Blood Atonement

1

The candle on the ledge guttered as it neared its end, shadows dancing on the wall. Beside her Sarah sensed the rhythmic rise and fall of her sisters' chests. Henrietta's and Emma's ability to fall asleep as soon as their heads lay on the pillow infuriated her, while she tossed and turned seeking sleep that took an age to arrive.

Not tonight, though. She lay rigid, pinned down beneath layers of blankets, not wanting to move and so drown out the muffled voices from the adjoining room.

Her future, her whole life was being discussed in there.

She could hear her mother, softly pleading, occasionally sobbing.

Her father's sonorous voice in response, calm and unyielding.

"I do not mean to disobey you,' she heard her mother say. 'But he is in his sixty-seventh year. Does that not seem wrong to you?'

The low rumble of his words was more difficult to decipher.

Sarah eased herself from under the weight of her covers and crept silently to the door, the breath from her nostrils frosting in the crisp night air. She shuddered. The September night was clear and cold but the undergarments beneath her nightclothes warded off the worst of the chill. She eased the door open and slipped into the dark hall.

The words were more audible out there.

'Sarah is only fourteen!'

'You were only fourteen, Annaleah, when your father, or the man who acted as your father, pledged you to me.' Sarah sensed her father's impatience. Her boldness had reaped its harvest many times.

Her mother choked back a sob. 'May the Lord forgive me, I must protest--'

'Enoughl' Silence.

Lord, no. Not Hesker? Sarah thought of his enormous stomach, bulging eyes, sagging, bewhiskered jowls and flabby wet lips, habitually moistened with a flicking pink tongue. There was a metallic taste in her mouth now, testament to her rising bile. She felt sick.

'The matter is agreed. I will hear of it no more.'

'But Orson . . .'

'Annaleah!' The voice was resolute, commanding.

She knew then that her mother's protest was at an end. A hot tear ran silently and slowly down her cheek. She retreated quickly back to her room before her father left for his. It had been a long time since he had favoured her mother's room as his place of rest.

At her bedside, she fell to her knees and buried her salt-wet face in her hands. The Lord was her only chance of reprieve.

'Our dear Heavenly Father, I thank thee for the blessings bestowed on my family and me. The food on the table, the bounty in the fields, the health of our livestock. The manner in which foseph junior was spared when plague-ridden in the summer and it seemed all hope was vanquished. I thank thee for those and many other blessings. I beg here for thy mercy. If it be according to thy will that I be wed to Hesker Pettibone, then I beseech thee to think again. I apologise for my insolence, but I request with all reverence and humility that I not be married to that disgusting fat old hog -- I seek thy forgiveness for that ungodly description. Should thou ignore my plea, so help me, Heavenly Father, I will not answer for the actions I henceforth take. Amen.'

As Sarah climbed back into bed, her ice-block fet source of heat, she heard the soft whimpers of her mother in the room next door. Strangely it gave her strength.

I would rather be cast into the fiery pit than live a life of quiet desperation and suffering, she thought.

Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster emitted a weary sigh as he crouched over the woman's corpse, arc lights in the garden bathing them both in bright light, anticipating the first light of dawn. During his convalescence, human nature had not taken a turn for the better. He rose to standing, wincing slightly at the bolt of pain searing up his leg from the metal plate holding his right shin together, then shuddered as he felt a cold cough of wind on the back of his neck. He'd not worn a coat, assuming when he was called and told of a woman's murder at her house she would be found inside, and not outside on a small, slightly overgrown lawn.

The throat had been cut. The body was framed by a wide slick of blood. He looked around the garden. The fences at all three sides were high, giving a degree of privacy, though the upstairs windows of the properties on both sides would have had a partial view. Young professional couples lived either side and got home after dark.

Neither of them had seen the body. Still, to Foster it seemed the killer had taken a strange risk.

He returned to the house. The sitting room was neat and ordered, no signs of a struggle. Foster rubbed his face with his right hand. It was his first week back, early November. He'd insisted on being on call. The call had come that Tuesday morning at 4 a.m., four hours after the body had been discovered. He climbed into his old suit, realizing only then that he could fit his thumbs into the gap between his gut and the waistband, forcing him to dig out a belt and pull it to the tightest notch. It had been just over six months since he'd been tortured and beaten and saved only seconds from death. The thought of getting back on the job had kept him going during some long dark nights of the soul. During some nights, when the dreams were at their worst, Karl Hogg's hot breath still in his nostrils, the excruciating pain as both tibia and fibula snapped under the weight of Hogg's mallet, he'd thought this moment might never arrive.

But here he was; his first case back.

He had anticipated a gang killing, probably some hapless kid stabbed in the street in Shepherd's Bush or Kensal Rise. Instead he'd got this -- a woman lying dead in a garden, in a lavishly furnished Victorian terrace, on a quiet affluent street in Queen's Park, a middle-class ghetto between Kensal Green and Kilburn.

Detective Inspector Heather Jenkins walked into the sitting room with a scene of crime photographer at her shoulder. 'Mind if I. . .' he said, motioning towards the garden nervously.

'Fill your boots,' Foster said.

He turned to Heather. Her hair was scraped and tied back off her face and she looked pale and worn. Bad news, he thought.

'The victim's name is Katie Drake,' she said. 'Thirty seven years old. An actress. The neighbours two doors down found her. They had a set of keys. They were alerted by a friend of Katie's after she and her daughter failed to turn up at an ice-skating rink to celebrate the daughter's fourteenth birthday'

Foster felt a shudder of apprehension. And where's the daughter?'

'We don't know. She's missing'

Everything and everyone was gathered. The Met's murder squad and all its resources out en masse. Dogs, helicopters, hundreds of officers preparing to knock on doors, ready to shake down every paedophile and pervert in West London and beyond. All waiting for the onset of daylight before they got started. A cursory check of Katie Drake's body estimated she had been dead since the previous afternoon, perhaps as early as 2 p.m. Her daughter, Naomi, was last seen leaving school at 3.15 p.m. Her schoolbag was downstairs. She'd made it home. But then what? The signs weren't good. Find them in the first six hours or you're looking for a dead body. That was the mantra when it came to a missing child. Unless . . .

They could not discount the idea she had done this.

Killed her own mother and run.

Foster stood in the victim's sitting room, holding and staring at a school photograph of her daughter as if it would yield him a secret. He replaced it on the mantelpiece, her face etched on his mind. The long, straight blonde hair; the pale blue eyes; the hopeful, uncertain smile of a girl on the edge of womanhood. He wondered with a sense of dread about what state she would be in when they eventually found her.

He glanced around the room. It was immaculate, barely a spot of dust anywhere, books and magazines straightened

into neat piles on the coffee table, cushions plumped and cornered neatly at each end of the sofa. Perhaps Katie Drake was one of those people who couldn't abide mess. He wandered through to the kitchen, situated at the back of the sitting room, off what was presumably once a dining room until it was knocked through.

Again, nothing out of place. Two glasses sat on the draining board. They had been washed. The kettle was unplugged and the coffee-maker pristine. Foster pressed the lid of the metal bin with his foot and it swung open. Nothing much to report in there. The fridge was well stocked. Looked like Katie and her daughter liked to eat healthily going by the amount of soups and salad materials.

Foster called a member of the forensic team over to remind them to examine the two glasses beside the sink.

He checked the windows and doors all over the house.

No sign of forced entry. The killer had been allowed in.

The girl? He glanced one more time at the photograph on the mantelpiece. Slit her mother's throat? He doubted it.

But he could be wrong.

Foster returned to the garden where Katie Drake's body still lay, housed in a tent. Edward Carlisle, the pathologist, was going about his duty with grim efficiency. The body might not be moved for a while, until the whole scene was processed.

Carlisle spotted Foster enter, the serious frown he adopted for his work lifting briefly.

'Good to see you again, Grant,' he said, his usually rich public school voice ravaged by the effects of a cold. 'On the mend?'

'Never better,' Foster replied breezily, not wanting to dwell on it. 'What have you found?'

He turned his face up. 'I'll need to have a closer look in a post mortem. The throat was slit out here, though.'

Heather slipped into the tent beside him. He could tell from her face she had more news.

What?'

'We've found Naomi's father,' she said. 'Stephen Buckingham.'

'Let's

pay him a visit.'

Stephen Buckingham looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice from which he would soon be pitched.

He sat in the blue-upholstered armchair in the living room of his house in Esher, eyes wide. Foster sat across from him, nursing a cup of tea provided by Buckingham's second wife, a shy, conservatively dressed woman, who padded around them softly, casting nervous, anxious glances at her husband. It was shortly after nine o'clock and the couple's two children had left for school.

Foster had broken the news about his ex-wife's death and his daughter's disappearance. He'd asked whether Buckingham had had any contact with either of them the day before.

'I was in Leeds on business,' he said softly, looking down at his fingers, which picked and played with each other. 'It was Naomi's birthday so I called her mobile at lunchtime. The call was very quick because she was out getting something to eat with friends and it was difficult to hear over the traffic, the sirens . . .'

Foster nodded, he knew the feeling. The sound of the city.

'She seemed pretty excited about going skating with her mum and her friends and then a meal. I said I'd see her Saturday. . .'

His voice tailed away. Foster didn't interrupt.

We were going shopping in town. My treat. Her mother wasn't fond of it, thought I was spoiling her. But there was little I did with Naomi that her mother approved of.'

Foster asked when he had arrived back from Leeds.

'I flew back. My plane arrived at Heathrow just before ten o'clock at night. I was tired so I got a cab back here. It was shortly after eleven when I got here, isn't that right, Sheila?'

Sheila bit her lip and nodded. 'About that time, yes,' she agreed softly.

'Sorry, can you excuse me?' Heather said, standing by the door. 'I just need to make a call.' She slipped out.

'When did you and your first wife separate?' Foster asked.

'Eleven years ago, when Naomi was three. It just wasn't working. It was pretty volatile for a while afterwards, but while Katie was hot-headed, she also loved Naomi with everything she had, and knew she couldn't keep me away.

We soon fell into a routine. My work takes me away, but I always make time to see her and spend time with her. I've remarried since, had two more kids, but it never affected my relationship with Naomi.'

Had Katie remarried?

Buckingham shook his head. 'No. There had been other men, that much I know from Naomi. But she wasn't a 10

tittle-tattle and, to be honest, I wasn't really that interested.

I don't think she was seeing anyone at the moment. In fact, from what I'd gleaned from Naomi, I sensed Katie had been having a hard time of it.

'In what way?'

'Not entirely sure. She was an actress. When I first met her, she was a real beauty. She got lots of work, some TV, adverts, mainly stage work, which was her real love. In recent years it had all gone a bit quiet. I think that got her down. Naomi made a few oblique references to her mother drinking. She never touched a drop when we first met, which was why it jarred with me a bit. She liked to smoke reefers back then.'

What about Naomi? Did she have any boyfriends?'

Buckingham smiled for the first time. 'You've seen her picture. What do you reckon? From what she said, she seemed to be beating them off with a stick at school.'

The smile vanished. The vacant stare returned.

Had she mentioned anyone in particular?

Buckingham looked up at Foster, as if noticing him for the first time. 'Sorry,' he muttered. 'Miles away'

'Did Naomi mention any boy in particular, one that might have been pursuing her perhaps?'

'No. She did mention one boy she fancied who was a bit older. He was in a band. The name escapes me. The reason I remember is that he was quite a bit older, seventeen or something, and I thought that was a bit too old and said so. She said she was at the back of the queue anyway'

There was another silence as Buckingham scratched at his wrist and Foster wondered whether, if his own life had taken a different turn, or his personality had, he might have been playing an active part in a fourteenyear-old's life. And, not for the first time, given the pain and suffering this man was experiencing, whether it was all worth it.

Was living your life with only one person to worry about the easiest option?

What do you think has happened to her, detective?'

Buckingham's weary voice betrayed his hopeful expression.

Foster shrugged. 'I hope we find out soon,' he said.

'Rest assured we're putting every resource we can muster into finding Naomi.'

He paused before his next question.

'Are you a wealthy man, Mr Buckingham?'

The man's eyes narrowed. Then he realized what Foster was alluding to. 'I'm comfortably off, no more. I publish three magazines, none of them that successful. You think I'll get a ransom demand?'

Foster could see a glint of hope in his manner and expression. That would at least mean Naomi was still alive. He also knew Buckingham was downplaying his wealth. This house, Foster estimated, was worth at least a million. A black Mercedes convertible was parked on the drive. He had spoken about the money he liked to spend on his daughter. They could not rule out a financial motive.

'Keep your phone switched on,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'If we don't find Naomi, you might want to consider making a public appeal'

Whatever it takes.'

Heather slipped back into the room, smiled apologetically at Buckingham. She caught Foster's eye and nodded.

She'd made a few calls. Buckingham's story stood up. He'd been on that plane.

'Did you know much about your ex-wife's daily life, her routine?'

Buckingham shook his head. 'Next to nothing. She was quite often at home during the day, I know that. We really had very minimal contact outside the odd conversation about Naomi.'

'Did she have friends?'

'I'm sure she did. Her best friend was always Sally Darlinghurst, another actress. They met in repertory shortly before she met me. They were inseparable back then. I think they were still in touch, but don't quote me on it.'

Foster scribbled the name down. 'One last question, Mr Buckingham. What was the relationship like between your daughter and Katie?'

He gave it some thought. 'OK. I think they were very close. Too close, perhaps.'

What do you mean?'

Well, her mother was very possessive of her. I got the feeling that as she moved away -- grew up, met boys -- her mother would feel left out. Naomi was Katie's entire world in many respects. I actually feared for Katie when the time came to cut the apron strings. Naomi was already feeling a bit smothered by her, so she said.'

'Did they fight?'

'I think so. You know how it can be, mothers and daughters.' His face dropped. 'You don't think . . .'

Foster shrugged. We need to look at all eventualities.

You mentioned to me that your ex-wife was a good looking woman. Given the fact she'd been in the public eye, did she ever receive the attentions of any unwanted admirers?'

What? Like a stalker?'

Yes, like a stalker.'

He shook his head slowly. 'Not that I'm aware of. She did get a few letters when I knew her, blokes who'd seen her in a play or on television. She once did a nude scene in a TV play that attracted a slew of cards and letters, some rather ribald in nature. The odd photo, too. I wasn't particularly enamoured with all that but she brushed it off, made me feel a bit of a prude. But no one physically followed her or pursued her -- not that I knew of, anyway.'

Foster

nodded. They were already in touch with her agent. She might know more.

'How about family? Before we take steps like making a television appeal and using the media, we need to track down her next of kin. Make sure they're all aware of her death. Can you tell us where to start?'

Buckingham rubbed his chin ruefully. 'I'm afraid I can't.'

Why not?'

"I knew Katie for more than five years, intimately. She never once mentioned any family, and never spoke about it.'

'Never?'

'Never. I asked. I probed. But she closed down any discussion about it. She acted like she had no family. She went to school, came to London and went to drama school, and supported herself by waitressing in her spare time, which is how I met her. That's all she ever told me.'

He must have noted Foster's incredulity; he sniffed derisively, as if sharing the detective's disbelief. 'I know -- madness, isn't it? But I just grew to accept that it was a closed book. I did find out that Drake was a stage name.

You'll understand why she changed it when I tell you that her real surname was Pratt.'

'But surely Naomi must have asked, wanted to know who her grandparents were?'

'She did. But her mother always changed the subject.

She told me that one day she would do a bit of research into the family history, find out more, but she wouldn't do that behind her mother's back.'

Foster found himself looking at Jenkins.

Her eyes told him she was thinking the same.

Nigel Barnes stopped walking and brought his hands out from behind his back, holding the skull. He did it too quickly. The skull wobbled in his right hand, which was itself shaking, and almost fell to the floor. He looked at it, silently counted to three, then composed himself and looked forward.

'He has remained silent too long,' he said. One -- two --three. 'Now it's time to hear his story.'

The cameraman brought his equipment down from his shoulder. 'Good,' he said impatiently. 'Only problem with that one was I clearly saw you mouthing "one -- two -- three" before you delivered the last line.'

'And I nearly dropped the skull.'

And you nearly dropped the skull. Also, when you were walking to camera, I could see your eyes glancing down at the mark.'

Nigel cast his eyes to the floor. Three feet in front of him was an 'X', scratched into the cemetery path by the cameraman's trainer. He'd been looking at the shape for most of the twenty paces rather than at the camera, yet had still ended up missing it. He sighed.

You also look very ill at ease.'

Because I am, thought Nigel. What sort of person could walk and talk to a camera with a fake plastic skull in his hand and feel comfortable? Probably someone who had spent their life practising for such a moment in front of a mirror. The only thing Nigel had done in a mirror when he was younger was squeeze spots.

'Mind if I have a ciggie before we go again?'

The cameraman nodded. 'I need to make a call or two anyway' He looked ruefully around at the graves on either side of them. 'Think I'll go and make them on the street,'

he added. 'Seems a bit disrespectful to do it here.' He put the camera down at Nigel's feet and loped off, giving his sagging jeans an upward tug as he left.

Disrespectful, Nigel thought, sitting back on an anonymous gravestone. Unlike smoking a cigarette. He produced his fixings from his pocket and rolled a smoke. He lit it, exhaled loudly and studied the cliched, stilted script they had given him to memorize.

The call had come in a week ago. In the summer, encouraged by Scotland Yard's press office, he'd given an interview to a Sunday newspaper about his role in the Karl Hogg case. 'The Gene Genius' it had proclaimed.

'The Family Historian who helped make a savage killer history' Nigel had groaned when he read it, embarrassed by the way his role had been exaggerated, worried by what the officers who worked on the case would think of it.

Would think of him. Then the phone started ringing.

Radio, television, the odd magazine; he was too polite to say no. Not when he learned he could make some money from it. He downplayed his role, praised the police. 'Every bit the modest hero, aren't we?' a DJ from Radio Shropshire had told him, winking as if he knew what Nigel was doing. Come to think of it, what was he doing?

One of the calls had come from a TV company. They were making a pilot for a series investigating burial sites unearthed during building development. The idea was to take the remains and find out who they belonged to, how the people died, dig out their stories. Lysette, the producer, called and said she'd seen the piece and that Nigel seemed ideal. They had met in a coffee shop off Oxford Street and over lattes she ran through the idea and asked if he'd be interested in taking a screen test. Why not? he thought.

A chance to get away from rooting around in other people's pasts. Or, at least, doing it for more money and getting recognized in the street. He felt flattered. Particularly when she said they were looking for a photogenic young historian with what she called 'phwoar factor'.

So here he was, in the middle of Kensal Green cemetery on a drab morning in November, performing the televisual equivalent of patting his head and rubbing his stomach, and proving terrible at it. Guy the cameraman, now stepping back through the cemetery, hands plunged deep into a green combat jacket, had been very patient, but Nigel knew that all four attempts had been amateurish at best.

Guy hoisted the camera back on to his shoulder. 'Let's go again,' he said.

Nigel flicked his fag on to the grass and twisted his heel on it, shivering against the cold. He should have worn more than his tweed jacket, but felt it was the 'look' they wanted. He made his way back to the grave of Alfred Rossiter, 1829-1892, which marked the start of his walk.

He flexed his shoulders, drew in a breath and turned around. One -- two -- three.

'The dead are always with us,' he said, and started to walk. 'Sometimes closer than . . .'

'Cut!' shouted Guy.

What now?' Nigel asked, perplexed.

'You've forgotten the skull'

Shortly before lunch, Nigel was back in the more familiar surroundings of The National Archives. The Family Records Centre, previous home for birth, marriage and death indexes, was no more: he would not miss it. The indexes were now housed at TNA, which at least put an end to his daily pinball ride between leafy Kew and the urban grime of Islington.

A pile of undone work was growing -- a stack of birth, marriage and death certificates to track down and scour for his private clients.

He was skimming the April quarter of birth certificates for 1894 when he heard her voice call his name. He spun round and there she was. Heather Jenkins.

'Hi, Nigel,' she said, her smile wary.

'Detective Sergeant Jenkins,' he replied, a lurch in his stomach.

'Detective Inspector now,' she said.

'Congratulations.'

'Thanks,' she said, smiling. 'How are things?'

'OK And you?'

Tired. I've been up all night. Murder and abduction in Queen's Park. Mother killed, fourteenyear-old daughter missing.'

'God,' Nigel said. 'How awful'

'Any chance we can get a coffee, somewhere private?'

Nigel checked his watch. Midday had just passed. 'I'm very busy, but there might be a corner of the canteen we can find.'

They walked down there in silence. Nigel didn't know what to think. Four months ago she'd broken his heart.

They'd had a few dates, when her work allowed, and it seemed to be going well. Then she disappeared. Not a word. Stopped returning phone calls or e-mails. He'd even sent a text message, a first for him. Then he wrote a letter wondering what was going on. Either something had happened or he was simply terrible in bed.

She finally sent him an e-mail. Something had happened.

Her mother had died, a sudden heart seizure; she needed time and space etcetera. He understood. Gave her some room.

A few weeks later he heard she was seeing an ex boyfriend. Confused didn't even begin to describe how he felt. It was only in the past few weeks he'd managed to stop himself thinking about it. Now here she was to remind him all over again. She seemed to sense his unease.

You must be wondering what the hell I'm here for?'

Heather said, sitting down, a fake laugh in her voice.

Well, I am actually,' he said.

'Foster and I. . .'

'Foster? How is he?' he interrupted.

'Back at work this week. He seems the same as usual; or rather, he's acting the same as usual. Anyway, we're trying to find out as much as we can about the murder victim, hope it sheds some light on her murder and where her daughter might be. We also need to track down family and next of kin so they all know before we get word out to the press. But there's a problem.'

What?'

'She was very secretive about her past. Even her ex claims to know nothing. We were wondering if you could wave your magic wand and find out a bit more about her, parents, siblings, that sort of thing. Of course we'll pay.'

'I'm on it,' Nigel said, eager to help. Heather gave him Katie Drake's details, her real surname, Pratt, which he scratched into his notebook. 'Shall I phone it through? Are you still, er, on the same number?'

'I was hoping I could stick with you as you do it, and then I'll phone it through. There's a girl missing - it's extremely urgent.' She pulled a face. You don't want me around, do you?'

He wasn't sure. 'I don't mind,' he lied.

She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. 'Nigel, one day I'll explain to you what happened. I just can't do it now. Not at a time like this.'

Nigel sipped his tea. He didn't know what to think.

But one thing he did know. A woman had been killed and a young girl was missing. He would help if he could.

This was no time to act wounded. We'd better get cracking then,' he said.

It took Nigel an hour scouring the indexes of births, marriages and deaths to discover that Katie Drake nee Pratt was born Catherine Mary, the only child of Robert and Vera Pratt of Shoeburyness in Kent. When she was four, her father died of pneumonia. A year later her mother followed him to the grave, claimed by a heart condition.

Heather's face creased. 'Poor thing. Maybe the mother died of a broken heart.'

'Perhaps,' Nigel said. 'Presumably she was adopted.'

'Can we find out who adopted her?'

'As long as you know the adoptive name you can find the child in the adoption index. But unfortunately we don't know it. Let's check anyway, and see if there's anything we can find.

He flicked through to the year of Katie Drake's birth.

You're adopted, aren't you?' Heather asked.

He nodded.

'Is Barnes your birth or adoptive name?'

Adoptive. My birth name is Wilkinson.'

Why haven't you reverted to that?'

He shrugged. 'I've always been known by my adoptive name. There never seemed any particular reason to change it back.' Nigel felt the first signs of discomfort prickle his neck. The day he found out exactly who his parents were and the reason they abandoned him would be the day he took their name. He wasn't even sure Wilkinson was his real name.

There was no mention of Catherine Pratt or Drake in the adoption index.

What happened to her then?'

Nigel shrugged. 'She could have been adopted by a relative without any need for paperwork, an aunt or grandparent.

If you want, I can trace the other members of the family. Aunts, uncles . . .'

Heather thought for a few seconds. We need to know if there's any close family we should inform about her death before it becomes public knowledge. I think it's fair to say that if she didn't speak about her upbringing, then there was nobody close to her so it doesn't really matter. I see no real point for now. Thanks for your help.'

Nigel felt the need to say something. 'I hope you find the missing girl,' was the best he could manage, as Heather shouldered her bag and turned to leave. She smiled back.

'So do I,' she said, but Nigel could sense resignation in her tone. 'Send your invoice . . .'

He held up his hand. 'That was nothing,' he said. 'It's on the house.'

You sure?'

He nodded

'OK. Very kind of you. I'd better get off,' she said, gesturing with her hand towards the door. 'Thanks again.'

'Good luck with the case. And everything else,' he said.

She smiled, fondly he thought. Then she adjusted her bag on her shoulder, and turned away.

Yet again Nigel watched her walk away from him.

The net had been cast across London. Foster stood at the window of Naomi Buckingham's bedroom, a converted attic, and looked out over the roofs and chimneys and trees that stretched westwards against a pale clouded sky, wondering where in the grey benighted city she might be. Were they still looking for a living person? He checked his watch.

Almost twenty-four hours since she left school, the last time she had been seen. If she had been abducted, all his experience told him she would be dead within days. But while her body remained undiscovered there was hope.

He turned back to face the room, watched by the blue eyes of an effeminate young English film star whose name he couldn't recall. Apart from a few books, pictures and a red plastic cup filled with pens, the desk where Naomi's gleaming new personal computer once stood was now bare, the machine removed for its contents to be searched and checked. Everything else remained in place. Her unmade bed, a few items of clothing that spilled from a giant cupboard on to the floor, a stereo and a rack of CDs, and a dressing table whose top was scattered with makeup and toiletries.

Foster stopped at a small chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with underwear. He closed it quickly.

Clothes were crammed hugger-mugger in the second and third drawers. He was about to close the third when his eyes caught sight of the corner of a thick black exercise book beneath a T-shirt. He pulled it out carefully with the thumb and forefinger of his gloved hand -- the scene was still being processed -- and immediately felt his heart beat a little faster. He opened the front page. It was her diary for the second half of that year, from late July onwards, all written in legible clear-blue pen. He pulled the chair out from beneath her desk and sat down.

The late summer entries were filled with the usual mundanities and worries of a teenage girl's mind. Feuds with friends, thoughts about boys, fears about her appearance; there was little to suggest that Naomi Buckingham's preoccupations were any different from other girls of her age. Various phrases, acronyms and abbreviations puzzled him but he was able to keep up with the main gist. He skipped a month or so and started reading the entries for the weeks preceding the murder of her mother and her own disappearance. One extract, exactly two weeks before the murder, caught his eye.

Mum continues to be T. Pissed every time I come back. Gets embarrassing espec when got back from night out with T and L and they saw her. OMG, She was so gone, could hardly speak, sluring plus everything. This morning no mention before I went school but she looked like shit. When I got back she said she was going to order pizza and making lotsa fuss, like she knew she totally O.o. order. Still didn't stop her putting away best part of a bottle afterwards though. . .

Two days later and her mother was the subject of another entry.

Really worried by Mum. She seems so unhappy. Last night I swore I heard cryingafter she'd gone to bed. Was going to go in and ask what wrong. Didn't. This morning I asked if everything was Ok and she gave me a big smile and "yeh". Why shouldn't it be? but it must have registered, Cos when I got back from L's and a couple of glasses red had loosened her up she said "Don't worry about me love" Then said she was fine really. But, that life was a bit tough, no work, feeling a bit sorry for herself, but she'd come out of it. We put a date in for lunch on Saturday at Tate Modern, which'll be nice, because she never seems to go out. Used to have lots of friends but she never sees them now. I worry about her even though she says not to because sometimes she looks V sad.

A week on, 4 days before the murder and there seemed to have been an improvement.

Mum defo seems better, glad to say. Not seem her drink all week. Not even seen any boose in the house, which is a first. And how about this? I offered to make her coffee and she says "No, I'm off it" wanted peppermint tea instead!!! OMG!!! This from Mrs Caffeine, has someone beemed down replacement Mum from planet Zog? Seems brighter and smilier though, a bit distant. Can't have met a man, Cos she not been out in years. Maybe the chance of some work? I hope so. Prefer this clean living body is a temple Mum to pissed, sluring can't get out of bed version.

The last entry, the night before her disappearance, looked forward to her birthday - Foster could not prevent himself smiling at the words 'OMGl 14! Feel so old!' - and the skating trip to celebrate it. Nothing else.

He closed the diary, rendered doleful by reading the words of a vivacious teenage girl, her whole life before her, who now probably lay dead in a ditch, the mother she appeared to care for so much murdered.

'Life sucks,' he muttered to himself.

'Tell me something I don't know.'

He looked up. Heather. She'd sneaked in unnoticed.

She was staring at the exercise book.

'The missing girl's diary,' he explained.

'Anything of interest?'

He shrugged. 'Don't know. Seems like Katie Drake was a bit of a lush, but at some time in the last few weeks of her life had a Damascene conversion and went teetotal.'

'Think it's relevant?'

'Could be, I suppose. In her diary, Naomi speculates it might be work-related. Have we spoken to her agent?'

Andy Drinkwater's done it, yeah. Said apart from one voice-over she hasn't had any work for the best part of a year, and none pending.'

'So much for that theory'

A bloke?'

'Naomi's diary appears to rule that out, too. Said she hadn't been out in years. I'm assuming she's employing teenage hyperbole.'

It was Heather's turn to shrug. 'It could be that she simply decided to clean up her act.'

'You may be right. Have they tracked down the next of kin?'

'She was adopted. Unofficially, probably by family or friends, Barnes thinks.'

Barnes? he thought. She'd always referred to him as Nigel. He'd been aware that the pair of them had something going on, not that he cared. There had been enough things for him to worry about -- like walking without agony -- without worrying whether the two of them were going to swap body fluids. They clearly hadn't. Or not for long, at least. Foster had heard she'd shacked up with an old flame, a copper from Murder South. Might explain why she seemed a bit different since he'd returned to work.

More passive, less feisty.

'How was he?' he asked

'OK.' A smile played on her lips. 'He's doing the pilot for some TV show. About digging up the dead.'

'Who's interested in watching that?' he sneered.

'You really don't watch TV much these days, do you, sir?' Heather said.

He shrugged and turned back to the window. The street below was closed, silent and empty. They had knocked on almost every door within a mile radius. So far, they had one lead, a white van seen entering the street around four o'clock the previous afternoon by two independent witnesses, who both watched it pull up somewhere near the Drake house. Neither had seen it go and so far they had no other witnesses who saw it leave. A team was spooling through hours of CCTV coverage to see if there was any sight of it. But the clock was ticking and each second that passed reduced the chance of Naomi Buckingham being found alive.

The smell in the morgue had not changed, Foster thought, as he and Heather made their way to the post mortem suite that evening. The stench of death always won through the masking scent of deodorizer and disinfectant.

He'd not missed this place: the tiled floor that echoed every footstep; the sterile, gleaming stainless-steel equipment; the unnerving quiet; and the cold that eventually seeped into your soul. But it was here he hoped the hunt for Katie Drake's killer and her daughter's abductor might begin in earnest.

Inside, a technician was preparing to stitch Katie Drake's corpse back together. Edward Carlisle signalled for him to hold on as he took the two detectives through what he'd discovered.

'The cause of death was asphyxiation,' the pathologist told them.

'She was strangled first?' Foster replied, unable to hide his surprise.

Carlisle nodded gravely. 'Without doubt,' he said. He gestured towards the woman's neck. 'In situ, the wound and blood from it hid a light ligature mark on her neck, but you can clearly see it above the cut.'

Foster leaned in and noticed a faint red weal above the gaping wound across the neck.

'The hyoid bone is broken and there is severe damage to the thyroid and cricoid cartilage. The assailant was very strong, almost certainly a man.'

At the very least that ruled out any notion that Naomi Buckingham had been physically responsible for her mother's murder, Foster thought.

'The ligature wound, as I mentioned earlier, is not too severe, so I would guess it was made of soft material, perhaps a towel or scarf

Foster guessed the killer might have removed the evidence, but made a note to tell forensics to examine every item of clothing and material in the house.

'What about the wound to the throat?' he asked.

'Committed post mortem,' Carlisle responded. 'The carotid artery and jugular vein remain intact so the cut is not actually all that deep. More of a token gesture. Your killer is right-handed by the way. There are also signs of bruising and lividity on the back. I'm not yet one hundred per cent certain, but it seems likely she was killed inside the house, then dragged outside where her throat was slit.'

That made no sense to Foster. Most killers took care to hide a body. This one had done the opposite, bundling the body from the privacy of a house out into a garden where it might be seen.

'There was no blood in the house,' Foster said. 'But there was plenty in the garden.'

Carlisle nodded slowly. 'The lividity on the back is congruent with being dragged outside, which is why I made an educated guess that he killed her inside, then hauled her into the garden where he made the wound on her throat.'

This really isn't adding up, Foster thought. Any sign of sexual activity?' he asked.

Katie Drake had let her murderer into her house. Had she allowed him into the bedroom or had he followed?

Was she surprised by his attack or quiescent? They could not rule out some sort of sex game, even though she was fully clothed.

Carlisle shook his head. 'None whatsoever.'

A few scenarios ran through his mind. Had Naomi Buckingham arrived home and interrupted the killer? Is that why she had been abducted? But he had the tools at his disposal to kill her there and then. Why risk being seen taking her away?

'Any idea of the time of death?'

'Difficult to be absolutely precise, but I'd say with some certainty that it was around mid-afternoon yesterday.'

Naomi could have disturbed the killer. Yet there had been no sign of a struggle anywhere in the house. Which indicated that Naomi might also have known her abductor and gone with him willingly, unaware that her mother lay outside murdered.

'I've sent samples of blood to toxicology,' Carlisle continued. 'The liver was quite fatty, in the first, very early stages of liver disease, which indicates the victim was a heavy drinker. Other than that she was in reasonably good physical condition. She hadn't eaten for a few hours, not since breakfast.'

Any idea when the nail varnish was applied to her fingers and toes?' Heather interjected.

Carlisle shrugged.

Heather wandered over and took a look. 'I'd say very recently. And with some care, too. She was wearing quite a lot of make-up when we found her. Mascara, foundation, lippy, the works . . . What have you done with her clothing?' she asked Carlisle, urgency in her voice.

'They're about to go forensics. They're in a bag somewhere . . .' He turned to one of his technicians for confirmation.

A few moments later the bag was produced.

Heather put on a pair of gloves and took it to an empty dissecting table, where she poured out the contents, Foster at her shoulder. She ignored the blood-soaked shirt and skirt, and went straight for a black, diamante-studded bra, which she picked up between thumb and forefinger.

'Ta da!7 she said, turning to show it to Foster, making him flinch. 'Push-up bra. Not the sort of thing you wear around the house on a Monday afternoon. As I thought: she was on a promise.'

Naomi Buckingham was wrong. Her mother did have a man.

They managed to track Sally Darlinghurst, Katie's best friend, down to a small terraced house in Kentish Town.

Darlinghurst had been out all day, but returned at some point during the evening. She'd already been told the news of Katie Drake's death and her proud, handsome face, which looked familiar to Foster, presumably from one of her TV appearances, was still blanched by shock. She let Heather and Foster into her sitting room, adorned with ethnic artefacts, grotesque carved masks, a few wooden statues and colourful batiks hanging from the wall. The air smelled of incense and smoke. Once inside and seated on the sofa she lit the first of a chain of cigarettes.

Foster made their apologies and offered the usual condolences. Darlinghurst drew deeply on her cigarette, pushing away a blonde curl of hair that constantly fell over her right eye.

Awful,' she said in a crisp, well-enunciated voice. 'Just fucking awful. Any news about Naomi?'

Foster shook his head sadly. Heather explained the reason for the visit -- to build up as detailed a picture as they could of Katie Drake's life, in the hope it might lead them to her killer.

'What do you want to know?'

'What sort of person was she?' Foster asked.

'Wow,' she said. 'What a place to start. What sort of person was she?' Katie's friend looked away for a short period of time, lost in thought. 'She was honest. She was loyal. She was a fabulous mother, a good friend and a fucking good actress.'

'How long had you known her?' Foster asked.

'Sixteen years. She was twenty-one and I was a year older. We were in rep, doing a version of Salad Days. Bloody awful play. But we had a scream doing it. We came back to London and stayed friends. Through marriages, divorces, childbirth, for her at least, and all manner of job crises. She was always there for me, as I was for her.'

Foster nodded. 'How had she been recently?'

She tapped another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

'How had she been?' she said, repeating his question once more and glancing away. After another drag she answered.

'I haven't seen her for two months, though we spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago. She was . . . OK. I mean, work was causing her a bit of angst, or rather the total bloody lack of it. I'd just landed a little part in a TV drama.

Load of bloody shit it is, too, but it's work. Usually we took great pleasure in each other keeping the bastards at bay and finding work, but I did sense she was a bit deflated. I think it must have been a year since she did anything and I'd not been doing too badly in comparison . . .'

'What do you mean by "keeping the bastards at bay"?'

Heather said, the beginnings of a smile on her face.

'Oh, that? Well, when you're an actress approaching forty the work tends to thin out, either that or the roles you get are pretty shitty ones. The men, of course, just keep getting more work. But that's the way it is. You can either plug away and keep the bastards at bay, or you can give up and walk away and . . . well, God knows what you'd do. Teach, or something.' She pulled a face.

'So if work had dried up, do you know how Katie spent her days?' Foster asked.

'She read. She wrote. I know she was trying to write a novel of some sort. Two days a week she helped out in a charity shop near her home.'

'Which one?'

'Cancer Research. Other than that, I know she had other friends, ones she'd made through Naomi, other single mums.'

'What did she do for money?'

A bit of voice-over work every now and then. Crappy but it pays good money. She had a lovely, clear voice. And whatever contribution she received from her ex-husband, though most of that was towards Naomi's upkeep.'

Was there a man in her life?'

She let out a derisive snort. "Men? We'd given up on those shower of bastards a long time ago,' she said and laughed.

'Sorry, detective,' she added, looking at Foster. And no, she wasn't a lesbian if that's what you're thinking. Bloody hell, no. What I meant is that neither of us enjoyed much luck with men. Both had a failed marriage. A couple of aborted relationships since. It was a major topic between us -- that and the whole work thing. I think it must have been at least a year since her last relationship. Maybe even longer.'

Heather went through the details with her; the names of other men she'd seen in the past. Darlinghurst's memory was not too good with the details, and the ex-lovers would take some tracking down.

'But there was no one recently?'

'Not that I'm aware of. Why, do you think someone she knew did this?' Her voice betrayed her disbelief.

Foster nodded. 'We do. Can you think of anyone, absolutely anyone who would wish Katie or her daughter harm?'

'No one whatsoever,' she said without thinking. 'She was a very passionate woman, quick to anger and quite tempestuous, but she was also kind, decent and loyal.

Everyone who knew her absolutely adored her. I can't think of anyone who would do something like this.' She picked up an empty wine glass and walked towards the kitchen. 'Can I interest either of you, or is all that stuff about being on duty true?'

'I'm afraid it is,' Foster replied.

'Tea? Coffee? Water?'

Heather asked for water, Foster said he was OK.

A few seconds later their hostess re-emerged with a brimming glass of white wine and a tumbler of water.

'You'd known Katie for some time,' Foster continued.

'Did she ever speak to you about her past, her upbringing maybe?'

'Never,' she said emphatically. 'She was adopted, I know that. She once mentioned both her parents died. But she made it very clear it was a part of her life that she wanted to forget. You find a lot of people in this business are trying to escape their backgrounds - or transcend them, at least -- and she was one.'

'Did you get an indication that it was the result of some event or incident in her past?' Foster asked.

'You mean abuse?'

Foster was somewhat startled by her frankness. "I suppose I do, yes.'

Again, the scramble for a cigarette and a pause while she gave it some thought.

'No. And I don't think it was anything like that. I'm not basing it on fact, but simply because I truly think she would have told me. I just got the sense that she and whoever it was who brought her up didn't get on. She was quite wild; at least, she was back then. I sensed they, whoever they were, were quite conservative.'

'Do you know who "they" were?'

'They lived in Kent somewhere, some shithole seaside town. The bloody name escapes me. But she hated it.'

'Kent?' Heather said. 'Not Shoeburyness in Essex?'

'No, she definitely said Kent. I think it might have been Deal.'

Heather scribbled a few more notes. 'She never mentioned who the people were that raised her?'

Darlinghurst drew on her cigarette and looked away.

Then she shook her head. 'Not specifically, no. I always thought it was an aunt or something, but I don't remember her actually saying that.'

'So presumably they weren't invited to her wedding to Stephen Buckingham?'

'God, no. Few people were. Just a small group of friends at a registry office in Chelsea then a gigantic piss-up afterwards.

His parents were not amused at being frozen out.

Don't think they ever forgave him.'

'What sort of relationship did she and Stephen have?'

'Quite a good one until he started shagging everything that moved. Egregious little shit. He broke her heart. I'm not sure she ever really got over it. After he left she turned down several jobs because of Naomi. She had friends who would take her -- and I did a few times, too, when she was a bit older -- but Naomi remained the priority. Stephen did more than just break Katie's heart. He screwed up her career. Yet despite all that, she tolerated him for Naomi's sake. Actually, for the past few years her attitude towards him had softened somewhat. I remember her telling me it was difficult to stay angry for all that time. She still hated the miserable little prick, though, and with good reason.'

Foster thanked her and handed her his card in case anything else came to mind. As she showed them to the door, she remembered something.

'Last time we met Katie, two months ago, said she'd lost her belief

'Her belief in what?' Foster asked.

'That's what I asked her. She didn't really answer, so I assumed she meant in her ability.'

What exactly did she say?'

'She said, "There's just an empty hole where my belief used to be." That's all. Then she switched the subject.'

As she closed the door behind them, Foster saw the tears well in Sally Darlinghurst's eyes.

It was almost midnight when Foster returned to his terraced home in Acton, swallowed two painkillers and washed them down with a hearty slug of red wine. It was at least a day or two past its best and no way to treat a bottle of Haut-Brion so prized by his father, but the old man wasn't around to berate him for it and the nearest off-licence had long since closed. He refused to drink water except in times of extreme thirst. Grown men and women walking around clutching little bottles of water like a child with its milk because they were told it was good for them. When did people start asking to be treated like big babies?

He sat at the kitchen table where his laptop sat idle, and took the weight off his aching leg by pulling out another chair to rest it on. It was a familiar position. Much of the last six months had been spent in the same seat, staring at the same screen, drinking from the same glass, often until dawn seeped through the window. He avoided bed and the dread that accompanied the silence and the dark. On the nights he did try to sleep, he would wake up sweating after reliving those hours of agonizing torture at the hands of Karl Hogg: his 'payment' for the sins of his ancestor, a Victorian detective who helped speed an innocent man to the gallows, thus allowing a demented serial killer free to butcher his family, and leaving a stain on the bloodline that Hogg sought to expunge. Foster's jaw, his collarbone, wrist and shin bones had all been shattered, and his life would have been taken had it not been for Nigel Barnes's intervention. The wounds would always be with him but his spirit remained intact. Just about.

He fired the machine up and as it rumbled into life he took another gulp of wine. After visiting Darlinghurst, he and Heather had gathered together the team working on Katie Drake's murder at their Kensington headquarters to sift through what information they had, while the team scouring London for her daughter continued their search.

Each hour was vital. Leave was cancelled, overtime a necessity, accepted without question. The likelihood that she had been meeting a lover, or prospective lover, at her home had given them a renewed sense of purpose. They were in touch with every dating agency they could find to see if Katie Drake was on their books. Foster kept coming back to the entry in her daughter's diary: 'Can't have met a man cos she not been out in years. . .'

The computer was ready. He joined the Internet, a home from home for the six months of his recovery. But he bypassed the motoring sites, the poker sites and the message boards where he debated the modern world with anonymous Internet warriors, and headed straight for the Internet Movie Database. There he entered Katie Drake's name into the search field. In return he was met with her entire TV output and a picture, showing dark hair that fell alluringly over hooded eyes, full lips and a look of youth that bore little similarity to the mutilated corpse he had seen earlier that day. She had been, as her ex-husband said, a real beauty.

There was a short biog that mentioned her training at RAD A. Foster made a note to check their records in the morning. Her CV appeared to list every popular TV show of the last two decades of British television, among them a long-running police drama so inauthentic that simply the sound of the theme tune raised Foster's hackles. She appeared in two different bit parts more than a decade apart, the makers presumably assuming their viewers had short memories.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He was aiming to get back to work for 6 a.m. the next morning, well before the search for Naomi resumed at first light. In his mind he reviewed all that he knew about Katie Drake. An actress who took the first opportunity to leave her smalltown upbringing and head for London, where she quickly got work. The dream appeared to be going well, regular theatre and television work, until she had her daughter. But even then, she was soon back at work, though when her husband left her it dried up. From that point it had never recovered. Her daughter had become her life but at the back of her mind her missed opportunity must have gnawed away at her. She started to drink, heavily it seemed, and retreated from the world. Foster glanced at his glass of wine. He wondered what a fourteenyear-old's diary might make of his habits.

She would be fourteen now. Perhaps fifteen. The date of her birth was vague, probably because he hadn't been present. By then Linda had long gone, bored of his absences. He tried to explain that being a detective wasn't a vocation, it was a curse. She'd ignored him and said she'd rather raise a child on her own than with him, words that still cut to the quick. Not that he blamed her. He'd treated her terribly, particularly when he learned she was pregnant and determined to keep the baby, no matter how much he tried to dissuade her. Last Foster had heard they were in Edinburgh, living near her family. But that was more than ten years ago. Who knew where they were now? Happy, he hoped. He drained the glass of its remnants.

Fuck the past, he thought. As Katie Drake's story showed, there was nothing but vanquished hope and regret. Reasons to be cheerless.

He put those memories out of his mind and returned to the case. After a few moments in thought he was overcome with a dull ache behind his eyes. I'm tired, he thought, even though it's not long after midnight. He flicked off the kitchen light and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.

For the first time in months he slept without seeing Karl Hogg's face in his dreams.

A beautiful, wholesome blonde teenager from a respectable home had gone missing. Attractive mother, an actress, which meant lots of pictures on file, brutally murdered.

All in the sanctuary of their 850,000 pounds home. Innocence despoiled. A community united in shock and terror. It was all guaranteed to have the most placid newspaper editor salivating. The British press had not disappointed.

The picture Foster had seen on the Internet the previous day now stared out from the front pages of every tabloid and broadsheet, while rolling news channels cleared their schedules, star reporters put on the lipgloss, fretted over whether to do their piece to camera hair up or hair down, and decamped to the end of the road within sight of the scene.

Faced with the media's feasting, Detective Superintendent Brian Harris had taken overall charge of the investigation.

Foster had been summoned to a meeting with him, DCI Williams, DCI Chilton and a few other senior detectives. He entered with a heavy heart, and fended off the inquiries into his health and well-being with as much good humour as he could muster. Harris looked pale and drawn but grimly determined. What wonderful strategy does he have in store for us? Foster wondered.

His spirits rose when Susie Danson, former forensic psychologist turned professor of applied psychology, entered the room, trailing a strong scent that instantly afforded him a remembrance of investigations past. It had been four or five years since he'd last seen her, but time had treated her well. Same dyed-blonde bobbed hair, same pale-blue eyes lit by a fierce intelligence, same flame-red lipstick. She was wearing a tight blue suit, white low-cut top underneath her jacket. He thought she'd given up criminal profiling in favour of writing books, giving lectures and making money.

Harris introduced her to those who hadn't had the pleasure, as if she was the Queen and they were a football team, putting a slightly creepy hand on her back as he ushered her round them. She nodded politely, almost brusquely. He came to Foster last.

'DCI Grant. . .'

'We know each other pretty well,' she interrupted, and flashed him an immaculate smile. 'How've you been, Grant?'

Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?' he said, shaking her hand. 'I've been better.'

"Yes, I heard,' the smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. Foster wasn't sure if it was clinical.

'I've asked Susie to get involved because she's the best there is,' Harris explained to the group. 'She's had a look at the files, the autopsy report and the scene. She's going to help us narrow the search.

Good, Foster thought. Before he'd met and worked with Susie Danson, he'd dismissed profiling as a bit of well-meaning mumbo-jumbo. She had taught him otherwise.

Harris gestured that the floor was hers.

'Gentlemen,' she said, surveying the room, her file in front of her. 'Of course, all that I'm about to say is based on only a glancing acquaintance with the facts. These are some impressions I've formed that you're free to do with as you wish. I'm going to try and come up with a more considered opinion but you know as well as I do how time in these cases is utterly crucial'

She paused, looked down at her notes, clasped her hands in front of her.

'This killer was organized,' she said. 'There was no frenzy -- he was cool, calm, collected and methodical. This was planned, not opportunistic. There was no sexual molestation of Katie Drake. He did not masturbate near the body, strip her or interfere with her in any way, pre or post mortem. There is an absence of any sexual desire in her killing. However, given what she was wearing, the fact she allowed him entry, all suggests he has charm. She wanted him. I'd suggest this is a man in his late thirties at the youngest, but probably in his forties and still in pretty good shape. I'm also convinced his intended target was Naomi and that his interest in her is sexual and predatory.

He reasoned the way to abduct her was to befriend her mother, whom he knew to be vulnerable.'

No one said anything. Foster knew Susie didn't like these briefings to be a soliloquy. That she liked her opinions to be challenged. 'But why did he kill Katie?' he said.

Why not just abduct the daughter? Most paedophiles don't kill other people to get to their targets.'

'Good point,' she said, nodding. 'I've given that a lot of thought because, as you point out, it doesn't fit the usual pattern. But we know that paedophiles can be very enterprising and very determined. Maybe he deduced that the only way he could abduct Naomi was by getting inside her house to do it. Fourteenyear-old girls are not easy prey, not so easy to pluck off the street, unless he knew her very, very well. I guess he decided his best method was to charm and seduce her mother and be inside the house when she came home. And that to abduct Naomi without her mother preventing him he needed her silenced.'

'What sort of bloke do you think we're dealing with?'

Harris asked.

"I think this man has dated women. I think he's probably of above-average intelligence. His real interest is young girls, early teenagers, on the verge of womanhood, between the ages of eleven and fifteen. You need to look at men who might have been charged with sexual offences with women of that age group, and men who have been charged with offences against their girlfriends' daughters, or even their own daughters. Start with the local area and move out. I'd also add that your killer obviously drives. He is also reasonably fit and strong. I think I can come up with some more given time.'

'Thanks, Susie,' Harris said. 'That's all very helpful.' A murmur of assent passed around the gathering. She flashed a quick smile but her look swiftly became sombre once more.

What about a media appeal?' Foster said. "I spoke to Naomi's dad. He's willing to do one.'

Your call,' she said. 'Some paedophiles get their kicks from watching the family of their victims suffer. That may well be playing right into his hands.'

"I agree,' Harris said. 'Let's make him sweat.' The others nodded their heads.

"I don't,' Foster said. 'A girl is out there, perhaps still alive. We need the public as our eyes and ears if we're going to find her quickly.'

Harris went silent for a while. We'll revisit this later, but for now we hold the appeal back for another day.'

'Fair enough,' Susie said. 'But I can only echo Grant's point about finding her quickly. You know the rule in these cases -- find them sooner rather than later, or they're dead. These cases very rarely have happy endings. He will almost certainly kill Naomi once she's served her purpose.

If she's not dead already, you have three or four days maximum or you're looking for a corpse.'

After the meeting broke up, Harris asked Foster to stay behind.

"I owe you a coffee,' Foster said to Susie as she left.

"I'll hold you to it,' she replied.

Harris closed the door behind her. 'Grant, how does it feel to be back?'

'Good. I suppose there have been gentler

reintroductions,

though.'

'Yes. Nasty business. But it's good to have you back when something like this breaks.'

He's flattering me. This is definitely not good news, Foster thought. Well, it's nice to know I'm appreciated.'

'Do you remember the evaluations and tests you underwent prior to your return to work?'

Remember? How could Foster forget? After three months' convalescence he'd decided to explore the idea of going back to work. It soon became clear that it might be easier to retrain as a brain surgeon. First he met with the force's medical officer, a schoolmarmish woman in her late fifties with a double-barrelled name and a fearsome bedside manner. Then he met her again. Then he met with Harris and other members of the management team. Alongside the physiotherapist he was already seeing as part of his recuperation, he was sent to see a young doctor who took it upon himself not only to check Foster's pulse and tap his chest but for some other unfathomable reason stick a gloved finger up his arse. He also underwent something called psychological evaluation with a young blonde woman in her thirties. He was then referred to a counsellor, whom he was still seeing monthly. That, actually, had been the thing that proved beneficial.

Once his evaluation was complete he went back to see the Medical Officer, who took off her glasses and sucked one of the arms before asking what was his rush, wouldn't he rather spend time at the police convalescence home in Harrogate? Foster said he would spend time in a home when he was eighty and unable to wipe his own backside, at which point she accused him of being hostile. He was referred back to another psychologist for a second opinion because his outburst was apparently in keeping with the first signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and then sent to see Harris who tut-tutted at his attitude and told him if he wanted to return to work then being aggressive towards the person whose job it was to allow him back might not be the most politic thing to do. The second opinion agreed with the first: Foster was fit to return, though with a few caveats. He then spent countless hours in meetings with a dreary woman from Human Resources to discuss a 'return to work plan'. When he pointed out in his most patient voice that he wanted that plan to be 'return to work', she'd shaken her head slowly as if he was a drooling vegetable. By this stage he'd switched off and just agreed and nodded and agreed and nodded, anything to stop the tests and the meetings and the action plans and get back to doing what he believed he did best. The upshot was that he was now back at work, with a letter at home explaining the terms of his return, but beyond noting his first date back he'd not taken any of it in.

'Vaguely.'

Harris didn't detect the rueful irony in his voice. 'One of the conditions of you returning so soon was a restriction on your working hours. For the first six months, we agreed that you should work no more than forty-five hours a week.'

He knew that bit. 'Yes, no more than nine hours a day'

And how many hours did you work yesterday?'

Foster furrowed his brow. Was he being serious? What do you mean?'

'It's hardly a difficult question, Grant. How many hours did you work yesterday?'

He was up at four, home at midnight. Take an hour or so off for getting dressed and driving to and from home.

About nineteen,' he said to Harris.

'Ten more than you should've done.'

Foster tried to speak but the words wouldn't come.

Instead his jaw flapped open like a fish. Did Harris really just say that? He ran the words through his mind again.

Yes, he had said it.

'Brian, are you being serious? A woman was murdered, her daughter kidnapped. I was on duty -- I was at the scene.

Do you expect me to clock off and go home just because it's teatime?'

'You have an action plan . . .'

'Action plan? I'm a detective. I solve crimes. I put people in prison. A fourteenyear-old girl is missing, maybe murdered. You honestly expect me to ignore all that and go along with some spurious timetable created by bureaucratic, time-serving pen-pushers with no idea of what actual police work entails?'

"I helped draw up that timetable,' Harris snapped back.

Foster put his hands on his hips, shook his head. What can I do in the face of such lunacy? he thought.

Harris took a breath and continued. 'It's my job to do what's best for this department, this police force and the people of London. And for you.'

What about what's best for Naomi Buckingham?'

Harris's face darkened once more. 'Don't flatter yourself, Grant. There are two other DCIs working full time on this case. I'm in charge. If she's alive, we'll find her.

You will help us do that, but within the bounds of your return to work action plan.'

If I hear the words 'action plan' once more then I'm going to run to the window and hurl myself into the street below, Foster thought. He ran his hand down his face.

And you've also missed your last two counselling sessions. You must keep going -- when's your next one?'

'Tomorrow, 5 p.m.'

'Then you'll go. We can cope. We need you fit and well and able to give of your best.'

Foster shook his head. It was beginning to ache. No one had been this concerned about him since his gran passed away when he was seven. His mental health appeared to be of more concern to his DS than the safety of a missing girl. The world has gone bloody mad, he thought.

'So what's happening today?' he asked, eager to switch the subject back to the investigation, even if he was to have only a peripheral role in it.

We're going speak to every paedo and pervert in a fifteen-mile radius. I will save you that particular pleasure, however, in favour of some victimology. I want you to get out there and have a word with Katie Drake's colleagues at the charity shop. Find out as much about her as you can. There's some news from forensics. Good news. A hair was found on Katie Drake's clothing. Apparently, because of its length, first impressions are that it belongs to a male. I need you to try and find out who the men were in her life. The hair's being tested as we speak. Should be something new on the details later today. I'll make sure forensics give you a shout.'

'Make sure it's not too late,' Foster said. 'My action plan says bedsocks and cocoa by nine.'

Heather was waiting for him in her car outside the charity shop on Chamberlayne Road, a drab traffic-choked street that bisected Kensal Rise, a suburb that still carried a crackle of danger despite gentrification.

He parked up and walked to her new Saab, battling great gusts of wind that transformed the fine rain into blasting hoses of cold water. He got in the passenger seat and looked around. 'Very nice,' he said, inhaling the heady scent of a new car. 'Came with the promotion, did it?'

She smiled. 'Felt like treating myself 'Yeah, I heard about your mum's death. Why didn't you tell me?'

'You were off work, recovering. I didn't want to bother you with personal stuff.'

Well, you should have. Anyway, I was sorry to hear about it. How've you been?'

"I won't pretend it's been easy,' she said.

He paused, looked out of the window and watched the rain spatter against it in the breeze. 'I happen to think the death of your mum is the one that feels the most profound.

The body that carried you, brought you into the world, reduced to dust. You never get over that one -- you just learn to live with it.' He turned back to face her.

She nodded. "I know what you mean.'

Her face was pale, severe even. The eyes, usually lined with kohl and dancing with energy, anger, humour were hollow and lined with stress.

'Is everything OK?' he asked.

She smiled again but he could see there was little genuine about it. 'Just not feeling great. Loads of stress, loads of grief, loads of stuff to mull over. I didn't think it would hit me this hard. I seem to have lost a bit of faith in my judgements and myself. I'm all over the place, to be honest with you.'

He looked at her for a while. It had been his plan to moan about Harris and being sidelined on this case, rant about the absurd amount of cotton wool he was being wrapped in. In light of Heather's woes, it didn't seem that important any more. Her life was a mess and she was working through it. He'd been doing that for years. Look where he was. Part of him felt he should try to persuade her to get herself signed off sick, go somewhere warm where she could get away from it and recharge. 'Look at me,' he might say, 'this is what happens when you close yourself down.' But there would be little point. The job had pulled her in and then tightened its tentacles. It was like that. You tried to make the world a safer place; you poured your life into your work, even if it meant your own went to the wall.

What happened between you and Barnes? Didn't that work out?' he asked.

She shook her head. 'Not really. No fault of his. When my mum died, I didn't fancy the idea of a new relationship.

An ex got in touch to express his condolences and, you know, the familiar, the devil I knew, seemed preferable to . . .'

Her voice trailed away.

Foster sensed some regret, as if she wasn't convinced.

Wish I hadn't sent you along to see him yesterday. Must have been awkward.'

'Not really,' she said. 'I'm glad you did. It was nice seeing him. I wasn't very fair but I think he understands.' She paused, looked out of the window. 'He's a nice bloke.'

That's enough Agony Aunt crap, Foster thought. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's get cracking'

They climbed out and hurried the short distance to the shop. As Foster pushed the door, a bell rang inside. The place was empty of customers but teeming with bric-a brac: books, CDs, a few toys and racks of unwanted clothes. At the counter two women, one elderly, the other in her thirties, stood talking in hushed voices. One of them glanced irritably at Foster and Heather as they entered, before adopting a helpful smile. Foster flashed his ID.

'Morning, ladies,' he said, before making his introductions.

The elderly one was named Yvonne, the younger lady Maureen. We're here about Katie Drake.'

We were wondering when you might come,' Yvonne said, eyes wide with what Foster presumed was shock. 'It's just terrible. Horrible. We're devastated. We thought about closing the shop for the day, but then we thought that Katie would have wanted us to open.'

Was she supposed to be working today?'

Maureen, a brassy redhead wearing a thick layer of make-up, nodded vigorously. 'She did Mondays and Wednesdays. She should have been in today. We have three on normally. Two out front serving customers and one at the back sorting the carryin, usually helped by Trevor. It was her turn to be out back. We've not had time to ask anyone else to come in.'

Her voice quavered. She was about to burst into tears.

Yvonne threw an arm around her.

'Is there a kettle?' Heather asked. Why don't you put the closed sign up for a few minutes and I'll make us all a brew?'

The women nodded.

'There's a kitchen through the back,' the elderly one said.

The younger one turned the sign on the back of the door and flicked the bolt.

'So did Katie work this Monday?' Foster asked.

Yvonne nodded. 'She did, yes. Only the morning. She wanted the afternoon off to shop for Naomi's present and a cake. I was on, Maureen wasn't. Katie was in the shop with me. Steph - she does a couple of days a week, too came in to fill in as Trevor was off.'

'How did she seem?'

'Her usual self really.'

And what was "her usual self"?'

'Friendly, good with the customers, helpful, polite. Her acting career wasn't going too well -- "stalled" was the word she used -- and I think she liked getting out of the house and doing some work, meeting people.'

'She used to joke about it,' Maureen replied, with a smile. 'She used to say, "I'm paying my debt. I do the voice for all these adverts for horrible companies that treat people like dirt and sell useless things. Working here is my penance.'"

Foster watched as Heather returned with a tray bearing four mugs of tea. She put them down beside the till on the counter.

He continued. 'So you got no sense there was anything different in her life? No new events, incidents or anything like that?'

The women looked at each other for a few moments.

'No,' the elderly one said.

'Not at all,' Maureen echoed.

'She didn't mention the fact she was seeing someone?'

They raised their eyebrows so high it looked as if they might leap from their heads. 'Was she?'

Again, the pair glanced at each other.

'Did you know that, Maureen?'

"I didn't know that, no,' Maureen replied. 'I'm surprised.

Katie used to joke about it. She used to say, "I've had it with men. They're nothing but trouble. A woman needs a man like a fish needs batter and chips.'"

The two of them laughed.

'Oh, we'll miss her,' Maureen said. Her eyes began to moisten.

Foster let them drink some of their tea. There was a loud rap on the door behind him. He turned to see a large man with unkempt hair and burgeoning beer gut, wearing an anorak over a navy V-neck jumper and white shirt and a pair of grey slacks. Foster guessed he was in his late thirties. He looked agitated.

'It's Trevor,' Maureen announced, and went over to unlock the door to let him in.

The man stepped in, wiping his feet furiously on the floor despite the fact it wasn't raining outside and there was no mat to wipe them on.

'Hi, Yvonne,' he said to the elderly woman, eyeing Heather and Foster warily before looking away. Are they here about Katie?'

'Hi, Trevor love,' Yvonne replied. 'Yes, they are. They're investigating her death.'

Trevor gazed directly at Foster. 'I wish I could get my hands on the bastard who did it,' he said in a flat monotone that belied the ferocity of his statement, though his face had reddened. What sort of animal could do that?

And take a young girl, too.'

Foster introduced himself and Heather. 'Let me go and hang my coat up and use the loo,' he muttered. 'I'll be right back.'

After he disappeared, Yvonne leaned in towards the two detectives. 'Trevor works here full time, though like the rest of us he isn't paid. He's not really up to taking a proper job. He's had a few problems, you see. We're a bit worried how he's going to take all this because he was very close to Katie.'

What sort of problems?' Foster whispered.

Well, he had a job in an office somewhere and had a nervous breakdown after his mother died. They were very close. So he had to give the job up and he's never been back. He gets incapacity benefit and spends his time with us.'

'Does he work here all week?'

'Every day apart from Tuesday. He takes that off in lieu of Saturday'

Trevor re-emerged from the shadows at the back. 'Sorry about that,' he said, sighing deeply. And sorry I'm late.

Bloody buses.'

'Don't worry about it, love,' Maureen said. 'They were just asking us about how Katie was when she was here on Monday. Did you notice anything different about her the last time you saw her?'

'No. Not in the slightest. She seemed as bright as ever.

It was Naomi's birthday coming up, and she was looking forward to spending time together at last.'

At last?' Foster said. 'Had she been away?'

'No, no. You know what fourteenyear-old girls are like, always out, always with friends, never at home.'

Foster nodded.

'That's right,' Yvonne said. 'I remember now. She left at lunch to catch a bus to Portobello Road and get Naomi a present.'

'Do you know what it was?' Heather asked.

'Some clothes. A brand I'd never heard of. And some make-up, I think.' She gave the name of the shops.

Heather made a note. They would get CCTV camera footage from each of the shops, see if there was any sign of her being followed.

'Can you cast your minds back and remember if there were any customers in the shop who took an unusual interest in her? Or any times you can think of when you remember Katie having a dispute with a customer?' Foster asked.

The three went silent.

'You don't have to tell me now,' Foster said. 'But if anything comes to mind, anything at all, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it may seem, then let us know.' He took a card out of his wallet and put it on the counter. 'If it's OK, we'll take your full names and contact details in case we need to get hold of you when you aren't at work?'

They agreed. Heather jotted the details down before Foster bade them farewell.

As they made their way to their car, Heather spoke.

What do you reckon to Trevor Vickers?' she asked, looking at the name in her notebook.

Foster didn't hear, his eye caught by two men loitering at the curbside near the shop. One was tall, hair slicked back, walking around in circles while talking into a mobile phone. The other was squat and sullen, slouched with a camera over his shoulder, smoking. The press. The tall one caught Foster's eye and put his phone down. Foster recognized him, but then all hacks looked the same to him. The reporter narrowed his eyes, obviously pondering over why a senior detective was at the charity shop.

Routine, or something more? Let him stew, Foster thought.

What was that?' he asked Heather.

Heather repeated her question.

'He fits the profile,' Foster said.

'There's a profile?'

'Yes, they've asked Susie Danson to do one.'

Who's she?'

'She's good. Knows her stuff, rarely wrong. She thinks it's a man in his late thirties or early forties, who knew Katie, knew the area, who might have previous, particularly relating to teenage girls. Though she did say he had charm; Vickers seems to have precious little. Let's feed his name into the computer and see if we can get any hits.

Get in my car and phone in from there.'

They climbed in. Heather dialled the incident room on her mobile. Foster checked the latest with Harris. They had managed to get hold of Katie Drake's application details for RADA. Her address was a London one, not Kent. They'd made a few inquiries that led them to a studio flat on IfHey Road in Hammersmith. A secondary school in Deal was listed. The school's policy was to destroy pupil records ten years after leaving; her details were long gone.

The harder they looked the more elusive her past became. Was it even relevant? What was becoming clear was how vulnerable Katie Drake appeared before her death, as if she was undergoing some sort of mini midlife crisis.

Heather ended her phone call, green eyes galvanized by excitement.

What is it?'

'Trevor Vickers is on the Sex Offenders Register,' she replied. 'He accepted a caution for possessing indecent images of children on his computer in early 2006.'

'Just a caution?'

'The children were clothed apparently -- or at least, they were wearing some clothes. But the poses were indecent.'

Foster snorted. He'd bang up anyone who had that filth on their PCs for five years minimum. Clothed or not, those kids were still being abused and exploited. 'It's a leap from having sordid pictures of kids on your PC to abduction and murder,' he said. 'But it's a leap we've seen before.'

'That's not all,' Heather added. 'Because it was recent, under the guidelines he was asked to give a DNA sample.'

God bless Big Brother, Foster thought. 'We need to find out what she was wearing on Monday at work,' he said. 'If it was the same outfit then his hair could have got on to her while they were lifting dead people's clothes around. If it was different, well, it's unlikely she would put on an unwashed top for her big date, isn't it?'

'I'll go ask,' Heather said, getting out of the car.

Foster watched her walk back towards the shop. The reporter and photographer were about to enter but backed off when they saw Heather approaching. She looked them up and down before going inside. Foster thought about Vickers. They knew he'd taken the day off on Monday, which implicated him further. Something at the back of his mind urged caution, but he was the only possible suspect they had.

Heather re-emerged. 'Different. She was wearing a black top and jeans on Monday. There're also two reporters hanging . . .'

"I know. I've seen them,' Foster interjected.

What do you want to do about Vickers?' she asked.

'It's not my decision. Harris is calling the shots. We'll let him know and see if he wants him bringing in. If that DNA sample matches the hair on Katie Drake's clothes, then we've got our man.'

The nation's press and broadcasters laid siege to the charity shop. The two that Foster and Heather had witnessed loitering on the street had been the vanguard. Reinforcements arrived en masse as word spread that Katie Drake had worked voluntarily for Cancer Research, a morsel the press weren't going to pass up. Her deification was under way. Maureen, Yvonne and Trevor spoke of her as some modern-day saint. Trevor Vickers in particular was especially effusive, breaking down in tears at the end of one interview. The rolling news channel Foster caught back at the office showed his collapse in an endless loop. They ran the picture of Naomi, a uniform standing sentry outside the house, tributes from old friends and colleagues, garnished with footage of Trevor dissolving into tears.

Calls and information poured into the incident room, all of it dutifully logged. But none of it brought them closer to Naomi Buckingham or her mother's killer. The teenager was out there, somewhere, and the possibility of finding her alive was bleeding away.

At the same time as they were filming him weeping about his colleague's death, the papers were alerted to Vickers's brief criminal past and began scrambling around for more info. The phones of Scotland Yard's press bureau rang hot with reporters wondering whether Trevor Vickers was a suspect, would he be brought in for questioning, would he be charged? One public-spirited reporter called in to tell them that a neighbour insinuated the relationship between Vickers and his mother wasn't normal, without quite saying why. 'They're making him out to be Norman Bates,' Foster said to Heather.

He was in the incident room when Heather called.

'The results of the DNA test on the hair found on Katie Drake's clothing are in,' she said.

'Do they match with Trevor Vickers?'

'No. How much do you know about DNA profiling from hair specimens?'

'That it's not straightforward. That's about it.'

'I've been speaking to the lab. All they had was a hair shaft and a dead follicle. This hair fell out -- it wasn't pulled out. If they'd had a fresh follicle then they might have been able to obtain a full DNA profile, but in this case they've no chance.'

'So it's no use?'

'No. Not exactly. They weren't able to provide a match against the database. All they've been able to do is extract some mitochondrial DNA.'

Foster was no expert in either forensic science or genetics.

But he did know that mitochondrial DNA was passed down by the mother and there was no database to check it against; it was useless unless there was a sample it might be compared to.

'They extracted it in case it became relevant in the hunt for Naomi. And they're going to see if they can get a sample of Vickers's hair to see if it matches. But there's one fact which interested me.'

'Go on.'

'The DNA sample matches the victim's.'

What do you mean?'

'The victim and the person whose hair we found on her clothing share the same mitochondrial DNA.'

'It's the daughter's?'

'No, that's what I thought, too. They're certain it's not the daughter's. It's a short hair, congruent with that of a male, and it's black. The mother and daughter had brown and blonde hair. They're going to carry out some more analysis on it but we're certain this sample belonged to a male.'

'So it's a relative?' he replied. As far as they knew, she had no male relatives.

'How much do you know about mtDNA haplotypes?'

'About as much as I know about Belgian rock music'

Well, mitochondrial DNA barely changes over time -- the pattern can last for thousands of years.'

'I'm still lost in the land of ignorance here, Heather.'

'OK, what I'm trying to say is that we know that the victim and whoever left this hair share a common maternal ancestor. Unfortunately, the problem is that we don't know when they shared her. It could be one generation ago. Or it could be a hundred generations ago.'

'So this ancestor could be their mum or it could be Cro-Magnon woman?'

'Exactly. There are some mfDNA haplotypes that many people share. But there are less-common haplotypes, too.

This is one of them, but it's still shared by around one per cent of the population.'

'Then narrowing it down to one person, or even a small group of people, will be impossible.'

'Virtually. Harris and his cronies think that it's no use unless we find a perfect match for it. Ideally, for them and for us all, obviously -- that would have been Trevor Vickers. They're going to get a strand of his hair and compare it to this, but as far as they're concerned the DNA sample is useless because it tells them nothing.'

Foster could sympathize. The clock was ticking, a girl was missing; it would be easy to dismiss it because it appeared to offer no solutions. Concentrate instead on the present, the leads you already have, sketchy though they may be. But twenty years of detective work had taught him that police investigations often ran aground because of a failure of imagination. Forensics told you this, a criminal profile told you that, blood spatter patterns indicated this. He was no Luddite, far from it, but that only went so far. Sometimes you had to take a risk and listen to your gut. Which is exactly what Heather was doing and why she had called him. While unsaid, both of them realized this was not a usual, routine case and it required more than a usual, routine solution.

He went over what Heather had just told him, seeking to hold it up to the light to see if it really was of no use.

Katie Drake and the person who left that hair shared some DNA and therefore an ancestor. Given that she appeared to have no past -- or at least, one that was unclear -- was there any relevance to that? Yes, the maternal ancestor they shared might have been a knuckle-dragger who cooked sabre-toothed tiger for Sunday lunch, but there was also a chance that it might have been someone during the past hundred years or so. The probable killer and the victim and the missing girl shared DNA.

They shared the past.

'Get Nigel and meet me at The National Archives asap.'

She heard the noise. Not for the first night she had to stifle her giggles to avoid waking her two sleeping sisters. Her youngest brother, Thomas, had crept in, too -- wedged in amongst them all, scared to sleep on his own with his elder brothers away.

There it was again. She must tell him to change it. It sounded like no owl on God's earth. She slipped from the covers and padded across the frozen floor, thankful for her thick woollen socks, slipping on her buckled shoes. Under her nightgown she was fully clothed; once she was outside in the woods she knew he would take off his coat and wrap it around her shoulders as always. Her heart beat quicker at the prospect of seeing him. It had been weeks since their last meeting.

She went to the window and eased it gently upwards, wincing at the gasp of cold air that blew into her midriff. She squeezed through the narrow opening and on to the wooden balcony that extended along the front of this wing of the farmhouse, closing the window behind her. Glancing upwards, she caught sight of the clear night sky, thousands of pinprick stars in the heavens. She crept slowly to the corner of the balcony, hitched her nightgown up and swung her leg over the rail. When both her legs were over the rail, her back to the house and her face towards the fields, she edged sideways along until she reached the central pillar, then holding on to the rails she lowered herself until her legs could grasp the pole. As they slipped down, so did her hands until she was low enough to jump without her landing making too much noise. Once on the floor she stopped. No sound from within that wing of the house. She turned. No sign of life in any other part either. She took a deep breath and from her right hand plucked a small splinter of wood that had become embedded on her descent. Then she cast her eyes over to the barn, behind which he was hiding.

The ground was firm, the edges of the grass tufts starting to crisp as the temperature plummeted. She hurried towards the barn. At the far end she turned the corner and there he was, on his haunches, back against the wall. He saw her and rose to stand. They embraced without a word, his arms wrapping around her, the smell of air and soil and the elements in his hair. Without a sound he took off his coat and put it around her, then took her hand in his and they half ran across the bare gracing field, to the shrouded sanctuary of the woods.

Once secluded in the dark he grabbed her waist and kissed her hard. After a few seconds, despite enjoying his warmth, she pushed him away. There was too much she wanted to say. The look in his dark-ringed eyes as she pulled apart was one of hunger. She bit her lip. What she wanted to say could wait a few more seconds. . .

He found a place where they could sit, him leaning back against the rough bark of a pine tree, her against his chest, his hand stroking her hair. She recounted her mother and father's discussion of a few nights before, feeling his body stiffen when she mentioned Hesker Pettibone's name. When she finished, he said nothing.

He remained silent for what seemed an age. 'They are trying to force me to leave,' he said eventually.

She sat up and looked at him. 'What? Who is?'

'My father. My elder brothers. My uncles. Their friends.'

'But whatever for? You do so much good work for them.'

'I know. It is not just me. The other day, Isaac Canfield was set upon and beaten. By his own kin. He's no longer welcome in his own home.'

"I don't understand.'

'Because we are young, Sarah. And they are old. And there are few young, women like you. They suppose you would prefer me as a husband -- or Isaac Canfield -- rather than Hesker Pettibone, for example.'

And they would be correct.'

She shuddered, laid her head on his chest once more. "I would rather die than become a breeding mare for that fat pig.'

'Then when I leave, I will take you with me,' he said plainly and with absolute certainty.

They lay there with only the sounds of the secluded wood and their thoughts. She thought of her sisters and brothers. How much she loved them and how much they would miss her when she was gone. How much she would miss them. The thought broke her heart.

Yet she knew there and she knew then that she would follow Horton to the ends of the earth.

Nigel hurried past the fountains and pond in front of The National Archives, bag banging against his hip as he moved. Outside the main door he could see Heather and Foster waiting, the latter pacing back and forth, clouds of breath billowing from his nostrils in the late autumn chill, like an impatient bull. Heather saw him approaching, nudged Foster and pointed. He immediately placed both hands on his hips in a familiar pose that, despite its inherent irascibility, caused Nigel to smile. Injury had not withered him.

'Sorry I'm late,' Nigel gasped.

'Well, you're here now,' Foster said.

'How are you, by the way?' Nigel asked. The last time he'd seen him was in a wheelchair at Karl Hogg's funeral.

'I'd be a lot better if people stopped asking me how I am,' he replied. Then he smiled and gave Nigel a wink.

'It's called small talk, sir,' Heather interjected.

'Yeah. Small talk, big waste of time,' Foster said, smile vanishing. 'Come on, let's get inside and I'll tell you what's what.'

On first impressions, Nigel thought, Foster didn't seem transformed by his ordeal. He followed them to a table in the canteen.

'I need to be somewhere else in ten minutes . . . actually, make that five now,' Foster said, looking at his watch once more. He was due to interview Trevor Vickers. 'I'll get straight to the point. I know you've delved a bit into Katie Drake's background. We'd like you to delve a bit more.'

'What do you mean by "a bit more"?'

'Into her maternal line.'

Nigel furrowed his brow. A few months ago, Foster had had nothing but disdain for genealogy, now he was talking about researching the 'maternal line'.

'Can I ask why?'

'Let's just say there's a chance, an outside chance, that the person who killed her and abducted her daughter is some sort of distant relation. So if possible, we need to know anyone who might be alive today who shared a common maternal ancestor.'

Heather spoke. 'We found a hair at the crime scene.

There are any number of explanations for how it might have ended up on the victim's clothing. But one is that the killer left it -- and, even if it wasn't, then the person who it belongs to is someone we'd like to speak to. Our problem is that we can't get a full DN A profile from it. All we could get out of it was some mitochondrial DNA . . .'

'Which proved they shared a common maternal ancestor.

Fascinating,' Nigel said.

'You know about DNA?'

'I'm no scientist,' Nigel explained, 'to say the very least.

However, you can't be a genealogist these days and not be aware of the use of DNA.'

You've lost me,' Foster said. 'How the hell does DNA have anything to do with genealogy?'

'Well, there you're entering into a major debate. There are some who think it should have nothing to do with traditional genealogy, that we should all trace our ancestry the old-fashioned way, by following the paper trail. I have some sympathy for that view. But then there are those, an increasing number, who think DNA testing has a massive part to play, that it's the future of genealogy.'

Foster didn't seem interested in pursuing the debate.

'How long will the research take?'

'If you want the entire maternal line, then it might take longer than usual, simply because unlike the paternal line you're dealing with a number of name changes, given that most of the women will have married. But pretty quickly if you give me the support you did last time and get the General Register Office to pull the certificates I find and read out the information over the phone.'

'No problem,' Foster said. 'Heather will help you. She's used to giving you a hand.'

Nigel felt his stomach turn. 'Great,' he said, squeezing out a smile. Her smile was as forced as his. He guessed it wasn't her idea.

Foster left. They watched him go.

'He's lost weight,' Nigel said, seeking to fill any awkward silence. Here he was, alone with Heather again. Someone up there was taunting him.

'Six months sipping soup and red wine through a straw while his jaw healed,' she replied. 'He could market it as a miracle diet.'

'He seems OK, though.'

'He's back at work. I spoke to him a few times and he feigned enjoyment at doing nothing, but he fooled nobody.

It's quite sad. Other than his job, he has nothing.'

Nigel wracked his brain for something that defined his existence other than work. His quest failed.

Back upstairs the centre was filling up slowly, just as Nigel liked it. 'Is it still as busy as ever down here?' Heather asked as they walked.

'Oh, yes. It's a riot,' Nigel replied, earning a laugh, the throaty traffic-stopping one he loved. He'd do all he could to hear it regularly. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed just being with her. Recently he'd been telling himself to live more in the moment, not easy for one who spent his life working in the past. Here was a chance to try his new approach.

'One day I'll explain,' she'd told him. Nigel wanted to postpone that moment. Any hope he still clinged to that she'd realized what a mistake she'd made might be snuffed out.

He aimed to trace Katie Drake's ancestry back as far as possible, before coming forward through the maternal line to identify as many living cousins as possible. With the help of the hotline to the GRO, the work was easy and without obstacle until 1891. In that year Horton and Sarah Rowley married four months before the birth of their daughter, Emma; he aged twenty-one, she just eighteen.

His occupation was given as carpenter. Neither gave the name of their fathers.

Nigel discovered the couple had two more children, Isaac and Elizabeth. In 1909, Horton -- a Christian name Nigel had rarely encountered before -- died in an accident, run over by an omnibus. Isaac was killed in the First World War. In 1913 Sarah died of pneumonia and pleurisy. Yet he could find no evidence of the couple's births among the indexes or on census returns for 1871 and 1881. He located them on the 1891 and 1901 censuses. On both occasions under 'Where Born' were the letters 'NK'. He showed the results to Heather.

'What does that mean?'

'Not known.'

'I suppose that means their parents were itinerant.'

'Hmm,' Nigel said, pulling at his bottom lip in thought.

Something wasn't right. He could sense it. Of course, he'd come across similar entries in the past. But rarely when both husband and wife were unaware of their birthplace.

'You're not convinced?' Heather asked.

'Well, there are many explanations. There's every chance they really didn't know where they were born. It's just odd for that to apply to both of them. And it gets even odder when you factor in their marriage certificate -- no names for either of their fathers. Of course, they could both be illegitimate; they are adopted, taken in by others, and they don't know their original place of birth.'

'You can't say they had nothing in common.'

'No, exactly. They could have met in the workhouse, or some other place, discovered they shared a similar upbringing and that brought them together.'

'Actually sounds quite sweet. Love against the odds and all that.' She flipped a fallen curl of dark hair out of her right eye and surveyed him. 'But I see you don't agree.'

'It'd be the first time I've come across something like it, but that's not to say it didn't happen. And yet. . . you'd think one of them would declare the village, town or city they were eventually raised in, even if they weren't aware of where they were born. Or that one of them might enter the name of their adoptive father, if there was one.

Both of them having similar gaps in their memory just, well, it strikes me as a bit suspicious, to be honest.'

You think they deliberately left out those details?'

'The census was deeply unpopular among some people; the Victorian equivalent of Middle England thought it was a gross intrusion into their private lives. People gave away as little as possible because they were scared how the information might be used. That's one explanation. But there's also another, slightly less principled one.'

'What?'

'They were running away and didn't want to be found.

Four months after they were married their child was born.

Sarah was only eighteen. Of course we can only speculate, but it's not too much of a leap to imagine that one set of parents might not have been too happy with the prospect, tried to get in the way, and that Horton and Sarah eloped to a new place and tried to cover their tracks. Lied about their names and deliberately obscured their birthplaces.'

'That's even sweeter,' Heather added, tongue wedged firmly in her cheek. 'It has a Montague/Capulet thing going on. Perhaps Horton was from the wrong side of the tracks. She was the eldest daughter of a rich pompous landowner, he the horny-handed son of toil. . .'

'There's a future for you in romantic novels.'

'I'd hope I'm better at it in fiction than I am in real life,'

she added.

There was a silence. She stared at him with a look he couldn't fathom. Wistfulness? Regret? He didn't know.

Was he supposed to say something here? He couldn't find the words. After a few agonizing seconds in which unsaid words and feelings hung between them like a veil, Heather switched back to the topic at hand.

'But if these two have disappeared pre1891, what can we do?'

'There's any number of things I can do, but they might all take some time,' he said, glad to be on steadier ground.

'In the meantime, we can take Sarah Rowley as the starting point and trace as many descendants of hers as possible to give you something to start working on.'

Heather agreed. The rest of the day was taken up with that task. By the close, Nigel was able to hand her a small list of maternal cousins. One, a Gillian Stamey, died three years ago (a suicide aged thirty-six), while another elderly woman, Edith Chapman, died five years ago. The living females were Naomi Buckingham, Leonie Stamey, Rachel Stamey, Lucy Robinson and Louise Robinson. The latter, mother and daughter, appeared to have emigrated to New Zealand along with Zach Robinson, a baby son, and his father, Brian. The male descendents were Martin Stamey, David Stamey, Gary Stamey-- son of the recently deceased Gillian -- Brad Stamey, who was the son of Martin and brother of Rachel, and Anthony Chapman. Christopher, another male, died three and a half years ago.

Heather looked at the list. 'So, there are four branches -- the Chapmans, the Stameys, the Robinsons and the Pratt/Drake/Buckinghams?'

'Yes,' Nigel replied.

'It's not that big a list,' she said.

'It's all the direct descendants of Sarah, those who share her mitochondrial DNA. The bloodline isn't the strongest anyway. Many have died, very few kids born to replace them. The Chapman branch and Naomi's have almost died out. The Stameys are the biggest clan left. Seems the Robinson branch split off and set up in New Zealand. The whole family tree isn't much bigger, just one or two others.

What will you do with it?'

'Track these people down, the males in particular, and speak to them. It's a punt, but one that's worth it.'

'Well, I'll look into why the line disappears pre1891, explore some of the options. I can stay here until late, browse through some passenger lists for ships in case they came in from abroad, or have a glance at the change of name indexes to see if they shed any light on it. If I find out what happened and it leads to more ancestors and more cousins then I'll get in touch with you.'

Heather smiled. 'Sounds like a plan.'

Trevor Vickers picked anxiously at his fingers, occasionally putting one in his mouth to chew. At his side was a lawyer, a short man in an ill-fitting suit with an ill-advised comb over. Neither spoke. While they were sitting here -- with the press, who had been tipped off that he was number one suspect, camped outside - the Metropolitan police were inside his house. They'd covered every inch but found no trace of Naomi. It was late on Wednesday afternoon. Time had been magnified, each minute carried more significance than usual: every hour that passed without a lead was as fatal as any wound.

Foster stood watching from behind a two-way mirror.

Harris had asked him to conduct the interview. If he was being cynical, he'd think it was to appease the pack of reporters that were trailing Vickers, to make it appear as if the hunt for Naomi Buckingham was gaining momentum. They didn't need it. Not for the first time, they were ahead of the investigation. They'd intercepted a phone call Vickers had made to his estranged father that lunchtime, warning him of the shitstorm that was about to break. It had already broken.

His father told him that a reporter had already been round to the house to offer him money for an exclusive interview about Trevor, and was prepared to put him up in a hotel to 'protect' him from other reporters. When he refused, maintaining his son was innocent, despite them having barely spoken in years, the reporter had gone even further, offering the resources of his newspaper to help his father find Trevor the best legal representation available. This from a newspaper that peddled a flog 'em and hang 'em line. Foster knew that was a lie - the help would never materialize. To his credit, in Foster's opinion, the father still refused, not even backing down when the reporter became aggressive and threatened to drag his name through the slurry along with Trevor's.

He fitted the profile. Loner. Loser. Mummy issues. Perv with previous, particularly relating to young girls, to paraphrase what Susie Danson had said in her report.

Foster entered the room. Vickers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked on the verge of tears.

Afternoon, Trevor,' Foster said brightly. 'Thanks for coming in. Nothing formal, just a chat.'

Trevor Vickers nodded imperceptibly, then glanced anxiously at his brief who cleared his throat and spoke waveringly. 'I have to say my client wants to express his extreme displeasure at the press attention he's receiving.

He feels certain that someone in your team must have leaked the details --'

He stopped abruptly. Foster had thrown the file he was holding down on to the table in front of him. The brief stopped talking. Foster didn't even look at him.

'I know you didn't do this, Trevor. But I'm probably in a minority of one at the moment.'

A mixture of hope and bewilderment spread across Vickers's large, pale face.

Foster picked up the file, which contained the details of his previous. 'You took your PC in for repair. You see, right there, very stupid. You can't hide four pictures of under-age girls, so I don't know how we expect you to actually hide a living, breathing fourteenyear-old girl.'

Anger flashed across Vickers's face. 'I thought they were grown women dressed as schoolgirls,' he said slowly.

'Course you did. You deleted them immediately when you found out they were under age.' He scanned the file again.

'Or, two hours afterwards anyway. The fact is there were only four pictures; there was no evidence you'd done anything like this before so you escaped with a caution. End of story'

He threw the file back on the table. 'But let's get the formalities out of the way before we get on to what I think you can help us with. What were you doing on Monday?'

'I was at home most of the day. I took the day off. Did some shopping'

Foster raised an eyebrow.

'Online,' he explained. A few add-ons for my computer.'

Sure you did, Foster thought. 'Receipts for those would be nice,' he said, though he knew they would confirm little.

You do anything else? Go anywhere? Speak to anyone?'

Vickers went silent for a few seconds, then his face lit up. 'I returned a library book in the afternoon. Shepherd's Bush library. About three thirty.'

The time Naomi Buckingham probably went missing.

'The book?'

Vickers's face reddened slightly. 'Is that necessary?' he asked.

'Well, you don't think we're going to take your word for it, do you? They have records. We want to check it out.

Prove that you were there and you're eliminated from the investigation.'

He looked down at his feet. 'Escaping Obsession!

'Thriller?'

'No. A self-help manual.'

'Come again?'

Vickers looked up, face scarlet but jaw held defiantly firm. 'The full title is Escaping Obsession: Dealing With the One You Want Who Doesn't Want to Know!

Foster nodded, bit his lip, made a note. 'Were you obsessed with Katie Drake?'

'You don't have to answer that,' his lawyer mumbled.

Vickers waved an impatient hand in response.

'It's all right,' he said. His eyes had become moist. 'I loved her. I never told her that because I knew there wasn't a cat in hell's chance she'd be interested in me. I took a few steps to deal with my unrequited love. But I had nothing to do with her death. Now my life's just.. .fucking ruined.' He emphasized the profanity with absolute conviction and anger.

'We'll corroborate the library thing, Trevor. We'll let the press know you're no longer part of our investigation. Can I just ask a few questions, about Katie?'

He'd composed himself. Nodded slowly.

Was she seeing anyone else, to your knowledge?'

'No.'

'Did you notice anyone in the shop hanging around when she worked?'

'No.'

'She have a disagreement with anyone in the shop?'

'No.'

This is going nowhere, he thought. Time to leave the bloke to the tender mercies of the press pack outside -- and the attempt to rebuild his life. Just another bit of collateral damage in the media frenzy that engulfs some cases.

Last question. 'Did you notice anything different about Katie recently, anything strange, or odd in her behaviour?'

There was a pause instead of an instant negative. He looked at Foster directly, but the detective could see he was lost in thought. Eventually he spoke.

'There was one thing,' he said. 'It struck me as a bit odd.

Last Monday, not the one just gone, the one before that, a woman came in with a great pile of stuff belonging to someone who died. She was from an old people's home round the corner. Apparently the dead woman had lost contact with all her family and they'd been unable to track down any relatives so they were giving away all her things.

Very sad, but not uncommon. Which is why I was surprised that Katie got so upset. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't in hysterics or anything like that, but she was definitely moved. She said to me how sad it was that you could die and no one would know or care.'

'Did you respond?'

He nodded his head. 'I agreed with her. It is sad.' His voice was low, as if considering what Foster was at that moment thinking: how that desolate observation was applicable to him. 'Then she said, "But I don't have to worry about that any more.'"

'What did she mean by that?'

'I don't know. Naomi presumably'

'But she said "any more". As if dying and no one caring had been the case before.'

'I know. Someone came in and interrupted us. I'd forgotten about it. Until now.'

Foster stared intently at the list Heather handed him, as if the answer to the whole case lay buried in those names. It was late in the evening and yet another day had crawled by without an event of significance. Trevor Vickers's alibi checked out, as he knew it would. There had been two reported sightings of girls matching Naomi's description but neither turned out to be correct. Instead of sloping off home at five, he'd hung on until Heather returned with the names, the lights off and the door shut to make it appear he was out. When she arrived, he asked her to keep the door shut and her voice down.

'I expected more names than this,' he snapped, breaking his own rule.

'Nigel could only trace the maternal line forward from 1890 or so. Before that is a mystery. This is probably only about half the names we could've found.'

Foster rubbed his hand up the back of his shaven head, then tapped the space bar of his desktop PC. It crackled into life from its slumber. 'I suppose it makes our job easier.

Let's feed these into the national computer first, and see if anything comes up,' he said to Heather. 'Then we'll seek out those we can.'

He started with the males. He entered each name, cross referencing with their date of birth when more than one person appeared on the database under that moniker. He received three hits, all from the same branch of the family.

Martin Stamey and his brother David, the former convicted of drink-driving and aggravated assault, the latter of handling stolen goods, driving without insurance and grievous bodily harm, for which he was currently spending three years at Her Majesty's pleasure.

'Nice family,' murmured Heather behind his shoulder, making a note of Martin Stanley's address. 'Should be worth having a chat with him.'

The third hit was Christopher Stamey, who'd served two sentences for serious drug offences and was found murdered three and a half years ago. No one was arrested for the crime.

'Coincidence? Heather said. 'This lot certainly sound like the black sheep of the family'

'There're a few dark woolly creatures who might sue you for that,' Foster replied. 'They sound like scumbags.'

Logic told Foster it was all unrelated. But experience told him not to always trust logic. 'It's worth checking out.'

For the sake of completeness, Foster punched in the names of the seven women. The first six provided no matches.

'Here's the last one,' Foster said, typing in the name of Leonie Stamey, niece of the brothers grim. 'She'll be only seventeen, and even allowing for the criminality in her family that should --'

He stopped abruptly.

Heather was on her way out of his office to find out more about the Stamey clan. 'What is it?' she said.

'Fucking hell.'

'What is it?' she repeated.

'Leonie Stamey is missing' He swivelled on his chair to face her. 'She disappeared on her fourteenth birthday.' He stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

'I don't think that's coincidence.'