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Derwent pulled a pasty out of his suit pocket. It was still wrapped in its cellophane, and as he listened to what I’d found out so far he gnawed at the edge of the plastic. I fixed my eyes above his head and refused to be distracted while I recited what I had been told.
Sheila Gleeson had had no life outside the home. She was totally dependent on her husband, and he had made sure she stayed that way throughout twenty-three years of marriage. She had given birth to six children, all of whom had been in care at one time or another. She was, like him, an alcoholic, dependent on a number of pharmaceutical drugs, and profoundly depressed, to the point where she could neither look after her children nor herself. And Harry had systematically, thoroughly abused her, for decades, to the certain knowledge of their friends, neighbours and social services, not to mention the police who were called to the address time and time again, until the Met got serious about domestic violence and someone finally persuaded her to give evidence against him, promising her that she’d be looked after. She’d come to no harm, they’d said. She could tell the truth about what had happened to her and put an end to the years of misery. Everyone had gone to court. Harry Gleeson pleaded guilty to actual bodily harm, despite the fact that the original charge had been attempted murder. Some prosecutor had taken the easy way out, rather than risk a jury trial. And then the judge had listened to the defence’s mitigation, believed that Harry was a changed man, and given him a twelve-month sentence. Suspended, naturally. He hadn’t spent a day in prison.
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