It was going to be a long afternoon.
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.
‘Do you know anyone named Ivan Tremlett, Mrs Gordon?’
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.
‘I thought the two of you got on.’
‘We did. But he was always quiet. Only spoke when he had something to say.’ He pulled the plug out of the sink. It made loud choking sounds as the water drained out. From the look on Gordon’s face, he had approved of his brother-in-law’s reserve. Derwent stepped closer, making Gordon move back until he came up against the cooker and couldn’t retreat any further.
‘You can’t have trusted him though. Given what he was. Did you really want him living here or was that just something you said to keep the peace with the missus?’
‘I’d have been all right with it.’
‘All right with it? All right with leaving him alone with your daughter? Or even your son? People change in prison, Graham. They try out different things. Barry might have developed a taste for young boys. Would you really have been happy to turn your back on him?’
‘I didn’t mind Barry.’ The man’s voice was toneless, his face stony. He picked up a tea towel and dried his hands, not hurrying. ‘I’ve known him for a long time – before all of this happened. I was there at the trial, when I could be. I heard the evidence. You didn’t.’
Derwent stayed where he was for a second, eyes narrowed, considering what Gordon had said. Then he rocked back on his heels with a laugh. ‘Just pushing your buttons, mate. Just trying to see what you really thought of him.’
‘Well, now you know.’ Gordon flipped the tea towel onto his shoulder. ‘You also know where the front door is. I’ll let you see yourselves out.’
Derwent made as if to leave, then turned back. ‘Seriously, though – did your kids see much of Uncle Barry?’
Gordon’s nostrils flared and his face became suffused with blood. ‘You’re not talking to my kids. No fucking way.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then. Don’t feel bad, mate. I wouldn’t have wanted them spending time with him either, if I’d been in your shoes.’
I thought Gordon was going to lash out at Derwent. Despite my very real desire to see the inspector knocked into the middle of next week, I didn’t want to have to arrest Vera’s husband for assault on a police officer the day her brother’s murder was discovered. I stepped forward smartly.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Gordon. Sir, you wanted to visit that other location before our next interview. I don’t think we’ll have time unless we go now.’
I sounded apologetic and looked meek, and Derwent had the sense to take the opportunity to leave with his face intact. Graham Gordon followed us out of the kitchen but headed upstairs instead of coming to the front door. I could hear voices as I reached in to close the front door behind us: a brief question from his wife that received an even briefer answer. I didn’t have to wonder if he would tell her what had happened in the kitchen. He would protect her from it, just as he’d allowed her to think that he didn’t mind her brother being around the children. Because part of his problem with Derwent’s questions was that they had hit a nerve. He had been relieved that Barry had refused to come and live with them. Maybe he hadn’t pressed the point with him. Maybe he’d backed him up against Vera, drowning out her objections. Anything for a quiet life. And now he had to be regretting it.