Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) by Lynda La Plante Read Free Book Online

haven’t you had enough for one day? Book me in for tomorrow night, OK?” She was fast asleep as she finished speaking.
    Peter lay awake for about ten minutes, then put the light back on to read his book. Jane started to snore and he gently eased her onto her side. She gave a little grunt and then a pathetic, “Sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .”
    John Shefford was dog-tired by the time he arrived home, but his brain was ticking like a bomb. The events of the day kept repeating themselves like a newsreel in his head and he had to drink half a bottle of Scotch before he felt the dark clouds gathering to cushion him to sleep.
    It seemed only a moment before the alarm woke him. His head throbbed and he took four aspirin before he could get out of bed, crunching them between his teeth and hoping that they’d reach the parts that screamed for numbness.
    Sheila had his breakfast ready. As she dished it up she reminded him of his promise about the clown for Tom’s party. She had wrapped the presents and heaped them on the breakfast table, where Tom had found them at the crack of dawn, and he was beside himself, in a fever of excitement. They had both been touched by the lads’ whip-round for Tom, which they had presented in cash in a large Metropolitan Police envelope to be put into his Post Office savings account.
    By seven, Shefford was none too happy. He tried to show enthusiasm, but he was getting ratty trying to eat his breakfast with one hand and fend off his son’s new boxing gloves with the other. His nagging headache wouldn’t shift, and he had another three aspirin with his coffee. Sheila was still going on about the clown, and he gave his solemn oath that not only would there be a clown but that he would perform magic acts that would silence even Tom.
    The little lad had started boxing his sister, and her screams cut through Shefford’s head like a knife. Sheila removed his half-eaten scrambled eggs.
    “I’m not expecting you to be here, that’s why the clown’s important. God forbid I should ask you to do anything so normal as to be home at half past five with Tom’s godfather for his party, it’d be an act of madness on my part . . .”
    “Look, sweetheart, maybe I will make it, if things go well. We had a hell of a breakthrough yesterday; we’ve got a suspect and I think we can charge him. If we can do it this afternoon I can get home, and Bill’s promised to dress up, how’s that?”
    Sheila screwed up her face and snorted. “Haw, haw, promises, promises! And would you take those gloves off him, and tell him they can only be worn under supervision. I never wanted him to have them in the first place . . .”
    Shefford crooked his finger at Tom, who shadow-boxed up to him, ducking and diving as his father had taught him.
    “OK, Tom, off with the gloves. The rule’s been laid down by the boss, you only use them when I’m around, OK? So give me a quick jab-jab, and a left hook before I go.”
    Tom was fast and managed to clip his father on the nose. Sheila laughed, but Shefford’s eyes watered and he grabbed the gloves, pulling them off as the telephone began to ring.
    “Daddy, it’s for you!”
    Shefford listened to Felix Norman with difficulty while his daughter wound the phone cord around her neck and Tom raced up and down the hall with his rugger ball, weaving around the defense—his father—and scoring a try in the kitchen doorway.
    It was Norman’s habit to get to the lab at seven each morning to escape the rush hour, though rumor had it that he was more concerned about avoiding his wife, as he was invariably found there late each night.
    “What in God’s name’s going on there?” he yelled.
    Shefford glared at his son and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. This gesture was famous in the household and was always obeyed. His daughter jabbed her lethally sharp elbow in his balls as she untangled herself from the curly cord and he grimaced, giving her a good whack on the