by Dan Waddell
He gave it some thought. 'OK. I think they were very close. Too close, perhaps.'
What do you mean?'
Well, her mother was very possessive of her. I got the feeling that as she moved away -- grew up, met boys -- her mother would feel left out. Naomi was Katie's entire world in many respects. I actually feared for Katie when the time came to cut the apron strings. Naomi was already feeling a bit smothered by her, so she said.'
'Did they fight?'
'I think so. You know how it can be, mothers and daughters.' His face dropped. 'You don't think . . .'
Foster shrugged. We need to look at all eventualities.
You mentioned to me that your ex-wife was a good looking woman. Given the fact she'd been in the public eye, did she ever receive the attentions of any unwanted admirers?'
What? Like a stalker?'
Yes, like a stalker.'
He shook his head slowly. 'Not that I'm aware of. She did get a few letters when I knew her, blokes who'd seen her in a play or on television. She once did a nude scene in a TV play that attracted a slew of cards and letters, some rather ribald in nature. The odd photo, too. I wasn't particularly enamoured with all that but she brushed it off, made me feel a bit of a prude. But no one physically followed her or pursued her -- not that I knew of, anyway.'
Foster
nodded. They were already in touch with her agent. She might know more.
'How about family? Before we take steps like making a television appeal and using the media, we need to track down her next of kin. Make sure they're all aware of her death. Can you tell us where to start?'
Buckingham rubbed his chin ruefully. 'I'm afraid I can't.'
Why not?'
"I knew Katie for more than five years, intimately. She never once mentioned any family, and never spoke about it.'
'Never?'
'Never. I asked. I probed. But she closed down any discussion about it. She acted like she had no family. She went to school, came to London and went to drama school, and supported herself by waitressing in her spare time, which is how I met her. That's all she ever told me.'
He must have noted Foster's incredulity; he sniffed derisively, as if sharing the detective's disbelief. 'I know -- madness, isn't it? But I just grew to accept that it was a closed book. I did find out that Drake was a stage name.
You'll understand why she changed it when I tell you that her real surname was Pratt.'
'But surely Naomi must have asked, wanted to know who her grandparents were?'
'She did. But her mother always changed the subject.
She told me that one day she would do a bit of research into the family history, find out more, but she wouldn't do that behind her mother's back.'
Foster found himself looking at Jenkins.
Her eyes told him she was thinking the same.
Nigel Barnes stopped walking and brought his hands out from behind his back, holding the skull. He did it too quickly. The skull wobbled in his right hand, which was itself shaking, and almost fell to the floor. He looked at it, silently counted to three, then composed himself and looked forward.
'He has remained silent too long,' he said. One -- two --three. 'Now it's time to hear his story.'
The cameraman brought his equipment down from his shoulder. 'Good,' he said impatiently. 'Only problem with that one was I clearly saw you mouthing "one -- two -- three" before you delivered the last line.'
'And I nearly dropped the skull.'
And you nearly dropped the skull. Also, when you were walking to camera, I could see your eyes glancing down at the mark.'
Nigel cast his eyes to the floor. Three feet in front of him was an 'X', scratched into the cemetery path by the cameraman's trainer. He'd been looking at the shape for most of the twenty paces rather than at the camera, yet had still ended up missing it. He sighed.
You also look very ill at ease.'
Because I am, thought Nigel. What sort of person could walk and talk to a camera with a fake plastic skull in his hand and feel comfortable? Probably someone who had spent their life practising for such a moment in front of a mirror. The only thing Nigel had done in a mirror when he was younger was squeeze spots.
'Mind if I have a ciggie before we go again?'
The cameraman nodded. 'I need to make a call or two anyway' He looked ruefully around at the graves on either side of them. 'Think I'll go and make them on the street,'
he added. 'Seems a bit disrespectful to do it here.' He put the camera down at Nigel's feet and loped off, giving his sagging jeans an upward tug as he left.
Disrespectful, Nigel thought, sitting back on an anonymous gravestone. Unlike smoking a cigarette. He produced his fixings from his pocket and rolled a smoke. He lit it, exhaled loudly and studied the cliched, stilted script they had given him to memorize.
The call had come in a week ago. In the summer, encouraged by Scotland Yard's press office, he'd given an interview to a Sunday newspaper about his role in the Karl Hogg case. 'The Gene Genius' it had proclaimed.
'The Family Historian who helped make a savage killer history' Nigel had groaned when he read it, embarrassed by the way his role had been exaggerated, worried by what the officers who worked on the case would think of it.
Would think of him. Then the phone started ringing.
Radio, television, the odd magazine; he was too polite to say no. Not when he learned he could make some money from it. He downplayed his role, praised the police. 'Every bit the modest hero, aren't we?' a DJ from Radio Shropshire had told him, winking as if he knew what Nigel was doing. Come to think of it, what was he doing?
One of the calls had come from a TV company. They were making a pilot for a series investigating burial sites unearthed during building development. The idea was to take the remains and find out who they belonged to, how the people died, dig out their stories. Lysette, the producer, called and said she'd seen the piece and that Nigel seemed ideal. They had met in a coffee shop off Oxford Street and over lattes she ran through the idea and asked if he'd be interested in taking a screen test. Why not? he thought.
A chance to get away from rooting around in other people's pasts. Or, at least, doing it for more money and getting recognized in the street. He felt flattered. Particularly when she said they were looking for a photogenic young historian with what she called 'phwoar factor'.
So here he was, in the middle of Kensal Green cemetery on a drab morning in November, performing the televisual equivalent of patting his head and rubbing his stomach, and proving terrible at it. Guy the cameraman, now stepping back through the cemetery, hands plunged deep into a green combat jacket, had been very patient, but Nigel knew that all four attempts had been amateurish at best.
Guy hoisted the camera back on to his shoulder. 'Let's go again,' he said.
Nigel flicked his fag on to the grass and twisted his heel on it, shivering against the cold. He should have worn more than his tweed jacket, but felt it was the 'look' they wanted. He made his way back to the grave of Alfred Rossiter, 1829-1892, which marked the start of his walk.
He flexed his shoulders, drew in a breath and turned around. One -- two -- three.
'The dead are always with us,' he said, and started to walk. 'Sometimes closer than . . .'
'Cut!' shouted Guy.
What now?' Nigel asked, perplexed.
'You've forgotten the skull'
Shortly before lunch, Nigel was back in the more familiar surroundings of The National Archives. The Family Records Centre, previous home for birth, marriage and death indexes, was no more: he would not miss it. The indexes were now housed at TNA, which at least put an end to his daily pinball ride between leafy Kew and the urban grime of Islington.
A pile of undone work was growing -- a stack of birth, marriage and death certificates to track down and scour for his private clients.
He was skimming the April quarter of birth certificates for 1894 when he heard her voice call his name. He spun round and there she was. Hea
ther Jenkins.
'Hi, Nigel,' she said, her smile wary.
'Detective Sergeant Jenkins,' he replied, a lurch in his stomach.
'Detective Inspector now,' she said.
'Congratulations.'
'Thanks,' she said, smiling. 'How are things?'
'OK And you?'
Tired. I've been up all night. Murder and abduction in Queen's Park. Mother killed, fourteenyear-old daughter missing.'
'God,' Nigel said. 'How awful'
'Any chance we can get a coffee, somewhere private?'
Nigel checked his watch. Midday had just passed. 'I'm very busy, but there might be a corner of the canteen we can find.'
They walked down there in silence. Nigel didn't know what to think. Four months ago she'd broken his heart.
They'd had a few dates, when her work allowed, and it seemed to be going well. Then she disappeared. Not a word. Stopped returning phone calls or e-mails. He'd even sent a text message, a first for him. Then he wrote a letter wondering what was going on. Either something had happened or he was simply terrible in bed.
She finally sent him an e-mail. Something had happened.
Her mother had died, a sudden heart seizure; she needed time and space etcetera. He understood. Gave her some room.
A few weeks later he heard she was seeing an ex boyfriend. Confused didn't even begin to describe how he felt. It was only in the past few weeks he'd managed to stop himself thinking about it. Now here she was to remind him all over again. She seemed to sense his unease.
You must be wondering what the hell I'm here for?'
Heather said, sitting down, a fake laugh in her voice.
Well, I am actually,' he said.
'Foster and I. . .'
'Foster? How is he?' he interrupted.
'Back at work this week. He seems the same as usual; or rather, he's acting the same as usual. Anyway, we're trying to find out as much as we can about the murder victim, hope it sheds some light on her murder and where her daughter might be. We also need to track down family and next of kin so they all know before we get word out to the press. But there's a problem.'
What?'
'She was very secretive about her past. Even her ex claims to know nothing. We were wondering if you could wave your magic wand and find out a bit more about her, parents, siblings, that sort of thing. Of course we'll pay.'
'I'm on it,' Nigel said, eager to help. Heather gave him Katie Drake's details, her real surname, Pratt, which he scratched into his notebook. 'Shall I phone it through? Are you still, er, on the same number?'
'I was hoping I could stick with you as you do it, and then I'll phone it through. There's a girl missing - it's extremely urgent.' She pulled a face. You don't want me around, do you?'
He wasn't sure. 'I don't mind,' he lied.
She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. 'Nigel, one day I'll explain to you what happened. I just can't do it now. Not at a time like this.'
Nigel sipped his tea. He didn't know what to think.
But one thing he did know. A woman had been killed and a young girl was missing. He would help if he could.
This was no time to act wounded. We'd better get cracking then,' he said.
It took Nigel an hour scouring the indexes of births, marriages and deaths to discover that Katie Drake nee Pratt was born Catherine Mary, the only child of Robert and Vera Pratt of Shoeburyness in Kent. When she was four, her father died of pneumonia. A year later her mother followed him to the grave, claimed by a heart condition.
Heather's face creased. 'Poor thing. Maybe the mother died of a broken heart.'
'Perhaps,' Nigel said. 'Presumably she was adopted.'
'Can we find out who adopted her?'
'As long as you know the adoptive name you can find the child in the adoption index. But unfortunately we don't know it. Let's check anyway, and see if there's anything we can find.
He flicked through to the year of Katie Drake's birth.
You're adopted, aren't you?' Heather asked.
He nodded.
'Is Barnes your birth or adoptive name?'
Adoptive. My birth name is Wilkinson.'
Why haven't you reverted to that?'
He shrugged. 'I've always been known by my adoptive name. There never seemed any particular reason to change it back.' Nigel felt the first signs of discomfort prickle his neck. The day he found out exactly who his parents were and the reason they abandoned him would be the day he took their name. He wasn't even sure Wilkinson was his real name.
There was no mention of Catherine Pratt or Drake in the adoption index.
What happened to her then?'
Nigel shrugged. 'She could have been adopted by a relative without any need for paperwork, an aunt or grandparent.
If you want, I can trace the other members of the family. Aunts, uncles . . .'
Heather thought for a few seconds. We need to know if there's any close family we should inform about her death before it becomes public knowledge. I think it's fair to say that if she didn't speak about her upbringing, then there was nobody close to her so it doesn't really matter. I see no real point for now. Thanks for your help.'
Nigel felt the need to say something. 'I hope you find the missing girl,' was the best he could manage, as Heather shouldered her bag and turned to leave. She smiled back.
'So do I,' she said, but Nigel could sense resignation in her tone. 'Send your invoice . . .'
He held up his hand. 'That was nothing,' he said. 'It's on the house.'
You sure?'
He nodded
'OK. Very kind of you. I'd better get off,' she said, gesturing with her hand towards the door. 'Thanks again.'
'Good luck with the case. And everything else,' he said.
She smiled, fondly he thought. Then she adjusted her bag on her shoulder, and turned away.
Yet again Nigel watched her walk away from him.
The net had been cast across London. Foster stood at the window of Naomi Buckingham's bedroom, a converted attic, and looked out over the roofs and chimneys and trees that stretched westwards against a pale clouded sky, wondering where in the grey benighted city she might be. Were they still looking for a living person? He checked his watch.
Almost twenty-four hours since she left school, the last time she had been seen. If she had been abducted, all his experience told him she would be dead within days. But while her body remained undiscovered there was hope.
He turned back to face the room, watched by the blue eyes of an effeminate young English film star whose name he couldn't recall. Apart from a few books, pictures and a red plastic cup filled with pens, the desk where Naomi's gleaming new personal computer once stood was now bare, the machine removed for its contents to be searched and checked. Everything else remained in place. Her unmade bed, a few items of clothing that spilled from a giant cupboard on to the floor, a stereo and a rack of CDs, and a dressing table whose top was scattered with makeup and toiletries.
Foster stopped at a small chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with underwear. He closed it quickly.
Clothes were crammed hugger-mugger in the second and third drawers. He was about to close the third when his eyes caught sight of the corner of a thick black exercise book beneath a T-shirt. He pulled it out carefully with the thumb and forefinger of his gloved hand -- the scene was still being processed -- and immediately felt his heart beat a little faster. He opened the front page. It was her diary for the second half of that year, from late July onwards, all written in legible clear-blue pen. He pulled the chair out from beneath her desk and sat down.
The late summer entries were filled with the usual mundanities and worries of a teenage girl's mind. Feuds with friends, thoughts about boys, fears about her appearance; there was little to suggest that Naomi Buckingham's preoccupations were any different from other girls of her age. Various phrases, acronyms and abbreviations puzzled him but he was able to keep up with the main gist. He skipped a month or
so and started reading the entries for the weeks preceding the murder of her mother and her own disappearance. One extract, exactly two weeks before the murder, caught his eye.
Mum continues to be T. Pissed every time I come back. Gets embarrassing espec when got back from night out with T and L and they saw her. OMG, She was so gone, could hardly speak, sluring plus everything. This morning no mention before I went school but she looked like shit. When I got back she said she was going to order pizza and making lotsa fuss, like she knew she totally O.o. order. Still didn't stop her putting away best part of a bottle afterwards though. . .
Two days later and her mother was the subject of another entry.
Really worried by Mum. She seems so unhappy. Last night I swore I heard cryingafter she'd gone to bed. Was going to go in and ask what wrong. Didn't. This morning I asked if everything was Ok and she gave me a big smile and "yeh". Why shouldn't it be? but it must have registered, Cos when I got back from L's and a couple of glasses red had loosened her up she said "Don't worry about me love" Then said she was fine really. But, that life was a bit tough, no work, feeling a bit sorry for herself, but she'd come out of it. We put a date in for lunch on Saturday at Tate Modern, which'll be nice, because she never seems to go out. Used to have lots of friends but she never sees them now. I worry about her even though she says not to because sometimes she looks V sad.
A week on, 4 days before the murder and there seemed to have been an improvement.
Mum defo seems better, glad to say. Not seem her drink all week. Not even seen any boose in the house, which is a first. And how about this? I offered to make her coffee and she says "No, I'm off it" wanted peppermint tea instead!!! OMG!!! This from Mrs Caffeine, has someone beemed down replacement Mum from planet Zog? Seems brighter and smilier though, a bit distant. Can't have met a man, Cos she not been out in years. Maybe the chance of some work? I hope so. Prefer this clean living body is a temple Mum to pissed, sluring can't get out of bed version.
The last entry, the night before her disappearance, looked forward to her birthday - Foster could not prevent himself smiling at the words 'OMGl 14! Feel so old!' - and the skating trip to celebrate it. Nothing else.