Seeing that Noakes was gearing up for a paean to ‘the good ole days’, Markham took over.
‘Students and staff will need to be checked out, obviously.’
Noakes noticed a shadow pass across the guvnor’s face. Blink and you’d miss it, but he’d seen it there.
‘’Course, we won’t let anyone bother your Olivia, guv,’ he said gruffly, the tips of his ears turning pink with consternation.
Looking at this unlikeliest of Sancho Panzas, Markham was strangely moved. Even Burton, that stickler for protocol and propriety, echoed, ‘It’s probably got nothing to do with the school, boss. And anyway, Olivia was nowhere near, so like Noakesy said she’s got nothing to worry about . . .’
Burton felt the familiar hollow ache when she saw how the DI’s normally austere features softened at the mention of his girlfriend. No one had ever looked at her like that and doubtless never would. Least of all dependable, unromantic Colin . . .
She pulled herself together. Noakes was wearing that expression again. The one that suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. The last thing she needed was her fellow DS’s pity!
Whatever bound her enigmatic boss and the ethereal Olivia together, it was an unbreakable bond and that was the end of it. Besides, she had come to like the dreamy-souled English teacher whose fragile appearance concealed a roguish wit. Everyone knew it had taken months of therapy and a lengthy period out of mainstream teaching for Olivia to recover from the Hope Academy murders. Burton sincerely hoped this new investigation wouldn’t trigger a setback.
‘Thanks, both of you.’ Markham smiled at them. ‘I’m sure Olivia will cope.’
He sounded more confident than he felt.
There was a smart rap and DC Doyle’s carrot top appeared round the door.
‘What happened with Carstairs, lad? Thought he wanted you,’ Noakes blurted out.
‘He could tell I was pining for you, sarge,’ the other grinned. He turned to the DI. ‘Do you want me on this one, sir?’
No affectation of casualness. No assumed indifference. That was the refreshing thing about Doyle. He made no secret of his preference for Markham’s maverick unit above all others.
‘Indeed I do, Constable.’ Markham’s voice was warm. ‘Come on in.’
There was no chair for him in the minuscule space, but the loose-limbed, gangling young detective leaned against the doorframe nodding affably to Burton.
‘Sharp suit,’ Noakes grunted.
‘Knew you’d like it, sarge, what with you being a fashion aficionado. Hugo Boss.’
Pleasantries over, Markham quickly briefed the new arrival before handing out tasks.
Then he turned back to Doyle.
‘I need you and Kate to set up an incident room in the community centre. Usual pack drill. Get the office manager on side while you’re about it. We’re going to want access to HR records and all the rest of it.’
Noakes was waiting expectantly.
‘You and I will get the administrator—’
‘Peter Elford.’
‘We’ll get Mr Elford to give us the guided tour . . . see what we can glean before starting on interviews.’
‘Has the DCI been briefed yet, sir?’
‘A pleasure deferred, Constable,’ Markham replied deadpan. His subordinates knew all too well that the boss looked forward to sessions with Sidney with about as much enthusiasm as most people await root canal work. As far as Slimy Sid was concerned, the name of the game was always ‘operation cover up’. Anything that risked staining Bromgrove’s civic reputation — and thereby potentially the DCI’s own — was to be avoided at all costs. Markham was willing to bet Sidney was already dusting off his favoured bushy-haired stranger theory with a view to distancing Bromgrove’s great and good from anything vaguely scandalous or embarrassing. God, it would be like the Newman Hospital case all over again.
The DI’s mind drifted briefly back to the team’s investigation of Bromgrove’s psychiatric facility when they had uncovered a can of worms which included both police and medical malfeasance. Corruption in high places — Sidney’s ultimate nightmare. Little wonder he had wanted to pin any wrongdoing on the nearest available nutter!
He suppressed a groan. Sidney could wait. For now, they needed to get a handle on the centre and its habitués.
‘Do we have any kind of motive yet, sir?’ Burton enquired.
‘According to Dimples, Ms Shawcross wasn’t sexually assaulted. But other than that . . .’ The DI shook his head. ‘She was likely taken by surprise. Let’s hope it was over quickly.’
An explosion of fiery pain and then . . . nothing.
For an instant, his eyes were remote, unseeing.
Rebecca Shawcross had been so young. Only in her mid-twenties. Pray heaven there was some unseen realm, some bright and happy place beyond the grave that victims were called upon by God to populate. He had to cling to that thought lest thoughts of all those he had been unable to save should drive him mad.
The other three waited respectfully, accustomed by now to Markham’s moments of introspection when he was ‘talking wi’ dead folk’ as Noakes was apt to put it.
Then he was back with them. ‘It was a vicious attack,’ he said quietly. ‘Nasty and vicious.’
‘An’ shoving her in a fridge like that.’ Noakes shook his head. ‘Like she was some kind of specimen . . .’
Burton was thoughtful. ‘Could a woman have done it, sir?’
‘Undoubtedly, Kate.’ The DI flexed his long slender hands as though measuring their strength. ‘If we’re right and the attacker had the advantage of surprise, he or she could have been taken down Ms Shawcross in a trice.’
Ms Shawcross. Always that respect for the victim. No gallows humour ever on Markham’s watch.
‘But
