Blood Atonement (35 page)

stairs. ‘I’m here,’ he shouted, overcome. ‘I’ve got her. She’s safe.’

Officers came rushing in from every angle. He held up his hand, making them aware they should tread carefully.

‘This whole place is a crime scene,’ he said.

He held Naomi for a few minutes, then led her downstairs, handing her to a WPC and asking for her father to be summoned immediately.

He took a deep breath and composed himself. Where

had Gary come from? He must have been in the house

before him. It was Gary he had heard moving around

downstairs. He returned to the room where Naomi had been held. He peered into the cupboard and the false wall at the back of it. There was a duvet lining the floor and a pillow, but it was no more than a couple of feet deep and four feet wide. Naomi would have had no room to lie down flat, and only stale air to breathe; there would have been nothing but darkness and the fear of what might happen.

It was over. He rubbed his head, a wry smile on his face.

^‘What’s so funny?’ a uniform asked.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Just appreciating a bit of grim irony.

“The kid that was given up for adoption to save him from being hunted down and killed as an act of blood atonement was the one who had ended up carrying out the atonement legacy.

Foster was dozing on the sofa. He’d returned to his house late for a few hours’ sleep and rest as they tried to tie up the loose ends surrounding Anthony Chapman. Much still needed to be explained. Too tired to make it upstairs, he propped up a couple of pillows and rested his head, fully clothed, pausing only to kick off his shoes, sinking into unconsciousness immediately.

He woke up with a start. A noise? There was a figure in the corner of his eye. Small, stocky.

‘Gary?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Gary,’ he added, more clearly and forcefully.

The kid stepped from the dark corner of the room into the middle where the light from the moon fought its way through a crack in the curtains.

‘Nice of you to drop in again,’ he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

The kid said nothing. Foster got up and turned on the light. ‘Hungry?’

Gary nodded. Foster asked him to follow him into the kitchen. The digital readout on his underused cooker read ‘03:3 5’. He’d been asleep less than two hours. Every part of him ached, even the bits Karl Hogg hadn’t smashed up.

‘The takeaways are shut. I can only offer toast,’ he said.

He stuck a few pieces in the toaster and filled the kettle, setting it to boil. He turned round.

Gary was staring at the floor. There was anger and concern in his eyes, the open window to a complicated young

soul.

‘Thanks for saving my life.’

Gary’s face softened. ‘Don’t mention it.’ He paused, uncertain. ‘Am I in trouble for stabbing that feller?’

Foster tried to get angry, or at least to wear a look of anger, but failed. The kid was safe and that was a relief.

‘A few people are going to want to ask you a few questions,’

he said. ‘No, I don’t think you’ll be getting into too much trouble. But as for breaking into my house yet again …’ He spread his arms out wide. Gary half-smiled once more.

The toast popped up. Foster buttered it and put on some jam. Gary devoured it in seconds so he made some more and made himself a cup of tea. Once the boy’s hunger was sated, Foster sat opposite him across the kitchen table.

‘It was a bloody stupid thing to do.’

Gary shrugged. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No. He’ll live. We think. He lost a lot of blood.’

Gary nodded, a tinge of relief to his features.

‘How did you find him?’

Gary explained. ‘I’d gone to bed in the safe house.

Except it wasn’t safe, was it?’

Foster felt a twinge of guilt. “I suppose not.’

“I went to bed. They had a DS. I’m playing with it on the bed, with the TV on, but there was nothing on, just news and stuff. The woman comes in and she says, “It’s ten o’clock. Turn that off and get some.” I says OK, but I carries on playing because I’m fucked if I’m going to bed when some copper tells me. Then this car alarm goes off outside. It goes off for a bit and I hear the bloke swear.

Then, I dunno, I hear something but I don’t know what.

Like a thud.’

Chapman had used a silencer, which explained the lack of a gunshot.

Gary continued, eyes saucer-wide. ‘The woman screams and she goes running downstairs. I’m like, “I gotta run.” I open the window, climb out, down the drainpipe and I’m in the garden. I just ran, out of the garden, and then I’m in these fields. Nowhere to hide, just fields.’

‘So where did you go?’

‘I ran to this tree. There was a car and I knew it straight away. It was the same car that man had who came round and saw my sister. A blue Mondeo, battered but still the same. The engine was still a bit warm. I just got in, thought it was the safest place. I knew he’d look for me but he wouldn’t look in his own car because he’s a dozy twat. I broke in and hid in the footwell in the back seat.’

Why?’

‘Find out where he lived. Sure enough, he spends ten minutes huffing and puffing around the countryside before he gets in swearing his head off, effin and blindin, and I’m there sat on his back seat. Then he drives off. It was like he was never gonna stop. He did once. Don’t know where. Middle of nowhere so I stayed inside. I knew we was getting back to London because of the traffic and the lights. Then he pulled up at some garage to get some petrol. Then he drove some more and parked up. He got out. I waited. Then I opened it up from the inside and got out. Luckily the car was a heap of shit and the alarm didn’t go off, innit. Not sure it had an alarm. It smelled bad, really bad, too. The guy got a real problem with BO. Anyway, I knew where he lived now. I wanted to finish it. This wanker was gonna kill me.’

Why didn’t you call us, Gary? Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I didn’t trust you lot to do it.’

‘Cheers,’ Foster said. Where did you get the knife?’

‘From his kitchen. I thought about it all day. Walked round and round. Then I saw his window was one of them with the old locks what break. Just gave it a little tickle and it did nicely. Went in, had a look around. Didn’t think he was home, it was that quiet. So I waited. That’s when I heard you come in.’

Why didn’t you make yourself known to me? Would have saved us a lot of trouble.’

‘Yeah, I suppose. But it was pitch black and I just hid.’

He nodded. ‘Next time, don’t try and play the hero.

That’s what cops are there for. Anyway, we found the girl.

She’s safe.’

‘Good. Now can you go and find Leonie?’

Foster paused. He’d spoken to Heather and told her and Nigel to come back. The job was done. There was an open line of communication between the law enforcement agencies in the UK and the States, but there was understandable reluctance to go wading in unless names were given and good reasons were forthcoming.

He sighed. We’ve found Leonie.’

Gary’s whole face transformed, brightened. ‘You have?’

‘She’s in the States,’ he said, nodding.

‘Is she coming back?’

He thought he would save the truth for another day.

We’ll talk about that tomorrow. I hope so, but there are a few things we need to sort out first. I promise we’ll do all we can.’

Gary looked downcast.

I better get all the bad news over with, he thought.

‘You’ll need to be questioned officially,’ he added. ‘You’ll be OK. Just be polite. Difficult though you might find it.’

The boy looked knackered.

‘Come on,’ Foster added. ‘You can have the spare room again. You’ve had quite a day’

Foster spoke to Naomi the next day. She was a strong young girl, terrified by her ordeal yet not crushed. He admired her resolve enormously. He felt a pang. His daughter, in whom he’d never shown any interest. Maybe one day soon he’d remedy that.

She told them with tears in her eyes how Chapman had taken her as she entered the house from school. He’d grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth and she’d passed out. She woke up, feeling groggy, in the cupboard, unaware of how she’d got there.

When did he tell you that your mother was dead?’

Foster asked softly.

It was the only time she broke down.

‘I lost track of time. A day, maybe two days. I asked where she was and he said she was with the Lord and with her kin in the celestial kingdom.’

Foster had wanted to halt it there and then, pick it up another time, but she insisted on continuing the interview.

She said Chapman constantly proselytized about fundamental Mormonism, giving her books to read, testing her

at night and rewarding her with food when she demonstrated her knowledge. He spoke to her about the True Church of Freedom, about how they would go there.

They would be married and escape their previously apostate and sin-soaked lives. He would preach, rhapsodize and persuade every second of the day when he was with her. Foster had seen the literature in the house pamphlets produced by the Church, and other fundamentalist texts.

The police found letters from Church members addressed to Chapman, or his adoptive name Dominic Ashbourne, helping him with genealogical information, seeking to reassure him of his reward: the chance to live among them with several wives of his own. An exchange of information and ideas on how to reunite the family under the fundamentalist Mormon banner, killing those beyond salvation, baptizing them into the faith by proxy, atoning for the sins of 1890, and exporting those with something to offer across to the US and the bosom of the Church. His computer also yielded communication with the sect, a series of strange e-mails that appeared to be in some sort of code. The techies were working on deciphering them, but it seemed as if he was the puppet and they were pulling the strings.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Foster had asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, he treated me well,’ she replied. ‘Apart from locking me in a cupboard.’ She forced a brave smile. He had not touched or harmed her, not even losing his temper. When the call came through from his adoptive mother, he’d walked upstairs, spoken to her through the false wall of the cupboard, said it was not God’s will that she join them in the celestial kingdom. He would think of another path. She had cried, thinking that meant she wouldn’t see her mother again.

Foster looked at her, wondering if the brainwashing had had any effect. ‘Do you have any religious belief?’

Anger raged in her eyes. ‘There is no God and there is no goodness,’ she said with utmost conviction.

Foster thought about disagreeing, but how could he?

He was no hypocrite. The girl had learned the hardest way.

He was sure that it was Chapman who’d made the initial contact with the Church. Unloved, unwanted, troubled, he’d set out in search of his real family. His adoptive mother, under relentless questioning, had let slip the name of his real mother, with whom he’d formed a secretive, belated relationship. How much contact they’d had was unknown. Perhaps she explained to him why she’d given him up and the danger he faced. She had left her house to him in her will, which is how he came to use it as a base.

Along the way he’d discovered the link with the True Church of Freedom. He’d got in touch, been attracted to what it stood for and the family he craved. On their part, they could not believe their luck. Someone willing to atone for the wrongs of 1890 and able to provide them with fresh genes for their small pool in the shape of young girls like Leonie and Naomi. When he encountered Gillian Stamey he was not yet ready to spill blood in atonement — the correspondence chided him for not doing so - but a few years later, when Naomi was fourteen, he was ready.

They had wanted him to wait until Rachel was fourteen but he said he would not, that he needed to perform his

duty now. He would act, then come back for her later. Not wishing to deflect him from his course, they had agreed.

All their information had been passed on to the American law enforcement agencies. They weren’t delighted with the news — the last thing they wanted to do was to raid a commune full of religious nuts and see all hell break loose. The issue had gone to the Home Office, who were pressing for action. The decision was now a political one, taken out of the hands of the police. Unless she was forcibly removed, it looked like Leonie would be staying.

He would need to find the words to explain that to Gary.

The rain came down in great waves, as if the sluice gates had been opened. Foster had given up trying to keep dry and let the rain soak his head and run into his eyes. Had there not been more than a few minutes of the match left then surely the referee would have called it off, given that the pitch was starting to resemble a First World War battlefield.

Hackney Marshes was living up to its name.

That had not prevented Gary winning the game for his team on his own. They were 5—1 up with two minutes left; he’d scored a hat-trick and created the other two goals. His low centre of gravity, ball control, ability to pick a pass — even if his teammate’s ability to receive it was questionable — and his pace over short distances marked him down as something special. There was an extra characteristic Foster recognized: hunger. The boy loved to have the ball at his feet, enjoyed the challenge of beating a man, and seized every opportunity to shoot whenever the goal came into his sight.

As his third goal went in and the smattering of parents and other hangers-on applauded, Foster had found himself giving Gary a thumbs up. A man in a large overcoat and brown woollen hat saw him do this and sidled up to him.

‘Your lad, is he?’

‘No,’ Foster said.

‘Is his dad here?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I’d be interested in having a word with him, that’s all.

About his lad’s prospects.’

‘There is no dad. Or any other guardian, at the moment.

Are you a scout?’

‘Something like that.’

Who for?’

‘Queen’s Park Rangers.’

‘Really?’ Foster said. ‘My team, QPR.’