‘I’ve not seen Harry,’ Tricia said when Jameson phoned. ‘He’s probably at our place in the country. There’s a suitcase missing in the house, and some of his clothes are gone.’
‘Will you testify against him?’
‘No. He was my husband for a long time, and besides, we can’t blame him, can we?’
‘I half-expected him to turn up here at my door.’
‘That’s Harry, not the bravest of men. He wouldn’t have known what to say, probably felt that he was to blame.’
‘Will you stay with him?’
‘I don’t know. It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On us.’
‘We should consider Harry. You would be better off with him.’
‘It’s not what I want.’
‘We should do the right thing, don’t you think?’
‘It was only a fling, after all,’ Tricia said.
‘It was good while it lasted.’
‘I’ll make my peace with Harry.’ The phone conversation ended. Tricia sat down and cried. She knew that Brian was right. She would go and see Harry, ask his forgiveness. The only fly in the ointment was that she loved Brian, not her husband.
***
Bob Palmer sat in the small kitchen of his drab house. It had been six days since he had stood at the graveside of his long-dead brother, six days since he had visited where Liz had died. He was confused, not sure what to do. His mind fluctuated between the bedroom of his house and that one night with Liz, and where she had died. He remembered what the vicar had said: a small tattoo shaped like a butterfly.
No matter how much he tried to remember the funeral, he couldn’t; his mind fixated on Liz. The realisation that she would no longer be his, nor anybody else’s, not any of the men she had married, none of the other men she had slept with.
The one definite factor in the whole saga was that someone had killed her, the same as someone had murdered his brother. And now the police were following up on his brother’s death, interviewing people, checking facts, re-evaluating forensic evidence. If they knew something, or they had suspicions, he would need to know. It was clear the answers were not in his house. He needed to be in London.
‘I’ve been a damn fool,’ he said out loud. Not that anyone heard, as in that house there was no other life, just gloom. Taking stock of himself, he stood up, shook his shoulders, jumped on the spot, smacked himself around the face a couple of times. ‘Snap out of it,’ he shouted. ‘Be a man, get on with your life. Find out who killed Liz. Do what is necessary.’
He had a shower and shaved, brushed his teeth and put on clean clothes. He then left the house, slamming the door. He was more determined than he had been for many years. With a look over his shoulder as he drove down the street, one last look at his house, he headed to the motorway and London. He talked to himself, he remonstrated, he switched the radio on and off.
On arriving in London, he found a cheap hotel close to where Stephen’s car yard had been, although it was long gone. Not sure what to do next he walked into a pub on the corner. He wasn’t a drinker, but drink makes people talk. And that was what he wanted, people to talk.
He propped himself up at the bar, ordered a pint of beer, indulged in idle conversation with the barman, and looked around.
‘Does anybody in here remember Stephen Palmer?’ he asked the barman.
‘Not me.’
‘He had a used car yard just down the road. There’s a supermarket there now.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Twenty years.’
‘I moved into the area four years back. No doubt a few of the regulars would remember back to then. Why the interest?’
‘He was my brother, and I got to thinking about him after his old girlfriend died recently.’
‘It’s always sad when that happens.’
‘Memories, that’s all. I feel I need closure on her death. I fancied her back then, but she only wanted my brother.’
‘Hey, Jacob,’ the barman shouted out across the bar. ‘Do you remember a Stephen Palmer? More your time than mine.’
‘He’s one of the regulars, been coming in here forever,’ the barman said, turning back to Bob.
Who’s asking?’
‘Gentleman at the bar. Says he’s his brother.’
‘Good man, your brother,’ Jacob said after he had come over to where Bob Palmer was standing. ‘I remember him well, always good for a laugh, never shirked on his round of beer.’ The man stuck out his empty glass, a clear hint to Palmer that if he wanted to talk, he needed to supply the drinks.
Taking the hint, Palmer looked over at the barman. ‘A pint for my friend, one for me. Pour one for yourself.’
‘Don’t mind if I do. Anything to eat?’
‘I’d love one of your steak and kidney pies,’ Jacob said.
‘I’ll have one for myself, as well,’ Bob said. The man was worth a few drinks and a bite to eat.
‘What do you want to know?’ Jacob asked. Prematurely balding, his hair combed over, he looked mildly comical. ‘He was a lad, your brother, used to put it about something shocking.’
‘A mutual friend of Stephen and mine died recently. You might have known her, Liz Spalding.’
‘Good sort, keen on Stephen. A lot of the lads fancied her, kept trying it on, but no success, not while Stephen was around. He could attract women to him like no one else.’
‘He had other women, one of them was married.’
‘Why the interest?’
‘It just seems important to talk to people who knew him and
