Blood Atonement (22 page)

Foster wondered how someone might prepare for the

end of the world. ‘How about if the same person also

mentioned the celestial kingdom?’ he asked.

‘Then I would say that they almost certainly were a

member of the Church. What was the context?’

‘Just a letter from a sister to a brother about how they would be reunited in the celestial kingdom after the end days. They’re estranged.’

‘The celestial kingdom is the highest tier of heaven, the residence of God the Father and Jesus Christ. We believe that those who have been righteous, and have accepted the teachings of the faith and lived according to the covenants and ordinances of our prophet in their mortal lives, will be reunited with their families in the afterlife. The brother — I assume he is a member of the Church, too?’

Foster nearly burst out laughing at the idea of Gary as

a devout follower of any religion. ‘Not quite,’ he said.

‘In that case, he wouldn’t be allowed into the celestial kingdom. If he lives respectably but rejects the gospel of Jesus Christ, he would dwell in the terrestrial kingdom.

Or, God forbid, if he lives less than respectably and

refuses the testimony of Jesus Christ, he will end up dwelling in the teles tial kingdom with the liars, adulterers, sinners and general ne’er-do-wells.’

Sounds like more fun there, thought Foster.

‘Unless, of course, they were dead and able to receive

the Gospel in the Spirit World,’ Brewster continued.

‘Come again?’ Foster said.

Well, we Latter-day Saints believe the dead can be

baptized vicariously and allowed into the faith and subsequently the Kingdom of God.’

‘How does that work?’

‘It means someone can be baptized by proxy for their

dead ancestors.’

Foster struggled to comprehend what he was being

told. ‘But these people are dead?’

We believe that in the afterlife people should be able

to accept the Gospel, particularly if they were not able to receive it while on earth. Whether they do or not is their choice.’

The delusion of religion had always puzzled him, but

baptizing the dead was among the most bizarre things he’d ever come across. Brewster seemed to sense his disbelief.

‘It’s not a belief shared by other Christian denominations,’

he explained. ‘Though some would argue the Bible

calls for it. Otherwise why did Paul say in Corinthians

15: 29, “Else what shall they do which are baptized for

the dead, if the dead rise not at all? Why are they then baptized for the dead?” Regardless of that debate, it is central to our faith. Which is why we’re so active in the world of genealogy. We ask all members of the Church to trace their ancestry and in temple baptize their dead by proxy’

No matter where I turn, Foster thought, I can’t escape

people seeking out their past. He made a mental note to

discuss this with Barnes later that day. However, something Brewster said was bothering him. ‘So the brother I referred to earlier, who is no angel and certainly no

Mormon, he wouldn’t be allowed into the celestial kingdom unless he converted to Mormonism?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘But they would be able to convert him if he was

dead?’

‘He could be given the option, yes.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch,’ he said and turned on his

heels, collecting Gary as he left.

They got back to Foster’s house early that evening. Foster had taken Nigel into the office, leaving him to surf the Internet idly while he made a few calls and looked at the faxes sent over from New Zealand. It looked like an open and shut case of accidental death. No suggestion of arson.

The girl had jumped from the window before being overcome by smoke. The rest of her family had not been so fortunate. He put the papers in his pocket for closer study at home.

They parked up a fair distance from Foster’s front door, the weekend getaways having returned and occupied most of the spaces around his house. Sunday evenings were

always the worst.

They reached the front door. Foster put his key in the

lock and remembered. Before opening the door, he looked

down. The tape was still there. He went into the hall, took off his coat and then went into the sitting room and stuck the TV on for Gary. He had intended to pick up some food but time had run away. Another takeaway would do,

though at this rate the weight he’d lost would soon be

back on.

Gary slumped on the sofa, while Foster went to close

the curtains across the French windows. He checked the

tape.

It was broken.

Someone had been inside his house.

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it

around his hand and tried the door. It opened. The lock

had been forced. Given its worn state, that wouldn’t have taken too much effort. He left Gary in the sitting room, closing the door behind him. He went to the hatstand in the hall and picked up an old golf club, about the only

potential weapon he had.

He walked upstairs. The bathroom was empty. His bedroom

and the spare room, too. He checked cupboards,

under every bed and inside the wardrobe on the landing.

Nothing. He breathed out.

In the kitchen he checked the unlocked window, the

same one Gary had entered by. The tape was intact. Yet

on the back door it was broken. Whoever it was had come

in through the back garden, forced open the French windows and then exited via the back door.

His house wasn’t safe any more.

Sunday night and the pursuit of Naomi was getting colder.

Nigel sat waiting, his stomach performing cartwheels.

Foster had called to tell him the exhumation was on that night and he would pick him up at nine. When he called from his car to let him know he was outside, Nigel walked out like a condemned man, unsure what to expect. He certainly didn’t expect a young boy to be in the back.

‘Nigel, this is Gary,’ Foster said. ‘Gary Stamey,’ he added simply.

The kid didn’t even blink, just stared out of the window sullenly.

‘I’m dropping him off at Heather’s while we take care

of business.’

Nigel knew instantly who the kid was. Why he was in

Foster’s car was a different matter. Nigel thought it best to save the questions for another day.

They arrived at Heather’s. Nigel stayed in the car as

Foster and the kid trudged up the path to Heather’s terraced house. He was back within the minute. ‘Heather says “hi”,’ he muttered as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

‘Did she?’ Nigel asked as casually as he could muster.

There was the ghost of a smile on Foster’s face. ‘To the graveyard,’ the detective said, turning the engine over.

It was an hour’s drive across London, a city spattered

with rain, the soaked pavements reflecting the blurred

orange light from the streetlamps. As the windscreen

wipers swept hypnotically back and forth, Nigel watched

bedraggled people come and go, in and out of pubs and

shops and houses, wrapped up against the elements, sitting stony-faced on buses on the road to God knew where.

Occasionally he would glimpse young lovers laughing or

some kids messing around, a bolt of illumination and

happiness on a dank night. There was something about

Sundays he could never shake off, a feeling of melancholy and regret he had experienced every week since being a kid. All the bad thoughts, past mistakes and anxieties

seemed to come back to haunt him on that night of the

week, even though he didn’t have to get up and slog into an office the next day like nearly everyone else. The Sunday night blues remained.

Foster broke the silence somewhere near King’s Cross.

What do you know about Mormons?’ he asked.

Nigel knew more than most. Without them, there’d be

very few records for genealogists to search. They’re probably the single biggest influence, particularly when it comes to collecting and compiling records and putting

them on the web.’

Foster told him about his research trip to the Mormon

chapel that morning. Baptism for the dead. ‘Bloody weird, if you ask me,’ he added. ‘Like some sort of spiritual kidnapping.’

Nigel

could see his point but knew it was not as black

and white as that. ‘To be fair to them, the Mormons do

say that the dead are free agents — like us, they’re able to choose to reject religion,’ he said.

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.