Thompson’s day began, as every one had for the past four weeks, with a blinding headache and a sharp pain in the lower pit of his abdomen. Yet by the time he had completed his toilet and emerged from the bathroom to get dressed, the headache had receded and the abdominal pain was bearable. His dreams were vivid, colourful, sometimes horrific, with images of devil-worship and naked women occurring with a frequency that he found quite stimulating but ultimately disturbing.
Through them all, there was the village of Sharringford where, four weeks earlier, he had almost broken his ankle while people were dying in the terrible fire. His memory of the incident was so sketchy as to be laughable. So sketchy, in fact, that he had not been able to submit a full report. Added to that was the fact that he had been on sick leave since the incident, some of the time with his ankle encased in plaster. Now he could walk, with a very slight limp, but at night he woke often in a cold sweat, and with three distinct and awesome pains, in his head, his belly, and his ankle.
Whatever had happened in Sharringford had been sufficient to cause the headaches and was certainly responsible for the pain in his ankle. The bellyache was something else, something sinister that he would have to investigate, sometime…..
Thompson had been a policeman most of his working life. Not for much longer, though. At the age of forty-six, with twenty-five years in the force behind him, he was leaving. Retiring. The incident in Sharringford had almost certainly made that decision for him. One morning soon after, he had written a brief note explaining that he no longer wanted to carry on in his present situation. Other than a brief and extremely formal acknowledgement that the administration department at County Headquarters had received his resignation, he had heard nothing. There had been no visit, no telephone call, nothing.
Sooner or later his superior officer, Superintendent Trevor Wilson, would come to his house to try to persuade him to withdraw the notice. But he had made up his mind. The sick leave, the headaches, the ankle pain, and now the abdominal pains that creased him up in the morning but subsided during the day, had hardened his mind to the thought of going back. He had altogether lost his taste for police work. It was as though his appetite for solving crimes and putting villains behind bars had disappeared overnight. He had had a gutful.
Today, as usual, he lay on his back waiting for the headache to subside, and it did so, quicker than usual, although that could have been because the belly pain was so much worse, so much sharper than he remembered it. Today he spent almost a half-hour in the bathroom, evacuating particularly stubborn and painful bowels before shampooing his hair and washing himself thoroughly, then dressing casually.
Shirley, his wife, had thought he might be ready to return to work. To serve out the remaining few weeks of his notice, but when he dropped into the chair at the breakfast table dressed in his jeans and a casual shirt, she knew that he intended spending another day drifting, avoiding the confrontation of what had happened in Sharringford. Avoiding his colleagues, all of whom were genuinely concerned about him. Avoiding her.
‘How is it this morning?’
‘Same as yesterday. No, not quite so bad, I suppose. Kids gone?’
‘It’s after eight!’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘What are you doing today?’
‘I might drive to the coast. Have a slow walk along the front. You want to come along for the ride?’
‘No. I’ve got work to do.’
There was a coolness about her voice that suggested she did not approve of what he had planned for the day. A coolness that had come between them in the last few days, when she expected him to snap out of it and he wanted to carry on staying at home, doing nothing, just thinking and resting with his ankle supported on a cushion.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and immediately wished he had not, for whatever tolerance there might have been lurking beneath the surface of her demeanour evaporated in the silence that descended into the kitchen like an invisible steel wall.
Thompson poured orange juice into a tall glass and ate a slice of toast. Ten minutes later he was in the car and on his way to Sheringham.
Two
Thompson was Susie's only customer at the precise moment that Wilson found him. He had already drunk two cups of coffee and eaten a slice of Susie's homemade coffee gateau, but he ordered two more coffees at Wilson's request and on his promise to pay. It was not often that Superintendents bought their subordinates coffee. Or anything else, for that matter.
'How long now, Mike?'
'Four weeks.'
'Do you come here every day?'
'Not every day. Some days. It's conducive to my recovery.'
'How is the ankle?'
'Painful.'
Wilson wished he hadn't asked. One of the reasons for getting yourself promoted to Superintendent was so that you could avoid some of the detailed unpleasantness the others had to deal with.
'A few weeks, you said.'
'You said.'
'Four weeks are up, then?'
Thompson sighed. 'I suppose.'
'Feel like talking about it?'
'Every week since I went on sick leave you’ve found me, either at home, or here, or somewhere else, and asked me if I want to talk about it. No, I don't. I don't know if I ever will.'
Wilson sipped his coffee. It was surprisingly decent for a small sea
'I'm not satisfied with your report, Mike, not like your usual reports. I normally look forward to them.'
'I'm sorry. It's the best you'll get for the time being.'
'It isn't just me, either,' Wilson continued, ignoring him. 'The assistant chief constable is aware that something happened in Sharringford a few weeks ago, he wants to know who did what and how the matter was resolved. It wasn’t just a fire, was it?'
Thompson closed his eyes as the pain from his ankle washed over him.
It wasn’t just a fire.
'I wrote a report.'
'Not good enough. And what's more, I can't see any reason why you can't come into the office, catch up with some paperwork. You're able to drive a car, for Christ's sake! If you can drive, you can get back to work!'
Thompson shook his head and smiled.
'You're wasting your time. I'm not ready.'
Wilson sighed, drained his coffee and stood up. At six feet four inches he put the fear of God into most men, but not Thompson, who was just an inch shorter himself.
'I tried, Mike. I tried. Shirley is worried about you. Very, very worried. She wants to know what you went through in Sharringford. She wants to help.'
'I know. There's nothing I feel I can tell her, or you for that matter, right now. Maybe one day it will all come out, but not now. I simply can’t remember what happened.'
'So when are you coming back to work?'
'Let's just say not yet.' Maybe never. Maybe I won’t come back at all, not even to clear out my desk.
Wilson nodded grimly and walked toward the door.
'Sir,' Thompson called softly. Wilson turned.
'You haven't paid, Sir. For the coffee.' When they had found him, in the Manor House, in Sharringford, his ankle had been badly damaged, mangled as if by a ferocious cat. He had made no sense. They had taken him to hospital, discovered the hairline fracture in his ankle, patched him up and taken him home. For several days he had been unable to put any weight on it.
He tried to remember Sharringford.
No way in.
No way out.
Fire, everywhere.
No telephones worked, no radio contact.
Thompson had been called to the incident to find a few people in the village had been trapped by the fire. After a while Thompson had apparently found a way in. His memory of what had happened from then on failed him completely. He remembered making his way to the Manor House, and that was it. The following day, the fire had at last been brought under control, and the emergency services had entered the village to find only three survivors from a possible nine, Thompson, and a young woman and her son. Five houses had been burned to the ground, with considerable damage to another seven in the same street.
Thompson's story.
His account of what had happened.
Incomplete.
There had been many witnesses to the fire, of course, among them his sergeant, Ken Hargreaves. He had been there when the first victim had been burned by the fire, someone trying to get into the village to help with the rescue attempt. His account of what happened in Sharringford neither substantiated nor conflicted with Thompson's.
Thompson climbed stiffly into his car and started the engine. He drove back home through the villages, and took a right turn into Sharringford, stopping at the home of Joanna Robertson, the only adult survivor from those trapped in the village.
'Good afternoon, Inspector,' she smiled, holding the door open. She was tall, blonde, and incredibly attractive, almost too attractive, like a life-sized Barbie doll. She recognised him, then.
'Good afternoon, Mrs Robertson. May I come in?'
'Of course. Can I make you some tea?'
'I've just had coffee, thanks. Danny all right?' Danny was her ten
'He's fine.'
Thompson sat on the sofa, stretching out his long legs. 'I'm not on duty,' he said.
'I know. Your boss was here a couple of days ago. He said you were still recovering.'
Thompson studied Joanna Robertson's face.
'I'm having trouble remembering what happened,' he said. She smiled. 'It's all hazy. Some of it I can remember, and I did write a report the following day, but the chief isn't satisfied. I was wondering if you would be able to help me. How many people died, who they were, and so on. What actually happened. I have to write a report.'
'Oh, I shouldn't worry about that, Inspector. It will all come out in the wash. It was a bad fire, they didn't find any survivors apart from us three.'
'I know that. You were here the whole time, weren't you?'
'I didn't go out of the house all day, I didn't like the look of it. Danny never got to school that day, either. We spent the whole day watching the fire and waiting to be rescued.'
He realised suddenly how piercingly attractive her eyes were, and how they held his attention as she talked. She sat next to him on the sofa and touched his hand.
‘Some things are best forgotten,’ she said with a mysterious smile.
He drove slowly home, thinking all the while. By the time he had parked the car in the drive in front of the garage, he had made up his mind that he would return to work the following day.
Three
He slept badly again that night, awaking cold and sweating, and shaking like a leaf. He always had trouble remembering his dreams, and now was no exception. The problem was, the contents of the dream would have told him exactly what had happened in Sharringford that day, how he had been used and injured, and what part the lovely Joanna Robertson had played in the events which had taken place during that night.
Four
Thompson sat with his back to the door, his arms across his chest, the tips of his forefingers touching his bottom lip. It was peaceful enough, the scene through the office window. White clouds resembling the tips of snow-covered mountains set against a clear blue sky after the previous day's torrential rain.
Peaceful enough.
It was exactly ten thirty.
Morning coffee had been brought and consumed. The uppermost inch of paperwork from the 'in' basket now graced the 'out' basket.
Peaceful enough, the journey into work that morning, although the ankle had been playing up, and the aching leg that accompanied it. Oddly, though, there had been no headache and no bellyache today. Things were looking up. Ordinarily he worked out of Kings Lynn station, but as he intended only dealing with paperwork, the little station in the small market town of Muncaster suited his needs perfectly.
Peaceful enough, the report from the desk sergeant, who had only to report that a middle aged man had been in to complain that the car he had recently sold had caused him to receive two summonses for non-payment of illegal parking fines. Both incurred after the said sale of the said car. He had been gently reminded that it was his responsibility to send off the slip notifying the DVLC that he had parted with the vehicle. Other than that, no crime had been reported. To the best of Thompson’s knowledge. Had he taken the trouble to look through his paperwork he would have seen the notification that an escaped prisoner was on the run in North Norfolk. Wilson knew, but now he was preoccupied with something completely different.
Thompson sensed that before the morning was out, the storm would break.
Detective Chief Superintendent Wilson would have something to say about his resignation soon and was in all probability on his way to the station now, to find out what Thompson was playing at, after laying into him at the café in Sheringham.
He saw the black Granada sweep into the car park and smiled.
Wilson was here.
Thompson swung away from the window and sat with his elbows resting on the desk. The mountain of paperwork that had been generated by his enforced sick leave would be seen to during the few weeks that were left of his notice, but this was no barrier against the wrath of D.C.S. Wilson.
The telephone rang.
'On his way up, Sir.'
'Thanks, Ken,' Thompson said.
Wilson strode into Thompson's office and stood by the window.
'Well, Mike, this is a bit of a mess, isn't it?' he said. His accent was faint Glaswegian, tinged with a bit of East London.
'Sir?' Thompson murmured.
'I thought you'd be out there by now!'
'Out where, Sir?'
'Elmham, man, Elmham!'
'Why, what's happened? I'm sorry, I'm only on paperwork.....'
'Bugger that, get your coat on, grab Hargreaves, we'll take my car!'
Wilson strode from the room with Thompson barely a yard behind him. He motioned to Ken Hargreaves to join them and a moment later they were tumbling into the Granada and speeding away from the station.
'What's happened at Elmham, Ken?' Thompson whispered, snatching a brief moment while Wilson spoke into the car phone. They were notching ninety miles an hour on the small, winding road, until they fetched up angrily behind a tractor. Wilson touched the window button and stuck the blue siren lamp on the roof, momentarily deafening them. The tractor stubbornly moved into the middle of the road and indicated right.
'Murder, Sir. Young girl, about sixteen. I didn't tell you about it because you said you're on light duties and anyway, Jock took it.'
Thompson smiled. Jock Campbell had been sent over from Kings Lynn to supervise CID affairs while he recovered. Thompson reserved his judgement on Campbell. He was first and foremost a traffic cop. Always had been. Not really CID material.
The Granada screeched to a halt in the gravel car park by the ancient cathedral site. There were two police patrol cars already parked. A local constable was just standing his bicycle against the hedge.
Thompson winced with pain as his ankle touched the gravel and he put some weight on it. The constable touched his helmet, recognising Wilson and assuming that Thompson and Hargreaves were also senior officers from the regional crime squad.
An ambulance hove into view as they pushed through the undergrowth.
'Get a cordon across the car park, constable, we don't want any visitors today. Forensic on their way?'
'Already here, Sir, I believe.'
Wilson and Hargreaves scrambled down the slope while Thompson took the longer, gentler route.
'Do we know who she is?' Wilson demanded. Campbell looked up, unaware that the D.S. had even been called. He was also surprised to see Thompson hobbling painfully towards them.
'Not yet, Sir, no.'
'No ID? No credit cards, anything?'
'She's sixteen, Sir, for Christ's sake! In any case, she isn't wearing anything you could carry a credit card in! She wasn't wearing any underclothes. At least, we haven't found them yet if she was. No, she had no ID on her, nothing at all.'
Hargreaves and Thompson exchanged glances. Hargreaves bent over the body, lifted the corner of the black cover and then straightened up.
'I know her,' he said abruptly.
'You do?'
'Yes. She goes to the local school in Muncaster.'
'Christ!'
'What's her name, Ken?' Wilson said softly. He could see that Thompson was shaken, and could not bring himself to look at the body. If she went to the school in Muncaster, his own daughters would likely know her. Wilson led him away to allow the ever-growing team of forensic and pathology experts to carry out their various tasks.
'Kim Catchpole.'
‘Do you know her, Mike?’
‘I know the name. The last time we went to the school parents' evening, I saw her photograph in the hall, she'd won a prize for something or other, and I asked Sally who she was. She doesn't live too far away from me. Didn't. Very attractive girl.'
They walked slowly back to the car.
'I'll run you back to the station. Ken can hitch a lift with Campbell or someone.'
Thompson nodded. He felt as though someone had punched him in the pit of the stomach. This was how the incident in Sharringford had started, with the death of a young schoolgirl. That much he did remember, though how it was connected with the fire he had no idea.
'You all right, Mike?'
'I'll be all right in a few minutes. I wasn't expecting it to be someone I knew. I didn't even know there had been a murder.'
Wilson drove carefully, in extreme contrast to their outward journey, but even so Thompson still felt slightly sick when they arrived back at the station.
Later, when he had recovered, and they were waiting for the team to come back from Sharringford, Wilson stuck his head round the door again.
'I want you to handle this one, Mike,' he said. For a moment his mouth worked as though he was going to say something else, but he evidently thought better of it.
Thompson's mouth dropped open and he started to say something, but Wilson found his voice and cut him short.
'It'll help you get over this nonsense about leaving.'
'But.....'
'No 'buts', you're the man for this job, not Campbell. He'll fold up after a couple of days. No, I want you to handle it.'
Wilson had gone before Thompson could protest any further. He cursed his ankle, recalled for a split second how he had incurred the injury, and shuddered. But Wilson could not do it, he could not ignore his resignation, he could not force him to handle a case like this when he was supposed to be on light duties.....
He had made up his mind, after days and days of agonising and careful discussion with Shirley and the children, and his decision was irrevocable.
He looked out of the window to see Campbell's red Escort drive into the yard. Outside, in the street, a row of cones prevented people from parking on market day. Ken got out of the passenger seat and together they entered the building.
A few moments later, Ken knocked on Thompson's door.
'Come in, Ken, let's have it.'
'It's pretty gruesome. Wilson said you were handling it, but I thought you were on paperwork.'
'I am. I’m not taking on this case, with just a couple of weeks before I leave. But I do want to know what happened to Kim Catchpole.'
Hargreaves sat opposite Thompson.
'First, she's been dead some time, maybe a couple of days. Second, she was raped first. And.....you want the gory details?'
Thompson leaned forward, his eyes almost laughing, except that they were talking about someone he knew, a friend, or at least an acquaintance, someone she had known, of his daughter's.
'Not really. As long as you're not going to tell me her earrings were removed, and her face scrubbed clean of make-up and she was raped again after she was dead.' He didn't know why he said it, but the words came tumbling out as though someone had unlocked a vault in his brain, a vault that had been locked for the past thirteen years, and the contents forgotten. Until now.
Hargreaves snorted.
'You already knew!'
'Ken?'
'Someone already told you!'
'No!'
'How did you know, then?'
'Ken, you're not saying.......'
'But you already knew.......'
Thompson shook his head.
'It can't be.......'
Hargreaves got to his feet.
'Look, I'd better get going, Sir. Campbell's betting you're not going to take this one, and he wants me to start some enquiries. By the way, do you think it could be the bloke who escaped from the nick yesterday? There’s a note in your tray somewhere.'
Thompson frowned. ‘Escaped prisoner?’
Before Hargreaves could reply the desk sergeant put his head round the door and called him away, leaving Thompson to leaf through several pieces of paper before finding the one that informed him of the escape of Donald Clitheroe from Norwich Prison.
Clitheroe.
Now that name rang a bell, all right.
Several bells, in fact a whole peel of bells.
At the close of the last decade, Clitheroe had been arrested for the murder of a young schoolgirl, Mary Bailey. Wilson, who had been Detective Sergeant then, and about to make Inspector, was the CID man who had interviewed Clitheroe. And Thompson, himself about to transfer to CID, had been present at the interviews. Between them they had pinned a further half dozen murders on Clitheroe.
Serial killer.
National newspaper stuff.
Quiet Norfolk village rocked by serial killer.
Wilson had bullied, Thompson had teased and cajoled.
Eventually, with Wilson out of the room, Clitheroe had confessed to Thompson that he was on a crusade, he was on a mission to rid the world of tarty little girls who wore too much make-up and adornments of the devil, such as earrings. He raped them, strangled them, he cleaned them up, removing their make-up, their nail varnish, their earrings.
No one had noticed.
They had all been found face down in the mud, in the river, somewhere where this alarming fact would not surface. Yet Clitheroe had felt the need to share it with Thompson, and told him of his bizarre little fetish, making Thompson promise not to tell anyone else. At first Thompson failed to understand the significance of Clitheroe’s request for him to keep quiet, but then he had learned that the man did not wish to have psychiatric complications attached to his trial. Thirty years earlier he would certainly have been hanged. But if it came out in court that he had been on a crusade, like the Yorkshire Ripper, he would lose his credibility. They would say he was insane, and he might even end up in Broadmoor with the Ripper.
Clitheroe was insane, of course. Thompson knew that. But any thought that social and welfare workers might move in and start persuading people to feel sympathy for him was anathema to him. The next thing you knew, Lord Longford would be visiting him and campaigning for his release.
So, in the end, Thompson remained silent about the make-up and the earrings, and look what happened, folks, Clitheroe went down for the maximum term, with a recommendation that he serve not less than twenty years.
Everyone knew he was insane, but he had been so cool, so full of remorse, so obviously sorry for what he had done, that he was taken to Broadmoor after all.
For a time.
And yet.
He had done it again.
Donald Clitheroe.
That murdering bastard. Thompson stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window, across the fields to the back of the junior school, to the embankment where the railway line had used to run. That was where it had happened. That was where Donald Clitheroe had committed the last of his murders, Mary Bailey. Thompson recalled the interviews with Clitheroe vividly. That was where he had first met Trevor Wilson, the man who was now his Chief Superintendent, the man who was still an out-and-out bully. Only then he had been unorthodox, determined, single-minded, no, bloody-minded.
So Donald Clitheroe had escaped, had he? Well, it was just a matter of time before he was picked up. Then Thompson remembered that he had been in the SAS. Gave him an edge, somehow.
