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The owner appeared, waving a packet of biscuits.
“Isn’t this typical, eh? Pretty quiet all morning, and the minute I start listening to my pop quiz, the phone goes and I have customers in my shop. But who am I to complain? I should count myself lucky that people demand my services.”
Thornton guessed the man’s weight at possibly sixteen stone, but he carried it well because he was tall. His hair was mousy brown, quickly going grey. He had brown eyes, thin lips, and a very determined walk.
Both men displayed their warrant cards.
“You’ll have to excuse us. We don’t have the luxury of being able to drop everything for tea and biscuits and quizzes. DCs Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson. We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry, fire away.”
The man behind the counter lurched forward to switch off the radio, but disappeared under a cloud of dust with a crash. Frank Thornton heard the word “fuck,” and managed to catch the packet of biscuits that had come his way.
In a scene straight out of Monty Python, the shop owner was quickly on his feet and switched off the radio, after which he dusted off his brown smock.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” replied Thornton. “And you are?”
“Graham Johnson. I own the place.”
Bob Anderson had not said anything as yet. He remained near the door, glancing out the window.
Thornton passed the biscuits back. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about an incident that may have taken place on either late evening Sunday, or early hours Monday morning.”
“Guess that’s why the place is swarming with cops. Has someone been killed?”
“It is a pretty serious matter,” replied Thornton. “Were you around the town during those hours?”
“Probably. I live here, above the shop.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About eight or nine years now.”
“So you pretty much know everyone in the town?”
“I’d say so.”
“Do you keep late hours?”
“I reckon. That’s the thing about computers. They’re unpredictable. Repairs can take minutes or hours. Once you’re in the zone... well, I’ve sometimes been up all night. Lost track of time.”
“Didn’t happen to be up all night on Sunday, did you?”
“No. I have been really busy of late, but no all-nighters.”
“And you haven’t noticed anything unusual going on at the station?”
There was a slight pause before Johnson answered. Thornton reckoned he was probably a nervous person by nature. He could tell the man constantly bit his nails.
“Not really, but that station is bloody busy. Napoleon’s always got something going on.”
“Napoleon?” Thornton asked.
“You know, Major Middleton, or whatever title it is he’s given himself. Thinks he runs the town, never mind the station. Napoleon is my little joke. He reminds me of Captain Mainwaring out of Dad’s Army. The warden used to hate him, and always called him Napoleon. That’s what I call Middleton. He’s a bit pompous.”
Amused, Thornton pressed on. “So you haven’t seen any unusual activities outside of normal hours?”
