Blood Atonement (14 page)

Foster,

hunched over his steaming cup, did not share their resignation. Something told him this was about more than sex. Something told him Naomi might still be alive.

He sipped at his tea, watching helplessly as the clock on his kitchen wall ticked past 7 a.m. Foster hated watching time slip away but he wasn’t due in until nine, as advised by his action plan, and there was little he could do until then.

He’d been up most of the night, digesting what Gary Stamey had told him about the man who had visited their house, in particular the book he had given Leonie featuring Joe and his secret treasure. He scoured the Internet for websites about comics and graphic novels but found nothing matching the description.

From the hall he could hear the muffled sound of his mobile phone vibrating as it rattled across the surface of the sideboard - he’d taken to switching it to silent, so irritated was he by the ring tone, or the way it bleeped chirpily whenever a message came through. He reached it just before the caller was diverted through to his voicemail. It was Heather.

‘Hi, did I wake you?’

‘No,’ he said, feeling affronted. ‘I’ve been up for a while actually.’

‘Good. Listen, I’ve just got in and it’s been logged there was a call for you last night. From Carol Stamey, Martin’s wife.’

‘What time?’

‘Just after eleven.’

He cursed. He’d still been up then. ‘Why didn’t they pass it on to me?’

‘They’ve been instructed not to bother you, remember?

They said you were off duty and asked if she was willing to speak to someone else, but she hung up. I thought you might want to follow up this morning.’

He thanked her and ended the call. Back in the kitchen he drank his tea and then called Carol Stamey back. No answer. Probably still asleep. He had no mobile number for her. Why had she hung up last night? Maybe she was calling without her husband’s knowledge and he’d walked in and caught her. Or what she wanted to say was for Foster’s ears only.

If it was the former, he didn’t want to make it awkward for her by phoning, in case Martin Stamey answered. So he showered and dressed, got in his car and drove out to Purfleet. He doubted he’d be missed, and if they did call him then he’d make up an excuse about being at a physiotherapy session, which wouldn’t be much of a lie since he did have an appointment that afternoon.

A fine drizzle was falling as Foster pulled up outside the house at 8:15 a.m., the beam of his headlights still strong.

The sort of day when morning and dusk were interchangeable.

He cursed when he saw two cars parked in the driveway, a silver Jaguar at the front. He’d hoped Martin might be out at work and the kids on their way to school. A red Alfa Romeo that presumably belonged to Carol was parked behind the Jag.

He got out of the car and straightened his jacket. He could always call on the pretext that he had a few more questions. She would tell him if it was no secret from her husband. If it was, he would leave his mobile number and hope she called him on it later. He walked up the drive.

Despite the gloom, there was no light on in the house. He rang the doorbell, expecting to hear the frantic barking of the dog. Instead there was silence. He rang the bell again and waited. No answer.

Foster stepped back from the house, looking at the upstairs windows. The curtains were drawn. Had they gone away? Yet Carol had called from the house late last night.

He wandered across the front lawn to the side of the house where there was a wooden door. He gave it a firm push. It swung open to reveal an alleyway leading to another wooden door. Along the side of the house were two dustbins, a few crates filled with empty wine and beer bottles and a stone flower vase teeming with spent cigarette butts. He walked along the alley, expecting at any moment to hear the dog, wondering what he’d do if it took him as an intruder and set about him. He’d not seen it the other night, merely heard it. And it sounded the size of a lion. He was not a dog lover and, from the attitude of most dogs he’d met, it appeared the feeling was mutual.

The heavy wooden door at the far end of the alley was open, too, sitting slightly ajar. Odd, he thought, for a crook like Stamey to leave the entrance to the back of his house so accessible. He looked back at the first of the doors. A Yale lock and two deadbolts, neither of which had been used. He walked through and found himself at the far corner of an enormous garden secluded by a high wall that ran around its entire perimeter. In the centre of a huge expanse of lawn was a swimming pool, covered by boards for the winter. To his right was a conservatory, beyond it a large, raised stone patio studded with garden furniture and a cover that shrouded a barbecue. At the opposite side of the garden was a stone feature or a fountain, which was switched off or no longer worked. But his eye was drawn back to the lawn.

Two bodies lay face down.

Foster hurried over. Both were dead. The first, arms out by his side, face down, was Martin Stamey, naked. The back of his head missing, ravaged by a bullet. Five yards to his south lay the body of a young boy in pyjamas — presumably the son, though his face had been almost destroyed by being shot at close range. From each body lay twin trails of blood that slicked the lawn, leading to a set of French windows. One of the doors was wide open.

Using his mobile, he called Heather, told her where he was and to get in touch with the local force.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘I don’t know,’ he said and put the phone down. That’s what he needed to find out.

He went to the open door, stepped inside, parting the curtains. It was the room where he and Heather had sat and spoken to Stamey the other night. He glanced around. Nothing out of place. A door to the right led to the conservatory. Again, everything was intact. The large adjoining kitchen, too. He wandered back into the room, then into the hall, which led to the front door.

There was another room to the right. A sort of dining room with a large antique table, and a grandfather clock that ticked loudly. It smelled and looked as if it was rarely used.

He followed the trail of blood. It went from the French windows to the hall and up the wide, gradual steps. Foster’s feet were cushioned by the thick carpet.

At the top he stopped. He listened. No sound, save the hushed sweep of traffic along the nearby dual carriageway and the ticking of the downstairs clock. In front of him was a bathroom. Empty. He turned left. There was a door on the right. From the picture of a young pop star on it he guessed it was the daughter’s, a feeling confirmed when he opened the door and was met by the sort of paraphernalia he’d last seen in Naomi Buckingham’s room. The bed was neatly made but empty. No

blood trail.

A scarlet track led to the last door on this landing while another splattered path went up a set of stairs to an upper floor. The door was ajar. He opened it and caught a sight of the reflection in the mirrored doors of a set of floorto-ceiling cupboards. He took a deep breath and turned into the room.

Carol Stamey, spreadeagled and naked. At first he thought the sheet beneath her was scarlet but then realized from one clean corner that it was white and sluiced in her blood. There was a matting of red blood in her hair where the bullet had entered the back of her head. From the amount of viscera spread across the sheets he could see her husband had been killed beside her then dragged outside. He went upstairs; the boy’s stained sheets told a similar story.

A few minutes later Foster stood in the garden as the crackle and bustle of a murder-scene investigation went on around him. He was oblivious to the fuss. As he stood there, trying to absorb what he had seen, a jet-black 4x4

pulled up as near to the house as it could. The young girl he’d seen watching television at the Stameys’ house two nights before jumped out from the vehicle, dressed in her school uniform, worry and panic etched on her face. She began to run towards the house, followed by a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, who began screaming at her to stop.

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?’