the usual obsequies; loving mother of three, formerly loyal wife to her beloved Horton, with whom she would now be reunited, and dedicated member of the parish.
There was little to distinguish it from most of its kind, either before or since. A passage lower down caught his eye:
Sarah was a loyal servant of God, as many among you will know. A more pious member of the community it would be difficult to imagine. Yet what was remarkable about her faith was that it remained so despite many trials and tribulations.
speak not here of the profound loss of her much-loved husband, hard as she found that obstacle. Many of you here who knew Sarah will know of her struggles to escape the clutches of cultists from across the ocean, an experience itself that would cause many of us to turn away from the Lord's loving embrace. Not Sarah Read, as we knew her.
Her experiences had the contrary effect; far from rejecting the Lord after such an event, it brought Sarah and Horton closer to him, for they knew in truth the dangers of worshipping false idols, celebrating the occult and the wickedness of those who stray from the true word of God. After Horton's sad death, seeking sanctuary, shelter and safety, Sarah moved from her previous home and into the bosom of our parish, where she brought the certainty of her faith, despite all her trials. For that she will live on in our hearts as surely as she will in God's kingdom.
Nigel read it through once more to allow the meaning to seep in. 'Cultists from across the ocean'? The truth was emerging from behind an obscuring cloud: the couple had fled a foreign country. But what cult and where? One that worshipped false idols and celebrated the occult like some form of voodoo? And why had she changed her name?
Was she still being pursued?
At the back of the packet was a series of sepia-tinted photographs. Two pictures of the vicar outside the new building, looking awkward and aloof, a pose Nigel knew well from the time, people still adapting to the novelty of having their picture taken. Another appeared to be of a parish ladies' outing -- three rows of behatted ladies.
'Ladies' Temperance Outing to Margate, August 1911'
was noted on the back in writing similar to the vicar's.
Beneath it he'd scribbled the names of the featured parishioners.
Nigel flipped the photo back over; but he didn't need to find Sarah Rowley's (or Read's) name. He was sure that was her, sitting tall and proud in the middle of the front row. The family resemblance to pictures he'd seen in the press of Katie Drake was startling; the same full lips and proud pose. She would have been in her late thirties when the photo was taken, and though the years had taken some toll she was still a handsome and charismatic presence.
She seemed to possess a darker skin than the other women present; duskier, more exotic, next to their porcelain pale skin. The more he gazed at her, the more indomitable she seemed. He could sense her strength, picture the way she moved, even assign her a voice.
It never failed to amaze him how an old photograph could summon the dead.
3
Foster fixed himself his first cup of tea of the morning, waiting for a murky dawn to emerge through the window of his kitchen. As the tea bag steeped in the mug, he wondered where to turn next. Harris and his crew appeared to be leaving him to his own devices. So far all the Gold Group and Senior Management Team meetings had been held without him; they were often held outside his restricted hours, either early morning or late evening, and he sensed Harris was happier calling the shots without him being around.
It was Friday. Naomi had been missing almost four days. Vickers had been dropped as a suspect, and the other source of likely suspects had grown scarce -- every pervert and paedophile they dragged in had an alibi.
Frustration had bled into desperation. The main investigative team had resorted to bringing in teenage youths who'd been collared for under-age sex, irrespective of the fact that most of them had been under the impression the lipsticked Lolitas with whom they were consorting were above the age of consent. Yet Susie Danson had been right in one respect. If this was a sex crime then they had three or four days. That was about to pass and the sense of despair was like damp, permeating all levels of the investigation and rising even to Harris at the top, who patrolled the main incident room with a haunted, hunted expression as the media continued to howl for the girl's safe return, or at least some evidence of a breakthrough.
Foster,
hunched over his steaming cup, did not share their resignation. Something told him this was about more than sex. Something told him Naomi might still be alive.
He sipped at his tea, watching helplessly as the clock on his kitchen wall ticked past 7 a.m. Foster hated watching time slip away but he wasn't due in until nine, as advised by his action plan, and there was little he could do until then.
He'd been up most of the night, digesting what Gary Stamey had told him about the man who had visited their house, in particular the book he had given Leonie featuring Joe and his secret treasure. He scoured the Internet for websites about comics and graphic novels but found nothing matching the description.
From the hall he could hear the muffled sound of his mobile phone vibrating as it rattled across the surface of the sideboard - he'd taken to switching it to silent, so irritated was he by the ring tone, or the way it bleeped chirpily whenever a message came through. He reached it just before the caller was diverted through to his voicemail. It was Heather.
'Hi, did I wake you?'
'No,' he said, feeling affronted. 'I've been up for a while actually.'
'Good. Listen, I've just got in and it's been logged there was a call for you last night. From Carol Stamey, Martin's wife.'
'What time?'
'Just after eleven.'
He cursed. He'd still been up then. 'Why didn't they pass it on to me?'
'They've been instructed not to bother you, remember?
They said you were off duty and asked if she was willing to speak to someone else, but she hung up. I thought you might want to follow up this morning.'
He thanked her and ended the call. Back in the kitchen he drank his tea and then called Carol Stamey back. No answer. Probably still asleep. He had no mobile number for her. Why had she hung up last night? Maybe she was calling without her husband's knowledge and he'd walked in and caught her. Or what she wanted to say was for Foster's ears only.
If it was the former, he didn't want to make it awkward for her by phoning, in case Martin Stamey answered. So he showered and dressed, got in his car and drove out to Purfleet. He doubted he'd be missed, and if they did call him then he'd make up an excuse about being at a physiotherapy session, which wouldn't be much of a lie since he did have an appointment that afternoon.
A fine drizzle was falling as Foster pulled up outside the house at 8:15 a.m., the beam of his headlights still strong.
The sort of day when morning and dusk were interchangeable.
He cursed when he saw two cars parked in the driveway, a silver Jaguar at the front. He'd hoped Martin might be out at work and the kids on their way to school. A red Alfa Romeo that presumably belonged to Carol was parked behind the Jag.
He got out of the car and straightened his jacket. He could always call on the pretext that he had a few more questions. She would tell him if it was no secret from her husband. If it was, he would leave his mobile number and hope she called him on it later. He walked up the drive.
Despite the gloom, there was no light on in the house. He rang the doorbell, expecting to hear the frantic barking of the dog. Instead there was silence. He rang the bell again and waited. No answer.
Foster stepped back from the house, looking at the upstairs windows. The curtains were drawn. Had they gone away? Yet Carol had called from the house late last night.
