Blood Atonement (16 page)

‘There’s a chance his life could be in danger.’

The vicar nodded. The rosiness of his cheeks, a hooked nose and twinkling eyes gave him the look of a kindly Mr Punch. ‘Well, if you’re correct, then she was right all along,’

he replied.

ŚWho was? Mrs Chapman?’

Yes.’ He took small sip of his coffee. ‘Presumably as a genealogist you’re fully aware of the Church’s role in the community. With adoptions and suchlike?’

Nigel was. There were many agencies that had arranged adoptions in the past, the Church being the most prominent, mostly in transferring the unwanted offspring of the poor to the rich. Yes, I am.’

‘Well, my predecessor, the Reverend Robert Daedulus, was particularly active in that regard.’ He peered over his glasses at Nigel. ‘And he was not a stickler for recordkeeping, if you get my drift.’ The vicar took off his glasses and began to suck on one arm. ‘Some years ago, when her husband died, I spent a fair amount of time helping Mrs

Chapman deal with her loss. She told me my predecessor had arranged the adoption of her son in November 1964.

He was only two months old.’

The only reaction Nigel could think of was blasphemous, so he remained silent.

Was he troublesome? In some way damaged?’

‘She was adamant that any problems with the boy were not behind her reasoning. Neither did she want any payment.

She said she simply wanted the boy to be safe. She

told me that Reverend Daedulus had arranged a private adoption. She told me the son was a mistake. That she never planned to have children. Obviously, she did not believe in termination so she had the child, and nursed him through his first weeks. But all the time she wanted to get rid of him.’

‘That sounds very cold.’

‘Doesn’t it just? I felt that myself. But another thing about my job is that you learn not to judge. I leave that to my boss.’ He winked, took another sip of coffee before continuing.

“I think she must have sensed my own shock. She

was not a drinking woman by any means, but she’d taken a few glasses that evening. She leaned over her kitchen table and fixed me with a beady stare.’ The vicar did an approximation of her, leaning forward towards Nigel. ‘She said, “If the boy had stayed with me, they would have got him.

Eventually. Just like they might get me. I couldn’t take the risk of them coming and what they might do. So I did what any mother should do and made sure he was safe.” I asked who “they” were. She wouldn’t say. I also asked her why she and her husband didn’t move, or change their name or emigrate even. She said it didn’t matter.

‘She told me her Aunt Margaret said that no matter what she did, they would find her one day. Her aunt kept screaming, “They will never relent… Protect yourself as if from the Devil himself.” She told her to never, ever have children.

Her grandmother had told her all this on her deathbed.

Margaret believed every word and so did Edith.

‘Her grandmother told no one else. Margaret did, but her family didn’t believe her. She was mad, they said.

They put her away in the loony bin. Left her there to rot.

Edith said it was an awful, awful place. She was the only person who ever went to visit her. She would go there without telling anyone. Only her husband. Until Margaret died. She believed her aunt. She told me, “Maybe I was wrong, maybe I was right. I couldn’t risk it. ‘They will not relent!’ she said. Margaret saw something, something awful that persuaded her.” And that was it — she said no more about it.’

Nigel wondered who ‘they’ were. Someone or something so unspeakable that a woman would rather give away

her firstborn to strangers than risk him coming to harm.

‘That night was the only night she spoke about it,’ the vicar added. ‘She knew her son was all right and was doing well. That was comfort enough.’

How? Nigel thought. How could that possibly be a

comfort? Here was a woman with no family, just a husband, who died well before her. Who had no other family.

Who had given away her only child. Whoever ‘they’ were must have terrified her to make such a sacrifice. The vicar appeared to read his mind.

‘She was a very solitary woman. Happy keeping to herself. The church was her life, but she played no active part in it, to be honest. There were friends, there was the bingo hall and that was it. A woman of very simple tastes.’

‘Did you ever speculate yourself about who the people were she was hiding away from?’

‘Sure, but I came up with nothing other than a few wild ideas.’ He drained his coffee mug. Who are the people putting his life at risk?’

We don’t know.’

‘Well, then. It’s a mystery all round, isn’t it?’ He checked his watch. “I better be getting back or my wife will be starting to worry. Pains me to say it, but there are parts of my parish where it’s best not to be after dark.’

Nigel stood and put on his coat. Your predecessor left no note or record as to who the adoptive parents were?’

He shook his head dolefully. ‘No, and to be fair to you, Mr Barnes, I wouldn’t pass it on even if he did. Look at it this way: you show up and tell a man in his mid-forties that not only was he adopted, but there are nameless people out there who want to kill him. I don’t think that’d be wise, do you?’

‘No, but he might prefer the truth to death.’

‘Fair enough. But it’s academic. There are no records.

Or at least, none I’m aware of.’

Nigel sighed. Without that there would no chance whatsoever of them tracking down Anthony Chapman or whoever he may be now. That also meant any pursuers would

struggle, too. He started to head for the door, then stopped.

‘The aunt who told her to give away her child. Did Edith say which asylum she was held in?’

The vicar nodded. ‘Colney Hatch. She said it was hell on earth.’

Light beamed through the bay window at the front of Susie Danson’s house, though Foster could see the room was empty as he walked up her path. At least it told him someone was home. He could see a piano and a violin on the stand. He’d never had her down as a music lover. Did she have kids? He was ashamed to say he couldn’t remember.

He’d probably never asked. She was separated, he knew that. He was at the door by now, so rang the bell.

Ten seconds later Susie Danson opened the door, broad smile, lipstick blazing bright as ever. Her hair was up, gold earrings dangled from her ears and she was wearing a black dress that fitted snugly.

‘Oh,’ she said, her smile fading, replaced by a puzzled look. ‘Grant.’

You look fantastic,’ he said genuinely.

‘Thanks.’ She sounded nervous, looking more than once over his shoulder.

‘Sorry to turn up unannounced. I did try calling, but no answer.’

‘It’s actually not the best time. I’m expecting someone any minute.’

“I won’t take long,’ Foster replied. But it was only then that he appreciated what was happening. She was waiting for a date. He felt a pang, a twinge he didn’t recognize, deep in his stomach.

Jealousy. It had been a while since he’d felt anything like that. ‘Oh,’ he blurted out. ‘I’m sorry’

She shook her head, as if remonstrating with herself.

‘Look, come in,’ she added and grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside.

The house was warm and he could smell her scent heavy in the air. He watched her walk away down the hall and the pang grew stronger. Why didn’t he ask her out all those years ago when he had the bloody chance? Because you’re a cretin, he answered. And there was every chance she’d say no. As he followed, he put all that to the back of his mind - there was a job to do and he needed her help.

In the kitchen, bare yet beautifully furnished and lit, she went straight to the fridge and pulled out a beer, handing it to him with a smile. ‘If I remember rightly, you like a drink or two. Red wine, isn’t it? “As long as it ain’t white,”

you used to say. I don’t have any red, but is beer OK?’ He nodded, impressed at her recall. White wine was for women and Antipodeans. As if to illustrate, she pulled out a bottle of white and poured herself a large glass. “I don’t like drinking alone and your arrival has made me suddenly very thirsty.’ She chuckled to herself.

‘What’s the joke?’ he asked, taking a swig of beer.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ and let out a sigh whose meaning he couldn’t decipher. ‘What’s the emergency? I’d like you to tell me you’ve found Naomi.’

‘No. Still missing.’

Susie grimaced.

You think she’s dead, don’t you?’

“I think there’s a good chance she is,’ she replied. ‘If she’s not, she very soon will be.’

‘What if I told you that I think there’s much more to this case than meets the eye?’

‘Like what?’

‘I’ve just been to a homicide in Essex. Three people murdered — father, mother and son. Young daughter spared, though probably by accident because she was elsewhere.’

“I don’t see the link.’

‘They were distant relations to Katie Drake. I think this all has something to do with what happened in the past.’

Susie took a small sip of her drink, looked Foster in the eye. ‘Everything has something to do with what happened in the past,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the crime scene.’

‘The father and the son were shot in the head in their beds and dragged out into the garden. The mother was shot but left in her bed.’

‘Shot? Completely different method of killing to Katie Drake.’

“I know. But dragged out into the garden?’

‘I’d need to see the pictures, Grant. Visit the crime scene, look at post mortem reports.’

‘But let’s just say they were related. Let’s just say that the man who murdered Katie Drake and abducted Naomi also killed these people. What would you say then?’

She shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll play along. The father and son, were they the related ones?’

‘By blood, yes.’

‘Then you might say that by dragging their bodies into the garden the killer is in some way showing what he has done to the world. If there is some dark secret in the past, then he’s dragging it out into the light for all to see. But why he would choose to kidnap and not kill — or at least, not kill Naomi - if he is avenging some past wrong is less clear. Maybe there is some information he wants to extract from her before he kills her, or she represents something.’

She held her hands out. ‘Sorry, Grant. Get me some info from the crime scene and I’ll be able to do a better job than winging it in my kitchen.’

Foster put his hand up to stop her apology. You’ve been a great help already. It’s not my case so the info might not be too easy to get hold of, but I’ll do my best.’

She grabbed her handbag and fished out a business card. ‘They’re the best ways to contact me, particularly the e-mail.’

He was just about to ask her what the occasion was that evening when the doorbell rang. She jumped almost a foot. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to all these surprises.’

‘Should I make myself scarce?’ he joked. ‘Leave by the back door?’ He checked his watch. “I need to leave anyway.

I’m collecting an elevenyear-old boy from a care home.’

She didn’t appear to hear him. ‘Hmmm, wait here,’ she said distractedly.

She went to the door. He heard her open it, a few muffled words being said, and the smack of lip being lifted from lip. Footsteps down the hall. Susie explaining she’d had a visitor, walking back in slightly red-faced.

Followed by DS Brian Harris.

Neither of the men spoke for several seconds. Foster knew Harris’s marriage had been in trouble, but not quite this deep.

‘My life was very simple before I got involved with the Met,’ Susie said. ‘Drink, Brian? Lemonade or Coke.’

‘Just water,’ he said, eyeing Foster coolly.

He’d forgotten Harris was teetotal. It explained quite a lot.

She waved another beer at Foster but he declined. She topped up her own glass and let out another barely perceptible chuckle.

‘So what are you doing here, Grant?’ Harris said wearily.

He looked worn, the events of the previous days having taken their toll.

‘Running an idea past Susie. It’s a slice of luck you’re here, actually. I was about to go to the office and catch you there, but I would’ve wasted my time. The triple murder out in Essex this morning. Have you heard about it?’

Harris took his water from Susie, nodded his thanks and plunged his empty hand into his pocket. She left the room. Both men watched her go.

‘Heard about it?’ Harris replied. ‘Unfortunately, yes.

It’s threatening to take away some of the TV exposure and column inches we hoped to hog with Stephen Buckingham’s appeal tomorrow. Time’s running out. It’s our last throw of the dice. Let’s hope the media still think the story of a missing fourteenyear-old is more newsworthy than the murder of a family of a well-known gangster.’

‘I think they’re connected,’ Foster said bluntly.

Harris looked amused. ‘Are you being serious?’

Foster nodded. Yes, sir. I was there.’

Harris’s expression changed to bemusement. ‘So that’s where you were. I could have done with you pounding on a few doors.’

Foster ignored the slight.

‘On what basis do you think the cases are connected?’

Harris asked.

‘The victims were related.’

‘How?’

‘Distant cousins. They shared a common maternal ancestor.’ Before Harris could intervene, he continued.

‘The hair left on Katie Drake’s clothing belonged to a male. You know they couldn’t obtain anything other than an mtDNA sample. It turns out that the person who owns that hair and Katie Drake shared a maternal ancestor.

Could have been ten thousand years ago, could have been a hundred. Forensics knew that and didn’t deem it useful.

I thought about it and decided to ask Nigel Barnes, the genealogist who worked on the Karl Hogg case, to discover just how many maternal relations of Katie Drake were still alive. Turns out he can’t trace their ancestry back beyond about 1890, which means there weren’t many. I fed the names into the database and I came across the