Free Perfect Sins by Jo Bannister Page B

couldn’t get hold of one another when they needed to. There wasn’t full radio coverage—there weren’t even enough radios. There were parts of the wild west of Ireland at that time where policing was practically a Third World operation.”
    Norris was watching him thoughtfully. “How do you know that, Mr. Sperrin?”
    Sperrin gave a sudden fierce grin and glanced around at all the books. “I read, Inspector.”
    The policeman flicked an amiable smile. “You’re quite right, of course. People like your father are always hard to keep tabs on, even now. The officers looking for James thirty years ago were actually reassured by the fact that they couldn’t find Saul, either. If they’d found him and he didn’t have your brother, that would have been bad. As it was, he’d simply vanished off the radar. Every line of inquiry hit a brick wall. And there’s no wall as solid as that thrown up by one gypsy protecting another.”
    This time the smile was apologetic. “But the upshot of all this is, we can’t actually prove that the body in that grave isn’t your brother’s.”
    Sperrin returned the smile coldly. “Of course you can, Inspector, and both of us…” He glanced at Ash by the door. “In fact, all three of us know it. DNA. And I’d lay good money that you’ve already taken samples from the grave, and now you want a sample from either me or my mother. And you thought”—his head came up haughtily; for a small man he seemed to spend a lot of time looking down his nose at people—“that it would be easier if the suggestion came from me.”
    Inspector Norris chuckled. “Well, you’ve got me bang to rights there.” Ash had never heard anyone say “bang to rights” before. “I ask, and it sounds like I’m asking you to disprove a suspicion; you volunteer, and it feels like you’re helping us to advance the investigation. Either way, of course, it’s in your interests that we know for sure it isn’t James in that grave and we need to pursue our inquiries elsewhere. For what it’s worth, it’ll also put a stop to the gossip in the village. It can’t be very pleasant for your mother.”
    Sperrin sighed theatrically. “Inspector, if it’s any help, you’re welcome to a sample of my bodily fluids. It’ll only confirm what I’m telling you—that James is alive and well, and sending a card every Christmas from whatever part of the British Isles he happens to be in.”
    Norris took the offer at face value and made no comment on the manner in which it was made. “Thank you. I’ll arrange it. I appreciate your cooperation.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I cooperate?” Sperrin glowered.
    Norris was on his way out of the library door when Ash reminded him of what he’d said. “That a couple of things emerged from the preliminary examination of the body. Can you tell us what?”
    The detective seemed to consider this for a moment. Whether his decision was aided by the fact that the two men had been present at the opening of the grave, or whether he knew something of Ash’s background, his expression—carefully, professionally blank—did not betray. “All right, yes, there was something. This child, this little boy, died violently. Well, that’s not too much of a surprise—you don’t bury people under the rhododendrons because they’ve had a heart attack or fallen off a wall. All the same, it’s still—thank God—a rare occurrence when a small child is shot dead.”
    He paused there to watch the effect of his words on his audience. But it wasn’t much help. The one who turned white was Ash, who’d had no connection with this area until very recently. Sperrin hardly reacted at all.
    Norris continued. “But even before that he wasn’t”—he searched