Sullivan sighed tiredly as he slammed the car door. Sid wasn't coming over that night, and it had been a very long day.
Yet... the light was on in the living room?
Assuming that Sid had in fact came over, he walked in cheerfully, throwing off his coat and hat (as he always did) as he shut the door.
"Hey you." He chirped happily.
"Evening, Edgar."
He froze in horror.
He turned around slowly, terror flooding his body. When he saw him, he choked on thin air.
"That's not a very nice greeting for your old dad. Still, you were expecting someone else, weren't you?"
Sergeant Goodfellow was walking towards the Inspector's house. He always hated annoying the young man in the evenings, but there was a form that needed signed, and he knew how much the Inspector hated leaving things undone.
He strolled along the road, uniform still pristine even after his long shift. He was mind was completely focused on the dinner that awaited him at home (homemade fish pie, one of his many favourites) when the police cottage came into sight.
He was still imagining the creamy mashed potato and fresh fish when he was jolted back into the present by shouting coming from the house. He tore up the path and burst through the door, just in time to see a well dressed, older man hurl an ashtray across the room at Sullivan.
The silence of the house rang in Sullivan's ears after all the roaring.
Goodfellow had never felt the age between him and the younger inspector so keenly before, as he dabbed at Sullivan's bleeding face with an iodine cloth and carefully adjusted his hand, moving the ice pack slightly over his eye.
Mr Sullivan Sr had been warned that if he ever set foot in Kembleford again (or phoned, or wrote a letter, or even appeared coincidentally at the railway station) he would be arrested and definitely convicted of at least five charges, and the sergeant would witness for every single of them.
That was the compromise - he would have charged him now, but Sullivan had begged him not to, obviously terrified of the implications of this revelation.
Wounds sufficiently cleaned, Goodfellow left Sullivan on the sofa and went to make him a cup of tea; as pathetic as that was.
He hated dealing with cases like this as he always felt so powerless - it always seemed to be too little, too late.
He could tell by the quiet voice Sullivan thanked him with as he gave him the cup that this had happened before.
"Are you sure you're alright sir?" He asked cautiously.
"Fine, thank you sergeant." Sullivan answered in a strange, detached voice. Staring into the depths of his teacup.
"And you're sure you don't want me to stick around a while, or station a few of the lads?"
He shook his head.
"Thank you but, no. I don't think he'll come back. I'll lock the door anyway."
"Did you not let him in?" Goodfellow masked his inquiries with concern.
Sullivan sniffed, and shook his head again.
"He... He remembered- Growing up, I always kept the spare key to our house under a loose paving stone on the doorstep. I did the same here and he just, let himself in. He was sitting waiting for me."
Goodfellow nodded once, solem and full of understanding.
"But what had him so angry, Sir?"
Sullivan's eyes welled with tears, and Goodfellow decided he'd best leave it at that. He apologised again, bestowed a few more words of comfort, and left.
Sullivan locked the door; both doors. He checked every window twice, even though he knew his father wouldn't come back. As tyrannical as his father was, he knew that now he had been caught at his very worst, he wouldn't dare venture back towards his son. Not after his brush with the law.
The evening rewound in his mind, and kept repeating. Walking in, his father sitting there, primed and ready-
He buried his sore face in his hands and cried silently. How did he find out?
He knew his father was an intelligent man, but he was miles away from him, and the curfews, and the constant surveillance, and the rules, and the penalties.
How on earth did he find out he was in Kembleford? And how in hell did he find out what he was up to in Kembleford?
Sullivan slumped back against the kitchen wall, eyes fixed on nothing.
He tried not to let his mind wander as to what hadn't happened if Goodfellow hadn't have burst in. Dear, trusty Goodfellow. He would never have gave away his position.
Would any of the other men at the station--no. They probably didn't even know where he lived. And his father wouldn't have asked them.
How could he have done it? Sullivan's elbow was beginning to ache, a dull pain caused by holding the ice pack to his eye for too long. But he'd go through any amount of pain to try and stop a bruise from forming tomorrow. He drummed his heel on tiled floor to distract himself from the pain. Christ's sake - how did he find out?
He certainly wouldn't have rang the local priest, but even if he had, Sullivan doubted that Father Brown would have went spewing information without a valid reason. Bad as he was, Brown was not a gossip.
Mrs McCarthy on the other hand - no, that was ridiculous. There was no chance of any connection between his father and an Irish parish secretary.
It was Sid.
The realisation hit him harder than any of the punches. He slid down onto the floor.
Sid had answered the phone. He'd figured it out. Sid must have gave him the address--oh, of course he did. Sullivan Sr could be as charming as anything when he wanted to be, and from an entire childhood of experience he knew how manipulative he could be. He must have wound some lie and got the address out off Sid...
His eye twinged and throbbed.
Naturally, Sullivan's injuries were the talk of Kembleford. Sid was in the station at quarter past eleven, hurriedly fibbed some excuse to Goodfellow, and hurtled into the office. He slammed the door behind him.
Sullivan had his head bent over some paperwork, face completely hidden.
"Who is it."
"Let me see."
Sullivan laid down his pen and looked up. Sid's mouth fell open in shock.
Despite his calm expression, Sullivan had obviously been attacked.
Sid leaned on the table, fists balled. He took in one, long, furious breath.
"Who did it?"
"I fell." Sullivan was talking in calm, measured tones, with just the tiniest hint of annoyance.
"No you didn't." Sid argued.
Sullivan sat back in his chair. His black eye had a dull, purple hue to it, and the underside of his lip was crusted with dry blood, like the caramelised sugar that leaks out of apple pies. Several smaller bruises adorned the pale skin on the side of his face, and there was obviously a nasty gash under the large sticking plaster on his cheek.
"You did not fall." He repeated.
"Fell down the stairs."
"No you didn't."
"Yes I did."
Sid pointed at the bandage.
"That doesn't make sense. And I ain't ever heard of anyone getting a black eye from falling down stairs."
"Tripped and fell, hit my eye off the banisters, cut my cheek on a jagged nail." Sullivan repeated obstinately.
"There are no jagged nails in your house!" Sid thumped his fist on the table and Sullivan flinched, and breathed very fast.
Sid immediately felt guilty, but didn't move away from the desk.
"Please, tell me what happened."
Sullivan lowered his voice to a mumble.
"Did you give my father my address?" He asked, in a voice almost too soft to hear.
White hot fury surged through Sid. He jumped up from the chair, fists already throbbing at the thought of the damage he would do.
"I'll kill him," Sid snarled, "I'll kill him!" He kicked the chair aside and stomped towards the door.
"No, no!" Sullivan grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "That's already been dealt with. All I want to know is if you gave him my address."
Sid's anger was replaced by revulsion. He brushed his fingers along the bandage on Sullivan's cheek.
"Last Wednesday." He choked. "Said he wanted to give you a birthday present."
He felt himself tearing up at the resigned look on Sullivan's battered features.
"I'm so sorry - Eddie, I'm so, so sorry-"
"I don't blame you, Sid." Sullivan said quietly, eyes fixed on Sid's hands, cupping his face carefully as if he was a broken piece of fine china.
"Oh my- I never thought that- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I - it's all my fault-" Sid could barely see Sullivan's bruised face through his veil of tears.
"It's not your fault, and I don't blame you."
Sullivan reached up and held one of Sid's hands calmly as he sobbed. Sid was furious at himself.
Why was he crying, he wasn't the one who's father gave him a grand old going over!
"You should leave, Sid. Father Brown is waiting for you." Sullivan pressed a starched handerchief into Sid's shaking hands, and guided him to the door.