‘There’s been another murder at the community centre, Mat.’ He gave his friend the bare bones of it.
‘Gil, I’m so sorry.’ With Mat, of course, there was no nosiness, no prurient prying. ‘Anything I can do to help, you only have to say the word.’
‘It all stems from Rebecca Shawcross, Mat.’ Markham stared unseeingly at the happy couples around them, his eyes focused on some infernal nightmare. Sullivan watched him sympathetically. God only knew what gruesome demons stalked Gilbert Markham on even the most commonplace occasion.
‘I wish I had something to give you, Gil. But there’s nothing . . .’
‘What about Leo Cartwright? Struck me he was holding something back.’
‘Not a killer, Gil. No way.’ Sullivan was emphatic. ‘Jack the Lad, maybe . . . but not a murderer. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Anything out of the ordinary about him of late, Mat? Anything at all?’
The other was thoughtful. ‘More subdued perhaps . . . but that’s to be expected. She was a mate.’ He contemplated the dregs of his milky drink. ‘I caught him having a root round her workstation the other day, said he was looking for some manuscript or other — a piece of creative writing? He told me you knew about it.’
‘She was working on a novel, apparently. I asked Cartwright to keep an eye out for it.’
‘Well, I’ve always said everyone has a book in them, Gil.’
‘The Amber Tells.’
‘Amber? What’s that all about, then . . . dinosaur fossils? Isn’t it the palaeontologists who have a thing about amber? Are we talking Jurassic Park?’
‘Fossils? Oh, I see what you mean, Mat.’ Markham chuckled. ‘No, she was no Mary Anning. More like Jung or Freud.’
‘How come?’
‘She was into psychiatric disorders . . . in this case, traumatic dissociation and the like.’
‘Hmm.’ Sullivan sounded puzzled. ‘What about the counsellors at the community centre? Aren’t they your best bet?’
‘Drawn a blank there, Mat.’ His friend sounded despondent. ‘Rebecca doesn’t appear to have attended the surgery very often. And when she did, it was just for the usual common-or-garden stuff — coughs and colds, heavy periods . . . nothing of the “mentalist” variety.’
‘Ah, I take it Noakes has a view on this.’ Sullivan’s eyes crinkled with amusement.
‘And then some!’ Markham groaned theatrically. ‘He’s decided she was some kind of bunny boiler looking for good men to corrupt.’
‘What, Bex?’ The other was genuinely taken aback. ‘Nah, Gil, she was no femme fatale.’ Then, after a moment’s consideration, ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if she swung both ways, to be honest.’
Markham punched him on the arm in mock dismay.
‘Oh no, a sapphic twist . . . that’s all I need!’
‘Yeah, bound to get Noakes in a spin.’ Sullivan’s explosive whoop made several neighbouring coffee drinkers turn to stare at them.
‘Seriously, though, Gil . . . I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he said finally. ‘May be a case of Cherchez la femme.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Mat.’ Markham looked wistfully across at a carefree couple playfully sharing a brioche from which they broke off chunks for their beguiling, chubby-cheeked toddler. At times like this, he felt the taint of his job infected even the homeliest setting. As though he harboured a deadly virus that might replicate a thousandfold without his constant vigilance.
My name is Legion . . .
Sullivan was watching him with concern.
‘Can I get you another, Gil?’ he asked gesturing at his friend’s empty mug. ‘Looks like you could do with another shot of the sugary stuff.’
‘Better not, Mat, though I can’t say I’m not tempted.’ He sighed. ‘God, these moon chairs are surprisingly comfortable, aren’t they?’
‘Why not curl up and have a crafty kip, mate?’ Sullivan winked. ‘I won’t snitch.’
‘Knowing my luck, someone from the Gazette’d be bound to snatch a picture op. Can’t you just imagine it? Top Cop Asleep on the Job or some such helpful headline.’
‘Cue spontaneous combustion of your DCI.’ Sullivan’s shoulders heaved.
‘Yep, that’s about the size of it.’ The other’s amusement was infectious and Markham broke into a grin despite himself.
‘I’m dreading the press conference tomorrow,’ he confided. ‘We’ve got sweet FA.’
‘Sounds like a job for Kate Burton. I seem to recall your telling me she’d mastered the gentle art of bluff.’
‘Not on this scale, Mat. I mean, we’re talking three murders, for God’s sake. That means a serial.’
‘You need to buy yourself some time, Gil.’
‘Don’t I know it. But how?’
‘You’ll think of something.’ The other slapped him heartily on the shoulder. ‘You always do. When it comes to the crunch.’
‘Think of me tomorrow, Mat . . . sandwiched between that prize shit of a PR man, one Barry Lynch, and DCI Sidney . . . watching poor old Kate serve up some phooey to keep ’em all off our backs.’
Sullivan struck a mock Churchillian pose and intoned the battle-cry, ‘Never give in. Never despair. Never, never, never, never.’
Heads swivelled once again.
‘Shut up, for God’s sake.’
But the banter had cheered him up. Markham felt lighter, more buoyant, better able to go back and face whatever awaited him at the community centre.
Sullivan leaned towards him, serious now. ‘You’ll do it, Gil,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll see Bex and those poor souls get justice. I know you will.’
Sudden tears pricked his eyes. Odd that these few words of trust should mean so much.
‘Thanks, Mat.’
‘You’re welcome, mate.’ A flashing smile. ‘And if that story with the dinosaur title turns up, bags I the finder’s fee.’
Markham was still chuckling when they bade each other an affectionate farewell and went their separate ways.
