by Dan Waddell
Each hour was vital. Leave was cancelled, overtime a necessity, accepted without question. The likelihood that she had been meeting a lover, or prospective lover, at her home had given them a renewed sense of purpose. They were in touch with every dating agency they could find to see if Katie Drake was on their books. Foster kept coming back to the entry in her daughter's diary: 'Can't have met a man cos she not been out in years. . .'
The computer was ready. He joined the Internet, a home from home for the six months of his recovery. But he bypassed the motoring sites, the poker sites and the message boards where he debated the modern world with anonymous Internet warriors, and headed straight for the Internet Movie Database. There he entered Katie Drake's name into the search field. In return he was met with her entire TV output and a picture, showing dark hair that fell alluringly over hooded eyes, full lips and a look of youth that bore little similarity to the mutilated corpse he had seen earlier that day. She had been, as her ex-husband said, a real beauty.
There was a short biog that mentioned her training at RAD A. Foster made a note to check their records in the morning. Her CV appeared to list every popular TV show of the last two decades of British television, among them a long-running police drama so inauthentic that simply the sound of the theme tune raised Foster's hackles. She appeared in two different bit parts more than a decade apart, the makers presumably assuming their viewers had short memories.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He was aiming to get back to work for 6 a.m. the next morning, well before the search for Naomi resumed at first light. In his mind he reviewed all that he knew about Katie Drake. An actress who took the first opportunity to leave her smalltown upbringing and head for London, where she quickly got work. The dream appeared to be going well, regular theatre and television work, until she had her daughter. But even then, she was soon back at work, though when her husband left her it dried up. From that point it had never recovered. Her daughter had become her life but at the back of her mind her missed opportunity must have gnawed away at her. She started to drink, heavily it seemed, and retreated from the world. Foster glanced at his glass of wine. He wondered what a fourteenyear-old's diary might make of his habits.
She would be fourteen now. Perhaps fifteen. The date of her birth was vague, probably because he hadn't been present. By then Linda had long gone, bored of his absences. He tried to explain that being a detective wasn't a vocation, it was a curse. She'd ignored him and said she'd rather raise a child on her own than with him, words that still cut to the quick. Not that he blamed her. He'd treated her terribly, particularly when he learned she was pregnant and determined to keep the baby, no matter how much he tried to dissuade her. Last Foster had heard they were in Edinburgh, living near her family. But that was more than ten years ago. Who knew where they were now? Happy, he hoped. He drained the glass of its remnants.
Fuck the past, he thought. As Katie Drake's story showed, there was nothing but vanquished hope and regret. Reasons to be cheerless.
He put those memories out of his mind and returned to the case. After a few moments in thought he was overcome with a dull ache behind his eyes. I'm tired, he thought, even though it's not long after midnight. He flicked off the kitchen light and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.
For the first time in months he slept without seeing Karl Hogg's face in his dreams.
A beautiful, wholesome blonde teenager from a respectable home had gone missing. Attractive mother, an actress, which meant lots of pictures on file, brutally murdered.
All in the sanctuary of their 850,000 pounds home. Innocence despoiled. A community united in shock and terror. It was all guaranteed to have the most placid newspaper editor salivating. The British press had not disappointed.
The picture Foster had seen on the Internet the previous day now stared out from the front pages of every tabloid and broadsheet, while rolling news channels cleared their schedules, star reporters put on the lipgloss, fretted over whether to do their piece to camera hair up or hair down, and decamped to the end of the road within sight of the scene.
Faced with the media's feasting, Detective Superintendent Brian Harris had taken overall charge of the investigation.
Foster had been summoned to a meeting with him, DCI Williams, DCI Chilton and a few other senior detectives. He entered with a heavy heart, and fended off the inquiries into his health and well-being with as much good humour as he could muster. Harris looked pale and drawn but grimly determined. What wonderful strategy does he have in store for us? Foster wondered.
His spirits rose when Susie Danson, former forensic psychologist turned professor of applied psychology, entered the room, trailing a strong scent that instantly afforded him a remembrance of investigations past. It had been four or five years since he'd last seen her, but time had treated her well. Same dyed-blonde bobbed hair, same pale-blue eyes lit by a fierce intelligence, same flame-red lipstick. She was wearing a tight blue suit, white low-cut top underneath her jacket. He thought she'd given up criminal profiling in favour of writing books, giving lectures and making money.
Harris introduced her to those who hadn't had the pleasure, as if she was the Queen and they were a football team, putting a slightly creepy hand on her back as he ushered her round them. She nodded politely, almost brusquely. He came to Foster last.
'DCI Grant. . .'
'We know each other pretty well,' she interrupted, and flashed him an immaculate smile. 'How've you been, Grant?'
Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?' he said, shaking her hand. 'I've been better.'
"Yes, I heard,' the smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. Foster wasn't sure if it was clinical.
'I've asked Susie to get involved because she's the best there is,' Harris explained to the group. 'She's had a look at the files, the autopsy report and the scene. She's going to help us narrow the search.
Good, Foster thought. Before he'd met and worked with Susie Danson, he'd dismissed profiling as a bit of well-meaning mumbo-jumbo. She had taught him otherwise.
Harris gestured that the floor was hers.
'Gentlemen,' she said, surveying the room, her file in front of her. 'Of course, all that I'm about to say is based on only a glancing acquaintance with the facts. These are some impressions I've formed that you're free to do with as you wish. I'm going to try and come up with a more considered opinion but you know as well as I do how time in these cases is utterly crucial'
She paused, looked down at her notes, clasped her hands in front of her.
'This killer was organized,' she said. 'There was no frenzy -- he was cool, calm, collected and methodical. This was planned, not opportunistic. There was no sexual molestation of Katie Drake. He did not masturbate near the body, strip her or interfere with her in any way, pre or post mortem. There is an absence of any sexual desire in her killing. However, given what she was wearing, the fact she allowed him entry, all suggests he has charm. She wanted him. I'd suggest this is a man in his late thirties at the youngest, but probably in his forties and still in pretty good shape. I'm also convinced his intended target was Naomi and that his interest in her is sexual and predatory.
He reasoned the way to abduct her was to befriend her mother, whom he knew to be vulnerable.'
No one said anything. Foster knew Susie didn't like these briefings to be a soliloquy. That she liked her opinions to be challenged. 'But why did he kill Katie?' he said.
Why not just abduct the daughter? Most paedophiles don't kill other people to get to their targets.'
'Good point,' she said, nodding. 'I've given that a lot of thought because, as you point out, it doesn't fit the usual pattern. But we know that paedophiles can be very enterprising and very determined. Maybe he deduced that the only way he could abduct Naomi was by getting inside her house to do it. Fourteenyear-old girls are not easy prey, not so easy to pluck off the street, unless he knew her very, very well. I guess he decided his best method was to charm and seduce her mother and
be inside the house when she came home. And that to abduct Naomi without her mother preventing him he needed her silenced.'
'What sort of bloke do you think we're dealing with?'
Harris asked.
"I think this man has dated women. I think he's probably of above-average intelligence. His real interest is young girls, early teenagers, on the verge of womanhood, between the ages of eleven and fifteen. You need to look at men who might have been charged with sexual offences with women of that age group, and men who have been charged with offences against their girlfriends' daughters, or even their own daughters. Start with the local area and move out. I'd also add that your killer obviously drives. He is also reasonably fit and strong. I think I can come up with some more given time.'
'Thanks, Susie,' Harris said. 'That's all very helpful.' A murmur of assent passed around the gathering. She flashed a quick smile but her look swiftly became sombre once more.
What about a media appeal?' Foster said. "I spoke to Naomi's dad. He's willing to do one.'
Your call,' she said. 'Some paedophiles get their kicks from watching the family of their victims suffer. That may well be playing right into his hands.'
"I agree,' Harris said. 'Let's make him sweat.' The others nodded their heads.
"I don't,' Foster said. 'A girl is out there, perhaps still alive. We need the public as our eyes and ears if we're going to find her quickly.'
Harris went silent for a while. We'll revisit this later, but for now we hold the appeal back for another day.'
'Fair enough,' Susie said. 'But I can only echo Grant's point about finding her quickly. You know the rule in these cases -- find them sooner rather than later, or they're dead. These cases very rarely have happy endings. He will almost certainly kill Naomi once she's served her purpose.
If she's not dead already, you have three or four days maximum or you're looking for a corpse.'
After the meeting broke up, Harris asked Foster to stay behind.
"I owe you a coffee,' Foster said to Susie as she left.
"I'll hold you to it,' she replied.
Harris closed the door behind her. 'Grant, how does it feel to be back?'
'Good. I suppose there have been gentler
reintroductions,
though.'
'Yes. Nasty business. But it's good to have you back when something like this breaks.'
He's flattering me. This is definitely not good news, Foster thought. Well, it's nice to know I'm appreciated.'
'Do you remember the evaluations and tests you underwent prior to your return to work?'
Remember? How could Foster forget? After three months' convalescence he'd decided to explore the idea of going back to work. It soon became clear that it might be easier to retrain as a brain surgeon. First he met with the force's medical officer, a schoolmarmish woman in her late fifties with a double-barrelled name and a fearsome bedside manner. Then he met her again. Then he met with Harris and other members of the management team. Alongside the physiotherapist he was already seeing as part of his recuperation, he was sent to see a young doctor who took it upon himself not only to check Foster's pulse and tap his chest but for some other unfathomable reason stick a gloved finger up his arse. He also underwent something called psychological evaluation with a young blonde woman in her thirties. He was then referred to a counsellor, whom he was still seeing monthly. That, actually, had been the thing that proved beneficial.
Once his evaluation was complete he went back to see the Medical Officer, who took off her glasses and sucked one of the arms before asking what was his rush, wouldn't he rather spend time at the police convalescence home in Harrogate? Foster said he would spend time in a home when he was eighty and unable to wipe his own backside, at which point she accused him of being hostile. He was referred back to another psychologist for a second opinion because his outburst was apparently in keeping with the first signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and then sent to see Harris who tut-tutted at his attitude and told him if he wanted to return to work then being aggressive towards the person whose job it was to allow him back might not be the most politic thing to do. The second opinion agreed with the first: Foster was fit to return, though with a few caveats. He then spent countless hours in meetings with a dreary woman from Human Resources to discuss a 'return to work plan'. When he pointed out in his most patient voice that he wanted that plan to be 'return to work', she'd shaken her head slowly as if he was a drooling vegetable. By this stage he'd switched off and just agreed and nodded and agreed and nodded, anything to stop the tests and the meetings and the action plans and get back to doing what he believed he did best. The upshot was that he was now back at work, with a letter at home explaining the terms of his return, but beyond noting his first date back he'd not taken any of it in.
'Vaguely.'
Harris didn't detect the rueful irony in his voice. 'One of the conditions of you returning so soon was a restriction on your working hours. For the first six months, we agreed that you should work no more than forty-five hours a week.'
He knew that bit. 'Yes, no more than nine hours a day'
And how many hours did you work yesterday?'
Foster furrowed his brow. Was he being serious? What do you mean?'
'It's hardly a difficult question, Grant. How many hours did you work yesterday?'
He was up at four, home at midnight. Take an hour or so off for getting dressed and driving to and from home.
About nineteen,' he said to Harris.
'Ten more than you should've done.'
Foster tried to speak but the words wouldn't come.
Instead his jaw flapped open like a fish. Did Harris really just say that? He ran the words through his mind again.
Yes, he had said it.
'Brian, are you being serious? A woman was murdered, her daughter kidnapped. I was on duty -- I was at the scene.
Do you expect me to clock off and go home just because it's teatime?'
'You have an action plan . . .'
'Action plan? I'm a detective. I solve crimes. I put people in prison. A fourteenyear-old girl is missing, maybe murdered. You honestly expect me to ignore all that and go along with some spurious timetable created by bureaucratic, time-serving pen-pushers with no idea of what actual police work entails?'
"I helped draw up that timetable,' Harris snapped back.
Foster put his hands on his hips, shook his head. What can I do in the face of such lunacy? he thought.
Harris took a breath and continued. 'It's my job to do what's best for this department, this police force and the people of London. And for you.'
What about what's best for Naomi Buckingham?'
Harris's face darkened once more. 'Don't flatter yourself, Grant. There are two other DCIs working full time on this case. I'm in charge. If she's alive, we'll find her.
You will help us do that, but within the bounds of your return to work action plan.'
If I hear the words 'action plan' once more then I'm going to run to the window and hurl myself into the street below, Foster thought. He ran his hand down his face.
And you've also missed your last two counselling sessions. You must keep going -- when's your next one?'
'Tomorrow, 5 p.m.'
'Then you'll go. We can cope. We need you fit and well and able to give of your best.'
Foster shook his head. It was beginning to ache. No one had been this concerned about him since his gran passed away when he was seven. His mental health appeared to be of more concern to his DS than the safety of a missing girl. The world has gone bloody mad, he thought.
'So what's happening today?' he asked, eager to switch the subject back to the investigation, even if he was to have only a peripheral role in it.
We're going speak to every paedo and pervert in a fifteen-mile radius. I will save you that particular pleasure, however, in favour of some victimology. I want you to get out there and have a word with Katie Drake's colleagues at the charity shop. Fin
d out as much about her as you can. There's some news from forensics. Good news. A hair was found on Katie Drake's clothing. Apparently, because of its length, first impressions are that it belongs to a male. I need you to try and find out who the men were in her life. The hair's being tested as we speak. Should be something new on the details later today. I'll make sure forensics give you a shout.'
'Make sure it's not too late,' Foster said. 'My action plan says bedsocks and cocoa by nine.'
Heather was waiting for him in her car outside the charity shop on Chamberlayne Road, a drab traffic-choked street that bisected Kensal Rise, a suburb that still carried a crackle of danger despite gentrification.
He parked up and walked to her new Saab, battling great gusts of wind that transformed the fine rain into blasting hoses of cold water. He got in the passenger seat and looked around. 'Very nice,' he said, inhaling the heady scent of a new car. 'Came with the promotion, did it?'
She smiled. 'Felt like treating myself 'Yeah, I heard about your mum's death. Why didn't you tell me?'
'You were off work, recovering. I didn't want to bother you with personal stuff.'
Well, you should have. Anyway, I was sorry to hear about it. How've you been?'
"I won't pretend it's been easy,' she said.
He paused, looked out of the window and watched the rain spatter against it in the breeze. 'I happen to think the death of your mum is the one that feels the most profound.
The body that carried you, brought you into the world, reduced to dust. You never get over that one -- you just learn to live with it.' He turned back to face her.
She nodded. "I know what you mean.'
Her face was pale, severe even. The eyes, usually lined with kohl and dancing with energy, anger, humour were hollow and lined with stress.
'Is everything OK?' he asked.
She smiled again but he could see there was little genuine about it. 'Just not feeling great. Loads of stress, loads of grief, loads of stuff to mull over. I didn't think it would hit me this hard. I seem to have lost a bit of faith in my judgements and myself. I'm all over the place, to be honest with you.'