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to me. We would be knocking on doors up and down the street anyway, but the ones who were particularly curious – the ones who would stand on the street for hours watching nothing in particular going on – they were the ones I wanted to talk to. They were the ones who would notice anything out of the ordinary. And behind closed doors, they might just not be able to resist telling us what they’d seen.
    Once I had finished with the possible witnesses, I turned to find DI Derwent behind me. He did not look pleased.
    ‘Decided you’d had enough, did you?’
    ‘Just collecting some details.’
    ‘Is that what I asked you to do?’
    ‘No, but—’
    ‘No.’ He leaned in, a flush of colour in his cheeks, his voice hard. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, okay? I don’t like initiative. I don’t like people thinking for themselves. I don’t like having to search for a junior officer who’s taken it up on herself to wander off.’
    ‘I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Dr Hanshaw.’
    ‘Right. And you couldn’t wait for me to be finished at the crime scene.’
    ‘I didn’t think there was any harm in it.’
    ‘Well, your first mistake was thinking. You’re not here to think.’
    I opened my mouth to argue and closed it again. What was the point? Derwent gave a short, sharp nod, as if he was satisfied at having put me in my place. I wondered if he had really been annoyed, or if he had engineered the little scene deliberately.
    ‘Fine. Let’s get out of here, then.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ve got another crime scene to visit but I want to see the sister first. She’s expecting us. She doesn’t want us there too late because we might disturb her precious kids.’
    ‘Where does she live?’
    ‘Chislehurst.’ It was a long way east of Brixton and Derwent said what I was thinking. ‘It’ll take us a while to get there with the traffic like this.’
    I trailed after him to the car, feeling dismal. Stand back and look pretty, he’d said.
    It was going to be a long afternoon.

Chapter Two
    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,