‘Motive?’ he asked simply.
‘Fancied Doctor Trout an’ decided to bump off Shawcross either cos she thought the doc was sniffing round her,’ Noakes paused impressively, ‘or cos she earwigged that conversation about Shawcross being responsible for the doc’s stepbrother topping hisself an’ decided to pay ’er back.’ Noakes looked pleased with himself, clearly considering that his solution possessed a certain symmetry.
Jealousy on the one hand or revenge on the other. Markham could see it was feasible.
‘But what about Elford, sarge?’ Burton pressed the oracle. ‘Assuming he discovered Stanley was the killer and tried to blackmail her, how’d she manage to take care of him? She couldn’t be in two places at once . . .’
‘Must’ve had an accomplice.’ Noakes was reluctant to see his theory go up in smoke.
‘Who, sarge?’
Her colleague was stumped. ‘Dunno,’ he said dejectedly. Doyle too looked deflated.
Time for a shot of encouragement, the DI thought.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘you could be right about there being two people involved.’
‘Really, boss?’ Doyle looked hopeful once more.
‘We’ve come across double acts before, haven’t we?’
Too right. Burton shuddered as she recalled previous investigations.
‘What about the drama teacher?’ Noakes asked. ‘I'm too sexy for my shirt, Too sexy for my shirt, So sexy it hurts,’ he crooned in a mock falsetto.
Doyle grinned at Burton’s aghast expression. Could be worse, he semaphored. At least Noakesy’s not throwing shapes.
The DI grimaced. ‘Leo Cartwright’s in the clear for Rebecca’s death,’ he said. ‘Filming GCSE assessments all day, remember.’
‘What about Elford’s?’ his subordinate persisted.
‘Well, he’s a form tutor and it’s registration at 8:30.’ Markham spread his hands, palms turned upwards. ‘Too big a stretch, Sergeant.’
‘A student — a sixth-former, then. Someone else Shawcross had messed with . . . an’ Stanley got ’em on board somehow . . .’ Noakes’s voice petered out.
‘Bit of a push, sarge.’ Burton echoed the DI’s misgivings.
Noakes’s underlip shot out. ‘Look, Shawcross was a screwed-up kid,’ he said contumaciously. ‘She messed wi’ folks’ heads.’ He ran greasy fingers through his wildly rumpled hair. ‘What about that creative writing shit — the PTSD hoojah . . . Could’ve been her own little playground for psychos . . . mebbe one of ’em hooked up wi’ Stanley . . . that lad we met at Hope . . . Tyrone . . .’
‘Tyrone couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, Sergeant,’ Markham pointed out.
And anyway, he was fairly certain Matthew Sullivan or Mary Atkins would have picked up on anything hinky like that.
‘On the other hand,’ the DI mused, ‘it won’t do to overlook the creative writing angle . . .’
‘What about that book she was writing — the one about traffic lights . . . ?’
‘It wasn’t The Highway Code, sarge.’ Burton sounded exasperated and Doyle smothered a grin.
‘Okay, okay . . . Well, you tell us then, since you’re up on all that crip crap.’
‘The Amber Tells,’ Burton had it off pat. ‘A novel about psychotherapy . . . the manuscript’s gone missing and they can’t find it.’
‘The Case of the Missing Book,’ Noakes mugged. ‘Jus’ like summat out of Agatha Christie.’ He looked meaningfully at Doyle. ‘You’re a fan, ain’tcha?’
The DC cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, but I don’t see how Shawcross’s book ties in,’ he said.
‘Me neither,’ Noakes concurred. ‘Too bleeding fantastic by half.’
‘What about those appointment books?’ Doyle asked suddenly. The other three looked at him. ‘You know, the ones nicked during that break-in.’
‘What about ’em?’ Noakes shot back truculently.
‘We thought Shawcross might’ve had an appointment with someone in the centre and that’s how Peter Elford made the connection with the murderer . . . cos he’d been snooping and put two and two together.’
‘That’s right, Constable.’
‘She could’ve been having therapy here on the quiet . . . unofficially, sir.’ Doyle’s eyes kindled with excitement.
‘Why would she need to keep it a secret?’ Noakes was mystified.
‘Dunno, sarge . . . P’raps there was something dodgy about it . . . maybe something unethical . . . Or maybe she just liked the idea of nobody knowing.’ The DC’s ingenuous, open countenance was comically at odds with his murky speculations. ‘She was the sort of person to get off on having secrets.’ His face fell. ‘Mind, I don’t see Jenni Harte or Tariq treating her on the sly.’
Burton agreed. ‘Can’t imagine either of those two doing anything unprofessional . . .’
‘They’re an item, yeah?’ Noakes was turning it over. ‘“Together Forever”.’ He clutched his chest histrionically.
Before he could segue into a soulful rendition of Rick Astley, Markham said dryly, ‘We don’t know that they’re a couple, Sergeant.’
‘Well, they look pretty bloomin’ loved-up from where I’m standing, guv . . . An’ they’re each other’s alibi for both Shawcross and Elford.’
‘Hmm . . . Shirley thought Tariq might have been susceptible to Rebecca’s charms,’ Markham pointed out. ‘That doesn’t sound like he and Jenni were a couple.’
‘And can you honestly see Jenni Harte throttling someone?’ Burton snorted her derision. ‘She’s just about the only normal person in the place . . . handled things brilliantly when Jayne Pickering freaked out at the funeral.’
The DI summoned up a mental image of Jenni Harte with her almost oriental delicacy of feature and gentle manner. She and Tariq Azhar struck him as being more like siblings than lovers, but still . . .
‘The therapy angle might lead somewhere,’ he said, smiling inwardly as he observed Doyle’s freckled face glow with pleasure. ‘We need to re-interview the two therapists.’ He considered carefully, steepling his fingers in a characteristic gesture. ‘Also Maureen Stanley and Jayne Pickering . .
