‘What am I looking for, sir?’
‘Gripes, whinges . . . anything official against Peter Elford.’
‘Right you are, boss.’
‘And while you’re at it, see if there’s an incident book or anything like that for the library and study centre upstairs. Try leaning on Shirley Bolton and Thelma Macdonald. I’m sure they’ll be susceptible to your boyish charms,’ he added dryly.
Doyle endeavoured to look bashfully modest. And failed by a mile.
‘Think Shawcross was up for high jinks with the sixth-formers? Every lad’s fantasy,’ he said.
Markham sighed. ‘Somehow I doubt there was a re-enactment of The Graduate going on here, but those two ladies didn’t care for her.’ It occurred to him he needed to have a follow-up with Matthew Sullivan about his interviews with the students at Hope. Mat’s insights were always useful and just might give them a handle on the librarian’s hostility.
Markham’s coffee had the consistency of treacle but he didn’t really care. It was hot and strong, and at least it had gotten his synapses firing once more. Outside it had stopped raining, the skies had lightened and there was even the sound of birdsong.
‘Have the PM reports come in?’ he asked.
‘Got them here, sir. Plus Burton’s notes for Elford.’
Good luck with that, Doyle thought to himself. Burton’s sheaf looked bulkier than Grey’s Anatomy.
‘Before you shoot off, let’s get the staff back in,’ Markham said briskly. ‘They’re all on site today, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, boss. I’ll go and round ’em up,’ came the reply, as though Doyle was a competitor on One Man and His Dog and only wanted a collie to complete the look.
‘Did anything jump out at you and Kate?’ he enquired, almost as an afterthought. ‘Anything about the way they presented — nervousness, tics, evasiveness, overall body language?’
‘Not to speak of, sir. Oh no, hold on . . . the nice midwife . . . well, she seemed a bit fidgety.’ He rubbed his five o’clock shadow sagaciously. ‘A bit jittery. Burton thought it was like she was trying to make her mind up about something . . .’
Markham felt a prickle at the base of his spine.
Loraine Thornley, he thought, cosy and bosomy. What was it Noakes had said about her? Straight out of central casting.
‘Remind me, Doyle,’ he spoke so sharply that the other jumped, ‘where did we place her for the murders?’
‘Not alibied for either,’ he said promptly. ‘Writing up notes or out on her rounds.’
The young DC stared at Markham, his eyes on stalks. ‘You don’t think she could be the killer do you, boss?’ He shuffled his feet. ‘Reminds me of my nan . . . I saw her handing out Werther’s Originals to some kiddies in reception who were caterwauling about having their jabs. Not a peep out of ’em after that.’
‘See if you can find her for me, Doyle. Quiet as you like. She might have had a chance to mull it over . . . might be ready to talk now.’
His colleague bounded off like a red setter, restless for action.
The DI shut his eyes. Tried to switch off the warning voices in his head.
Some minutes passed before Doyle returned, followed by a distraught-looking Thelma Macdonald.
‘Something awful,’ she stuttered, and a feeling of dread came over the DI. ‘Loraine had an appointment to get her bloods and blood pressure done.’ The doughy jowls swung pendulously, keeping time with her agitated jerks of the head. ‘With her being staff, Maureen Stanley was going to do it.’ She gave a little wheeze of distress.
The DI pressed the woman gently into a chair. Every cell in his body was screaming for answers, but he spoke with calm authority.
‘It’s alright, Ms Macdonald. Take your time.’
‘Maureen was running a few minutes late. When that happened, everyone knows to wait in her room. When she got there, she thought Loraine was snatching forty winks . . . It looked like she was sleeping, see. Maureen felt bad about disturbing her . . .’
The DI and his DC looked at each other. A long look.
Thelma Macdonald burst into noisy tears.
‘But she was dead, Inspector. Stone cold dead.’
Markham pressed a snowy handkerchief into her shaking hands.
‘You’re being very brave, Thelma. Very brave.’
Snot and tears streaked her face.
The boss won’t be wanting that hankie back any time soon, Doyle thought and promptly felt ashamed of himself. But somehow none of this felt real. Like they were all in some bad play or pantomime.
‘What did you see, Thelma?’ Again, the reassuring informality, tender toned as a lover.
‘Maureen gave Loraine a tap on the shoulder. She didn’t want to startle her, see.’ A violent hiccough. ‘But then Loraine sort of toppled sideways . . . nearly fell out of the chair.’ She mopped frantically at her face, smearing mascara so that she looked like a demented panda. ‘Maureen noticed the sleeve on her right arm was rolled up . . . and saw the needle prick . . . Someone had injected her with a syringe.’ She looked helplessly up at Markham.
‘Well done, Thelma.’ The tears began to flow again as she took in his sincere compassion.
Markham turned to Doyle. ‘You know what has to be done, Doyle. I want you to call this in and get the crime scene secured. Then make contact with Burton and Noakes. I want them back at base as soon as possible. Whatever they are doing, this takes priority.’
‘Understood, boss.’
‘Was Loraine poisoned, Inspector? Murdered?’ Her voice was the thinnest whisper.
Markham knelt down and took her hot, damp hand.
‘I think that’s what happened,
