‘He made the right decision.’
‘Eventually. He stayed at home more often, joined Alcoholics Anonymous. No idea why it was anonymous, everyone knew each other, but it worked in time. Not that he was ever free of the need and there were the occasional relapses, but we dealt with it.’
‘I should join if that’s what’s needed. My wife is supportive, but for how much longer, I don’t know.’
‘Don’t give me that sob story. Your wife’s a stayer. She’ll even attend the meetings with you if you’re ashamed to stand up and admit you’re an alcoholic.’
‘I think I can do that, Sergeant. Thanks anyway. It’s good to talk to someone who understands.’
‘We all understand.’
The conversation lapsed, Wendy finished her cooked breakfast, and the two of them left the uninspiring café with its smell of cleaning detergents and greasy food.
At Oxford, the door was opened by a man in his fifties. In the top pocket of his shirt, a couple of pencils and a pen. It was clear to Larry that the man was either a total nerd or, as an accountant, he hadn’t embraced the modern age of computers, spreadsheets, and online submission of tax returns. To Wendy, the man had the appearance of someone out of his time, spectacles precariously perched on the end of his nose. He looked at the two police officers, his head tilted down, his eyes raised to look them in the face.
‘Come in, come in,’ Bob Palmer said, speaking in a rapid-fire staccato manner.
Inside the house, he cleared two chairs covered in papers.
‘A lot to do, not enough time, but that’s how it is. You’re here about Stephen?’ he said, barely catching his breath.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Larry said. ‘We’ve reopened the case, not sure how far we’ll get with it. We thought you could help.’
‘I didn’t see my brother often. We went our separate ways after we had grown up and we didn’t have much in common, other than our parents.’
‘We were told that he was a sociable man, plenty of friends.’
‘If he fell over in the mud, he’d come up smelling of roses, always a girlfriend on his arm, one in reserve. Not like me.’
‘Not much success with the ladies?’ Wendy asked.
‘I would sometimes joke with him to let me have one of his leftovers, but he never did. He just told me to find my own, but I couldn’t, too shy, weird.’
‘You belittle yourself, Mr Palmer,’ Wendy said, although she could see the truth in what the man said.
‘It was a traumatic period when Stephen disappeared. Our parents were alive back then, not that they are now,’ Bob Palmer continued.
‘They died young?’ Wendy said. She could feel some compassion for a man who found life difficult. The house, his parents’ before they passed away, needed paint and new carpets, and it had been some time since fresh air had flowed through the building, the musty smell evident.
‘Our father suffered from a weak heart and bad lungs, a period in the coal mines up north when he first left school; health and safety weren’t so good back then. Not that he ever complained, not much, although our mother, a vibrant woman who could argue with the neighbours over any trifling matter, used to tell him to snap out of it, do some exercise, and that what ailed him was all in the mind.’
‘Was it?’
‘Our mother was a half-full sort of person; our father was half-empty. The day they identified Stephen as the body in the warehouse, he suffered a heart attack and died.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Wendy said, choking up with emotion. She was still a sensitive soul, even after so many years in the police. It was rare, she would have admitted, as most of those who saw dead bodies, some mutilated, some minus limbs, even heads, became inured to tragedy. She remembered attending the death scene of a murdered man with her DCI. She had been out at the back of the building, sick as a dog, and there was Isaac in the middle of the crime scene, blood to one side, bone to the other, casually discussing the victim, or what was left of him, with Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator.
‘Thankfully, our mother wasn’t there that day when our father died.’
‘Why not?’
‘She was a good person, tough as old boots, but when Stephen disappeared, and we always knew it was foul play…’
‘Knew?’ Larry interjected.
‘It had to be. Stephen had no enemies, never in trouble. What else could have happened to him? He wouldn’t have left the country, not with his business doing well. The office was open, and the cars were lined up outside for sale. He had plenty to live for.’
‘Your mother?’ Wendy reminded Bob Palmer, who was now sitting down, staring at the floor.
‘After Stephen disappeared, there were months of nothingness. You can’t believe how it affects a person, the not knowing. Our mother slowed down, no arguing with the neighbours, no complaining at our father. She’d sit for hours on end in the kitchen, a hard chair, not eating, only picking at her food. Five months after my brother disappeared, she was dead. We buried her at the local church, a spot reserved next to her for our father, another for Stephen, if or when he was found.’
‘After he was found?’
‘I saw what was left of him. Unrecognisable as Stephen, as anyone. It upset me greatly. In due course, the body was released, and he was buried next to my parents. I was there at the service, so were several of his
