Blood Atonement

by Dan Waddell

  'In Sarah Rowley's grave.'

  'You want us to dig her up?'

  Foster thought Nigel was joking at first, but the zealous gleam in his eye indicated otherwise. He was being serious.

  'Do you know how difficult it is to get an exhumation done? The Home Secretary has to grant it. You need a very, very good reason.'

  Nigel kept on nodding, eyes ablaze.

  'What do you think we're going to find -- a document that conveniently explains what happened to her, and therefore what happened to Naomi Buckingham?'

  'I don't know. But she asked in her will that she be buried with a metal box. Why would you insist on being buried with something unless you didn't want people to get their hands on it? It might not lead us to Naomi Buckingham or her mother's killer, but it might move us closer.'

  Foster rubbed his chin. It wouldn't be an easy ask. For a start, the main argument for exhuming the body came from the mouth of a certified lunatic. The mention of the box in the will altered things slightly, but he knew there was no way Harris would sanction it as part of the investigation.

  'The will said it was metal?'

  Nigel nodded.

  'Well, it may have survived, then.' He continued to stroke his chin. 'Do you know where she's buried?'

  'East Ham cemetery. I can find the location of the grave.'

  Nigel was still wild-eyed. Hidden secrets in a grave.

  Foster could see this must be a genealogist's wet dream.

  That would change if he ever attended an exhumation and saw that the reality was less romantic. Foster sighed, not quite believing what he was about to do.

  'I might be able to swing this,' he said. 'However, if I do, you'll need to be there with me. She comes out of the ground and goes back in. We have a look in situ.'

  He could see the excitement bleed from Nigel's face, along with all the colour. Not quite as thrilling now, he thought.

  They drove towards Colchester through driving rain that pelted the windscreen like tiny stones, to the home of the Chancellor of the Diocese of Chelmsford, Kenneth Brewis. Foster had called ahead to check Brewis was in, and got the man himself, who issued a polite if curt invitation to drive to his house and explain the urgency.

  Foster knew there was no point wasting time, even if it meant a lengthy drive -- it was just their luck that the chancellor happened to live in the most distant area of the diocese from London. Brewis was a QC, and the prospect of some pompous lawyer boring him rigid with the arcana of ecclesiastical law caused Foster's heart to sink. Church bureaucracy was even more labyrinthine than that of the modern police force. But to wait until after the weekend was not an option.

  'Can't the police just go ahead and do it?' Nigel asked.

  'Why does the Church have to be involved?'

  'It's in consecrated ground so we'd need their help anyway.

  True, if there was a compelling case to dig up the body then a warrant signed by a coroner would be pretty easy to obtain and they'd allow us to bring it up without any protest,' Foster explained. 'But we're not interested in the body, or the little that would be left of it. We need to know what lies with it and for that we need permission to disturb the grave, and not actually exhume, which is down to the individual churches -- and in the case of the Anglican Church, it's down to the diocese. At least, I think it is.'

  'I didn't know that,' Nigel replied. "You done this before then?'

  'No. I just know the right people to call to find out. A grave is sacred ground. It's our job to make sure our case is compelling enough for us to be allowed in there with an excavator.' He knew that requests like the one he was about to make were measured in weeks and days, not hours, which is why he hoped a personal visit might speed the process.

  Brewis's house was a grand one in the countryside on the edge of Colchester, an old stone former vicarage decorated with creeping ivy. A sleek grey Jaguar was parked in front of the house, Foster noted admiringly, as he pulled up alongside. The rain had subsided to a murky drizzle as they climbed out of the car and made their way to the front door, adorned by an elaborate brass knocker bearing the fleshy head of a cherub. He let it fall against the door and it made a profound thud that echoed through the house. Beside him Nigel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. 'Don't worry,' Foster said, trying to put him at ease. 'I'll do all the talking. Just smile, look well educated and drink all the tea they give you.' Barnes gave him a watery smile back and flapped away a curl of fringe that had fallen over his forehead.

  The door opened to reveal a well-fed man in his fifties, dressed in cardigan and slacks, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked at them both with some curiosity.

  'Detective Foster?' he said expectantly.

  'That's me,' Foster replied, thrusting out a large paw.

  'Mr Brewis?'

  'Come in, come in,' he said, gesturing for them to follow.

  'Sorry to barge in on a Saturday,' Foster remembered to say.

  'Don't worry. This bloody weather, what was I going to do?' They followed him into the hall, and he ushered them towards a large drawing room. 'The family are all out, so I was catching up with some paperwork and a bit of diocesan business.'

  As they took a seat on a large sofa, Foster introduced Nigel as someone who was helping their investigation.

  'Yes, what is the investigation? I have to say I'm intrigued what it could be that draws you out from London to Colchester on a foul Saturday afternoon. I've been puzzling it over ever since you called.'

  'And did you manage to come up with any conclusions?'

  Foster asked, smiling.

  'I don't know. But the police are rarely interested in diocesan business unless they're after an exhumation.'

  'Got it in one.'

  Brewis's eyes lit up. 'I thought so.' Then he moulded his features to fit the more serious mood he believed discussion of an exhumation required. 'Of course, you're aware of the usual processes involved with such requests?'

  'I am.'

  'But obviously this is urgent, otherwise you wouldn't be here personally'

  'It is extremely urgent. We have reason to believe that the grave of a woman buried in East Ham cemetery, and a parishioner of St Bertram's in East Ham, contains something that will help us in the course of a current investigation.'

  Foster was proud of the way he could slip into formal copper speak even after all these years, but he could see from the gleam in Brewis's eyes that he would have to give more. 'Of course, I can't go into details, but what is in that grave might help us catch a killer.'

  He saw Brewis's eyebrows soar. He could picture him picking up the phone to his diocesan pals as soon as Foster's car wheels crunched away down the gravel drive to share the information.

  'Ah,' he said. 'In that case, we'd better get a wriggle on and help you out. I need some details, of the deceased of course, any next of kin who need to be informed . . .'

  'She died in 1913.'

  'I see. Well, the ownership of the grave is passed on down the line. We will need to seek out any descendants . . .'

  Foster leaned forward. 'We can help you with that -- my friend here is a genealogist. We have traced her ancestry.

  There are no living descendants.'

  Hidden from Brewis's sight by a large coffee table, Foster put his foot on top of Nigel's and held it down firmly. Nigel's eyebrows furrowed and he appeared to be about to speak when he felt the pressure, and looked quizzically at Foster for a few moments before getting the message.

  'That's right,' he murmured. 'No, er, living descendants.'

  Foster

  nodded and removed his foot from Nigel's brogue. 'So you see, the only permission we seek is that of the diocese. Give us the faculty document and allow us to perform the exhumation - well, I say exhumation, but we don't intend to move the body. We simply want to open the coffin, look inside and remove what we find, before sealing the coffin shut and piling the earth back on top.'

  Brewis fell silent. 'I don't see a proble
m, if it's in the course of your investigation, but I'll need to gain the consent of the other members of the diocese. And I'll need you to send me the relevant paperwork and details.'

  'I can do that, some retrospectively. It really is very urgent.'

  'When do you want to perform it?'

  'Tomorrow?'

  'A Sunday?' Brewis looked as if Foster had just introduced his daughter to the delights of sex and drugs. 'That isn't possible. Monday yes, but not the Sabbath.'

  'I understand,' Foster said, standing up. 'These things are best done at night. So 12.01 on Monday morning it is.'

  On the way back to London, Foster took two calls. The first from Dave Alvin agreeing to forward details of the crime scene and autopsy to him, so he could pass them on to Susie Danson. Alvin made clear his belief that it was a gangland killing; Martin Stamey, apparently, had no shortage of enemies. The second came from Heather. Foster had asked her to make a few inquiries about the four Robinsons who had moved to New Zealand seven years previously.

  All of them had died in a house fire two years ago, apart from a nine-year-old girl, Louise Robinson, whose name Heather remembered from the list Nigel had produced.

  An inquest ruled it was accidental death. The files were being dug out and faxed across.

  Foster had his doubts. The girl had been in the house but escaped with minor injuries. She had since been taken into care. She, Rachel Stamey, Anthony Chapman, wherever he may be, and Gary Stamey were the last of the line.

  Then he remembered David Stamey, incarcerated in jail.

  Should he get him protection? He decided he was probably out of harm's way behind four walls and bars.

  It was dark when he reached home after dropping Barnes off at his fiat. Foster unlocked the door and headed straight for the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of wine, before turning to the fridge to see if there was anything he could eat. The selection was uninspiring so he decided to keep it liquid for the time being. He went through to his sitting room and nicked on the light.

  Gary Stamey sat rigid on the sofa, coat still on, hands plunged deep into his pockets. Foster was startled, jumped almost a foot in the air, but managed to compose himself.

  'Couldn't

  keep away, eh?' he said, heartbeat returning to normal. He went over and felt the radiator. Cold as ice.

  Bloody boiler, he thought.

  Gary didn't say a word. Or even move.

  Foster went over to the armchair and sat down, watching the boy from the corner of his eye. 'Out of interest, and for my peace of mind, just how the hell did you get in?'

  Gary shrugged his shoulders. 'You said this place was safe. It ain't. I came in through the kitchen window at the back. No lock on it.'

  'I should hire you out. Help people discover the weaknesses in their home security. Where you been all day?'

  'Round and about.'

  "Why did you come back?'

  Gary shrugged his shoulders again. 'Dunno. No place else to go. It was cold.'

  Foster sensed there was more to it than that.

  'I think I was followed.'

  What do you mean? Did you see someone following you?'

  He shook his head. 'I just felt it.'

  Foster nodded. 'On foot or in a car?'

  'Dunno. I can't explain it. Just like I'm being watched.'

  Probably paranoia, Foster thought. Though given Gary was a lad who knew what it was like to be tailed, usually by the law, he wouldn't dismiss it.

  'Do you think you've been followed here?' he asked.

  He shrugged. 'Dunno. Don't think so. I bunked a ride on a train out of London. Then got off and hid and got a train coming back. Walked most of the way here. Got a couple of buses and a tube. Don't think anyone would have kept up.'

  'You did the right thing. You're safe here. I promise.'

  He changed the subject. 'Have you eaten anything?'

  His face lit up. 'Nab., starving. There's nuffink in your fridge, too.'

  'Want another takeaway?'

  Gary nodded eagerly.

  'What sort? Indian? Pizza?'

  The second suggestion met with a vigorous nod.

  'What flavour?'

  'Hawaiian.'

  'The one with pineapple?' Foster couldn't help but wrinkle his nose up. In his world, there was no room for fruit on a pizza. In the name of hospitality he let it slide and went to the hall to phone the order through. When he returned, Gary had flicked the television on and was staring at a football match.

  'You've got the sports channels,' he said with a hint of excitement.

  'Yeah. God knows why. Can't stand football these days.

  Full of overpaid prima donnas falling over and wearing dresses. Used to be a contact sport. Who's your team?'

  'Chelsea.'

  'Thought an Essex boy like you would support the Hammers.'

  His lip curled in disgust. 'Nah, they're shit.'

  Foster shook his head. 'You see, there's something else that's changed. People supporting teams that are the best, not their local ones.'

  Gary shrugged. 'Chelsea scouted me, so I like them best.'

  'They scouted you? Really? When?'

  When I was eight. I used to go along to the Gateway football club every Saturday morning. Leonie took me on the bus. They had loads of pitches and stuff. Scouts used to come and watch us play. One of them spoke to me and wanted to speak to my mum. He was from Chelsea. I went to a training session. But then Mum died and Leonie went and I didn't go for a bit. Then when they heard I was in trouble they lost interest. I still went to the Gateway and played, but I haven't been for a while.'

  'Why not?'

  Again the shrug. 'Too much hassle, innit? Been moved around too much.'

  'Do you miss it?'

  'Yeah,' he said with feeling. 'I love playing football. It's the only thing I'm good at.'

  'What position do you play?'

  'Didn't play many games, but when we did I played centre mid.'

  Foster shook his head. If only this kid could be taken off the streets and on to a football pitch then he might spend less of his time robbing. 'You should keep at it.

  You're obviously good. Be a shame to waste your talent.'

  Gary said nothing. On screen, the commentator erupted with orgasmic delight at a piece of skill. They both turned to watch the replay. 'That was the lick,' Gary said, as in slow motion the striker drew his man towards him, performed a stepover and left the defender lunging at thin air.

  'Impressive,' Foster had to agree. They sat and watched more of the game. It finished in a draw; the pizzas came.

  Gary wolfed his down greedily once more. Foster went in search of his indigestion tablets. Two takeaways on the trot, coupled with the hamburger he and Barnes had eaten for lunch, were proving a bit much. He still poured another glass of wine. Back in the sitting room, Gary was hopping between channels, having finally taken his coat off.

  Foster sat down and sipped his wine. Gary failed to find anything worth watching. He seemed to catch Foster looking at him.

  'She contacted me,' he said simply.

  'Leonie?'

  Gary nodded.

  'When was that?'

  'About a year after she disappeared.'

  A flicker of caution passed through his mind. Something wasn't right. 'You were in foster care?'

  'Yeah.'

  'How did she contact you?'

  'A letter.'

  'How did she know where to send it?

  'She sent it to the Gateway football club. Probably knew it was the only place I could be found. The coach gave it me one Saturday morning.'

  'What did it say?'

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a greying battered envelope, frayed at the edges. 'Be careful, it's falling apart,' he said.

  Foster looked at the address. Gary Stamey, c/o Gateway Football Club, Barking, Essex. The stamp had long since peeled off. No postcode. He could only wonder how long it took to reach its destination. He could s
ee the trace of a sticker in the lower bottom corner.

  Was there a sticker on this? Air mail?'

  'Don't know what it said, but there was a sticker,' he said. 'It fell off. Like the stamp.'

  'Can you remember what the stamp was? Did it have the Queen's head on it?'

  He shook his head. Wasn't the Queen. It was a picture of, like, some mountains and stuff. And a sunset?'

  Didn't sound familiar to Foster.

  He slid the contents out slowly. The letter had been folded and refolded so many times that along the crease it was beginning to disintegrate. It was marked by grubby fingers, presumably Gary's. Yet considering it was two years old it was still in reasonable condition.

  He opened the paper up. The writing was immediately recognizable as that of a teenage girl; big looping letters and fat round blobs instead of dots above the 'i's.

  Gary looked uncomfortable, embarrassed even. 'Can you read it to me?' he asked.

  What, haven't you . . . ?' It took a while for him to realize. "You can't read?'

  Gary shook his head dolefully.

  "You've never asked anyone to read it to you?' he asked, struggling to contain his disbelief.

  'No. I knew it was a secret. I can read some of it. I knew it was from her because of the name and the writing.

  I know a few of the words. But I've never been able to read it all.'

  The kid had kept it on his person for two years. By the look of it, he'd taken it out of the envelope and looked at it many times. Yet he'd not been able to understand the message his sister had sent to him.

  'OK.' He scanned it quickly. He would need to mentally correct much of the syntax to render it readable.

  Dear Gary

  I hope, this Letter get's to you OK and you are all right. I sent it to the football club because I know that's the one place you Love. I hope you still go there.

  Just wanted you to know I am OK. Sorry I Left Like that but I had to. The time was right. I know you must be really angry with me for Leaving you but don't be. It is fine to be cross but I had to Leave. I am with good people. They Look after me. Bit boring sometimes but no drugs and everyone is happy, no one even drinks beer or nothing. I have Learned to do Lots of stuff Like sewing and we have animals Like cows and pigs and the countryside is beautiful to Look at. Much nicer than Essex. I don't miss home at all, just you.