian name felt somehow wrong, almost like an invitation to intimacy — heaven forbid he should ever be invited to call her ‘Mu’!
‘Oh, one mustn’t complain, Gilbert.’
Thank God for that.
She lowered her voice an octave and leaned in closer, almost asphyxiating him with a blast of Arpège. After the bleach-fest in Chris Burt’s broom cupboard, it made him feel light-headed.
‘I was concerned about George’s PSA scores, Gilbert. A letter came from the surgery.’ A faint blush. ‘I opened it in case of there being anything urgent . . . Prostate, you know.’
If she’d said ‘prostrate’, it would have finished him off. He could never forget having sat through the desk sergeant’s discussion of his wife’s ‘hysterical-ectomy’. Any lèse-majesté with Muriel Noakes would not be easily forgiven.
As it was, he managed to preserve an expression of impenetrable gravity, assisted by a perception that, beneath all the pearl-clutching affectation, the woman was really concerned about her husband.
‘They want to talk to him about high scores and risk factors.’
‘Try not to worry, Muriel. They’re very hot on “preventive medicine” these days.’ He bloody well wasn’t going to talk about ‘the Big C’. When his mother was wasting away in hospital, he’d wanted to punch everyone who used that incongruously chirpy phrase.
‘If only I could do something about his weight, but he always says he was a “chunky” child . . .’
Markham’s lips twitched. The light-headed feeling was back again.
‘I’ll do my best to keep him on the straight and narrow, Muriel. Can’t have him holding you back in the Paso Doble.’
A tinkle of silver bells.
Hang in there, Markham. The poor woman needs a lift.
Mercifully, at that moment Muriel’s attention was distracted.
‘I mustn’t keep you from the investigation,’ she trilled coyly. ‘It’s thanks to you and the thin blue line that we can all sleep safely in our beds.’
Oh God. Any moment now and he’d be joining in this surreal dialogue. Nothing’s gonna hurt you tonight, ma’am. Not on my watch.
Chivalrously, he helped her up from the depths of the sofa, relieved that by some miracle she wasn’t going to subject him to the third degree.
‘I didn’t know the young teacher who died.’ Though no doubt Thelma Macdonald had been happy to dish the dirt. ‘But Peter Elford will be a heavy loss to the practice.’
Markham’s senses went on red alert. This sounded like an opening gambit. He ushered her towards the door.
‘Though he wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ she went on. ‘There was the Patient Voice business . . .’
‘Patient Voice?’
Muriel was delighted to offer him the inside track. ‘Like a customer service survey, Gilbert. I believe some complaints came out of it, went all the way to the Health Ombudsman.’ She was working herself up to a Sarah Bernhardt-style climax. ‘So very sad the way medical professionals have to watch their backs all the time . . . enough to put one off public service altogether. And, of course, some people are never satisfied.’
‘Indeed, Muriel, indeed.’
They were at the door. He submitted to a peck on both cheeks, feeling like an actor in a second-rate soap opera, an impression heightened by the flutter of intrigue and mystery with which Mrs Noakes departed.
Then she was gone and he could think clearly once more.
He needed to keep a more stringent watch on Noakesy. There’d be no ill-health retirement if he had any say in the matter . . .
* * *
Back in the incident room, Doyle was flicking languidly through some papers but sat up straighter when Markham came in. He knew better than to make any wisecracks about assignations with battleaxes, merely enquiring cautiously, ‘Mrs Noakes offer anything useful, sir?’
