The Blood Detective

17

That evening Foster, frayed by exhaustion and intermittent bursts of adrenalin, was parked outside the house of John Fairbairn in Barnes. He was the second name on the list that Khan had completed under Nigel's tutelage. It was shorter than he thought.

Only thirty-two people. The first on the list had been eighty-three, lived in a nursing home, and ate her lunch through a straw.

More evidence had been found at the scene of Patricia MacDougall's murder. A fingerprint left on the back of the CD in the clock radio player matched the unidentified print they had lifted off the box containing Nella Perry's eyes. Foster had decided to ask each descendant for a print to rule them out.

He and Drinkwater knocked on the door. It was opened by a brown-haired man in his forties, a mug of tea in his hand. Foster noticed he was wearing slippers.

He looked at both Drinkwater and Foster.

'Yes,' he said warily.

Foster flashed his ID. 'Mr Fairbairn?'

The man nodded, eyes narrowing.

'Sorry to bother you at home. I was wondering if we could grab a few moments of your time.'

'What's happened?' he asked.

'Can we explain?' Foster said, gesturing inside, not wanting to have this exchange on the doorstep.

They followed Fairbairn in. The house was warm, the smell of baking billowing from the kitchen. A woman stepped out, rubbing her hands on a tea towel. Foster nodded in greeting.

'Something smells good,' he said.

She smiled but looked immediately at her husband for reassurance.

'These two detectives say they want a word with us.'

'You actually, Mr Fairbairn,' Foster said. 'But your wife is welcome to join us; it's not an interview.'

They went into the lounge. The TV was muted.

Fairbairn turned it off.

'Tea or coffee?' he asked.

'No thanks,' Foster said. 'I've been mainlining coffee all day.'

Drinkwater asked for fruit juice. Mrs Fairbairn scurried off and came back with a jugful rattling with ice.

'So what's this about?' Fairbairn said.

Foster drew a deep breath. 'Can I ask if either of you are at all interested in family history?'

Fairbairn stared at him as if he had just propositioned his wife. 'Are you being serious?'

'I am, yes.'

The couple exchanged bewildered glances. 'As a matter of fact, I am. It's been a hobby of mine for several years now.'

'So you're aware of your own family history?'

'Yes. Well, only until the 1740s. My inability to read Latin prevented me going any further back. Can I ask where this is leading?'

'To Eke Fairbairn.'

Mr Fairbairn stared at Foster for a few seconds without speaking. 'How the heavens do you know about Eke?' he asked.

'Long story,' Foster said. 'Let me ask you a few questions first, then I'll explain. Do you know what he did?'

'He was a murderer. He killed two people and was executed at Newgate Prison in 1879.'

'When did you find out about him?'

He looked at his wife. 'About five years ago?' he said to her.

She nodded. 'About five years ago,' she repeated.

'And how did it make you feel, discovering there was a murderer in your family?'

Fairbairn shrugged. 'To be honest, I thought it was fascinating. I don't go in for ancestor worship.'

'Ancestor worship?'

'Yes, I see it all the time in the family history group I'm part of. People venerating one particular person, usually the most successful, or the most hardy, to the exclusion of the others. Conveniently ignoring the black sheep. Some people welcome the failures and misfits; others turn away and pretend it never happened, go into denial'

'Have you researched your ancestor's trial?'

'I've read some of the newspaper reports,' Fairbairn said, becoming impatient. 'Sorry, I really have to ask why you're so interested in this. Is the case being reopened?'

'You could say that,' Foster replied, then decided to cut to the chase. 'There's been a series of murders in West London over the past few weeks. Whoever's doing it has been copying the murders of 1879, for which your ancestor was hanged. It's our belief that Eke was an innocent man, that he was fitted up by the police in order to deflect public and press criticism.'

Fairbairn was speechless, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.

'We also think that the person who is committing these murders is aware of the miscarriage of justice and is avenging what happened back then. First, we want to rule out descendants of Eke Fairbairn.'

Fairbairn's expression turned to disbelief. 'I'm a suspect?'

'In a tenuous sort of way, yes, you are,' Foster said.

'I can categorically deny murdering anyone,' he replied bluntly. He shook his head.

'I can believe that,' Foster said. 'But it'd help if we could rule you out of our inquiries. A fingerprint would be one way.'

He agreed. Drinkwater took his print, then asked him where he had been on the nights the bodies were dumped. He was at home, a story verified by his wife.

Foster believed him, but decided to keep an eye on his movements for the next twenty-four hours or so.

When Drinkwater had completed the routine, Foster asked a few more questions.

'Have you shared the story of Eke Fairbairn with any other family, friends?'

'My immediate family know. My son, who's at university, and my daughter, who's at a friend's tonight. My brother and his wife. They live in Oxford.

And, of course, my family history group.'

'All of them?'

'Yes, I gave a small talk about it.'

'When was that?'

'A year or so ago. They were fascinated. As I said, most people who become interested in family history embrace all their ancestors, not just the ones who happened to make the most money and give birth to the most children.'

'Did you notice anyone giving what you said undue attention, asking a lot of questions?'

Fairbairn smiled rather condescendingly. Had he not been so tired, it would have pissed Foster off.

'Detective, I'm forty-nine years old. With the odd exception, in comparison to the rest of the group I am a mere whippersnapper. No one in that group is physically capable of murder. But tomorrow evening is our monthly meeting. You could come along and see if you can spot any likely killers.'

Foster smiled thinly and took the name of the group and its secretary. The circle of those who might know about the injustice had just widened, he thought ruefully, when he could do with it shrinking.

Foster got up to leave.

'What makes you think Eke wasn't guilty?' Fairbairn asked.

"I know a bad case when I see one,' was all Foster replied. He did not mention anything about Fairbairn's ancestor having been beaten and broken before he was hanged. He sensed John Fairbairn would discover that for himself now.

'It's funny,' he said, as he showed Foster and Drinkwater to his front door. 'I was only talking about this with my brother recently. When I started to research our family, my mother, who died four years ago, became very distressed. She told me I mustn't get involved because there was a murderer in the family. That was the first I heard of it. She died not wanting to know. To her, it was shameful.

It had been a dark family secret for years, rarely spoken about. Now it turns out there was nothing to be ashamed of; he was innocent.'

They said goodbye. Foster was puzzled. The family was ashamed of Eke? This probably meant Clara had not passed down the story of her brother's innocence.

Perhaps she had assumed her brother's guilt.

'Interesting that he's researched the history, isn't it?' Drinkwater said. 'He might have been lying when he said he didn't know about the miscarriage of justice.'

Foster shook his head. T doubt it.'

He thought about what Fairbairn said regarding his mother's attitude to her ancestor, and it saddened him. Eke Fairbairn had not only been condemned to die but, for more than a century, his name had been a source of shame for those who shared it.

Nigel called it a night at ten, index blindness causing his head to ache. His aim was to go home, grab a few hours' sleep and return to the FRC refreshed. He anticipated spending the next day there; probably the night, too.

Back at his flat he flopped on his sofa. I might just pass out here, he thought, rubbing his hands down his face again and again, names, dates and references pulsing through his brain. He turned on BBC Radio Four, the backdrop to his life. He even kept it on while sleeping, a low background murmur through the night. He joked to visitors that he was trying to soak up as much knowledge as possible, even at rest, when in fact he was seeking comfort. A man with a high, lisping voice was reading extracts from a book, some sort of travelogue. He settled back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

The front door buzzer startled him. Who the hell was that, at this time of night? He went to the intercom.

'Hello,' he said irritably, expecting some drunken fool who'd chosen the wrong flat number.

'It's Heather.'

'Oh,' he said.

'Sorry, did I wake you up?'

'No. Not at all. I just got back, actually. Just had the radio on and . . .'

'Can I come in? Very nice, Shepherd's Bush, but I don't want to stand here all night.'

'Of course,' he said. 'Sorry. Bit dazed.'

He pressed the release button. He heard the entrance door slam and her feet shuffling up the stone steps. He opened the door to his flat. As Heather came towards his landing, he could see she was carrying something in her right hand. Looked like a bottle of wine.

He let her in and she walked through to the sitting room. Nigel caught a waft of her perfume as she passed. She took her jacket off and laid it over the arm of the sofa.

'Be a sweetheart and open that up,' she said, handing him the bottle of wine wrapped in white paper.

'Barely had a glass all week and, given the week it's been, I need one. Just been round to the house of one of the Fairbairns from your list. Nothing doing.

It was only down the road so I thought I'd drop by, see how you were.'

Nigel smiled. Despite his exhaustion and the fact he had only come home to snatch a few hours' sleep before heading back, he was delighted to see her and the wine. Before, on the morning after Nella Perry's murder, her visit seemed routine -- more out of professional concern. This was different. Or, at least, it felt so. For a second he cursed the circumstances in a few hours both of them would be back at work - and wished it was a normal Friday night and their time was their own. He went through to the kitchen, rattled around in a drawer teeming with loose cutlery, tin openers and other appliances until he found a corkscrew that worked.

'How did the research go?' Heather asked, appearing at the door behind him.

'Good,' he said, cursing as the blunt corkscrew gouged the cork to shards. He forced it back in and slowly pulled it out without losing too much of the cork in the wine. From the back of the cupboard he selected two wine glasses, part of the best set he had, infrequently aired. He handed her the glass.

'Here's to catching the killer in the next twenty four hours,' she said, clinking glasses.

She gave him a smile. Nigel loved the way it animated her whole face. She took a sip then pushed a wisp of hair from her forehead.

'How good is good?' she said, walking to the armchair.

She sat kneeling, curling her legs underneath her.

Nigel sat on the sofa. 'Well, Ellis is going to be difficult to trace, given how common the surname is.

So I've put that to one side. I did Darbyshire first.

Bit tricky due to the possible variations in the spelling of his name, either with an "a" or an "e". But I managed to get back to around 1879. His direct ancestor of that time, his greatgreat-grandfather, was a guy named Ivor Darbyshire, newspaper editor.'

'Which newspaper?'

'Don't know yet. He's not listed in the old copies of Who's Who, so it's unlikely to be a national. He lived in Kensington. I thought perhaps he might have edited the Kensington News; they were the ones who piled a lot of pressure on the police back then.'

Heather nodded. 'Darbyshire's hands were cut off.

Journalists write or type with their hands, even if they talk out of their arse. Makes sense.'

'I got a much better hit with Nella Perry's ancestry.'

Heather pulled out a notebook from her bag.

'Her direct ancestor was Stafford Pearcey, the main witness at Fairbairn's trial'

'Bingo.'

'It wasn't easy. There was no sign of anyone named Pearcey being involved with the family. But I did find that, in 1892, Seamus Perry was born a bastard. His mother was Irish; her name was on the birth certificate but the father's wasn't. In 1891 I found her on the census. Niamh Perry. She was Stafford Pearcey's housekeeper.'

*Was he married?'

He nodded.

'Dirty old sod.'

'At least he didn't cut her off without a penny,'

Nigel said. 'Looks like he paid for Seamus to go to Harrow.'

'And as a result we have the Perrys of Notting Hill. Wonder if they're aware they only exist because their ancestor shacked up with someone below stairs.'

'I think I know why Stafford Pearcey gave evidence that implicated Eke,' Nigel added. 'In 1893, he died.

In prison. He'd been sentenced for embezzlement.

He was probably at it for years, but he either paid the cops off or did favours for them, like the one at Fairbairn's trial'

Heather shook her head sadly. They sat in silence, the radio chuntering away in the background. Nigel usually leapt in to fill moments like these, feeling awkward. Not now.

'At least we now know his motivation,' Heather said eventually. 'If you want revenge for something that happened more than a hundred and twenty-five years ago and don't have access to a time machine, then the best you can do is torture and kill those who carry the guilty men's genes.'

'Make them pay for the sins of their forefathers,'

Nigel added. 'I said this to Foster earlier. The past is with us all the time, buried and hidden, yet it always comes to the surface. It refuses to be ignored.'

Her glass was empty. Nigel took it to the kitchen and filled it. His tiredness had lifted, the wine having a galvanizing effect. Heather's company, too. When he returned she was staring at him, a look of curiosity on her face.

'Do you wonder when your past will surface?'

'What do you mean?' he said, warily.

'Your family past. When Foster and I first met you, in that cafe, you mentioned you were adopted.

You didn't know your own family history.'

'Yes, occasionally I do think it will surface.'

That was half the truth. The secrecy of his past was a constant, lurking thought at the back of his mind. As hired historical help, he had performed thousands of successful searches of people's family history. Yet the fact remained that he knew nothing of his own. One day, he knew, that would change.

'I thought when you were adopted, you could access the records and find out your natural parents,'

Heather said.

'You can.'

'But you haven't?'

Tes, I did.'

'So what happened? Sorry, I'm a bit nosy.'

He smiled. 'That's OK,' he said. 'Not much to report. It gave me the address of a woman, who turned out to be dead. No record of a father and no one else around to speak to about it. I left it there.

Not knowing your past doesn't stop you living your life. Actually, it can help you sometimes; no successes to live up to, mistakes to avoid. That can be liberating.

But there's always an absence, a sense that something's missing. Just a void and a lot of unanswered questions.'

Nigel took a large sip of his wine. Heather was looking at him, twining a strand of hair around her index finger. He sensed more questions. He didn't mind. He welcomed her attention.

'Do you have any music?' she asked suddenly.

'I have a record player,' he replied, looking around at his room, piled with books and magazines, space at a premium. 'Somewhere.'

'What, vinyl? Jesus, Nigel, you're a walking anachronism.'

'I

just like old things. Everything now has built-in obsolescence; it goes out of fashion, or they bring out a new model, make you think you have to have it. Mass-produced crap that promotes dissatisfaction.

I like a thing well made. An object that, when you hold it, enables you to actually picture the man or woman who made it standing back and admiring their work.'

He got up out of his chair, wandered over to the bookshelf, shifting a pile of weathered periodicals to one side to reveal a dust-strewn record player. He lifted the lid; the arm had become detached.

'The arm is broken,' he said, waving the severed limb.

'Funny, you don't get that with a CD player,'

Heather said.

She got out of her chair and went over to the radio, turning the dial slowly. Finally, she found a station playing music, an old soul song Nigel didn't recognize. His tastes stretched to the work of Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen and a few other ageing singer-songwriters of the early seventies. The collection stopped at about 1974, the year he was born. Given how she smiled when the sax-laden chorus of the radio song kicked in, that might not have been the latenight listening she was seeking.

She sauntered back to the chair, and drained the remnants of her wine. He went to give her a refill but Heather placed her hand over the top of the glass.

'I'm driving,' she said.

He poured himself another and they sat listening.

Heather had closed her eyes. Nigel wondered if she might fall asleep. When the song finished, she opened them again.

She sighed deeply. 'It's so good to be able to relax in the middle of all this,' she said. 'Foster can't do it, can't switch off. I think it's vital'

Nigel could sympathize with Foster. Since stumbling across Nella Perry's body on Sunday morning, he could think of nothing but doing all he could to catch her killer. Sleep came in fitful spurts; only by chasing the killer through the past could he cope.

Heather seemed to sense his thoughts. 'I know how you're feeling,' she said. 'It gets obsessive.' She spread her hands out wide. 'Welcome to my world.'

'How did you get into detective work, if you don't mind me asking?'

She shook her head. 'Not at all. I did a criminology degree at university. When I finished, I wondered what I would do with it. The way I saw it, there were two options. I could continue to study, live in the world of theory and make bugger-all difference, or I could join the police force. I took the unfashionable option.'

'Why London?'

'I'd like to say all human life is here and, therefore, there is no more interesting and challenging place to do a job like mine. Which is true. But the fact is, I followed a bloke down here. It didn't work out; me and London did.'

More silence. The song ended.

'So who was it who broke your heart at the university?'

Heather asked.

Nigel was startled at first, but the wine emboldened him.

'Who said she broke my heart?' he replied, smiling-.

'You did. When I was here Sunday morning. Well, you didn't say that explicitly. But it was clear from the look in your eyes that it was painful You do the vulnerable look very well. It's those blue eyes.'

He didn't know what to say.

'A combination of the eyes, the thick square rimmed glasses, and the shy smile. Bet you went down a storm with the student body.'

His face must have betrayed a hint of panic.

She reacted immediately. 'She was a student?' voice rising with surprise.

He nodded. He felt it right to tell the whole story.

If this wasn't to be the only time he was to share a drink with Heather, and he genuinely hoped it wasn't, then it made sense to furnish her with the truth.

'She was twenty-nine. A PhD student. Not one of mine. I was hired to try and set up a family history degree, but, while I was planning that, they asked me to take some history modules. Lily was chasing a job at the uni and, because she was doing a PhD and had a bit of time on her hands, she was assigned to help build, plan and research the family history course with me. We became close and eventually we . . .' He tried to search for the right word.

'Got it on?' Heather offered, eyes twinkling.

'You could say that, yes.'

'So, what went wrong?'

'She was married.'

'Oh.'

'She was separated when we started seeing each other. I didn't know there was a husband. Anyway, she told me about him one day. Then she said he had got back in touch, wanted to give it another go.'

'She told you that on the same day she told you that her husband existed?' Heather said with disdain.

'The cow.'

'Yes, well. Obviously, she didn't choose me. They offered her a job at the university and, frankly, the idea of working with her every day after all that had happened was pretty unpalatable. Plus, there was a funding problem and so the family history course was being put on the back burner. So I walked away.'

'You did the right thing.'

He shrugged. 'I'm over it, by the way.'

She raised her eyebrows at him. 'Why are you telling me that?'

He felt the burn of embarrassment in his cheeks.

Heather smiled, then glanced sideways in search of her bag. 'Listen, you look knackered,' she said. 'I'll let you go. Don't want you to fall asleep in the birth indexes.'

She stood up, Nigel too.

'You're the first person I've ever told that to,'

he said.

'Anything you say might be taken down and used in evidence against you,' she replied.

He was tired, but he did not want her to go. Her presence was like a balm. He knew when he closed the door and went to his bed, the image of Nella Perry would be back and he would lie in the dark, unable to sleep, listening to the blood pumping around his body.

'Thanks for coming round,' he said.

Again she gave him one of her smiles.

'I mean that,' he added.

She stood by the door, lingering a few seconds.

Nigel felt the urge to say or do something.

'No problem,' she said. She walked towards him, put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

Her lips were soft and brushed against him lightly.

She went back to the door.

'Maybe we can do this again. Obviously, when the case is done.'

'I'd like that,' she said, putting her bag over her shoulder. 'Though next time, try and get the cork out of the bottle properly.'