Blood Atonement (20 page)

They drove towards Colchester through driving rain that

pelted the windscreen like tiny stones, to the home of the Chancellor of the Diocese of Chelmsford, Kenneth Brewis. Foster had called ahead to check Brewis was in,

and got the man himself, who issued a polite if curt

invitation to drive to his house and explain the urgency.

Foster knew there was no point wasting time, even if it

meant a lengthy drive — it was just their luck that the chancellor happened to live in the most distant area of the diocese from London. Brewis was a QC, and the prospect

of some pompous lawyer boring him rigid with the arcana

of ecclesiastical law caused Foster’s heart to sink. Church bureaucracy was even more labyrinthine than that of the modern police force. But to wait until after the weekend was not an option.

‘Can’t the police just go ahead and do it?’ Nigel asked.

‘Why does the Church have to be involved?’

‘It’s in consecrated ground so we’d need their help anyway.

True, if there was a compelling case to dig up the

body then a warrant signed by a coroner would be pretty

easy to obtain and they’d allow us to bring it up without any protest,’ Foster explained. ‘But we’re not interested in the body, or the little that would be left of it. We need to know what lies with it and for that we need permission to disturb the grave, and not actually exhume, which is down to the individual churches — and in the case of the Anglican Church, it’s down to the diocese. At least, I think it is.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Nigel replied. “You done this before then?’

‘No. I just know the right people to call to find out. A grave is sacred ground. It’s our job to make sure our case is compelling enough for us to be allowed in there with an excavator.’ He knew that requests like the one he was about to make were measured in weeks and days, not

hours, which is why he hoped a personal visit might speed the process.

Brewis’s house was a grand one in the countryside on

the edge of Colchester, an old stone former vicarage

decorated with creeping ivy. A sleek grey Jaguar was

parked in front of the house, Foster noted admiringly, as he pulled up alongside. The rain had subsided to a murky drizzle as they climbed out of the car and made their way to the front door, adorned by an elaborate brass knocker bearing the fleshy head of a cherub. He let it fall against the door and it made a profound thud that echoed through the house. Beside him Nigel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Don’t worry,’ Foster said, trying to put him at ease. ‘I’ll do all the talking. Just smile, look well educated and drink all the tea they give you.’ Barnes gave him a watery smile back and flapped away a curl of fringe that had fallen over his forehead.

The door opened to reveal a well-fed man in his fifties, dressed in cardigan and slacks, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked at them both with some curiosity.

‘Detective Foster?’ he said expectantly.

‘That’s me,’ Foster replied, thrusting out a large paw.

‘Mr Brewis?’

‘Come in, come in,’ he said, gesturing for them to follow.

‘Sorry to barge in on a Saturday,’ Foster remembered

to say.

‘Don’t worry. This bloody weather, what was I going to

do?’ They followed him into the hall, and he ushered them towards a large drawing room. ‘The family are all out, so I was catching up with some paperwork and a bit of diocesan business.’

As they took a seat on a large sofa, Foster introduced

Nigel as someone who was helping their investigation.

‘Yes, what is the investigation? I have to say I’m intrigued what it could be that draws you out from London to Colchester on a foul Saturday afternoon. I’ve been

puzzling it over ever since you called.’

‘And did you manage to come up with any conclusions?’

Foster asked, smiling.

‘I don’t know. But the police are rarely interested in

diocesan business unless they’re after an exhumation.’

‘Got it in one.’

Brewis’s eyes lit up. ‘I thought so.’ Then he moulded his features to fit the more serious mood he believed discussion of an exhumation required. ‘Of course, you’re aware of the usual processes involved with such requests?’

‘I am.’

‘But obviously this is urgent, otherwise you wouldn’t be here personally’

‘It is extremely urgent. We have reason to believe that

the grave of a woman buried in East Ham cemetery, and

a parishioner of St Bertram’s in East Ham, contains something that will help us in the course of a current investigation.’

Foster was proud of the way he could slip into

formal copper speak even after all these years, but he

could see from the gleam in Brewis’s eyes that he would

have to give more. ‘Of course, I can’t go into details, but what is in that grave might help us catch a killer.’

He saw Brewis’s eyebrows soar. He could picture him

picking up the phone to his diocesan pals as soon as

Foster’s car wheels crunched away down the gravel drive

to share the information.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘In that case, we’d better get a wriggle on and help you out. I need some details, of the deceased of course, any next of kin who need to be informed …’

‘She died in 1913.’

‘I see. Well, the ownership of the grave is passed on

down the line. We will need to seek out any descendants

…’

Foster leaned forward. ‘We can help you with that — my

friend here is a genealogist. We have traced her ancestry.

There are no living descendants.’

Hidden from Brewis’s sight by a large coffee table,

Foster put his foot on top of Nigel’s and held it down

firmly. Nigel’s eyebrows furrowed and he appeared to be

about to speak when he felt the pressure, and looked quizzically at Foster for a few moments before getting the message.

‘That’s right,’ he murmured. ‘No, er, living descendants.’

Foster

nodded and removed his foot from Nigel’s

brogue. ‘So you see, the only permission we seek is that of the diocese. Give us the faculty document and allow us to perform the exhumation - well, I say exhumation, but we don’t intend to move the body. We simply want to open

the coffin, look inside and remove what we find, before

sealing the coffin shut and piling the earth back on top.’

Brewis fell silent. ‘I don’t see a problem, if it’s in the course of your investigation, but I’ll need to gain the consent of the other members of the diocese. And I’ll need you to send me the relevant paperwork and details.’

‘I can do that, some retrospectively. It really is very

urgent.’

‘When do you want to perform it?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘A Sunday?’ Brewis looked as if Foster had just introduced his daughter to the delights of sex and drugs. ‘That isn’t possible. Monday yes, but not the Sabbath.’

‘I understand,’ Foster said, standing up. ‘These things

are best done at night. So 12.01 on Monday morning

it is.’

On the way back to London, Foster took two calls. The

first from Dave Alvin agreeing to forward details of the crime scene and autopsy to him, so he could pass them on to Susie Danson. Alvin made clear his belief that it was a gangland killing; Martin Stamey, apparently, had no shortage of enemies. The second came from Heather. Foster had asked her to make a few inquiries about the four

Robinsons who had moved to New Zealand seven years

previously.

All of them had died in a house fire two years ago, apart from a nine-year-old girl, Louise Robinson, whose name Heather remembered from the list Nigel had produced.

An inquest ruled it was accidental death. The files were being dug out and faxed across.

Foster had his doubts. The girl had been in the house

but escaped with minor injuries. She had since been taken into care. She, Rachel Stamey, Anthony Chapman, wherever he may be, and Gary Stamey were the last of the line.

Then he remembered David Stamey, incarcerated in jail.

Should he get him protection? He decided he was probably out of harm’s way behind four walls and bars.

It was dark when he reached home after dropping

Barnes off at his fiat. Foster unlocked the door and headed straight for the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of wine, before turning to the fridge to see if there was anything he could eat. The selection was uninspiring so he decided to keep it liquid for the time being. He went through to his sitting room and nicked on the light.

Gary Stamey sat rigid on the sofa, coat still on, hands

plunged deep into his pockets. Foster was startled, jumped almost a foot in the air, but managed to compose himself.

‘Couldn’t

keep away, eh?’ he said, heartbeat returning to

normal. He went over and felt the radiator. Cold as ice.

Bloody boiler, he thought.

Gary didn’t say a word. Or even move.

Foster went over to the armchair and sat down, watching

the boy from the corner of his eye. ‘Out of interest,

and for my peace of mind, just how the hell did you get

in?’

Gary shrugged his shoulders. ‘You said this place was

safe. It ain’t. I came in through the kitchen window at the back. No lock on it.’

‘I should hire you out. Help people discover the weaknesses in their home security. Where you been all day?’

‘Round and about.’

“Why did you come back?’

Gary shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Dunno. No place

else to go. It was cold.’

Foster sensed there was more to it than that.

‘I think I was followed.’

What do you mean? Did you see someone following

you?’

He shook his head. ‘I just felt it.’

Foster nodded. ‘On foot or in a car?’

‘Dunno. I can’t explain it. Just like I’m being watched.’

Probably paranoia, Foster thought. Though given Gary

was a lad who knew what it was like to be tailed, usually by the law, he wouldn’t dismiss it.

‘Do you think you’ve been followed here?’ he asked.

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Don’t think so. I bunked a ride

on a train out of London. Then got off and hid and got a

train coming back. Walked most of the way here. Got a

couple of buses and a tube. Don’t think anyone would

have kept up.’

‘You did the right thing. You’re safe here. I promise.’

He changed the subject. ‘Have you eaten anything?’

His face lit up. ‘Nab., starving. There’s nuffink in your fridge, too.’

‘Want another takeaway?’

Gary nodded eagerly.

‘What sort? Indian? Pizza?’

The second suggestion met with a vigorous nod.

‘What flavour?’

‘Hawaiian.’

‘The one with pineapple?’ Foster couldn’t help but

wrinkle his nose up. In his world, there was no room for fruit on a pizza. In the name of hospitality he let it slide and went to the hall to phone the order through. When he returned, Gary had flicked the television on and was

staring at a football match.

‘You’ve got the sports channels,’ he said with a hint of excitement.

‘Yeah. God knows why. Can’t stand football these days.

Full of overpaid prima donnas falling over and wearing

dresses. Used to be a contact sport. Who’s your team?’

‘Chelsea.’

‘Thought an Essex boy like you would support the

Hammers.’

His lip curled in disgust. ‘Nah, they’re shit.’

Foster shook his head. ‘You see, there’s something else

that’s changed. People supporting teams that are the best, not their local ones.’

Gary shrugged. ‘Chelsea scouted me, so I like them

best.’

‘They scouted you? Really? When?’

When I was eight. I used to go along to the Gateway

football club every Saturday morning. Leonie took me on

the bus. They had loads of pitches and stuff. Scouts used to come and watch us play. One of them spoke to me and wanted to speak to my mum. He was from Chelsea. I went

to a training session. But then Mum died and Leonie went and I didn’t go for a bit. Then when they heard I was in trouble they lost interest. I still went to the Gateway and played, but I haven’t been for a while.’

‘Why not?’

Again the shrug. ‘Too much hassle, innit? Been moved

around too much.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘Yeah,’ he said with feeling. ‘I love playing football. It’s the only thing I’m good at.’

‘What position do you play?’

‘Didn’t play many games, but when we did I played

centre mid.’

Foster shook his head. If only this kid could be taken

off the streets and on to a football pitch then he might spend less of his time robbing. ‘You should keep at it.

You’re obviously good. Be a shame to waste your talent.’

Gary said nothing. On screen, the commentator

erupted with orgasmic delight at a piece of skill. They

both turned to watch the replay. ‘That was the lick,’ Gary said, as in slow motion the striker drew his man towards him, performed a stepover and left the defender lunging at thin air.

‘Impressive,’ Foster had to agree. They sat and watched

more of the game. It finished in a draw; the pizzas came.

Gary wolfed his down greedily once more. Foster went in

search of his indigestion tablets. Two takeaways on the

trot, coupled with the hamburger he and Barnes had eaten for lunch, were proving a bit much. He still poured another glass of wine. Back in the sitting room, Gary was hopping between channels, having finally taken his coat off.

Foster sat down and sipped his wine. Gary failed to find anything worth watching. He seemed to catch Foster looking at him.

‘She contacted me,’ he said simply.

‘Leonie?’

Gary nodded.

‘When was that?’

‘About a year after she disappeared.’

A flicker of caution passed through his mind. Something