by Dan Waddell
A flicker, no more. The boy turned his head to him slowly, glanced at him for a few seconds, and then returned his gaze to the window.
'Don't you care about what happened to Leonie, Gary?'
There was a pause. The hate-filled eyes on him again.
This time the boy spoke. The first time. The voice unbroken yet sounding older than its owner.
'No.'
Back to the window. At least ten seconds of silence.
'You don't care whether she's alive or dead.'
This time the answer was immediate. Why fucking should I? Fucking bitch left me.'
The duty manager's face reddened. She put her hand on his arm. 'Gary, I really don't --'
'Get your fucking hand off me, you fat fucking cunt,' he screamed, flinging his arm to shake her off.
She sat back, hands up. Gary returned to his usual pose, eyes now ablaze. The duty manager looked at Foster.
'Can you give us a moment?' he asked.
She looked uncertain. 'I really shouldn't. . .'
'Five minutes. We'll be OK.' Foster noticed Gary's eyes were on him, though he avoided them.
The duty manager eventually nodded, got up. 'I'll be in my office,' she added, and left. She didn't seem too disappointed to be getting out of his way, even if it meant breaking procedure.
Foster stood up. He walked over to the pool table. He couldn't see any balls anywhere. Probably confiscated to stop the players putting them in a sock and knocking each other's brains out.
'I've got a problem, Gary,' he said, turning round to look at him. As soon as he did, Gary looked away. Got you, he thought. He put his hands in his pockets. 'Do you know what my problem is?' Nothing. 'Didn't think so. So I'll enlighten you. My problem is that I'm a murder detective.
I go after nasty people that murder other people. I'm not used to dealing with kids that steal DVD players and PlayStations. Frankly I don't give two shits about kids who steal DVDs and PlayStations. But I do care about people who've been murdered. Most of all I care about their families and friends who have to live knowing that some scumbag killed their mum, or their dad, or brother or sister and to even begin to start dealing with that horrible thought they need to know that scumbag has been caught and punished. Of course, that's never enough, but it's often a start.'
'What's that got to do wiv my sistah?' he said. The accent was broad East London.
'That's what me and my colleague here are trying to find out, Gary'
The boy looked confused.
'You see, I'm investigating a murder. Not only a murder.
But a kidnap, too. Someone not so much older than you who's been taken. Now, there's a chance that what you know will help me find that person.'
'Know about what?' Impatience had replaced anger.
About Leonie.'
'I don't know nuffing.' Anger was back.
'Gary, you're not listening to me. You don't know what I want to know. Let me ask you a few questions and -- who knows? Maybe you'll tell me something that helps. Maybe you won't. But let's try it out and we can get back to catching murderers and you can get back to whatever it was you were doing.'
'I don't help no coppers.'
'You can say that again. I've seen your record.'
Gary shook his head and tightened his arms around his chest, as if to say, 'I'm certainly not gonna help you now'
Foster looked over at Heather and nodded, before turning to the window and staring out at a miserable slab of concrete decorated by clumps of weeds pushing through the cracks.
'Gary,' he heard her say, her voice soft. 'The girl who was kidnapped is fourteen, like Leonie was. Now I know you hate the police and you don't want to help us, but you won't be helping us, you'll be helping this girl'
Foster heard Gary shift in his seat.
'This girl who's missing, some really nasty things could be happening to her now,' Heather continued. 'Truly terrible things. If we can find her, we might be able to stop them happening. Help us. Please.'
Foster kept staring out of the window. There was a patch of grass at the perimeter of the yard, against the fence, which was littered with empty crisp packets, drink cans and other debris. Beyond that was a car park and a parade of shops, only one of which wasn't boarded up.
There was little in the area to inspire the residents of this care home.
'OK,' he heard Heather say. 'Thank you.'
The kid must have nodded. Foster turned round, remained standing.
'In the days and weeks leading up to your sister leaving, do you remember anything out of the ordinary at home?
Anything strange or different?' Heather asked.
Gary held the same pose, but Foster noticed his eyes had softened. He gave it some thought. 'Not really'
'Did Leonie seem upset? Did she and your mum have a row or anything?'
Gary snorted. 'They was always fighting. Leonie didn't like her. She said we'd be better off wivout her. That she'd look after me.' The big eyes were wet. Foster could see him holding back the tears, refusing to allow himself to cry.
'She said that?'
He nodded. Bit his lip. Quickly wiped his eyes with his right hand.
'I know this is tough for you, Gary. But it all helps. Did your sister say anything, anything at all, before she left?'
Once again he shook his head.
'What about your mum? Had she been any different in the weeks before she died?'
'No,' he muttered. 'I didn't see her that much.'
Jesus, Foster thought.
'Leonie looked after you?' Heather asked.
He nodded. 'We wasn't a proper family.'
'Leonie said that?'
He nodded his head. 'The man told her.'
'What man?'
'The man what came to our house.'
Heather glanced briefly at Foster. 'What man, Gary? A friend of your mum's?' she asked.
'No. She was never there when he come.'
A friend of Leonie's?'
He shook his head. 'He wasn't no friend. But she liked him. Said he spoke the truth.'
'The truth about what?'
'Dunno.'
'What sort of things did he say, Gary?' Foster asked, speaking for the first time in a while.
Gary gave him a hostile glance. He looked back at Heather. 'I'll speak to you but I won't speak to him,' he spat out.
'OK,' Heather said, nodding. 'That's fine. Tell me. What sort of things did the man say to Leonie, Gary? Did she tell you?'
He shrugged. 'She said he told her we wasn't a proper family. He said some things about Jesus.'
'Can you remember anything else?'
Gary thought about it. 'Leonie said he told her that Jesus loved us. And that other people loved us, too. He told her one day our family could be together for ever and we would be happy'
Anything else?'
'No.' He brightened. 'He gave her a book.'
'Do you remember what that book was?'
'Dunno.'
'The Bible?'
'Dunno. It had pictures. Not like a cartoon. Old pictures.'
'What was it about? Do you remember?'
He scrunched up his face, gave it some thought.
'Dunno,' he said. 'There was a boy called Joe. He lived ages ago. He found a secret treasure.'
'What was it?'
'Can't remember. Maybe it was books?'
'Books?'
'Yeah. I think. She didn't read me no more of it. It was boring.' He sighed.
'How many times did the man come to the house?'
'Dunno. He always came when I was out playing.'
'More than once?'
'Think so. One time I came back and he was going.'
What did he look like?'
He looked briefly at Foster. 'Like him.'
What, tall and ugly?' Heather said instantly, and winked.
Gary snorted with pleasure at the comment. A bubble of snot appeared in his nose and burst.
'Very funny,' Foster said, trying
to play along.
'Seriously, how did he look the same as DCI Foster?'
'He was big. He was wearing one of them things,' he pointed to his neck.
A tie?'
Gary nodded
'Did he have hair?'
'Black hair.'
'If we got someone to draw a picture of him, would you help him?'
Gary nodded. 'He patted me on the head and said hello.
Then he got in a car.'
What sort of car?'
'It was a blue Ford Mondeo. An old one.'
Kid knew his cars, Foster thought. He'd been the same when he was that age. Obsessed with cars. He hadn't known his times tables, but he knew the top speed of an Austin Allegro.
Heather glanced up at him. He mouthed for her to ask about Gary's mother.
What happened on the day your mum died, Gary?' she asked.
A frown appeared on the boy's face. He started to scratch his left arm. He looked from side to side. Then he shook his head. 'No,' he said.
'No, you don't want to talk about it?'
'I don't remember,' he replied. He carried on scratching the back of his left arm, head shaking vigorously. His features changed. The menace returned. He began to glower. 'I don't fucking remember, RIGHT!'
Foster saw Heather flinch at the sudden rise in volume.
'That's OK,' she said softly. 'It doesn't matter.'
'I don't fucking remember,' he hissed, his legs jolting as if sparked by a current.
Heather said nothing for a few seconds, allowed Gary's anger to subside. Foster motioned to her that it was time to go. They had the post mortem report that said Gillian Stamey's death was caused by heroin toxicity, presumably self-administered. The only detail that intrigued him was the purity of the drug that killed her. It was high grade; junkie single mums on benefit would usually ingest any old smack, even if it was cut with rat poison and made them as sick as dogs. She'd been cremated so there was no chance of an exhumation. They could ask Gary about it another time if necessary, with the required psychologist present, but meanwhile there were other leads they could explore.
'Leonie isn't dead,' Gary said suddenly.
'How do you know?' Heather asked softly.
He looked at the floor. 'I just don't think she is,' he mumbled. Then he looked up, eyes brimming, anger on his face. A different kind of anger. Not hate but wronged.
'She said she'd look after me. She promised. She'll come back and get me one day.' The last sentence was defiant.
His nose was running. He sniffed, then wiped a copious stream of snot on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
Heather nodded, face sincere. She had yet to fully concede, as Foster had, that the world was a cold, indifferent place. And such a world threw up feral kids like Gary Stamey who had no
respect for authority. For anyone. His joyless life of petty crime might only be a nuisance to police forces now, but soon he would graduate to bigger and worse crimes.
'Gary,' Foster said, ignoring the scowl his voice provoked.
'If you're hoping she comes back and makes your life sweet, then why do you spend all your time robbing?
How about keeping out of trouble?' He plunged his hands into his pockets. 'Listen to me -- though you probably won't, because you've had a million talks like it and it's pretty clear from your record that you've never heeded a word. I know you hate me and people like me, but you're heading one way and one way only -- a life in prison. What would happen if Leonie came back for you then?'
Gary stared at him. 'Fuck you,' he said, voice flat and emotionless. Then he looked down at his shoes.
Foster shrugged. I tried, he thought. This kid's too far gone.
The warm smell of toasted sandwiches inside the cafe provided a perfect counterpoint to the wind and rain lashing High Holborn. Nigel, starving after his trip to and from Ealing, ordered one and gazed out of a streaked window and across the road towards First Avenue House, a grand if grey building, where he could see them gather: estranged men and women smoking furiously on the pavement, pacing back and forth, waiting for their time in one of the umpteen family division courts inside, summoning sinew before attempting to sort out their differences for the sake and welfare of their children. More than once on a visit here he'd seen violent slanging matches spill from the courtroom on to the street, or ambulances pull up to tend to those for whom the emotional trauma had become too much. Because of these animosities, those entering the courts were searched and scanned to prevent them secreting weapons in an attempt to murder their errant spouses; inside, drinks were dispensed from plastic jugs and glasses for the same reason.
Thankfully for him, when he had finished his coffee, the traffic through the main entrance was slight, with just a handful of glowering, fractious adults at the front of the building. He had managed to convince Foster to dispatch the DNA sample to Chris Westerberg. While that was being processed, he wanted to exhaust every line of inquiry. That included the paper trail that might have been left by either Horton or Sarah Rowley upon their death.
Where there was a will, there was often a way to overcome a dead end.
Horton died intestate. But from online calendar indexes Nigel had discovered that his widow had left a will upon her death in 1913. It might contain very little, but it was worth a try. He hurried across the street during a break in the rain, made his way up the stairs to a brightly lit, spartan room decked out in calming neutral colours like the rest of the building. The place might house the wishes and last words of the dead, the physical debris left from their brief time on the planet, but none of that grave mystique was reflected in the sterile surroundings of the probate search rooms. A few other family historians had beaten him up the stairs. How the chattels of the dead were divided often gave a fascinating glimpse into family hierarchies, as well as offering an indication of how our ancestors lived, both rich and poor. The lord of the manor might bequeath half of Surrey to his children, but more evocative pickings were often gleaned from those with the least to pass on, but who still thought it right and proper to pass on their favourite fiat cap or best milking cow.
He grabbed an order form and filled out the date of the will made by Sarah Rowley. While that was being found, he returned to his seat in the cafe for another coffee, taking time to watch the daytime television comings and goings outside the family court, before returning to collect a copy of the will. As he expected, it was hardly brimming with bequests. The deceased's wedding band was left to their elder daughter. Elizabeth inherited an oak table, while Isaac received a set of carpentry tools Nigel assumed had belonged to Horton. Sarah also asked, intriguingly, that a locked metal box inscribed with her initials be buried with her. Those were the only possessions listed. A sum of ten pounds was left to 'the parish of St Bertram, East Ham'.
While there was no genealogical information that explained the Rowleys' obliteration from all records pre1891, at least there was a trail that Nigel could follow.
Perhaps Sarah Rowley did not want to divide a small sum between her children; maybe she felt they didn't deserve it." Whatever her reasons, the act of giving the money should have been recorded by the church, and if she was an active member of the congregation then there might be further records that could offer details about her and her husband.
He put in a call to the London Metropolitan Archives, where most of the records belonging to London churches were held. They had nothing for St Bertram's in East Ham. They suggested he try the Essex Records Office.
He phoned them but was given a similar answer: they had no records. Anything the church had was still held in its own archive.
St Bertram's was a ten-minute walk from East Ham tube station, nestled away in a warren of Victorian terraced artisan houses. The church, as Nigel deduced from the lack of records in the LMA, was relatively modern.
Perhaps no more than a century old, redbrick and functional unlike the Gothic splendours that decorated much of the capital. He wandered aimlessly around it a few times lookin
g for an entrance, eventually discovering it in a modern wing of the church, a few years old at most, which appeared to act as a sort of community centre.
Mothers and children milled around, either leaving or attending an afternoon playgroup.
He asked at a small reception area if he could see the vicar. A few minutes later he arrived, smiling broadly, not much older than Nigel, with a jolly, rubicund face. Nigel returned his handshake, made profuse apologies for not calling in advance and explained the reason for his visit, leaving out any mention of the murder and abduction inquiry.
'We have quite a few genealogical inquiries,' the vicar explained. 'Many of them from abroad. We're usually happy to help. What are you after?'
Nigel explained Sarah Rowley's will.
When did she die?' the vicar asked.
'1913.'
'Really? That was only five years after the parish was formed and the church opened. She'd be among the first parishioners. What was the name again?'
'Sarah Rowley. Her husband died four years before. He was called Horton.'
The vicar glanced down at the floor. 'Something about that name rings a bell,' he said. 'I've only been here for a couple of years, so I haven't been able to familiarize myself completely with the church's history. But if you come with me to the vestry we can see if there's anything that can help you.'
Nigel followed the vicar through the main church, which also appeared to have benefited from a recent facelift. There was none of the mustiness - the smell of history, as he liked to think of it - which characterized the rare occasions he'd been allowed to rummage through the parish chest. He was led to a door to one side of the altar.
The vicar produced a set of keys and unlocked three bolts.
'Some of our parishioners think the Lord turns a blind eye to breaking and entering,' he said with a wink. Inside he switched on a light, revealing a large room crammed with all sorts of church items. Old altarpieces, vestments, stacks of hymn books and pew cushions. 'Sorry, it's a bit more chaotic than you're probably used to. The archiving is pretty haphazard.' He pointed to a shelf at the back of the room, where several huge volumes of books were laid against each other. 'You can start there. Those are the parish registers. Sorry there's nowhere comfortable to sit.'
Nigel waved away the apology. He picked up the first ledger. It was the original, the spine battered and frayed, some pages becoming loose. 'Far be it from me to tell you how to run this place, vicar, but you really should think about getting these registers preserved in a local record office. There'll be a local family history federation or society that would probably be willing to transcribe the information from these books, so they don't even have to be touched any more.' He flipped it over for further examination.