‘Look, Inspector, not everyone in this place is quite what they seem.’
Suddenly, Shirley Bolton had his full attention.
‘What do you mean by that, Ms Bolton?’ he asked calmly.
‘I don’t want to talk here . . . too many people watching.’
‘Not a problem.’ Markham was determined there would be no repeat of what had happened with Loraine Thornley. Secrets can kill. ‘I suggest you come down to the incident room in half an hour or so.’ Unnecessary to tell her that she should aim to avoid attracting attention in the meantime.
Maureen Stanley hadn’t taken her eyes off them since they’d started talking. Now the nurse was moving their way. Close up, Markham decided there was something avid, almost hungry, about her. He supposed it was down to her dilapidated appearance, like a house that could find no buyers.
‘I’ll be off shortly, Shirley,’ she said in carefully modulated tones, behind which a Northern accent was discernible. ‘Doctor McCaffery wants to go over some slides with me and Doctor Troughton.’
‘Fine, fine, Maureen.’ Shirley Bolton sounded distracted. Then she remembered her manners. ‘I’m sure we’ll catch up later on.’ An afterthought struck her. ‘Doctor McCaffery . . . now where have I heard that name before? Doesn’t he practise at the Newman?’
There was a certain reserve in the ANP’s manner. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He and Doctor Troughton did some research on neural regeneration.’ Now the woman seemed anxious to be gone. With a bob of the head in Markham’s direction, she headed towards the stairs. The DI watched her thoughtfully. She had a curious gait — a sort of awkward jogtrot, perhaps left over from some early accident she’d sustained.
The Newman, he thought, remembering those entries Rebecca Shawcross had written in Hope Academy’s sign-out log. ‘Research’ and ‘Newman’. Were these murders connected with the psychiatric hospital and, if so, what was the link? It appeared Doctor Troughton had some affiliation with the place, and there were quite likely others . . .
People seemed to be drifting away.
Suddenly Olivia was at his side.
‘It was grim, wasn’t it?’ she said sympathetically.
‘Awful,’ he replied.
‘At the end, though, I had the strangest feeling that maybe it was a tragedy for us but not for Rebecca . . .’ She met her lover’s startled gaze. ‘Yes, even though she was murdered . . . As though she’d somehow escaped from an intolerable situation that was only going to get worse.’ Her eyes were sad. ‘As though she was never going to make old bones. Sorry,’ she gave an embarrassed laugh, ‘this sounds like I’m into ESP or something.’
Markham put an arm around her.
‘No,’ he said tenderly. ‘You’re just very intuitive.’ He pondered a moment. ‘I had an impression of Rebecca as being a bit of a vamp . . . a neurotic troublemaker. Interesting that you have a sense of her as a victim caught in a trap . . .’
There was a hint of tears in her voice. ‘At least now she’s thrown it all off and moved on to her next adventure. Well done, Bex.’
Matthew Sullivan read the situation at a glance and came over to them. ‘I’m driving her back to school, Gil.’ And to Olivia. ‘Come on, hon. You look done in.’
In little groups and knots, the mourners dispersed.
Suddenly, Burton was at Markham’s side.
‘I’ve had a call from the General Register Office, sir.’
‘Excellent. What have they got for us?’
The DS drew him into an alcove, her face alight with suppressed excitement.
Markham felt the stirrings of hope. Was this to be the longed-for breakthrough?
‘They gave me a name, sir.’
Doyle and Noakes had joined them now, sensing that something was up.
‘Phil Carmichael—’ she began.
‘The teacher who killed himself . . . the one Shawcross fingered as a paedo—’
‘He had a stepbrother.’
Three pairs of eyes were riveted on her.
‘He’s been here under our eyes the whole time . . .’
The room seemed to hold its breath.
‘Doctor Neil Troughton.’
11. An Opening
‘I didn’t have any idea who she was . . . only found out by chance.’
‘An’ you expect us to believe you?’
‘Whether you believe me or not, Sergeant, it happens to be the truth.’
Doctor Neil Troughton had none of the defiance or bluster of a guilty man, but Markham knew appearances could be deceptive. Certainly Noakes was openly sceptical, having on receipt of the bombshell discovery let loose a battery of expletive adjectives without any substantive to accompany them. As far as the DS was concerned, Troughton’s connection to Phil Carmichael pretty well concluded matters and all that now remained was to slap on the handcuffs.
They were sitting round the conference table in the incident room, Noakes eyeing their suspect beadily, as though he suspected the man might make a break for it given half a chance.
The community centre was hushed. No reassuring hum of voices or cheerful clatter of office staff. The surgery and consulting rooms had been cordoned off after the discovery of Loraine Thornley’s body, with patients being redirected to Medway Medical Centre. SOCOs were still in the building, having okayed the use of the library and study annexe for Rebecca Shawcross’s funeral wake. Centre personnel now had the use of their staffroom or were free to work from home,
