There was a knock at the door and a squat, athletically built girl with long dark hair and a bad case of acne appeared.
‘Jayne Pickering, our phlebotomist and trainee healthcare assistant,’ Elford intoned.
The late arrival grinned unapologetically and perched on the arm of Loraine Thornley’s chair.
‘Jayne is Loraine’s niece,’ the administrator said, as though such informality required an explanation.
‘Very cosy.’ Noakes was deadpan.
Blimey, he thought. Happy families all round what wi’ Thelma and Chris doing a double act in reception.
At that moment, Doctor Neil Troughton came bustling in, trailed by Advanced Nurse Practitioner Maureen Stanley. Sandy haired, slight and bespectacled, Troughton looked an unlikely focus of female lust, but then you never could tell.
The ANP was a wispy, washed-out-looking woman with straggling mousy hair in an untidy bun and a nervous tic that pulled at the corner of her mouth. She looked self-conscious and ill at ease, though this was quite possibly how she appeared most of the time.
It transpired that these were the members of staff who had been on the premises the day before. All were able to account for themselves. Jenni Harte and Tariq Azhar had conducted consultations in the morning and then worked on a research paper together in the afternoon. So, effectively they alibied each other. Of course, this left open the possibility of a joint enterprise.
Maureen Stanley and Jayne Pickering likewise had appointments in the morning followed by Maureen giving the healthcare assistant a training session in new injection techniques.
‘Like vampires, eh?’ Noakes said jocularly, eliciting bewildered looks from the two women.
Hastily, Markham moved on to Loraine Thornley and established that she had been out on her rounds in the morning and writing up notes in the afternoon. ‘I used the computer in here,’ she said, pointing at the rather dilapidated-looking PC in the corner of the room.
‘Anyone else in here with you, luv?’
‘No one, Sergeant. And to be honest, I was quite glad of the peace and quiet.’
So, no alibi for the relevant time, thought Noakes exchanging glances with Markham.
Doctor Troughton, too, had been alone in the afternoon, which he’d spent ‘catching up on paperwork’.
Which is why he was so bloody late for my appointment, concluded Noakes sourly. Or maybe he was having a snog with that Stanley one, assuming the ANP did a sneaky bunk from the phlebotomy training. Love’s young dream . . . not!
Which meant Doctor Troughton and Loraine Thornley were potentially unaccounted for, thought Markham, though they would need to drill down into staff movements in far more detail.
‘Thank you all for your time,’ the DI said warmly. ‘Sergeant Burton and Constable Doyle will be along shortly to take statements and contact details, so I would ask you to bear with us for a little longer. We want to minimize any upheaval to your work and anticipate the centre should be open for business as usual from tomorrow.’ He turned to the administrator. ‘Right, Mr Elford, if you would be kind enough to direct us to the incident room.’
As the door shut behind them, there was a moment’s silence followed by an outbreak of anxious twittering.
Good, thought, Markham. We’ve thrown a stone into the pond. Now let’s see what washes up.
* * *
Matthew Sullivan — lean, lanky and bespectacled — presented his usual owlish appearance over supper that evening. He’d come to Markham’s flat at The Sweepstakes, an upmarket apartment block whose chief attraction for the DI was the fact that it overlooked Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery, and an array of lichen-covered gothic tombs and monuments that he never tired of contemplating.
It had been an excellent meal — one of Olivia’s epic summer salads followed by strawberries and cream. And now the two men lounged lazily in their respective favourite armchairs, savouring the warmth of the wood burning stove (it being somewhat chilly for the time of year) while Markham’s girlfriend prepared coffee.
By tacit consent, Markham’s current investigation had not been broached during their meal, but now the time had come to discuss Rebecca Shawcross.
‘She was a reliable member of the English department, Gil,’ Sullivan said. ‘A good team player.’
‘I got a strange vibe off a couple of women in the community centre.’
‘Oh yes? What kind of vibe?’ The pleasant baritone gave nothing away.
‘A suggestion — nothing explicit, mind you — that she might have made waves . . . that she might have gotten a little too cosy with some of the sixth-form boys . . .’
Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. ‘It’s always the same when there’s a decent-looking woman on the scene, mate. In her twenties, attractive . . . the tom-toms start up, and before you know it, she’s supposed to have seduced half the school.’
Markham chuckled, knowing that Matthew Sullivan himself was immune to female charms. Indeed, like Olivia he had been badly affected by the previous murder investigation at Hope Academy, during which his hopeless infatuation with the male assistant head had been revealed.
‘How well did you know her, Mat?’
‘We weren’t close.’ Sullivan leaped up to take the tray of drinks from Olivia who then curled up on a footstool at her lover’s feet.
Companionably, the three enjoyed their coffee.
‘What about you, Liv?’ Mat enquired eventually. ‘Did Rebecca ever open up to you — girlie chats?’ Olivia pulled a face. ‘Confidences? That kind of thing.’
‘She was difficult to get to know. Bit of an ice maiden. Liked her privacy . . . Not that I blame her,’ Olivia added quickly. ‘Schools can be such snake pits.’
‘Her dad died in a car crash when she was quite young. Mum’s in a nursing home, advanced Alzheimer’s.’ Sullivan’s voice was sombre. ‘I believe she was
