He stood and introduced the team.
‘Ronnie?’ Noakes didn’t normally approve of gender-neutral names.
The other grinned, not at all put out.
‘Veronica, but it got shortened very early on.’
‘Would you like some tea, Ms Shaw?’
‘I’m back on shift shortly, Inspector . . . we’ve got our own kitchens on the wards, so I’ll grab a cuppa later.’
‘Down to business then.’ He smiled at her. ‘I understand from Kate that you encountered Rebecca Shawcross here a couple of times.’
‘That’s right, Inspector.’ Her face was suddenly pensive, the merriment dimmed down to one-quarter strength.
‘Did you know her previously?’
‘No, but she mentioned having been treated at the General’s adolescent unit. I was curious about that, but with GDPR being so tight these days I wasn’t able to find out her background.’
‘’Ow come she was visiting this place?’ Noakes jerked a finger towards the hospital’s interior. ‘I mean, it’s not like folk c’n walk in an’ take a gander . . . like it’s a day out . . . a trip to Bedlam or summat.’
‘No indeed, Sergeant.’ The DI could tell she had warmed to Noakes, that something about his blunt honesty appealed to her. ‘That kind of voyeurism has no place in modern mental healthcare.’ She paused, choosing her words with care. ‘The local authority advertised a writer-in-residence programme and potential applicants were encouraged to visit the hospital . . . do a recce, if you like.’
‘What’s one of them, then?’ Noakes was sincerely baffled. ‘D’you mean someone sitting around doing poetry an’ arty stuff wi’ the patients?’
‘They’re called “service users”,’ interjected Burton, with an apologetic air.
‘Don’t worry about the jargon,’ Ronnie Shaw said lightly. ‘Everything’s so PC these days, I often get it wrong myself.’
Markham found himself liking this woman. There was something blessedly normal and grounded about her.
‘To answer your question, Mr Noakes, I’m not completely au fait with all the details, but I understand whoever gets the job will promote creative writing as part of a therapy package in addition to producing their own work.’
‘Wouldn’t they need some sort of medical or social care qualification?’ asked Doyle.
‘I don’t believe so, though I suppose it might give someone an edge.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Rebecca was a highly qualified English teacher and they’d no doubt have given her some training . . . maybe in counselling or something like that.’
‘Sounds a bit airy-fairy if you ask me,’ Noakes said suspiciously.
‘Not really, Sergeant. You see, creative writing’s increasingly being recognized as a valuable tool in psychiatric treatment . . . And there’d be no question of someone just being unleashed on the patients . . . the clinical team would have overall control.’
‘What about if someone who applied had their own mental health issues?’
‘That needn’t necessarily be an obstacle, Inspector. It would depend on the applicant’s overall profile . . . Arguably, it might even be an asset.’
Noakes’s face was a study in scepticism, but for once he kept his doubts to himself.
Ronnie Shaw spoke with grave deliberation. ‘Don’t get me wrong, we’re not free and easy here . . . The patients’ wellbeing comes first. There’d be no question of some screwball being allowed to wreak havoc.’ Satisfied that she had made her point, she added, ‘Rebecca Shawcross had the right credentials and she was working on a novel of her own.’
‘So she came in for a “taster” visit, is that right?’
‘Yes, Inspector. It was all very secret squirrel because she didn’t want her current employer to find out. Schools don’t like it when good teachers plan to jump ship.’
‘I see.’ The DI contemplated the nurse thoughtfully. ‘What did you make of her?’
‘An interesting character,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Very charismatic and engaging.’ She hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t have had any say in the vetting process, of course . . . The idea was just for her to come in and meet some of the nursing staff . . . feel the vibes, if you will.’
Noakes gave an instinctive shudder as if he’d had enough of the Newman’s ‘vibes’ to last him a lifetime. But, with unwonted tact — perhaps in tribute to Ronnie Shaw’s likeability — he refrained from comment.
‘She was very excited about her writing project,’ the nurse said. ‘Something to do with PTSD. It was clear she’d done her research.’
‘Did she ever mention a collaborator?’
‘Oh no, Inspector. I got the feeling she wanted to play her cards close to her chest . . . But I gather it was about a teacher’s reaction to some sort of traumatic experience in the workplace . . . a psychological thriller, apparently . . . betrayal, revenge, those kinds of themes.’
‘Did she talk about her research methods?’
‘Not really . . . though, as I told Sergeant Burton, she mentioned having someone from the community centre in her pocket.’
‘Those were her exact words?’
‘Yes . . . She was kind of hugging herself as she said it . . .’
‘You didn’t get the impression this person was a co-author?’
The nurse considered the question then shook her head. ‘No . . . it was as though she was enjoying a naughty secret . . . Oh, I don’t know . . . something illicit . . .’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t wildly helpful.’
‘On the contrary, Ms Shaw. What you say is very interesting.’
The DI’s mind travelled back to the interview he and Doyle had conducted with Chris Burt. He recalled his conviction that the caretaker had witnessed something . . . had seen or heard Rebecca Shawcross meeting a mystery man or woman.
He could tell from the look of suppressed excitement on Doyle’s face that the younger man remembered it too.
Thelma Macdonald had hinted at it as well. Suddenly, he recalled Shirley
