Blood Atonement (6 page)

“I don’t,’ Foster said. ‘A girl is out there, perhaps still alive. We need the public as our eyes and ears if we’re going to find her quickly.’

Harris went silent for a while. We’ll revisit this later, but for now we hold the appeal back for another day.’

‘Fair enough,’ Susie said. ‘But I can only echo Grant’s

point about finding her quickly. You know the rule in

these cases — find them sooner rather than later, or they’re dead. These cases very rarely have happy endings. He will almost certainly kill Naomi once she’s served her purpose.

If she’s not dead already, you have three or four days maximum or you’re looking for a corpse.’

After the meeting broke up, Harris asked Foster to stay

behind.

“I owe you a coffee,’ Foster said to Susie as she left.

“I’ll hold you to it,’ she replied.

Harris closed the door behind her. ‘Grant, how does it

feel to be back?’

‘Good. I suppose there have been gentler

reintroductions,

though.’

‘Yes. Nasty business. But it’s good to have you back

when something like this breaks.’

He’s flattering me. This is definitely not good news,

Foster thought. Well, it’s nice to know I’m appreciated.’

‘Do you remember the evaluations and tests you underwent prior to your return to work?’

Remember? How could Foster forget? After three

months’ convalescence he’d decided to explore the idea

of going back to work. It soon became clear that it might be easier to retrain as a brain surgeon. First he met with the force’s medical officer, a schoolmarmish woman in her late fifties with a double-barrelled name and a fearsome bedside manner. Then he met her again. Then he met with Harris and other members of the management

team. Alongside the physiotherapist he was already seeing as part of his recuperation, he was sent to see a young doctor who took it upon himself not only to check Foster’s pulse and tap his chest but for some other unfathomable reason stick a gloved finger up his arse. He also underwent something called psychological evaluation with a young blonde woman in her thirties. He was then referred to a counsellor, whom he was still seeing monthly. That, actually, had been the thing that proved beneficial.

Once his evaluation was complete he went back to see

the Medical Officer, who took off her glasses and sucked one of the arms before asking what was his rush, wouldn’t he rather spend time at the police convalescence home in Harrogate? Foster said he would spend time in a home when he was eighty and unable to wipe his own backside,

at which point she accused him of being hostile. He was

referred back to another psychologist for a second opinion because his outburst was apparently in keeping with the first signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and then sent to see Harris who tut-tutted at his attitude and told him if he wanted to return to work then being aggressive towards the person whose job it was to allow him back might not be the most politic thing to do. The second

opinion agreed with the first: Foster was fit to return, though with a few caveats. He then spent countless hours in meetings with a dreary woman from Human Resources to discuss a ‘return to work plan’. When he pointed out in his most patient voice that he wanted that plan to be ‘return to work’, she’d shaken her head slowly as if he was a drooling vegetable. By this stage he’d switched off and just agreed and nodded and agreed and nodded, anything to stop the tests and the meetings and the action plans and get back to doing what he believed he did best. The upshot was that he was now back at work, with a letter at home explaining the terms of his return, but beyond noting his first date back he’d not taken any of it in.

‘Vaguely.’

Harris didn’t detect the rueful irony in his voice. ‘One of the conditions of you returning so soon was a restriction on your working hours. For the first six months, we agreed that you should work no more than forty-five

hours a week.’

He knew that bit. ‘Yes, no more than nine hours a day’

And how many hours did you work yesterday?’

Foster furrowed his brow. Was he being serious? What

do you mean?’

‘It’s hardly a difficult question, Grant. How many hours did you work yesterday?’

He was up at four, home at midnight. Take an hour or

so off for getting dressed and driving to and from home.

About nineteen,’ he said to Harris.

‘Ten more than you should’ve done.’

Foster tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead his jaw flapped open like a fish. Did Harris really just say that? He ran the words through his mind again.

Yes, he had said it.

‘Brian, are you being serious? A woman was murdered,

her daughter kidnapped. I was on duty — I was at the scene.

Do you expect me to clock off and go home just because

it’s teatime?’

‘You have an action plan …’

‘Action plan? I’m a detective. I solve crimes. I put people in prison. A fourteenyear-old girl is missing, maybe murdered. You honestly expect me to ignore all that and

go along with some spurious timetable created by bureaucratic, time-serving pen-pushers with no idea of what actual police work entails?’

“I helped draw up that timetable,’ Harris snapped back.

Foster put his hands on his hips, shook his head. What

can I do in the face of such lunacy? he thought.

Harris took a breath and continued. ‘It’s my job to do

what’s best for this department, this police force and the people of London. And for you.’

What about what’s best for Naomi Buckingham?’

Harris’s face darkened once more. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Grant. There are two other DCIs working full time on this case. I’m in charge. If she’s alive, we’ll find her.

You will help us do that, but within the bounds of your

return to work action plan.’

If I hear the words ‘action plan’ once more then I’m

going to run to the window and hurl myself into the street below, Foster thought. He ran his hand down his face.

And you’ve also missed your last two counselling

sessions. You must keep going — when’s your next one?’

‘Tomorrow, 5 p.m.’

‘Then you’ll go. We can cope. We need you fit and well

and able to give of your best.’

Foster shook his head. It was beginning to ache. No

one had been this concerned about him since his gran

passed away when he was seven. His mental health

appeared to be of more concern to his DS than the safety of a missing girl. The world has gone bloody mad, he

thought.

‘So what’s happening today?’ he asked, eager to switch

the subject back to the investigation, even if he was to have only a peripheral role in it.

We’re going speak to every paedo and pervert in a

fifteen-mile radius. I will save you that particular pleasure, however, in favour of some victimology. I want you to get out there and have a word with Katie Drake’s colleagues at the charity shop. Find out as much about her as you

can. There’s some news from forensics. Good news. A

hair was found on Katie Drake’s clothing. Apparently,

because of its length, first impressions are that it belongs to a male. I need you to try and find out who the men were in her life. The hair’s being tested as we speak. Should be something new on the details later today. I’ll make sure forensics give you a shout.’

‘Make sure it’s not too late,’ Foster said. ‘My action plan says bedsocks and cocoa by nine.’

Heather was waiting for him in her car outside the charity shop on Chamberlayne Road, a drab traffic-choked street that bisected Kensal Rise, a suburb that still carried a crackle of danger despite gentrification.

He parked up and walked to her new Saab, battling

great gusts of wind that transformed the fine rain into

blasting hoses of cold water. He got in the passenger seat and looked around. ‘Very nice,’ he said, inhaling the heady scent of a new car. ‘Came with the promotion, did it?’

She smiled. ‘Felt like treating myself

‘Yeah, I heard about your mum’s death. Why didn’t you

tell me?’

‘You were off work, recovering. I didn’t want to bother

you with personal stuff.’

Well, you should have. Anyway, I was sorry to hear

about it. How’ve you been?’

“I won’t pretend it’s been easy,’ she said.

He paused, looked out of the window and watched the

rain spatter against it in the breeze. ‘I happen to think the death of your mum is the one that feels the most profound.

The body that carried you, brought you into the

world, reduced to dust. You never get over that one — you just learn to live with it.’ He turned back to face her.

She nodded. “I know what you mean.’

Her face was pale, severe even. The eyes, usually lined

with kohl and dancing with energy, anger, humour were

hollow and lined with stress.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asked.

She smiled again but he could see there was little genuine about it. ‘Just not feeling great. Loads of stress, loads of grief, loads of stuff to mull over. I didn’t think it would hit me this hard. I seem to have lost a bit of faith in my judgements and myself. I’m all over the place, to be honest with you.’

He looked at her for a while. It had been his plan to

moan about Harris and being sidelined on this case, rant about the absurd amount of cotton wool he was being wrapped in. In light of Heather’s woes, it didn’t seem that important any more. Her life was a mess and she was working through it. He’d been doing that for years. Look where he was. Part of him felt he should try to persuade her to get herself signed off sick, go somewhere warm where she could get away from it and recharge. ‘Look at

me,’ he might say, ‘this is what happens when you close

yourself down.’ But there would be little point. The job had pulled her in and then tightened its tentacles. It was like that. You tried to make the world a safer place; you poured your life into your work, even if it meant your own went to the wall.

What happened between you and Barnes? Didn’t that

work out?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not really. No fault of his. When

my mum died, I didn’t fancy the idea of a new relationship.

An ex got in touch to express his condolences and,

you know, the familiar, the devil I knew, seemed preferable to …’

Her voice trailed away.

Foster sensed some regret, as if she wasn’t convinced.

Wish I hadn’t sent you along to see him yesterday. Must

have been awkward.’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you did. It was nice seeing him. I wasn’t very fair but I think he understands.’ She paused, looked out of the window. ‘He’s a nice bloke.’

That’s enough Agony Aunt crap, Foster thought. ‘Come

on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get cracking’

They climbed out and hurried the short distance to the

shop. As Foster pushed the door, a bell rang inside. The place was empty of customers but teeming with bric-a brac: books, CDs, a few toys and racks of unwanted

clothes. At the counter two women, one elderly, the other in her thirties, stood talking in hushed voices. One of them glanced irritably at Foster and Heather as they

entered, before adopting a helpful smile. Foster flashed his ID.

‘Morning, ladies,’ he said, before making his introductions.

The elderly one was named Yvonne, the younger

lady Maureen. We’re here about Katie Drake.’

We were wondering when you might come,’ Yvonne

said, eyes wide with what Foster presumed was shock. ‘It’s just terrible. Horrible. We’re devastated. We thought about closing the shop for the day, but then we thought that Katie would have wanted us to open.’

Was she supposed to be working today?’

Maureen, a brassy redhead wearing a thick layer of

make-up, nodded vigorously. ‘She did Mondays and

Wednesdays. She should have been in today. We have three on normally. Two out front serving customers and one at the back sorting the carryin, usually helped by Trevor. It was her turn to be out back. We’ve not had time to ask anyone else to come in.’

Her voice quavered. She was about to burst into tears.

Yvonne threw an arm around her.

‘Is there a kettle?’ Heather asked. Why don’t you put

the closed sign up for a few minutes and I’ll make us all a brew?’

The women nodded.

‘There’s a kitchen through the back,’ the elderly one

said.

The younger one turned the sign on the back of the

door and flicked the bolt.

‘So did Katie work this Monday?’ Foster asked.

Yvonne nodded. ‘She did, yes. Only the morning. She

wanted the afternoon off to shop for Naomi’s present and a cake. I was on, Maureen wasn’t. Katie was in the shop with me. Steph - she does a couple of days a week, too came in to fill in as Trevor was off.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Her usual self really.’

And what was “her usual self”?’

‘Friendly, good with the customers, helpful, polite. Her acting career wasn’t going too well — “stalled” was the word she used — and I think she liked getting out of the house and doing some work, meeting people.’

‘She used to joke about it,’ Maureen replied, with a

smile. ‘She used to say, “I’m paying my debt. I do the voice for all these adverts for horrible companies that treat people like dirt and sell useless things. Working here is my penance.’”

Foster watched as Heather returned with a tray bearing

four mugs of tea. She put them down beside the till on

the counter.

He continued. ‘So you got no sense there was anything different in her life? No new events, incidents or anything like that?’

The women looked at each other for a few moments.

‘No,’ the elderly one said.

‘Not at all,’ Maureen echoed.