The Blood Detective (29 page)

This was not unusual. Many immigrants changed

their names. Brauns became Browns and Schmidts

changed to Smiths. People sought to avoid the suspicion and the wariness of their new neighbours or, if they had taken British nationality, to declare fealty to their new adopted country with an Anglicized name.

Few did it officially, like Pfizer had. It was not compulsory and it cost money. Often people did not want to draw attention to the change; they might have been unable to obtain a divorce, so just took their new partner’s name for appearances’ sake and to avoid accusations of illegitimacy being hurled at their children. Yet Nigel sensed that, if anyone would take the bureaucratic route and enshrine the change in law, a policeman would.

There remained one problem. The indexes before

1903 did not give the person’s new name, the information he required to trace the bloodline forwards.

What he did have was a date. Pfizer might have

changed his name by deed poll, but no one was to know unless he advertised it. The most common method was to place a notice in the press. Unfortunately, Nigel was at the wrong place for newspaper archives.

He turned instead to the Phillimore and Fry Index to Change of Name 1760—1901. This was the sort of insane, backbreaking project to which genealogists had always been attracted. The two authors had dedicated their working lives to transcription — collecting and collating all kinds of information for the benefit of future genealogists. For this volume they had combed 241 years of names which had been changed by private acts of parliament, or royal licences published in the London and Dublin Gazettes, as well as notices published in The Times, and put them all in one index.

It was also shelved in the Map Room. He found it and laid it out on the table, turning immediately to P. The entries were typed, listed alphabetically. He scrolled down through the Ps until he saw it.

Pfizer, see Foster.

Nigel stared at it for a few seconds, not registering.

Surely not, he thought. He found the index entry for Foster. There were several. But there it was. Foster, H: Pfizer, H of Norfolk Place, Paddington, London.

The entry had been gleaned from an advertisement placed in The Times of 25 th February 1884.

He went to the 1891 census. There was Henry

Foster, police detective, living at Norfolk Place, Paddington with his wife, Mary. Stanley had obviously flown the nest. By 1901 it appeared that Henry was dead because Mary was living on her own.

This had to be a coincidence. He rang Foster’s

mobile. It was switched off. He tried Heather. She was on her way to meet him.

‘I’ve found Pfizer.’

‘Good.’

‘He changed his name,’ he said. ‘To Foster.’

She remained silent. ‘You don’t really think …’

she eventually said.

“I don’t know,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘But we need to get into the FRC again and find out.’

Another taxi ride across town and Nigel was back at the FRC. Heather was waiting for him.

‘Foster’s gone home to sleep, which explains why the phone is off. Someone’s going round to knock him up. Make sure he’s all right,’ she explained, as if there was nothing to worry about, though anxiety seeped from her pores. She disappeared to make a few further calls.

Nigel went to the death indexes to check on

Pfizer/Foster’s death. Aged fifty-four, in 1892.

Cancer. His only son, Stanley, married and followed his father into the Met, starting as a constable, rising to detective. He had four children, only one boy, Stanley junior. He had only one child, a boy, Martin Foster, before he joined up and met his death at Passchendaele in 1917. Martin carried on the family trade, policeman, and had four children, including two boys, Roger and James.

Roger married in 1959. Nigel turned to the birth indexes from that point onwards. In the first quarter of 1960, the couple had a child.

Grant Roger Foster.

He cross-referenced with the mother’s maiden

name. Definitely the right child.

He sat down, put his head in his hands. Foster was a direct descendant of Henry Pfizer.

He did not notice Heather at his side.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ she said.

He nodded slowly.

‘Foster’s not at home,’ she said, voice faltering.

‘He was at a family history meeting with Drinkwater earlier this evening. Andy said he got a phone call, something to do with the case, didn’t say what, and he left in his car, didn’t say where. His phone’s off, we’re getting the records. We’ve checked his usual haunts. All the hospitals, too. Nothing as yet.’ She breathed deeply. ‘He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’

It was relief he felt when he withdrew the knife from the wretch’s still-beating heart. Relief that the Lord’s work was done; relief that one less drunken fool was able to bespoil His work; relief that now he could turn his attentions to his next task. ‘Be ye angry and sin not,’ said the Lord. Let not the sun go down on your wrath.’

His righteous anger coursed through this earthly vessel. His head pounded with it. Yet the time was nigh when that sun would fall and he would accept the bountiful gifts of the Lord in Paradise.

The drunk was left gurgling and spluttering for his misbegotten life. Through the night he heard the distant wail of the trains rattling to and from Paddington. Those screams and the rustle of the cool wind were the only sounds he could hear.

He stood and waited for the drunk to relent in his pathetic resistance to death. When, after one futile heave of his wounded chest, his victim fell silent, he walked away. He checked his pocket watch for the time and left the scene of his final act.

He turned out of Powis Square, on to Talbot Road. He went left, walking past the awe-inspiring temple of All Saints, looming majestically in the fog. It struck once, dolefully. Behind him came the murmur of voices, the short blast of a whistle.

Thank heavens for the fog that cloaked and hid him.

His journey took him to the junction with Portobello Road, a street for which he possessed nothing but distaste; his small shop struggled to cope with the markets and bigger stores that were opening along that winding road. A few peelers passed him, agitation on their faces. He scurried on, his hand in his pocket clutching the handle of the knife, passing underneath the railway bridge, turning left and then walking all the way down to Pamber Street.

All was still. Their small house sat silent and dark above the shop. Everyone was asleep. He thought of them up there, warm in their beds, unaware of the craven wickedness of the world into which they had been born. This world is no place for the innocent and pure, he told himself.

He opened the door slowly. The smell from that evenings boiled meat still filled the house. He always demanded silence during mealtimes but, that evening, he had relented, allowed Rebecca to tell him of her day. Abigail muttered a few words.

Yet, despite his efforts to make conversation with them, Jemima and Esau did not speak. They appeared to enjoy the ham, which was some comfort.

He slipped off his shoes but the jacket stayed on.

This world is no place for the innocent and pure, he repeated.

He put his foot on the first stair, creaking under his weight.

He stopped. No sound. He continued, putting no more weight on the ball of each foot than was necessary. As he neared the landing he could hear the soft breath of his children rise and fall in their sleep.

Jemima appeared at the top step like a ghost.

‘Segar?’ she whispered.

He looked at her. He felt pity, no more. She had borne him three children, but the woman was godless at heart. She prayed only because she knew he would visit his anger upon her if she did not. A simpering creature.

“It is me,’ he said.

Are you hungry? Do you wish to eat?”

He shook his head and stepped on to the landing. He could smell the soap on her. For a second he was transported to another time, a distant land in which he remembered promenading hand in hand through Hyde Park, the sun on their backs, her beaming with joy, him with pride.

A different time, he told himself. I was a different man.

The call had not yet come.

‘No.’

He brushed past her and made his way to the children’s room. They slept in the one bed. Outside the door of his little ones, he listened. Not a murmur.

He stepped in. It was darker in here and he waited until his eyes had adjusted. When they had, he could see Abigail asleep on the left side of the bed, arm hanging outside. Rebecca was on her back, head on the pillow. Both were in a deep sleep.

He walked over. Abigail turned and murmured. When the time came he would spare them the knife and find some other way to send them into Paradise. The idea of hurting his darling twin girls, the only two people on the planet for whom he cared, who made him smile, made him feel of this earth, was abhorrent.

Both girls were bold,yet enjoyed their scripture. Not like Esau.

He went to church under duress. A timid boy, he rarely ventured far from his mother’s skirts. For the past month he had been unable to look in his father’s eyes, terrified by what he saw there.

But where was he now? He looked either side of the bed.

He was not on the floor, as he sometimes was, escaping the flailing arms and legs of his two younger sisters. He left the room. Esau was not in his parents’ bedroom either; Jemima swore on her life he had gone to bed and not been seen since.

He stopped for a second. Had the boy grown suspicious?

Sneaked from the house and followed him? The boy was smart, perhaps too smart. He yawned. It could wait. Esau would return.

In the morning the truth would be found. Then he would use the belt.

Foster felt as if he was emerging from the deepest sleep he had ever experienced. Semi-conscious, it was a few seconds before he even considered the effort of opening his eyes. He was lying down, but his body was unable to move. It had yet to catch up with his mind.

What had happened? He remembered the pub.

Then nothing. Had he been that tired? Collapsed maybe, brought home. Yet this didn’t smell like his room. It smelled musty — a heavy scent of cardboard, like some of the archives Barnes had taken him to.

He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling by a dirty white flex. There was no other source of light, natural or not. The ceiling was bare concrete, immaculately clean. The walls beneath it appeared pockmarked. As his eyes adjusted, he could see they were lined with what seemed to be eggboxes, an attempt at soundproofing perhaps.

Foster felt his limbs prickle. Feeling was returning.

Why had it gone? He attempted to lift his right hand,

but it wouldn’t move. Something tight was holding it down, a strap of some sort. Likewise his other hand, his arms, both legs and chest. His clothes were gone, save for his boxer shorts. He tugged hard with his right hand, but the binding wouldn’t give. He patted the surface he was lying on. A bed of some sort.

There was a flutter of panic in his stomach.

To his left were piles of boxes stretching to the ceiling. To the right were more boxes, some items of furniture, a chest of drawers and a cabinet. Either side of the bed there were perhaps three or four feet of room. However hard he tried to lift his head, he was unable to see what lay behind or in front of him, but he could sense more clutter looming. It was like being surrounded by the entire contents of a house.

There was a shuffling sound from a corner, outside of his vision. He was aware of breathing, a presence.

‘Is someone there?’ he mumbled.

No reply.

‘Is someone there?’ he repeated, more insistent.

A figure appeared at his right shoulder. Foster struggled to focus on his face. He made out dark hair, and that the figure appeared to be holding something, but he was unable to make out what.

‘Who’s that?’ he moaned, his voice weak.

No answer. Foster repeated his question. Still no reply.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked louder, trying to move his arms.

The figure continued to stand by him. Then he

spoke, voice clipped, without emotion.

‘This,’ he said slowly, ‘is retribution.’

He strapped some tape over Foster’s mouth.

Foster felt his insides lurch with terror. He tried to spit out the tape, force it off. It was impossible.

The man ignored his muffled cries, moved away out of sight. Foster felt him undo the buckle around his right ankle. Instinctively when it was free, his foot kicked out, but he had no strength and no other limb to fight with. The man held down his leg with one firm hand; there was a scraping noise as he pulled something across the floor, another smaller table of some sort. He lifted Foster’s foot so the heel and ankle rested on this new platform; the section of his leg from knee to ankle was unsupported. The man strapped his ankle to its new position.

Foster’s vision became clearer. At last he could make out the man. It was Karl. The instrument he was holding above his head was a sledgehammer; Foster watched as he lifted it high. He began to struggle against his bindings, trying to jerk and twist his body out of the way, but he was too tightly pinioned.

‘No!’ Foster screamed, but the tape blocked all sound.

He knew what was about to happen, but could do

nothing except wait for the impact. There was a crack as the hammer came down with sufficient weight to smash both his tibia and fibula. The pain roared up from his shin like fire.

He let out a howl of agony no one could hear.

Then slipped out of consciousness.

Nigel stared out of the window of the FRC canteen at the grey morning, silently reproaching himself. Had he checked out the change of name sooner, they might have had a chance to warn Foster. Heather told him to forget it. Foster’s phone records revealed that the call that had lured him away from the family history meeting had been made from a public phone box on Ladbroke Grove just before six p.m., well before Nigel had confirmed Foster was a descendant.