The DI stood.
‘Excuse me for just a minute,’ he said beckoning DC Doyle into the corridor.
‘Shirley Bolton’s waiting to see me,’ he said quietly. ‘Please tell her I may be a little while yet.’
‘D’you want me to stay with her, sir?’
Markham was thoughtful. The librarian had wanted to tell him something but was nervous of being overheard. If there was the remotest possibility of her being in danger, he didn’t propose to take any chances.
‘Yes, Constable, keep her in view but be discreet about it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They should be clearing away upstairs by now. Just make sure any stragglers are off the premises . . . only the staff on our list allowed on-site until the SOCOs give the word.’
Doyle brandished his clipboard with an air of executive efficiency. ‘Got it, sir.’
The DI smiled, nodded and returned to the incident room.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Doctor Troughton,’ he said gently, observing the man’s ravaged appearance.
Noakes’s face suggested hemlock might be more appropriate.
‘A glass of water if you have it, Inspector.’
Quietly and efficiently, Markham fetched the drink, sat down and waited.
It was one of his gifts, Burton reflected. The ability to create a feeling of space even when they were eyeball to eyeball with a suspect. It contributed to that air of natural command — something many of Bromgrove CID’s ‘gold braid mob’ were lacking.
Troughton gratefully gulped down his drink and cleared his throat.
‘I was passing through the entrance lobby a few weeks back when I heard one of the receptionists call out her name.’ His face twisted. ‘Gave me quite a turn, I can tell you.’
It was obvious even to Noakes that Troughton was telling the truth, the shock of that discovery very clearly etched across his pinched features.
‘Did you confront her?’
‘Not immediately, Inspector.’ Another spasm. ‘I told myself I’d stay well clear . . . But then she turned up for her annual review—’
‘What’s one of them, then?’ Noakes demanded.
‘You’re supposed to have a full check-up every year, sarge,’ Burton explained. ‘Weight, blood pressure, heart rate, that kind of thing . . . to see if you’re at risk of diabetes, stroke . . . all sorts of conditions, really.’
The mulish look on her colleague’s face almost suggested that if it was all the same to the medical profession, he would prefer to have his own way, guzzle contraband and die happy.
‘What happened, Doctor Troughton?’ Markham prompted.
‘Well, our ANP Ms Stanley was down to do the review but I asked her if I could take it instead.’
Noakes frowned. ‘Didn’t she think that was a bit odd?’
‘I said something about knowing Ms Shawcross’s family from way back. I’d appreciate this chance to catch up . . . renew an old acquaintance . . .’
‘D’you think she bought it?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t really care. I just wanted to . . . have the chance of . . .’ His voice thickened. ‘I wanted to tell Rebecca Shawcross what I thought of her . . . wanted to do it for Phil . . .’
‘An’ did you?’
‘I tried, Sergeant.’ Troughton briefly shut his eyes, remembering. ‘It felt like I was on a knife edge . . . needing to lance the boil . . .’
He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I told her she’d destroyed Phil . . . took away the only thing he’d ever wanted to do . . . and then swanned off to live her lovely life while he gassed himself in the car.’
Impossible not to feel sympathy for the sallow, beaten man in front of them.
Noakes broke the silence. ‘What did Shawcross say?’
‘Just came out with a load of psychological jargon about “conflicted family dynamics” and “sexual ambivalence” . . . Said she was “confused about her identity”,’ Troughton air-quoted angrily. He swallowed, visibly struggling to bring himself under control. ‘It was eerie . . . her delivery was so clinical, almost robotic, as if someone had coached her.’
‘Didn’t apologize then?’
Troughton’s hands clenched and unclenched. ‘She said Phil was a “casualty of the process” . . . A casualty!’
‘Did you lose it, mate?’ Noakes’s voice was insinuating now. ‘If it’d been me, I’d have lamped her.’
‘Oh, I wanted to, Sergeant, but . . . it wouldn’t have brought Phil back . . .’
‘The two of you were very close.’ Burton’s voice was soft.
‘Well, we were a unit . . . though there was an age gap, obviously. But our personalities blended very well together . . . Phil was a kind, gentle, sweet soul. Too sensitive for his own good.’
‘What did Shawcross accuse him of?’
‘Inappropriate touching . . . sexual suggestions . . . grooming, if you like. But,’ his voice was suddenly fierce, ‘the case was dropped . . . they couldn’t make any of it stick . . . insufficient evidence. Plus she had form . . .’
‘Form?’
‘Word had it she was the school bike.’ From such a mild-looking man the sudden crudity was almost shocking. Even Noakes was taken aback.
The school bike.
Markham wondered what it was in Rebecca Shawcross’s background that had prompted her to concoct a story about the young art teacher. Some sort of teenage rebellion, an adolescent crisis? Or had there been something uglier at work there — domestic sexual abuse, perhaps? With Ted Shawcross dead and his wife long since lost to the twilight world of Alzheimer’s, he doubted they would ever know the truth.
‘Is it possible your colleague, Nurse Stanley, could have . . . misinterpreted your wanting to do Ms Shawcross’s review yourself?’
With customary acuity, Burton had put her finger on a possible scenario. One which suggested another suspect for Rebecca Shawcross’s murder.
Noakes
