A Death Left Hanging by Sally Spencer

thoughtful drag on his cigarette. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand, Harry.’
    â€˜An’ what’s that, Mr Sharpe?’
    â€˜Before today, you’ve never voluntarily entered a police station in your life. Why the sudden change of heart?’
    â€˜I . . . I think it was the birth of my grandson that did it.’
    â€˜Is that supposed to make sense to me?’
    â€˜Probably not. You see, Mr Sharpe, he’s a beautiful little kid. He reminds me of his mother at his age.’
    â€˜Very touching, I’m sure,’ Sharpe said with a sneer.
    â€˜I never saw much of our Bessie when she was growin’ up, like, because I was always doin’ time. An’ if I go down again with my record, it’ll be for a ten stretch.’
    â€˜At least a ten stretch,’ Sharpe agreed. ‘At the
very
least. Get to the point, Harry.’
    â€˜I don’t want to lose out on my grandson like I lost out on my daughter. I want to take him fishin’. I want to see his eyes light up when I give him his Christmas presents.’
    â€˜Do you know, I’m almost in tears.’
    â€˜So I’ve got to stay out of trouble, haven’t I, Mr Sharpe? More than that – I’ve got to be a model citizen. That’s why I’m here. Because I’m doin’ my duty – just like a model citizen should.’
    Sharpe nodded. ‘A model citizen,’ he repeated. ‘So you’ve not committed any new crimes recently?’
    â€˜No. I swear I haven’t. Not since little Wilf was born.’
    â€˜You haven’t done any shoplifting?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You haven’t received any stolen property?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜How about burglaries?’
    â€˜I told you, I––’
    â€˜Do you know that row of big houses not far from St Mary’s Church?’ Sharpe interrupted.
    â€˜I’ve seen’em,’ Brunskill said defensively.
    â€˜Must be lots of rich pickings for a burglar in places like them.’
    â€˜Maybe there is, but––’
    â€˜On the night of the murder, one of those houses was broken into. We don’t have any suspects for the crime at the moment, but now we know that you were in the vicinity at the time, well . . .’
    Sharpe let his words trail off into nothingness. Brunskill, he noted, was sweating.
    â€˜I haven’t heard of no burglaries in any of them houses, Mr Sharpe,’ Brunskill said.
    The DCI nodded. ‘That’s because none has been officially reported – yet! But one
could be
reported, Harry, if you get my meaning. You
do
get my meaning, don’t you?’
    Brunskill bowed his head. ‘Yes, I get your meanin’, Mr Sharpe,’ he mumbled.
    â€˜So let me ask you again,’ Sharpe said. ‘Where exactly were you at eight twenty on the night of the murder of Frederick Dodds?’
    â€˜I . . . I was at home.’
    â€˜You’re sure of that?’
    â€˜I didn’t leave the house all day.’
    Sharpe smiled. ‘That’s just what I thought you’d say, Harry,’ he told the other man.
    The deep groan of a tug’s hooter wrenched Sharpe out of his recollections and deposited him squarely in the middle of his present cold reality.
    It was thirty years since that interview with scruffy little Harry Brunskill, he reminded himself – long enough for the past to fade almost to invisibility, for words spoken and actions taken to be all but forgotten. In truth, he had thought that was just what
had
happened. And then he’d got that warning phone call from Chief Constable Henry Marlowe, and had felt all the certainties he’d built his life and career on begin to slip away.
    The woman had been
guilty
, despite the fact that some of the evidence might have seemed to suggest otherwise. Any policeman who had been assigned to the case would have come to that conclusion. And even if there was a slight,