Stop digging, Noakesy, Markham pleaded silently as Burton continued to regard her colleague with stony displeasure.
Somehow, he really didn’t feel up to hearing about Muriel Noakes’s prescription for middle-aged equilibrium. Especially not if it involved any revelations about his sergeant’s sex life.
‘It’s an interesting theory, Kate,’ he said, decisively cutting off any further debate about female psychobiology.
‘I bet the doc gives Stanley a wide berth at that meeting with wotsisface from the Newman.’ Noakes chuckled wickedly. ‘No getting cosy with their heads together over them slides.’
‘I’m sure Doctor McCaffery will be an effective chaperone, Sergeant.’
‘At least now the poor sod knows which way the wind’s blowing . . . Fancy not twigging she’s after him!’
‘Perhaps natural modesty prevented him from picking up the signals.’
Uh-ho, it was a bad sign when the guvnor started getting sarky. Adroitly, Noakes changed the subject.
‘Who’s next, guv? The library woman?’
‘Yes, I think we’d better speak to Shirley Bolton now.’
The DS looked out of the narrow louvered window with all the wistfulness of a caged animal.
‘Why don’ we go round the back?’ he suggested. ‘It’s getting dead stuffy in here.’
‘Sounds like a plan, Sergeant.’ Markham smiled at his jaded subordinates. ‘We can get some fresh air and then see what Ms Bolton has to say. There’s a table and chairs on that patio next to the water feature.’
‘Little Shelly said it’s by some local sculptor. It’s an obel . . . obel summat or other . . .’
‘Obelisk?’ Burton supplied helpfully.
‘That’s the fella.’ Once upon a time, Noakes would have resented her superior knowledge, but time had mellowed him. ‘It’s hollow, so the kids like it cos it’s good for hide an’ seek . . . there’s a space for people to step inside.’ He looked ruefully down at his paunch. ‘Skinny folk, at any rate.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ Markham laughed. ‘Lead on Macduff!’
Macduff? Oh yeah, now he got it. From that Shakespeare play with the witches. Pleased to think that he and the guvnor were sharing a literary allusion and with only the most sidelong of triumphant glances at his fellow DS, Noakes headed for the door.
* * *
It was a relief to get outside, though the back garden of the centre was little more than a stretch of lawn with a patio at its far end. A wooden table, four chairs and a wonky parasol in a rusting umbrella stand completed the amenities.
Still, the sun had made an appearance and for a few minutes they basked in its warmth.
Looking back at the community centre, Markham felt briefly as though the evil had receded before he recalled Loraine Thornley’s body stiffening in the morgue.
His colleagues too seemed to feel they were under a dispensation, bickering amicably about the water feature.
‘Ackshually, come to think of it, it’s not really an obel-wotsit at all,’ Noakes observed. ‘More like a brandy snap wi’ the top cut off.’
‘That’s not a bad comparison, Noakesy,’ Markham laughed, surveying the grey stone. ‘The sides are too curved for a classical obelisk.’
‘Shelly said the idea was to put some kind of war memorial out here cos of its being a municipal space . . . good for the students from Hope too . . . remind ’em of the world wars an’ stuff.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Then they realized there wasn’t that much room, so the sculptor had to do summat modernistic and low-key otherwise it’d look a bit daft.’
Burton wandered round the cylindrical monument. Loath as she was to concede anything to Noakes, she had to admit it did resemble a brandy snap. And the fountain didn’t appear to be working.
‘There’s a little plaque here at the base,’ she said crouching down. ‘The inscription says it’s dedicated to Bromgrove’s war heroes.’
All quite right and proper.
Burton momentarily disappeared from sight.
‘Oh yes,’ her voice was sepulchral, coming from inside the structure. ‘You can stand inside . . . it’s cool and echoey . . . And there’s little jet nozzles on the floor . . . must be a pump somewhere underneath . . .’
‘Are you going to give it a go, Noakesy?’ the DI teased, receiving only a grunt by way of reply.
The DS didn’t look sold on the idea of a Marabar Caves experience, though Markham was willing to bet if Olivia had been there she’d have been able to coax her devoted cavalier into giving it a try.
Burton reappeared.
‘Shall I fetch Shirley Bolton, sir?’
Noakes squinted at her balefully. Kerr-ist . . . didn’t she ever knock off! Couldn’t imagine her ever doing a bit of sunbathing or anything that involved honest-to-god relaxation. No, it’d be all culture vulture stuff . . . museums and galleries a go-go. That poor bloody fiancé. It was probably highbrow yakety-yak yakking all day long . . . in bed too, like as not . . . He blushed guiltily, suddenly uncomfortable at the direction his thoughts were taking.
Well aware of his sergeant’s inner monologue, the DI answered as though Noakes had spoken out loud. ‘Kate’s right, Noakes. We need to get a move on. The clock’s ticking and so far we’ve got nothing.’
‘I know, guv, I know. It’s jus’ . . . well, somehow it feels different out here . . . like whoever’s doing this took a hike . . .’
The DS was highly sensitive to atmosphere. Interesting that he too felt something evil had temporarily dissipated . . .
* * *
Burton was back with Shirley Bolton.
The librarian sank gratefully into the chair Markham pulled out for her and shrugged off her jacket.
Chuffing Nora, thought Noakes, what’s with the psychedelic get-up.
‘I didn’t want to wear black, Sergeant,’ she said simply, catching the look. ‘Too depressing. I think Rebecca would have liked some colour.’
‘I’m sure she would,’ Markham said firmly.
