by Dan Waddell
She looked at him, brow furrowed, for a few seconds then sighed. 'OK,' she said. 'Take me to him.'
'Thanks.'
'Don't mention it.' She started to collect the papers, then looked at him with a wide grin, blue eyes dancing.
'So. You're jealous?'
As Foster was leaving his office with Susie his phone rang.
Barnes. Despite the background sound of traffic and the wind that distorted the call, Foster listened as Nigel told him about the missing newspapers, the vault and its restricted access. He knew that even if the answer wasn't in those reports, it remained their best hope. He told Barnes to go home and stand by the phone. He ended the call and made his way to Harris, Susie at his side, with even greater purpose.
DS Harris oozed frustration. Even the presence of Susie failed to act as any sort of balm. He kept taking deep breaths and rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, kinking it back as if seeking relief. Foster could see the lack of sleep, as well as the lack of progress in finding Naomi, was taking tangible toll. Blokes like Harris were expected to get results -- and they had nothing.
'Tell me you have a breakthrough, Grant,' he sighed.
'God knows we need one.'
I've got him at exactly the right time, Foster thought. He told him about the Mormon link. Through his weariness, Harris still managed to contort his features into a look of incredulity.
'Let me get this straight,' he said slowly. 'Katie Drake, together with some family in Essex, are being killed because they -- or, more likely, one of their ancestors - broke some Mormon covenant?'
'Pretty much so, yes,' Foster replied.
'And you think that this might have something to do with the fact that if these people are dead then they can be turned into Mormons?'
He nodded. 'Baptized by proxy'
Harris ran his hands down his face, stretching the skin.
'And an elevenyear-old boy who has been sleeping at your house might be the next victim?'
Foster nodded his agreement.
'But what about Naomi? If the killer is exacting some sort of ecclesiastical revenge, then why wasn't she killed, too? Don't they want to convert her? Why kidnap her and not just kill her there and then? The same goes for this other girl you say's missing. If she's been writing letters to her brother then that would indicate she hasn't been killed.'
Susie offered her theory of the girls serving a purpose.
It might just have been Foster's jaundiced eye, but he appeared to take what she said more seriously. Harris listened intently. When she finished, Foster spoke again.
We know that the victims shared two ancestors who turned up from the States in 1890, who seemed to have run away from something in America. Some kind of atrocity. We found a picture that belonged to Sarah Rowley showing a row of charred bodies, killed in a fire. We don't know what it means but it might be linked to the fact that eighteen of Sarah Rowley's ancestors died on the same day in 1890. We need to find out more. Maybe those two people who fled had something to do with that and their descendants are being made to pay' He paused. 'And the answer to it could be lying in the vault of the main family history library in Salt Lake City.'
Harris's face creased. 'Fat lot of good it is to us there.'
He caught the intensity of Foster's stare and knew immediately what he was thinking. You're proposing I send you out there?'
Foster shook his head. 'No, not me. Nigel Barnes. We send him with an official request from ourselves to access this information. It may lead to more research. He's better placed to do that than I am.'
'I don't feel happy sending a civilian out on his own, Grant.'
'Send a copper who can go with him.'
Harris took another deep gasp of air. He remained silent for a minute, scratching at the back his neck, staring at the wall. He looked back at Foster. 'OK,' he said, nodding. We send them tonight. I need something, anything, to kick start this, to help us find her. Dare I say it, even if she's dead then we'll have a body for evidence and a starting point. Who do you propose we send to accompany Barnes?'
'I have someone in mind.' He turned to leave.
'Grant?'
What?'
Another deep breath. 'Forget the return to work plan.
Work as late and as long as it takes.'
Gary was brought back to Foster's office by a young male detective who wore a look of boredom and distaste. The pair had spent the previous couple of hours in the canteen, or in front of a television, and it was clear it had not been a bonding experience for either. The young cop almost bundled Gary into the office in his eagerness to get away and return to proper work, but not before Foster asked him to wait outside for them. He'd be needed in a second. Gary appeared sullen. But then he mostly did.
What a muppet he was,' he said.
Foster ignored him. 'Look, I'm going to be really busy.
I've sorted out some temporary accommodation for you where you'll be well looked after. More importantly, you'll be safe. You'll have a policeman living with you 24/7.
You won't be able to get out much, which is a shame, but you'll have satellite TV, computers, game consoles, so there'll be ample compensation. It won't be for long.'
'I ain't going,' he said, his jaw sticking out perceptibly.
Foster sighed. Why?'
Gary said nothing.
'Look, you have my word. It's safe. Safer than anywhere else you could be. Safer than my place. Safer than the streets. I wouldn't suggest you go there unless it was absolutely cast-iron certain you won't come to any harm.'
Gary was looking out of the window, at the trees that were bowing obsequiously to the gusting wind. Foster thought he might cry.
'Look, there's an Xbox, a Wii, there's a desktop computer hooked up to the Internet, there's a DVD library with every film you can think of, takeaways on tap. In fact the more I think about it, the more I'd like to be there.'
The boy turned his large, mournful brown eyes on him.
'So why ain't you gonna be there?'
It was only then that Foster understood the kid's reluctance.
For a few seconds, he was lost for words; no pithy comeback or retort. Nothing. A new experience. Instead he stroked his chin.
'I'm not going to be there, Gary, because I need to find the man who kidnapped your sister, kidnapped the girl who went missing last week, the killer of your aunt, your uncle and your cousin, the man who has been following you,' he replied eventually. 'And to do that while having you around is not that easy.' The kid's face grew more mournful. 'Not because I don't want you around, but because of having to ferry you around. Plus it's not safe for you to be with me. Trust me.'
Gary continued to stare at him, barely blinking, but his resistance appeared to be waning.
'In fact, if I know you're not in danger then that will make my job of trying to catch this psycho much easier.
You understand?'
Gary nodded, even tried to force a smile 'Easy, now. You don't want your face to crack.' He went over and ruffled his hair. Gary let him.
Less than a week ago he'd have sunk his teeth into my hand, Foster thought. He smiled. Then he picked up the phone and told Barnes to pack his toothbrush.
8
The main floor was crowded with people -- men and women of various shapes and sizes, backgrounds and ages -- but Nigel immediately recognized the kind. Amateur family historians. There was something about their quiet, unfussy air, the atmosphere of eager expectation as they chatted among themselves, hushed yet excited. Many of them had crossed states, travelled many thousands of miles to be here, either waiting to be collected by a guide or tour organizer or having made their own, independent pilgrimage to the Church of Latter-day Saints' vast central library in downtown Salt Lake City. All of them were seeking insights into their pasts and origins. He envied them in a way. The American experience was an essentially immigrant one. Many would find stories of ancestors who had crossed oceans and risked life and limb in search of a new life
, fleeing persecution or hardship, starting afresh in the new world, stories that were less common in the UK.
He stood to one side, watching, detached in more ways than one. He had never travelled further than mainland Europe, so the ravages of jetlag were new to him. He was running on adrenaline, the sense of being close to discovering something of import his only spur after a night of sleep had evaded him entirely. They had left Heathrow the night before, arriving in Chicago at midnight. The only seats were in economy, and at O'Hare airport they had a six-hour wait until catching a dawn flight over the Rocky Mountains to the Mormon capital, swooping in over snow-capped peaks that glistened in the eye-popping winter sun.
His dehydrated skin was stretched taut like a drum and his head felt as if it was half-filled with water. He felt dislocated, as if an actor had taken over his part and he was watching from afar. Little more than sixteen hours before he'd been sitting on a tube rattling across rush-hour London. Now here he was six time zones west, breakfast time in America, in a city about which he knew nothing, other than its importance as the centre of the Mormon Church.
Heather emerged from the crisp, cold air where she'd been making a call back to the UK. Her hair was still wet from the shower she'd grabbed at the unspectacular business hotel where they'd dropped their bags.
'I need more of that fresh air,' she said. 'It's a balm to the lungs compared to London. It's like breathing for the first time.' She checked her watch. 'The fax has been sent.
What time are we meeting your girlfriend?'
Nigel had suggested Donna Faugenot meet them. She was well connected and knew the source material better than he did. She might come in handy. He ignored the teasing.
'Ten. In the snack area.' He pulled a map from his pocket. 'It's on this floor. Somewhere.'
Five floors, almost 2,000 visitors daily, more than 600 million names on its database, and 2.5 million rolls of microfilm -- Nigel had to admit the LDS library dwarfed the National Archives in Kew. It was Tuesday -- it took both of them a while to remember that through the fog of travel -- and so the library was open until nine in the evening, but even that early in the morning it was crammed full. They headed through the throng to the snack area, a small airless cubby hole that made the old canteen at the Family Records Centre look like the dining room of the Dorchester.
There was only one person there, sipping bottled water, reading a newspaper. A blonde woman in jeans, trainers and a black zip-up jacket, heavily made up, boldly attractive.
'Donna?'
Nigel asked tentatively.
The woman looked up, then flashed a broad smile of perfect white teeth. She stood up. She was tall, maybe the same height as him. 'Nigel!' she exclaimed. 'Nigel Barnes!'
He smiled and was about to hold out his hand when she embraced him, planting a kiss on his right cheek. 'It's good to meet you.' She looked him up and down. 'I love the jacket. Very professorial,' she added, nodding.
'Thanks,' Nigel said. 'Pleasure to meet you, too.'
'It's great to put a face to the voice.' She flashed her full beam grin. You're as cute as your accent. How was the flight?'
'Er, long.' He turned to Heather, who was standing a few feet behind him, the curious smile back on her lips.
'This is Detective Inspector Heather Jenkins.'
They shook hands, agreeing it was good to meet each other.
'Thanks for helping,' Nigel added. You really didn't need to . . .'
What the hell,' she said, waving away his protest. She leaned forward conspiratorially. Always glad to be a guide through the evil empire,' she whispered.
Nigel smiled. The Mormon Church's tentacles extended into every nook and cranny of genealogy - libraries, websites, publications. No other group was anywhere near as powerful. But no other group made the pursuit of family history a cornerstone of their religion.
'Keep that one quiet, honey. The walls have ears,' she said and winked. 'Anyway, what's your plan?'
We're going to check if they've got the request and see if they'll hand the material over. Shall we meet you back here later?' Heather said.
Donna shrugged. 'Sounds good. If I'm not here, I'll be on this floor. Just holler -- quietly, of course.'
They turned to go.
'Fascinating woman,' Heather said, as they made their way to the special collections desk. Wonder how early she has to get up in the morning to put that lot on her face?'
They reached the second floor, much less crowded than the one they'd left. The special collections desk was in the far corner of the room. It was manned by a nervous, balding man in his mid-forties, wearing a pair of thick dark glasses. 'Edward,' his name badge said. Heather performed the introductions. A fax has been sent ahead of us about our request for information?' she added.
The man look nonplussed. 'Hold with me just a second,'
he said, and disappeared behind a door. A minute or so later he returned, brandishing a piece of paper. 'I have the request here.'
'Excellent,' Heather said.
He furrowed his brow. 'There's just one problem.
Actually, make that two problems. You can't access the information as it stands.'
Nigel sensed Heather bristle.
'As what stands?'
'To enter the special collections to access this information, you need a valid LDS temple recommend.'
'How do we get one of those?'
Are either of you a member of the LDS Church?'
'No,' Heather said, trying to suppress a snort of laughter.
'Then, broadly speaking, you won't be able to get a temple recommend and enter the special collections.'
'Can't you just bring it out here?' Nigel could see Heather's patience, frayed by missing a night's sleep, was about to break.
Edward shook his head slowly. 'No. You need to enter the special collections.'
Heather leaned forward against the desk. 'Can I just clear something up? The material we want to see could be of great help in an ongoing murder investigation. We have flown all the way from the United Kingdom because we were told the material would be handed to us on special request. We have made that request. Now you're telling us, after we've flown all this way, that the material we need, that could help us find a killer, is actually unavailable because we're not members of the LDS Church?'
'I see your predicament, ma'am, and I sympathize. It is not my decision but --'
'Let me guess,' Heather snapped. You're just following orders?'
Well, yes . . .'
'Look, I appreciate all that. Can I speak to someone in a position of authority? I've flown all the way from England and I'm not going anywhere until I get to see that material.'
Edward nodded. "I'll go and see if anyone's available.
Hold right there.' He disappeared behind his door.
Heather turned round, seething. 'Can you fucking believe this?' she said, shaking her head. Nigel didn't know what to say. Already his mind was listing other ways they might be able to get hold of those newspapers. He came up blank.
'Blousey Brown downstairs, can she help?'
Who?'
Who do you think? Avon calling. Your friend, Donna.'
'I don't know,' he said. 'I very much doubt it.'
'Go and metaphorically holler for her, see if she's a member. See if she knows anyone who is and has one of these recommend things.'
Nigel trudged back downstairs to the main floor, and immediately ran into Donna speaking to someone next to a vast bank of microfilm readers. She saw him approaching, patted her fellow conversationalist on the shoulder and switched her smile to full dazzle. She radiated health.
Next to her, crumpled after a day of travel, still wearing the same clothes he had left London in, Nigel felt grotty and unkempt.
'Couldn't keep away, huh?'
'No, we actually need your help right now. They won't give us access without something called a temple recommend.'
'Special
collections? It's in there, is it? I didn'
t know that. I thought they'd bring it to the front desk for collection.'
The smile disappeared. You sure?'
'The guy up there has told my colleague she needs a temple recommend to see the material.'
She let out a low whistle and creased her brow. 'That's strange. It shouldn't be in there.'
Why not?'
'Special collections is for Mormon eyes only. Church members use it to look up their dead ancestors who were LDS and check out ceremonies carried out in temple, baptism for the dead, sealing ceremonies, that kind of stuff. Not newspaper reports. I smell a lot of a rat.'
'Do you know anyone who has a temple recommend?'
'Sure. I do.'
Nigel almost performed a double take. For a few seconds, words failed him.
Donna sensed his incredulity. 'I take it you didn't have me down as a Mormon?'
No, he thought. You've done nothing but flirt with me since I arrived. You wear make-up. You're attractive. I thought all these things were antithetical to Mormonism.
'I hadn't presumed . . .' he stuttered.
She put her hand up. 'It's OK. We have an image problem. But be assured, not all Mormon women are dull kewpie-doll housewives. I think some Mormon men would like us to be, but there's still room for individualism.'
She put her hands on her hips. 'Not much, though.
Especially if you're a working single parent, and a divorcee.
But enough of that crap. Take me to where your friend is.'
They made their way to the second floor where Heather was deep in conversation with a different gentleman, this one in a suit, exuding more authority than the last. His face bore the simpering look of someone trying to be sympathetic while remaining obstinate. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Nigel and Donna approaching, and a mote of panic crept across his bland features. Nigel could hear Heather's diatribe.
'You're obstructing a police investigation. One that may well lead to the death of more people. Does the Mormon Church really want blood on its hands?' she said.
'Hell, no,' Donna said. 'We have quite enough of that already'