'Very funny,' Foster said, trying to play along.
'Seriously, how did he look the same as DCI Foster?'
'He was big. He was wearing one of them things,' he pointed to his neck.
A tie?'
Gary nodded
'Did he have hair?'
'Black hair.'
'If we got someone to draw a picture of him, would you help him?'
Gary nodded. 'He patted me on the head and said hello.
Then he got in a car.'
What sort of car?'
'It was a blue Ford Mondeo. An old one.'
Kid knew his cars, Foster thought. He'd been the same when he was that age. Obsessed with cars. He hadn't known his times tables, but he knew the top speed of an Austin Allegro.
Heather glanced up at him. He mouthed for her to ask about Gary's mother.
What happened on the day your mum died, Gary?' she asked.
A frown appeared on the boy's face. He started to scratch his left arm. He looked from side to side. Then he shook his head. 'No,' he said.
'No, you don't want to talk about it?'
'I don't remember,' he replied. He carried on scratching the back of his left arm, head shaking vigorously. His features changed. The menace returned. He began to glower. 'I don't fucking remember, RIGHT!'
Foster saw Heather flinch at the sudden rise in volume.
'That's OK,' she said softly. 'It doesn't matter.'
'I don't fucking remember,' he hissed, his legs jolting as if sparked by a current.
Heather said nothing for a few seconds, allowed Gary's anger to subside. Foster motioned to her that it was time to go. They had the post mortem report that said Gillian Stamey's death was caused by heroin toxicity, presumably self-administered. The only detail that intrigued him was the purity of the drug that killed her. It was high grade; junkie single mums on benefit would usually ingest any old smack, even if it was cut with rat poison and made them as sick as dogs. She'd been cremated so there was no chance of an exhumation. They could ask Gary about it another time if necessary, with the required psychologist present, but meanwhile there were other leads they could explore.
'Leonie isn't dead,' Gary said suddenly.
'How do you know?' Heather asked softly.
He looked at the floor. 'I just don't think she is,' he mumbled. Then he looked up, eyes brimming, anger on his face. A different kind of anger. Not hate but wronged.
'She said she'd look after me. She promised. She'll come back and get me one day.' The last sentence was defiant.
His nose was running. He sniffed, then wiped a copious stream of snot on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
Heather nodded, face sincere. She had yet to fully concede, as Foster had, that the world was a cold, indifferent place. And such a world threw up feral kids like Gary Stamey who had no
respect for authority. For anyone. His joyless life of petty crime might only be a nuisance to police forces now, but soon he would graduate to bigger and worse crimes.
'Gary,' Foster said, ignoring the scowl his voice provoked.
'If you're hoping she comes back and makes your life sweet, then why do you spend all your time robbing?
How about keeping out of trouble?' He plunged his hands into his pockets. 'Listen to me -- though you probably won't, because you've had a million talks like it and it's pretty clear from your record that you've never heeded a word. I know you hate me and people like me, but you're heading one way and one way only -- a life in prison. What would happen if Leonie came back for you then?'
Gary stared at him. 'Fuck you,' he said, voice flat and emotionless. Then he looked down at his shoes.
Foster shrugged. I tried, he thought. This kid's too far gone.
The warm smell of toasted sandwiches inside the cafe provided a perfect counterpoint to the wind and rain lashing High Holborn. Nigel, starving after his trip to and from Ealing, ordered one and gazed out of a streaked window and across the road towards First Avenue House, a grand if grey building, where he could see them gather: estranged men and women smoking furiously on the pavement, pacing back and forth, waiting for their time in one of the umpteen family division courts inside, summoning sinew before attempting to sort out their differences for the sake and welfare of their children. More than once on a visit here he'd seen violent slanging matches spill from the courtroom on to the street, or ambulances pull up to tend to those for whom the emotional trauma had become too much. Because of these animosities, those entering the courts were searched and scanned to prevent them secreting weapons in an attempt to murder their errant spouses; inside, drinks were dispensed from plastic jugs and glasses for the same reason.
Thankfully for him, when he had finished his coffee, the traffic through the main entrance was slight, with just a handful of glowering, fractious adults at the front of the building. He had managed to convince Foster to dispatch the DNA sample to Chris Westerberg. While that was being processed, he wanted to exhaust every line of inquiry. That included the paper trail that might have been left by either Horton or Sarah Rowley upon their death.
Where there was a will, there was often a way to overcome a dead end.
Horton died intestate. But from online calendar indexes Nigel had discovered that his widow had left a will upon her death in 1913. It might contain very little, but it was worth a try. He hurried across the street during a break in the rain, made his way up the stairs to a brightly lit, spartan room decked out in calming neutral colours like the rest of the building. The place might house the wishes and last words of the dead, the physical debris left from their brief time on the planet, but none of that grave mystique was reflected in the sterile surroundings of the probate search rooms. A few other family historians had beaten him up the stairs. How the chattels of the dead were divided often gave a fascinating glimpse into family hierarchies, as well as offering an indication of how our ancestors lived, both rich and poor. The lord of the manor might bequeath half of Surrey to his children, but more evocative pickings were often gleaned from those with the least to pass on, but who still thought it right and proper to pass on their favourite fiat cap or best milking cow.
He grabbed an order form and filled out the date of the will made by Sarah Rowley. While that was being found, he returned to his seat in the cafe for another coffee, taking time to watch the daytime television comings and goings outside the family court, before returning to collect a copy of the will. As he expected, it was hardly brimming with bequests. The deceased's wedding band was left to their elder daughter. Elizabeth inherited an oak table, while Isaac received a set of carpentry tools Nigel assumed had belonged to Horton. Sarah also asked, intriguingly, that a locked metal box inscribed with her initials be buried with her. Those were the only possessions listed. A sum of ten pounds was left to 'the parish of St Bertram, East Ham'.
While there was no genealogical information that explained the Rowleys' obliteration from all records pre1891, at least there was a trail that Nigel could follow.
Perhaps Sarah Rowley did not want to divide a small sum between her children; maybe she felt they didn't deserve it.' Whatever her reasons, the act of giving the money should have been recorded by the church, and if she was an active member of the congregation then there might be further records that could offer details about her and her husband.
He put in a call to the London Metropolitan Archives, where most of the records belonging to London churches were held. They had nothing for St Bertram's in East Ham. They suggested he try the Essex Records Office.
He phoned them but was given a similar answer: they had no records. Anything the church had was still held in its own archive.
St Bertram's was a ten-minute walk from East Ham tube station, nestled away in a warren of Victorian terraced artisan houses. The church, as Nigel deduced from the lack of records in the LMA, was relatively modern.
Perhaps no more than a century old, redbrick and functional unlike the Gothic splendours that decorated much of the capital. He wandered aimlessly around it a few times looking for an entrance, eventually discovering it
