There was little evidence of any Native American blood in Katie Drake's features. The most obvious explanation was that this mysterious woman entered the Drake lineage hundreds of years ago on some great migratory route.
However, another explanation occurred to him.
'Is there any chance of discovering a date or an approximate time when a Native American woman entered the bloodline?'
Westerberg ran his hand through his hair so that it stuck up as if caught by static. 'How would that help?' the Irishman asked, furrowing his brow.
'I'm not sure it would. The fact is, I've been trying to trace the maternal line of the victim as part of the investigation and the paper trail appears to end '
'I knew it!' Westerberg slapped his hand down hard on the desk. 'I knew it! You need me. You've hit a wall and you need a hand to get over it. Hang on, what was it you said in the bar at that ball-aching convention?' He put his hand to his forehead. 'Hang on, I got it, it's coming. 'The problem with genetic genealogy, old chap, is that it's a gimmick. A bloody lucrative one, but still a gimmick.''
Nigel winced as Westerberg, eyes sparkling with delight, slapped the desk a second time to underline his glee.
'So let me get this straight, Nigel. You want me to see if I can find out when the Native American mtDNA entered the bloodline so you can go back to the records and see if you can pick up the trail again?'
'In a nutshell, yes, that'd be very useful'
'You can't do it.'
'Really?'
'Rather, you couldn't do it.'
'Your employment of the past tense seems to imply you now can.'
'Perhaps. I've developed a test, one that isn't even available to customers yet, which hopes to tell you that sort of information. It's simple maths. Testing how far back in the family tree the Native American ancestor came in translates genetically to what proportion of the person's ancestry and therefore genes are Native American. You would expect roughly one-eighth of the genes to be Native American with a great-grandparent, and one-sixteenth if it were a great-great-grandparent.'
'How do you know how much of a person's genes are Native American?'
'The test examines DNA changes which are more common in one continental group of people than another, for instance Africans, East Asians, Europeans or Native Americans. There are hundreds of these DNA changes that can be specific to a continent, but are more often found at a high frequency in one place, for example Native Americans, but at a much lower frequency in another place -- they are markers of ancestry. Forensic identification normally uses about a hundred markers to compile a profile.
Our test uses hundreds of markers across many genes, thus giving people an idea of their overall ancestry. We use a computer program which takes into account the number of each type of change you have and where these are found and how common they are, and calculates this as a percentage of the make-up of your ancestry -- whether it's European, African or Native American. So by pinpointing the amount of Native American DNA in the sample we could work out when those genes entered the family tree.'
Are you in a position to use this test?'
'No.'
'Oh?'
Westerberg picked up the printout Nigel had given him and dropped it slowly on the desk. 'Because I haven't got a sample to work with, just a piece of paper. If I had a DNA sample we might be in business.'
'I doubt they'll release the hair . . .'
'I don't need the hair. You said the person who owns the hair and the victim share a common maternal ancestor?'
'Yes,'
Nigel replied hesitantly.
'Then testing her DNA should tell us when the mtDNA molecule entered the bloodline. You just need to get a sample from the body'
Gary Stamey's arms were folded, face set hard. Apart from the molten hatred in his eyes, he looked angelic flawless coffee-coloured skin, delicate features and dark tight-cropped hair. Yet the cute appearance disguised an elevenyear-old bearing the criminal record of an old lag.
Just reading it made Foster's eyes water: fifty-four crimes since the age of eight years old. Mainly burglary or theft.
On one occasion he stole a car, which he drove into a wall after ten yards. Foster found that last detail strangely comforting, evidence there was still a child in there. All these crimes had been committed across different parts of Essex because he'd been moved around so many times.
Foster families, care homes, none of them had prevented him embarking on a crime spree within a few days of his arrival. Wherever he wound up the local crime figures spiked. Gary would then be arrested, sent to magistrates'
court, and dispatched to another area to be someone else's problem. His latest hideout was a care home in Romford.
A rare success. He'd not been arrested for a week.
Foster and Heather were sitting in a communal lounge.
Gary sat on a sofa next to the home's duty manager, a large woman in a tent-sized dress who spent most of her time flicking worried glances at her charge. A ripped and frayed pool table stood at one end of the room, a TV
surrounded by empty DVD cases at the other. Underneath the table in the middle, surrounded by sofas and chairs, were several battered board games. One of them was Monopoly. Foster laughed silendy and mirthlessly at the thought of Gary Stamey playing that. His Get Out Of Jail card was his age. Soon he would be banged up in some young offenders' institution or other. Then his criminal education would be complete.
The duty manager launched into a stuttering introduction as Gary slumped deeper into the sofa, staring first at the blank television screen, then turning his sullen gaze on them, ignoring every word said. Heather said hello. He turned his stare to the window and wrapped his arms tighter around his chest, sinking even lower. Soon he'll be horizontal, Foster thought. He knew straight away the 'Watch-with-Mother' shit wouldn't work. This wasn't a time to be friendly. This wasn't an ordinary child. It was an animal. Foster didn't care about the 'circumstances' that explained Gary's behaviour. It wasn't his fault some people who weren't fit to raise hamsters had children. It was his job to deal with the consequences.
'We're here about your sister, Gary,' he said, once the niceties were over.
A flicker, no more. The boy turned his head to him slowly, glanced at him for a few seconds, and then returned his gaze to the window.
'Don't you care about what happened to Leonie, Gary?'
There was a pause. The hate-filled eyes on him again.
This time the boy spoke. The first time. The voice unbroken yet sounding older than its owner.
'No.'
Back to the window. At least ten seconds of silence.
'You don't care whether she's alive or dead.'
This time the answer was immediate. Why fucking should I? Fucking bitch left me.'
The duty manager's face reddened. She put her hand on his arm. 'Gary, I really don't --'
'Get your fucking hand off me, you fat fucking cunt,' he screamed, flinging his arm to shake her off.
She sat back, hands up. Gary returned to his usual pose, eyes now ablaze. The duty manager looked at Foster.
'Can you give us a moment?' he asked.
She looked uncertain. 'I really shouldn't. . .'
'Five minutes. We'll be OK.' Foster noticed Gary's eyes were on him, though he avoided them.
The duty manager eventually nodded, got up. 'I'll be in my office,' she added, and left. She didn't seem too disappointed to be getting out of his way, even if it meant breaking procedure.
