by Dan Waddell
The National Archives were his destination. At Kew Bridge the traffic formed a bottleneck to cross the river, and his patience broke. He got out and walked the last half-mile. A soft rain began to fall.
The lights of the archives were on, casting a glow across the shadowed lake. As Nigel approached a security guard unlocked the door, checked his bag and allowed him through. He headed straight upstairs to the main reading room. A young staff member, a pale, pencil-thin PhD student, who looked as if he saw daylight by accident, was waiting to fetch and retrieve. As Nigel had requested, he had laid out a series of ledgers and documents on a reading table. Service records for the Metropolitan Police.
Nigel recognized a problem immediately. In 1881 Pfizer was forty-three. There was a gap in the record of new recruits between 1857 and 1878, almost certainly the era in which Pfizer would have signed up. So he went first to the Register of Leavers, which began in 1889. Pfizer would have been in his fifties by then; he would have done his time. Nigel hunted through several volumes of dry pages for his name, taking his search up until the turn of the century, well beyond the date he would have retired. No sign of any H. Pfizer. If there were no records of him leaving, there would be no record of any pensions, ruling out yet another source. He checked the lists detailing the deaths of serving officers, which expired in 1889. No Pfizer in there. These records would not solve the mystery.
Foster pulled up outside the pub and parked on a single yellow. He could see through the large glass windows that the Friday-night crowd was out in full, braying force. Inside there was barely standing room. He fought his way to the bar. No sign of the barman behind the counter. In fact, he didn’t recognize any of the staff from the previous Sunday.
He tried to recall the barman’s name through the fog of exhaustion. He’d said it on the phone. Karl, that was it. He asked one of the other staff, a tall blonde with her hair tied back in a bun.
She motioned towards the door with her head. ‘He’s not working tonight. But he was here.’
‘He’s gone to get some money out,’ added another member of staff, passing by with two brimming pints in her hand.
Nothing to do but wait, Foster thought. A couple vacated two bar stools next to where he stood. After hearing what Karl had to say, unless it was so significant that it required immediate action, he was going home, so he ordered a pint. The pub was loud but, given his weariness, it felt good to be surrounded by people, by music, by conversation, by life.
The pint came. He took a long slug, feeling the tension ebb. There was a tap on his shoulder. Karl. He was dressed in denim, jacket and jeans.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Cash crisis.’
Foster said he didn’t mind. Karl ordered a bottle of lager Foster had never heard of and took the stool next to him. Foster began to feel hot, as if all the blood was running to his head. Tiredness, he thought. His system was fusing; his body struggling to regulate his own temperature. He yawned, unable and unwilling to stop himself.
‘Hard week?’ Karl asked.
‘You could say that,’ Foster muttered.
Karl cast a look over his shoulder at the teeming pub. ‘Busy in here tonight,’ he said.
Foster noticed his right leg danced as he spoke, unable to keep still. He took another sip, not in the mood for small talk.
‘What’s funny is, that this place is full of young rich kids,’ Karl said. ‘Princedale Road used to be the epicentre of the counter-culture and political protest of the 1950s and 60s.’
‘Really?’ Foster said, interest awoken.
‘Yeah, just up the road at number 52 is where they founded Oz magazine. You know, the one that urged people to “Turn on, Tune in and Drop dead”? Got closed down; the publishers were sent to Wormwood Scrubs on obscenity charges. Then, at number 74, you had the opposite side of the coin in the 50s, the White Defence League, who wanted to keep out the blacks. And, at number 70, there was Release, the first drug-awareness charity. Now we’ve got two gastro-pubs and not a lot else.’
‘You know your stuff,’ Foster said.
‘Local history is a bit of a hobby of mine. This area has a lot of stories in its past.’
Tell me about it, Foster thought. ‘So what is it you wanted to tell me? Something about Dammy Perry?’
Karl nodded. From the back of his jeans pocket he pulled a pack of cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply, as if sucking all the goodness out of it. Foster felt the familiar pang.
‘Want one?’
Sod it, Foster thought. Once a smoker always a smoker. He nodded. Karl pulled a cigarette out and handed it to him. Foster took it, enjoying the feel of it between his forefinger and index finger, rolling it back and forth. It was the sensuousness of smoking he missed as much as the nicotine; the pack in his pocket, tapping the cigarette on the pack, sliding it between his lips, watching the smoke curl in the air.
He leaned forwards. Karl sparked his lighter and lit the cigarette for him.
‘Yes, it dawned on me this morning. Don’t know why it didn’t earlier.’
Foster drew long and hard, taking the smoke deep into his lungs where he held it, filling every space.
‘Not sure how significant it is…’
Foster exhaled. The world in front of him swam. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Karl’s, he presumed. He was about to ask what he was doing, but his head felt hot, hotter than before, then like it was filling with water. His chin lolled on to his chest. His body weight went with it, making him lurch forwards. He would have fallen off the stool but for Karl’s hand.
‘Easy,’ he heard a voice say.
Noises swirled; his vision blurred.
‘What’s wrong?’ a woman’s voice asked.
‘It’s OK. He’s a mate. Had a bit too much. Don’t worry, I’ve got him.’
The voices sounded miles away.
Then the world went white.
25
Nigel accessed the site where it was possible to search thousands of passenger manifests for ships that left Britain during the 1880s. There was a chance Pfizer had chosen the New World or one of the colonies as a final destination. An experienced Scotland Yard detective would have no trouble in finding well-paid work overseas. There was no Pfizer listed.
He went to the Map Room. On a series of low shelves at the furthest end of the room were deed poll records. A ledger for each year from the 1850s onwards. Nigel decided to start with 1882 under P. He found nothing for that year, or the next.
In 1884 he got his break.
There he was. Pfizer, Henry. February. Below him were Pfizer, Mary and Pfizer, Stanley.
This was not unusual. Many immigrants changed their names. Brauns became Browns and Schmidts changed to Smiths. People sought to avoid the suspicion and the wariness of their new neighbours or, if they had taken British nationality, to declare fealty to their new adopted country with an anglicized name.
Few did it officially, like Pfizer had. It was not compulsory and it cost money. Often people did not want to draw attention to the change; they might have been unable to obtain a divorce, so just took their new partner’s name for appearances’ sake and to avoid accusations of illegitimacy being hurled at their children. Yet Nigel sensed that, if anyone would take the bureaucratic route and enshrine the change in law, a policeman would.
There remained one problem. The indexes before 1903 did not give the person’s new name, the information he required to trace the bloodline forwards. What he did have was a date. Pfizer might have changed his name by deed poll, but no one was to know unless he advertised it. The most common method was to place a notice in the press. Unfortunately, Nigel was at the wrong place for newspaper archives.
He turned instead to the Phillimore and Fry Index to Change of Name 1760–1901. This was the sort of insane, backbreaking project to which genealogists had always been attracted. The two authors had dedicated their working lives to transcription – collecting and collating all kinds of information for the benefit of future genealogists. F
or this volume they had combed 241 years of names which had been changed by private acts of parliament, or royal licences published in the London and Dublin Gazettes, as well as notices published in The Times, and put them all in one index.
It was also shelved in the Map Room. He found it and laid it out on the table, turning immediately to P. The entries were typed, listed alphabetically. He scrolled down through the Ps until he saw it.
Pfizer, see Foster.
Nigel stared at it for a few seconds, not registering. Surely not, he thought. He found the index entry for Foster. There were several. But there it was. Foster, H: Pfizer, H of Norfolk Place, Paddington, London. The entry had been gleaned from an advertisement placed in The Times of 25th February 1884.
He went to the 1891 census. There was Henry Foster, police detective, living at Norfolk Place, Paddington with his wife, Mary. Stanley had obviously flown the nest. By 1901 it appeared that Henry was dead because Mary was living on her own.
This had to be a coincidence. He rang Foster’s mobile. It was switched off. He tried Heather. She was on her way to meet him.
‘I’ve found Pfizer.’
‘Good.’
‘He changed his name,’ he said. ‘To Foster.’
She remained silent. ‘You don’t really think…’ she eventually said.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘But we need to get into the FRC again and find out.’
Another taxi ride across town and Nigel was back at the FRC. Heather was waiting for him.
‘Foster’s gone home to sleep, which explains why the phone is off. Someone’s going round to knock him up. Make sure he’s all right,’ she explained, as if there was nothing to worry about, though anxiety seeped from her pores. She disappeared to make a few further calls.
Nigel went to the death indexes to check on Pfizer/Foster’s death. Aged fifty-four, in 1892. Cancer. His only son, Stanley, married and followed his father into the Met, starting as a constable, rising to detective. He had four children, only one boy, Stanley junior. He had only one child, a boy, Martin Foster, before he joined up and met his death at Passchendaele in 1917. Martin carried on the family trade, policeman, and had four children, including two boys, Roger and James.
Roger married in 1959. Nigel turned to the birth indexes from that point onwards. In the first quarter of 1960, the couple had a child.
Grant Roger Foster.
He cross-referenced with the mother’s maiden name. Definitely the right child.
He sat down, put his head in his hands. Foster was a direct descendant of Henry Pfizer.
He did not notice Heather at his side.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ she said.
He nodded slowly.
‘Foster’s not at home,’ she said, voice faltering. ‘He was at a family history meeting with Drinkwater earlier this evening. Andy said he got a phone call, something to do with the case, didn’t say what, and he left in his car, didn’t say where. His phone’s off, we’re getting the records. We’ve checked his usual haunts. All the hospitals, too. Nothing as yet.’ She breathed deeply. ‘He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’
It was relief he felt when he withdrew the knife from the wretch’s still-beating heart. Relief that the Lord’s work was done; relief that one less drunken fool was able to bespoil His work; relief that now he could turn his attentions to his next task. ‘Be ye angry and sin not,’ said the Lord. ‘Let not the sun go down on your wrath.’
His righteous anger coursed through this earthly vessel. His head pounded with it. Yet the time was nigh when that sun would fall and he would accept the bountiful gifts of the Lord in Paradise.
The drunk was left gurgling and spluttering for his misbegotten life. Through the night he heard the distant wail of the trains rattling to and from Paddington. Those screams and the rustle of the cool wind were the only sounds he could hear. He stood and waited for the drunk to relent in his pathetic resistance to death. When, after one futile heave of his wounded chest, his victim fell silent, he walked away. He checked his pocket watch for the time and left the scene of his final act.
He turned out of Powis Square, on to Talbot Road. He went left, walking past the awe-inspiring temple of All Saints, looming majestically in the fog. It struck once, dolefully. Behind him came the murmur of voices, the short blast of a whistle. Thank heavens for the fog that cloaked and hid him.
His journey took him to the junction with Portobello Road, a street for which he possessed nothing but distaste; his small shop struggled to cope with the markets and bigger stores that were opening along that winding road. A few peelers passed him, agitation on their faces. He scurried on, his hand in his pocket clutching the handle of the knife, passing underneath the railway bridge, turning left and then walking all the way down to Pamber Street.
All was still. Their small house sat silent and dark above the shop. Everyone was asleep. He thought of them up there, warm in their beds, unaware of the craven wickedness of the world into which they had been born. This world is no place for the innocent and pure, he told himself.
He opened the door slowly. The smell from that evening’s boiled meat still filled the house. He always demanded silence during mealtimes but, that evening, he had relented, allowed Rebecca to tell him of her day. Abigail muttered a few words. Yet, despite his efforts to make conversation with them, Jemima and Esau did not speak. They appeared to enjoy the ham, which was some comfort.
He slipped off his shoes but the jacket stayed on.
This world is no place for the innocent and pure, he repeated.
He put his foot on the first stair, creaking under his weight. He stopped. No sound. He continued, putting no more weight on the ball of each foot than was necessary. As he neared the landing he could hear the soft breath of his children rise and fall in their sleep.
Jemima appeared at the top step like a ghost.
‘Segar?’ she whispered.
He looked at her. He felt pity, no more. She had borne him three children, but the woman was godless at heart. She prayed only because she knew he would visit his anger upon her if she did not. A simpering creature.
‘It is me,’ he said.
‘Are you hungry? Do you wish to eat?’
He shook his head and stepped on to the landing. He could smell the soap on her. For a second he was transported to another time, a distant land in which he remembered promenading hand in hand through Hyde Park, the sun on their backs, her beaming with joy, him with pride.
A different time, he told himself. I was a different man. The call had not yet come.
‘No.’
He brushed past her and made his way to the children’s room. They slept in the one bed. Outside the door of his little ones, he listened. Not a murmur.
He stepped in. It was darker in here and he waited until his eyes had adjusted. When they had, he could see Abigail asleep on the left side of the bed, arm hanging outside. Rebecca was on her back, head on the pillow. Both were in a deep sleep.
He walked over. Abigail turned and murmured. When the time came he would spare them the knife and find some other way to send them into Paradise. The idea of hurting his darling twin girls, the only two people on the planet for whom he cared, who made him smile, made him feel of this earth, was abhorrent. Both girls were bold, yet enjoyed their scripture. Not like Esau. He went to church under duress. A timid boy, he rarely ventured far from his mother’s skirts. For the past month he had been unable to look in his father’s eyes, terrified by what he saw there.
But where was he now? He looked either side of the bed. He was not on the floor, as he sometimes was, escaping the flailing arms and legs of his two younger sisters. He left the room. Esau was not in his parents’ bedroom either; Jemima swore on her life he had gone to bed and not been seen since.
He stopped for a second. Had the boy grown suspicious? Sneaked from the house and followed him? The boy was smart, perhaps too smart. He yawned. It could wait. Esau would return.
In the morning the truth would be found. Then he would use the belt.
26
Foster felt as if he was emerging from the deepest sleep he had ever experienced. Semi-conscious, it was a few seconds before he even considered the effort of opening his eyes. He was lying down, but his body was unable to move. It had yet to catch up with his mind.
What had happened? He remembered the pub. Then nothing. Had he been that tired? Collapsed maybe, brought home. Yet this didn’t smell like his room. It smelled musty – a heavy scent of cardboard, like some of the archives Barnes had taken him to. He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling by a dirty white flex. There was no other source of light, natural or not. The ceiling was bare concrete, immaculately clean. The walls beneath it appeared pockmarked. As his eyes adjusted, he could see they were lined with what seemed to be eggboxes, an attempt at soundproofing perhaps.
Foster felt his limbs prickle. Feeling was returning. Why had it gone? He attempted to lift his right hand, but it wouldn’t move. Something tight was holding it down, a strap of some sort. Likewise his other hand, his arms, both legs and chest. His clothes were gone, save for his boxer shorts. He tugged hard with his right hand, but the binding wouldn’t give. He patted the surface he was lying on. A bed of some sort. There was a flutter of panic in his stomach.
To his left were piles of boxes stretching to the ceiling. To the right were more boxes, some items of furniture, a chest of drawers and a cabinet. Either side of the bed there were perhaps three or four feet of room. However hard he tried to lift his head, he was unable to see what lay behind or in front of him, but he could sense more clutter looming. It was like being surrounded by the entire contents of a house.
There was a shuffling sound from a corner, outside of his vision. He was aware of breathing, a presence.
‘Is someone there?’ he mumbled.