'No, exactly. They could have met in the workhouse, or some other place, discovered they shared a similar upbringing and that brought them together.'
'Actually sounds quite sweet. Love against the odds and all that.' She flipped a fallen curl of dark hair out of her right eye and surveyed him. 'But I see you don't agree.'
'It'd be the first time I've come across something like it, but that's not to say it didn't happen. And yet. . . you'd think one of them would declare the village, town or city they were eventually raised in, even if they weren't aware of where they were born. Or that one of them might enter the name of their adoptive father, if there was one.
Both of them having similar gaps in their memory just, well, it strikes me as a bit suspicious, to be honest.'
You think they deliberately left out those details?'
'The census was deeply unpopular among some people; the Victorian equivalent of Middle England thought it was a gross intrusion into their private lives. People gave away as little as possible because they were scared how the information might be used. That's one explanation. But there's also another, slightly less principled one.'
'What?'
'They were running away and didn't want to be found.
Four months after they were married their child was born.
Sarah was only eighteen. Of course we can only speculate, but it's not too much of a leap to imagine that one set of parents might not have been too happy with the prospect, tried to get in the way, and that Horton and Sarah eloped to a new place and tried to cover their tracks. Lied about their names and deliberately obscured their birthplaces.'
'That's even sweeter,' Heather added, tongue wedged firmly in her cheek. 'It has a Montague/Capulet thing going on. Perhaps Horton was from the wrong side of the tracks. She was the eldest daughter of a rich pompous landowner, he the horny-handed son of toil. . .'
'There's a future for you in romantic novels.'
'I'd hope I'm better at it in fiction than I am in real life,'
she added.
There was a silence. She stared at him with a look he couldn't fathom. Wistfulness? Regret? He didn't know.
Was he supposed to say something here? He couldn't find the words. After a few agonizing seconds in which unsaid words and feelings hung between them like a veil, Heather switched back to the topic at hand.
'But if these two have disappeared pre1891, what can we do?'
'There's any number of things I can do, but they might all take some time,' he said, glad to be on steadier ground.
'In the meantime, we can take Sarah Rowley as the starting point and trace as many descendants of hers as possible to give you something to start working on.'
Heather agreed. The rest of the day was taken up with that task. By the close, Nigel was able to hand her a small list of maternal cousins. One, a Gillian Stamey, died three years ago (a suicide aged thirty-six), while another elderly woman, Edith Chapman, died five years ago. The living females were Naomi Buckingham, Leonie Stamey, Rachel Stamey, Lucy Robinson and Louise Robinson. The latter, mother and daughter, appeared to have emigrated to New Zealand along with Zach Robinson, a baby son, and his father, Brian. The male descendents were Martin Stamey, David Stamey, Gary Stamey-- son of the recently deceased Gillian -- Brad Stamey, who was the son of Martin and brother of Rachel, and Anthony Chapman. Christopher, another male, died three and a half years ago.
Heather looked at the list. 'So, there are four branches -- the Chapmans, the Stameys, the Robinsons and the Pratt/Drake/Buckinghams?'
'Yes,' Nigel replied.
'It's not that big a list,' she said.
'It's all the direct descendants of Sarah, those who share her mitochondrial DNA. The bloodline isn't the strongest anyway. Many have died, very few kids born to replace them. The Chapman branch and Naomi's have almost died out. The Stameys are the biggest clan left. Seems the Robinson branch split off and set up in New Zealand. The whole family tree isn't much bigger, just one or two others.
What will you do with it?'
'Track these people down, the males in particular, and speak to them. It's a punt, but one that's worth it.'
'Well, I'll look into why the line disappears pre1891, explore some of the options. I can stay here until late, browse through some passenger lists for ships in case they came in from abroad, or have a glance at the change of name indexes to see if they shed any light on it. If I find out what happened and it leads to more ancestors and more cousins then I'll get in touch with you.'
Heather smiled. 'Sounds like a plan.'
Trevor Vickers picked anxiously at his fingers, occasionally putting one in his mouth to chew. At his side was a lawyer, a short man in an ill-fitting suit with an ill-advised comb over. Neither spoke. While they were sitting here -- with the press, who had been tipped off that he was number one suspect, camped outside - the Metropolitan police were inside his house. They'd covered every inch but found no trace of Naomi. It was late on Wednesday afternoon. Time had been magnified, each minute carried more significance than usual: every hour that passed without a lead was as fatal as any wound.
Foster stood watching from behind a two-way mirror.
Harris had asked him to conduct the interview. If he was being cynical, he'd think it was to appease the pack of reporters that were trailing Vickers, to make it appear as if the hunt for Naomi Buckingham was gaining momentum. They didn't need it. Not for the first time, they were ahead of the investigation. They'd intercepted a phone call Vickers had made to his estranged father that lunchtime, warning him of the shitstorm that was about to break. It had already broken.
His father told him that a reporter had already been round to the house to offer him money for an exclusive interview about Trevor, and was prepared to put him up in a hotel to 'protect' him from other reporters. When he refused, maintaining his son was innocent, despite them having barely spoken in years, the reporter had gone even further, offering the resources of his newspaper to help his father find Trevor the best legal representation available. This from a newspaper that peddled a flog 'em and hang 'em line. Foster knew that was a lie - the help would never materialize. To his credit, in Foster's opinion, the father still refused, not even backing down when the reporter became aggressive and threatened to drag his name through the slurry along with Trevor's.
He fitted the profile. Loner. Loser. Mummy issues. Perv with previous, particularly relating to young girls, to paraphrase what Susie Danson had said in her report.
Foster entered the room. Vickers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked on the verge of tears.
Afternoon, Trevor,' Foster said brightly. 'Thanks for coming in. Nothing formal, just a chat.'
Trevor Vickers nodded imperceptibly, then glanced anxiously at his brief who cleared his throat and spoke waveringly. 'I have to say my client wants to express his extreme displeasure at the press attention he's receiving.
He feels certain that someone in your team must have leaked the details --'
He stopped abruptly. Foster had thrown the file he was holding down on to the table in front of him. The brief stopped talking. Foster didn't even look at him.
'I know you didn't do this, Trevor. But I'm probably in a minority of one at the moment.'
A mixture of hope and bewilderment spread across Vickers's large, pale face.
Foster picked up the file, which contained the details of his previous. 'You took your PC in for repair. You see, right there, very stupid. You can't hide four pictures of under-age girls, so I don't know how we expect you to actually hide a living, breathing fourteenyear-old girl.'
Anger flashed across Vickers's face. 'I thought they were grown women dressed as schoolgirls,' he said slowly.
'Course you did. You deleted them immediately when you found out they were under age.' He scanned the file again.
'Or, two hours afterwards anyway. The fact is there were only four pictures; there was no evidence you'd
