by Dan Waddell
He closed the diary, rendered doleful by reading the words of a vivacious teenage girl, her whole life before her, who now probably lay dead in a ditch, the mother she appeared to care for so much murdered.
'Life sucks,' he muttered to himself.
'Tell me something I don't know.'
He looked up. Heather. She'd sneaked in unnoticed.
She was staring at the exercise book.
'The missing girl's diary,' he explained.
'Anything of interest?'
He shrugged. 'Don't know. Seems like Katie Drake was a bit of a lush, but at some time in the last few weeks of her life had a Damascene conversion and went teetotal.'
'Think it's relevant?'
'Could be, I suppose. In her diary, Naomi speculates it might be work-related. Have we spoken to her agent?'
Andy Drinkwater's done it, yeah. Said apart from one voice-over she hasn't had any work for the best part of a year, and none pending.'
'So much for that theory'
A bloke?'
'Naomi's diary appears to rule that out, too. Said she hadn't been out in years. I'm assuming she's employing teenage hyperbole.'
It was Heather's turn to shrug. 'It could be that she simply decided to clean up her act.'
'You may be right. Have they tracked down the next of kin?'
'She was adopted. Unofficially, probably by family or friends, Barnes thinks.'
Barnes? he thought. She'd always referred to him as Nigel. He'd been aware that the pair of them had something going on, not that he cared. There had been enough things for him to worry about -- like walking without agony -- without worrying whether the two of them were going to swap body fluids. They clearly hadn't. Or not for long, at least. Foster had heard she'd shacked up with an old flame, a copper from Murder South. Might explain why she seemed a bit different since he'd returned to work.
More passive, less feisty.
'How was he?' he asked
'OK.' A smile played on her lips. 'He's doing the pilot for some TV show. About digging up the dead.'
'Who's interested in watching that?' he sneered.
'You really don't watch TV much these days, do you, sir?' Heather said.
He shrugged and turned back to the window. The street below was closed, silent and empty. They had knocked on almost every door within a mile radius. So far, they had one lead, a white van seen entering the street around four o'clock the previous afternoon by two independent witnesses, who both watched it pull up somewhere near the Drake house. Neither had seen it go and so far they had no other witnesses who saw it leave. A team was spooling through hours of CCTV coverage to see if there was any sight of it. But the clock was ticking and each second that passed reduced the chance of Naomi Buckingham being found alive.
The smell in the morgue had not changed, Foster thought, as he and Heather made their way to the post mortem suite that evening. The stench of death always won through the masking scent of deodorizer and disinfectant.
He'd not missed this place: the tiled floor that echoed every footstep; the sterile, gleaming stainless-steel equipment; the unnerving quiet; and the cold that eventually seeped into your soul. But it was here he hoped the hunt for Katie Drake's killer and her daughter's abductor might begin in earnest.
Inside, a technician was preparing to stitch Katie Drake's corpse back together. Edward Carlisle signalled for him to hold on as he took the two detectives through what he'd discovered.
'The cause of death was asphyxiation,' the pathologist told them.
'She was strangled first?' Foster replied, unable to hide his surprise.
Carlisle nodded gravely. 'Without doubt,' he said. He gestured towards the woman's neck. 'In situ, the wound and blood from it hid a light ligature mark on her neck, but you can clearly see it above the cut.'
Foster leaned in and noticed a faint red weal above the gaping wound across the neck.
'The hyoid bone is broken and there is severe damage to the thyroid and cricoid cartilage. The assailant was very strong, almost certainly a man.'
At the very least that ruled out any notion that Naomi Buckingham had been physically responsible for her mother's murder, Foster thought.
'The ligature wound, as I mentioned earlier, is not too severe, so I would guess it was made of soft material, perhaps a towel or scarf
Foster guessed the killer might have removed the evidence, but made a note to tell forensics to examine every item of clothing and material in the house.
'What about the wound to the throat?' he asked.
'Committed post mortem,' Carlisle responded. 'The carotid artery and jugular vein remain intact so the cut is not actually all that deep. More of a token gesture. Your killer is right-handed by the way. There are also signs of bruising and lividity on the back. I'm not yet one hundred per cent certain, but it seems likely she was killed inside the house, then dragged outside where her throat was slit.'
That made no sense to Foster. Most killers took care to hide a body. This one had done the opposite, bundling the body from the privacy of a house out into a garden where it might be seen.
'There was no blood in the house,' Foster said. 'But there was plenty in the garden.'
Carlisle nodded slowly. 'The lividity on the back is congruent with being dragged outside, which is why I made an educated guess that he killed her inside, then hauled her into the garden where he made the wound on her throat.'
This really isn't adding up, Foster thought. Any sign of sexual activity?' he asked.
Katie Drake had let her murderer into her house. Had she allowed him into the bedroom or had he followed?
Was she surprised by his attack or quiescent? They could not rule out some sort of sex game, even though she was fully clothed.
Carlisle shook his head. 'None whatsoever.'
A few scenarios ran through his mind. Had Naomi Buckingham arrived home and interrupted the killer? Is that why she had been abducted? But he had the tools at his disposal to kill her there and then. Why risk being seen taking her away?
'Any idea of the time of death?'
'Difficult to be absolutely precise, but I'd say with some certainty that it was around mid-afternoon yesterday.'
Naomi could have disturbed the killer. Yet there had been no sign of a struggle anywhere in the house. Which indicated that Naomi might also have known her abductor and gone with him willingly, unaware that her mother lay outside murdered.
'I've sent samples of blood to toxicology,' Carlisle continued. 'The liver was quite fatty, in the first, very early stages of liver disease, which indicates the victim was a heavy drinker. Other than that she was in reasonably good physical condition. She hadn't eaten for a few hours, not since breakfast.'
Any idea when the nail varnish was applied to her fingers and toes?' Heather interjected.
Carlisle shrugged.
Heather wandered over and took a look. 'I'd say very recently. And with some care, too. She was wearing quite a lot of make-up when we found her. Mascara, foundation, lippy, the works . . . What have you done with her clothing?' she asked Carlisle, urgency in her voice.
'They're about to go forensics. They're in a bag somewhere . . .' He turned to one of his technicians for confirmation.
A few moments later the bag was produced.
Heather put on a pair of gloves and took it to an empty dissecting table, where she poured out the contents, Foster at her shoulder. She ignored the blood-soaked shirt and skirt, and went straight for a black, diamante-studded bra, which she picked up between thumb and forefinger.
'Ta da!7 she said, turning to show it to Foster, making him flinch. 'Push-up bra. Not the sort of thing you wear around the house on a Monday afternoon. As I thought: she was on a promise.'
Naomi Buckingham was wrong. Her mother did have a man.
They managed to track Sally Darlinghurst, Katie's best friend, down to a small terraced house in Kentish Town.
Darlinghurst had been out all day, but returned at some poin
t during the evening. She'd already been told the news of Katie Drake's death and her proud, handsome face, which looked familiar to Foster, presumably from one of her TV appearances, was still blanched by shock. She let Heather and Foster into her sitting room, adorned with ethnic artefacts, grotesque carved masks, a few wooden statues and colourful batiks hanging from the wall. The air smelled of incense and smoke. Once inside and seated on the sofa she lit the first of a chain of cigarettes.
Foster made their apologies and offered the usual condolences. Darlinghurst drew deeply on her cigarette, pushing away a blonde curl of hair that constantly fell over her right eye.
Awful,' she said in a crisp, well-enunciated voice. 'Just fucking awful. Any news about Naomi?'
Foster shook his head sadly. Heather explained the reason for the visit -- to build up as detailed a picture as they could of Katie Drake's life, in the hope it might lead them to her killer.
'What do you want to know?'
'What sort of person was she?' Foster asked.
'Wow,' she said. 'What a place to start. What sort of person was she?' Katie's friend looked away for a short period of time, lost in thought. 'She was honest. She was loyal. She was a fabulous mother, a good friend and a fucking good actress.'
'How long had you known her?' Foster asked.
'Sixteen years. She was twenty-one and I was a year older. We were in rep, doing a version of Salad Days. Bloody awful play. But we had a scream doing it. We came back to London and stayed friends. Through marriages, divorces, childbirth, for her at least, and all manner of job crises. She was always there for me, as I was for her.'
Foster nodded. 'How had she been recently?'
She tapped another cigarette from the pack and lit it.
'How had she been?' she said, repeating his question once more and glancing away. After another drag she answered.
'I haven't seen her for two months, though we spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago. She was . . . OK. I mean, work was causing her a bit of angst, or rather the total bloody lack of it. I'd just landed a little part in a TV drama.
Load of bloody shit it is, too, but it's work. Usually we took great pleasure in each other keeping the bastards at bay and finding work, but I did sense she was a bit deflated. I think it must have been a year since she did anything and I'd not been doing too badly in comparison . . .'
'What do you mean by "keeping the bastards at bay"?'
Heather said, the beginnings of a smile on her face.
'Oh, that? Well, when you're an actress approaching forty the work tends to thin out, either that or the roles you get are pretty shitty ones. The men, of course, just keep getting more work. But that's the way it is. You can either plug away and keep the bastards at bay, or you can give up and walk away and . . . well, God knows what you'd do. Teach, or something.' She pulled a face.
'So if work had dried up, do you know how Katie spent her days?' Foster asked.
'She read. She wrote. I know she was trying to write a novel of some sort. Two days a week she helped out in a charity shop near her home.'
'Which one?'
'Cancer Research. Other than that, I know she had other friends, ones she'd made through Naomi, other single mums.'
'What did she do for money?'
A bit of voice-over work every now and then. Crappy but it pays good money. She had a lovely, clear voice. And whatever contribution she received from her ex-husband, though most of that was towards Naomi's upkeep.'
Was there a man in her life?'
She let out a derisive snort. "Men? We'd given up on those shower of bastards a long time ago,' she said and laughed.
'Sorry, detective,' she added, looking at Foster. And no, she wasn't a lesbian if that's what you're thinking. Bloody hell, no. What I meant is that neither of us enjoyed much luck with men. Both had a failed marriage. A couple of aborted relationships since. It was a major topic between us -- that and the whole work thing. I think it must have been at least a year since her last relationship. Maybe even longer.'
Heather went through the details with her; the names of other men she'd seen in the past. Darlinghurst's memory was not too good with the details, and the ex-lovers would take some tracking down.
'But there was no one recently?'
'Not that I'm aware of. Why, do you think someone she knew did this?' Her voice betrayed her disbelief.
Foster nodded. 'We do. Can you think of anyone, absolutely anyone who would wish Katie or her daughter harm?'
'No one whatsoever,' she said without thinking. 'She was a very passionate woman, quick to anger and quite tempestuous, but she was also kind, decent and loyal.
Everyone who knew her absolutely adored her. I can't think of anyone who would do something like this.' She picked up an empty wine glass and walked towards the kitchen. 'Can I interest either of you, or is all that stuff about being on duty true?'
'I'm afraid it is,' Foster replied.
'Tea? Coffee? Water?'
Heather asked for water, Foster said he was OK.
A few seconds later their hostess re-emerged with a brimming glass of white wine and a tumbler of water.
'You'd known Katie for some time,' Foster continued.
'Did she ever speak to you about her past, her upbringing maybe?'
'Never,' she said emphatically. 'She was adopted, I know that. She once mentioned both her parents died. But she made it very clear it was a part of her life that she wanted to forget. You find a lot of people in this business are trying to escape their backgrounds - or transcend them, at least -- and she was one.'
'Did you get an indication that it was the result of some event or incident in her past?' Foster asked.
'You mean abuse?'
Foster was somewhat startled by her frankness. "I suppose I do, yes.'
Again, the scramble for a cigarette and a pause while she gave it some thought.
'No. And I don't think it was anything like that. I'm not basing it on fact, but simply because I truly think she would have told me. I just got the sense that she and whoever it was who brought her up didn't get on. She was quite wild; at least, she was back then. I sensed they, whoever they were, were quite conservative.'
'Do you know who "they" were?'
'They lived in Kent somewhere, some shithole seaside town. The bloody name escapes me. But she hated it.'
'Kent?' Heather said. 'Not Shoeburyness in Essex?'
'No, she definitely said Kent. I think it might have been Deal.'
Heather scribbled a few more notes. 'She never mentioned who the people were that raised her?'
Darlinghurst drew on her cigarette and looked away.
Then she shook her head. 'Not specifically, no. I always thought it was an aunt or something, but I don't remember her actually saying that.'
'So presumably they weren't invited to her wedding to Stephen Buckingham?'
'God, no. Few people were. Just a small group of friends at a registry office in Chelsea then a gigantic piss-up afterwards.
His parents were not amused at being frozen out.
Don't think they ever forgave him.'
'What sort of relationship did she and Stephen have?'
'Quite a good one until he started shagging everything that moved. Egregious little shit. He broke her heart. I'm not sure she ever really got over it. After he left she turned down several jobs because of Naomi. She had friends who would take her -- and I did a few times, too, when she was a bit older -- but Naomi remained the priority. Stephen did more than just break Katie's heart. He screwed up her career. Yet despite all that, she tolerated him for Naomi's sake. Actually, for the past few years her attitude towards him had softened somewhat. I remember her telling me it was difficult to stay angry for all that time. She still hated the miserable little prick, though, and with good reason.'
Foster thanked her and handed her his card in case anything else came to mind. As she showed them to the door, she remembered something.
'Last time we met Kati
e, two months ago, said she'd lost her belief
'Her belief in what?' Foster asked.
'That's what I asked her. She didn't really answer, so I assumed she meant in her ability.'
What exactly did she say?'
'She said, "There's just an empty hole where my belief used to be." That's all. Then she switched the subject.'
As she closed the door behind them, Foster saw the tears well in Sally Darlinghurst's eyes.
It was almost midnight when Foster returned to his terraced home in Acton, swallowed two painkillers and washed them down with a hearty slug of red wine. It was at least a day or two past its best and no way to treat a bottle of Haut-Brion so prized by his father, but the old man wasn't around to berate him for it and the nearest off-licence had long since closed. He refused to drink water except in times of extreme thirst. Grown men and women walking around clutching little bottles of water like a child with its milk because they were told it was good for them. When did people start asking to be treated like big babies?
He sat at the kitchen table where his laptop sat idle, and took the weight off his aching leg by pulling out another chair to rest it on. It was a familiar position. Much of the last six months had been spent in the same seat, staring at the same screen, drinking from the same glass, often until dawn seeped through the window. He avoided bed and the dread that accompanied the silence and the dark. On the nights he did try to sleep, he would wake up sweating after reliving those hours of agonizing torture at the hands of Karl Hogg: his 'payment' for the sins of his ancestor, a Victorian detective who helped speed an innocent man to the gallows, thus allowing a demented serial killer free to butcher his family, and leaving a stain on the bloodline that Hogg sought to expunge. Foster's jaw, his collarbone, wrist and shin bones had all been shattered, and his life would have been taken had it not been for Nigel Barnes's intervention. The wounds would always be with him but his spirit remained intact. Just about.
He fired the machine up and as it rumbled into life he took another gulp of wine. After visiting Darlinghurst, he and Heather had gathered together the team working on Katie Drake's murder at their Kensington headquarters to sift through what information they had, while the team scouring London for her daughter continued their search.