Blood Atonement

2

Martin Stamey's home was a new build on an upmarket housing estate for the aspiring criminal classes on the outskirts of Purfleet in Essex. Each house appeared identical, surrounded by large well-manicured lawns and adorned with more mock Tudor fixings than a medieval banquet. As they tried to find the right house in a warren of homogeneous streets, Foster couldn't resist a sneer. It was the sort of place where the residents put up so many lights at Christmas you could probably see them from space.

The silhouette of a flag, presumably a Union Jack, flapped in the wind on top of the house. The earlier rain had stopped but the air was still damp. Heather knocked on the door, inducing some manic barking from a dog inside the house.

'Shut the fack up!' a gruff voice barked back. The light in the hall went on and through the frosted glass a large figure in a white T-shirt approached, unlocked several bolts and opened the door on a safety chain. The face that peered through was unshaven, handsome and sullen, the features carved and lean. There was no pretence at friendliness.

He knew them instantly as police.

'What?' The voice oozed contempt.

'Martin Stamey?'

'Who wants to know?'

Foster flashed his ID, then introduced himself and Heather. The dog barked riotously as if on cue. A female voice told it to shut up and a door slammed, muffling the dog's excitement.

'The Met? What you doing out here?' Stamey said.

Harris would ask the same, Foster thought. Sod the action plan. 'It's in relation to a current investigation,' he replied. 'We'd like a word. Any chance we can come in?'

The man smiled bitterly. 'Yeah, cos I'm always inviting police into my house, aren't I? Tell me what it's all about and then we'll talk about whether you can come inside.'

'It's about Leonie,' Heather said.

The man's face froze. 'You found her, have you?' He sounded eager, expectant.

'No, but we have a case that shares some similarities with hers,' Foster explained. He felt a few spots of rain.

'Look, we've told you what it's about. Can we come in?'

Stamey looked at them for a few seconds impassively, then drew back and unhooked the chain. 'Come on,' he said, walking off in front of them. He was wearing blue jeans and an incongruous pair of navy-blue carpet slippers.

Foster and Heather followed him down a long hall.

'Nice place,' he lied.

'Yeah, well, it's home,' Stamey said, failing to conceal his pride.

'What's your game again?' Foster asked as they arrived at a large sitting room. Everything in it was cream - the leather sofas, the walls, the thick shagpile carpet and the rug by the cream fireplace, even the lampshade. With the overhead light, the cumulative effect was so bright Foster almost felt his retinas detach.

The only colour emanated from a huge wall-mounted plasma TV screen showing a loud action film. A boy and a girl, who Foster guessed to be around ten or eleven years old, sat entranced.

'Fuck off upstairs and watch this shit in your rooms,'

Stamey said to them, picking up a remote control from the coffee table and turning it off.

The two kids trudged away.

'What was your question again?' he said to Foster, irritably.

Foster could see the contempt wasn't reserved for him. It was a default setting. 'I asked what you did for a living.'

'Carpenter,' Stamey answered, and sniffed. 'Some other stuff, too.'

I bet, Foster thought. Houses as big as this weren't bought on the wages of your average chippy.

A slim, attractive woman in her mid-thirties with blonde hair appeared in the doorway, waiting for the children to sidle past her before she spoke.

'Who are these two, Mart?' she asked, saving her most unsavoury look for Heather.

'Detectives,' he said, sitting on one of the sofas and spreading his legs and arms wide. 'They say they're here about Leonie.'

'Have they found her?' she asked, contempt giving way to agitation.

Heather shook her head. 'I'm afraid not.'

Foster sat down on the other sofa, trying to suppress a wince. More than an hour in his car had seized him up, and his leg and collarbone were beginning to ache, as they always did at the end of the day. He was a long way from his red wine and painkillers.

'Can I get you a tea or a coffee?' the woman asked.

Both Foster and Heather shook their heads.

'A glass of water would be nice, though,' Heather said.

Foster marvelled at how much water she drank. Apart from wine, it was the only thing he saw her drink.

'Grab me a can of lager, sweetheart,' Stamey said, and the woman Foster presumed to be the mother of his children padded away. Stamey turned his saturnine face on them but said nothing. Foster had taken an instant dislike to him but reined it in. He sat forward.

'I'll be up front with you, Mr Stamey. We have nothing new about Leonie's whereabouts. But in the course of our investigation into the recent disappearance of a fourteenyear-old girl in London we noticed a few similarities.'

'Is this the one that's been in the news and plastered all over the papers?'

Foster nodded. 'It is, yes.'

A look of bewilderment spread across Stamey's face.

'Her mother was offed, wasn't she? Nasty bit of business.

Some fucking nonce, I expect. You lot are too lenient on them. Let them out in the community and all that shit.

Best thing to do is put them down like dogs. If you're gonna let 'em go, then you wanna cut the balls off 'em first.' He sniffed once more.

Foster didn't like being harangued on law and order by someone he suspected to be a small-time crook but he let it slide.

'I don't see the connection with Leonie,' Stamey added.

'Hang on, are you saying that Leonie's mum was murdered?'

'I

was wondering if we could go through the details of your niece's disappearance one more time?' Foster asked.

'Details? I don't know what you mean. As far as we knew, her mother OD'd on smack. Stupid bitch. She'd had all sorts of problems with it. The place was a fucking dump. She was opening her legs to anything with a cock.

She took a hit one night and that was it. Leonie saw the writing on the wall. Her and Gary were going to be taken into care. I was . . . away at the time, so I couldn't take her in. My brother Davey was working away and he don't have a clue anyway, so he'd have been no good. My other brother, Christopher, passed away a few years back so there was nowhere for the poor little mite to go. So she had it away on her toes and I don't blame her. Gary's gone into care and he's up to no good all the fucking time from what little we hear.'

'How old is Gary now?' Heather asked.

'He'd be about eleven. The same number of foster families he's been through probably.'

'You're sure Leonie ran away?'

'Well, I was until you showed up. And so were your colleagues when they looked into it. Which wasn't very much.'

'No one's heard anything from her?'

'Not a peep.'

'Any idea where she might've gone?'

'London, I presume. She was a bright girl - brighter than her dozy fucking muppet of a mother, at least. But I can't imagine what she's got herself involved with on the streets of London. Actually, I can, but I don't wanna.'

'There's no family there she could have gone to?'

'There's no real family beyond us, to be honest. You probably know that my brother's doing time, and I've told you the other one's dead. His wife has shacked up with a new feller. That's about it really. We're hardly the fucking Waltons.'

His wife came in with the beer. He leaned forward and sprung it open slowly before taking a hearty swig. 'These two are here because they reckon that Leonie's disappearance might've something to do with that girl who's gone missing, the one who's been all over the news.'

'The girl whose mum was done in?' his wife replied.

'Yeah. Can't see why. Gilly was a smack addict and she smacked herself up too much and died. Don't think someone topped her. Can't see who would want to, for a start.'

'We're looking for a girl who went missing on her fourteenth birthday, like Leonie,' Foster interrupted. 'Of course it might be, and probably is, just a coincidence, but we felt it was worth seeing if there were any more similarities.

All we have on file are the bare facts of Leonie's case and we want to know more. Didn't she have a father?'

Stamey snorted derisively. 'Take your pick from half of Essex. Let's just say my sister was not exactly stingy with her favours.'

'Didn't Leonie and Gary share the same father?' Heather asked.

The snort turned to a whooping laugh. His wife joined in. 'Did you hear that, love?' he said, shaking his head.

'She asked if Gary and Leonie had the same dad?' The mirth continued for some time.

Foster looked at Heather, who was wearing a fixed grin.

Finally Stamey calmed down. He looked at Heather and raised a hand. 'Sorry, sweetheart. Really sorry. But you'll realize why that tickled me so much when I tell you that Gary is a half-caste. His dad's a nigger.'

Foster felt Heather stiffen at his side at the mention of the word. He decided to step in before she arrested him for discrimination.

'Martin,' he said, looking Stamey in the eye. 'We'd appreciate it if you watched what you said in front of us, please.'

'Whatever,' Stamey said. He took another slug from the can, watching Heather with amusement.

She was still rigid beside Foster. Time to start wrapping this up, he thought.

'Were Leonie and her mum close?'

'Beats me,' Stamey said.

'Not really,' his wife added. 'Like Mart said, Gillian had a lot of problems with the drugs and everything. She was off her brain half the time. Leonie was one of them girls who had to grow up quick. She had an old head on her, that girl. She basically brought Gary up herself. He was a little bit wild, even back then. Weren't his fault. He had no dad and his mum was a junkie. What chance did the poor little kid have? It always amazed me that Leonie turned out quite so well. And I don't blame her for running away, even if meant leaving Gary. Imagine finding your mum dead and thinking you might have to go into care.'

'She found her mother?'

'We think so,' Mrs Stamey said. 'She went missing the same day. She got back from school because her bag was at home. Her mum was dead in the bed. We reckon she just went downstairs, opened the door and ran.'

Foster and Heather shared a quick glance. He knew she was thinking the same as him.

Where was Gary?' Heather asked.

'He was at some behavioural clinic or class or something.

He was the one who got back and raised the alarm.

Well, he got back and watched TV for about half an hour and then started screaming at his mum to get up and make his tea. He didn't understand. He went and got the neighbour and she called the police.'

Foster stood up. 'Well, thanks for your time. You've been a great help. If we find anything else relating to Leonie, we'll be sure to get in touch.'

Stamey nodded, a glassy look in his eye. Foster guessed the can of lager he was just emptying might not have been his first. His wife showed them to the door.

'Where's Gary now?' he asked as she opened the door.

'Last we heard he was in a Council care home,' she said.

'Good luck finding that girl,' she added, and went back inside.

They stepped into the pouring rain and headed for Foster's car. Once inside he could tell she was still seething.

'What

do you think now? Black sheep or scumbag?'

Foster said with a smile.

'What a wanker. I don't know how some women do it,'

she said, echoing Foster's thoughts.

'What do you reckon?' he asked.

'Too many similarities. The mother dying on the same day as the daughter going missing. The fact it was her fourteenth birthday ... It could still be coincidence, I suppose. And there's nothing else to link them, other than circumstance and a DNA sample that could be shared with another half a million people. Do you think our charming Mart had anything to do with it?'

'Who knows,' Foster said. 'We'll come back to him, though.' He started the engine. 'Let's poke around a bit more and see what comes up.' He put the car in gear and slowly pulled away. 'But first we need to find sweet little Gary'

Horton and Sarah Rowley appeared to have been erased from the pages of history. At times when Nigel had lost the trail on other cases, he found sleeping on it helped; when he woke up, an idea of how to break the impasse was often there, fully formed. But that morning he remained stymied.

He was unsure what to do with his day. A heap of casework was piling up, but it palled against the prospect of helping Foster and Heather. Then there was the matter of his nascent television career. Since his humiliation in Kensal Green cemetery earlier that week he had heard nothing. He could only think that the programme-makers had seen his screen test and, after they'd finished laughing, started tracking down a presenter with a modicum of aptitude. He should be pleased - after all, he rarely watched television himself, being more of a radio man. Yet part of him was thrilled at the prospect of appearing on television and where it may lead. He imagined himself being recognized in the street. Worse, he imagined himself enjoying being recognized in the street. He, Nigel Barnes, a man who struggled to get recognized in his own sitting room. He fired up his computer and checked his e-mails.

Nothing from the producer.

He went to the kitchen, still in his striped dressing gown and pyjamas. A low pale early winter sun glancing through the window made him squint. He ate toast most mornings and saw no reason to change his routine. He carved the last slices from the brittle, stale sourdough loaf, made a mental note to get to the delicatessen to purchase another, and placed them in his eccentric old toaster. He flicked the kettle on and gazed out of the window, wondering when the house opposite, wreathed in scaffolding, would ever be finished. It had to be a year now and he was bored by the sound of poorly attached tarpaulin flapping in the autumn wind. What were they doing . . . ?

His thoughts were interrupted by the scent of burning.

When he turned, he could see his toaster billowing plumes of black smoke, forcing him to lunge over and manually evict the contents. Being averse to any form of waste, he grabbed a knife and flipped open his bin, attempting to render the pieces edible by scraping off the bits that were burned beyond repair. It soon became clear they were beyond saving. Nigel cursed to himself. Must get a new toaster, he thought. Or get the grill in the oven fixed so he could make proper toast. Of course Agas made the best toast, but they were hardly compatible with cramped London kitchens. Whatever, there was no point spending his hard-earned cash on freshly baked bread while his toaster was so temperamental. The two blackened shards in his hand could have been two stale pieces of sliced white. Only the gourmet equivalent of a DNA test could have revealed their true identity. He laughed to himself. Then stopped.

Now there was an idea.

Ethnoancestry was based in Ealing, in a nondescript redbrick hutch down an anonymous side street.

Nigel announced himself to a security guard doubling as a receptionist and was told to wait. Five minutes later Dr Chris Westerberg, bearded and blue-eyed, greeted him with a vigorous handshake.

'Good to see you again, Nigel,' he said warmly in a soft southern Irish lilt.

'You too, Chris. How's tricks?'

'Mustn't grumble,' he mumbled. 'Find it OK? Come by car, did you?'

'I came by tube. I don't drive.'

A look of amusement spread across the scientist's friendly face. 'Yes, I forgot. The man with no car and no credit card. The last of the bohemians. Ideal - you can carry on drinking because you don't have to drive and someone else picks up the tab. Let no one say you're not a canny man, Nigel.'

He smiled. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed the Irishman's company and good humour.

'It's been a while, hasn't it?'

'It certainly has,' Nigel replied. He guessed eighteen months, at a drab family history convention in a provincial northern town whose name Nigel couldn't even remember. Westerberg was there touting his company and their DNA tests and kits. For two nights they drank well into the night, arguing furiously and drunkenly over the role of DNA testing in family history, both of them enjoying every second of it. Westerberg had been among the vanguard of those arguing that a genetic approach could revolutionize genealogy and family history. Nigel was a sceptic.

Westerberg led him to a lift, up one floor and down a sterile corridor to a small, cluttered office. 'I share this with a colleague, so apologies for the mess. He's from Scotland, that's all I can say. Coffee?' Nigel murmured his assent and Westerberg disappeared for a few minutes before returning with two steaming mugs. 'Instant not filter, I'm afraid,' he explained.

He sat down behind the desk and gave Nigel another friendly smile. 'So how's it going back at the coalface?'

Nigel pulled a face. 'It's improving.'

'You're joking me, aren't you?' he said, incredulously. 'I saw you all over the papers. Helping police catch a serial killer.' He let out a low whistle.

'Certainly was a break from the norm.'

You're the master of understatement, Nigel. That wasn't a break from the norm; that was some fucked-up shit.'

'I suppose it was,' he said, inwardly rather pleased that his work and the publicity had been noticed. 'Listen, I was wondering: can you help me catch another killer?'

Westerberg's eyes widened. 'Jaysus, what now? You turned into Travis Bickle, cleaning the scum off the streets?'

'The police have asked for my help once more,' he explained, trying to remain modest.

'Who's been killed?' Westerbeg asked.

'That has to remain confidential, I'm afraid,' Nigel said.

'Part of the deal in the police allowing me to come here and explore this with you.'

'I suppose that makes sense. What's the deal?'

'Bear with me on this,' Nigel said. 'I'm a layman, after all. The police have a mtDNA sample that was found at the scene of a murder -- from a strand of hair, I believe. It turns out that it's the same type as the victim, except it came from a male while the victim was female. According to the police's forensic people, the victim and whoever left this hair -- who may or may not be the killer -- shared a common maternal ancestor.'

'Well, we could verify that for you,' Westerberg said.

'Thanks. But that's not why I'm here. The police are, in the original sense of the word, clueless. All they have at the moment is this hair and the mtDNA sample and the fact of the shared maternal ancestry. They've asked me to research the victim's family tree and find out all the people extant who share this mtDNA.'

Westerberg's face clouded over. He leaned forward across the desk. 'Nigel, you do realize that the maternal ancestor you speak of could have lived thousands of years ago? It may not be confined to five or six branches of the family. It may be confined to five or six per cent of the population.'

Nigel nodded. 'That's where you come in. Is it possible from the test you've devised to discover when this ancestor was shared?'

Westerberg shook his head. 'No.'

Damn, Nigel thought. I've wasted my time.

'Unless.'

'Unless what?'

Westerberg sat back. 'Do you have any details about the type extracted from the strand of hair?'

Nigel had. After employing all his powers of persuasion, Heather had agreed to ask Foster whether Nigel could have details of the type of mtDNA extracted from the hair strand. The DCI had agreed, somewhat reluctantly, and an hour later an e-mail containing an impenetrable sequence of numbers had arrived in Nigel's in-box:

16111 16290 16319 16362

Second hypervariable segment 64 146 153

He produced the printout from his jacket pocket and handed it to Westerberg. The scientist stared at it for several seconds. Put it down and stroked his beard.

'You might be in luck,' he said.

'Might I?'

'The group this sample belongs to is a relatively rare one. Which means you won't have vast amounts of people sharing it.'

'How many?'

'I can't answer that. But that's not the only reason you're lucky. Let me check something out.' He tilted the screen of his computer to face him and tapped in a few details.

Studied the screen carefully and then punched in some more data. He started to nod. 'The person to whom this belonged had a maternal ancestor that was Native American.'

'You

can tell that from the piece of paper?'

'It gives the mtDNA haplotype, which means I can assign it to a haplogroup, which means I can work out its biogeographic ancestry.' Westerberg paused, taking a slurp of lukewarm coffee. Nigel noticed the mug. It had a crude drawing of a banana. Written inside were the words 'I share half my DNA with a banana'. He wondered if it was true, making a mental note to check it on the Internet when he got home. 'By examining a person's mtDNA and the mutations it carries, we can follow their ancestor's footprint and their lineage. The ancestor of whoever owned this DNA left a print in North America and it's one we know is shared by other people with Native American ancestry. Give me a day or two to check a few databases and I might even be able to tell you the tribe to which the maternal ancestor may have belonged.'

Nigel was amazed. 'You can tell me whether the victim's ancestor was a Cherokee or a Sioux or an Apache?'

Westerberg smiled. 'Not that specific. Most haplotypes are shared across tribes or are maybe restricted to a related group of tribes, but we could certainly narrow it down.'

He could see Nigel was still impressed. 'I told you genetic genealogy was the future.'

While he found this revelation thrilling, Nigel knew the Native American population was not renowned for keeping records. There was no way he could use this information. Unless . . .

There was little evidence of any Native American blood in Katie Drake's features. The most obvious explanation was that this mysterious woman entered the Drake lineage hundreds of years ago on some great migratory route.

However, another explanation occurred to him.

'Is there any chance of discovering a date or an approximate time when a Native American woman entered the bloodline?'

Westerberg ran his hand through his hair so that it stuck up as if caught by static. 'How would that help?' the Irishman asked, furrowing his brow.

'I'm not sure it would. The fact is, I've been trying to trace the maternal line of the victim as part of the investigation and the paper trail appears to end '

'I knew it!' Westerberg slapped his hand down hard on the desk. 'I knew it! You need me. You've hit a wall and you need a hand to get over it. Hang on, what was it you said in the bar at that ball-aching convention?' He put his hand to his forehead. 'Hang on, I got it, it's coming. "The problem with genetic genealogy, old chap, is that it's a gimmick. A bloody lucrative one, but still a gimmick.'"

Nigel winced as Westerberg, eyes sparkling with delight, slapped the desk a second time to underline his glee.

'So let me get this straight, Nigel. You want me to see if I can find out when the Native American mtDNA entered the bloodline so you can go back to the records and see if you can pick up the trail again?'

'In a nutshell, yes, that'd be very useful'

'You can't do it.'

'Really?'

'Rather, you couldn't do it.'

'Your employment of the past tense seems to imply you now can.'

'Perhaps. I've developed a test, one that isn't even available to customers yet, which hopes to tell you that sort of information. It's simple maths. Testing how far back in the family tree the Native American ancestor came in translates genetically to what proportion of the person's ancestry and therefore genes are Native American. You would expect roughly one-eighth of the genes to be Native American with a great-grandparent, and one-sixteenth if it were a great-great-grandparent.'

'How do you know how much of a person's genes are Native American?'

'The test examines DNA changes which are more common in one continental group of people than another, for instance Africans, East Asians, Europeans or Native Americans. There are hundreds of these DNA changes that can be specific to a continent, but are more often found at a high frequency in one place, for example Native Americans, but at a much lower frequency in another place -- they are markers of ancestry. Forensic identification normally uses about a hundred markers to compile a profile.

Our test uses hundreds of markers across many genes, thus giving people an idea of their overall ancestry. We use a computer program which takes into account the number of each type of change you have and where these are found and how common they are, and calculates this as a percentage of the make-up of your ancestry -- whether it's European, African or Native American. So by pinpointing the amount of Native American DNA in the sample we could work out when those genes entered the family tree.'

Are you in a position to use this test?'

'No.'

'Oh?'

Westerberg picked up the printout Nigel had given him and dropped it slowly on the desk. 'Because I haven't got a sample to work with, just a piece of paper. If I had a DNA sample we might be in business.'

'I doubt they'll release the hair . . .'

'I don't need the hair. You said the person who owns the hair and the victim share a common maternal ancestor?'

'Yes,'

Nigel replied hesitantly.

'Then testing her DNA should tell us when the mtDNA molecule entered the bloodline. You just need to get a sample from the body'

Gary Stamey's arms were folded, face set hard. Apart from the molten hatred in his eyes, he looked angelic flawless coffee-coloured skin, delicate features and dark tight-cropped hair. Yet the cute appearance disguised an elevenyear-old bearing the criminal record of an old lag.

Just reading it made Foster's eyes water: fifty-four crimes since the age of eight years old. Mainly burglary or theft.

On one occasion he stole a car, which he drove into a wall after ten yards. Foster found that last detail strangely comforting, evidence there was still a child in there. All these crimes had been committed across different parts of Essex because he'd been moved around so many times.

Foster families, care homes, none of them had prevented him embarking on a crime spree within a few days of his arrival. Wherever he wound up the local crime figures spiked. Gary would then be arrested, sent to magistrates'

court, and dispatched to another area to be someone else's problem. His latest hideout was a care home in Romford.

A rare success. He'd not been arrested for a week.

Foster and Heather were sitting in a communal lounge.

Gary sat on a sofa next to the home's duty manager, a large woman in a tent-sized dress who spent most of her time flicking worried glances at her charge. A ripped and frayed pool table stood at one end of the room, a TV

surrounded by empty DVD cases at the other. Underneath the table in the middle, surrounded by sofas and chairs, were several battered board games. One of them was Monopoly. Foster laughed silendy and mirthlessly at the thought of Gary Stamey playing that. His Get Out Of Jail card was his age. Soon he would be banged up in some young offenders' institution or other. Then his criminal education would be complete.

The duty manager launched into a stuttering introduction as Gary slumped deeper into the sofa, staring first at the blank television screen, then turning his sullen gaze on them, ignoring every word said. Heather said hello. He turned his stare to the window and wrapped his arms tighter around his chest, sinking even lower. Soon he'll be horizontal, Foster thought. He knew straight away the 'Watch-with-Mother' shit wouldn't work. This wasn't a time to be friendly. This wasn't an ordinary child. It was an animal. Foster didn't care about the 'circumstances' that explained Gary's behaviour. It wasn't his fault some people who weren't fit to raise hamsters had children. It was his job to deal with the consequences.

'We're here about your sister, Gary,' he said, once the niceties were over.

A flicker, no more. The boy turned his head to him slowly, glanced at him for a few seconds, and then returned his gaze to the window.

'Don't you care about what happened to Leonie, Gary?'

There was a pause. The hate-filled eyes on him again.

This time the boy spoke. The first time. The voice unbroken yet sounding older than its owner.

'No.'

Back to the window. At least ten seconds of silence.

'You don't care whether she's alive or dead.'

This time the answer was immediate. Why fucking should I? Fucking bitch left me.'

The duty manager's face reddened. She put her hand on his arm. 'Gary, I really don't --'

'Get your fucking hand off me, you fat fucking cunt,' he screamed, flinging his arm to shake her off.

She sat back, hands up. Gary returned to his usual pose, eyes now ablaze. The duty manager looked at Foster.

'Can you give us a moment?' he asked.

She looked uncertain. 'I really shouldn't. . .'

'Five minutes. We'll be OK.' Foster noticed Gary's eyes were on him, though he avoided them.

The duty manager eventually nodded, got up. 'I'll be in my office,' she added, and left. She didn't seem too disappointed to be getting out of his way, even if it meant breaking procedure.

Foster stood up. He walked over to the pool table. He couldn't see any balls anywhere. Probably confiscated to stop the players putting them in a sock and knocking each other's brains out.

'I've got a problem, Gary,' he said, turning round to look at him. As soon as he did, Gary looked away. Got you, he thought. He put his hands in his pockets. 'Do you know what my problem is?' Nothing. 'Didn't think so. So I'll enlighten you. My problem is that I'm a murder detective.

I go after nasty people that murder other people. I'm not used to dealing with kids that steal DVD players and PlayStations. Frankly I don't give two shits about kids who steal DVDs and PlayStations. But I do care about people who've been murdered. Most of all I care about their families and friends who have to live knowing that some scumbag killed their mum, or their dad, or brother or sister and to even begin to start dealing with that horrible thought they need to know that scumbag has been caught and punished. Of course, that's never enough, but it's often a start.'

'What's that got to do wiv my sistah?' he said. The accent was broad East London.

'That's what me and my colleague here are trying to find out, Gary'

The boy looked confused.

'You see, I'm investigating a murder. Not only a murder.

But a kidnap, too. Someone not so much older than you who's been taken. Now, there's a chance that what you know will help me find that person.'

'Know about what?' Impatience had replaced anger.

About Leonie.'

'I don't know nuffing.' Anger was back.

'Gary, you're not listening to me. You don't know what I want to know. Let me ask you a few questions and -- who knows? Maybe you'll tell me something that helps. Maybe you won't. But let's try it out and we can get back to catching murderers and you can get back to whatever it was you were doing.'

'I don't help no coppers.'

'You can say that again. I've seen your record.'

Gary shook his head and tightened his arms around his chest, as if to say, 'I'm certainly not gonna help you now'

Foster looked over at Heather and nodded, before turning to the window and staring out at a miserable slab of concrete decorated by clumps of weeds pushing through the cracks.

'Gary,' he heard her say, her voice soft. 'The girl who was kidnapped is fourteen, like Leonie was. Now I know you hate the police and you don't want to help us, but you won't be helping us, you'll be helping this girl'

Foster heard Gary shift in his seat.

'This girl who's missing, some really nasty things could be happening to her now,' Heather continued. 'Truly terrible things. If we can find her, we might be able to stop them happening. Help us. Please.'

Foster kept staring out of the window. There was a patch of grass at the perimeter of the yard, against the fence, which was littered with empty crisp packets, drink cans and other debris. Beyond that was a car park and a parade of shops, only one of which wasn't boarded up.

There was little in the area to inspire the residents of this care home.

'OK,' he heard Heather say. 'Thank you.'

The kid must have nodded. Foster turned round, remained standing.

'In the days and weeks leading up to your sister leaving, do you remember anything out of the ordinary at home?

Anything strange or different?' Heather asked.

Gary held the same pose, but Foster noticed his eyes had softened. He gave it some thought. 'Not really'

'Did Leonie seem upset? Did she and your mum have a row or anything?'

Gary snorted. 'They was always fighting. Leonie didn't like her. She said we'd be better off wivout her. That she'd look after me.' The big eyes were wet. Foster could see him holding back the tears, refusing to allow himself to cry.

'She said that?'

He nodded. Bit his lip. Quickly wiped his eyes with his right hand.

'I know this is tough for you, Gary. But it all helps. Did your sister say anything, anything at all, before she left?'

Once again he shook his head.

'What about your mum? Had she been any different in the weeks before she died?'

'No,' he muttered. 'I didn't see her that much.'

Jesus, Foster thought.

'Leonie looked after you?' Heather asked.

He nodded. 'We wasn't a proper family.'

'Leonie said that?'

He nodded his head. 'The man told her.'

'What man?'

'The man what came to our house.'

Heather glanced briefly at Foster. 'What man, Gary? A friend of your mum's?' she asked.

'No. She was never there when he come.'

A friend of Leonie's?'

He shook his head. 'He wasn't no friend. But she liked him. Said he spoke the truth.'

'The truth about what?'

'Dunno.'

'What sort of things did he say, Gary?' Foster asked, speaking for the first time in a while.

Gary gave him a hostile glance. He looked back at Heather. 'I'll speak to you but I won't speak to him,' he spat out.

'OK,' Heather said, nodding. 'That's fine. Tell me. What sort of things did the man say to Leonie, Gary? Did she tell you?'

He shrugged. 'She said he told her we wasn't a proper family. He said some things about Jesus.'

'Can you remember anything else?'

Gary thought about it. 'Leonie said he told her that Jesus loved us. And that other people loved us, too. He told her one day our family could be together for ever and we would be happy'

Anything else?'

'No.' He brightened. 'He gave her a book.'

'Do you remember what that book was?'

'Dunno.'

'The Bible?'

'Dunno. It had pictures. Not like a cartoon. Old pictures.'

'What was it about? Do you remember?'

He scrunched up his face, gave it some thought.

'Dunno,' he said. 'There was a boy called Joe. He lived ages ago. He found a secret treasure.'

'What was it?'

'Can't remember. Maybe it was books?'

'Books?'

'Yeah. I think. She didn't read me no more of it. It was boring.' He sighed.

'How many times did the man come to the house?'

'Dunno. He always came when I was out playing.'

'More than once?'

'Think so. One time I came back and he was going.'

What did he look like?'

He looked briefly at Foster. 'Like him.'

What, tall and ugly?' Heather said instantly, and winked.

Gary snorted with pleasure at the comment. A bubble of snot appeared in his nose and burst.

'Very funny,' Foster said, trying to play along.

'Seriously, how did he look the same as DCI Foster?'

'He was big. He was wearing one of them things,' he pointed to his neck.

A tie?'

Gary nodded

'Did he have hair?'

'Black hair.'

'If we got someone to draw a picture of him, would you help him?'

Gary nodded. 'He patted me on the head and said hello.

Then he got in a car.'

What sort of car?'

'It was a blue Ford Mondeo. An old one.'

Kid knew his cars, Foster thought. He'd been the same when he was that age. Obsessed with cars. He hadn't known his times tables, but he knew the top speed of an Austin Allegro.

Heather glanced up at him. He mouthed for her to ask about Gary's mother.

What happened on the day your mum died, Gary?' she asked.

A frown appeared on the boy's face. He started to scratch his left arm. He looked from side to side. Then he shook his head. 'No,' he said.

'No, you don't want to talk about it?'

'I don't remember,' he replied. He carried on scratching the back of his left arm, head shaking vigorously. His features changed. The menace returned. He began to glower. 'I don't fucking remember, RIGHT!'

Foster saw Heather flinch at the sudden rise in volume.

'That's OK,' she said softly. 'It doesn't matter.'

'I don't fucking remember,' he hissed, his legs jolting as if sparked by a current.

Heather said nothing for a few seconds, allowed Gary's anger to subside. Foster motioned to her that it was time to go. They had the post mortem report that said Gillian Stamey's death was caused by heroin toxicity, presumably self-administered. The only detail that intrigued him was the purity of the drug that killed her. It was high grade; junkie single mums on benefit would usually ingest any old smack, even if it was cut with rat poison and made them as sick as dogs. She'd been cremated so there was no chance of an exhumation. They could ask Gary about it another time if necessary, with the required psychologist present, but meanwhile there were other leads they could explore.

'Leonie isn't dead,' Gary said suddenly.

'How do you know?' Heather asked softly.

He looked at the floor. 'I just don't think she is,' he mumbled. Then he looked up, eyes brimming, anger on his face. A different kind of anger. Not hate but wronged.

'She said she'd look after me. She promised. She'll come back and get me one day.' The last sentence was defiant.

His nose was running. He sniffed, then wiped a copious stream of snot on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Heather nodded, face sincere. She had yet to fully concede, as Foster had, that the world was a cold, indifferent place. And such a world threw up feral kids like Gary Stamey who had no

respect for authority. For anyone. His joyless life of petty crime might only be a nuisance to police forces now, but soon he would graduate to bigger and worse crimes.

'Gary,' Foster said, ignoring the scowl his voice provoked.

'If you're hoping she comes back and makes your life sweet, then why do you spend all your time robbing?

How about keeping out of trouble?' He plunged his hands into his pockets. 'Listen to me -- though you probably won't, because you've had a million talks like it and it's pretty clear from your record that you've never heeded a word. I know you hate me and people like me, but you're heading one way and one way only -- a life in prison. What would happen if Leonie came back for you then?'

Gary stared at him. 'Fuck you,' he said, voice flat and emotionless. Then he looked down at his shoes.

Foster shrugged. I tried, he thought. This kid's too far gone.

The warm smell of toasted sandwiches inside the cafe provided a perfect counterpoint to the wind and rain lashing High Holborn. Nigel, starving after his trip to and from Ealing, ordered one and gazed out of a streaked window and across the road towards First Avenue House, a grand if grey building, where he could see them gather: estranged men and women smoking furiously on the pavement, pacing back and forth, waiting for their time in one of the umpteen family division courts inside, summoning sinew before attempting to sort out their differences for the sake and welfare of their children. More than once on a visit here he'd seen violent slanging matches spill from the courtroom on to the street, or ambulances pull up to tend to those for whom the emotional trauma had become too much. Because of these animosities, those entering the courts were searched and scanned to prevent them secreting weapons in an attempt to murder their errant spouses; inside, drinks were dispensed from plastic jugs and glasses for the same reason.

Thankfully for him, when he had finished his coffee, the traffic through the main entrance was slight, with just a handful of glowering, fractious adults at the front of the building. He had managed to convince Foster to dispatch the DNA sample to Chris Westerberg. While that was being processed, he wanted to exhaust every line of inquiry. That included the paper trail that might have been left by either Horton or Sarah Rowley upon their death.

Where there was a will, there was often a way to overcome a dead end.

Horton died intestate. But from online calendar indexes Nigel had discovered that his widow had left a will upon her death in 1913. It might contain very little, but it was worth a try. He hurried across the street during a break in the rain, made his way up the stairs to a brightly lit, spartan room decked out in calming neutral colours like the rest of the building. The place might house the wishes and last words of the dead, the physical debris left from their brief time on the planet, but none of that grave mystique was reflected in the sterile surroundings of the probate search rooms. A few other family historians had beaten him up the stairs. How the chattels of the dead were divided often gave a fascinating glimpse into family hierarchies, as well as offering an indication of how our ancestors lived, both rich and poor. The lord of the manor might bequeath half of Surrey to his children, but more evocative pickings were often gleaned from those with the least to pass on, but who still thought it right and proper to pass on their favourite fiat cap or best milking cow.

He grabbed an order form and filled out the date of the will made by Sarah Rowley. While that was being found, he returned to his seat in the cafe for another coffee, taking time to watch the daytime television comings and goings outside the family court, before returning to collect a copy of the will. As he expected, it was hardly brimming with bequests. The deceased's wedding band was left to their elder daughter. Elizabeth inherited an oak table, while Isaac received a set of carpentry tools Nigel assumed had belonged to Horton. Sarah also asked, intriguingly, that a locked metal box inscribed with her initials be buried with her. Those were the only possessions listed. A sum of ten pounds was left to 'the parish of St Bertram, East Ham'.

While there was no genealogical information that explained the Rowleys' obliteration from all records pre1891, at least there was a trail that Nigel could follow.

Perhaps Sarah Rowley did not want to divide a small sum between her children; maybe she felt they didn't deserve it." Whatever her reasons, the act of giving the money should have been recorded by the church, and if she was an active member of the congregation then there might be further records that could offer details about her and her husband.

He put in a call to the London Metropolitan Archives, where most of the records belonging to London churches were held. They had nothing for St Bertram's in East Ham. They suggested he try the Essex Records Office.

He phoned them but was given a similar answer: they had no records. Anything the church had was still held in its own archive.

St Bertram's was a ten-minute walk from East Ham tube station, nestled away in a warren of Victorian terraced artisan houses. The church, as Nigel deduced from the lack of records in the LMA, was relatively modern.

Perhaps no more than a century old, redbrick and functional unlike the Gothic splendours that decorated much of the capital. He wandered aimlessly around it a few times looking for an entrance, eventually discovering it in a modern wing of the church, a few years old at most, which appeared to act as a sort of community centre.

Mothers and children milled around, either leaving or attending an afternoon playgroup.

He asked at a small reception area if he could see the vicar. A few minutes later he arrived, smiling broadly, not much older than Nigel, with a jolly, rubicund face. Nigel returned his handshake, made profuse apologies for not calling in advance and explained the reason for his visit, leaving out any mention of the murder and abduction inquiry.

'We have quite a few genealogical inquiries,' the vicar explained. 'Many of them from abroad. We're usually happy to help. What are you after?'

Nigel explained Sarah Rowley's will.

When did she die?' the vicar asked.

'1913.'

'Really? That was only five years after the parish was formed and the church opened. She'd be among the first parishioners. What was the name again?'

'Sarah Rowley. Her husband died four years before. He was called Horton.'

The vicar glanced down at the floor. 'Something about that name rings a bell,' he said. 'I've only been here for a couple of years, so I haven't been able to familiarize myself completely with the church's history. But if you come with me to the vestry we can see if there's anything that can help you.'

Nigel followed the vicar through the main church, which also appeared to have benefited from a recent facelift. There was none of the mustiness - the smell of history, as he liked to think of it - which characterized the rare occasions he'd been allowed to rummage through the parish chest. He was led to a door to one side of the altar.

The vicar produced a set of keys and unlocked three bolts.

'Some of our parishioners think the Lord turns a blind eye to breaking and entering,' he said with a wink. Inside he switched on a light, revealing a large room crammed with all sorts of church items. Old altarpieces, vestments, stacks of hymn books and pew cushions. 'Sorry, it's a bit more chaotic than you're probably used to. The archiving is pretty haphazard.' He pointed to a shelf at the back of the room, where several huge volumes of books were laid against each other. 'You can start there. Those are the parish registers. Sorry there's nowhere comfortable to sit.'

Nigel waved away the apology. He picked up the first ledger. It was the original, the spine battered and frayed, some pages becoming loose. 'Far be it from me to tell you how to run this place, vicar, but you really should think about getting these registers preserved in a local record office. There'll be a local family history federation or society that would probably be willing to transcribe the information from these books, so they don't even have to be touched any more.' He flipped it over for further examination.

'I'm not sure how long these will last otherwise.'

'You're quite right,' the vicar explained. 'It's on my to-do list.'

Nigel sat on a small wooden chair. Carefully he opened the first volume, beginning in 1908. Almost immediately he came across the burial entry for Horton Rowley in 1909. Simply the bare details, his name, age and date of burial. He continued through the volume and sure enough, in 1913, he found details of Sarah Rowley's burial. But the information gave him nothing new.

'You don't have a graveyard here. Where would these people have been buried?'

It might be worth a trip to see if there was anything interesting inscribed on the grave - but the weather and time might have claimed it, and he was not carrying the necessary materials to render epitaphs decipherable.

'East Ham cemetery on Marlowe Road. They have a register there, too.'

Nigel made a note of the address. Closed the volume.

'Do you have any copies of the vestry minutes?' These were the details of parish meetings; like many of their kind they recorded only the salient points, though they did occasionally yield a genealogical jewel.

The vicar shrugged. "I think they're kept elsewhere, but I really must be honest and say that I have no idea where,'

he said, face reddening. 'Our verger Audrey Cantrell might be able to help. Unfortunately, she's away on holiday with her family at the moment. Sorry about that.'

This appeared to be another cul-de-sac.

'However, there is one thing,' the vicar added. 'He stepped over a few boxes and pulled away a piece of dark blue cloth, of the type that might cover an altar. Beneath it was a large wooden chest. "In here is a number of documents and packets of papers that belonged to my predecessors, going right back to George Burch, the first vicar of this parish. I haven't gone through it in any exhaustive detail but there are all sorts in there. Feel free to have a look.'

A rummage through the parish chest was a phrase used to describe merely looking through church records, usually in an archive; never had Nigel literally hunted through one. The vicar unlocked a large bolt and lifted the lid. It was piled high with folders and boxes, barely a loose piece of paper.

'Most of the stuff in here is old hymn and prayer books, but there's some other stuff, too. It's not in date order, but you should find boxes or packets belonging to many of the vicars. Some accrued more than others.' A thin smile appeared on his face. "It depended on how many press cuttings each of them kept.'

'I thought worshipping the Lord was reward enough,'

Nigel said.

'Let's just say a few of those in my profession are not averse to the oxygen of publicity.' He glanced at his watch. "I have a few small items of business to attend to.

Feel free to have a look and take as long as you wish. I'll be back in an hour or so. If you need me in the interim, give Shirley a shout in reception and she'll call me on my mobile.'

A vicar with a mobile? It didn't feel right. Nigel thanked him and turned his attention to the open chest, leaning over and inhaling a familiar scent: the smell of old paper.

He picked up the first packet. Clive Hawley 1956--72. He slipped a few of the documents out, just to see what sort of material lay within. There was a host of press cuttings, almost all from the local paper, yellowing, dry and faded.

Very little else, save the odd hymn sheet. Still, he burrowed deeper into the chest searching for anything relating to George Burch, taking out and stacking old books that were falling apart at the seams.

Eventually he found a tatty file, bound with string. He opened it up. The first item he came across was a newspaper report. Dated 2 June 1908, it was a small report from the local paper noting the laying of the final brick of the church and mentioning the appointment of Mr Burch.

The second consisted of several sheets of notes written in a neat copperplate hand, dated 7 September of the same year. It was a letter from a Mrs Winifred Shillingford of the same parish offering what seemed to be a critique of the vicar's performance during worship. It praised his delivery but complained about his frequent divergence from Bible scripture. "I think you will understand that for many of your congregation such contrivances are not welcome. We come to hear and celebrate the word and love of Our Saviour. Not to be handed lectures on the iniquities of the modern world nor to gain a greater understanding of current affairs,' Mrs Shillingford fulminated.

The world's first trendy vicar, Nigel thought.

Going through the collection revealed other personal correspondence; some seeking or offering help, giving praise or criticism, or merely letters of thanks for sermons delivered. Dotted among them were notes written in the vicar's hand. At first he took this to be a form of private correspondence with God, but then realized that they were actually rough notes for sermons and eulogies; words were crossed out, amended, barely legible scrawls placed in the margin. For many funerals there was a short biography of the deceased, in note form, listing several biographical details and personal achievements. He felt a sense of rising excitement; the premonition that he was nearing the critical point of the chase. He went through each clipping, letter and note. No mention of Horton Rowley, but in 1913 he came across mention of a woman named Sarah Read. Next to it, in brackets, was the name 'Rowley'.

A coincidence? He doubted it.

There was a page listing details: her children's names and ages, her age, even details of Horton, the date of his death. Reading the next page made his heart beat even faster, however. It was an outline of the eulogy the vicar must have delivered at her funeral, written in a light, almost delicate hand. The first paragraph or so contained the usual obsequies; loving mother of three, formerly loyal wife to her beloved Horton, with whom she would now be reunited, and dedicated member of the parish.

There was little to distinguish it from most of its kind, either before or since. A passage lower down caught his eye:

Sarah was a loyal servant of God, as many among you will know. A more pious member of the community it would be difficult to imagine. Yet what was remarkable about her faith was that it remained so despite many trials and tribulations.

speak not here of the profound loss of her much-loved husband, hard as she found that obstacle. Many of you here who knew Sarah will know of her struggles to escape the clutches of cultists from across the ocean, an experience itself that would cause many of us to turn away from the Lord's loving embrace. Not Sarah Read, as we knew her.

Her experiences had the contrary effect; far from rejecting the Lord after such an event, it brought Sarah and Horton closer to him, for they knew in truth the dangers of worshipping false idols, celebrating the occult and the wickedness of those who stray from the true word of God. After Horton's sad death, seeking sanctuary, shelter and safety, Sarah moved from her previous home and into the bosom of our parish, where she brought the certainty of her faith, despite all her trials. For that she will live on in our hearts as surely as she will in God's kingdom.

Nigel read it through once more to allow the meaning to seep in. 'Cultists from across the ocean'? The truth was emerging from behind an obscuring cloud: the couple had fled a foreign country. But what cult and where? One that worshipped false idols and celebrated the occult like some form of voodoo? And why had she changed her name?

Was she still being pursued?

At the back of the packet was a series of sepia-tinted photographs. Two pictures of the vicar outside the new building, looking awkward and aloof, a pose Nigel knew well from the time, people still adapting to the novelty of having their picture taken. Another appeared to be of a parish ladies' outing -- three rows of behatted ladies.

'Ladies' Temperance Outing to Margate, August 1911'

was noted on the back in writing similar to the vicar's.

Beneath it he'd scribbled the names of the featured parishioners.

Nigel flipped the photo back over; but he didn't need to find Sarah Rowley's (or Read's) name. He was sure that was her, sitting tall and proud in the middle of the front row. The family resemblance to pictures he'd seen in the press of Katie Drake was startling; the same full lips and proud pose. She would have been in her late thirties when the photo was taken, and though the years had taken some toll she was still a handsome and charismatic presence.

She seemed to possess a darker skin than the other women present; duskier, more exotic, next to their porcelain pale skin. The more he gazed at her, the more indomitable she seemed. He could sense her strength, picture the way she moved, even assign her a voice.

It never failed to amaze him how an old photograph could summon the dead.