‘Don’ beat yourself up.’ This, surprisingly, was Noakes. ‘They’re medical professionals, see . . . it’s the Florence Nightingale thing . . . kinda lulls you into a false sense of security. You trust ’em, don’tcha?’
‘That’s true, Sergeant.’ The DI was warmed by this show of esprit de corps. ‘It’s why our politicians get sentimental over the NHS.’
‘D’you reckon Peter Elford knew about Rebecca Shawcross and that teacher — the one who committed suicide after she made stuff up about him?’ Doyle was still unravelling the threads. ‘Is that why he didn’t turn Jenni in . . . cos he thought Shawcross was a wrong ’un?’
‘Possibly,’ Markham said. ‘He was the kind of man who made it his business to know where the bodies were buried.’
‘Perhaps Rebecca gave him the brush-off and he harboured a grudge . . . she could even have been going to report him . . .’ Burton ruminated.
Doyle’s mind was busy with possibilities. ‘Maybe he fancied his chances with Jenni . . . y’know, sexual blackmail . . .’
‘But she was a lesbo!’ Noakes swerved dangerously.
‘Which would have added savour to the situation from his point of view, Sergeant.’ And might explain the malicious way his body was posed in death.
‘My missus jus’ won’t believe this.’
Markham had a feeling that Muriel Noakes’s predilection for true crime made her shock-proof, but kept this thought to himself.
‘You weren’t wrong about there being two killers in this case, Noakes,’ he observed with a view to distracting the other from the imponderables of sexual diversity.
‘Oh aye?’
‘Yes. It was when we discussed whether Chris Burt had the nous to carry out the killings. You suggested someone else might be “pulling the strings” . . . and that’s exactly the scenario we’ve got here . . . Jenni Harte manipulating Jayne Pickering.’
‘Oh yeah.’ They were stuck behind a lorry moving an inch at a time, so Noakes’s mind had time to cogitate. ‘Doctor Troutface said the way Shawcross talked to him was dead mechanical . . . robotic, like someone had coached her.’ The traffic was moving again. Noakes ground his gears with unnecessary vigour. ‘Makes you wonder what the chuffing hell went on in them “therapy” sessions.’
Some kind of unholy bonding, perhaps over shared trauma. With Rebecca Shawcross gone, it was unlikely they would ever get to the truth.
The rain continued to come down relentlessly.
‘Jeez, will you just look at it,’ Noakes groused. ‘When you think how nice an’ sunny it was when we were sitting on that patio the other day.’ Markham noticed the DS avoided all mention of the fountain.
It was interesting, he reflected, how they had felt liberated that afternoon, as though evil had temporarily lifted from the community centre.
And it was true. Jenni Harte had taken Jayne home after Rebecca Shawcross’s funeral. The premises were free of their malignant presence.
But now? Was the arson attack their doing?
‘Who d’you think set this fire, boss?’ Doyle asked, almost as though he could see into the DI’s mind. ‘I mean, it might’ve been a prank that got out of hand. Students or local lads messing about . . . wouldn’t be the first time . . .’
‘You could be right, Doyle.’
But Markham felt uneasy.
‘Or p’raps Burt’s gone off on one,’ grunted Noakes.
‘How d’you mean, sarge?’
‘Well, he’s . . .’ In an unusual concession to Burton’s sensibilities (quid pro quo), the DS groped for an inoffensive epithet, ‘special needs, right?’ Waiting until he’d overtaken a bus, he amplified, ‘The stress got to him or summat . . . mebbe he was worried about us picking him up . . .’
Given the line Sidney was taking, it would not have been an unreasonable assumption on the caretaker’s part.
‘So, he shoots off and tries to burn the place down?’ Doyle sounded incredulous.
‘You got a better idea, Sherlock?’
‘What about Harte and Pickering? They’ve murdered four people between them, so arson’s pretty much all in a day’s work.’
‘Bit extreme, though.’ Burton joined the debate. ‘I mean, what’s the point? They don’t know about Leo Cartwright coming to see us . . . From their point of view, it’s just a case of sitting tight and brazening things out.’
‘Mebbe one of ’em lost it.’ Noakes’s imagination was clearly gripped by the idea of a Wicker Man-like conflagration. ‘Don’ serial killers like setting fires? I read somewhere it’s one of the signs or summat.’
‘Along with cruelty to animals and bedwetting.’ Burton was a stickler for accuracy. ‘But it usually happens in childhood.’
They turned into Gwydrin Crescent, then round the corner into the community centre car park. It had finally stopped raining, but the day seemed prematurely dark and still.
Simon McLeish, a sandy-haired man, thin and spare with a strong Northern Irish accent, crunched across the gravel towards them.
‘Not much to see really, Inspector.’ The fire chief was a man of few words.
‘Where did it start?’
‘The covered storage area round the back where the bins are.’
‘No major damage, then?’
‘It didn’t get a chance to take hold. A local woman . . . neighbour or some such . . . she called it in. Seemed to think there might be prowlers.’ He waved towards the fire engine. ‘I’ve parked her there for the time being. One of the team’s looking after her.’
‘Who was first on the scene, Mr McLeish?’
‘“H” division. I didn’t attend initially, but then I heard it was the community centre and . . . well, with everything that’s happened, I thought I’d better take a look.’
‘It’s definitely arson?’
‘Oh yes, without a doubt. I’ve got the area screened off and taken some samples . . . That’s about it for now, but no doubt you’ll set up your own checkpoint.’ His voice held
