Blood Atonement (2 page)

He checked the windows and doors all over the house.

No sign of forced entry. The killer had been allowed in.

The girl? He glanced one more time at the photograph on the mantelpiece. Slit her mother’s throat? He doubted it.

But he could be wrong.

Foster returned to the garden where Katie Drake’s

body still lay, housed in a tent. Edward Carlisle, the pathologist, was going about his duty with grim efficiency. The body might not be moved for a while, until the whole scene was processed.

Carlisle spotted Foster enter, the serious frown he

adopted for his work lifting briefly.

‘Good to see you again, Grant,’ he said, his usually rich public school voice ravaged by the effects of a cold. ‘On the mend?’

‘Never better,’ Foster replied breezily, not wanting to dwell on it. ‘What have you found?’

He turned his face up. ‘I’ll need to have a closer look in a post mortem. The throat was slit out here, though.’

Heather slipped into the tent beside him. He could tell from her face she had more news.

What?’

‘We’ve found Naomi’s father,’ she said. ‘Stephen Buckingham.’

‘Let’s

pay him a visit.’

Stephen Buckingham looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice from which he would soon be pitched.

He sat in the blue-upholstered armchair in the living room of his house in Esher, eyes wide. Foster sat across from him, nursing a cup of tea provided by Buckingham’s second wife, a shy, conservatively dressed woman, who padded around them softly, casting nervous, anxious

glances at her husband. It was shortly after nine o’clock and the couple’s two children had left for school.

Foster had broken the news about his ex-wife’s death and his daughter’s disappearance. He’d asked whether Buckingham had had any contact with either of them the day before.

‘I was in Leeds on business,’ he said softly, looking down at his fingers, which picked and played with each other. ‘It was Naomi’s birthday so I called her mobile at lunchtime. The call was very quick because she was out getting something to eat with friends and it was difficult to hear over the traffic, the sirens …’

Foster nodded, he knew the feeling. The sound of the

city.

‘She seemed pretty excited about going skating with her mum and her friends and then a meal. I said I’d see her

Saturday…’

His voice tailed away. Foster didn’t interrupt.

We were going shopping in town. My treat. Her mother wasn’t fond of it, thought I was spoiling her. But there was little I did with Naomi that her mother approved of.’

Foster asked when he had arrived back from Leeds.

‘I flew back. My plane arrived at Heathrow just before ten o’clock at night. I was tired so I got a cab back here. It was shortly after eleven when I got here, isn’t that right, Sheila?’

Sheila bit her lip and nodded. ‘About that time, yes,’ she agreed softly.

‘Sorry, can you excuse me?’ Heather said, standing by the door. ‘I just need to make a call.’ She slipped out.

‘When did you and your first wife separate?’ Foster

asked.

‘Eleven years ago, when Naomi was three. It just wasn’t working. It was pretty volatile for a while afterwards, but while Katie was hot-headed, she also loved Naomi with everything she had, and knew she couldn’t keep me away.

We soon fell into a routine. My work takes me away, but I always make time to see her and spend time with her. I’ve remarried since, had two more kids, but it never affected my relationship with Naomi.’

Had Katie remarried?

Buckingham shook his head. ‘No. There had been other men, that much I know from Naomi. But she wasn’t a

tittle-tattle and, to be honest, I wasn’t really that interested.

I don’t think she was seeing anyone at the moment. In

fact, from what I’d gleaned from Naomi, I sensed Katie

had been having a hard time of it.

‘In what way?’

‘Not entirely sure. She was an actress. When I first met her, she was a real beauty. She got lots of work, some TV, adverts, mainly stage work, which was her real love. In recent years it had all gone a bit quiet. I think that got her down. Naomi made a few oblique references to her mother drinking. She never touched a drop when we first

met, which was why it jarred with me a bit. She liked to smoke reefers back then.’

What about Naomi? Did she have any boyfriends?’

Buckingham smiled for the first time. ‘You’ve seen her

picture. What do you reckon? From what she said, she

seemed to be beating them off with a stick at school.’

The smile vanished. The vacant stare returned.

Had she mentioned anyone in particular?

Buckingham looked up at Foster, as if noticing him for

the first time. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Miles away’

‘Did Naomi mention any boy in particular, one that

might have been pursuing her perhaps?’

‘No. She did mention one boy she fancied who was a

bit older. He was in a band. The name escapes me. The

reason I remember is that he was quite a bit older, seventeen or something, and I thought that was a bit too old and said so. She said she was at the back of the queue

anyway’

There was another silence as Buckingham scratched at

his wrist and Foster wondered whether, if his own life had taken a different turn, or his personality had, he might have been playing an active part in a fourteenyear-old’s life. And, not for the first time, given the pain and suffering this man was experiencing, whether it was all worth it.

Was living your life with only one person to worry about the easiest option?

What do you think has happened to her, detective?’

Buckingham’s weary voice betrayed his hopeful expression.

Foster shrugged. ‘I hope we find out soon,’ he said.

‘Rest assured we’re putting every resource we can muster into finding Naomi.’

He paused before his next question.

‘Are you a wealthy man, Mr Buckingham?’

The man’s eyes narrowed. Then he realized what Foster

was alluding to. ‘I’m comfortably off, no more. I publish three magazines, none of them that successful. You think I’ll get a ransom demand?’

Foster could see a glint of hope in his manner and

expression. That would at least mean Naomi was still

alive. He also knew Buckingham was downplaying his

wealth. This house, Foster estimated, was worth at least a million. A black Mercedes convertible was parked on the drive. He had spoken about the money he liked to spend

on his daughter. They could not rule out a financial

motive.

‘Keep your phone switched on,’ he said. He cleared his

throat. ‘If we don’t find Naomi, you might want to consider making a public appeal’

Whatever it takes.’

Heather slipped back into the room, smiled apologetically at Buckingham. She caught Foster’s eye and nodded.

She’d made a few calls. Buckingham’s story stood up. He’d been on that plane.

‘Did you know much about your ex-wife’s daily life, her

routine?’

Buckingham shook his head. ‘Next to nothing. She was

quite often at home during the day, I know that. We really had very minimal contact outside the odd conversation about Naomi.’

‘Did she have friends?’

‘I’m sure she did. Her best friend was always Sally

Darlinghurst, another actress. They met in repertory shortly before she met me. They were inseparable back then. I think they were still in touch, but don’t quote me on it.’

Foster scribbled the name down. ‘One last question,

Mr Buckingham. What was the relationship like between

your daughter and Katie?’

He gave it some thought. ‘OK. I think they were very

close. Too close, perhaps.’

What do you mean?’

Well, her mother was very possessive of her. I got the

feeling that as she moved away — grew up, met boys — her mother would feel left out. Naomi was Katie’s entire world in many respects. I actually feared for Katie when the time came to cut the apron strings. Naomi was already feeling a bit smothered by her, so she said.’

‘Did they fight?’

‘I think so. You know how it can be, mothers and

daughters.’ His face dropped. ‘You don’t think …’

Foster shrugged. We need to look at all eventualities.

You mentioned to me that your ex-wife was a good

looking woman. Given the fact she’d been in the public

eye, did she ever receive the attentions of any unwanted admirers?’

What? Like a stalker?’

Yes, like a stalker.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Not that I’m aware of. She

did get a few letters when I knew her, blokes who’d seen her in a play or on television. She once did a nude scene in a TV play that attracted a slew of cards and letters, some rather ribald in nature. The odd photo, too. I wasn’t particularly enamoured with all that but she brushed it off, made me feel a bit of a prude. But no one physically followed her or pursued her — not that I knew of, anyway.’

Foster

nodded. They were already in touch with her

agent. She might know more.

‘How about family? Before we take steps like making a

television appeal and using the media, we need to track

down her next of kin. Make sure they’re all aware of her death. Can you tell us where to start?’

Buckingham rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I

can’t.’

Why not?’

“I knew Katie for more than five years, intimately. She

never once mentioned any family, and never spoke about

it.’

‘Never?’

‘Never. I asked. I probed. But she closed down any discussion about it. She acted like she had no family. She went to school, came to London and went to drama

school, and supported herself by waitressing in her spare time, which is how I met her. That’s all she ever told me.’

He must have noted Foster’s incredulity; he sniffed derisively, as if sharing the detective’s disbelief. ‘I know — madness, isn’t it? But I just grew to accept that it was a closed book. I did find out that Drake was a stage name.

You’ll understand why she changed it when I tell you that her real surname was Pratt.’

‘But surely Naomi must have asked, wanted to know

who her grandparents were?’

‘She did. But her mother always changed the subject.

She told me that one day she would do a bit of research

into the family history, find out more, but she wouldn’t do that behind her mother’s back.’

Foster found himself looking at Jenkins.

Her eyes told him she was thinking the same.

Nigel Barnes stopped walking and brought his hands out

from behind his back, holding the skull. He did it too

quickly. The skull wobbled in his right hand, which was

itself shaking, and almost fell to the floor. He looked at it, silently counted to three, then composed himself and looked forward.

‘He has remained silent too long,’ he said. One — two —

three. ‘Now it’s time to hear his story.’

The cameraman brought his equipment down from his

shoulder. ‘Good,’ he said impatiently. ‘Only problem with that one was I clearly saw you mouthing “one — two — three” before you delivered the last line.’

‘And I nearly dropped the skull.’

And you nearly dropped the skull. Also, when you were

walking to camera, I could see your eyes glancing down at the mark.’

Nigel cast his eyes to the floor. Three feet in front of him was an ‘X’, scratched into the cemetery path by the cameraman’s trainer. He’d been looking at the shape for

most of the twenty paces rather than at the camera, yet

had still ended up missing it. He sighed.

You also look very ill at ease.’

Because I am, thought Nigel. What sort of person

could walk and talk to a camera with a fake plastic skull in his hand and feel comfortable? Probably someone who

had spent their life practising for such a moment in front of a mirror. The only thing Nigel had done in a mirror when he was younger was squeeze spots.

‘Mind if I have a ciggie before we go again?’

The cameraman nodded. ‘I need to make a call or two

anyway’ He looked ruefully around at the graves on either side of them. ‘Think I’ll go and make them on the street,’

he added. ‘Seems a bit disrespectful to do it here.’ He put the camera down at Nigel’s feet and loped off, giving his sagging jeans an upward tug as he left.

Disrespectful, Nigel thought, sitting back on an anonymous gravestone. Unlike smoking a cigarette. He produced his fixings from his pocket and rolled a smoke. He lit it, exhaled loudly and studied the cliched, stilted script they had given him to memorize.

The call had come in a week ago. In the summer,

encouraged by Scotland Yard’s press office, he’d given an interview to a Sunday newspaper about his role in the Karl Hogg case. ‘The Gene Genius’ it had proclaimed.

‘The Family Historian who helped make a savage killer

history’ Nigel had groaned when he read it, embarrassed

by the way his role had been exaggerated, worried by what the officers who worked on the case would think of it.

Would think of him. Then the phone started ringing.

Radio, television, the odd magazine; he was too polite to say no. Not when he learned he could make some money from it. He downplayed his role, praised the police. ‘Every bit the modest hero, aren’t we?’ a DJ from Radio Shropshire had told him, winking as if he knew what Nigel was doing. Come to think of it, what was he doing?

One of the calls had come from a TV company. They

were making a pilot for a series investigating burial sites unearthed during building development. The idea was to take the remains and find out who they belonged to, how

the people died, dig out their stories. Lysette, the producer, called and said she’d seen the piece and that Nigel seemed ideal. They had met in a coffee shop off Oxford Street and over lattes she ran through the idea and asked if he’d be interested in taking a screen test. Why not? he thought.