Suppressing a sigh, Markham sat down behind his desk, whereupon Noakes promptly set aside his dogeared copy of the Gazette while Burton eagerly whipped out her police notebook. Looking at the two faces turned towards him — Burton’s tip-tilted features in amusing contrast to Noakes’s weather-beaten jowliness — the DI felt a wave of affection. Along with Olivia, they were family. The only real family he had ever known.
‘Any chance of securing DC Doyle for this investigation?’ he asked.
‘DI Carstairs nabbed him for this morning, guv,’ Noakes grunted. ‘But he promised we c’n have him back later.’
‘Good.’ Markham leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the loose spring digging into his back. ‘Right, Noakes, why don’t you talk us through the potential suspects.’
The DS cleared his throat portentously and fished into his jacket pocket for an envelope on which he appeared to have scribbled some notes. A sound that might have been a whimper escaped Kate Burton, swiftly repressed.
‘Well, it helps that all the medicos were off on a jolly.’
Burton frowned.
‘Doing CPD.’ The silly bitch loved her acronyms. ‘Continuous professional development,’ he enunciated sonorously. ‘Up in Leeds. ’Cept for two of ’em.’ He squinted ferociously at his horrible handwriting. ‘Doctor Neil Troughton — he’s the locum — an’ the ANP Maureen Stanley,’ he continued triumphantly, as though to demonstrate he could ‘do’ acronyms with the best of them.
‘Troughton was pretty calm.’ Noakes shrugged. ‘But then, it’s all in a day’s work for him, ain’t it? I mean, death . . . The professional training would have kicked in.’
‘Hmm.’ Markham steepled his fingers. ‘What about his colleague?’
‘She looked dead upset . . . could’ve been putting it on, of course.’ Noakes grinned evilly. ‘Got the feeling she fancies Troughton. Fussing around him with cups of tea and whatnot . . . went bright red whenever she spoke to him . . .’
Burton’s disapproving look was back, but Markham didn’t halt the flow. Noakes was good at picking up vibes that loftier types tended to miss.
‘Who else was in the vicinity yesterday, Sergeant?’ Markham prompted.
Noakes began counting them off on his stubby fingers. ‘Well, there was the receptionist Shelly. Poor little cow. She was hysterical. Mum had to come and collect her . . . we can rule her out—’
‘We’re not ruling anyone out, Sergeant,’ the DI interposed mildly.
‘Yeah, well I don’t see Shelly for it, guv.’ The DS stuck to his guns, but Markham let it pass. Noakes was the doting father of a teenaged daughter Natalie, trainee beautician and undisputed doyenne of Bromgrove’s less salubrious nightspots. Oblivious to the ‘extracurricular’ activities of his own daughter, Noakes had a soft spot for young girls and was good with them too.
‘Go on, Sergeant.’
Noakes resumed his roll call. ‘Right . . . bloke called Peter Elford’s the community-centre administrator. All Brylcreemed hair and smarm. Seemed efficient, mind,’ the DS conceded grudgingly, ‘but deffo in love with himself.’ A brief scowl and he continued. ‘There’s a caretaker who reports to him . . . Chris Burt . . . middle-aged . . . not sure he’s the full shilling, if you get my drift. Special needs or summat like that. Anyway,’ he went on hastily before Burton could accuse him of inappropriateness towards minorities, ‘Elford bosses him round good-o. Burt’s sister Thelma Macdonald’s the surgery office manager. Sour-faced, bit of a harridan . . . She was over in the library visiting her mate when we found the body.’
‘Who’s the mate?’ Burton was scribbling vigorously.
‘Another harridan.’ Burton’s pen stilled. ‘Sorry . . . the head librarian Shirley Bolton.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s jus’ that they didn’t seem to care about that poor cow being found dead in the fridge.’
‘You can’t necessarily read anything into that, Sergeant. Shock affects people in different ways,’ Markham put in.
‘Yeah, I know, guv.’ Noakes shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s jus’ . . . well they didn’t even seem surprised.’
Interesting. What was it about Rebecca Shawcross that could have marked her out as a candidate for murder?
‘Then there’s Loraine Thornley, the community midwife. Nice, kindly woman,’ Noakes said approvingly. ‘Now she was proper upset. You could tell. One of the phleb–phleb—’
‘Phlebotomists?’ suggested Burton helpfully.
‘That’s right.’ Noakes accepted the prompt with more grace than in former days. ‘One of them girls . . .’ He consulted his notes once more. ‘Jayne Pickering, the phleb thingy . . . healthcare assistant or what have you. She looked after Loraine, gave her a lift home.’
‘Any other personnel?’
‘A counsellor or therapist woman . . . Jenni Harte. All floaty clothes . . . ethnic scarves and bangles . . . you know the type. Born-again hippie.’
Burton’s lips compressed, but she said nothing. The entente cordiale was holding. But only just. Watch it, Noakesy, the DI warned him in silent semaphore. Thin ice.
Message received and understood.
The DS cleared his throat. ‘An’ there was another therapist or trick cyclist. Asian guy. Very quiet. Seemed a decent sort. He and Jenni were reviewing a case together . . . didn’t hear or see anything.’
Noakes had run out of fingers.
‘Is that the whole dramatis personae then, Sergeant?’ The DI’s voice was dry.
‘Pretty much, guv.’ Noakes ran pudgy hands through his hair so that the frowsy thatch stood on end in porcupine quills. Not a good look. ‘There’s a sixth-form study annexe,’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘or learning centre or whatever the new-fangled name is . . . That’s on the first floor with the library. The surgery’s downstairs.’
Hormonally challenged seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. They had to go in the mix too.
‘Are the students supervised?’ Burton, as ever, wanted specifics. ‘I mean, presumably there are teachers in there with them?’
Noakes scratched his chin. ‘I think they sort of do shifts .
