He was a great believer in that — letting the murder scene speak to them.
* * *
Outside, drizzle was still falling softly as they headed for the car park, rain pattering steadily and relentlessly on the tombs of St Chad’s.
Time to track a killer.
2. A Neighbourhood of Spies
It had stopped drizzling by the time Markham and Noakes drew up in the community centre car park, but the day was still dull and overcast, lending no lustre to the unbeautiful square building in front of them.
‘Could do wi’ summat to brighten the place up,’ the DS grunted. ‘One of them art installation jobbies or whatnot.’
‘You surprise me, Sergeant.’ Markham’s tone was quizzical. ‘I seem to recall you not being very keen on them when we visited the “psychos” at the Newman. In fact, I had the distinct impression you considered art therapy a poor substitute for hypodermic syringes.’
‘Well, I know more about it now than I did then,’ Noakes said huffily. ‘What with all them visits to the art gallery when we were on the Alex Carter case.’
The DI somehow repressed a sarcastic rejoinder, having observed no signs of his sergeant’s cultural sensibilities having undergone any such transformation. If anything, Noakes had seemed even more stoutly opposed to Pre-Raphaelite art at the conclusion of their investigation than at the beginning.
‘None of that Victorian bollocks,’ the DS qualified beadily, as though only too aware of what Markham was thinking. ‘Summat nice an’ ordinary . . .’ He cudgelled his brains for inspiration. ‘Summat cheerful.’
‘Well, I believe there’s some sort of fountain or water feature round the back, Noakes, but that’s about it.’ Time to meet the old warhorse halfway. ‘You’re right, though. It doesn’t exactly raise the spirits.’
The DS was mollified. ‘Surgery’s on the ground floor,’ he reminded his boss. ‘Library an’ sixth-form annexe upstairs.’
‘Have the SOCOs finished yet?’
‘Pretty much, guv. Should be done by end of today. Only essential staff allowed in for now.’
‘Fine.’ Markham spoke briskly. ‘I want things running normally again as soon as possible. Least possible disruption to the community, if you get my drift.’
No need to mention the DCI’s obsession with civic PR.
Noakes nodded grimly.
A man was waiting for them in the entrance porch.
‘Peter Elford. The one who thinks he’s God’s gift,’ Noakes muttered out of the side of his mouth.
Hmm. Elford certainly wasn’t anyone’s idea of an Adonis, thought Markham, being short, sallow and shifty looking with beaky nose and eyes set too close together. What was it Noakes had said about him back at the station — ‘all Brylcreemed hair and smarm’? Well, the coiffure may have been lacquered into place and there was a certain preening self-consciousness about the man, but he appeared presentable enough and perfectly in command of himself and the situation apart from a certain wariness about the eyes.
Introductions followed.
At times, Markham thought he detected the slightest hint of a Northern inflection ruthlessly suppressed. ‘Your colleagues are setting up an incident room for you in the surgery seminar room, gentlemen. It’s at the end of the corridor behind reception. I’ll make sure you all have keys by the end of the day.’
‘Excellent, sir.’ Certainly Elford couldn’t be faulted for efficiency. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could give us a tour of the building and introduce us to key personnel. Obviously, we’ll be conducting interviews with everyone who was in the building yesterday afternoon, but a walk-through would be useful if you have the time.’
‘Of course, Inspector. Whatever I can do to help . . . I didn’t know Ms Shawcross personally.’ That remains to be seen, thought Markham. ‘But it was a shocking attack.’
Grudgingly, despite feeling a certain visceral antipathy to the administrator, Markham gave him credit for concision and lack of gush.
Elford ushered them forward to the surgery reception counter where a large doughy-looking woman presided, her piggy eyes surveying them from behind milk-bottle specs.
Jesus, what a Ten Ton Tessa, thought Noakes. Unable to turn around without the use of tugs — not the best advert for healthy living.
Noakes took a step backwards as she simpered at them.
Or rather, not so much at him but Markham. The DI’s dark good looks had her fluttering like a schoolgirl.
‘This is Thelma Macdonald, the surgery office manager,’ Elford said. ‘She’s in overall charge of the administrative staff.’
More introductions.
The woman raised a self-conscious hand to her fine blonde hair, ill-cut in an approximation of a gamine crop.
Markham smiled charmingly. ‘Ms Macdonald, I hope our investigation won’t cause you too much disruption,’ he said with customary old-world courtesy. ‘We appreciate that this is a very distressing time for everyone who works here.’
She didn’t look too distressed from where Noakes was standing. In fact, the DS thought, she looked keyed-up . . . almost triumphant in a queer, gloating kind of way.
‘I understand you were in another part of the building when Ms Shawcross’s body was discovered.’
‘That’s right, Inspector. I don’t normally leave the junior receptionists unsupervised . . .’ She bridled self-importantly at the idea. ‘But yesterday was unusual in that most of the medical staff were away.’
‘CPD,’ put in the DS unctuously. Might as well get maximum mileage from this new-found acronym.
‘Yes.’ Her look of surprise heightened Noakes’s gratification. ‘In Leeds.’ Somewhat nervously, she wetted her lips. ‘There were only a few afternoon appointments.’
‘So you decided to slope off for a bit.’ Noakes winked at her conspiratorially. ‘When the cat’s away an’ all that.’
She drew herself up with some hauteur, jowls wobbling. ‘Certainly not, Sergeant. I merely visited the library to see if a book I’d reserved had arrived.’
Interesting, Markham thought.
