The Secret Prophecy Read Free Page B

to concentrate. A burglary made no sense. There was a flat-screen television in the living room that hadn’t been taken. And his father had a nearly new sound system right here in the study. That hadn’t been taken either, although the speakers had been ripped from their brackets and thrown on the floor, so the burglars had certainly noticed them. In fact, looking around, nothing of any obvious value had been taken and nothing at all had been disturbed in the living room or kitchen.
    It was as if the thieves had been looking for some-thing.
     
    The way they did it on TV police shows was that they sent out an overeducated detective inspector trailing a dim sergeant and one or two technicians: fingerprint man, forensic expert, that sort of thing. But maybe that was just for murders. Certainly it hadn’t happened here.
    Em opened the door because his mum had started crying and couldn’t stop. With Mum not functioning, Em would have preferred Uncle Harold deal with the police; but Uncle Harold, it turned out, hadn’t spent the night in Dad’s deathbed after all: he’d left sometime around three a.m. Drove home in his car.
    There were two men on the doorstep, both burly, both wearing crumpled suits, one a head shorter than the other. Neither produced a warrant card, just mumbled “Police” before pushing past Em with bored expressions. Not knowing what else to do, he led them into the living room, where the tall one said casually, “Sergeant Jackson. This is Detective Constable Tiblet. Break-in, was it?”
    “Yes,” Em said a little sourly.
    The one called Jackson looked around the living room. “Not much sign of damage. The report slip said there was damage.”
    “It was mostly in the study,” Em said. He heard the stupid, apologetic tone in his voice but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Actually,” he amended, “it was all in the study.”
    “Your parents around?”
    “Mum’s still upstairs,” Em told him. “Dad’s—” The word caught in his throat. “Dad’s dead.”
    “You’re the son?”
    Nice detective work, Sergeant Jackson, Em thought. Aloud he said, “Yes.”
    “Any other family living here?”
    “Apart from Mum? No.”
    Jackson lapsed into silence but continued to look around the living room. Tiblet said, “Better show us where it happened, then.”
    Em took them to the study. “We haven’t touched anything,” he said anxiously. Then when Jackson looked at him blankly, he added, “In case you want to take fingerprints or something.” He wished Mum would hurry up. It wasn’t like she didn’t know the police were here—she’d heard the doorbell.
    “Oh,” Jackson said. You’d have thought he’d never heard of fingerprints.
    Tiblet peered past them into the study. “Made a right mess, didn’t they?”
    Jackson grunted, then turned to Em. “Mind if we ask you a few questions? After that we’ll have to get your mum down. Bit upset, is she?”
    “You could say that,” Em said.
    Sergeant Jackson nodded sagely.
    “Would you like some tea?” Em asked. “We could talk in the kitchen.”
    The atmosphere changed at once. Jackson even smiled. “That would be very nice, ah— What did you say your name was?”
    “Edward Michael Goverton,” Em told him formally. “Mostly I’m just called Em.”
    “That would be very nice, Em,” Jackson said as if they’d suddenly become best friends. He turned to Tiblet. “Wouldn’t it, Stanley?”
    “Oh, yes,” Stanley said.
    They got down to business properly while Em was waiting for the kettle to boil.
    “Where did they break in?” Jackson asked.
    Em realized he didn’t know. “Not sure.”
    “We’ll take a look around with your mother when she comes down. Wasn’t anywhere obvious anyway? Didn’t smash in the front door?”
    “No.” Em knew Sergeant Jackson was joking but couldn’t crack a smile.
    Now that they’d mentioned it, Em noticed that the study window seemed to be intact, and there were no obvious signs of forced