Blood Atonement

5

A shot of pain woke him. One leg was curled underneath the other and he'd tried to straighten it in his sleep, but the arm of the sofa was in its way and a gentle collision was enough to cause him discomfort. Foster rubbed his face, preparing himself. A chink of light through the curtains told him it was morning, the end of one of the longest nights of his life -- and there had been many. He knew when he sat up his aches and pains would scream for attention and the stiffness would be with him for a few hours afterwards. His battered body was no longer fit for sleeping on couches, but with Gary upstairs in the spare room, he wanted to be ready if the boy tried to run away.

As a result, he'd spent most of the night awake, primed to react, listening to the wind in the leaves and the clank of the central heating system shutting down slowly and then later, much later, shuddering to life.

He rose groggily to a sitting position, a dull ache behind his eyes.

'Brian Harris,' he thought to himself for the hundredth time. 'Of all the bloody blokes in the world.'

After a few more moments summoning the will, he stood, wincing with discomfort. All told, it wasn't too bad.

He made his way gingerly upstairs to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He dried off and went to the spare bedroom. The door was closed. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Silence. That meant nothing. When he was a kid that age, he could sleep through a marching band passing his bed. He eased the door open and popped his head round.

The bed was empty.

The window was open, the curtain billowing in the breeze. Foster went over and looked out. It was a sheer drop into the garden. That wouldn't have fazed Gary. He remembered one of his previous convictions for escaping from police custody. He'd scaled the high, flat wall of a magistrates' court and got out through a ceiling window, down the side of the building and away. A miniSpider-Man.

Looks like I slept more than I realized, he thought.

He went downstairs and filled the kettle. His mobile phone, charging on the sideboard, showed a missed call.

Nigel Barnes.

Foster struggled to understand. Barnes was babbling about a breakthrough, so he agreed to meet him in Farringdon near the London Metropolitan Archives, in the same cafe where he and Heather had approached him about the Hogg case earlier that year. First he phoned in a missing persons report for Gary, giving a description and asking anyone who found the boy to call him immediately.

He phoned the care home. No sign of him there. Please stay out of trouble, he thought. If he starts robbing after I signed him out of the home then my arse will be toast, he thought.

Barnes was waiting, hair mussed and wild, running his hands frantically through it. He was wired on coffee and adrenaline. It turned out he'd barely slept. That makes two of us, Foster thought. He ordered a black coffee, sat down and emptied two sachets of sugar into it. Barnes must have spent most of his night smoking, because he reeked of tobacco. His experience with Karl Hogg made him very sensitive to the smell, plunging him right back into the box-filled room, the pain, the sickly sweet nicotine breath of his tormentor . . .

'Come on then, what's the news?' he asked, snapping himself out of his brief, unpleasant reverie. 'Barely understood a word of what you said on the phone.'

Barnes drew a deep breath, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He told him about Anthony Chapman, how his mother gave him away shortly after his birth because she believed that his life was in danger if he remained in the family bosom. The Church privately arranged the adoption and all details of it were erased.

After her husband died she had confessed to the new vicar of her parish that it was the word of an aunt that convinced her to take such drastic action. That aunt had been locked up for most of her life in a notorious mental hospital, Colney Hatch. It had retained the old moniker informally despite changing its name to Friern Hospital in the 1930s. The hospital was long gone, demolished to make way for luxury flats, though the old facade had been retained. Princess Park Manor. Foster knew it as a haven for city boys, football players and minor glitterati. He chuckled inwardly. Did they know their pads were built on the drool of tens of thousands of raving nutters?

'All very interesting, but how does it help us?' he asked.

'The records for Colney Hatch are in the London Metropolitan Archives. Case notes, admittance registers, that sort of thing. This aunt may well have told the doctors about her fears. Who these people were that sought some sort of revenge. In which case, they may have made a record of it.'

'Back up,' Foster said, holding up his hands. You're telling me there might be something in the delusional rantings of a woman so mad that she spent her life in the nuthouse, the same woman who was ignored by her entire family bar one for being completely doolally?'

Barnes shrugged. Well, I'd put it in slightly more sympathetic terms, but yes, I am. What this woman said so spooked Edith Chapman that she gave away her child.

From what I know, Edith Chapman was a decent, upstanding member of the community --'

'She gave away her child,' Foster interrupted. 'Hardly a decent and upstanding act, is it?'

'No. But we know that someone appears to be tracking down and killing the descendants of Horton and Sarah Rowley. We don't know why. This aunt prophesied all this.

OK, she was a few decades out, but what's to say she wasn't right? From where I'm sitting, it certainly looks like she might have been.'

Foster sipped at his coffee. He knew Barnes was on to something -- this was a lead worth pursuing. If they could work out why this was happening, finding out who was behind it would become a damn sight easier. He could only imagine what Harris might say when he went to him claiming the words of a long-deceased mental patient marked a breakthrough.

Were Harris and Susie going out? Was it a one-off? Did he stay the night? No, stop it, he thought. Don't think about Harris.

'OK,' he said eventually. What do we do?'

Nigel flicked open his notebook. 'The patient's name was Margaret Howell. She was born in 1909, first child of Emma Howell, nee Rowley, the elder daughter of Horton and Sarah Rowley, the couple who moved here in 1891

from regions unknown. She died in 1964, aged 55, in Friern Mental Hospital from a "seizure", though what sort it doesn't say. Epilepsy, perhaps.'

'Doesn't tell us much,' Foster said.

'No, but her case notes might. There's one problem: patient records are usually subject to a hundred-year closure rule. Unless.'

'Unless what?'

'Unless the police make an application.'

'That could take days, even weeks,' Foster replied. He rubbed his chin. It had been a few days since he'd last shaved. You said the archives have the records for the mental hospital?'

Barnes nodded.

'They have them even though they're not available to the general public'

Nigel nodded again.

Foster drained his coffee cup. 'In that case, follow me.'

Nigel sat at the desk waiting for Foster. He'd been invited into the back office where he'd been sitting patiently for the best part of an hour. The archive was sparsely populated, just a few dedicated researchers, most of them students, he guessed, going quietly about their task, alongside the occasional amateur. Foster returned clutching a faded brown packet.

'Here you go,' Foster said, dropping the bundle on the desk in front of him.

'I'm impressed. Thought they'd want a written application.'

'They

did. But I made it clear there was little time to waste. They want one sent retrospectively'

Nigel picked the packet up. Closed documents. It was rare that a researcher like him got his hands on them, and he couldn't deny the thrill. The front bore Margaret Howell's name, date of birth and patient number. It was, to his disappointment, surprisingly thin.

He pulled out the records, a sense of rising excitement.

Foster sat down opposite, watching him closely.

The first document was Margaret Howell's admittance papers. The date was 29 May 1924. She was just fifteen years old. 'Looks like she spent her whole life in an asylum,' Nigel murmured to Foster as he scanned down the document, which covered two pages.

The first part was biographical information. Age, occupation, religion, address, none of which seemed remarkable.

Then it mentioned 'Age on first attack ... 11' before going on to state that she had had several more attacks.

In legible hand, under the heading 'Facts Specified in Medical Certificate upon which Insanity was Founded', the reasons for her being deemed insane were listed.

She says that she and her family are cursed by a past event. She believes they will be hunted down and killed for the deaths of others. She exhibits strong symptoms of paranoid behaviour which often degenerate into seizures and fits. Her next of kin dismiss the idea that they are in any way in danger and deny any knowledge of her misdemeanours that may explain Miss behaviour.

Nigel read it out to Foster, together with another paragraph under 'Other Facts Indicating Insanity' in which the doctor, presumably the one who committed her, noted that her family were frightened by her frequent mood swings, her delusions and her constant reiteration that they would all die for their sins. In their view she had become a danger to herself and a nuisance to them.

The second page carried a black and white photograph of a terrified and bewildered-looking girl. Her eyes were hollow, her cheekbones sharp and her face devoid of any discernible tone. He showed it to Foster.

'Jesus, that's a kid. How many people were in this place?'

'Back then? Around three thousand people.'

What exactly was wrong with her?'

Nigel scoured the page. Alongside the photo was a line stating 'Form of Disorder'. Next to it were written the words 'Paranoid Schizophrenia'.

There followed a more detailed physical description.

Her physical condition was 'feeble'. Her temperament 'volatile'. Her skin also showed bruises from her latest 'attack'. There were more details of the history of her condition -- a series of attacks between the age of eleven and her admittance, of increasing severity and duration.

No mention was made of any paranoid behaviour. She was admitted to Ward 4.

The next set of case notes was dated little more than a year later. It noted the effects of treatment on Margaret.

The handwriting was, even for a physician, almost impossible to decipher despite Nigel's years of practice in the art. There was one phrase he could make out and it made his stomach turn. Electroconvulsive therapy.

'They gave her electroshock treatment,' he told Foster.

'When?'

'It had started by the time these case notes were written, just over a year after she was admitted. The handwriting is difficult to make out. But there's a sentence here that says she was responding well to the treatment and her delusional episodes were getting more infrequent.'

'Let's hope someone made a note of what those episodes were before they shocked her into becoming a zombie.'

'She must have retained some lucidity if she was able to scare Edith Chapman.'

'Do we know when Edith Chapman visited her?'

"I presumed it was over a period of time, and sometime near the birth of her son. But we have no way of knowing.

I suppose she could have come to see her aunt when she was younger and whatever she heard and saw stayed with her.'

'That would make sense to me,' Foster said. 'I can see why a kid would be scared by the rantings of a mad woman, particularly if she visited her in some Gothic madhouse where people screamed and climbed the walls.

But as she grew up, got older, why would she believe the words of a schizophrenic?'

'There's a long history of people who suffer from mental illness being viewed as possessed, either by spirits but more often the Devil. Edith Chapman was a religious woman. Perhaps she believed God was sending her a message. I don't know. Maybe her aunt was so convincing she couldn't believe it was anything other than true.'

He ploughed on through the file. Nothing for several years, until 1947, more than two decades after she was admitted. A different doctor this time, thankfully one with decipherable handwriting. Nigel scanned it first, but as he realized its importance he began to read out loud to Foster.

The patient continues to make slow yet gradual progress. Discussion was taken about whether to carry out a surgical operation, but rejected in favour of continued elelectrocompulsive therapy. The patient last experienced a seizure more than a year ago an encouraging sign. A possible discharge has been discussed, but the patient herself states that she would rather stay where she feels safe. It is her delusion that she and members of her family are at risk from persons unnamed for acts perpetrated towards the end of the last century. The patient swears that on her death bed, her Grandmother informed her of a horrible family secret. According to the patient, her grandfather was eventually found and killed by people seaking revenge for the deaths of the inocent, and that they would not stop until every descendant of the family has been dispatched in a similar manner. She is convinced that if she were to return to the outside world she would fall victim, so asks to stay. She can provide no proof of this wild story. She says her Grandmother took the secret to the grave with her.

Very few of the family, apart from her young niece, who comes once or twice a year call in to visit her. When I approach them to test out the veracity of Miss Howell's claims they insisted there was no truth in them whatsoever. No matter how well she responds to the ECT treatment, her paranoia shows no sign of subsiding. I fear Miss Howell will be in our care for most of her life, unless she dissists in making these wild claims and seaks to live a life in the outside world. Alas, she is showing every sign of becoming institutionalized.

Nigel felt like punching the air. A breakthrough. Here was the first mention of a past crime, the 'deaths of the innocent', that could provide a motive for the present-day murders. But what was the horrible crime that left so many dead, if indeed it did exist? Foster was more concerned with a different unsolved crime.

'What did Horton Rowley's death certificate say?'

'Killed beneath an omnibus.'

'There was no indication of foul play?'

'None mentioned on the death certificate. They held an inquest but the coroner must have deemed it was an accident.

I would get the records from the inquest but I know for a fact that no records exist from 1909. They tended to destroy them when a coroner stood down, or kept many of them for fifteen years afterwards. Not much help to us.

There might be a few newspaper accounts, but omnibus accidents were not rare occurrences and we'd be lucky to find more than a news item in brief. Might be worth a try, though.'

Foster didn't respond. He took the records from Nigel and read the entry again. He put it down. 'Then we have absolutely no proof this woman was telling the truth. This isn't enough. Her words alone won't help us. We need to corroborate her story if we can. If not, it's just a mad woman ranting. What else is in here?'

In 1950 Margaret was admitted to the infirmary with a fractured pelvis incurred when she was being pinned down during her ECT treatment. Her treatment was altered in 1952, when a medical note stated that she had been given a leucotomy. Nigel took off his glasses and rubbed his brow wearily.

'What's that? Foster asked.

Nigel knew exactly what it was. He remembered tracing the family history of one client, which had led him to the asylum and the depredations that took place there in the name of treatment. 'A lobotomy,' he said.

'Jesus.'

'They went into the brain under the eyelid with an instrument shaped like a small ice pick. Then they cut the nerves at the front. It was very quick. Some surgeons prided themselves on how many they could do in one shift.'

'But what good could it possibly do?' Foster asked.

Who knows? I suppose you might be less inclined to have a fit or a bout of hysteria with half your frontal lobe severed. It was quite popular for a time. Particularly on women.'

A short note from 1954 described the earlier operation as a success. Both her anxiety and obsession had been brought under control. The same doctor mentioned that from then on she would be prescribed thorazine. Her discharge had been discussed but as there were no family members wishing to take her in, and there were fears about how she would cope in the outside world after so long in an institution, it was decided she should stay.

From that point on the notes were infrequent and terse. In 1959 she was hospitalized with a bout of pneumonia.

No one revisited her case, or commented on her treatment. She existed until 1964 when a small paragraph noted matter-of-factly that she experienced a seizure, fell and as a result of her injuries was taken to an infirmary where, Nigel knew from her death certificate, she later died.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, each lost in their own thoughts. Nigel pictured a frail young woman, terrified by life, scared of what lurked round every corner, strapped down, electrodes attached to her body, in an attempt to divest her of a mania that may have had a grounding in truth, before severing the nerves in the brain that connected her cortex to her thalamus and then anaesthetizing her further with strong medication. Little wonder her condition 'improved'. In his mind's eye she sat, childlike and silent in the corner of a crowded ward, ignorant of the wailing and gibbering, a numb, muted life. He only hoped the treatment she'd endured rendered her oblivious to the horror of her situation.

At the same time, he wondered if he would ever be able to discover where Horton and Sarah Rowley came from and the truth behind the cataclysmic event that their granddaughter spoke of, the distant echoes of which were still being felt.

Nigel remembered a programme he once caught on the radio, about the effects of nuclear fallout. The fusion products from an air burst are sucked up into the stratosphere, dispersed by the winds, eventually settling across the wide earth in rainfall for years to come, with unpredictable effects that would only later be known.

Much like the past.

The problem appeared insurmountable. As Margaret Howell told the doctors, her ancestor seemed to have taken the secret with her when she died.

Then he remembered. He grabbed Foster's arm, causing the detective to stiffen.

What?'

'I think I know where we might find out more about what Sarah and Horton were running away from.'

Where?'

'In Sarah Rowley's grave.'

'You want us to dig her up?'

Foster thought Nigel was joking at first, but the zealous gleam in his eye indicated otherwise. He was being serious.

'Do you know how difficult it is to get an exhumation done? The Home Secretary has to grant it. You need a very, very good reason.'

Nigel kept on nodding, eyes ablaze.

'What do you think we're going to find -- a document that conveniently explains what happened to her, and therefore what happened to Naomi Buckingham?'

'I don't know. But she asked in her will that she be buried with a metal box. Why would you insist on being buried with something unless you didn't want people to get their hands on it? It might not lead us to Naomi Buckingham or her mother's killer, but it might move us closer.'

Foster rubbed his chin. It wouldn't be an easy ask. For a start, the main argument for exhuming the body came from the mouth of a certified lunatic. The mention of the box in the will altered things slightly, but he knew there was no way Harris would sanction it as part of the investigation.

'The will said it was metal?'

Nigel nodded.

'Well, it may have survived, then.' He continued to stroke his chin. 'Do you know where she's buried?'

'East Ham cemetery. I can find the location of the grave.'

Nigel was still wild-eyed. Hidden secrets in a grave.

Foster could see this must be a genealogist's wet dream.

That would change if he ever attended an exhumation and saw that the reality was less romantic. Foster sighed, not quite believing what he was about to do.

'I might be able to swing this,' he said. 'However, if I do, you'll need to be there with me. She comes out of the ground and goes back in. We have a look in situ.'

He could see the excitement bleed from Nigel's face, along with all the colour. Not quite as thrilling now, he thought.

They drove towards Colchester through driving rain that pelted the windscreen like tiny stones, to the home of the Chancellor of the Diocese of Chelmsford, Kenneth Brewis. Foster had called ahead to check Brewis was in, and got the man himself, who issued a polite if curt invitation to drive to his house and explain the urgency.

Foster knew there was no point wasting time, even if it meant a lengthy drive -- it was just their luck that the chancellor happened to live in the most distant area of the diocese from London. Brewis was a QC, and the prospect of some pompous lawyer boring him rigid with the arcana of ecclesiastical law caused Foster's heart to sink. Church bureaucracy was even more labyrinthine than that of the modern police force. But to wait until after the weekend was not an option.

'Can't the police just go ahead and do it?' Nigel asked.

'Why does the Church have to be involved?'

'It's in consecrated ground so we'd need their help anyway.

True, if there was a compelling case to dig up the body then a warrant signed by a coroner would be pretty easy to obtain and they'd allow us to bring it up without any protest,' Foster explained. 'But we're not interested in the body, or the little that would be left of it. We need to know what lies with it and for that we need permission to disturb the grave, and not actually exhume, which is down to the individual churches -- and in the case of the Anglican Church, it's down to the diocese. At least, I think it is.'

'I didn't know that,' Nigel replied. "You done this before then?'

'No. I just know the right people to call to find out. A grave is sacred ground. It's our job to make sure our case is compelling enough for us to be allowed in there with an excavator.' He knew that requests like the one he was about to make were measured in weeks and days, not hours, which is why he hoped a personal visit might speed the process.

Brewis's house was a grand one in the countryside on the edge of Colchester, an old stone former vicarage decorated with creeping ivy. A sleek grey Jaguar was parked in front of the house, Foster noted admiringly, as he pulled up alongside. The rain had subsided to a murky drizzle as they climbed out of the car and made their way to the front door, adorned by an elaborate brass knocker bearing the fleshy head of a cherub. He let it fall against the door and it made a profound thud that echoed through the house. Beside him Nigel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. 'Don't worry,' Foster said, trying to put him at ease. 'I'll do all the talking. Just smile, look well educated and drink all the tea they give you.' Barnes gave him a watery smile back and flapped away a curl of fringe that had fallen over his forehead.

The door opened to reveal a well-fed man in his fifties, dressed in cardigan and slacks, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked at them both with some curiosity.

'Detective Foster?' he said expectantly.

'That's me,' Foster replied, thrusting out a large paw.

'Mr Brewis?'

'Come in, come in,' he said, gesturing for them to follow.

'Sorry to barge in on a Saturday,' Foster remembered to say.

'Don't worry. This bloody weather, what was I going to do?' They followed him into the hall, and he ushered them towards a large drawing room. 'The family are all out, so I was catching up with some paperwork and a bit of diocesan business.'

As they took a seat on a large sofa, Foster introduced Nigel as someone who was helping their investigation.

'Yes, what is the investigation? I have to say I'm intrigued what it could be that draws you out from London to Colchester on a foul Saturday afternoon. I've been puzzling it over ever since you called.'

'And did you manage to come up with any conclusions?'

Foster asked, smiling.

'I don't know. But the police are rarely interested in diocesan business unless they're after an exhumation.'

'Got it in one.'

Brewis's eyes lit up. 'I thought so.' Then he moulded his features to fit the more serious mood he believed discussion of an exhumation required. 'Of course, you're aware of the usual processes involved with such requests?'

'I am.'

'But obviously this is urgent, otherwise you wouldn't be here personally'

'It is extremely urgent. We have reason to believe that the grave of a woman buried in East Ham cemetery, and a parishioner of St Bertram's in East Ham, contains something that will help us in the course of a current investigation.'

Foster was proud of the way he could slip into formal copper speak even after all these years, but he could see from the gleam in Brewis's eyes that he would have to give more. 'Of course, I can't go into details, but what is in that grave might help us catch a killer.'

He saw Brewis's eyebrows soar. He could picture him picking up the phone to his diocesan pals as soon as Foster's car wheels crunched away down the gravel drive to share the information.

'Ah,' he said. 'In that case, we'd better get a wriggle on and help you out. I need some details, of the deceased of course, any next of kin who need to be informed . . .'

'She died in 1913.'

'I see. Well, the ownership of the grave is passed on down the line. We will need to seek out any descendants . . .'

Foster leaned forward. 'We can help you with that -- my friend here is a genealogist. We have traced her ancestry.

There are no living descendants.'

Hidden from Brewis's sight by a large coffee table, Foster put his foot on top of Nigel's and held it down firmly. Nigel's eyebrows furrowed and he appeared to be about to speak when he felt the pressure, and looked quizzically at Foster for a few moments before getting the message.

'That's right,' he murmured. 'No, er, living descendants.'

Foster

nodded and removed his foot from Nigel's brogue. 'So you see, the only permission we seek is that of the diocese. Give us the faculty document and allow us to perform the exhumation - well, I say exhumation, but we don't intend to move the body. We simply want to open the coffin, look inside and remove what we find, before sealing the coffin shut and piling the earth back on top.'

Brewis fell silent. 'I don't see a problem, if it's in the course of your investigation, but I'll need to gain the consent of the other members of the diocese. And I'll need you to send me the relevant paperwork and details.'

'I can do that, some retrospectively. It really is very urgent.'

'When do you want to perform it?'

'Tomorrow?'

'A Sunday?' Brewis looked as if Foster had just introduced his daughter to the delights of sex and drugs. 'That isn't possible. Monday yes, but not the Sabbath.'

'I understand,' Foster said, standing up. 'These things are best done at night. So 12.01 on Monday morning it is.'

On the way back to London, Foster took two calls. The first from Dave Alvin agreeing to forward details of the crime scene and autopsy to him, so he could pass them on to Susie Danson. Alvin made clear his belief that it was a gangland killing; Martin Stamey, apparently, had no shortage of enemies. The second came from Heather. Foster had asked her to make a few inquiries about the four Robinsons who had moved to New Zealand seven years previously.

All of them had died in a house fire two years ago, apart from a nine-year-old girl, Louise Robinson, whose name Heather remembered from the list Nigel had produced.

An inquest ruled it was accidental death. The files were being dug out and faxed across.

Foster had his doubts. The girl had been in the house but escaped with minor injuries. She had since been taken into care. She, Rachel Stamey, Anthony Chapman, wherever he may be, and Gary Stamey were the last of the line.

Then he remembered David Stamey, incarcerated in jail.

Should he get him protection? He decided he was probably out of harm's way behind four walls and bars.

It was dark when he reached home after dropping Barnes off at his fiat. Foster unlocked the door and headed straight for the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of wine, before turning to the fridge to see if there was anything he could eat. The selection was uninspiring so he decided to keep it liquid for the time being. He went through to his sitting room and nicked on the light.

Gary Stamey sat rigid on the sofa, coat still on, hands plunged deep into his pockets. Foster was startled, jumped almost a foot in the air, but managed to compose himself.

'Couldn't

keep away, eh?' he said, heartbeat returning to normal. He went over and felt the radiator. Cold as ice.

Bloody boiler, he thought.

Gary didn't say a word. Or even move.

Foster went over to the armchair and sat down, watching the boy from the corner of his eye. 'Out of interest, and for my peace of mind, just how the hell did you get in?'

Gary shrugged his shoulders. 'You said this place was safe. It ain't. I came in through the kitchen window at the back. No lock on it.'

'I should hire you out. Help people discover the weaknesses in their home security. Where you been all day?'

'Round and about.'

"Why did you come back?'

Gary shrugged his shoulders again. 'Dunno. No place else to go. It was cold.'

Foster sensed there was more to it than that.

'I think I was followed.'

What do you mean? Did you see someone following you?'

He shook his head. 'I just felt it.'

Foster nodded. 'On foot or in a car?'

'Dunno. I can't explain it. Just like I'm being watched.'

Probably paranoia, Foster thought. Though given Gary was a lad who knew what it was like to be tailed, usually by the law, he wouldn't dismiss it.

'Do you think you've been followed here?' he asked.

He shrugged. 'Dunno. Don't think so. I bunked a ride on a train out of London. Then got off and hid and got a train coming back. Walked most of the way here. Got a couple of buses and a tube. Don't think anyone would have kept up.'

'You did the right thing. You're safe here. I promise.'

He changed the subject. 'Have you eaten anything?'

His face lit up. 'Nab., starving. There's nuffink in your fridge, too.'

'Want another takeaway?'

Gary nodded eagerly.

'What sort? Indian? Pizza?'

The second suggestion met with a vigorous nod.

'What flavour?'

'Hawaiian.'

'The one with pineapple?' Foster couldn't help but wrinkle his nose up. In his world, there was no room for fruit on a pizza. In the name of hospitality he let it slide and went to the hall to phone the order through. When he returned, Gary had flicked the television on and was staring at a football match.

'You've got the sports channels,' he said with a hint of excitement.

'Yeah. God knows why. Can't stand football these days.

Full of overpaid prima donnas falling over and wearing dresses. Used to be a contact sport. Who's your team?'

'Chelsea.'

'Thought an Essex boy like you would support the Hammers.'

His lip curled in disgust. 'Nah, they're shit.'

Foster shook his head. 'You see, there's something else that's changed. People supporting teams that are the best, not their local ones.'

Gary shrugged. 'Chelsea scouted me, so I like them best.'

'They scouted you? Really? When?'

When I was eight. I used to go along to the Gateway football club every Saturday morning. Leonie took me on the bus. They had loads of pitches and stuff. Scouts used to come and watch us play. One of them spoke to me and wanted to speak to my mum. He was from Chelsea. I went to a training session. But then Mum died and Leonie went and I didn't go for a bit. Then when they heard I was in trouble they lost interest. I still went to the Gateway and played, but I haven't been for a while.'

'Why not?'

Again the shrug. 'Too much hassle, innit? Been moved around too much.'

'Do you miss it?'

'Yeah,' he said with feeling. 'I love playing football. It's the only thing I'm good at.'

'What position do you play?'

'Didn't play many games, but when we did I played centre mid.'

Foster shook his head. If only this kid could be taken off the streets and on to a football pitch then he might spend less of his time robbing. 'You should keep at it.

You're obviously good. Be a shame to waste your talent.'

Gary said nothing. On screen, the commentator erupted with orgasmic delight at a piece of skill. They both turned to watch the replay. 'That was the lick,' Gary said, as in slow motion the striker drew his man towards him, performed a stepover and left the defender lunging at thin air.

'Impressive,' Foster had to agree. They sat and watched more of the game. It finished in a draw; the pizzas came.

Gary wolfed his down greedily once more. Foster went in search of his indigestion tablets. Two takeaways on the trot, coupled with the hamburger he and Barnes had eaten for lunch, were proving a bit much. He still poured another glass of wine. Back in the sitting room, Gary was hopping between channels, having finally taken his coat off.

Foster sat down and sipped his wine. Gary failed to find anything worth watching. He seemed to catch Foster looking at him.

'She contacted me,' he said simply.

'Leonie?'

Gary nodded.

'When was that?'

'About a year after she disappeared.'

A flicker of caution passed through his mind. Something wasn't right. 'You were in foster care?'

'Yeah.'

'How did she contact you?'

'A letter.'

'How did she know where to send it?

'She sent it to the Gateway football club. Probably knew it was the only place I could be found. The coach gave it me one Saturday morning.'

'What did it say?'

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a greying battered envelope, frayed at the edges. 'Be careful, it's falling apart,' he said.

Foster looked at the address. Gary Stamey, c/o Gateway Football Club, Barking, Essex. The stamp had long since peeled off. No postcode. He could only wonder how long it took to reach its destination. He could see the trace of a sticker in the lower bottom corner.

Was there a sticker on this? Air mail?'

'Don't know what it said, but there was a sticker,' he said. 'It fell off. Like the stamp.'

'Can you remember what the stamp was? Did it have the Queen's head on it?'

He shook his head. Wasn't the Queen. It was a picture of, like, some mountains and stuff. And a sunset?'

Didn't sound familiar to Foster.

He slid the contents out slowly. The letter had been folded and refolded so many times that along the crease it was beginning to disintegrate. It was marked by grubby fingers, presumably Gary's. Yet considering it was two years old it was still in reasonable condition.

He opened the paper up. The writing was immediately recognizable as that of a teenage girl; big looping letters and fat round blobs instead of dots above the 'i's.

Gary looked uncomfortable, embarrassed even. 'Can you read it to me?' he asked.

What, haven't you . . . ?' It took a while for him to realize. "You can't read?'

Gary shook his head dolefully.

"You've never asked anyone to read it to you?' he asked, struggling to contain his disbelief.

'No. I knew it was a secret. I can read some of it. I knew it was from her because of the name and the writing.

I know a few of the words. But I've never been able to read it all.'

The kid had kept it on his person for two years. By the look of it, he'd taken it out of the envelope and looked at it many times. Yet he'd not been able to understand the message his sister had sent to him.

'OK.' He scanned it quickly. He would need to mentally correct much of the syntax to render it readable.

Dear Gary

I hope, this Letter get's to you OK and you are all right. I sent it to the football club because I know that's the one place you Love. I hope you still go there.

Just wanted you to know I am OK. Sorry I Left Like that but I had to. The time was right. I know you must be really angry with me for Leaving you but don't be. It is fine to be cross but I had to Leave. I am with good people. They Look after me. Bit boring sometimes but no drugs and everyone is happy, no one even drinks beer or nothing. I have Learned to do Lots of stuff Like sewing and we have animals Like cows and pigs and the countryside is beautiful to Look at. Much nicer than Essex. I don't miss home at all, just you.

Don't tell anyone about this Letter or else! The end days are on their way and we will be together again in the celestial kingdom as a famlly with our mum, too. God says so. Try and stay out of trouble even though that is impossible for you!

God Loves you and so do I, Leonie x

PS. I'm married!

Foster looked up to see Gary's big brown eyes moistening.

He was desperately trying to fight back tears but losing the battle.

'Married,' Foster said. 'This was a year after she left? So she was only fifteen?'

Gary said nothing. Just looked down at his hands and sniffed copiously. Foster read through the letter once more, silently this time. It appeared that Leonie had not only got religion, but some extreme form. The people she had fallen in with were teetotal, it appeared, which made him think it was some kind of cult. And just exactly what were the 'end days'. He asked Gary, but the boy didn't know. Once again, he seemed small and alone.

'She's still alive, sunshine,' Foster said softly. 'And she said you'd be back together one day. Now that you've shown me her letter, that's even more likely. It was the right thing for you to do. And brave with it.'

'Really?' Gary said, brightening. 'You think you can find her?'

'I know we can find her.' He rubbed the hair on top of his head. 'Let me get you another glass of Coke and we'll find a film you can watch.'

Once he'd settled Gary in front of the television, he went to the kitchen and fired up his laptop. Then he went on to the Internet and typed in the phrase 'end days'. The result was a hodge-podge of the banal and the barmy.

Sites discussing the impending obsolescence of computer systems mingled with other sites predicting the end of the world -- Judgement Day and the Apocalypse. Prophecies were coming true, billions were about to die and Jesus Christ was set to return to earth. Foster took a wild guess Leonie Stamey was referring to the latter. He then typed in 'celestial kingdom'.

It led him straight to Wikipedia. The celestial kingdom was the highest of the three tiers of Heaven envisaged by the Church of Latter-day Saints.

The Mormons, he thought.

He pored over the entries. The Church's origin, Joseph Smith's visions -- was he the Joe in the book Gary had spoken of? The gold plates he found, upon which the Book of Mormon was based, his treasure, the persecution of its early followers, their flight to the safe haven of Salt Lake City and its evolution to the present and its place as the world's fastest growing religion. He learned the religion's basic beliefs, shuddered at its followers' abstinence, paying particular interest to how the Church sent its youngest recruits across the world to perform missionary work door to door. Had one been working in Leonie and Gary's area?

He needed to know more.

Foster was stiff from another night on guard on the sofa, sleeping there to prevent Gary from leaving and anyone from coming in. He made Gary and himself a bacon sandwich each; then, while he drank some tea and came round, the kid stared slackjawed at more television. While he was enthralled by some junkie cartoon, Foster slipped out into the back garden and placed some Sellotape on the join of the kitchen window and its frame, then did the same with the back door and the battered old French windows at the back of the sitting room. Before leaving for Kensington and the Mormon Temple, after getting Gary into his car, he pretended to have left something behind, and when he returned to the house he stuck another band of translucent tape across the frame at the foot of the front door.

Sunday wasn't a bad day to be hunting Mormons. Outside the chapel in South Kensington, scores of them milled around in their Sunday best waiting for their services to start. Foster did not know what to expect -- all he knew about Mormonism was that the Osmonds were members, and that it practised questionable marital practices, or used to. He was pleasantly surprised to see so many normal-looking people and not chanting weirdos in robes.

He told Gary to keep quiet and behave, and the pair followed the congregation into the chapel. He sat at the back, trying not to look too conspicuous even if all the men, and some of the boys, were in suits, and he was in a pair of chinos and a battered jumper riddled with bobbles.

Gary, in scruffy jeans and puffer jacket, looked even more incongruous, drawing more than a few concerned looks.

The ceremony lasted a long time but to Foster it felt like an eternity. Hymns, invocations, a bewildering litany of assignments and callings, blessings, namings and confirmations.

Finally,

it ended. Foster told Gary, bored to catatonia, to stay seated while he headed to the front, to the rotund, rather self-important man who had opened the service. He stood to one side as he shared a few words with the congregation, before closing in during a lull. He introduced himself as quietly as he could. The man did not respond, merely frowned and pursed his lips. 'You could have chosen a better time to barge in here than a Sunday,' he said crossly.

Barge in, Foster thought indignantly. I've just spent well over an hour of my life listening to the platitudinous bilge of you and your congregation -- time I'll never get back - but he resisted the urge.

'It's very urgent that I speak to you, Mr, er . . . ?'

'Brewster. Roger D. Brewster. I'm the Branch President.'

I'm

inquiring about a loan, Foster was tempted to say in response. 'Mr Brewster, I can't divulge why. I just need some information that may help us regarding an ongoing murder investigation.'

His ears pricked up at the word 'murder'. He appeared instantly less hostile. 'Goodness me,' he murmured. 'Let me just see these good people off, then we can talk.'

He went back to smiling, shaking hands and nodding earnestly for a few minutes until the hall emptied and the two of them, plus Gary, were the only ones remaining.

'How can I help?'

'I'm looking for some background information that might be able to help us,' Foster explained.

Well, you've got the right man,' Brewster added. 'I also happen to be the Director of Public Affairs for the Church in this country.'

'You're the PR man?'

He smiled. 'I prefer my job title but, yes, more or less.

What is it you want to know?'

Foster wondered whether it was wise to let anything slip to a man that dealt with the press. 'Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence, you understand that?'

'Of course.'

'Am I right in believing that it's usual for young Mormon men to spend time on missions?'

'That's right. And not just men. Many young women are assigned to missions, too. Usually aged between nineteen and twenty-five.'

'How long do they do it for?'

'Two years. Eighteen months for the women.'

That doesn't fit, Foster thought. There was a three-year gap between Leonie Stamey going missing and Naomi Buckingham. 'Do they occasionally last longer than two years?'

'Rarely. We have some retired couples who perform missionary work and they can last anything between three months and three years, depending on their circumstances and their means.'

What happens on these missions?'

Brewster laughed mirthlessly. 'Many things happen.

Typically the missionaries are assigned to places far away from their own homes. They'll be sent to a missionary training centre. In this country that's in Preston. If they're going to a country that speaks their native language, they'll spend three weeks being briefed about their mission, taught how to conduct themselves, study the scriptures.

If they need to learn a foreign language then they'll spend much longer, up to three months.'

'So a missionary working in this country wouldn't necessarily be English?'

'No, it's almost certain they wouldn't. It's more likely they would come from abroad, primarily the United States.'

'And what sort of work would they do? House-to house calls?'

Well, to describe it as work is slightly inaccurate, although they could be said to be doing God's work. The missionaries pay to do it -- or their families do, at least. But to answer your question, yes, the missionary companionship does undertake some door-to-door proselytizing.

Preaching the Gospel can also involve speaking to people on the streets, or taking part in community activities.'

'Missionary companionship? They don't do it on their own?'

'Never. Let me explain. Most missions are divided into geographical areas that we call zones, and those zones are divided into districts. There are between four and eight missionaries in each district. These are split into companionships of two, sometimes three, missionaries who go out together. Each is instructed never to let the other out of their sight unless they're using the lavatory or taking a shower.

These are young people we're talking about. To abandon them to the streets of an unknown country without guidance and friendship would be a gross dereliction of duty'

Gary only mentioned one man who had visited their flat. Foster was starting to think he was wasting his time.

'Do you have a record of missionaries that were active in certain areas?'

'Obviously I don't have access to that information personally but, yes, there is a record. But we'd need to have a good reason to divulge it. Perhaps if you were to submit a request in writing . . . ?'

'I could pass it on, yes.'

"I'll get something to you.' He took out a notebook from his jacket pocket. There was no need. Brewster had already produced a card from his wallet. Foster thanked him and slipped it into his pocket.

'If someone spoke about the end days, would you assume they were a Mormon?'

He shook his head. 'Not really. Almost every religion in the world has their own concept of the end times, the second coming of the Lord and the beginning of the Kingdom of God. The specific details depend upon the faith itself. Each has its own signs, traditions and beliefs about the last days. Some believe that a series of natural disasters will herald the Second Coming. Others that it will steal upon us like a thief in the night. We believe the last days are already upon us, hence the name Latter-day Saints, though that doesn't necessarily mean the end is nigh. Just that we're nearer the end of the book than the start, if you like. But we're always prepared.'

Foster wondered how someone might prepare for the end of the world. 'How about if the same person also mentioned the celestial kingdom?' he asked.

'Then I would say that they almost certainly were a member of the Church. What was the context?'

'Just a letter from a sister to a brother about how they would be reunited in the celestial kingdom after the end days. They're estranged.'

'The celestial kingdom is the highest tier of heaven, the residence of God the Father and Jesus Christ. We believe that those who have been righteous, and have accepted the teachings of the faith and lived according to the covenants and ordinances of our prophet in their mortal lives, will be reunited with their families in the afterlife. The brother -- I assume he is a member of the Church, too?'

Foster nearly burst out laughing at the idea of Gary as a devout follower of any religion. 'Not quite,' he said.

'In that case, he wouldn't be allowed into the celestial kingdom. If he lives respectably but rejects the gospel of Jesus Christ, he would dwell in the terrestrial kingdom.

Or, God forbid, if he lives less than respectably and refuses the testimony of Jesus Christ, he will end up dwelling in the teles tial kingdom with the liars, adulterers, sinners and general ne'er-do-wells.'

Sounds like more fun there, thought Foster.

'Unless, of course, they were dead and able to receive the Gospel in the Spirit World,' Brewster continued.

'Come again?' Foster said.

Well, we Latter-day Saints believe the dead can be baptized vicariously and allowed into the faith and subsequently the Kingdom of God.'

'How does that work?'

'It means someone can be baptized by proxy for their dead ancestors.'

Foster struggled to comprehend what he was being told. 'But these people are dead?'

We believe that in the afterlife people should be able to accept the Gospel, particularly if they were not able to receive it while on earth. Whether they do or not is their choice.'

The delusion of religion had always puzzled him, but baptizing the dead was among the most bizarre things he'd ever come across. Brewster seemed to sense his disbelief.

'It's not a belief shared by other Christian denominations,'

he explained. 'Though some would argue the Bible calls for it. Otherwise why did Paul say in Corinthians 15: 29, "Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? Why are they then baptized for the dead?" Regardless of that debate, it is central to our faith. Which is why we're so active in the world of genealogy. We ask all members of the Church to trace their ancestry and in temple baptize their dead by proxy'

No matter where I turn, Foster thought, I can't escape people seeking out their past. He made a mental note to discuss this with Barnes later that day. However, something Brewster said was bothering him. 'So the brother I referred to earlier, who is no angel and certainly no Mormon, he wouldn't be allowed into the celestial kingdom unless he converted to Mormonism?'

'That's correct.'

'But they would be able to convert him if he was dead?'

'He could be given the option, yes.'

'Thanks. I'll be in touch,' he said and turned on his heels, collecting Gary as he left.

They got back to Foster's house early that evening. Foster had taken Nigel into the office, leaving him to surf the Internet idly while he made a few calls and looked at the faxes sent over from New Zealand. It looked like an open and shut case of accidental death. No suggestion of arson.

The girl had jumped from the window before being overcome by smoke. The rest of her family had not been so fortunate. He put the papers in his pocket for closer study at home.

They parked up a fair distance from Foster's front door, the weekend getaways having returned and occupied most of the spaces around his house. Sunday evenings were always the worst.

They reached the front door. Foster put his key in the lock and remembered. Before opening the door, he looked down. The tape was still there. He went into the hall, took off his coat and then went into the sitting room and stuck the TV on for Gary. He had intended to pick up some food but time had run away. Another takeaway would do, though at this rate the weight he'd lost would soon be back on.

Gary slumped on the sofa, while Foster went to close the curtains across the French windows. He checked the tape.

It was broken.

Someone had been inside his house.

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around his hand and tried the door. It opened. The lock had been forced. Given its worn state, that wouldn't have taken too much effort. He left Gary in the sitting room, closing the door behind him. He went to the hatstand in the hall and picked up an old golf club, about the only potential weapon he had.

He walked upstairs. The bathroom was empty. His bedroom and the spare room, too. He checked cupboards, under every bed and inside the wardrobe on the landing.

Nothing. He breathed out.

In the kitchen he checked the unlocked window, the same one Gary had entered by. The tape was intact. Yet on the back door it was broken. Whoever it was had come in through the back garden, forced open the French windows and then exited via the back door.

His house wasn't safe any more.

Sunday night and the pursuit of Naomi was getting colder.

Nigel sat waiting, his stomach performing cartwheels.

Foster had called to tell him the exhumation was on that night and he would pick him up at nine. When he called from his car to let him know he was outside, Nigel walked out like a condemned man, unsure what to expect. He certainly didn't expect a young boy to be in the back.

'Nigel, this is Gary,' Foster said. 'Gary Stamey,' he added simply.

The kid didn't even blink, just stared out of the window sullenly.

'I'm dropping him off at Heather's while we take care of business.'

Nigel knew instantly who the kid was. Why he was in Foster's car was a different matter. Nigel thought it best to save the questions for another day.

They arrived at Heather's. Nigel stayed in the car as Foster and the kid trudged up the path to Heather's terraced house. He was back within the minute. 'Heather says "hi",' he muttered as he climbed into the driver's seat.

'Did she?' Nigel asked as casually as he could muster.

There was the ghost of a smile on Foster's face. 'To the graveyard,' the detective said, turning the engine over.

It was an hour's drive across London, a city spattered with rain, the soaked pavements reflecting the blurred orange light from the streetlamps. As the windscreen wipers swept hypnotically back and forth, Nigel watched bedraggled people come and go, in and out of pubs and shops and houses, wrapped up against the elements, sitting stony-faced on buses on the road to God knew where.

Occasionally he would glimpse young lovers laughing or some kids messing around, a bolt of illumination and happiness on a dank night. There was something about Sundays he could never shake off, a feeling of melancholy and regret he had experienced every week since being a kid. All the bad thoughts, past mistakes and anxieties seemed to come back to haunt him on that night of the week, even though he didn't have to get up and slog into an office the next day like nearly everyone else. The Sunday night blues remained.

Foster broke the silence somewhere near King's Cross.

What do you know about Mormons?' he asked.

Nigel knew more than most. Without them, there'd be very few records for genealogists to search. They're probably the single biggest influence, particularly when it comes to collecting and compiling records and putting them on the web.'

Foster told him about his research trip to the Mormon chapel that morning. Baptism for the dead. 'Bloody weird, if you ask me,' he added. 'Like some sort of spiritual kidnapping.'

Nigel

could see his point but knew it was not as black and white as that. 'To be fair to them, the Mormons do say that the dead are free agents -- like us, they're able to choose to reject religion,' he said.

Foster snorted with derision, murmured an expletive at a driver in front. 'How does this work for people who did something terrible? Murderers, rapists -- can these people receive the Gospel after they're dead?'

Nigel nodded. As far as he knew, they could. 'It's caused a kerfuffle, not least with Jews who were very angry that their dead could be claimed in such a way. The Mormons have said they've stopped proxy baptisms for dead Jews who aren't direct ancestors of living Mormons.'

'Jesus,' Foster said, shaking his head. 'You see, the dead are dead. They're gone, let them rest. Bury them, don't keep them. It's all just so much hocus-pocus. Don't get me wrong; I think that about all religions. But at least traditional Christianity is based on centuries of moral knowledge and its values are the ones we've built our societies upon. Mormonism just sounds to me like a bloke made it up as he went along and hoodwinked a bunch of gullible knuckle-draggers into following him.'

Nigel was no expert on Mormonism. 'Maybe so. It has its quirks, I grant you. Speaking purely selfishly, I'm delighted they believe what they do. I don't care why they've collected all these records. We're just glad they have, and they've opened them up to us all. What do you think this has got to do with Mormonism, anyway?'

Whoever brainwashed Leonie Stamey had something to do with the Mormon faith. That seems to be clear.

Gary Stamey, the kid I just dropped off, remembers his sister having a kids' book about a boy named Joe finding buried treasure. The Mormon church was founded by some conman called Joseph Smith who was guided to a place by an angel where he dug up some gold tablets with writing on. Turns out, rather handily, that he also found some special glasses that allowed him to decipher and transcribe these tablets. Barking mad, if you ask me. But then what religion stands up to scientific scrutiny?

'But if we work on the basis that the man who visited Leonie Stamey was in some way responsible for her disappearance, which is linked to the kidnap of Naomi Buckingham and the murder of her mother, then there's every chance that the same person is responsible and he has something to do with the Mormon faith. I've just submitted a written request to the Church to see if they have any record of a missionary plying his trade in or around the area where Leonie lived, and the same for those that are working near to Kensal Rise.'

He stopped to swear at another driver, this time beeping his horn in disgust. He returned to the subject. We think he -- or they, or whoever -- will try to get Gary next.

I think they've already tried to get him. Leonie said she would meet up with him in the celestial kingdom. That can only happen if he's dead, unless she comes back to convert him in this life. Yesterday my house was broken into. There's a team there dusting for fingerprints, though I doubt they'll find anything. I'll lay any money it was the killer.'

A thought, an inkling that had been lodged in the back of Nigel's mind since staring at the parish picture of Sarah Rowley and reading the vicar's funeral address, was floating free. It took some time for it to settle, but eventually it did. Then the recognition jolted him like a needle in his side.

Cultists from across the ocean.

'Listen,' he said. 'Sarah Rowley fled some sort of cult, presumably from the United States.' What other English speaking land lay across an ocean? It tallied with Margaret Howell's reminiscences. 'Traditional Christians believed, and many still believe, that the Latter-day Saints were no better than a cult. They could well be Mormons. I could check it out for you tomorrow.'

They were pulling up at East Ham cemetery.

'Let's leave that until the morning,' Foster said, as Nigel felt his heart flutter at what lay behind the black cemetery gates. 'First let's see if there's anything buried with her that helps us out.'

The night was mild yet Nigel found himself shivering despite being layered up in a shirt, a woollen jumper, fleece, scarf and a battered crombie overcoat whose best days were long gone. The rain had relented but the smell of damp sodden earth lingered. He and Foster marched their way across the graveyard to the lot where burial records told him Sarah Rowley was interred. The grave was overgrown with lichen and weed, marked by a simple headstone that tilted upwards at an angle, as if the ground beneath was slowly trying to eject it. Or Sarah Rowley is coming out before we dig her out, he thought ghoulishly.

In his churning stomach he felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation, the latter not helped by the grim determination with which Foster was conducting himself. He could not bear to bring himself to think about what the detective's reaction might be if they discovered the coffin was empty.

A lone arc light lit the scene. A compact excavator was parked at the graveside waiting for midnight to pass and Monday to arrive. The operator looked bored and pissed off, exhaling frequently and disdainfully on a cigarette.

Beside him was another equally bored, unshaven young man whose role was unclear.

'I expected there to be more of us,' Nigel said, trying to roll a cigarette despite his shaking hands.

Foster watched him fix his cigarette.

Nigel gestured, as if to ask whether he wanted one rolling, and was met with an emphatic shake of the head.

'Not if you paid me,' Foster said. He looked at the meagre exhumation party. 'There would be more, if we'd been doing this officially. But we're not. These two guys are from a company that does this sort of thing for us and I'm paying them out of my own pocket as it stands. Keep that to yourself, though.' He glanced at his watch and strolled off to speak to the excavator operator.

Nigel took a deep drag on his cigarette and shook his head. Maybe some secrets are best left dead, he thought.

But then he thought of Naomi Buckingham cowering somewhere, alone and petrified, or lying dead in some unmarked ditch, and he told himself to stop being so precious. Yet the revelation that Foster was doing this on the sly did little to quell the bubbling in his guts. More than he would like was riding on them finding a lead in the grave. He shivered again. Foster returned.

'I tell you what, we're lucky she's buried in consecrated ground. Over there with the non-believers they're sometimes buried one on top of each other, which would have made it interesting if she was on the bottom.' He sniffed, and clapped his hands together. 'This is how it's going to play out. Mickey in the digger is going to scoop out the soil to the required depth. Then you're going to jump in with a spade.'

What?'

Foster smiled. 'Lighten up, eh? If some of these lot rose from the dead, they'd be less stiff than you. Seriously.

Once we've exposed the coffin, young Jim there will check we have the right one, hopefully by reading the inscription plate. He'll open the lid and we have to be ready. Keep clear because it could smell a bit. A lot, actually. There's ninety years or so of decomposition in there and the gases to match, so be prepared. Once the lid's opened and whatever foul gasses need to escape have escaped, then we'll have a look and see what we can find. I've got a jemmy to open the tin if we find it.'

Nigel drew the last from his cigarette before it burned his fingers. Will there be anything left of her?' he asked, flicking the stub away.

Foster raised his broad shoulders and let them fall.

'Depends. If the undertaker did a good job, then there might be a fair bit of her left. We'll soon find out, won't we?'

Nigel sensed he was enjoying his discomfort. Foster checked his watch once more. Nigel looked at his. It was midnight. They waited for a few more seconds to elapse, before Foster whirled his hand above his head and the excavator's engine roared into life. Foster gestured for Nigel to stand beside him at the side of the grave.

The wet soil yielded easily, the jaw of the machine tearing it in chunks. The operator worked swiftly, clawing lumps of soil, depositing them to one side, before slicing out another layer. Each bite at the earth caused Nigel's chest to tighten and his breath grow shorter. The hole grew deeper and wider, less of the excavator's arm visible above the ground until the unshaven man at the side of the grave leaned over to see, and then held his arm up. He made a few gestures to the unsighted operator, who responded by wielding the jaws with almost surgical care, a scratch of earth here, and a small handful there. Five minutes later, the unshaven assistant held up his hand to stop and the engine died, the silence afterwards profound and ominous to Nigel's ears.

The assistant looked at Foster, nodded downwards, grabbed a spade and jumped in. The pair of them walked to the edge of the pit and looked in. There was a simple mahogany coffin, muddied and worn, but otherwise in good condition, the lid closed. The excavator had cleared a shelf to the side of the coffin on which the man stood, looking up at them. Foster walked round and lowered himself in. Nigel's heart hammering against his ribcage, mouth dry as a bone and the taste of fear in his throat, he climbed in, too, almost slipping as he turned. Eventually his feet found the shelf. He didn't care about the layer of mud that was now caked on his front. He turned, trying to keep his footing on the slippery mud. The only scent was the heady smell of wet soil.

There was a brass plate on the coffin lid. The assistant crouched down and with a gloved finger carefully wiped away the grime. Foster and then Nigel crouched, too. They were so close that Nigel caught a whiff of damp that came from Foster's sodden raincoat. The assistant finished cleaning the plate. The inscription was clear: Sarah Rowley

Nigel tried to wet his mouth but there was no moisture, just a dry, clacking sound. Foster's previous jocularity appeared to have evaporated, too.

We know it's the right one,' he said softly. 'Go on, Jimbo -- do your worst.'

He stood up and with his arm ushered Nigel back from the edge of the shelf. He put a gloved hand over his nose and Nigel did likewise.

'I should really have brought masks,' he said, voice muffled.

Nigel

felt the first leapings in his stomach that indicated he might be sick. He took away the glove and sucked in a deep lungful of the moist night air while it was still clean.

With a crowbar, Jim eased away the lid at various points along its side, a faint cracking sound audible each time he lessened its grip. He worked quickly and respectfully for a minute, Nigel unsure whether to watch or look up at the sky. At one point Jim stopped and looked away; a second later Nigel knew why. A choking, acrid smell invaded the air around them. He closed his eyes, tried not to vomit.

Nigh on a century of decomposition had just escaped into the atmosphere, he knew. He felt light-headed, whether from the stench or the fear and apprehension he was unsure.

Jim nodded to Foster again.

'The lid's about to come off,' he said to Nigel. 'Don't look at her, look around her and see if there's anything there. Then we'll get it out.'

Nigel nodded, incapable of unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth to speak. Foster nodded to Jim to open the coffin.

Nigel felt himself calm. His focus was on what was beside the body, not the body itself, and there was work to do. If only he had some water to moisten his lips. Jim knelt down and slowly opened the lid, pushing it away from him. Then he moved aside.

There she was. All that was left of her earthly remains was a skeleton. Her eyeless sockets gazed skywards, jaw set in that mirthless grin common to all skulls, hands still crossed in front of her like they would have been after being placed in the box. The skeleton appeared small, no bigger than that of a teenage girl. A few threads clung to the bones, their colour impossible to tell. Nigel found himself gazing at her for several seconds, lost in thought, no longer in fear.

Foster's voice shook him out of it. 'Look,' he said simply.

Nigel followed the direction of his finger. By the bones of her right foot lay a silver container no bigger than a shoebox. Metal. It was padlocked. A rusting Yale 'cartridge'

lock, state of the art in its day, Nigel noted. She really had gone to great lengths to seal this secret from the prying eyes of the world, and here they were foiling her.

Foster leaned down and gathered it up. 'It feels empty,'

he said, weighing it in his hand. He put it on the surface and hoisted himself up. Nigel followed suit. He went back to the side of the excavator and laid it down on the footplate.

He pulled hard at the lock but it was not so corroded as to give way that easily.

'Hold that,' he said to Nigel, eyes burning with intent.

It felt cold and damp. Nigel could feel his heart beating fast once more. It was all he could do to stop his hands shaking. Foster produced a set of bolt cutters. Nigel hoped his hands weren't shaking as much as his own, or he might lose his fingers.

'Hold it tight,' Foster urged. Nigel applied as much downward pressure as he could. Foster placed the jaw of the cutters around the lock and snapped. The lock broke.

Foster placed it in his pocket.

'You can let go now,' he said to Nigel, who was still grabbing the tin with all his might.

'Oh,' he said.

'Go on then,' Foster added impatiently. 'You're the expert in handling old stuff. Open it up.'

Nigel produced a pair of pristine white cotton gloves from his pocket. He had a stock of these back home for handling old objects and aged documents, but the truth was he always forgot to take them with him and ended up borrowing those belonging to whichever archives he was working at. He slipped them on.

'Open the lid, please,' he said in a hoarse whisper, excitement once again drying out all the moisture in his mouth.

Foster lifted the lid.

The box was empty.

At least, it appeared to be at first glance. The bottom was lined with yellowing paper. Nigel picked it up carefully, feeling it crinkle slightly between his fingers. There was nothing on it. But then he looked beneath it, on the floor of the box.

A photographic print, though it was impossible to make out what it showed in the graveyard gloaming. It was black and white, he could see that. Behind him Foster switched on a torch, careful not to shine the beam directly on to the picture, but illuminating the print. The image came into focus and it chilled Nigel to his core.

A row of hideously charred bodies, more than a dozen, some tiny, obviously children, were laid out on the ground in a row, in front of a burned-out building.

While Nigel continued to stare, Foster shut the box, took it back to the grave to put it back where it had been found. In the background Nigel heard him make a phone call to the vicar, telling him he could come in now and perform the burial rites as requested by the diocese before Mickey and Jim filled in the pit.

Nigel continued to stare at the gruesome picture. Rictus grins on each of the burned bodies, some frozen in contorted agony, the rigor mortis hands of others held rigid out in front as if in supplication. Who were these people?

he thought.

The secret had been unearthed. Now it had to be deciphered.

The image of those blackened bodies haunted the few snatched minutes of sleep Nigel had that night. He gave up on the prospect of any rest shortly after six, less than three hours after going to bed, and fixed himself a pot of tea, as he re-scanned the photo over and over in his mind.

Twelve bodies in total, at least five children, all laid out in a line in readiness for burial, he presumed. At one end was the mournful face of a man, leathered and worn, holding a spade. Sarah Rowley had not wanted anyone to see this picture, to even know of its existence.

He stayed there for an hour, perhaps more. Outside the wind howled. On the radio, Naomi's disappearance had been relegated to second item on the news list. Instead, news reporters intoned dramatically from storm-tossed coastal towns, delivering, with lip-smacking glee, dire predictions of floods and mayhem, while others spoke gravely of disrupted travel for Monday morning commuters. It was only when he sat down that he saw he'd missed a call.

The ringing phone brought him back to the present.

Chris Westerberg. He had the results of the biogeographical ancestry test on Katie Drake's DNA.

'Bloody awful day outside, is it not?' the Irishman said after they had greeted each other. Nigel agreed it was. 'I managed to rush through the results of this test for you.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, six per cent of her genes are Native American.

Given her age, and using the thirty-year rule for each generation, I think we can say with certainty that a maternal Native American ancestor entered the bloodline circa 1850--1860's. You're looking at her marrying a white Anglo-Saxon man around that time. Hope that helps.'

Nigel dressed hurriedly, throwing on the mud-spattered trousers he'd worn the previous night, and ran to the street outside, ignoring the elements. He called Foster from his phone on the way. The detective was arriving at work. He explained what Westerberg had told him: that Sarah Rowley's mother was a Native American who married a white man around the mid-nineteenth century. While it would be almost impossible to trace every single marriage between a Native American and a settler in that time, if the man she married was a Mormon, and she became a Mormon -- and this at a time when the religion was still in a fledgling stage -- then there was a chance he might be able to pinpoint enough likely candidates, see how many children they bore, and whether any had a girl around the same time Sarah was born.

'But you said they would almost certainly have changed their name?' Foster replied.

'True. Their surname definitely. Their given name?

Maybe not. It's a long shot, but it may mean that I can pick up the paper trail and find out what it was that happened in the States back in 1890, why they fled.' He paused. 'And I think the reason they fled has something to do with the burned corpses on that photograph.'

'Do it,' Foster replied.