‘We don’t know when precisely Jenni learned what Rebecca Shawcross was up to . . . or when Leo Cartwright ended his relationship with Jayne, for that matter.’ The DI stood up and began to pace in front of his office window with its unrivalled view of the station car park. Then he wheeled round on them. ‘But whatever the time scale, somehow Jenni prepared the ground so that Jayne was responsive when the moment came . . . bitter about being dumped by Leo, deeply resentful of Rebecca . . . and in thrall to her mentor.’
For a time, the four detectives said nothing. Outside a dull, louring sky pressed down upon the station, trapping it in a vault of oppressive silence. In Markham’s office the stuffy air felt acrid and difficult to breathe. Or maybe, the DI reflected, it was the effect of their disquiet. He felt oddly isolated from the outer world where ordinary people were going busily about their weekend tasks.
Then suddenly the air was filled with the sound of a soft, quick pattering and there came a kettledrum rumble. ‘That’s thunder,’ Noakes spoke with relish. ‘Jus’ like guns firing.’
Outside the sky seemed to sink ever closer to the ground.
The thunder crashed and pealed.
Unlike Noakes, Kate Burton hated storms. As she sat in Markham’s office, transfixed, it felt as though some vengeful gathering of hidden deities were converging to destroy them. Naturally she shared nothing of these fancies with her fellow officers for fear of ridicule, though something about the DI’s face told her he shared that sense of helpless impotence in the face of cosmic fury.
She braced herself for lightning, but it never came. There was just the rain coming down faster and faster until it was a solid sheet deluging the station. Outside, the regiment of leylandii that screened the police station from Bromgrove High Street buckled beneath the drenching onslaught, bending and bowing before the storm.
Nature’s discord jolted Markham from the lethargy that seemed to hold them spellbound.
Returning to his chair, he said, ‘We need a plan.’
‘Harte an’ Pickering don’ know we’re on to ’em,’ Noakes observed.
‘When I was sorting the car for Leo Cartwright, I warned him not to say anything about coming to see us.’
‘Can he be trusted to stick to that, Kate?’
‘I reckon so, sir.’ She rumpled her pageboy vigorously as though to clear her head. ‘He looked properly scared . . . I think he’ll stay well clear of anything to do with the centre.’
‘Good.’
‘You said Pickering’s dangerous, boss. What if she decides to do another?’ Doyle interjected.
Markham toyed with the idea of surveillance before abandoning it. Such a move would only bring Sidney down on them like a ton of bricks. He could almost hear the cobra-like hiss of outrage likely to greet the revelation that his prime suspects were medical personnel. If anything was likely to trigger a premature transfer of the case to Blethering Bretherton, that was it.
‘I don’t think they’ll move against anyone else for now, Doyle,’ he said quietly. ‘Killing Azhar will have cost them . . . physically and emotionally . . . They’ll be spent . . .’ He hoped to God it was true. ‘But you’re right about the danger. I want them out of circulation as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t we bring them in now, guv?’
‘What have we got, Noakes? I mean, what have we really got?’ He spoke in a low strained voice. ‘We can’t go to the CPS with stuff about metaphors and Jaffa oranges . . . we’d be laughed out of court.’
The DS looked mutinous. ‘Harte was involved with Shawcross an’ kept it a secret . . . Pickering was dumped by Leo Cartwright an’ likely hated Shawcross cos she an’ him were at it like knives . . .’ Not the happiest expression in the circumstances. ‘An’ Shawcross pinched the therapy stuff for her novel.’
‘All circumstantial I’m afraid, Sergeant. A smart brief will have an answer for everything.’
‘And in forensic terms, like Dimples said, we’re not likely to get anything . . . or at least nothing that can’t be accounted for by DNA transfer or cross-contamination.’ Burton was glum.
‘Mebbe we c’n break Pickering’s alibis.’
‘Unlikely, Sergeant . . . especially with Loraine Thornley gone.’
‘Wotcha saying then, boss?’ Noakes’s tone was defiant. ‘I mean, we can’t jus’ wait till one of ’em decides to confess . . . they ain’t as screwy as all that.’
‘No . . . I don’t think there’s much likelihood of a confession,’ Markham agreed. He still found it almost impossible to believe Jenni Harte complicitous in the murder of her gentle co-worker, but his gut told him it was true. He imagined the therapist posing Tariq Azhar’s corpse with the same deft precision she brought to her horticultural projects and shivered convulsively.
‘What if we pulled ’em in . . . tole them what we’ve got . . . Cartwright meeting Azhar an’ showing him that stuff in the synopsis . . . ?’
‘We could try.’ Markham felt unaccountably weary, as though sandbags were attached to his limbs. He became aware of the other three looking at him expectantly. ‘But they’d be lawyered up in no time . . . and then it’d be “No comment” all the way. We haven’t got enough and they know it.’
‘What about divide and conquer, boss?’ Doyle too was in never-say-die mode. ‘We could try and turn them against each other. Jayne’s quite young, isn’t she? Twenty or so and under Jenni’s thumb. Apply the right pressure . . . she might just crack.’
Markham recalled Rebecca Shawcross’s funeral service and those empty zonked-out eyes . . . but Jayne Pickering had gone on to kill again.
‘Jenni Harte has a powerful
