'You're sure Leonie ran away?'
'Well, I was until you showed up. And so were your colleagues when they looked into it. Which wasn't very much.'
'No one's heard anything from her?'
'Not a peep.'
'Any idea where she might've gone?'
'London, I presume. She was a bright girl - brighter than her dozy fucking muppet of a mother, at least. But I can't imagine what she's got herself involved with on the streets of London. Actually, I can, but I don't wanna.'
'There's no family there she could have gone to?'
'There's no real family beyond us, to be honest. You probably know that my brother's doing time, and I've told you the other one's dead. His wife has shacked up with a new feller. That's about it really. We're hardly the fucking Waltons.'
His wife came in with the beer. He leaned forward and sprung it open slowly before taking a hearty swig. 'These two are here because they reckon that Leonie's disappearance might've something to do with that girl who's gone missing, the one who's been all over the news.'
'The girl whose mum was done in?' his wife replied.
'Yeah. Can't see why. Gilly was a smack addict and she smacked herself up too much and died. Don't think someone topped her. Can't see who would want to, for a start.'
'We're looking for a girl who went missing on her fourteenth birthday, like Leonie,' Foster interrupted. 'Of course it might be, and probably is, just a coincidence, but we felt it was worth seeing if there were any more similarities.
All we have on file are the bare facts of Leonie's case and we want to know more. Didn't she have a father?'
Stamey snorted derisively. 'Take your pick from half of Essex. Let's just say my sister was not exactly stingy with her favours.'
'Didn't Leonie and Gary share the same father?' Heather asked.
The snort turned to a whooping laugh. His wife joined in. 'Did you hear that, love?' he said, shaking his head.
'She asked if Gary and Leonie had the same dad?' The mirth continued for some time.
Foster looked at Heather, who was wearing a fixed grin.
Finally Stamey calmed down. He looked at Heather and raised a hand. 'Sorry, sweetheart. Really sorry. But you'll realize why that tickled me so much when I tell you that Gary is a half-caste. His dad's a nigger.'
Foster felt Heather stiffen at his side at the mention of the word. He decided to step in before she arrested him for discrimination.
'Martin,' he said, looking Stamey in the eye. 'We'd appreciate it if you watched what you said in front of us, please.'
'Whatever,' Stamey said. He took another slug from the can, watching Heather with amusement.
She was still rigid beside Foster. Time to start wrapping this up, he thought.
'Were Leonie and her mum close?'
'Beats me,' Stamey said.
'Not really,' his wife added. 'Like Mart said, Gillian had a lot of problems with the drugs and everything. She was off her brain half the time. Leonie was one of them girls who had to grow up quick. She had an old head on her, that girl. She basically brought Gary up herself. He was a little bit wild, even back then. Weren't his fault. He had no dad and his mum was a junk
'She found her mother?'
'We think so,' Mrs Stamey said. 'She went missing the same day. She got back from school because her bag was at home. Her mum was dead in the bed. We reckon she just went downstairs, opened the door and ran.'
Foster and Heather shared a quick glance. He knew she was thinking the same as him.
Where was Gary?' Heather asked.
'He was at some behavioural clinic or class or something.
He was the one who got back and raised the alarm.
Well, he got back and watched TV for about half an hour and then started screaming at his mum to get up and make his tea. He didn't understand. He went and got the neighbour and she called the police.'
Foster stood up. 'Well, thanks for your time. You've been a great help. If we find anything else relating to Leonie, we'll be sure to get in touch.'
Stamey nodded, a glassy look in his eye. Foster guessed the can of lager he was just emptying might not have been his first. His wife showed them to the door.
'Where's Gary now?' he asked as she opened the door.
'Last we heard he was in a Council care home,' she said.
'Good luck finding that girl,' she added, and went back inside.
They stepped into the pouring rain and headed for Foster's car. Once inside he could tell she was still seething.
'What
do you think now? Black sheep or scumbag?'
Foster said with a smile.
'What a wanker. I don't know how some women do it,'
she said, echoing Foster's thoughts.
'What do you reckon?' he asked.
'Too many similarities. The mother dying on the same day as the daughter going missing. The fact it was her fourteenth birthday ... It could still be coincidence, I suppose. And there's nothing else to link them, other than circumstance and a DNA sample that could be shared with another half a million people. Do you think our charming Mart had anything to do with it?'
'Who knows,' Foster said. 'We'll come back to him, though.' He started the engine. 'Let's poke around a bit more and see what comes up.' He put the car in gear and slowly pulled away. 'But first we need to find sweet little Gary'
Horton and Sarah Rowley appeared to have been erased from the pages of history. At times when Nigel had lost the trail on other cases, he found sleeping on it helped; when he woke up, an idea of how to break the impasse was often there, fully formed. But that morning he remained stymied.
He was unsure what to do with his day. A heap of casework was piling up, but it palled against the prospect of helping Foster and Heather. Then there was the matter of his nascent television career. Since his humiliation in Kensal Green cemetery earlier that week he had heard nothing. He could only think that the programme-makers had seen his screen test and, after they'd finished laughing, started tracking down a presenter with a modicum of aptitude. He should be pleased - after all, he rarely watched television himself, being more of a radio man. Yet part of him was thrilled at the prospect of appearing on television and where it may lead. He imagined himself being recognized in the street. Worse, he imagined himself enjoying being recognized in the street. He, Nigel Barnes, a man who struggled to get recognized in his own sitting room. He fired up his computer and checked his e- mails.
Nothing from the producer.
He went to the kitchen, still in his striped dressing gown and pyjamas. A low pale early winter sun glancing through the window made him squint. He ate toast most mornings and saw no reason to change his routine. He carved the last slices from the brittle, stale sourdough loaf, made a mental note to get to the delicatessen to purchase another, and placed them in his eccentric old toaster. He flicked the kettle on and gazed out of the window, wondering when the house opposite, wreathed in scaffolding, would ever be finished. It had to be a year now and he was bored by the sound of poorly attached tarpaulin flapping in the autumn wind. What were they doing . . . ?
His thoughts were interrupted by the scent of burning.
When he turned, he could see his toaster billowing plumes of black smoke, forcing him to lunge over and
