by Jane Casey
There was a limit to how long anyone could stare at a six-foot-by-eight yard, and I forced myself to go back through the kitchen, spilt sugar crunching under my feet, and into the hall, where I bumped into Sean Cottrell.
‘Mind if I go upstairs?’
‘Nope. Just watch where you walk – stay on the areas we’ve marked. And don’t run any water in the bathroom. We think they cleaned up in there before they left.’
‘I won’t touch anything.’ I headed up the narrow stairs. They were covered in thin brown carpet that was worn on the treads and I took it slowly, wary of slipping, careful not to brush against the handrail though it was already black with fingerprint dust.
Cottrell’s advice was unnecessary; I wouldn’t have been tempted to touch anything in the bathroom. It looked as if it had last been cleaned around the same time as the kitchen – in other words, months ago, if not years. The seat was up on the loo and I pulled a face at the brown streaks running down the sides of the bowl, the stagnant water a murky grey-brown that hinted at unspeakable things lurking below the surface. It would be some poor bastard’s job to sieve out anything that had been left in the bowl in case it helped to identify the killers, but not mine, thank God, not mine. The bath was grimy but suspiciously unused compared to the sink, which once had been white but was now dark grey. A reddish-brown tide-mark around the plug hole looked like dried blood and I could see why Sean was keen to preserve the room for examination. There was no soap or shower gel in the bathroom, as far as I could see. An ancient toothbrush lay on the sink, the bristles discoloured and warped, but there was no toothpaste. Personal hygiene did not appear to have been one of Barry Palmer’s priorities, any more than housekeeping.
The two bedrooms were bleak, small and cold. One had a stripped single bed in it and very little else. The stains on the mattress made my stomach heave, which surprised me given that I had seen worse – much worse – in that very house. Maybe it was just that I had reached my daily limit on disgusting things. I gave the other bedroom a cursory glance, taking in the rumpled sheets and blankets, the curtains hanging off their rail at the window, the clothes piled up on a chair in the corner. The room smelt of unwashed flesh and stale air. The mattress hung off the bed, as if someone had lifted it to check what lay underneath, and I had a sudden vision of the killers hurrying through the house after cleaning themselves up, searching it damp-handed for God knows what while Palmer breathed his last in the miserable sitting room below.
I retraced my steps and came down the stairs to find Derwent deep in conversation with Dr Hanshaw. Judging that he wouldn’t want to be interrupted, I slipped out of the front door and took off my paper suit with some relief. The smell of the house clung to my hair and skin and I was conscious of it as I went across the street to the small knot of neighbours who still stood there, arms folded. They were a fairly representative sample of the area’s diverse population; Brixton was a proper melting pot and this street was no different. The group seemed, as one, to regard me with suspicion as I walked up to them, but I gave them a smile anyway and introduced myself.
‘As you may know, we’re investigating a suspicious death at the address behind me. Did any of you see anything strange in the last couple of days? Anyone who didn’t belong in this area hanging around? Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?’
A plump black woman shook her head. ‘Sorry. I don’t think we’re going to be much help. None of us saw anything, did we, Brian?’
Brian was small and thin with a leathery complexion. He had a foul-smelling cigarette hidden in his fist, held between his forefinger and thumb, and took a long drag on it before answering. ‘Don’t believe we did, no.’
I looked around the small circle, seven of them, seeing the same expression repeated on every face. No one was going to break ranks – not in front of their neighbours, anyway. ‘Right. Names and addresses.’
It was like switching on a light in a cellar and seeing rats scurry for cover. The little group broke apart, Brian murmuring something about needing to get to work. I raised my voice.
‘It’s not a request, ladies and gentlemen. Names and addresses. Now.’
There’s a certain tone of voice that you learn to use during your years of street policing. Authoritative without being hectoring, it’s strangely effective on even the most recalcitrant members of the public. Meekly, the neighbours returned and dictated their details to me. We would be knocking on doors up and down the street anyway, but the ones who were particularly curious – the ones who would stand on the street for hours watching nothing in particular going on – they were the ones I wanted to talk to. They were the ones who would notice anything out of the ordinary. And behind closed doors, they might just not be able to resist telling us what they’d seen.
Once I had finished with the possible witnesses, I turned to find DI Derwent behind me. He did not look pleased.
‘Decided you’d had enough, did you?’
‘Just collecting some details.’
‘Is that what I asked you to do?’
‘No, but—’
‘No.’ He leaned in, a flush of colour in his cheeks, his voice hard. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, okay? I don’t like initiative. I don’t like people thinking for themselves. I don’t like having to search for a junior officer who’s taken it up on herself to wander off.’
‘I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Dr Hanshaw.’
‘Right. And you couldn’t wait for me to be finished at the crime scene.’
‘I didn’t think there was any harm in it.’
‘Well, your first mistake was thinking. You’re not here to think.’
I opened my mouth to argue and closed it again. What was the point? Derwent gave a short, sharp nod, as if he was satisfied at having put me in my place. I wondered if he had really been annoyed, or if he had engineered the little scene deliberately.
‘Fine. Let’s get out of here, then.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ve got another crime scene to visit but I want to see the sister first. She’s expecting us. She doesn’t want us there too late because we might disturb her precious kids.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Chislehurst.’ It was a long way east of Brixton and Derwent said what I was thinking. ‘It’ll take us a while to get there with the traffic like this.’
I trailed after him to the car, feeling dismal. Stand back and look pretty, he’d said.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter Two
I was reluctant to admit that anyone could be having a worse day than me, but Barry Palmer’s sister Vera Gordon had a strong claim to it. Small and wiry, she looked far older than thirty-eight, though it was hardly fair to judge her on her current appearance. Her skin was coarse and reddened from hours of crying and her hair hung around her face in lank strands. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering uncontrollably, a mug of tea untouched on the coffee table in front of her. The sitting room was small but spotless, in contrast with her brother’s home, and although the furniture was worn it was carefully chosen. One corner was piled with crates of toys, all neat and organised. It was a warm room, a family room, a place meant for being together. There was an array of family photographs on the windowsill and I leaned over to scan them.
‘He’s not there.’ Her voice was strained and hoarse. ‘I took down the picture of him when he went to prison. Didn’t want people asking about him.’
Derwent was sitting beside Vera and now he leaned forward.
‘Mrs Gordon, I know you must be very distressed about what happened to your brother.’
‘Just … finding him like that. And the house. My mother would be so upset about the house.’ Tears began to well up along her lashes and she dug in the sleeve of her woolly grey cardigan for a tissue. ‘Why did they have to do that? Why did they have to make him suffer?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
A childish voice was suddenly
raised in outrage somewhere towards the back of the house and Vera’s head snapped around so she could listen. The voice subsided to a murmur and she turned back to us with a watery smile. ‘My little boy. He’s always fighting with his big sister.’
‘How many have you got?’ Derwent knew the answer already but it was clever to get her talking about her family. We wanted her to be calm, not hysterical. And we wanted her to trust us.
‘Just the two.’
‘One of each, though. Which is easier, boys or girls?’
‘I couldn’t say. They both have their moments.’
‘I bet they do. I bet they do.’ Derwent gave her a grin, too wide to be sincere, but she seemed reassured by it.
‘Mrs Gordon, I know it’s difficult, but can you tell us about Barry? All we know is that he was convicted of abusing two young girls.’ Derwent said.
‘That was all rubbish.’ She sat up a little straighter, twin patches of red high on her cheekbones. ‘The girls were liars. They were just looking for attention.’
‘What sort of a person was Barry? He wasn’t married, was he? Did he ever have a girlfriend?’
‘No. But that didn’t mean anything. He was just shy, that’s all. He kept himself to himself. He was – well, I suppose you’d call him a bit strange, but he wasn’t dangerous or anything. Growing up, he wasn’t interested in girls, and none of them would give him the time of day anyway. He lived in his own world, a lot of the time. He loved the cinema – he’d have gone every day if he could. He spent most of his time watching videos on his own.’
‘Did he ever work?’
‘No, except for a Saturday job in the local shop when he was a teenager. He found it hard to get on with people. Didn’t like taking orders much. I don’t know what he might have done with his life if he’d had the right kind of encouragement, but as it was, our dad just made him feel totally worthless. He didn’t have the confidence to try anything new. He just survived, really, living at home – living off Mum. Graham, my husband, thought he could have done something to keep himself busy. Stacked shelves or worked in a petrol station – something that wouldn’t be difficult. He thought a job would give him some self-respect, some independence too. He couldn’t understand how Barry could be happy doing nothing. But it was easier for him to stay at home. Less risky. Barry was afraid of failing so he got out of the habit of trying to do anything. And then … those girls …’
She broke off, sobbing again, as Derwent flicked a look in my direction. Do something. Apparently he’d found a use for me at last.
I moved from my chair to the edge of the sofa, putting my hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Gordon, I know this is difficult. If there was any way we could leave this conversation until some time had passed, we would, but time is the one thing we haven’t got. We want to find the men who did this to your brother, and I know you do too.’
She nodded, wiping her cheeks roughly. ‘I do. I want to help, really, but I can’t help thinking about what happened to him.’ She looked up, red-rimmed eyes fixed on mine. ‘You’ll tell me the truth. What happened to him? I know they beat him, but what else did they do?’
My throat closed up in horror at the thought of what had happened to him, at the thought of telling someone who had known him and loved him how he had suffered before he died. The look on my face must have told her enough, because she dissolved again.
I sat back into my chair, afraid to look in Derwent’s direction. After a couple of minutes, Vera sniffed and tossed her hair back.
‘Maybe it’s better that I don’t know the details.’ Neither of us said anything, and she nodded. ‘I can see you think that. I won’t ask again. But I do want you to know what my brother was really like.’
We sat and listened as she told us about their childhood, about small triumphs and minor setbacks, about the two of them supporting one another against an unsympathetic father, about a devoted mother who had never wavered in her loyalty to her son, no matter what.
‘My dad – I wouldn’t have said he cared at all about either of us. But I was wrong. The day Barry was convicted, Dad collapsed. He died about three weeks later – as if we didn’t have enough to worry about.’ She sounded bitter. Two sets of feet ran up the stairs, double-quick time, and Vera waited until her children were far enough away to be out of earshot before she went on. ‘The doctor said it was his heart. That was the biggest joke of all. It was the first proof we’d seen that he even had one. But it wasn’t that he was sad for Barry. He was sad for himself. He couldn’t stand the fact that his son was in prison. Barry had always been a disappointment to him because Dad wanted a son like himself, a drinker, a football fanatic, someone he could take to the pub. And Barry wasn’t that.’
‘Mrs Gordon, you said that Barry’s accusers were looking for attention. What did you mean?’
The venom in her voice surprised me. ‘They were dirty little cows, the pair of them. Got together and made up a story about Barry. They thought it was funny, if you ask me. He was a bit of a joke around the local area, people saying he was weird, and up to no good, and watch out when he’s about.’ She sniffed again, rubbing her hands over her knees as if she was trying to warm herself. ‘They got off school to see counsellors and the police – that’s probably why they did it. The two of them were little bitches, you could see when they gave evidence. It was all done by video link so they didn’t have to be in court, and they were cheeky to the lawyers and the judge, as if it was all a big game. It was lies, and everyone knew it was lies, but the jury still convicted him. One of them was eleven and the other was ten, and they knew everything there was to know about sex – described it in detail. And you could tell they’d actually done it, more than once. But not with my brother.’ The anger seemed to drain out of her and she sighed. ‘No one wanted to believe that girls that young would have lost their innocence. But Barry was more innocent than them, for all that he was three times their age.’
‘He served out his sentence, though. He didn’t appeal.’
‘He couldn’t face going back to court. It made him ill. Besides, his barrister said there were no grounds for an appeal. The fact that he was innocent wasn’t enough, apparently.’ She ripped a couple of shreds off the edge of the tissue she was holding. ‘Seven years, he did. Never complained. Just thanked us when we visited and asked how we were. He never said anything about what it was like for him, in jail. He just said our lives were more interesting and he didn’t want to talk about his.’
Derwent spoke gently, choosing his words with more delicacy than I would have expected from him. ‘Barry’s probation officer had warned him about his personal safety, returning to your family home, because he was known in the local area as a sex offender. You seem to be certain that he was wrongly convicted, yet you didn’t ask him to live here.’
She was shaking her head before he’d finished. ‘No. I did. I did. He wouldn’t. Barry knew Graham was worried about it – not about the kids, but about the neighbours. If they’d found out, we would have had to move. We were worried enough about anyone finding out we were related to him. I didn’t visit him half as much as I wanted to in case anyone noticed where I was going and why. Graham liked Barry. He didn’t want him to come to any harm, and he agreed he should stay with us, at least for a while, just until he got on his feet. But Barry wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Did he know he was in danger? Did he ever tell you about threats?’
‘He never talked about it. He didn’t know who was threatening him – that was all he said. It could have been anyone.’ She gave a little laugh that had no humour in it. ‘Sad, isn’t it? So many people could have wanted my brother dead. And he would never dream of harming a soul.’
‘So you don’t know of anyone in particular?’
‘No. Barry – he was brave. You probably think he was stupid, but he never gave in. He went where he needed to go and he kept himself to himself and he didn’t want to cause anyone any trouble and now he’s dead …’ She was crying again.
She shook her head, obviously bewildered by the question.
Derwent put his pen into his jacket pocket with an air of finality and closed his folder. ‘Right. Thanks very much, Mrs Gordon.’ He flicked a card onto the coffee table and got to his feet. ‘If you think of anything else, give us a call.’
I doubted she had heard, but as the inspector was leaving the room, I thought I’d better do the same. I muttered some condolences, putting my own card down beside Derwent’s with a little bit more ceremony than he had managed. I found him in the kitchen, talking to Graham Gordon, who was washing up dirty cups slowly and carefully. He was tall and balding, and had the hangdog look of the habitually morose. In happier times it would probably have been for humorous effect, but there was little enough to smile about just then.
Derwent had obviously decided that Gordon didn’t need gentle handling.
‘Who do you know who would have wanted to torture and kill your brother-in-law?’
He shrugged. ‘No one.’
The sitting-room door closed and I heard Vera’s footsteps on the stairs, heading up to where thumps and bumps announced the children were playing.
‘That’s not what your wife says. She says there was lots of people who wanted him gone.’
‘Might have been. But I don’t know them. You asked me if I knew anyone, and I don’t.’
‘Literal-minded,’ Derwent commented with a thin smile. ‘I can see I’m going to have to choose my words carefully with you.’
‘You can choose what you like. I don’t know anything and neither does Vera. Barry wasn’t the most forthcoming of individuals. If he’d been being threatened, he wouldn’t have wanted Vera to know because she’d have worried. And he barely talked to me.’ He fished around in the water, coming up with a handful of teaspoons that he slotted into the rack.