‘Sounds like any of them could’ve done it, Gil.’
‘That’s just it.’ He threw up his hands as though in supplication. ‘Any of them could’ve administered atropine to Loraine Thornley. It would just have been a question of going to the supplies cupboard, watching and waiting . . .’
He stirred his coffee moodily and swallowed the dregs. Wordlessly, Olivia poured him another cup.
‘Thanks, sweetheart . . . Should put me on a caffeine drip, then it could go straight into the vein!’
A tight smile, but her expression was grave. ‘And no chance of breaking anyone’s alibi?’
‘Loraine was fretting about someone having said they were in one place when in fact they were somewhere else . . . but that might not have had anything to do with why she was killed . . . there could have been some other reason . . . something we’ve missed . . .’
‘Who was it she caught out in a lie?’
‘Could’ve been the nurse — Maureen Stanley. A ferrety, neurotic sort of woman with a thumping great crush on Doctor Troughton . . .’
Olivia was startled. ‘Really?’
‘Yes . . . though Troughton never suspected it . . . looked like he was going to have a coronary when we suggested she might have killed Rebecca out of jealousy or from some mad idea of avenging his stepbrother’s death.’
‘Blimey!’
‘The thing is, Maureen Stanley couldn’t have murdered Peter Elford. Her alibi for that one’s solid. She was seeing patients . . . in and out to Troughton between times.’
‘No possibility of him covering for her?’
‘Not a chance. She kept all the patient appointments . . . Kate checked.’
‘By the by, what does Kate think?’
‘As flummoxed as the rest of us . . . even her trusty time and motion graphs are no use.’ He forced a smile. ‘Muriel Noakes suggested there’d been complaints about Peter Elford via Patient Voice — that’s some sort of in-house survey — but when Kate followed it up, turned out to be something and nothing . . . Elford was a bit of a tin-pot tyrant, but there was nothing significant.’
‘You haven’t canvassed Muriel for her . . . insights?’
Markham wagged an admonishing finger at her, but his eyes gleamed. ‘Haven’t seen her since our little chat about Noakesy’s dodgy PSA scores.’
‘Hmmm. You know she sniffs out scandal faster than a truffle hog.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’ His voice held an undertow of despondency. ‘But any scandal at the centre’s stayed well under wraps.’ He held out his cup for a refill. ‘According to a contact at the Newman, Rebecca could’ve been seeing someone . . .’
‘Professional or personal?’
‘Possibly both.’
Olivia stared at him. ‘God, she was a dark horse.’ Then, ‘You don’t think it was a student, Gil . . .’
An impatient rake of the thick black hair, which was in need of a trim, Olivia noted idly.
‘I don’t know what to think any more. But what I do know is the top brass will be baying for blood if we don’t arrest someone soon.’
She began clearing away. ‘Best of luck, sweetheart . . . At least you’ll have Sunday to catch your breath.’
‘Unfortunately not,’ he said grimly. ‘There’s a service of remembrance for Peter Elford and Loraine Thornley at Medway Methodist Church.’
‘No funeral services . . . ?’
‘The bodies won’t be released for some time.’ He stood up. ‘I think there was some special exception made for Rebecca—’
‘On account of her dad being a councillor . . . ?’
‘I assume it was something like that . . . didn’t press for details . . . I could tell Dimples wasn’t happy, but they’ve opened an inquest so presumably it was all kosher.’
‘You know, Gil, I think that’s where it all went wrong for Rebecca . . . in her childhood . . . something to do with her father . . .’
‘Shirley Bolton seemed to think there was some early trauma, though whether we’ll ever get to the bottom of it . . .’ He shrugged eloquently.
‘Poor girl,’ Olivia said softly. ‘Poor little girl . . . At least now that she’s dead, no one can hurt her anymore.’
‘True, sweetheart.’
Though three innocent people had paid dearly for whatever lay hidden in Rebecca Shawcross’s past. And, with a sense of something close to despair, at that moment he felt further than ever from solving the conundrum.
He moved into the living room and out onto their little balcony.
Olivia joined him, slipping her arm companionably through his.
The day was overcast, perfectly matching his mood.
On the other side of the wall, the cemetery’s denizens slumbered peacefully beneath their green counterpane.
Markham felt oddly detached, as though suspended in a bubble . . . everything far away . . .
He experienced an overpowering urge to climb over the railings, empty himself of everything to do with the case and just stretch out under one of the yew trees . . . surrounded by the dead.
A squeeze of the arm recalled him to the present and he knew he had to leave his green refuge.
There was a red zone out there somewhere pulsing with danger, rage and pain. And, at the heart, of it a killer.
He returned Olivia’s embrace and headed back into the flat.
* * *
‘Jesus, that went well,’ Noakes said sarcastically a short time later as they faced each other across Markham’s desk in CID.
Slimy Sid’s vein-popping apoplexy had transcended
