by Dan Waddell
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 café. 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 police 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 police 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 police 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 him – Eke Fairbairn’s post-mortem.
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 fibia, 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 mu
st 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 policemen 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 misjustice 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 have 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 police 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 unballed 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 Police 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 clients 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 public eye they could doorstep, and from TV companies seeking to satisfy their thirst for new formats. Working for the police might be thrilling, but it would soon end and was unlikely to lead to anything else. Given his paucity of clients, 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 we
re 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.