Blood Atonement

4

That Friday morning had gone badly for Nigel. A girl was missing and her life in mortal danger, yet he spent precious hours stumbling through another screen test with predictably dire results. This time the show's producer Lysette, a fresh-faced, enthusiastic brunette in her mid thirties had been there along with Guy, the glum cameraman, yet despite her exhortations and encouragements Nigel simply couldn't get it right. Partly because his mind was elsewhere, partly because the scripts they kept giving him to read were so dire. He simply could not rid himself of self-consciousness. When they'd watched the final playback before lunch, Nigel-had winced at his stilted voice and nervous, flicking eyes. Lysette made some positive noises but he knew that was to protect his ego. Guy's world-weary sighing offered a more honest assessment.

He felt certain that the next few days would bring a phone call putting him out of his misery, announcing they were going to look for another presenter.

Foster's panicked call was welcome, despite the detective's agitated state. You remember that list you gave me?'

he said. 'The one with all the descendants? Presumably it was so small because you couldn't trace the maternal line back beyond this couple.' Nigel agreed it was. 'Well, two of the people on that list were murdered last night, as well as another connected to them. Katie Drake is dead, too.

Naomi Buckingham is missing. Another girl on the list is missing and her mother dead. We know from our records that a family of four emigrated to New Zealand seven years ago. That leaves three people, one of whom Heather and I spoke to yesterday. His name is Gary Stamey; it's his sister Leonie that's missing. The mum died of an overdose, apparently. He told us that a man visited his sister shortly before she vanished. This man wore a suit and gave them a book about a boy called Joe and his secret treasure. Can you see where I'm going?'

Nigel did. The past was invading the present.

'I'm thinking the past has finally caught up with this family.'

'What about the people left on the list?'

'Don't worry about the Stameys. One's in prison. One girl is missing and the other girl is safe. At least, I hope she is. Leave the elevenyear-old boy to me. I want you to find the non-Stamey. He's called Anthony Chapman, born in East London in 1964. I've asked for a search of all the databases we use and so far we can't find any record of him. None whatsoever. I was hoping you might be able to work your magic and see what you can find out about him.

Because if I'm right, and someone's working their way through the bloodline, then he could be next.'

With that, he rang off.

Nigel already had Anthony Chapman's birth certificate.

He worked forwards from that and searched for death and marriage certificates but found neither. He was the only child of Reginald and Edith Chapman, both of whom were dead. Edith was the last to go in 2003, aged 72. She died at her home in Selby Street, Bethnal Green. The same address that was supplied on Anthony's birth certificate. That gave him one route to explore. In the absence of any others, he rode the tube to Bethnal Green, finding the street tucked away off Vallance Road, a winding old Victorian terrace that was once home to the Kray twins. The area still carried the flavour of the old East End. Selby Street was small and almost traffic-free. The front doors opened straight out on to the street. Neighbours stood chatting to one another. All it required was a few children kicking a ball back and forth across the road -- but they were in school, and he doubted the nostalgia would stretch that far.

The Chapmans' former home was at number 17. He headed towards two women standing talking outside number 11; both turned to eye him suspiciously as he approached.

He smiled. 'Sorry to bother you, ladies. This might seem rather impertinent, but I'm looking for some information you might be able to help me with.' His manner and voice appeared to make them soften, but a glint of suspicion remained. 'Did either of you know old Mrs Chapman who used to live at number 17?'

One of the women, who had been pulling furiously on a cigarette, let a stream of smoke out of her nostrils. "I did.

I live here.' She gestured to the door at her back. 'I knew old Edith pretty well. Lovely old lass. She died a few years ago. Why do you wanna know?'

Nigel was prepared for that question. He was a dreadful liar but he feared the truth might persuade people to clam up. 'I'm researching my family tree. It turns out that I'm related to Mrs Chapman. Of course, she's dead. But I'm very keen to trace her son, Anthony.'

'Son,' she said, disbelief in her voice and written across her face. 'There was no son. She and Reg didn't have no kids.'

'Are you certain of that?'

Yeah. I moved in here twenty-odd years ago. There weren't no son then and she never mentioned none. You sure you got the right person?'

Nigel looked at his feet. 'I think so. Anthony Chapman was born to Edith and Reginald Chapman of this address back in 1964.' From his pocket he produced a folded copy of the birth certificate. Both women leaned in to see, trailing with them a combination of perfume and smoke.

The resident of number 11 peered at it for several seconds, then looked at Nigel. 'Well, you learn something new every day, don't you? She never once mentioned a son.

We just thought they never had any kids. Medical reasons or something. And all that time she had a boy she never mentioned. Wonder what happened to him?'

'That's what I'd like to know,' Nigel replied. 'Is there anyone around here who might know? Another elderly resident who might have lived around here then -- or the people who now live at number 17, perhaps?'

'No, it's a bloke, out-of-towner. Not from round here.'

She thought for a few seconds. Pulled hard on her cigarette and thought some more. Nigel noticed for the first time that she was wearing a pair of carpet slippers on her feet. She pointed her finger at him and started nodding her head. You know where you could try? St Matthew's Church. It was her life, that place.'

The church was deserted. He idled away the afternoon until it came to life, as the early winter light closed in and the temperature, barely above freezing anyway, began to plummet. At least the rain had stopped. St Matthew's, despite having almost been flattened by the Luftwaffe, was the focal point of the local community, and shared its rich, villainous history. It was here that the funeral services of the Krays were held. In the gathering gloom, silhouetted against a clear dusk, the old church, still surrounded by the churchyard that afforded it a distance from the hurly-burly, seemed to loom in judgement over the area.

The vicar was inside, laying out hymn books. Nigel strode down the aisle and introduced himself.

You better be quick,' he said, eyes twinkling cheerily.

He was in his late sixties, Nigel guessed, florid face, rheumy eyes, exuding a gentle, avuncular warmth. Nigel could imagine parishioners queuing up to share their problems with him.

'It's about one of your former parishioners actually. An Edith Chapman?'

He looked up. 'Edith? Dear woman. What about her?'

'Well, I hope you'll excuse me prying like this, but I'm a genealogist.'

'Fascinating! I'm a bit of an amateur myself.'

Yes, Nigel thought, seems like everyone is these days.

'Really? Excellent. But going back to Mrs Chapman . . .'

'My mother's side is easy,' the vicar continued. 'I'm back to parish registers. But that was where I inherited the ecclesiastical calling from. So there's a record there. But my father's is a mystery beyond about 1878 or something.

Bizarre how the trail goes cold, isn't it? Perhaps I should employ you?'

'My rates are good,' Nigel said. 'Mrs Chapman . . .'

Yes, a dear old woman. A valuable member of the parish. What is it you want to know?'

'The records say she had a son.'

His face changed. The twinkle departed. 'Do they now,'

he said. He continued about his chore for a few seconds without speaking.

'Sorry, I don't meant to pry.'

'Just on whose behalf are you carrying out this research, Mr Barnes?'

Nigel weighed up his options. It was the question he feared. He knew he would not be able to lie to a man of the cloth, regardless of his atheism. It was not right.

'The police.'

The vicar's eyes narrowed, their friendliness all but vanished.

'And what would the police be doing seeking the son of a harmless old lady? She was never in trouble for one second of her life.'

'I know. We're trying to find her son. We think he may be in danger.'

'What sort of danger?'

"I do apologize, but I'm not at liberty to say.'

The vicar chewed the inside of his lip, sizing Nigel up.

He could feel his cheeks redden. He could hear voices behind him, the sound of footsteps on the stone floor.

'Tell me, Mr Barnes. Do you pray?'

Nigel was momentarily taken aback by the question, wondering if it was some sort of trick. 'No, not really,' he said eventually.

'Well, you will this evening.' He handed Nigel a prayer book. 'Evening service is about to start. Once that's completed and I've finished attending to the parishioners, we can have a chat and I'll see if I can help.'

Nigel waited. Once the service had finished and the congregation cleared the vicar invited him through to his office at the back of the church. He asked him to take a seat, offered a hot drink that Nigel refused, requesting just a glass of water.

He eased himself into a chair behind the wooden desk and sat back with a sigh. 'It's good to take the weight off after a long evening. Now, tell me, why do you want to find Mrs Chapman's son?'

'There's a chance his life could be in danger.'

The vicar nodded. The rosiness of his cheeks, a hooked nose and twinkling eyes gave him the look of a kindly Mr Punch. 'Well, if you're correct, then she was right all along,'

he replied.

ŚWho was? Mrs Chapman?'

Yes.' He took small sip of his coffee. 'Presumably as a genealogist you're fully aware of the Church's role in the community. With adoptions and suchlike?'

Nigel was. There were many agencies that had arranged adoptions in the past, the Church being the most prominent, mostly in transferring the unwanted offspring of the poor to the rich. Yes, I am.'

'Well, my predecessor, the Reverend Robert Daedulus, was particularly active in that regard.' He peered over his glasses at Nigel. 'And he was not a stickler for recordkeeping, if you get my drift.' The vicar took off his glasses and began to suck on one arm. 'Some years ago, when her husband died, I spent a fair amount of time helping Mrs Chapman deal with her loss. She told me my predecessor had arranged the adoption of her son in November 1964.

He was only two months old.'

The only reaction Nigel could think of was blasphemous, so he remained silent.

Was he troublesome? In some way damaged?'

'She was adamant that any problems with the boy were not behind her reasoning. Neither did she want any payment.

She said she simply wanted the boy to be safe. She told me that Reverend Daedulus had arranged a private adoption. She told me the son was a mistake. That she never planned to have children. Obviously, she did not believe in termination so she had the child, and nursed him through his first weeks. But all the time she wanted to get rid of him.'

'That sounds very cold.'

'Doesn't it just? I felt that myself. But another thing about my job is that you learn not to judge. I leave that to my boss.' He winked, took another sip of coffee before continuing.

"I think she must have sensed my own shock. She was not a drinking woman by any means, but she'd taken a few glasses that evening. She leaned over her kitchen table and fixed me with a beady stare.' The vicar did an approximation of her, leaning forward towards Nigel. 'She said, "If the boy had stayed with me, they would have got him.

Eventually. Just like they might get me. I couldn't take the risk of them coming and what they might do. So I did what any mother should do and made sure he was safe." I asked who "they" were. She wouldn't say. I also asked her why she and her husband didn't move, or change their name or emigrate even. She said it didn't matter.

'She told me her Aunt Margaret said that no matter what she did, they would find her one day. Her aunt kept screaming, "They will never relent. . . Protect yourself as if from the Devil himself." She told her to never, ever have children.

Her grandmother had told her all this on her deathbed.

Margaret believed every word and so did Edith.

'Her grandmother told no one else. Margaret did, but her family didn't believe her. She was mad, they said.

They put her away in the loony bin. Left her there to rot.

Edith said it was an awful, awful place. She was the only person who ever went to visit her. She would go there without telling anyone. Only her husband. Until Margaret died. She believed her aunt. She told me, "Maybe I was wrong, maybe I was right. I couldn't risk it. 'They will not relent!' she said. Margaret saw something, something awful that persuaded her." And that was it -- she said no more about it.'

Nigel wondered who 'they' were. Someone or something so unspeakable that a woman would rather give away her firstborn to strangers than risk him coming to harm.

'That night was the only night she spoke about it,' the vicar added. 'She knew her son was all right and was doing well. That was comfort enough.'

How? Nigel thought. How could that possibly be a comfort? Here was a woman with no family, just a husband, who died well before her. Who had no other family.

Who had given away her only child. Whoever 'they' were must have terrified her to make such a sacrifice. The vicar appeared to read his mind.

'She was a very solitary woman. Happy keeping to herself. The church was her life, but she played no active part in it, to be honest. There were friends, there was the bingo hall and that was it. A woman of very simple tastes.'

'Did you ever speculate yourself about who the people were she was hiding away from?'

'Sure, but I came up with nothing other than a few wild ideas.' He drained his coffee mug. Who are the people putting his life at risk?'

We don't know.'

'Well, then. It's a mystery all round, isn't it?' He checked his watch. "I better be getting back or my wife will be starting to worry. Pains me to say it, but there are parts of my parish where it's best not to be after dark.'

Nigel stood and put on his coat. Your predecessor left no note or record as to who the adoptive parents were?'

He shook his head dolefully. 'No, and to be fair to you, Mr Barnes, I wouldn't pass it on even if he did. Look at it this way: you show up and tell a man in his mid-forties that not only was he adopted, but there are nameless people out there who want to kill him. I don't think that'd be wise, do you?'

'No, but he might prefer the truth to death.'

'Fair enough. But it's academic. There are no records.

Or at least, none I'm aware of.'

Nigel sighed. Without that there would no chance whatsoever of them tracking down Anthony Chapman or whoever he may be now. That also meant any pursuers would struggle, too. He started to head for the door, then stopped.

'The aunt who told her to give away her child. Did Edith say which asylum she was held in?'

The vicar nodded. 'Colney Hatch. She said it was hell on earth.'

14

Light beamed through the bay window at the front of Susie Danson's house, though Foster could see the room was empty as he walked up her path. At least it told him someone was home. He could see a piano and a violin on the stand. He'd never had her down as a music lover. Did she have kids? He was ashamed to say he couldn't remember.

He'd probably never asked. She was separated, he knew that. He was at the door by now, so rang the bell.

Ten seconds later Susie Danson opened the door, broad smile, lipstick blazing bright as ever. Her hair was up, gold earrings dangled from her ears and she was wearing a black dress that fitted snugly.

'Oh,' she said, her smile fading, replaced by a puzzled look. 'Grant.'

You look fantastic,' he said genuinely.

'Thanks.' She sounded nervous, looking more than once over his shoulder.

'Sorry to turn up unannounced. I did try calling, but no answer.'

'It's actually not the best time. I'm expecting someone any minute.'

"I won't take long,' Foster replied. But it was only then that he appreciated what was happening. She was waiting for a date. He felt a pang, a twinge he didn't recognize, deep in his stomach.

Jealousy. It had been a while since he'd felt anything like that. 'Oh,' he blurted out. 'I'm sorry'

She shook her head, as if remonstrating with herself.

'Look, come in,' she added and grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside.

The house was warm and he could smell her scent heavy in the air. He watched her walk away down the hall and the pang grew stronger. Why didn't he ask her out all those years ago when he had the bloody chance? Because you're a cretin, he answered. And there was every chance she'd say no. As he followed, he put all that to the back of his mind - there was a job to do and he needed her help.

In the kitchen, bare yet beautifully furnished and lit, she went straight to the fridge and pulled out a beer, handing it to him with a smile. 'If I remember rightly, you like a drink or two. Red wine, isn't it? "As long as it ain't white,"

you used to say. I don't have any red, but is beer OK?' He nodded, impressed at her recall. White wine was for women and Antipodeans. As if to illustrate, she pulled out a bottle of white and poured herself a large glass. "I don't like drinking alone and your arrival has made me suddenly very thirsty.' She chuckled to herself.

'What's the joke?' he asked, taking a swig of beer.

She shook her head. 'Nothing,' and let out a sigh whose meaning he couldn't decipher. 'What's the emergency? I'd like you to tell me you've found Naomi.'

'No. Still missing.'

Susie grimaced.

You think she's dead, don't you?'

"I think there's a good chance she is,' she replied. 'If she's not, she very soon will be.'

'What if I told you that I think there's much more to this case than meets the eye?'

'Like what?'

'I've just been to a homicide in Essex. Three people murdered -- father, mother and son. Young daughter spared, though probably by accident because she was elsewhere.'

"I don't see the link.'

'They were distant relations to Katie Drake. I think this all has something to do with what happened in the past.'

Susie took a small sip of her drink, looked Foster in the eye. 'Everything has something to do with what happened in the past,' she said. 'Tell me about the crime scene.'

'The father and the son were shot in the head in their beds and dragged out into the garden. The mother was shot but left in her bed.'

'Shot? Completely different method of killing to Katie Drake.'

"I know. But dragged out into the garden?'

'I'd need to see the pictures, Grant. Visit the crime scene, look at post mortem reports.'

'But let's just say they were related. Let's just say that the man who murdered Katie Drake and abducted Naomi also killed these people. What would you say then?'

She shrugged. 'OK, I'll play along. The father and son, were they the related ones?'

'By blood, yes.'

'Then you might say that by dragging their bodies into the garden the killer is in some way showing what he has done to the world. If there is some dark secret in the past, then he's dragging it out into the light for all to see. But why he would choose to kidnap and not kill -- or at least, not kill Naomi - if he is avenging some past wrong is less clear. Maybe there is some information he wants to extract from her before he kills her, or she represents something.'

She held her hands out. 'Sorry, Grant. Get me some info from the crime scene and I'll be able to do a better job than winging it in my kitchen.'

Foster put his hand up to stop her apology. You've been a great help already. It's not my case so the info might not be too easy to get hold of, but I'll do my best.'

She grabbed her handbag and fished out a business card. 'They're the best ways to contact me, particularly the e-mail.'

He was just about to ask her what the occasion was that evening when the doorbell rang. She jumped almost a foot. 'Sorry,' she said. 'I'm not used to all these surprises.'

'Should I make myself scarce?' he joked. 'Leave by the back door?' He checked his watch. "I need to leave anyway.

I'm collecting an elevenyear-old boy from a care home.'

She didn't appear to hear him. 'Hmmm, wait here,' she said distractedly.

She went to the door. He heard her open it, a few muffled words being said, and the smack of lip being lifted from lip. Footsteps down the hall. Susie explaining she'd had a visitor, walking back in slightly red-faced.

Followed by DS Brian Harris.

Neither of the men spoke for several seconds. Foster knew Harris's marriage had been in trouble, but not quite this deep.

'My life was very simple before I got involved with the Met,' Susie said. 'Drink, Brian? Lemonade or Coke.'

'Just water,' he said, eyeing Foster coolly.

He'd forgotten Harris was teetotal. It explained quite a lot.

She waved another beer at Foster but he declined. She topped up her own glass and let out another barely perceptible chuckle.

'So what are you doing here, Grant?' Harris said wearily.

He looked worn, the events of the previous days having taken their toll.

'Running an idea past Susie. It's a slice of luck you're here, actually. I was about to go to the office and catch you there, but I would've wasted my time. The triple murder out in Essex this morning. Have you heard about it?'

Harris took his water from Susie, nodded his thanks and plunged his empty hand into his pocket. She left the room. Both men watched her go.

'Heard about it?' Harris replied. 'Unfortunately, yes.

It's threatening to take away some of the TV exposure and column inches we hoped to hog with Stephen Buckingham's appeal tomorrow. Time's running out. It's our last throw of the dice. Let's hope the media still think the story of a missing fourteenyear-old is more newsworthy than the murder of a family of a well-known gangster.'

'I think they're connected,' Foster said bluntly.

Harris looked amused. 'Are you being serious?'

Foster nodded. Yes, sir. I was there.'

Harris's expression changed to bemusement. 'So that's where you were. I could have done with you pounding on a few doors.'

Foster ignored the slight.

'On what basis do you think the cases are connected?'

Harris asked.

'The victims were related.'

'How?'

'Distant cousins. They shared a common maternal ancestor.' Before Harris could intervene, he continued.

'The hair left on Katie Drake's clothing belonged to a male. You know they couldn't obtain anything other than an mtDNA sample. It turns out that the person who owns that hair and Katie Drake shared a maternal ancestor.

Could have been ten thousand years ago, could have been a hundred. Forensics knew that and didn't deem it useful.

I thought about it and decided to ask Nigel Barnes, the genealogist who worked on the Karl Hogg case, to discover just how many maternal relations of Katie Drake were still alive. Turns out he can't trace their ancestry back beyond about 1890, which means there weren't many. I fed the names into the database and I came across the Stamey family'

He paused for breath. Susie had walked back into the room. Harris's face wore an inscrutable look, but Foster knew he was listening. 'Go on,' he said.

'Leonie Stanley's mother was found dead of an overdose.

She was a junkie. On the same day, Leonie disappeared.

She was fourteen.' He let the words hang in the air for a few seconds.

'She was kidnapped?'

'The local force looked into it. They decided she ran away.'

'Sounds like valid reasoning to me. There was hardly any attraction for her to stay.'

'Then we have the slaughter of the other branch of the Stamey family'

'Which has all the hallmarks of a gangland slaying, Grant. I see where you're going with this but I don't see anything but coincidence. They were related. So what?

I'm not an expert in genealogy but even I know that you and I could share an ancestor way back in the mists of time.'

Foster expected nothing less. "I know, sir. I don't expect you to give me teams of men and resources to spend time on it. But I think there's a link. I'm in contact with the SIO

on the Stamey family killing.'

'What does he think?'

'That Martin Stamey was a naughty boy who crossed the wrong person.'

Harris gestured as if to say, 'There you go.' Then he admitted, 'Look, Grant, you know as well as I do that we aren't making a great deal of progress on finding Naomi, dead or alive. You keep pursuing this link if you want. But I need something far more concrete if we're going to invest some manpower in it.'

Foster nodded. 'I need some help. There are three living relatives from that maternal bloodline. The Stamey's daughter, who was at a friend's when they killed her family; she's under protection. There's a man in his forties who may or may not exist. And there's Leonie Stamey's younger brother. If I'm right, he might be next. I'd like to put him in a safe house.'

'Where is he now?'

'In a care home. He's a walking crime wave. I'm on my way to get him now.'

You're talking about taking him out of a home and putting him somewhere safe on the basis of a hunch?

Sorry, Grant. Essex murder squad has reason to protect the girl. I can't see the justification for protecting this boy.

Anyway, how can anyone know he's in the care home?

The details of who's there aren't public knowledge. He's as safe there as anywhere.' He looked back at his watch once again. 'Look, I must shoot. Keep me informed how this line of investigation goes. Find me some proof of a definite link and we'll have a chat about this again. We're desperate for some kind, any kind, of breakthrough.' He looked at his watch. 'The performance is due to start in half an hour,' he said to Susie.

'I'll phone a cab,' she said.

'No need. I'm driving.'

'OK, give me a second.' She left them alone once more.

Foster drained his beer. 'Going anywhere nice?'

'The opera. Don Giovanni. You seen it?'

'Not recently, no.' He put the beer down on the side.

'I'll leave you to it then.'

Harris nodded. 'Enjoy your weekend.'

Fat chance of that, Foster thought as he made his way down the hall and out. The sound of your slurping lips kissing Susie will be echoing through my mind.

'Do you have satellite TV?'

They were the first words that Gary had spoken since Foster collected him from the care home. All the way back he sat sullenly staring out of the window, his desire to be hostile quenching any curiosity about where he was being taken. Foster had turned on the radio, found a station that was playing something urban and gritty that he believed Gary might like, but eventually turned it off after he found the beat so banal and repetitive that he'd switched back to a station playing classic hits. Gary did not stir.

You're coming to my place. Not for long. Just until we get something else sorted,' Foster had told him. Again, no response.

It was late when they got back, and Foster took Gary into the lounge and introduced him to the television.

Yes, I do,' he said in reply to Gary's query. 'God knows why. Just more channels with nothing worth watching.'

He handed Gary the remote. 'Find yourself something to watch. As long as it's not pornographic or violent.'

There was a childlike glimmer of excitement in Gary's eyes as he took the thick piece of plastic from Foster. He turned the television on and went straight to the screen listing the available channels.

You know what you're doing then,' Foster said.

Gary shrugged. 'I've stolen loads of these. Is that the new Sony plasma?' he added, nodding towards the television.

'It

is, yes,' Foster said.

'Thought so. They're the lick,' he said enthusiastically.

He looked at Foster for the first time with something other than disdain. You must be loaded.'

'Well, I had a bit of time off work recently. Upgraded my home entertainment system. Which reminds me.' He grabbed the remote off Gary, hit mute then handed it back. 'If one item from this house goes missing then I'll find you and make sure you go to a young offenders'

institution for a very long time. A really nasty one. You get what I'm saying?'

Foster had already performed an inventory in his mind of all the possessions Gary might steal, and the TV and stereo were the only likely ones. They were both insured, so that didn't matter. His father's cellar, or what little remained of it, wasn't, but he guessed Gary had not yet developed a taste for vintage claret.

Gary hit mute and the sound returned. "I ain't gonna nick nowt off no copper.' His eyes locked on the screen then glanced back at Foster. 'Just why's you brought me here anyway? You not a fucking nonce, are you?'

'No,' Foster said wearily. 'I'm no nonce. And when you're here in my house I'd be grateful if you watched the language. I brought you here because I'm interested in keeping you out of trouble. I think you can help me with the case I'm working on, and you can't do that when you're up to no good.'

"I ain't fuck ... I ain't helping no police, man.'

'Even if it helps find your sister?'

Gary paused. His eyes went back to the screen. He scrolled down to the movies and brought up the options.

Foster left him to it and went into the kitchen, rustled around in a drawer, pulled out a pile of takeaway leaflets and went back to the room. Gary had settled on an action movie. Foster really couldn't be bothered acting as censor.

The kid was beyond being corrupted anyway.

'Pizza, Chinese or Indian?' he said, brandishing the menus. 'There's even one that delivers all sorts: burgers, pizza, chicken, pasta, you name it.'

'Burger,' Gary said without hesitation. 'Don't want nothing that stinks. Can I have it with cheese? No onions, though.'

'One cheeseburger,' Foster said. He took the phone from its cradle in the hall and wandered through to the kitchen. He dialled the number and while he waited for an answer he took the cork from a bottle of Bordeaux and found a glass. He was about to fill it to the brim, remembered he was in effect responsible for a child, and poured himself what he considered a half measure. A heavily accented young man took his order for two cheeseburgers and two small bottles of Coke and said it would be with him in forty-five minutes. Foster took his wine and went back to the sitting room.

Until the doorbell rang with their food, they didn't speak a word. Gary stared at the screen as if in a daze, a stray finger occasionally wandering distractedly up his nostril en route to his mouth. Foster resisted the temptation to say that he should save his hunger for his meal and instead sipped at his wine and tried to work out what the hell he was going to do next. Gary was here. Safer, he felt sure, than at the care home. But he could not stay here indefinitely. Tomorrow was Saturday and Foster wasn't supposed to be working. He could have Gary for the weekend but he'd need a plan for the week. If it came to the worst -- if Naomi hadn't been found and there weren't any new leads -- he could drop him at the care home during the day and then pick him up after work.

There was also the small matter of how he was going to tell him about the murders of his aunt, uncle and cousin.

That could wait.

They ate their burgers in silence. For such a small, skinny boy he knew how to put away his food. Must have hollow legs, Foster thought, immediately hearing his mother's voice, which used to level the accusation at him.

Gary hoovered up his burger, all his chips and didn't refuse when Foster offered him a few of his. He also guzzled the Coke and belched loudly and without apology when it was finished. Foster cleared away the detritus.

When he returned, the film was over. Gary was already flicking through the various screens to see what was up next. He looked up at Foster.

You live here on your own?'

"I do, yes.'

You got no wife or kids?'

'No, I don't.'

'Why not?'

Foster heard his mother's voice again. Disconcerting when it was conjured up by the voice of an elevenyear old boy.

'Let's just say that I'm not the marrying kind.'

You're a cockmuncher?' A look of horror spread across his face. 'Man, I knew you was a nonce.'

'Listen, I'm not gay. Not being married doesn't mean you fancy men. I've had lots of girlfriends. I just haven't settled down with any of them. And don't use words like cockmuncher. It's disrespectful.' Have you heard yourself?

Foster thought. Allowing yourself to become affronted by a child. Great. Now I've managed to sound like both my parents in the space of two minutes. 'I've got a daughter, actually.'

Where is she?'

What is this, twenty questions?' He saw Gary's face darken. He felt a twinge of guilt. The kid was at least beginning to communicate with him. He softened his tone. 'Sorry, sorry. She lives in Scotland with her mother.

I've not seen her since she was a baby'

'How old is she now?'

'Fourteen. Fifteen in December.'

Gary's eyes widened. You haven't seen her in all that time? Man,' he added, shaking his head. 'If I ever have a kid then I'll never let it go anywhere. I'd keep an eye on it all the time.' He looked down at his hands. "I know why you brought me here.'

You do?'

Yeah. You think I'm in danger.'

Foster paused. There was no point lying to the kid.

He was hardly naive. 'How close were you to your Uncle Martin?'

He wrinkled his nose. T met him a few times. And my cousins. But I haven't seen them in ages. Mum took us round there once before she died. Why?'

'They've been found dead. All of them apart from Rachel.'

'Oh.' He didn't seem to know how to take the news.

We think your uncle got mixed up with some bad people.

We don't think you're in danger, too. But we want to keep you safe for a few days, just to make sure.'

Were they murdered?'

Yes, they were.'

And you're going to catch the people who killed them?'

'I'm going to help catch them. Another police force is working on it.'

Gary looked away at the far wall, absorbing what he'd been told, the hard carapace falling away to reveal the child once more. Foster felt an inkling of sympathy. This kid has faced nothing but woe and misery. Who could blame him for kicking against the pricks the way he did?

He halted that line of thought. Is that what looking after a kid does? he wondered. He'd only had one under his roof for a couple of hours and already he'd turned into a politically correct hand-wringer; the sort who excuses vile behaviour by bleating about the troubled backgrounds of those who commit it.

He was on the verge of delivering a lecture, something sanctimonious about how the tough hand life had dealt him didn't mitigate all his crimes and it was time to take responsibility, when he saw the kid was about to say something.

He saved the sermon.

'Leonie knew this would happen.'

'She knew what would happen?'

'That something would happen to Uncle Martin.'

'She did?' He edged forward on the armchair. 'What did she say, Gary?'

The boy sat in silence, eyes downcast now. Foster restrained himself, trying not to bully the kid, force him to clam up.

Eventually Gary spoke once more. 'She said it was a secret. That I couldn't tell anyone.'

'Something has happened to your Uncle Martin, though.

And your aunt and cousin, too. Something bad. I need you to tell me so we can help find who it was and stop them before they do it again, and so we can keep Rachel safe.'

Gary continued his silence. It was clear to Foster he was weighing up breaking his sister's confidence. Foster tried not to appear too desperate, though he felt like shaking him to get at the truth. Gary knew more than he had let on, he was certain. By yielding this once, Foster hoped it might break the seal and the rest of what the boy knew would seep out.

'Leonie said that we'd strayed from a path. Because we'd strayed we was to be punished unless we got back on it. She said I would be all right because she was back on it soon and I would be, too. But Mum, Uncle Martin, Uncle Dave, they wasn't and they was gonna suffer.'

'Did you ask her what she meant by suffer?'

He shook his head. "I just knew it was bad, innit? Then Mum died . . .'

'Do you know who she meant by "we", Gary? When she said "we" had strayed from a path?'

He shrugged. 'Our family, I think.'

'Did she say what this path was? Was she talking about Jesus?'

He nodded his head. 'It was all about Jesus. Jesus was gonna come back. I didn't understand it but he was gonna come back and some people wouldn't be OK because they weren't ready but we'd be ready.'

Foster knew the key to all this lay tangled in the details of the man who had visited Leonie Stamey - the same man he suspected had visited Katie Drake.

'Do you remember anything else about what she said, Gary? Anything at all?'

The boy thought for some time. Foster could see he was tired and it was getting near midnight. He would desist in a minute, let him get some rest. He'd made up the spare bedroom, his old room when he'd lived at home as a kid.

"I can't remember,' he said sullenly. Then he smiled.

'She started dressing funny.'

'Really? How?'

'She just started dressing funny. Like she used to wear short skirts and tops and things like that. But then she stopped. She wore like long dresses and tops. There was some girls who was her friends who kept teasing her about it and stuff. Then she wasn't friends with them no more.

Said they was wicked and she didn't mean good wicked, she meant bad. They said she was a stuck-up bitch. One of them punched her and she didn't fight back. I was amazed because she was a good fighter, Leonie. No one used to mess with her before then.'

'Did she tell you why she changed the way she dressed?'

'No. Think it was something to do with what the man said. She changed a lot,' grinning almost, putting much emphasis on the last word of the sentence. The smile disappeared from his face. 'She said she'd make sure I was safe,' he added softly.

Well, she's not around, Gary. It's up to us to keep you safe.'

The eyes burned with hatred. You think she's dead, don'tcha?' Voice rising with anger.

Foster held his hands out. "I don't know, Gary.'

Well, I know. She isn't.'

'Because she promised to come back for you?'

'Because I've heard from her.'

Foster almost did a double take. 'Since she disappeared?'

No response.

'Gary, if Leonie has been in touch with you then I need to know.'

Again, the boy didn't speak but stared ahead at the wall.

Foster rubbed his face. 'People have died, Gary. You can help me find the people who are doing this. You can help me find the fourteenyear-old girl who went missing last week.' Still no reaction. You can help me find Leonie and stop anything happening to Rachel.'

Gary shook his head slowly; he looked as if he might cry. "I promised.'

Foster sighed. 'Please, Gary.'

Another slow shake of the head. The kid was a stubborn mule.

'If you don't, I'm going to have to take you in for obstructing the police.'

You don't scare me. You think I've not been arrested before?'

The kid had a point. More than a hundred times, if his charge sheet was to be believed.

"I can help you find Leonie, Gary. Then you'll be safe.'

Silence. His eyes appeared to brighten, as if lit by hope.

But he still wouldn't talk.

'Sleep on it. Let's talk in the morning.'

Her mother forced the corners of her mouth into a smile but she could not hide the sadness that seeped out from her sorrowful eyes, like gas from an unlit lamp. Sarah stood in the heavy dress; despite its prettiness, for all she cared it could have been a suit of tar and feathers. Her younger sisters twittered playfully around them, delighted at the prospect of a wedding and an open house.

'Will there he dancing?' Henrietta asked excitedly.

'Will there be food?' asked Emma, who, at six, was still to lose the puppyish layer of fat that encased her body.

At least the open house might involve some laughter, though not hers. In the pit of her stomach she felt nauseous. The prospect of the house emptying and of being taken to his chosen place to consummate the marriage -- the bile and terror rose just thinking of it. The last few nights the dream had been the same. He leaned in for a kiss.

Those rotten teeth, those stained yellowing whiskers, the hairs like spider's legs protruding from his fleshy nose, the sickly sweet odour that filled the room, it was like no nightmare she had ever had before.

Yet soon it would be real.

She could tell that her mother saw it all. But she could not question it. She was to be her father's gift to the most respected man of the town and there was nothing that could be done to change it. Her mother tried to explain what an honour it was. How she was serving the calling of the Lord. But she cared nothingfor this Lord that tore her away from the people she loved and turned her into a breeding mare for some slovenly old fool. She had never been the most pious of children, though she had tried. She read the book, she memorised the doctrine and covenants, she listened to the Gospel in church, and all the time closed her eyes, willing herself to submit, to believe, to make it all worthwhile, but the nagging doubt and injustice that lodged like a tick in the back of her mind refused to be quelled.

"I, too, stood where you are now,' her mother intoned. 'I, too, experienced the same fears and doubts that you are feeling. You are but a child, albeit a strong one, Sarah. He is a good man who will make sure you are very comfortable. Far more comfortable than I ever was. Particularly back then. In your own way, you will come to love him.'

Sarah swallowed the urge to laugh, to bellow, to scream, 'No, I WON'T!' Instead she looked at her mother, at that dark-skinned mournful face, lined with hardship and struggle. She had been found as a young girl, left for dead at the massacre of Bear River, buried under the carcasses of her kith and kin. A. kind man of the faith, not long since off the boat from the old world, had found her. She had been taken back to his family, newly settled, where she had worked as a domestic servant but been cherished like one of their children.

The faith had saved her, offered her hope, a new family, afresh start.

No wonder she agreed to be wed to Sarah's father when she was chosen. It was time to repay the debt.

They hugged. Hot tears stung her eyes but she kept them in. 'Oh, Mother,' she said. Her mothers hands ran down the back of her head, like they had many times before, as a means of comfort. She wondered if it was to be the last time they would do that. She could not help it. The tears broke free and she began to convulse, to sob.

Her mother gripped her tighter.

'Shhh,' she said softly. 'It will be all right. It will be all right.'

Sarah could not admit why she was so sad. That it was nothing to do with that sweating warthog she was supposed to marry. That it was because she would never see them all again. She knew it would be all right.

She knew he would come for her.