Cold as Ice

Chapter 19

It was midday when Carter left Tracy’s house; he drove to Camden and parked up on a quiet residential street with a smart-looking row of Victorian terrace houses. He walked along to the end of the terrace and smelt the bonfire as he turned up the driveway and walked past a battered-looking van.

He rang the doorbell and waited. No one came. He walked to the edge of the house and heard the crackle of the bonfire as flakes of soot drifted past him. Carter knocked on the side gate and tried the latch. He called out:

‘Mr Foster?’

‘What do you want?’ came the reply.

‘A word.’ Carter opened his warrant card and showed it above the garden gate.

The gate opened and a man stood wiping his hands on a rag. Behind him was a long garden with a clump of trees at the end and a smoking bonfire in the middle. ‘Gerald Foster?’ It struck Carter that Foster was a tough-looking man. He was over six foot. His frame was still upright and strong. He would have put his age at fifty. Foster wore heavy-rimmed glasses covered in a layer of dust. They were ones that had come back into fashion, clear at the bottom, black and heavy at the top.

The man nodded but he didn’t move from the gate.

‘I won’t keep you long, can I come in please?’

For a moment it looked as if Gerald Foster was about to say no but then he turned and walked over to the bonfire.

Carter followed.

‘Funny time to be burning stuff? Isn’t that ground a bit wet?’ Foster shrugged. He carried on past the bonfire and through into the utility room and kitchen at the back of the house. The kitchen table was covered with newspaper and tools being cleaned. Foster unscrewed a chain-saw that was secured in a vice screwed to the edge of a worktop and blew onto the newly sharpened chain blade. Christ, thought Carter – this is what happened to some men when there was no woman around. Foster had turned his house into a tool shed. ‘You’re having a tidy-up?’ Carter looked around the kitchen. There were large pieces of antique-looking mechanical equipment on newspaper. There was a wooden box under repair, its hinges hanging out, its broken lid resting on top of it.

Foster shrugged and turned his back to Carter while he washed his hands in the kitchen sink.

‘I’m very busy as you can see.’ He picked up a dirty towel from beside the sink and wiped his hands.

‘What’s all this stuff? You repair antiques? Looks like you have a lot on here.’ Carter knelt down to look at a piece of old machinery that looked like a pump.

‘It’s a hobby.’ Foster glared at Carter. ‘What’s this about?’ Foster’s voice was surprisingly soft for such a gruff-looking man, thought Carter. He looked nervous. He definitely wasn’t comfortable with visitors.

‘It’s about your daughter Danielle. She’s gone missing.’ Foster stared blankly at Carter for a few seconds then he shook his head and turned away, irritated. ‘We’re very concerned about her welfare. We think she’s been abducted.’

‘Whatever trouble she’s in she brought it on herself.’ Foster picked up a pair of shears from the kitchen table and began sharpening one of the blades on an oiled stone. ‘I haven’t seen her in two years. Don’t want to either. I’m finished with her – I’ve done my bit. Brought her up as best I could.’

‘Bit if a handful, was she?’ Carter nodded sympathetically at Foster. He didn’t answer; he continued sharpening the blade.

‘You could say that. She caused my wife’s death; she brought it on with all her shenanigans.’ He turned to look at Carter and make sure he understood. ‘She was never any good. I could see it as she grew. She had that look about her. Nothing but trouble and then she got herself pregnant and I told my wife not to have anything to do with her but she felt sorry for the little boy. Poor blighter.’ Foster lifted his eyes and looked at Carter.

‘I don’t know what he’s capable of. Not much, I don’t expect. He’s disabled. You seen him?’

‘Yes I saw him. He’s a sweet little kid. He’s in shock. He was left alone overnight.’

‘He’ll soon forget. He’s going to be better off without her, that’s for sure.’ He picked up some bits of debris and threw them angrily into the bin. Then he turned back to Carter. ‘Marion saw them despite my wishes. I told her not to but she disobeyed me and look where it got her. It put her in an early grave. If someone has taken that girl, good luck to them. They’ve done the world a favour. She’s never been any good to anyone.’ He paused and looked up from his sharpening. ‘The boy’s better off without her. What’s happened to him now?’

‘He’s with Danielle’s birth mother, Tracy.’

Foster looked away and shook his head with a cynical smile on his face. ‘What’s she like, Danielle’s birth mother? Rough, I expect?’

Carter shook his head. ‘Not at all – she’s a nice woman: hard-working, respectable. So you haven’t seen Danielle for some time?’

‘Not since the funeral. I didn’t want her at that but she turned up and I didn’t want to make a scene. Marion wouldn’t have wanted that. Marion was nothing but goodness. A saint to put up with the things she did. A wonderful woman who deserved better than the treatment she got from her own daughter. Well, adopted daughter. I never used to think there was a difference – I do now. I think of her as a cuckoo in our nest. All she did was take – bled us dry.’

‘I understand what you’re saying, Mr Foster. I know it’s not easy. I came from a big family – fallouts are an everyday thing, but you might want to keep the door open on Danielle and your grandson. She was trying her best to put her life in order. She had enrolled in evening classes, she was living in a new place with Jackson. She was trying to make a go of things.’

‘Oh I know she was attending classes. She told me.’

‘So she did contact you recently. I thought you said she hadn’t?’

‘I said I hadn’t seen her. She rung up six months ago, said it was to see how I was. But she always has an angle. She got to it in the end. She asked me for the details about her birth mother. I gave them to her. It was no skin off my nose. Typical – now that she can’t tap my wife for money she’s trying to get it out of some other poor sap. Good luck to them both.’

Carter watched as Gerald started sharpening the other side of the shears.

‘Do you work, Mr Foster?’

‘I’m a London guide. I take people on guided walks around the city and the surrounds. I’m working this afternoon.’ He looked at Carter as if to say – so hurry up.

‘A tourist guide?’

‘Yes. I show people round. Charles Dickens’ London. Jack the Ripper’s haunts. That kind of thing.’

‘Interesting job.’

‘It’s more of a hobby really. I’m semi-retired.’

‘What did you do before?’

‘I’m a carpenter by trade. I still get the odd call to make something but I haven’t done so much since my wife died.’ He caught Carter looking around at the mess in the kitchen. ‘I don’t see the point in keeping up with the housework any more. Never did really. That was always Marion’s domain. But I make sure I brush up well when I go to work.’

‘You manage here on your own?’

‘Yes. I can live very frugally. I don’t need a lot of money.’

‘Looks like you look after your tools. My granddad was one for making and mending, always saw him with a pair of pliers in his hand, always fixing something.’

Foster didn’t reply, instead he motioned his head towards the back garden and the bonfire.

‘Of course, I won’t keep you.’

Foster picked up his gloves and marched outside. Carter followed him out. They passed the overgrown edges of what had once been a neat and well-cared-for garden. There was lawn in the main middle part, shrubs around the outside now looking wintry and uncared for. The lawn came to an abrupt stop at a small copse of trees.

‘You’ve got a lot of space here. Ever thought of getting planning permission? Is that a big shed you’ve got at the bottom there?’ Carter took a few paces towards the trees and a shed with an open door.

Foster blocked his way.

‘It’s a workshop. I’m giving it a tidy-out. Look – I’m busy. If you want to talk to someone go and find that worthless no-hoper Niall Manson, the boy’s father. What about him? She said she’d broken away from him but I never believed it. If there’s some muck to roll in he’ll find it.’

‘Funny,’ said Carter, watching Foster work. ‘He didn’t seem to like you either.’

Foster stopped and looked him.

‘You’ve talked to him? What did he say?’

‘We talked about Danielle mainly.’

Carter watched as Foster seemed to be mulling this news over.

‘Ah well.’ He stamped on the growing pile of debris to burn. ‘Those that live in glasshouses shouldn’t throw stones.’ He glared at Carter.

‘Okay, thanks for your time, Mr Foster. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll leave a card for you in case you remember anything you think will help find her.’ He held up his card for Foster to see.

Foster took it from him and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He watched Carter leave through the side gate then waited till he heard a car start off further down the road. He walked quickly down past the bonfire and into the copse. His heartbeat quickened as he approached his shed. He wouldn’t leave it unpadlocked again. That was silly of him. The policeman could have asked to look inside. Foster would have had to say no. The policeman would have been suspicious. Foster turned the handle and stepped into the shed and into a world that smelt of wood and creosote. The dust from newly cut chipboard was in the air. He walked across to the far wall and stood in front of the box he’d finished a few days ago. He pulled back a hessian curtain. Pinned to the wall behind it there were hundreds of photos of Danielle as a little girl.