DEATH OF A PRIME SUSPECT
By Paul Edmund Norman

A half hour later he rolled out of bed and went into Sally's room to wake her, as he had promised. She shared the room with Gail, and Mark was stuck with the smallest bedroom. One day, he had no doubt, they would need a bigger house. Sally stirred but did not wake up.

            'Sal! It's six o'clock. Do you want a cup of tea?'

            'Mmm.'

            'Is that 'yes'?'

            'Mmm.'

He gave up, went downstairs and filled the kettle. There had been a heavy frost during the early hours, following the rain. The trees and shrubs were frozen into lifeless sculptures, and there were icicles hanging from the bathroom overflow on the house opposite. 

            Sally staggered sleepily downstairs and into the front room, wearing her dressing gown and no slippers.

            'You should put something on your feet. The heating's only just gone on, it's very cold down here.'

            'I'll be all right, Dad. Did I hear you say something about tea?'

            'Ready in a minute. Anything I can do to help?'

            'No, thanks. I nearly finished last night. I can do the last bit now, then I've got a tutor period first thing, before the exam.'

            He poured the water into the teapot and joined her on the settee.

            'Worried?'

            'About the exam? No, not really. Won't help to worry, anyway.'

            'Good girl.'

She had inherited that attitude from her mother, who never worried about exams. Thompson, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves, even though he always passed with flying colours, often achieveing the maximum score possible. It was just the way he was. And with the bundle of nerves there was always the need to go to the toilet before an exam. Luckily, she had not inherited his nerves, his nervous bowels.

Sally spread her books open on the coffee table, selected the one she had been reading the previous night, and settled back against the cushions.

            'You want a biscuit with your tea?'

            'Please. Something to keep me going. What are you doing today?'

            'Nothing much. I have a couple of people to see. Was there any mention of Kim at school yesterday?'

            'In afternoon assembly, yes. They warned us not to go about alone until the killer is found, not to go anywhere where there are no people, you know, waste ground, that sort of thing.'

            'Good. That's sensible.'

He went into the kitchen and poured out three cups of tea. He took Sally one cup and a chocolate digestive biscuit, then took the other two cups and another biscuit upstairs.

            Shirley was fast asleep. He shook her gently.

            'Tea?'

            'Mmm.'

            'On the thing, next to you,' he said. He broke the biscuit in half, stuck his half into his mouth where he crushed it and swallowed it in little more than one gulp, then went into the bathroom.

            Five minutes later as he was putting his clothes on, he reached into the wardrobe for a clean shirt, when his hand touched the leather blouson he had been wearing the day of the Sharringford fire. He pulled it out of the wardrobe and put his hand into the inside pocket. Inside was his old warrant card, which he had reported missing after Sharringford, and for which he had been issued with a new one. It had fallen down inside the lining, which had somehow been torn by.....no, it was no use, he could not remember how it had come to be torn, but it did not matter, he had a warrant card, that was what mattered, now he could carry on with his investigations.....

            He pocketed the warrant card and put the blouson away. He would probably never wear it again because of the torn lining. He hated wearing shabby clothes, even if the torn part was inside, out of sight. A pity, really, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. Or was it because he had been wearing it in Sharringford?

            Oh, how he wished he could remember what had happened, not just to him, but to everyone in Sharringford that day....

            He could recall considering various theories as to the cause of the fire, he recalled how Wilson had ordered him off the case when he had asked for the fire hoses to be turned off, and he recalled how he had walked away from Wilson, leaving him to it

            Get on with it, then

and following the line of the fire until he was well away from Wilson and the firemen and Ken Hargreaves

            You can see what the water is doing to the fire

who were all shouting, and waving their arms about, and the fire was getting worse the more water they aimed at it.

            It's making it worse, don't you see

You're off this case, Thompson, go home, get out of my sight

            Further along the lane he had seen a small gap. He remembered the gap, vividly, because it had seemed big enough for him to get through, into the village, where those people, those poor people

            Not poor people, bad people, bad, bad people, a rapist

were trapped by the fire, Frank Hartford, the American airman,

            a child murderer, a man who had murdered his uncle

Adam and Katy Cartwright, Lucy Walker, Danny Robertson, Joanna

Robertson...........

            his aunt, his parents, a satanist.....

Joanna Robertson, Joanna Robertson, Joanna Robertson, Joanna.....Jo.....Jo.....

            There had been something about Joanna Robertson in the report Ken had brought round for him, something not properly documented, but which he almost remembered, almost, but not quite, not clearly, something her husband had said, he had broken down, crying, crying, because Ken Hargreaves had turned up something about her which had set Thompson off on another theory, a theory that all of the people trapped in the village were trapped there for a reason, because they were bad, because someone wanted revenge, because they were bad, they were all bad.....

            He sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes, even though it was still only half-past six. He always put on his shoes first thing in the morning, he liked to be fully dressed, ready for anything.

            'Are you sure you're all right?'

He turned round to see Shirley sitting up in bed, drinking her tea.

            'Yes, I'm fine.'

            'You won't forget?'

            'Forget?'

            'To let me know exactly where you are, when you're coming home.'

            'Of course not. I'm not going yet, anyway. Better get the kids up, I think.'

            'Let me go in the bathroom first.'

            'Okay.'

He went in to wake Mark, then Gail, then went downstairs to make sure Sally had not fallen asleep.

            But she was fine, she was reading, wide awake, beautiful, like her mother....

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