Free Perfect Sins by Jo Bannister Page A

pockets more in hope than expectation.
    But it wasn’t Pete the inspector had come to see. “Did Mr. Sperrin go with them?”
    â€œNo. He may be in the library. It’s this way … I think.…”
    Detective Inspector Norris, who was famed for his observational powers, noticed how the big, dark, shambling man hesitated in the hallway but the white dog, stretching unhurriedly as it climbed off the sofa, padded past him and up the stairs. At the top they all turned left, and the first door they came to was open. Inside was a world of books.
    â€œShall I leave you?” asked Ash.
    â€œNot on my account.” The archaeologist glowered. Taking that as the closest Sperrin was likely to come to asking for moral support, Ash lowered himself onto one of the leather benches lining the walls and busied himself with stroking his dog’s ears.
    â€œI’ve just come from your house,” said Norris. “I couldn’t get a reply.”
    â€œIt’s not my house, it’s my mother’s. She’s probably out.”
    â€œHer car is there.”
    Sperrin shrugged. “She may have walked to the shop. Or she’s painting. She wouldn’t notice nuclear war breaking out if she’s painting.”
    â€œI need to speak to her. Will you let me in?”
    â€œI don’t have a key.” The policeman said nothing that could be interpreted as surprise, but Sperrin somehow felt the need to explain. “Why would I? I haven’t lived there for fifteen years. While I’m working here, I stay at Byrfield.”
    â€œFair enough,” said Norris, although he looked a little puzzled at the man’s vehemence. “Maybe you can help me anyway. We’ve got a bit more information on the body you found. Not the full autopsy results, but a couple of things to help narrow the search. The age and sex of the child, the age of the burial—give or take a few years—and a couple of other things. So the next thing we do is compare those facts with records for the period—see what children were reported missing in this area at around that time.”
    â€œAnd you came up with my brother, James,” said Sperrin shortly. “Well done. Except he didn’t go missing—he was taken to Ireland by our father. He and my mother had split up, it all got a bit acrimonious, sometime later he came back and took Jamie, leaving my mother chasing his car down the road in her bare feet.”
    â€œYou remember this, do you, sir?”
    Sperrin elevated an eyebrow at him. “Since I was five years old at the time, my recollection is a bit sketchy. I know what my mother told me. I know losing Jamie blighted her life. She expected you to bring him back. She went on expecting it for years, but you never did.”
    â€œSo if you were five,” said Norris, doing sums, “this was…?”
    â€œThirty years ago, give or take.”
    â€œAnd your brother would have been…”
    â€œTen. Inspector, none of this is relevant to your investigation. I know where Jamie is—he’s in Ireland.”
    â€œYou have an address for him?”
    It was a rerun of the conversation over breakfast. Ash found himself tensing in anticipation of Sperrin’s loss of temper.
    â€œNo, I don’t have an address for him! They’re travelers—they could be anywhere. They could be in England. If you’re that desperate to talk to him, ask the Gardaí to find him.”
    â€œWe asked them once before. They didn’t manage to find him then. Or your father.”
    â€œInspector, were you ever in rural Ireland in the 1980s? The Guards didn’t have the facilities that the quietest two-man part-time police station in England had. At the start of the Troubles, the authorities in Northern Ireland were furious that they weren’t getting better cooperation from the police across the border. Then they found out that half the time they