‘What? ’Ow come?’ Noakes challenged belligerently. ‘She only died Monday.’ His tone was disbelieving. ‘What makes her so special then?’
‘Dunno, sarge.’ Burton sounded tired, defeated. ‘Beats me . . . I think they’re pulling strings down at the council. You know, with her being Ted Shawcross’s daughter. Her mum’s in a care home, so there’s no family left to speak of.’
‘Ours not to reason why.’ Markham too sounded defeated. ‘When’s the service? And where’s the venue, Kate?’
‘Midday. The crematorium at Bromgrove North,’ she replied, referring to the municipal cemetery.
‘I know, I know,’ the DI said as he registered his colleagues’ dismayed expressions. ‘We all hate that place . . . sent too many poor souls on their way through those curtains.’
‘It’s different these days,’ Noakes said unexpectedly. ‘Apparently, folk leave before they do the . . . chimney bit.’
The other three looked at him.
‘The coffin goes through the curtains . . . little doors, what have you . . . after everyone’s left the chapel . . . gone to look at wreaths an’ stuff on the grass outside.’ Clearly gratified to be the purveyor of information about mourning protocols, he added, ‘Less upsetting for the rellies, you see. Mind,’ he frowned, ‘there was that story in the Gazette ’bout some poor family only being allowed two and a half minutes wi’ the ashes cos that’s what was written on some frigging timetable. I mean, I ask you!’
Markham felt they were on dangerous ground.
‘Well, I’ll make sure we have an opportunity to pay our respects properly, Sergeant.’
‘Shall I get the staff together, sir?’ Kate Burton too wanted to leave the subject of crematoria.
‘If you would, Kate.’ The DI’s approving smile made her blush so that she looked almost pretty.
Daft bint, Noakes thought, but there was no malice in the reflection.
‘What about you, guv?’
Markham looked shattered, though he somehow managed to make even exhaustion appear the acme of elegance.
‘I’m off for a quick word with Mat Sullivan,’ he said.
‘Oh aye,’ said Noakes, making a great show of consulting his watch. ‘Gets time off for good behaviour, does he?’
‘Mat’s high enough up the totem pole to do a bunk now and again, Sergeant.’ Markham smiled in mild reproof. ‘We’ll be in the café in Waterstone’s.’
‘Waddya hoping for, guv?’ Noakes’s shrewd gaze was fastened on him.
‘To be honest, I don’t know.’ Markham’s handsome face looked more pouchy and ravaged than they had ever seen it. ‘I guess I’m hoping for some insights into Rebecca Shawcross . . . Don’t feel I’ve got the measure of her somehow.’ Steepling his long, elegant fingers together, he added softly, ‘But she was the first . . . the key to it all. Once we have a handle on her, the rest will follow.’
It sounded like a valiant exercise in self-persuasion.
The DI heaved himself to his feet and headed for the door.
Then halted, remembering Muriel Noakes’s uncharacteristically tremulous expression.
He whirled round.
‘Don’t lay a finger on that pie, Noakesy. Don’t even think about it!’
‘Lost my appetite, ain’t I?’ Noakes sounded virtuously aggrieved.
‘I’m relying on you, Kate.’ Markham shot her a meaningful look.
‘No worries, sir.’ Burton swooped on the offending comestible and bore it to the wastepaper basket.
Markham smiled to himself. He could absolutely trust Kate to save Noakes from himself. No backsliding!
* * *
Waterstone’s was a favourite haunt of Markham and Olivia. Especially at this time on a weekday.
Many a time the bookshop’s café had afforded a safe refuge from Sidney and his myrmidons. The subdued clatter of cups and saucers, the hum of voices and soothing hiss of the cappuccino maker . . . Markham felt he had died and gone to heaven.
Matthew Sullivan regarded his friend with amusement.
‘Jesus, Gil, you look awful. A hundred and ten at least.’
‘Thanks for that, Mat. This caramel latte takes the sting out of it.’
‘You know what I mean.’ His friend grinned and they sipped their drinks in companionable silence.
Eventually Markham roused himself from the agreeable stupor.
‘Nice disappearing act you pulled for those student interviews, Mat.’
‘Yeah, well I knew I wouldn’t be bringing anything to the party, Gil.’ Sullivan made a face. ‘That bad, was it?’
‘And then some.’ Markham took a long draught of his coffee. God, it felt good. If only he could stay here all day.
‘Shawcross really dug her creative writing.’ Markham uncannily replicated Tyrone’s goofy whine.
‘Sorry, Gil.’ Sullivan had the grace to look somewhat shamefaced. ‘I guessed how it would go . . . Thought I might puke if I had to watch Mary Atkins doing her caring thing.’ He flashed a grin. ‘Plus I have the delightful Tyrone four times a week, so I figured I could do without scrabbling around in the grubby depths of his psyche.’
‘Well, Tyrone — sorry, Ty — told us Rebecca was reduced to tears by some tale of woe about PTSD and survivor’s guilt. What was she, Mat? Hope Academy’s very own Virginia Woolf?’
Sullivan looked uncomfortable, stirring his cappuccino with unnecessary vigour.
‘C’mon, Mat. What did you think of her?’
‘Like an iceberg,’ was the unexpected answer. ‘Ninety-nine percent of her below the surface, Gil. I didn’t really know her at all.’
‘Don’t hold out on me, Mat. I know about that business with the NQT.’
‘Then you know more than I do, Gil.’ Sullivan’s gaze wandered to the happy bustling counter before returning to his friend. ‘No, seriously,’ he insisted, as though anticipating the other’s scepticism, ‘I really don’t know anything . . . and, to be honest, I don’t want to know. I hate all the politics and backstabbing . . . Protective camouflage, Gil, that’s what I’m all about.’
It was true, Markham reflected. Never was there
