‘Shirley Bolton manages the library and study centre for us, Inspector.’
The head librarian was a petite, rather dumpy woman of vaguely Mediterranean appearance. With her jet-black hair coiled in a neat chignon and vibrantly coloured tie-dye dress, she was more prepossessing than her counterpart in the medical centre. As introductions were made, the librarian’s expressive hand gestures and rather theatrical manner reinforced the impression of foreignness while her quick darting head movements put Noakes in mind of a blackbird.
‘I didn’t see Ms Shawcross up here yesterday,’ she told them after making the conventional, but apparently sincere, expressions of regret. ‘Library staff don’t have all that much to do with the teachers — beyond dealing with research enquiries and helping kids with coursework, of course. We did the usual induction sessions for the students when they started in the sixth form, but other than that . . .’ She shrugged expressively.
Was that a flash of resentment in her eyes? A sense of being ‘lorded over’ by Hope’s academic staff? If so, it was gone so quickly that Markham couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it.
‘I understand Ms Shawcross was very popular with the students,’ the DI said levelly.
‘Yes, she was. Very enthusiastic about her subject and always happy to go the extra mile.’
‘Easy on the eye too,’ Noakes put in with an amiable leer. ‘No hardship for the lads doing detention with her.’
Watching Shirley Bolton flinch, Markham regretted the necessity of having Noakes do his dirty work. But there was no denying his unparalleled ability to flick suspects on the raw. And there was something there . . . something Noakes had said had gotten beneath the woman’s defences.
What was it?
‘Ms Shawcross was excellent with both boys and girls, Sergeant.’ The scorching look she shot at Noakes would have shrivelled a lesser man, but the DS took it in his stride. The hide of a rhino, his boss thought smothering a grin.
Shirley Bolton would definitely repay watching, Markham decided. Hopefully Matthew Sullivan, Olivia’s boss at Hope Academy, would be able to give him the low-down . . .
Peter Elford was now looking distinctly uncomfortable. The DI couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a frisson of hostility between the administrator and the librarian. Now what was that all about? Was it professional or something else . . . something to do with Rebecca Shawcross?
Whatever it was, it could wait.
Doubtless the DCI would be delighted if he were to frogmarch Chris Burt off for questioning post-haste, but Markham was planning on doing nothing in a hurry. He wanted all the pieces in place.
‘Thank you, Ms Bolton,’ he said, ‘you’ve been most helpful.’
Then, turning to Peter Elford, ‘We need to speak to other staff who were in the building yesterday.’
‘The trick cyclists, healthcare assistants an’ community midwife,’ Noakes prompted helpfully.
‘Naturally, gentlemen.’ Elford was unfazed.
‘Plus the GP from yesterday Doctor Trout . . . locum bloke . . . an’ the deputy doctor woman.’
‘That would be Doctor Troughton and the Advanced Nurse Practitioner Maureen Stanley.’
‘Right you are. Them an’ all.’ Elford’s fastidious italics were wasted on Noakes.
‘They’re assembled in the staffroom downstairs.’ The administrator’s forbearance was wondrous to behold. He turned to Markham. ‘Will you be conducting interviews today, Inspector?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon, Mr Elford.’ After a trip to Hope Academy to see what the school’s jungle drums yielded about Rebecca Shawcross. The DI wanted to ensure that his team was fully primed beforehand. And the vibes from Shirley Bolton certainly suggested a recce at Hope would pay dividends. ‘Of course, my officers will take preliminary statements, but essentially the aim today is to gain an overall sense of where everyone was in the hours surrounding Ms Shawcross’s murder.’
The usual whiff-whaff. There was certainly no question of giving Elford or anyone else an inkling of the crucial time frame.
‘If you would care to follow me, Inspector.’
With that, Elford led the way back downstairs.
* * *
The medical staffroom (also used by other staff in the building) turned out to be rather pokey and stuffy, one of a warren of consulting rooms and offices on the ground floor. The furniture was a drabber version of the amenities in the sixth-form study centre — shabbier, more scuffed and uncared for, though someone had attempted to brighten the place up with some potted African violets and ferns.
‘That’s Jenni, our horticultural expert,’ Elford murmured following Markham’s gaze. ‘She can coax plants to bloom in the unlikeliest of places.’
‘Jenni’ turned out to be Jennifer Harte, one of the centre’s two resident counsellors. She was gazelle-like in build and very pretty, with heart-shaped features. She wore her dark hair in a ponytail with a fringe, setting off her intelligent hazel eyes. Markham clocked the hippie accessories immediately but thought that, if anything, they enhanced rather than detracted from her professional persona.
The other counsellor was Tariq Azhar. Tall and handsome, with a sensitive fine-boned face and a gentle manner, there was something protective in his attitude towards his fellow therapist. Markham didn’t conclude they were a couple, but there was obviously a strong mutual affection and respect between them.
The third woman in the room — plump and motherly — could have come straight from central casting, thought Noakes, being a dead ringer for Sister Evangelina in Call the Midwife. She was introduced as Loraine Thornley.
‘Are Doctor Troughton and Ms Stanley likely to be joining us?’ Peter Elford enquired fussily, looking at his watch.
‘They should
