by Dan Waddell
As she rounded the top of the drive, Foster moved forward to intercept her. Her eyes caught his and she saw something there that brought her to an abrupt halt. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She pushed a wisp of brown hair from her face with a trembling hand, her mouth contorting. Christ, she can't be more than twelve years old, he thought.
'What's happened?' she said, her voice trembly and edgy. The brunette had caught up with them, throwing an arm around the girl.
Foster put his hands up. 'What's your name?' he said to the woman.
Amber Davidson,' she said. 'I'm the mother of Tracey, Rachel's best friend.'
What's HAPPENED?' the girl screamed. She tried to free herself from Amber's grip but it was too tight. Foster was grateful she was there.
'Rachel, there's been an incident.' He looked at Amber.
He hoped she was supporting the girl's weight as well as preventing her running away. She seemed to read his mind and brought Rachel closer into her. Given the number of policemen and the throb of activity around the house, there was no way he could delay the truth or let her near the scene. 'Your mum, dad and brother have been attacked,'
he added.
'Are they OK?'
He looked at the woman holding her. Then he looked back at the young girl. The words wouldn't come. But he didn't need to find them.
She guessed. 'Are they dead?'
He nodded his head slowly, sadly.
She continued to stare at him for a few seconds, saying nothing. 'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'No,' she repeated -- louder this time, swinging her head from side to side vehemently. Her body began to convulse, her arm flailing into Amber's face, drawing blood from her lip. Foster moved forward to help restrain her. He felt her nails rake down his cheek but he managed to wrap his arms around her. Two uniformed constables joined the struggle. Rachel started to scream wordlessly; then the fight and anger drained from her body and she fell limp. Amber held her and hugged her tight, allowing Foster to let go. He took one of the constables to one side. 'Get me a WPC and a doctor as soon as possible.'
Five minutes later Rachel was staring numbly out of a squad-car window with a blanket around her shoulders, a WPC at her side while they waited for someone to come to sedate her. Foster took Amber Davidson to one side.
'What happened?' she asked, her face streaked with mascara. She was tall and lithe, and her face tanned and healthy.
Foster shook his head. 'They've been murdered. We don't know the details,' he lied. 'Where was Rachel last night?'
'With me. She slept over. The girls had a dance class.
They often sleep over afterwards. Sometimes they sleep at ours, sometimes they sleep here . . . Oh, God.' She brought her hand to her mouth and her voice cracked as she contemplated what might have been.
'Why isn't she at school?'
'We got there and she remembered she'd forgotten her art project. We dropped Tracey off and came to get it.'
Out of the corner of his eye Foster saw a short but wiry old detective wander over. He did not look too pleased. Foster ignored him.
And everything was normal here yesterday?'
'Not really,' she said.
'How so?'
'The dog had been taken ill. He'd been violently sick.
Rachel was very worried when I picked her up because her dad had taken him to the vet's. I called later to find out what was going on, and they said the dog had died. They didn't want me to tell Rachel because they thought it might upset her and they wanted to tell her themselves . . . This.
It's just awful.'
'How old is Rachel?'
'How old is she? She's twelve, same age as my daughter.
Why?'
'Just wanted to know. And when you picked her up yesterday, did her mother say anything to you about the dog or anything else that was bothering her?'
'No, she was just worried about the dog. Carol was the one who told me later last night that it had died. She said it had been poisoned.'
He knew the reason why she had called him last night.
The dog had been killed to make an attack on them in their house easier. She had sensed the danger. Why had she not called the local force? Perhaps, given Stamey's lifestyle, she guessed they wouldn't be too sympathetic to her plight. But he had not been available. Had she been put through he might have prevented this happening. That damned action plan had contributed to these people's deaths.
The detective was at his side. He introduced himself to Amber Davidson as Chief Inspector Dave Alvin of Essex Police. His voice was a gruff rasp, as if he'd been gargling with gravel. 'Madam, I'd be grateful if you could spare me a few moments with my colleague here.' He broke into one of the most insincere smiles Foster had seen.
'Of course,' she said. "I really should go back to Rachel anyway.'
Alvin continued to smile. They watched her walk back to the sanctuary of the squad car. Once she climbed inside, Alvin turned to him, still wearing the smile. He was a few inches shorter than Foster, with a flat pugilistic nose and a thatch of thick grey hair. Foster guessed mid to late fifties, old school, not the sort to mince his words.
#'Could you precis exactly who the fuck you are and what the fuck you are doing questioning my witnesses?'
'Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster, Metropolitan Police,' he said, thrusting out his hand.
"You're going to have to give me more than that, young man,' Alvin added.
Foster put his hand back in his pocket. 'I'm the man who found those people dead.'
'So I'm told. You're a long way from home. Satnav knackered, is it?'
'Carol Stamey tried to reach me last night. I paid her and her husband a visit on Wednesday. In relation to a case I'm working on.'
Alvin pulled a long cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit it. He exhaled copiously. 'What case would that be?'
'Fourteenyear-old girl abducted in London, her mum murdered.'
Alvin's bushy grey eyebrows rose perceptibly. 'The one on the news. The blonde girl?'
Foster nodded.
You think this is related?' His rising intonation betrayed his scepticism.
"I do,' Foster said.
Another loud exhale. 'Care to tell me why?'
Foster paused. A light rain had started to fall. 'Quid pro quo. I'll answer your questions if you answer mine.'
'Fire away'
'What sort of person was Martin Stamey?'
'A reprehensible piece of shit.'
'Big time or small time?'
'Small time but thought he was big. I think he's rubbed someone even bigger up the wrong way'
'What sort of game was he in?'
'Smuggling fags, fencing, wee bit of extortion. My turn.
Why do you think this is related to your kidnap and murder?'
'Stamey and my victim were related.'
'In what way?
'Cousins.'
'Close?'
'Distant.'
'And? Was your victim shot?'
'Strangled. But the body was dragged outside. Throat slit. Did Stamey have any obvious enemies who might do this?'
'He wasn't a popular man. We'll have a task narrowing, them down to single figures. Was your victim done like this? Forced entry in the middle of the night?'
'No, we think she invited the killer in. He took the girl when she came back from school. Carol Stamey tried to call me last night. Did she try and call your lot, too?'
'No. And it sounds to me as if there's fuck-all similarity between the two murders.'
'What about the girl?'
'What about her? She was staying at a friend's. Had she been here, she'd be worm food, too.'
'Perhaps. Maybe they would have kidnapped her.'
'Maybe. But maybe is not enough. If you want to take this case over, you're going to have to give me a damn sight more than that, mate.'
Foster looked away. The rain was now slanting down in sheets, pouring off his shaven head. It had got darker. H
is opposite number was right: Foster knew this murder fitted in, but he did not yet know how. A thought nestled at the back of his mind, but he would need to be alone to tease it out.
'Look,' Alvin said, his tone softening. A fourteenyear-old kid is missing and we can't ignore that. I'll personally let you know how we're progressing. But, if I'm right and this is a contract job, then you know as well as I do how difficult it is to nail someone for it. But if it wasn't a hit, I'll let you know and we can talk some more. Deal?'
Foster nodded. It was the best he could hope for. 'What about the girl?'
'We'll make sure she's safe, that's she's watched. Maybe see if there's any other family that can take her in the long run.'
'There isn't. I know the family history'
'OK. Maybe a friend. But that's for the future. I'll bear in mind what you said and make sure she gets the protection she needs.'
He pulled his car keys from his pocket. 'The dog was poisoned,' he told Alvin. 'Last night. You might want to get on to the vet's and get it autopsied before they sling it in the incinerator.'
As he drove away, windscreen wipers flailing back and forth, he went back to the thought that had passed through his mind when he was speaking to Alvin. Did the killer expect the daughter to be there? She was spared because she was elsewhere, from either being murdered or kidnapped.
If he was right, surely the killer would've been watching the house and seen her go? He pictured the Stamey boy dead in the garden. He hadn't been kidnapped.
If he was right and this was related, what was the pattern here? Like an early childhood memory it was hazy, just out of reach.
He left the thought for a while and flicked on his stereo, wired up to his music player, set to play randomly. A song he didn't recognize came on and he hummed along absentmindedly despite not knowing the words. His mind refused to be diverted.
He hoped Alvin kept his word and Rachel was made as safe as possible. The killer might be back. Apart from her and Leonie, there were three male descendants still living in the UK. One, a Stamey, was in prison. Safest place to be. Another, Anthony Chapman, they knew little about.
They needed to find him. Quickly.
The last was Gary Stamey. He remembered the body of the other young Stamey boy in the garden. Something clicked.
He needed to make Gary safe.
4
That Friday morning had gone badly for Nigel. A girl was missing and her life in mortal danger, yet he spent precious hours stumbling through another screen test with predictably dire results. This time the show's producer Lysette, a fresh-faced, enthusiastic brunette in her mid thirties had been there along with Guy, the glum cameraman, yet despite her exhortations and encouragements Nigel simply couldn't get it right. Partly because his mind was elsewhere, partly because the scripts they kept giving him to read were so dire. He simply could not rid himself of self-consciousness. When they'd watched the final playback before lunch, Nigel-had winced at his stilted voice and nervous, flicking eyes. Lysette made some positive noises but he knew that was to protect his ego. Guy's world-weary sighing offered a more honest assessment.
He felt certain that the next few days would bring a phone call putting him out of his misery, announcing they were going to look for another presenter.
Foster's panicked call was welcome, despite the detective's agitated state. You remember that list you gave me?'
he said. 'The one with all the descendants? Presumably it was so small because you couldn't trace the maternal line back beyond this couple.' Nigel agreed it was. 'Well, two of the people on that list were murdered last night, as well as another connected to them. Katie Drake is dead, too.
Naomi Buckingham is missing. Another girl on the list is missing and her mother dead. We know from our records that a family of four emigrated to New Zealand seven years ago. That leaves three people, one of whom Heather and I spoke to yesterday. His name is Gary Stamey; it's his sister Leonie that's missing. The mum died of an overdose, apparently. He told us that a man visited his sister shortly before she vanished. This man wore a suit and gave them a book about a boy called Joe and his secret treasure. Can you see where I'm going?'
Nigel did. The past was invading the present.
'I'm thinking the past has finally caught up with this family.'
'What about the people left on the list?'
'Don't worry about the Stameys. One's in prison. One girl is missing and the other girl is safe. At least, I hope she is. Leave the elevenyear-old boy to me. I want you to find the non-Stamey. He's called Anthony Chapman, born in East London in 1964. I've asked for a search of all the databases we use and so far we can't find any record of him. None whatsoever. I was hoping you might be able to work your magic and see what you can find out about him.
Because if I'm right, and someone's working their way through the bloodline, then he could be next.'
With that, he rang off.
Nigel already had Anthony Chapman's birth certificate.
He worked forwards from that and searched for death and marriage certificates but found neither. He was the only child of Reginald and Edith Chapman, both of whom were dead. Edith was the last to go in 2003, aged 72. She died at her home in Selby Street, Bethnal Green. The same address that was supplied on Anthony's birth certificate. That gave him one route to explore. In the absence of any others, he rode the tube to Bethnal Green, finding the street tucked away off Vallance Road, a winding old Victorian terrace that was once home to the Kray twins. The area still carried the flavour of the old East End. Selby Street was small and almost traffic-free. The front doors opened straight out on to the street. Neighbours stood chatting to one another. All it required was a few children kicking a ball back and forth across the road -- but they were in school, and he doubted the nostalgia would stretch that far.
The Chapmans' former home was at number 17. He headed towards two women standing talking outside number 11; both turned to eye him suspiciously as he approached.
He smiled. 'Sorry to bother you, ladies. This might seem rather impertinent, but I'm looking for some information you might be able to help me with.' His manner and voice appeared to make them soften, but a glint of suspicion remained. 'Did either of you know old Mrs Chapman who used to live at number 17?'
One of the women, who had been pulling furiously on a cigarette, let a stream of smoke out of her nostrils. "I did.
I live here.' She gestured to the door at her back. 'I knew old Edith pretty well. Lovely old lass. She died a few years ago. Why do you wanna know?'
Nigel was prepared for that question. He was a dreadful liar but he feared the truth might persuade people to clam up. 'I'm researching my family tree. It turns out that I'm related to Mrs Chapman. Of course, she's dead. But I'm very keen to trace her son, Anthony.'
'Son,' she said, disbelief in her voice and written across her face. 'There was no son. She and Reg didn't have no kids.'
'Are you certain of that?'
Yeah. I moved in here twenty-odd years ago. There weren't no son then and she never mentioned none. You sure you got the right person?'
Nigel looked at his feet. 'I think so. Anthony Chapman was born to Edith and Reginald Chapman of this address back in 1964.' From his pocket he produced a folded copy of the birth certificate. Both women leaned in to see, trailing with them a combination of perfume and smoke.
The resident of number 11 peered at it for several seconds, then looked at Nigel. 'Well, you learn something new every day, don't you? She never once mentioned a son.
We just thought they never had any kids. Medical reasons or something. And all that time she had a boy she never mentioned. Wonder what happened to him?'
'That's what I'd like to know,' Nigel replied. 'Is there anyone around here who might know? Another elderly resident who might have lived around here then -- or the people who now live at number 17, perhaps?'
'No, it's a bloke, out-of-towner. Not from round here.'
She thought for a few seconds. Pull
ed hard on her cigarette and thought some more. Nigel noticed for the first time that she was wearing a pair of carpet slippers on her feet. She pointed her finger at him and started nodding her head. You know where you could try? St Matthew's Church. It was her life, that place.'
The church was deserted. He idled away the afternoon until it came to life, as the early winter light closed in and the temperature, barely above freezing anyway, began to plummet. At least the rain had stopped. St Matthew's, despite having almost been flattened by the Luftwaffe, was the focal point of the local community, and shared its rich, villainous history. It was here that the funeral services of the Krays were held. In the gathering gloom, silhouetted against a clear dusk, the old church, still surrounded by the churchyard that afforded it a distance from the hurly-burly, seemed to loom in judgement over the area.
The vicar was inside, laying out hymn books. Nigel strode down the aisle and introduced himself.
You better be quick,' he said, eyes twinkling cheerily.
He was in his late sixties, Nigel guessed, florid face, rheumy eyes, exuding a gentle, avuncular warmth. Nigel could imagine parishioners queuing up to share their problems with him.
'It's about one of your former parishioners actually. An Edith Chapman?'
He looked up. 'Edith? Dear woman. What about her?'
'Well, I hope you'll excuse me prying like this, but I'm a genealogist.'
'Fascinating! I'm a bit of an amateur myself.'
Yes, Nigel thought, seems like everyone is these days.
'Really? Excellent. But going back to Mrs Chapman . . .'
'My mother's side is easy,' the vicar continued. 'I'm back to parish registers. But that was where I inherited the ecclesiastical calling from. So there's a record there. But my father's is a mystery beyond about 1878 or something.
Bizarre how the trail goes cold, isn't it? Perhaps I should employ you?'