Death of a Prime Suspect

by Paul Edmund Norman

It was bitterly cold on King's Lynn station platform. The wind was coming off the Wash, and there were particles of ice floating on it. The wind chill factor was quoted as reducing the temperature to minus five degrees, and it was easy to believe. Thompson could not remember a cold spell so early in autumn for many, many years.

            It was the first time he had used the recently electrified service. Frequent through trains to London, the opening ceremony banner had promised. He had been there that day, on duty, watching out for the Queen Mother, along with a couple of dozen other undercover officers.

            They had brought an electric train into the station, parked it there and pretended for all the world as though the service started on that day, when in reality it was still a month or so away.

            Anyone else would be done for fraud.....

            Frequent through trains to London.....

            And a hike in fares to pay for it. That would be the next thing. He was profoundly glad he was not a commuter. The train, which stopped dead at King's Lynn [bus to Hunstanton and Peterborough] was as much use as....ah! what was the use of worrying about something he did not have to put up with himself, except very infrequently.

            He was only making this trip today in order to satisfy himself that it would have been possible for Kieron Macklin to leave his hotel, travel back home then back to London early to arrive before the morning conference session. He was not sure why Mack would want to do such a thing, in fact the only reason he had been able to come up which was in any way satisfactory was to check on his daughter - and to abuse her.

            The interview with Macklin had been short, and heated.

            'Let me get this straight, officer! You are accusing me....'

            'Not accusing, Sir.'

            'Suggesting, then, that I travelled from King's Cross Tuesday night on the last train, to check up on my daughter, then went back to London on the earliest train? Preposterous! Why would I do such a thing?'

            'I'm sorry, Sir, I have to investigate a sighting....'

            'Sighting?  Of me?'

            'As a matter of fact, yes, Sir. Your next-door-neighbour claims she saw you here during the early hours of the morning on Monday. She says she saw you throw Bellamy out of the house.'

            'She is mistaken!'

            'You deny it, Sir?'

            'Certainly I deny it!'

Thompson had had no choice but to tell Macklin that Bellamy had spent some time with his daughter, and that had served only to put him in a worse mood. He had not yet had time to question Kerry properly about Bellamy, but he was getting himself ready for that, oh, yes!

            'Do you have any idea of the times of the last train to King's Cross.....'

            'If you're trying to trap me into admitting something I categorically did not do, you are wasting your time, Inspector. I remained in the hotel all night, every night. My wife will confirm that I was with her the whole time, for the duration of the conference, and so will the hotel staff. Do I make myself clear?'

            'Would you mind telling me the name of the hotel, Sir?'

            'The Palace. Knightsbridge.'

            'Thank you, Sir.'

            'Have you finished with me?'

            'For the time being, yes.'

            'Then I will see what my daughter has to say about having that - animal in the house! Good day to you, Inspector.'

            Thompson resisted the temptation to correct him in the use of his proper title, and left him to it. In fact, he was surprised that Macklin had let him in in the first place. The word must be out by now that he was not on the case, not even supposed to be working, just poking his nose in, as it were. He would not find Kerry for the time being, she was out. Her mother did not know where she had gone, neither did her father. His interrogation of her would have to wait until she decided to return. If he was a betting man, which he was not, and if he cared to put money on it, which he did not, Thompson would have said she was probably with Bellamy. He had told her when he arrived that he was going to tell Macklin, that he had to tell him because of the line of enquiry he was following. She had run off, crying, before he could stop her.

            The train was in sight. Beside him on the platform were the inevitable Americans, returning home after their brief sojourn in the East Anglian winter; a young girl wearing a British Rail waistcoat which was manifestly too small to cover her ample bosom; she was waiting to hoist onto the soon-to-depart train the 'buffet', a kind of three-tiered trolley from which she could serve coffee, tea, beers, spirits, and snacks; two young men with bicycles and rucksacks, a lady of about forty who wore her hair ridiculously short and carried a cigarette in a holder, and wore a man's suit, and a man who looked as though he might be a surgeon, judging from the flamboyant red bow-tie and matching suit-pocket-handkerchief. A surgeon, a judge, or a businessman. It mattered not which, when all was said and done. They were of no interest to Thompson.

            Thompson turned to the buffet girl and smiled. She had bleached hair, her face was heavy with make-up, and she was, beneath it all, quite pretty.

            'Do you do this run every day?'

            'Most days.'

            'Do you get the weekend off?'

            'I do seven days in a row, then a day off. It's overtime.'

            'Were you on the train Tuesday?'

            'Yes.'

            'What about the last train? From King's Cross to here?  Tuesday night?'

            The girl shook her head.

            'No, Gary did that run.'

            'Gary?'

            'He went on the eight-thirty-two this morning. He'll come back this afternoon.'

            'Where could I find him?'

            'He'll be hanging around King's Cross somewhere, I expect. What do you want him for?'

            He flashed his warrant card.

            'He ain't in trouble, is he?'

            'No, it's nothing like that. Here, let me help you with that.'

            She pushed the button and the doors slid open gracefully, noiselessly. Thompson went into the carriage and lifted the end of the buffet trolley off the platform, then jumped down and lifted the other end. It was remarkably heavy, and he supposed the buffet girls and boys, for most of them were around school-leaving age, relied on the public to assist them in getting on and off the trains.

            'Thanks. Why do you want Gary?'

            'I just want to talk to him. When we get to King's Cross, can you point him out to me?'

            'Sure. I know where he’ll be.'

Thompson settled down in a seat that threatened to fall off its mounting at the slightest provocation. They all seemed to be the same.  After promising a fleet of brand new electric trains for the King's Lynn to London run, Network South-East had done the expected thing and shipped some old electric trains up to East Anglia instead. Now the line had been privatised, things were absolutely no better. In many cases they were a lot worse. Better than old diesel electric railcars, though, he supposed.

            The train pulled out of King's Lynn on time with the familiar door warning warble. He had done the journey several times in the past, on the old trains. The only difference now was not so much a faster journey as a quieter one. There was still that long stretch of single line track between Downham Market and Ely. The fens still stretched off either side, boring, flat, uninteresting.

            Whoever said that Norfolk was flat, very flat - Noel Coward was ultimately responsible, he supposed, although it was his character that actually said it - must have approached it from this direction. This was flat.

            The stations came and went with long minutes in between, and in fifty minutes they were pulling into Cambridge. Again only a handful of people boarded the train. The time of day was not a lucrative one for this line.

            He had intended talking to the guard, or the ticket inspector, or whatever he liked to call himself, but none was evident. A one-man train, literally. He could have got on the train anywhere between King's Lynn and Finsbury Park without buying a ticket. All he had to do the other end was to say he had not had time to get a ticket at Finsbury Park and pay at King's Cross. It was ludicrous. Pare the service to the bone to save money and lose thousands of pounds through fare dodgers. He supposed there were random ticket inspections. 

            They passed through the home county of Hertfordshire, a series of large London overspill towns with massive, empty office block buildings every few hundred yards. No one to fill them, no work. It was depressing.

            When they finally arrived at King's Cross it was five minutes past twelve.

            Very little different to the journey time before electrification.  The train had stopped at Stevenage and Finsbury Park after Cambridge.  A 'fast' train, knocking perhaps two or three minutes off the original time if you got the connections right at Cambridge. Progress.

            Thompson again helped the girl off with her trolley.

            'I have to restock me trolley. I'll see you out by Smiths in five minutes. That's probably where you'll find Gary.'

            'Thank you.'

He walked through to the main station, saw a bank of public telephones, three of which were occupied. He put a fifty pence piece into the money box of a vacant telephone and phoned home, told Shirley where he was, when he would be back. She told him that Ken Hargreaves had been round again, and he should contact him as soon as possible.

            He fished in his pocket for another coin, found a one pound coin and called Ken, who told him briefly that Vanessa Farmer and Alex Hegan had called in at the station, expecting to see Thompson, and wanted him to know that Mark Hegan had broken into the Manor House to search for something. Vanessa felt that it had something to do with the Sharringford incident that he was having difficulty recalling. Gerry Keene was going to talk to them later.

            'Thanks, Ken, I owe you one. I'm in London right now, checking out Kieron Macklin's alibi.'

            'Alibi?'

            'No time to explain now, just keep an eye on things until I get back this evening, will you?'

            'Right you are.'

The buffet girl was standing by the flight of steps which led to the underground.

            'He's in Smiths, like I said. Come on, I'll point him out to you.'

Gary was looking at the home computer magazines. At first he was suspicious when the girl introduced Thompson, but relaxed when he told him the information he was seeking. He had not seen Macklin on the train Sunday night - Thompson produced a photograph which he had obtained from Macklin for that very purpose, but he did remember a man very much like him on the train, who had gone all the way to King's Lynn from King's Cross.

            'You're sure it wasn't this man?'

            'Not totally sure, no,' Gary said doubtfully. 'He was the same build, I suppose he could have been wearing a disguise of some sort. Might have been related.'

            'I think that's very likely. Thanks for your trouble. Are you on the afternoon train to King's Lynn?'

            'Yes.'

            'See you later, then.'

Thompson took a taxi to the Palace hotel in Knightsbridge as he rather wanted to catch that afternoon train home, and could not be sure that the underground would get him to and from Knightsbridge in time. The porter informed him that he had definitely seen Mr Macklin leave the hotel early Tuesday evening, and had not seen him again until the following morning, when he took the Macklins their breakfast. At that time Mr Macklin had been fully dressed, unlike the previous and subsequent days, when he had been still in bed.

            Thompson thanked the porter, made a note of his name and address, and checked with two more of the hotel staff, who could not confirm the porter's story but only because they too had not actually seen Macklin from Tuesday tea time until the following morning.

            It looked as though Macklin had some explaining to do. Thompson thought he would pull him in for questioning at the station, where his bluff and bravado would probably not surface, then he remembered that he was not on duty, not even working for the force at the present time. No matter. He would pay him another home visit.

            He made his way back to King's Cross and found Gary waiting at the gate to platform 9b, from which the train was due to depart at two-thirty.

            He purchased a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and gave the lad a five pound note, telling him to keep the change for the trouble he had gone to in trying to identify the man who had travelled on the Sunday night with him.

            The train pulled in as Thompson fed his crust to a one-legged pigeon. Again he helped load the buffet trolley into the carriage, found himself a quiet part of the compartment and settled down for another two-hour journey.

            Once more the train stopped only at Stevenage and Cambridge before carrying on to the east coast.

            The sky was black as they pulled away from Cambridge, and before long the rain started in earnest, lashing against the windows and bringing an early dusk to an already short day. Thompson closed his eyes. There had been a dozen passengers on the train between London and Cambridge, and ten of those had left the train there, leaving Thompson, Gary and a young schoolgirl travelling home to Downham Market.

            Thompson thought of the impending interview with Macklin, and wondered how the man would wriggle out of this one. He could not prove that Macklin had travelled back from London, but he now knew he had been lying when he denied leaving the hotel, and that made him a possible suspect for the murder of Kim Catchpole, provided he could prove that the journey times were feasible.