Blood Atonement (15 page)

Foster nodded.

You think this is related?’ His rising intonation betrayed his scepticism.

“I do,’ Foster said.

Another loud exhale. ‘Care to tell me why?’

Foster paused. A light rain had started to fall. ‘Quid pro quo. I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.’

‘Fire away’

‘What sort of person was Martin Stamey?’

‘A reprehensible piece of shit.’

‘Big time or small time?’

‘Small time but thought he was big. I think he’s rubbed someone even bigger up the wrong way’

‘What sort of game was he in?’

‘Smuggling fags, fencing, wee bit of extortion. My turn.

Why do you think this is related to your kidnap and murder?’

‘Stamey and my victim were related.’

‘In what way?

‘Cousins.’

‘Close?’

‘Distant.’

‘And? Was your victim shot?’

‘Strangled. But the body was dragged outside. Throat slit. Did Stamey have any obvious enemies who might do this?’

‘He wasn’t a popular man. We’ll have a task narrowing, them down to single figures. Was your victim done like this? Forced entry in the middle of the night?’

‘No, we think she invited the killer in. He took the girl when she came back from school. Carol Stamey tried to call me last night. Did she try and call your lot, too?’

‘No. And it sounds to me as if there’s fuck-all similarity between the two murders.’

‘What about the girl?’

‘What about her? She was staying at a friend’s. Had she been here, she’d be worm food, too.’

‘Perhaps. Maybe they would have kidnapped her.’

‘Maybe. But maybe is not enough. If you want to take this case over, you’re going to have to give me a damn sight more than that, mate.’

Foster looked away. The rain was now slanting down in sheets, pouring off his shaven head. It had got darker. His opposite number was right: Foster knew this murder fitted in, but he did not yet know how. A thought nestled at the back of his mind, but he would need to be alone to tease it out.

‘Look,’ Alvin said, his tone softening. A fourteenyear-old kid is missing and we can’t ignore that. I’ll personally let you know how we’re progressing. But, if I’m right and this is a contract job, then you know as well as I do how difficult it is to nail someone for it. But if it wasn’t a hit, I’ll let you know and we can talk some more. Deal?’

Foster nodded. It was the best he could hope for. ‘What about the girl?’

‘We’ll make sure she’s safe, that’s she’s watched. Maybe see if there’s any other family that can take her in the long run.’

‘There isn’t. I know the family history’

‘OK. Maybe a friend. But that’s for the future. I’ll bear in mind what you said and make sure she gets the protection she needs.’

He pulled his car keys from his pocket. ‘The dog was poisoned,’ he told Alvin. ‘Last night. You might want to get on to the vet’s and get it autopsied before they sling it in the incinerator.’

As he drove away, windscreen wipers flailing back and forth, he went back to the thought that had passed through his mind when he was speaking to Alvin. Did the killer expect the daughter to be there? She was spared because she was elsewhere, from either being murdered or kidnapped.

If he was right, surely the killer would’ve been watching the house and seen her go? He pictured the Stamey boy dead in the garden. He hadn’t been kidnapped.

If he was right and this was related, what was the pattern here? Like an early childhood memory it was hazy, just out of reach.

He left the thought for a while and flicked on his stereo, wired up to his music player, set to play randomly. A song he didn’t recognize came on and he hummed along absentmindedly despite not knowing the words. His mind refused to be diverted.

He hoped Alvin kept his word and Rachel was made as safe as possible. The killer might be back. Apart from her and Leonie, there were three male descendants still living in the UK. One, a Stamey, was in prison. Safest place to be. Another, Anthony Chapman, they knew little about.

They needed to find him. Quickly.

The last was Gary Stamey. He remembered the body of the other young Stamey boy in the garden. Something clicked.

He needed to make Gary safe.

That Friday morning had gone badly for Nigel. A girl was missing and her life in mortal danger, yet he spent precious hours stumbling through another screen test with predictably dire results. This time the show’s producer Lysette, a fresh-faced, enthusiastic brunette in her mid thirties had been there along with Guy, the glum cameraman, yet despite her exhortations and encouragements Nigel simply couldn’t get it right. Partly because his mind was elsewhere, partly because the scripts they kept giving him to read were so dire. He simply could not rid himself of self-consciousness. When they’d watched the final playback before lunch, Nigel-had winced at his stilted voice and nervous, flicking eyes. Lysette made some positive noises but he knew that was to protect his ego. Guy’s world-weary sighing offered a more honest assessment.

He felt certain that the next few days would bring a phone call putting him out of his misery, announcing they were going to look for another presenter.

Foster’s panicked call was welcome, despite the detective’s agitated state. You remember that list you gave me?’

he said. ‘The one with all the descendants? Presumably it was so small because you couldn’t trace the maternal line back beyond this couple.’ Nigel agreed it was. ‘Well, two of the people on that list were murdered last night, as well as another connected to them. Katie Drake is dead, too.

Naomi Buckingham is missing. Another girl on the list is missing and her mother dead. We know from our records that a family of four emigrated to New Zealand seven years ago. That leaves three people, one of whom Heather and I spoke to yesterday. His name is Gary Stamey; it’s his sister Leonie that’s missing. The mum died of an overdose, apparently. He told us that a man visited his sister shortly before she vanished. This man wore a suit and gave them a book about a boy called Joe and his secret treasure. Can you see where I’m going?’

Nigel did. The past was invading the present.

‘I’m thinking the past has finally caught up with this family.’

‘What about the people left on the list?’

‘Don’t worry about the Stameys. One’s in prison. One girl is missing and the other girl is safe. At least, I hope she is. Leave the elevenyear-old boy to me. I want you to find the non-Stamey. He’s called Anthony Chapman, born in East London in 1964. I’ve asked for a search of all the databases we use and so far we can’t find any record of him. None whatsoever. I was hoping you might be able to work your magic and see what you can find out about him.

Because if I’m right, and someone’s working their way through the bloodline, then he could be next.’

With that, he rang off.

Nigel already had Anthony Chapman’s birth certificate.

He worked forwards from that and searched for death and marriage certificates but found neither. He was the only child of Reginald and Edith Chapman, both of whom were dead. Edith was the last to go in 2003, aged 72. She died at her home in Selby Street, Bethnal Green. The same address that was supplied on Anthony’s birth certificate. That gave him one route to explore. In the absence of any others, he rode the tube to Bethnal Green, finding the street tucked away off Vallance Road, a winding old Victorian terrace that was once home to the Kray twins. The area still carried the flavour of the old East End. Selby Street was small and almost traffic-free. The front doors opened straight out on to the street. Neighbours stood chatting to one another. All it required was a few children kicking a ball back and forth across the road — but they were in school, and he doubted the nostalgia would stretch that far.

The Chapmans’ former home was at number 17. He

headed towards two women standing talking outside

number 11; both turned to eye him suspiciously as he approached.

He smiled. ‘Sorry to bother you, ladies. This might seem rather impertinent, but I’m looking for some information you might be able to help me with.’ His manner and voice appeared to make them soften, but a glint of suspicion remained. ‘Did either of you know old Mrs Chapman who used to live at number 17?’

One of the women, who had been pulling furiously on

a cigarette, let a stream of smoke out of her nostrils. “I did.

I live here.’ She gestured to the door at her back. ‘I knew old Edith pretty well. Lovely old lass. She died a few years ago. Why do you wanna know?’

Nigel was prepared for that question. He was a dreadful liar but he feared the truth might persuade people to clam up. ‘I’m researching my family tree. It turns out that I’m related to Mrs Chapman. Of course, she’s dead. But I’m very keen to trace her son, Anthony.’

‘Son,’ she said, disbelief in her voice and written across her face. ‘There was no son. She and Reg didn’t have no

kids.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

Yeah. I moved in here twenty-odd years ago. There

weren’t no son then and she never mentioned none. You sure you got the right person?’

Nigel looked at his feet. ‘I think so. Anthony Chapman was born to Edith and Reginald Chapman of this address back in 1964.’ From his pocket he produced a folded copy of the birth certificate. Both women leaned in to see, trailing with them a combination of perfume and smoke.

The resident of number 11 peered at it for several

seconds, then looked at Nigel. ‘Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you? She never once mentioned a son.

We just thought they never had any kids. Medical reasons or something. And all that time she had a boy she never mentioned. Wonder what happened to him?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Nigel replied. ‘Is there anyone around here who might know? Another elderly resident who might have lived around here then — or the people who now live at number 17, perhaps?’

‘No, it’s a bloke, out-of-towner. Not from round here.’

She thought for a few seconds. Pulled hard on her cigarette and thought some more. Nigel noticed for the first time that she was wearing a pair of carpet slippers on her feet. She pointed her finger at him and started nodding her head. You know where you could try? St Matthew’s Church. It was her life, that place.’

The church was deserted. He idled away the afternoon until it came to life, as the early winter light closed in and the temperature, barely above freezing anyway, began to plummet. At least the rain had stopped. St Matthew’s, despite having almost been flattened by the Luftwaffe, was the focal point of the local community, and shared its rich, villainous history. It was here that the funeral services of the Krays were held. In the gathering gloom, silhouetted against a clear dusk, the old church, still surrounded by the churchyard that afforded it a distance from the hurly-burly, seemed to loom in judgement over the area.

The vicar was inside, laying out hymn books. Nigel

strode down the aisle and introduced himself.

You better be quick,’ he said, eyes twinkling cheerily.

He was in his late sixties, Nigel guessed, florid face, rheumy eyes, exuding a gentle, avuncular warmth. Nigel could imagine parishioners queuing up to share their problems with him.

‘It’s about one of your former parishioners actually. An Edith Chapman?’

He looked up. ‘Edith? Dear woman. What about her?’

‘Well, I hope you’ll excuse me prying like this, but I’m a genealogist.’

‘Fascinating! I’m a bit of an amateur myself.’

Yes, Nigel thought, seems like everyone is these days.

‘Really? Excellent. But going back to Mrs Chapman …’

‘My mother’s side is easy,’ the vicar continued. ‘I’m back to parish registers. But that was where I inherited the ecclesiastical calling from. So there’s a record there. But my father’s is a mystery beyond about 1878 or something.

Bizarre how the trail goes cold, isn’t it? Perhaps I should employ you?’

‘My rates are good,’ Nigel said. ‘Mrs Chapman …’

Yes, a dear old woman. A valuable member of the

parish. What is it you want to know?’

‘The records say she had a son.’

His face changed. The twinkle departed. ‘Do they now,’

he said. He continued about his chore for a few seconds without speaking.

‘Sorry, I don’t meant to pry.’

‘Just on whose behalf are you carrying out this research, Mr Barnes?’

Nigel weighed up his options. It was the question he feared. He knew he would not be able to lie to a man of the cloth, regardless of his atheism. It was not right.

‘The police.’

The vicar’s eyes narrowed, their friendliness all but vanished.

‘And what would the police be doing seeking the

son of a harmless old lady? She was never in trouble for one second of her life.’

‘I know. We’re trying to find her son. We think he may be in danger.’

‘What sort of danger?’

“I do apologize, but I’m not at liberty to say.’

The vicar chewed the inside of his lip, sizing Nigel up.

He could feel his cheeks redden. He could hear voices behind him, the sound of footsteps on the stone floor.

‘Tell me, Mr Barnes. Do you pray?’

Nigel was momentarily taken aback by the question,

wondering if it was some sort of trick. ‘No, not really,’ he said eventually.

‘Well, you will this evening.’ He handed Nigel a prayer book. ‘Evening service is about to start. Once that’s completed and I’ve finished attending to the parishioners, we can have a chat and I’ll see if I can help.’

Nigel waited. Once the service had finished and the congregation cleared the vicar invited him through to his office at the back of the church. He asked him to take a seat, offered a hot drink that Nigel refused, requesting just a glass of water.

He eased himself into a chair behind the wooden desk and sat back with a sigh. ‘It’s good to take the weight off after a long evening. Now, tell me, why do you want to find Mrs Chapman’s son?’