by Dan Waddell
Foster snorted with derision, murmured an expletive at a driver in front. 'How does this work for people who did something terrible? Murderers, rapists -- can these people receive the Gospel after they're dead?'
Nigel nodded. As far as he knew, they could. 'It's caused a kerfuffle, not least with Jews who were very angry that their dead could be claimed in such a way. The Mormons have said they've stopped proxy baptisms for dead Jews who aren't direct ancestors of living Mormons.'
'Jesus,' Foster said, shaking his head. 'You see, the dead are dead. They're gone, let them rest. Bury them, don't keep them. It's all just so much hocus-pocus. Don't get me wrong; I think that about all religions. But at least traditional Christianity is based on centuries of moral knowledge and its values are the ones we've built our societies upon. Mormonism just sounds to me like a bloke made it up as he went along and hoodwinked a bunch of gullible knuckle-draggers into following him.'
Nigel was no expert on Mormonism. 'Maybe so. It has its quirks, I grant you. Speaking purely selfishly, I'm delighted they believe what they do. I don't care why they've collected all these records. We're just glad they have, and they've opened them up to us all. What do you think this has got to do with Mormonism, anyway?'
Whoever brainwashed Leonie Stamey had something to do with the Mormon faith. That seems to be clear.
Gary Stamey, the kid I just dropped off, remembers his sister having a kids' book about a boy named Joe finding buried treasure. The Mormon church was founded by some conman called Joseph Smith who was guided to a place by an angel where he dug up some gold tablets with writing on. Turns out, rather handily, that he also found some special glasses that allowed him to decipher and transcribe these tablets. Barking mad, if you ask me. But then what religion stands up to scientific scrutiny?
'But if we work on the basis that the man who visited Leonie Stamey was in some way responsible for her disappearance, which is linked to the kidnap of Naomi Buckingham and the murder of her mother, then there's every chance that the same person is responsible and he has something to do with the Mormon faith. I've just submitted a written request to the Church to see if they have any record of a missionary plying his trade in or around the area where Leonie lived, and the same for those that are working near to Kensal Rise.'
He stopped to swear at another driver, this time beeping his horn in disgust. He returned to the subject. We think he -- or they, or whoever -- will try to get Gary next.
I think they've already tried to get him. Leonie said she would meet up with him in the celestial kingdom. That can only happen if he's dead, unless she comes back to convert him in this life. Yesterday my house was broken into. There's a team there dusting for fingerprints, though I doubt they'll find anything. I'll lay any money it was the killer.'
A thought, an inkling that had been lodged in the back of Nigel's mind since staring at the parish picture of Sarah Rowley and reading the vicar's funeral address, was floating free. It took some time for it to settle, but eventually it did. Then the recognition jolted him like a needle in his side.
Cultists from across the ocean.
'Listen,' he said. 'Sarah Rowley fled some sort of cult, presumably from the United States.' What other English speaking land lay across an ocean? It tallied with Margaret Howell's reminiscences. 'Traditional Christians believed, and many still believe, that the Latter-day Saints were no better than a cult. They could well be Mormons. I could check it out for you tomorrow.'
They were pulling up at East Ham cemetery.
'Let's leave that until the morning,' Foster said, as Nigel felt his heart flutter at what lay behind the black cemetery gates. 'First let's see if there's anything buried with her that helps us out.'
The night was mild yet Nigel found himself shivering despite being layered up in a shirt, a woollen jumper, fleece, scarf and a battered crombie overcoat whose best days were long gone. The rain had relented but the smell of damp sodden earth lingered. He and Foster marched their way across the graveyard to the lot where burial records told him Sarah Rowley was interred. The grave was overgrown with lichen and weed, marked by a simple headstone that tilted upwards at an angle, as if the ground beneath was slowly trying to eject it. Or Sarah Rowley is coming out before we dig her out, he thought ghoulishly.
In his churning stomach he felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation, the latter not helped by the grim determination with which Foster was conducting himself. He could not bear to bring himself to think about what the detective's reaction might be if they discovered the coffin was empty.
A lone arc light lit the scene. A compact excavator was parked at the graveside waiting for midnight to pass and Monday to arrive. The operator looked bored and pissed off, exhaling frequently and disdainfully on a cigarette.
Beside him was another equally bored, unshaven young man whose role was unclear.
'I expected there to be more of us,' Nigel said, trying to roll a cigarette despite his shaking hands.
Foster watched him fix his cigarette.
Nigel gestured, as if to ask whether he wanted one rolling, and was met with an emphatic shake of the head.
'Not if you paid me,' Foster said. He looked at the meagre exhumation party. 'There would be more, if we'd been doing this officially. But we're not. These two guys are from a company that does this sort of thing for us and I'm paying them out of my own pocket as it stands. Keep that to yourself, though.' He glanced at his watch and strolled off to speak to the excavator operator.
Nigel took a deep drag on his cigarette and shook his head. Maybe some secrets are best left dead, he thought.
But then he thought of Naomi Buckingham cowering somewhere, alone and petrified, or lying dead in some unmarked ditch, and he told himself to stop being so precious. Yet the revelation that Foster was doing this on the sly did little to quell the bubbling in his guts. More than he would like was riding on them finding a lead in the grave. He shivered again. Foster returned.
'I tell you what, we're lucky she's buried in consecrated ground. Over there with the non-believers they're sometimes buried one on top of each other, which would have made it interesting if she was on the bottom.' He sniffed, and clapped his hands together. 'This is how it's going to play out. Mickey in the digger is going to scoop out the soil to the required depth. Then you're going to jump in with a spade.'
What?'
Foster smiled. 'Lighten up, eh? If some of these lot rose from the dead, they'd be less stiff than you. Seriously.
Once we've exposed the coffin, young Jim there will check we have the right one, hopefully by reading the inscription plate. He'll open the lid and we have to be ready. Keep clear because it could smell a bit. A lot, actually. There's ninety years or so of decomposition in there and the gases to match, so be prepared. Once the lid's opened and whatever foul gasses need to escape have escaped, then we'll have a look and see what we can find. I've got a jemmy to open the tin if we find it.'
Nigel drew the last from his cigarette before it burned his fingers. Will there be anything left of her?' he asked, flicking the stub away.
Foster raised his broad shoulders and let them fall.
'Depends. If the undertaker did a good job, then there might be a fair bit of her left. We'll soon find out, won't we?'
Nigel sensed he was enjoying his discomfort. Foster checked his watch once more. Nigel looked at his. It was midnight. They waited for a few more seconds to elapse, before Foster whirled his hand above his head and the excavator's engine roared into life. Foster gestured for Nigel to stand beside him at the side of the grave.
The wet soil yielded easily, the jaw of the machine tearing it in chunks. The operator worked swiftly, clawing lumps of soil, depositing them to one side, before slicing out another layer. Each bite at the earth caused Nigel's chest to tighten and his breath grow shorter. The hole grew deeper and wider, less of the excavator's arm visible above the ground until the unshaven man at the side of the grave leaned over to see, and then held his arm up. H
e made a few gestures to the unsighted operator, who responded by wielding the jaws with almost surgical care, a scratch of earth here, and a small handful there. Five minutes later, the unshaven assistant held up his hand to stop and the engine died, the silence afterwards profound and ominous to Nigel's ears.
The assistant looked at Foster, nodded downwards, grabbed a spade and jumped in. The pair of them walked to the edge of the pit and looked in. There was a simple mahogany coffin, muddied and worn, but otherwise in good condition, the lid closed. The excavator had cleared a shelf to the side of the coffin on which the man stood, looking up at them. Foster walked round and lowered himself in. Nigel's heart hammering against his ribcage, mouth dry as a bone and the taste of fear in his throat, he climbed in, too, almost slipping as he turned. Eventually his feet found the shelf. He didn't care about the layer of mud that was now caked on his front. He turned, trying to keep his footing on the slippery mud. The only scent was the heady smell of wet soil.
There was a brass plate on the coffin lid. The assistant crouched down and with a gloved finger carefully wiped away the grime. Foster and then Nigel crouched, too. They were so close that Nigel caught a whiff of damp that came from Foster's sodden raincoat. The assistant finished cleaning the plate. The inscription was clear: Sarah Rowley
Nigel tried to wet his mouth but there was no moisture, just a dry, clacking sound. Foster's previous jocularity appeared to have evaporated, too.
We know it's the right one,' he said softly. 'Go on, Jimbo -- do your worst.'
He stood up and with his arm ushered Nigel back from the edge of the shelf. He put a gloved hand over his nose and Nigel did likewise.
'I should really have brought masks,' he said, voice muffled.
Nigel
felt the first leapings in his stomach that indicated he might be sick. He took away the glove and sucked in a deep lungful of the moist night air while it was still clean.
With a crowbar, Jim eased away the lid at various points along its side, a faint cracking sound audible each time he lessened its grip. He worked quickly and respectfully for a minute, Nigel unsure whether to watch or look up at the sky. At one point Jim stopped and looked away; a second later Nigel knew why. A choking, acrid smell invaded the air around them. He closed his eyes, tried not to vomit.
Nigh on a century of decomposition had just escaped into the atmosphere, he knew. He felt light-headed, whether from the stench or the fear and apprehension he was unsure.
Jim nodded to Foster again.
'The lid's about to come off,' he said to Nigel. 'Don't look at her, look around her and see if there's anything there. Then we'll get it out.'
Nigel nodded, incapable of unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth to speak. Foster nodded to Jim to open the coffin.
Nigel felt himself calm. His focus was on what was beside the body, not the body itself, and there was work to do. If only he had some water to moisten his lips. Jim knelt down and slowly opened the lid, pushing it away from him. Then he moved aside.
There she was. All that was left of her earthly remains was a skeleton. Her eyeless sockets gazed skywards, jaw set in that mirthless grin common to all skulls, hands still crossed in front of her like they would have been after being placed in the box. The skeleton appeared small, no bigger than that of a teenage girl. A few threads clung to the bones, their colour impossible to tell. Nigel found himself gazing at her for several seconds, lost in thought, no longer in fear.
Foster's voice shook him out of it. 'Look,' he said simply.
Nigel followed the direction of his finger. By the bones of her right foot lay a silver container no bigger than a shoebox. Metal. It was padlocked. A rusting Yale 'cartridge'
lock, state of the art in its day, Nigel noted. She really had gone to great lengths to seal this secret from the prying eyes of the world, and here they were foiling her.
Foster leaned down and gathered it up. 'It feels empty,'
he said, weighing it in his hand. He put it on the surface and hoisted himself up. Nigel followed suit. He went back to the side of the excavator and laid it down on the footplate.
He pulled hard at the lock but it was not so corroded as to give way that easily.
'Hold that,' he said to Nigel, eyes burning with intent.
It felt cold and damp. Nigel could feel his heart beating fast once more. It was all he could do to stop his hands shaking. Foster produced a set of bolt cutters. Nigel hoped his hands weren't shaking as much as his own, or he might lose his fingers.
'Hold it tight,' Foster urged. Nigel applied as much downward pressure as he could. Foster placed the jaw of the cutters around the lock and snapped. The lock broke.
Foster placed it in his pocket.
'You can let go now,' he said to Nigel, who was still grabbing the tin with all his might.
'Oh,' he said.
'Go on then,' Foster added impatiently. 'You're the expert in handling old stuff. Open it up.'
Nigel produced a pair of pristine white cotton gloves from his pocket. He had a stock of these back home for handling old objects and aged documents, but the truth was he always forgot to take them with him and ended up borrowing those belonging to whichever archives he was working at. He slipped them on.
'Open the lid, please,' he said in a hoarse whisper, excitement once again drying out all the moisture in his mouth.
Foster lifted the lid.
The box was empty.
At least, it appeared to be at first glance. The bottom was lined with yellowing paper. Nigel picked it up carefully, feeling it crinkle slightly between his fingers. There was nothing on it. But then he looked beneath it, on the floor of the box.
A photographic print, though it was impossible to make out what it showed in the graveyard gloaming. It was black and white, he could see that. Behind him Foster switched on a torch, careful not to shine the beam directly on to the picture, but illuminating the print. The image came into focus and it chilled Nigel to his core.
A row of hideously charred bodies, more than a dozen, some tiny, obviously children, were laid out on the ground in a row, in front of a burned-out building.
While Nigel continued to stare, Foster shut the box, took it back to the grave to put it back where it had been found. In the background Nigel heard him make a phone call to the vicar, telling him he could come in now and perform the burial rites as requested by the diocese before Mickey and Jim filled in the pit.
Nigel continued to stare at the gruesome picture. Rictus grins on each of the burned bodies, some frozen in contorted agony, the rigor mortis hands of others held rigid out in front as if in supplication. Who were these people?
he thought.
The secret had been unearthed. Now it had to be deciphered.
The image of those blackened bodies haunted the few snatched minutes of sleep Nigel had that night. He gave up on the prospect of any rest shortly after six, less than three hours after going to bed, and fixed himself a pot of tea, as he re-scanned the photo over and over in his mind.
Twelve bodies in total, at least five children, all laid out in a line in readiness for burial, he presumed. At one end was the mournful face of a man, leathered and worn, holding a spade. Sarah Rowley had not wanted anyone to see this picture, to even know of its existence.
He stayed there for an hour, perhaps more. Outside the wind howled. On the radio, Naomi's disappearance had been relegated to second item on the news list. Instead, news reporters intoned dramatically from storm-tossed coastal towns, delivering, with lip-smacking glee, dire predictions of floods and mayhem, while others spoke gravely of disrupted travel for Monday morning commuters. It was only when he sat down that he saw he'd missed a call.
The ringing phone brought him back to the present.
Chris Westerberg. He had the results of the biogeographical ancestry test on Katie Drake's DNA.
'Bloody awful day outside, is it not?' the Irishman said after they had greeted each other. Nigel agreed it was. 'I
managed to rush through the results of this test for you.'
'Really?'
'Yeah, six per cent of her genes are Native American.
Given her age, and using the thirty-year rule for each generation, I think we can say with certainty that a maternal Native American ancestor entered the bloodline circa 1850--1860's. You're looking at her marrying a white Anglo-Saxon man around that time. Hope that helps.'
Nigel dressed hurriedly, throwing on the mud-spattered trousers he'd worn the previous night, and ran to the street outside, ignoring the elements. He called Foster from his phone on the way. The detective was arriving at work. He explained what Westerberg had told him: that Sarah Rowley's mother was a Native American who married a white man around the mid-nineteenth century. While it would be almost impossible to trace every single marriage between a Native American and a settler in that time, if the man she married was a Mormon, and she became a Mormon -- and this at a time when the religion was still in a fledgling stage -- then there was a chance he might be able to pinpoint enough likely candidates, see how many children they bore, and whether any had a girl around the same time Sarah was born.
'But you said they would almost certainly have changed their name?' Foster replied.
'True. Their surname definitely. Their given name?
Maybe not. It's a long shot, but it may mean that I can pick up the paper trail and find out what it was that happened in the States back in 1890, why they fled.' He paused. 'And I think the reason they fled has something to do with the burned corpses on that photograph.'
'Do it,' Foster replied.
6
Nigel had often wondered how many people had lived and died since the first man stood upright thousands and thousands of years ago. He'd seen a few estimates: the most learned and reasoned ones putting the figure between around 70 and 120 billion. Creationists -- who think the human race began in the Garden of Eden with Adam and Eve six thousand years ago, and believe that an Almighty flood wiped out what there was of mankind apart from Noah and his next of kin a few thousand years before Christ was born -- are more conservative and pitch their estimates around the 50 billion mark. Of those dead billions, very few left any trace of their existence. Only those born since around 1500 or 1600 are even likely to have been recorded as they passed across the earth, which means tens of billions of people are, in the eyes of the Mormon Church, 'lost souls', unable to receive the Gospel because we can never know their names and therefore never baptize them by proxy.