The Blood Detective

14

Nigel had not seen anything like it. Rows upon rows of organs and other, well, 'specimens' was the best word he could muster, preserved in formaldehyde.

His eyes were drawn -- half through fascination, half through revulsion -- to a jar in which a perfectly formed, tiny human foot floated free in its sea of liquid. The severed left foot of a small child killed by smallpox, whose body was dissected by the surgeon to try to understand that awful disease. Nigel wondered darkly if the parents were aware their little one's corpse had been carved up so the world could better understand the viruses that threatened it.

Next he was enthralled by a set of jars in which the dead fetuses and offspring of what seemed to be every mammal and creature known to man were suspended in their formaldehyde baths. There was something clinical, yet hauntingly beautiful, too, about all these samples, lit and stacked on shelves in their thick glass containers, like some nightmarish pharmacy. He knew now where notorious British artists - charlatans and poseurs, to his jaundiced eye -- gained their inspiration. Carving up and preserving cows was not a new pursuit.

Nigel enjoyed new discoveries like this, secret places where London's past had been preserved.

Literally, in this case. Once again the years fell away, the atmosphere of the time rose up from the murk.

A world of disease, crude surgery, experimentation, discovery. A world on the cusp of change.

It heartened him that a place such as this existed.

A centuries-old collection of anatomical and surgical artefacts that told the story of modern surgery in the most graphic way possible. Only in London, he thought. Only in this benighted, storied city would there be a room where pickled wombs, babies' limbs and infant sloths were lined up for the inspection of the general public. Looking around, he guessed that most of those doing the inspecting were medical students, though a few art students were among them, sketching away, brows furrowed in concentration.

He had already dwelled for more minutes than he had intended at a section of the museum displaying early surgical instruments, aghast at their nightmarish design, his imagination conjuring macabre pictures of the agony they would cause an unanaesthetized patient aware of every incision and slice. Nigel had been expecting to see a few rusty scalpels and fake skeletons. Instead, he had stepped into a few quiet, plushly decorated rooms that resembled a cross between an horrific art installation and the set of a Cronenberg film.

He wondered who the people were whose organs had been pickled, their livers, hearts, kidneys immortalized.

Perhaps they had been donated to John Hunter, the pioneering eighteenth-century surgeon whose collection this was, by grave robbers. Nigel knew these men made a living from selling corpses to medical schools for dissection and study, the fresher the better.

He checked the pamphlet he'd picked up on the way in. Fairbairn's body was on the mezzanine.

There were yet more exhibits upstairs, where it was less crowded. Here the story of modern surgery was told in greater detail. Nigel cast his eye around the room until it alighted on a glass case featuring a skeleton.

As he got nearer, he could see the dirty, yellowed skeleton was that of a large man. Probably around the same height as Foster, perhaps a few inches taller.

The eye sockets were vast black caverns; the ribcage was wider than any other part of the body, save the shoulders, and the rictus grin was sinister.

Nigel scoured the display case for some form of identification. Falling to his haunches, he saw a small inscription beside the skeletal feet.

'Eke Fairbairn. Murderer,' he read. 'The dissection of executed criminals was abohshed by law in 1832.

However, in exceptional circumstances, the Home Secretary and the family of the executed convict gave permission for his body to be released to the College for further study. His skeleton has stood in the museum ever since.'

Nigel stood and peered more closely at the giant man's bones. He was no medical expert but he could make out what appeared to be breaks or cracks to parts of the body, to the right tibia and collarbone, while the enormous skull appeared misshapen. But was this any surprise, given that it had stood for more than a century and a quarter inside a glass case, presumably being taken out and moved several times?

Probably a case of wear and tear. He remembered references in the newspaper reports he had read the previous day to a limp. The defendant stood awkwardly, and there had been something wrong with his arm, which suggested a deforming Victorian malady such as rickets.

Nigel checked his watch and cursed under his breath. It was ten thirty and he had not yet called Foster.

By ten thirty Foster and Heather had covered a further two floors, more flats of the surly and unresponsive. One woman complained of her neighbour playing music at four a.m., waking up her small child. The neighbour explained he worked nights and was just unwinding when he got back in, claiming the woman next door was twitchy and neurotic. They nodded and smiled, not wanting to get drawn into petty conflicts. Each flat they visited was duly checked against the electoral roll; flats where they obtained no response would be visited later in case the inhabitants were at work. Any new tenants would have their backgrounds checked. Foster hoped their presence at the scene would flush out the killer, force him to do something that would draw their attention to him.

At the very moment when he was wondering whether he would ever get the smell of urine in the communal hallways out of his nostrils, his mobile rang. It was Nigel.

'Where have you been?' he asked, without greeting.

He could tell Nigel was taken aback, stuttering his response.

'Look, I asked you to get in touch with me first thing,' said Foster. 'It's ten thirty now.'

'Sorry,' the genealogist managed to mutter. 'I was at a museum,' he added.

'What for?'

'I've found the killer, the 1879 killer'

'Have you been drinking?'

'I mean that the museum I went to this morning had Eke Fairbairn's skeleton in a glass case on exhibition.'

'Why?'

'His body was given to medical science after his execution. There was a plaque on the case he's kept in. All it said was that he was a murderer, nothing we didn't know.'

'Can anyone see this?'

It occurred to Foster that if the killer was copying Fairbairn's spree, then he may well have gone to pay respects to his predecessor himself. Maybe even more than once. He would give this museum a call, see if they'd noticed anyone suspicious hanging around or, even better, whether they had CCTV footage of the displays.

'Listen, Nigel, I read the newspaper reports you faxed over. Very interesting. But what I want to see are the original records of the trial: transcripts, descriptions of evidence, the judge's summing up. Is there anywhere I could find that sort of information?'

'The National Archives. We know he was tried at the Old Bailey, and the Proceedings of the Old Bailey give a verbatim report of everything that happened in court. But the newspapers were pretty exhaustive . . .'

'I just want to see it myself, how it happened, how it unfolded, without any interpretation whatsoever.'

They arranged to meet in a few hours at the National Archives. In the interim, Barnes said there was something he wanted to check out at the British Library.

'Whatever,' Foster said wearily. 'Just don't be late.'

Three hours later Foster arrived at the National Archives in Kew, half airy modern glasshouse, half monstrous pebble-dashed carbuncle. It reminded Foster of a modern university campus, though once inside he saw the student body was more mature.

There was an atmosphere of determination, of people purposefully going about serious research, congregating in small groups to whisper their findings, dead ends described, problems shared and solutions suggested.

Nigel met him at reception. They went to the cafe, the tables overflowing with people. Barnes told him he had ordered the Criminal Proceedings of the Old Bailey covering the session in which Fairbairn's trial had been held, and that it would take up to an hour for it to be ready. In the meantime, he had something for Foster to read.

From his case he produced three photocopied sheets. Not more newspaper reports, Foster thought.

When Nigel handed them over, he could see they were copies of pages from a book.

'What is it?'

'It's the memoir written by Norwood, Fairbairn's executioner. They all did it; people lapped up their experiences. Anyway, it turns out that Fairbairn was his first execution. There's a lengthy account of it in the book; here's an extract from that. You might find it useful.'

Foster began to read.

On my arrival at the prison, I was met by a warder, dressed in ordinary prison garb. He took my name and pulled on a large string, which rang the Governor's bell. In a few seconds I was met by the Governor himself, a very nice gentleman, of military bearing, and very well dressed. We passed time with the usual niceties. He said that I should make sure of taking a substantial tea this evening, what with all that was to follow the next day.

He passed me on to the Chief Warden, who kindly showed me to my quarters, a snug lodging at the back of the gaol. We shared a smoke together and I could see this gentleman was agitated by what was to happen. He said he felt quite upset about the fate of Fairbairn, that he hoped the man would get a reprieve. I asked why.

'Because, sir, I feel he is not guilty of the crimes for which you will hang him.'

I said nothing. It was not my position to question the workings of justice, merely carry out my work in the most expeditious manner possible. I admit now, as this was my first hanging, that I started to experience some unease at the prospect.

The next day I rose at 5 a.m. and, not being able to stomach the prospect of breakfast, I made my way to the scaffold, where I ensured it was clean and ready. Then, at 7.45 a.m., I returned with the group to play out the last scenes of the drama. We went to the doctor's room, to which the prisoner was brought. He was a man of enormous height, though the stoop of his body tried to cover for it.

He said not a word. He was taken to an adjoining room, where he and the minister conducted prayers.

When they returned, I was called to do my duty.

I approached Fairbairn. His mournful brown eyes looked up at me, a sight I will see in my mind's eye until the day I leave the earth. I still don't know why, but I patted his gigantic shoulder.

'Keep your pluck up,' I heard myself say, for my own benefit.

Fairbairn walked without assistance to the scaffold. For his last words he proclaimed only his innocence in a slow, sonorous voice. I placed the hood over his head, my hands only then showing signs of trembling. The noose was placed around his neck, and I made certain he was placed under the beam of the drop. Everything was in place and, as quick as lightning, the culprit was plunged into the hereafter.

Afterwards, once he was confirmed dead and left to hang for the necessary hour, I stepped out for some air. The Chief Warden was having a smoke.

'Is it done?' he said softly.

I nodded.

'God have mercy on us,' he said, tears brimming his eyes. 'God have mercy.'

Foster finished reading and looked at Nigel. It was becoming paramount for him to examine the trial testimonies. What had happened to so disturb the Chief Warden? No mention was made of any doubts harboured by the other officials.

Nigel checked a computer terminal by the side of the cafe. The material had been delivered to the reading room. Foster followed him upstairs to the collection area, through a room of silent reading and thought. From the counter they picked up a large cardboard box file and found an unoccupied table.

Nigel opened the box and Foster could see an enormous bound book, of more than a thousand pages in length. Nigel lifted it out and carefully placed it on the table. The writing on the front said 'Proceedings of the Old Bailey'.

Nigel leafed through quickly. 'Just one word of warning,' he said, turning to Foster. 'The pages are dry, but don't be tempted to lick your fingers to help turn them, not unless you want a security guard humiliating you in front of everyone.' Nigel went back to flicking through the volume. Eventually, he stopped. 'Here we go,' he said, and pushed it towards Foster.

At the top of the page was the number of the trial and the date. Below it were the words 'Eke Fairbairn, indicted for the wilful murders of Samuel Roebuck and Leonard Childe'. The judge was Justice MacDougall, while Mr John J. Dart, QC, MP conducted the prosecution, a revealing and apt choice of phrase, Foster decided as he read through his melodramatic opening statement. Good to see barristers have always sought to promote themselves as well as their cases. But it was not Dart's interpretation of events he was seeking.

The first witness was Mary Hesketh, the barmaid at the Clarendon Arms, who testified to the defendant being drunk and having a row with Roebuck before being thrown out of the pub.

The next witness was described as a local businessman and ombudsman of good standing; his name was Stafford Pearcey. On the night of 24th March he was taking a late-evening constitutional. As he passed the Clarendon Arms he saw a man dressed in work clothes leaving the pub, lighting a cigarette. He set off towards Holland Park. A few seconds later, he passed a man he now knew to be Eke Fairbairn, wearing a 'look of fury' as he watched the other man depart. Despite the best efforts of the defence during cross-examination, the witness maintained that despite the lateness of the hour, and the lack of light, he was absolutely sure that the man he saw in the shadows was Fairbairn. Furthermore, he claimed to have seen Fairbairn set off in pursuit of the man he had earlier seen leaving the pub. The defence brief then began to question the witness about his relationship with several members of the pohce force, not least the senior investigating officer, Detective Henry Pfizer, but the prosecution objected, sustained by the judge.

A similar template was followed for the second killing on the indictment, staff and fellow drinkers confirming that, after an afternoon and evening spent drinking in solitude, Fairbairn had been involved in a row with the deceased. This time there was no passing businessman to see him tracking his victim. More damningly, the next witness was the aforementioned Detective Henry Pfizer, who confirmed that the knife produced in court was one they had found in the digs of the defendant.

The defence brief's response intrigued Foster.

'Detective Pfizer, would it be true to say that these killings attracted the full attention of newspapers, both local and national?'

The detective agreed it had.

'And not all of that attention, none of it in fact, was complimentary. Indeed, it would be fair to say that most of the criticism of the police's handling of the case was trenchant, was it not?'

The prosecution objected, for reasons not given.

The judge urged the defence to ask its questions.

'My point is this, my lord. The date on which this knife was found was, somewhat conveniently one might say, the day after a fifth victim had been found and one newspaper was calling for the pohce to solve the case without delay.'

The prosecution objected; this time it was sustained.

The defence barrister's next comment was struck from the record and the jury dismissed while the judge spoke to the court. No reason or explanation was given.

The prosecution rested. The defence's case was meagre. The only witness was one who spoke of Fairbairn's good character. There was no attempt to try and support the previous inference that their client had been framed.

The judge, Justice MacDougall, summed up.

'When you come to consider your verdict I want you to forget the imputations by the defence concerning the conduct of the police investigation, in particular the wicked slur against the name of Stafford Pearcey, a man of high standing and repute within the local community. If you believe his testimony then that would be a major point in proving the prosecution's assertion.

'Likewise, I would ask you to discount the defence's inference that the pohce in some way planted the knife at the lodgings of Mr Fairbairn. We heard from the detective in charge of the case that the knife was found in the belongings of the prisoner at the bar, and there is no reason I can see to indicate that Detective Pfizer is guilty of fabrication. I have known him stand in this court for nigh on a decade and not once can I remember him being anything other than an honest and dedicated officer of the law.'

With directions like that, the verdict was a formality.

After sentencing, the defence made a quick plea, asking for leniency, claiming their client had a mental age of only ten, therefore did not have full comprehension of his actions, or their consequences, and was unfit for the gallows. The judge dismissed it at a stroke.

Foster finished reading. He was so engrossed, he had failed to notice Nigel leave and return with a bundle of documents. When he looked up, Nigel pushed a worn piece of stiff paper in front of him -- Eke Fairbairn's postmortem.

At the top was Fairbairn's name and his age. The examination had taken place at Newgate Prison and revealed that the deceased was 'well nourished', 6 feet 9 inches, 197 pounds. He had been dead one hour, and there was a deep impression around the neck from the rope, as well as signs of constriction in the surrounding area. There had also been frothing and bloodstaining around the mouth, the tongue forced outwards. The lips, ears and fingernails had turned blue. Foster had seen it in strangulation victims. He checked the internal examination: there was no fractured vertebra.

'How good were they at hanging people in 1879?'

he asked Nigel.

'Hit and miss,' he said. 'The long drop had only just been introduced. They broke the neck on some occasions but, on others, they didn't. One guy, called John "Babbacombe" Lee, survived three judicial hangings in 1885.'

Foster scanned down to the bottom of the page.

The cause of death was asphyxiation.

Foster rubbed his face with his hands, almost overwhelmed by the exhaustion that was clinging to him like a mist. A potentially innocent man had been hanged. The poor bastard had not even suffered an instant death. His spine had remained intact; instead, he was strangled by the rope and his own bulk. Foster knew that could have taken minutes, not seconds.

He supposed that was the way justice worked back then. Few convinced of his guilt would have cared about Fairbairn's suffering.

Yet what he discovered next was even more disturbing.

The pathologist noted the presence of a number of fractures, six in total: his right tibia and fibula, right wrist, collarbone, right ankle, a rib and the jaw. You didn't get injuries like that falling down the courtroom stairs. The injuries were estimated to have been inflicted approximately seven or eight weeks earlier; around the time he was awaiting trial. Foster knew, there and then, they had tried to beat a confession from him. To cause that amount of damage, they must have used him as a trampoline. How had Fairbairn even made it into the dock? He must have been strong as a bear not to collapse under the weight of agony. And they made this broken man stand trial.

History came to life: Foster conjured up an image of a towering mute with the brain of a child, bovine and silent as pohcemen rained down blow after sickening blow upon his body for a crime he knew he did not commit. Then, when the same man came to end his life, they left him to dangle and choke, legs kicking futilely in the air, seeking ground they would never touch. He felt his fists clench with anger, tempered by a sense of professional shame.

He knew then, they had their motive.

'I've seen this before,' Nigel said.

It took some time for Foster to return to the present and realize what he had said. 'What do you mean?'

'Not this, not an exact replica of these events.'

'Then what?' Foster said, screwing up his face in bewilderment.

Nigel's eyes did not blink. There was a zeal to him, hands dancing as he spoke. 'The past is a living thing: it's always present. Most of us are not aware of it, most of us ignore it, but it's there. You can't just sweep it away, forget about it. Look at this case. It's clear to me and, from what I can see, to you, too, that in 1879 a grave mis justice took place. The world then forgot about it, or tried to. Pretended justice had been done. But you can bet that anyone who seeks to forget the past has a corpse in the basement.'

The memory of his father, that once giant man rendered broken and brittle in the weeks before his death, flashed across Foster's mind.

Nigel went on. 'But the past isn't like that; you can't just bury it, mark it down as history. When someone is drowned at sea, it can take an age for the body to be washed up. No one knows where, no one knows when. The only thing that is certain is that the sea will eventually give up its dead.

'It's taken more than a hundred and twenty-five years, but the events of 1879 nave finally washed up.'

Nigel watched Foster stride away, off to rejoin the effort at the tower block. He had appeared troubled by what Nigel had said about the ever-present past.

He had gone silent, looked down, before knocking the table with the flat of his hand and getting up to leave. Before he went, he asked Nigel to see if he could trace the descendants of Eke Fairbairn. The man had been beaten, convicted on scant evidence and then hanged. Was there anyone who might seek to take revenge for their ancestor's maltreatment?

Nigel left the reading room. Throughout the afternoon, at intervals, he had spotted Dave Duckworth.

Each time he looked over, Duckworth turned away, though it was clear he was watching their movements.

He headed for a bank of computers that held the online census returns. As he sat down, there was a light tap on his shoulder.

'Who was your friend?'

He turned around. It was Duckworth.

'I'm just doing a bit of work, Dave.'

'Private client?'

'Something like that.'

'Just that he looked like a detective, that's all.'

Nigel stared back, saying nothing.

'Perhaps you've got pohce protection now.'

What was he on about?

'Maybe someone has taken a contract out on your life.' A smile played on his greasy lips. 'Perhaps the family of a nubile history student.'

Nigel kicked back his chair and stood up. 'You've been speaking to Gary Kent, haven't you?'

Duckworth backed up theatrically, eyes flicking right and left, hands up. 'Calm down. Kent told me about your woman trouble at the university. Never had you down as that sort.'

'What sort is that, Dave? She was a mature student, twenty-nine years old, two years younger than me.

An adult. Don't make me out to be some sort of predator who stalks young women. Now leave it.

And tell your mate Kent to fuck off, too.'

He was shocked to hear the venom in his voice, and an expletive he rarely used. Those seated around them had stopped peering at their screens and had turned their gaze on him. A security guard appeared at his shoulder.

'Could I ask you to lower your voice, sir, and mind your language?' he said. 'Otherwise I will have to ask you to leave.'

Nigel continued to stare at Duckworth, but nodded to acknowledge the security guard, then unbailed his fists and sat back down. Duckworth took the seat next to him.

'Dave, I have never ever been thrown out of an archive. But, at the moment, it seems worth it - if only to have the satisfaction of punching you in the face,' he hissed. He had never hit anyone in his life either, but his threat was genuine.

'I'm sorry,' Duckworth said. 'One wasn't very tactful.

It has never been my forte, as you are well aware.

It's just that I sense an opportunity here for you and, yes, me too, to make ourselves a few pounds at the expense of the fourth estate. Kent was telling me they have a man in custody. I am helping him out with his researches into Terry Cable's background, and helping him locate a few relatives. He's already compiling a piece about his troubled life, what made him a killer. He's been informed by a reliable source that Cable is guilty and will be charged.'

'That's what I've heard, too,' Nigel lied.

'The thing is, Kent is also desperate to find out what the historical background actually is. Why were you involved? What was the family history angle?

It would be an exclusive -- and, let's just say, the remuneration would not be insignificant.'

Nigel shook his head slowly.

'If you were reluctant to use Kent - after all, he is not everyone's cup of lapsang souchong -- there are several other reporters I can name who would sell their own daughters for this tale.'

Nigel just wanted to get on with his search. If he threatened Duckworth again, he would be thrown out. He could always go to the FRC but, by the time he had rattled across London on the tube, he would barely have time to get under way.

'I've made it clear that I'm not interested, Dave.

Now, please, leave me alone. Surely you have some dirt to uncover about the ancestors of some second rate celebrity.'

Duckworth shook his head, as if rueing Nigel's lack of commercial nous.

'Actually,' he sniffed, 'as well as the Cable stuff, I have a very lucrative private client. Doing a bit of bounceback for him; been doing it for several months. Currently working my way through some Metropolitan Pohce records. Without much luck.'

'Good for you,' Nigel said, staring at the screen.

'You know, Nigel,' Dave said, standing up, 'there's no point returning to this job if you're not willing to adapt to the times. Private clients are all well and good when they pay well, but there's a fortune to be made from the press and media. I've got three jobs for TV companies at the moment: I'm hiring people to help me out. I can put a lot of work your way, if you're interested.'

Nigel ignored him.

'Suit yourself,' Duckworth said and shuffled away.

Much as it pained him, Nigel knew Duckworth was right. Private chents alone did not pay the bills and well-paid jobs involving serious research, losing yourself for weeks in another world, were rare. The best-paid jobs came from the press, either wanting you to trace the ancestry of the newsworthy and famous, or tracing descendants and relatives of someone in the pubhc eye they could doorstep, and from TV companies seeking to satisfy their thirst for new formats. Working for the pohce might be thrilling, but it would soon end and was unlikely to lead to anything else. Given his paucity of chents, the time may well come when he would be forced to take a long spoon and sup with Duckworth.

That was for another time. Here was a job in which he could lose himself; and it was unfinished. The future could wait.

He entered Eke Fairbairn's name into the 1871

search field, typed London and hit enter. Two results.

One fitted the bill. He was sixteen years old, living on Treadgold Street, North Kensington with his father, Ernest, and mother, Mary Jane. There were no other siblings in the home at that time. Nigel went back to 1861: the family were at the same address, Eke was six, and there was a girl, Hannah, aged nine, and a boy of four, Augustus. What had happened to Augustus in the intervening ten years? Perhaps he had died, which may have explained why the Fairbairns did not have any more children. Hannah was different; she would have been nineteen by 1871 and may well have married. He made a note in his notebook to search out a death certificate for Augustus and a marriage, or death, certificate for Hannah.

The Fairbairns left Notting Dale, probably to escape the shame and opprobrium Eke's conviction had brought upon them. But where did they go? He scoured records for London, then widened out to the whole country, but found no trace of an Ernest and Mary Jane Fairbairn living together, or who were single, and the right age. He scoured online death certificates and found his answer: Ernest died aged forty-six in 1881; Mary Jane's demise came two years later at the age of forty-five. In the same records he found confirmation of the death of their son, Augustus.

The National Archives were about to close. There was no more to be done here. He knew Hannah was the only survivor of the Fairbairn family. Had she managed to continue the bloodline?

It was late and Foster's suit wore the ammonia smell of the tower block when he arrived home. Without even pausing to take his jacket off, he booted up his sleek chrome laptop that lived on the kitchen table.

It was the only time he used that piece of furniture; most of his food was eaten standing up, late at night or early in the morning.

He charged a large glass of wine and sat back down as the computer chuntered and whirred. The top of his head felt as if it was in a vice, pressure pulsating both sides. Each time he raised his eyes to focus, he felt a dull ache behind them.

The killer, if he was still at large - and something told Foster he was - was due to strike the next night.

The very next night, they would discover if Terry Cable was the right man: if no body was found, it meant Harris's confidence was justified. If not, well, they had a fourth murder on their hands. Foster wanted to do all he could to prevent that happening.

By nine that evening he, Heather and Khan had knocked on the door of every single flat in the block.

They had a list of everyone: who lived where, which flats were vacant, which had new tenants, all cross referenced with the electoral roll. There was little they could do about the empty flats, or those where they had received no reply, other than to watch while the hours counted down. He was meeting Heather at six the following morning to do just that.

He wanted help: the whole area under surveillance, ART if possible. He'd spoken to Drinkwater. The suspect still hadn't been charged and they were going before the court the next morning to ask for another forty-eight hours. They were convinced of Cable's guilt; he had no alibis for any of the nights when the victims had disappeared, nor when their bodies were dumped. But they had not found any physical evidence, and Cable was not confessing.

Foster rang Harris to ask for help watching the tower block, but was knocked back; they were all employed trying to produce something with which to charge Cable.

'He's our man,' Harris kept repeating.

Forest gave up. He asked to interview Cable, to look into his eyes and see him speak.

Harris was adamant he should take a few days off.

'You look exhausted, Grant,' he said.

Foster knew Harris didn't want his doubtful, brooding presence undermining the certainty of his men.

He checked his watch. If he went to bed now he could get seven hours' sleep, perhaps ease the ache in his head. But Nigel's words at the National Archives kept ricocheting around his brain. 'Anyone who seeks to forget the past has a corpse in the basement,' he had said, words that carried a gruesome resonance for him. Foster had done all he could to forget his past and its terrible events, devoting himself to work, surrounding himself with gadgets and shiny things, medicating himself with alcohol, in effect shutting down his life. Yet this case had brought forth a torrent of memories and images of his father and his final hours.

He forced himself to think of the case -- was there anything he and Heather had neglected to do? -- but Nigel's words haunted him still. Perhaps Harris was right. Cable's arrest could have laid the events of 1879 to rest-Time would tell.

In little more than twenty-four hours they would know if the past was about to give up more of its dead.

He was sinking further. Tumbling head over paw into his own private Hades. His state of mind matched the squalor and filth and degradation of the stinking Dale in which he now plied God's work. Jemima and the little ones kept well out of his way. For days he had not seen them, and when young Esau had crossed him that morning following his ablutions, he had whimpered and cried and sought sanctuary in his mother's skirts. Her look was one of horror and bewilderment, no recognition for the creature he had become. But this was the Lord's work he was doing he could not rebel, nor ignore his calling. God had total authority. He remembered Saul and knew he could not deviate from this chosen path. It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.' It was for someone to show these pitiable creatures the foolhardiness of their ways, to show them the consequences of their alcoholic servitude. By walking the streets of that benighted Dale, those London avenues, gateway to the infernal regions, he could see his actions were justified; there were few souls staggering to and fro in their drunkenness, few women of loose virtue to allow those same fools to claw and paw at their soiled flesh. His mission would soon be over, he knew that; but these streets would be cleaner and less putrid for his actions.

Then he would meet his judgement.

The Dale was deserted, he noted with satisfaction. His fingers sought and held the hilt of his blade in his pocket, twitching against the cold steel. In this moment of distraction he inhaled through his nose, and at once almost retched at the sulphurous, rancid stink. He was not but a short walk from that mephitic swamp the local folk called the Ocean. A collection of clay pits in an ignored brickfield, great holes where stagnant water, pig effluent and human excrement and waste had gathered to create one noxious pond with an unholy stink that stayed in the nostrils for days. Swiftly, from the pocket of his woollen coat, he brought a handkerchief doused with scent and clasped it to his gagging mouth. The nausea passed. He stood up, chastised. Until the deed was done, or the Ocean's miasma was downwind, he could take air only through his mouth.

He walked down the new Walmer Road, past those streets of shame. Nowhere in London was more degraded and abandoned than life in those wretched places. He shuddered when he thought of what passed for life in that acre of sin surrounding William Street and the disgusting habits of the deluded fools who inhabited them. Yes, these people were poor, but what little money they had they squandered. Dissolute half clad girls smoking in lice-ridden rooms, plying their awful trade with the steady inflow of certain submerged and criminal types.

They needed to learn the error of their ways. Once again his hand clasped the hilt of his dagger as he felt his gorge rise.

He managed to pass the despicable swamp without retching then turned right on to St James Square, the air becoming cleaner, breathing easier among the respectable class whose dwellings sat around that glorious church. It made his heart swell to see its awe, silhouetted against the mild night sky.

Passing it put purpose in his step, not that it had been waning.

He followed the road until it joined Saint Ann's Villas, where he turned left towards the Royal Crescent on the edge of the Dale. A quick right took him down Queen's Road. There were more people present here, the terror not as strong. He would soon change that. . .

He stood by the chapel on Queen's Road, hidden in the shadows, watching that place. The Queen's Arms. The stench of ale, wafting towards him on the breeze, was overpowering almost as unbearable as the stink from that stagnant pit he had passed earlier. Again he breathed only through his mouth.

He twisted his neck to one side, hearing it crack and feeling the relief from the pressure. He was calm, prepared, ready.

The door of the pub swung open; two men stumbled out.

They squared up to each other, as if fixing for combat. But another emerged to intervene and one was pushed away, turning to leave. A huge man. He let him pass by, not wanting to risk such a mighty foe. Seconds later the other protagonist in the brawl that never was staggered from the public house, muttering obscenities and oaths at no one in particular. Much more like it, he thought.

The smaller man hawked phlegm into his throat and expectorated copiously into the street. Then he adjusted his cap and set off walking veering slightly to his left before righting himself.

Once more he brought phlegm into his throat and cleared it.

He shook his head, as if to rid it of the fug and increased his speed. 'Bastards,' he muttered to himself In the shadows he waited to see which way his victim would go. Praise God, the man went straight on, towards him. The man crossed the road, expectorating once more. He felt the knife in his hand and stepped from the shadow, falling in behind. The man turned instinctively, saw him and stopped.

Aye, what's this business?' the man slurred, his face pulled, addled.

Without breaking stride he continued walking to him, pulled the knife from his pocket and drove it home, twisting sharply when it was sunk to the hilt.

The victim's eyes turned glassy, rolled heavenwards -- he would find no comfort there -- and a gasp of air hissed from below, accompanied by the gurgle of his death. When he pulled the knife clear, the man collapsed to the floor. Immediately he picked up his quarry, carried it ten yards to a patch of ground upon which it seemed they were building yet more dwellings.

Like a doll, he tossed it to the ground, not even bothering to hide the fruits of his labour. Only then did he look around: he saw no one. He was truly blessed. He replaced the knife in his pocket and hurried away from the scene, yet another night's work complete.