Blood Atonement (3 page)

A chance to get away from rooting around in other

people’s pasts. Or, at least, doing it for more money and getting recognized in the street. He felt flattered. Particularly when she said they were looking for a photogenic young historian with what she called ‘phwoar factor’.

So here he was, in the middle of Kensal Green cemetery

on a drab morning in November, performing the

televisual equivalent of patting his head and rubbing his stomach, and proving terrible at it. Guy the cameraman, now stepping back through the cemetery, hands plunged

deep into a green combat jacket, had been very patient,

but Nigel knew that all four attempts had been amateurish at best.

Guy hoisted the camera back on to his shoulder. ‘Let’s

go again,’ he said.

Nigel flicked his fag on to the grass and twisted his heel on it, shivering against the cold. He should have worn more than his tweed jacket, but felt it was the ‘look’ they wanted. He made his way back to the grave of Alfred Rossiter, 1829-1892, which marked the start of his walk.

He flexed his shoulders, drew in a breath and turned

around. One — two — three.

‘The dead are always with us,’ he said, and started to

walk. ‘Sometimes closer than …’

‘Cut!’ shouted Guy.

What now?’ Nigel asked, perplexed.

‘You’ve forgotten the skull’

Shortly before lunch, Nigel was back in the more familiar surroundings of The National Archives. The Family Records Centre, previous home for birth, marriage and

death indexes, was no more: he would not miss it. The

indexes were now housed at TNA, which at least put an

end to his daily pinball ride between leafy Kew and the

urban grime of Islington.

A pile of undone work was growing — a stack of birth,

marriage and death certificates to track down and scour

for his private clients.

He was skimming the April quarter of birth certificates

for 1894 when he heard her voice call his name. He spun

round and there she was. Heather Jenkins.

‘Hi, Nigel,’ she said, her smile wary.

‘Detective Sergeant Jenkins,’ he replied, a lurch in his stomach.

‘Detective Inspector now,’ she said.

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling. ‘How are things?’

‘OK And you?’

Tired. I’ve been up all night. Murder and abduction in

Queen’s Park. Mother killed, fourteenyear-old daughter

missing.’

‘God,’ Nigel said. ‘How awful’

‘Any chance we can get a coffee, somewhere private?’

Nigel checked his watch. Midday had just passed. ‘I’m

very busy, but there might be a corner of the canteen we can find.’

They walked down there in silence. Nigel didn’t know

what to think. Four months ago she’d broken his heart.

They’d had a few dates, when her work allowed, and it

seemed to be going well. Then she disappeared. Not a

word. Stopped returning phone calls or e-mails. He’d even sent a text message, a first for him. Then he wrote a letter wondering what was going on. Either something had happened or he was simply terrible in bed.

She finally sent him an e-mail. Something had happened.

Her mother had died, a sudden heart seizure; she needed

time and space etcetera. He understood. Gave her some

room.

A few weeks later he heard she was seeing an ex

boyfriend. Confused didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. It was only in the past few weeks he’d managed to stop himself thinking about it. Now here she was to remind him all over again. She seemed to sense his unease.

You must be wondering what the hell I’m here for?’

Heather said, sitting down, a fake laugh in her voice.

Well, I am actually,’ he said.

‘Foster and I…’

‘Foster? How is he?’ he interrupted.

‘Back at work this week. He seems the same as usual; or

rather, he’s acting the same as usual. Anyway, we’re trying to find out as much as we can about the murder victim, hope it sheds some light on her murder and where her

daughter might be. We also need to track down family and next of kin so they all know before we get word out to the press. But there’s a problem.’

What?’

‘She was very secretive about her past. Even her ex

claims to know nothing. We were wondering if you

could wave your magic wand and find out a bit more about her, parents, siblings, that sort of thing. Of course we’ll pay.’

‘I’m on it,’ Nigel said, eager to help. Heather gave him Katie Drake’s details, her real surname, Pratt, which he scratched into his notebook. ‘Shall I phone it through? Are you still, er, on the same number?’

‘I was hoping I could stick with you as you do it, and

then I’ll phone it through. There’s a girl missing - it’s extremely urgent.’ She pulled a face. You don’t want me around, do you?’

He wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t mind,’ he lied.

She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. ‘Nigel,

one day I’ll explain to you what happened. I just can’t do it now. Not at a time like this.’

Nigel sipped his tea. He didn’t know what to think.

But one thing he did know. A woman had been killed

and a young girl was missing. He would help if he could.

This was no time to act wounded. We’d better get cracking then,’ he said.

It took Nigel an hour scouring the indexes of births, marriages and deaths to discover that Katie Drake nee Pratt was born Catherine Mary, the only child of Robert and Vera Pratt of Shoeburyness in Kent. When she was four,

her father died of pneumonia. A year later her mother

followed him to the grave, claimed by a heart condition.

Heather’s face creased. ‘Poor thing. Maybe the mother

died of a broken heart.’

‘Perhaps,’ Nigel said. ‘Presumably she was adopted.’

‘Can we find out who adopted her?’

‘As long as you know the adoptive name you can find

the child in the adoption index. But unfortunately we

don’t know it. Let’s check anyway, and see if there’s anything we can find.

He flicked through to the year of Katie Drake’s birth.

You’re adopted, aren’t you?’ Heather asked.

He nodded.

‘Is Barnes your birth or adoptive name?’

Adoptive. My birth name is Wilkinson.’

Why haven’t you reverted to that?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve always been known by my adoptive

name. There never seemed any particular reason to change it back.’ Nigel felt the first signs of discomfort prickle his neck. The day he found out exactly who his parents were and the reason they abandoned him would be the day he

took their name. He wasn’t even sure Wilkinson was his

real name.

There was no mention of Catherine Pratt or Drake in

the adoption index.

What happened to her then?’

Nigel shrugged. ‘She could have been adopted by a

relative without any need for paperwork, an aunt or grandparent.

If you want, I can trace the other members of the

family. Aunts, uncles …’

Heather thought for a few seconds. We need to know

if there’s any close family we should inform about her

death before it becomes public knowledge. I think it’s fair to say that if she didn’t speak about her upbringing, then there was nobody close to her so it doesn’t really matter. I see no real point for now. Thanks for your help.’

Nigel felt the need to say something. ‘I hope you find

the missing girl,’ was the best he could manage, as Heather shouldered her bag and turned to leave. She smiled back.

‘So do I,’ she said, but Nigel could sense resignation in her tone. ‘Send your invoice …’

He held up his hand. ‘That was nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s

on the house.’

You sure?’

He nodded

‘OK. Very kind of you. I’d better get off,’ she said,

gesturing with her hand towards the door. ‘Thanks again.’

‘Good luck with the case. And everything else,’ he

said.

She smiled, fondly he thought. Then she adjusted her

bag on her shoulder, and turned away.

Yet again Nigel watched her walk away from him.

The net had been cast across London. Foster stood at the window of Naomi Buckingham’s bedroom, a converted attic, and looked out over the roofs and chimneys and trees that stretched westwards against a pale clouded sky, wondering where in the grey benighted city she might be. Were they still looking for a living person? He checked his watch.

Almost twenty-four hours since she left school, the last time she had been seen. If she had been abducted, all his experience told him she would be dead within days. But while her body remained undiscovered there was hope.

He turned back to face the room, watched by the blue

eyes of an effeminate young English film star whose name he couldn’t recall. Apart from a few books, pictures and a red plastic cup filled with pens, the desk where Naomi’s gleaming new personal computer once stood was now bare, the machine removed for its contents to be searched and checked. Everything else remained in place. Her unmade bed, a few items of clothing that spilled from a

giant cupboard on to the floor, a stereo and a rack of CDs, and a dressing table whose top was scattered with makeup and toiletries.

Foster stopped at a small chest of drawers. The top

drawer was filled with underwear. He closed it quickly.

Clothes were crammed hugger-mugger in the second and

third drawers. He was about to close the third when his

eyes caught sight of the corner of a thick black exercise book beneath a T-shirt. He pulled it out carefully with the thumb and forefinger of his gloved hand — the scene was still being processed — and immediately felt his heart beat a little faster. He opened the front page. It was her diary for the second half of that year, from late July onwards, all written in legible clear-blue pen. He pulled the chair out from beneath her desk and sat down.

The late summer entries were filled with the usual

mundanities and worries of a teenage girl’s mind. Feuds

with friends, thoughts about boys, fears about her appearance; there was little to suggest that Naomi Buckingham’s preoccupations were any different from other girls of her age. Various phrases, acronyms and abbreviations puzzled him but he was able to keep up with the main gist. He skipped a month or so and started reading the entries for the weeks preceding the murder of her mother and her own disappearance. One extract, exactly two weeks before the murder, caught his eye.

Mum continues to be T. Pissed every time I come back. Gets embarrassing espec when got back from night out with T and L and they saw her. OMG, She was so gone, could hardly speak, sluring plus everything. This morning no mention before I went school but she looked like shit. When I got back she said she was going to order pizza and making lotsa fuss, like she knew she totally O.o. order. Still didn’t stop her putting away best part of a bottle afterwards though…

Two days later and her mother was the subject of another entry.

Really worried by Mum. She seems so unhappy. Last night I swore I heard cryingafter she’d gone to bed. Was going to go in and ask what wrong. Didn’t. This morning I asked if everything was Ok and she gave me a big smile and “yeh”. Why shouldn’t it be? but it must have registered, Cos when I got back from L’s and a couple of glasses red had loosened her up she said “Don’t worry about me love” Then said she was fine really. But, that life was a bit tough, no work, feeling a bit sorry for herself, but she’d come out of it. We put a date in for lunch on Saturday at Tate Modern, which’ll be nice, because she never seems to go out. Used to have lots of friends but she never sees them now. I worry about her even though she says not to because sometimes she looks V sad.

A week on, 4 days before the murder and there seemed to have been an improvement.

Mum defo seems better, glad to say. Not seem her drink all week. Not even seen any boose in the house, which is a first. And how about this? I offered to make her coffee and she says “No, I’m off it” wanted peppermint tea instead!!! OMG!!! This from Mrs Caffeine, has someone beemed down replacement Mum from planet Zog? Seems brighter and smilier though, a bit distant. Can’t have met a man, Cos she not been out in years. Maybe the chance of some work? I hope so. Prefer this clean living body is a temple Mum to pissed, sluring can’t get out of bed version.

The last entry, the night before her disappearance, looked forward to her birthday - Foster could not prevent himself smiling at the words ‘OMGl 14! Feel so old!’ - and the skating trip to celebrate it. Nothing else.

He closed the diary, rendered doleful by reading the

words of a vivacious teenage girl, her whole life before her, who now probably lay dead in a ditch, the mother she appeared to care for so much murdered.

‘Life sucks,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

He looked up. Heather. She’d sneaked in unnoticed.

She was staring at the exercise book.

‘The missing girl’s diary,’ he explained.

‘Anything of interest?’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Seems like Katie Drake was

a bit of a lush, but at some time in the last few weeks of her life had a Damascene conversion and went teetotal.’

‘Think it’s relevant?’

‘Could be, I suppose. In her diary, Naomi speculates it

might be work-related. Have we spoken to her agent?’

Andy Drinkwater’s done it, yeah. Said apart from one

voice-over she hasn’t had any work for the best part of a year, and none pending.’

‘So much for that theory’

A bloke?’

‘Naomi’s diary appears to rule that out, too. Said she

hadn’t been out in years. I’m assuming she’s employing

teenage hyperbole.’

It was Heather’s turn to shrug. ‘It could be that she