Suddenly, his attention was caught by raised voices and a minor commotion over by the bouquets.
‘What’s up?’ he asked Kate Burton who came crunching over the gravel towards him.
‘Crisis over,’ she answered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Jayne Pickering got a bit emotional, mouthing off at Thelma and Shirley. Called them hypocrites because they were always bitching in corners about people and — excuse my French, sir — didn’t give two fucks about Rebecca Shawcross or anyone except themselves.’
‘Where’s she now?’ Markham’s eyes scanned the crowd.
‘Jenni Harte calmed her down. She and Tariq are going to take her home . . . sit with her . . . make a cup of tea and what have you.’
‘Good. This is all too soon after her aunt.’
‘Yeah,’ Noakes came up with Doyle. ‘Poor cow’s all tranked out . . . Don’t know what the quack gave her, but she looks like a freaking zombie. Anyway,’ he rubbed his hands, ‘is it back to the community centre now, guv?’
‘Yes, Noakes.’ Markham resigned himself to the inevitable. ‘But just remember the watchword, eh?’
‘Got you, boss.’ Noakes turned to Doyle who was blushing at the attention from Hope’s buxom belles. ‘Just remember you’re a married man, mate. Or as good as.’
The DC tore his eyes away. Didn’t want any adverse whispers getting back to his new squeeze in Traffic.
Markham seemed to be trying not to smile — and succeeding without difficulty when he saw the DCI’s bonce bobbing above the crowd. Sidney wouldn’t want to share any potential PR op, so it was time to make himself scarce.
‘Come on, troops.’
As they made their way towards the car park, he thought of that lonely trestle in the chapel behind them. Somehow he wished he’d been there for the ‘chimney bit’ — to wish Rebecca Shawcross godspeed. As it was, he vowed once again to bring the community-centre killer to justice, more than ever convinced that whoever they were after had been right there gloating and exulting at having pulled it off . . .
I’ll get them, he called to the dead girl’s spirit. And for an eerie moment, he imagined he saw her rise from the coffin and wave him on his way.
* * *
In the event, despite the minor drama at the crematorium, the buffet back at the study annexe passed without incident.
Noakes somehow restrained himself from demolishing everything in sight, telegraphing his self-denial to Markham via a series of winks and nods which threatened to undermine his superior’s composure. As promised, Olivia was an angel on the DS’s shoulder, even managing to talk him out of a flapjack-fest in favour of quiche and healthier dainties. Catching her lover’s eye, she semaphored, I’m on it. From the goofy, dazzled look on Noakes’s face, it was clear Olivia had his number.
Markham noticed Tariq Azhar slip unobtrusively into the room and gratefully help himself to an orange juice. God, the man was seriously good-looking with his dancer’s physique and those liquid eyes — in the mould of Art Malik or some other Asian heartthrob. Could there have been anything going on between him and Rebecca Shawcross? Was the therapist a spurned lover of hers?
Azhar caught his glance and came over.
‘Jenni’s stayed with Jayne, Inspector,’ he said. ‘She was worried about her being alone.’
‘Your colleague struck me as having a soothing effect.’
‘She’s brilliant with the bereaved.’ It was said without a trace of professional jealousy. ‘Always seems to find the right words . . . creates time and space. Never rushes them.’
Shirley Bolton bore down on them with a plate of brownies, looking somewhat discomfited after the scene with Jayne Pickering. The DI noticed she was watching him closely out of the corner of her eye, as though she wanted to speak to him.
Azhar seemed to sense this too. Politely, he took the plate from her. ‘Let me take over for a bit, Shirley.’ He gestured to one of the ‘break out’ zones. ‘Why don’t you take a load off?’ The slang sounded incongruous coming from this soft-voiced, elegant young man.
The DI gestured her to an easy chair.
Vibrantly, almost garishly dressed, in a rainbow-hued maxi dress, she caught Markham’s sideways glance at her attire. ‘I had a long jacket over it in the chapel but didn’t want to wear head-to-toe black.’ She paused awkwardly. ‘She was such a young girl . . . in her twenties . . . It didn’t seem right for us all to come here looking like crows. I just wanted to bring a touch of beauty . . . something . . .’ A deep breath. ‘I think she would’ve liked a flash of colour.’
The DI was oddly touched but remained on his guard. ‘And why not, Ms Bolton? I seem to recall that white was the colour of mourning in France at one time. Didn’t they call Mary, Queen of Scots, La Reine Blanche for that very reason?’
A wry smile. ‘That’s right, Inspector. The Queen knew it was a good look. “The whiteness of her face rivalled the whiteness of her veils.”’
‘Was that the reason for Ms Pickering’s . . . outburst earlier? Did she misinterpret your intention — with the bright colours?’
‘What, you think she imagined I was dancing on poor Rebecca Shawcross’s grave?’ The woman looked startled and then bit her lip. ‘Though it’s true I wasn’t her greatest fan.’ Her eyes darted round the room and came to rest on a little group huddled by the magazine racks. Markham recognized Leo Cartwright, Maureen Stanley, Doctor Troughton, and one or two other medical staff from the surgery. A few feet away Thelma Macdonald stood talking to Shelly
