find out what was going on, and they said the dog had died. They didn't want me to tell Rachel because they thought it might upset her and they wanted to tell her themselves . . . This.
It's just awful.'
'How old is Rachel?'
'How old is she? She's twelve, same age as my daughter.
Why?'
'Just wanted to know. And when you picked her up yesterday, did her mother say anything to you about the dog or anything else that was bothering her?'
'No, she was just worried about the dog. Carol was the one who told me later last night that it had died. She said it had been poisoned.'
He knew the reason why she had called him last night.
The dog had been killed to make an attack on them in their house easier. She had sensed the danger. Why had she not called the local force? Perhaps, given Stamey's lifestyle, she guessed they wouldn't be too sympathetic to her plight. But he had not been available. Had she been put through he might have prevented this happening. That damned action plan had contributed to these people's deaths.
The detective was at his side. He introduced himself to Amber Davidson as Chief Inspector Dave Alvin of Essex Police. His voice was a gruff rasp, as if he'd been gargling with gravel. 'Madam, I'd be grateful if you could spare me a few moments with my colleague here.' He broke into one of the most insincere smiles Foster had seen.
'Of course,' she said. 'I really should go back to Rachel anyway.'
Alvin continued to smile. They watched her walk back to the sanctuary of the squad car. Once she climbed inside, Alvin turned to him, still wearing the smile. He was a few inches shorter than Foster, with a flat pugilistic nose and a thatch of thick grey hair. Foster guessed mid to late fifties, old school, not the sort to mince his words.
#'Could you precis exactly who the fuck you are and what the fuck you are doing questioning my witnesses?'
'Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster, Metropolitan Police,' he said, thrusting out his hand.
'You're going to have to give me more than that, young man,' Alvin added.
Foster put his hand back in his pocket. 'I'm the man who found those people dead.'
'So I'm told. You're a long way from home. Satnav knackered, is it?'
'Carol Stamey tried to reach me last night. I paid her and her husband a visit on Wednesday. In relation to a case I'm working on.'
Alvin pulled a long cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit it. He exhaled copiously. 'What case would that be?'
'Fourteenyear-old girl abducted in London, her mum murdered.'
Alvin's bushy grey eyebrows rose perceptibly. 'The one on the news. The blonde girl?'
Foster nodded.
You think this is related?' His rising intonation betrayed his scepticism.
'I do,' Foster said.
Another loud exhale. 'Care to tell me why?'
Foster paused. A light rain had started to fall. 'Quid pro quo. I'll answer your questions if you answer mine.'
'Fire away'
'What sort of person was Martin Stamey?'
'A reprehensible piece of shit.'
'Big time or small time?'
'Small time but thought he was big. I think he's rubbed someone even bigger up the wrong way'
'What sort of game was he in?'
'Smuggling fags, fencing, wee bit of extortion. My turn.
Why do you think this is related to your kidnap and murder?'
'Stamey and my victim were related.'
'In what way?
'Cousins.'
'Close?'
'Distant.'
'And? Was your victim shot?'
'Strangled. But the body was dragged outside. Throat slit. Did Stamey have any obvious enemies who might do this?'
'He wasn't a popular man. We'll have a task narrowing, them down to single figures. Was your victim done like this? Forced entry in the middle of the night?'
'No, we think she invited the killer in. He took the girl when she came back from school. Carol Stamey tried to call me last night. Did she try and call your lot, too?'
'No. And it sounds to me as if there's fuck-all similarity between the two murders.'
'What about the girl?'
'What about her? She was staying at a friend's. Had she been here, she'd be worm food, too.'
'Perhaps. Maybe they would have kidnapped her.'
'Maybe. But maybe is not enough. If you want to take this case over, you're going to have to give me a damn sight more than that, mate.'
Foster looked away. The rain was now slanting down in sheets, pouring off his shaven head. It had got darker. His opposite number was right: Foster knew this murder fitted in, but he did not yet know how. A thought nestled at the back of his mind, but he would need to be alone to tease it out.
'Look,' Alvin said, his tone softening. A fourteenyear-old kid is missing and we can't ignore that. I'll personally let you know how we're progressing. But, if I'm right and this is a contract job, then you know as well as I do how difficult it is to nail someone for it. But if it wasn't a hit, I'll let you know and we can talk some more. Deal?'
Foster nodded. It was the best he could hope for. 'What about the girl?'
'We'll make sure she's safe, that's she's watched. Maybe see if there's any other family that can take her in the long run.'
'There isn't. I know the family history'
'OK. Maybe a friend. But that's for the future. I'll bear in mind what you said and make sure she gets the protection she needs.'
He pulled his car keys from his pocket. 'The dog was poisoned,' he told Alvin. 'Last night. You might want to get on to the vet's and get it autopsied before they sling it in the incinerator.'
As he drove away, windscreen wipers flailing back and forth, he went back to the thought that had passed through his mind when he was speaking to Alvin. Did the killer expect the daughter to be there? She was spared because she was elsewhere, from either being murdered or kidnapped.
If he was right, surely the killer would've been watching the house and seen her go? He pictured the Stamey boy dead in the garden. He hadn't been kidnapped.
If he was right and this was related, what was the pattern here? Like an early childhood memory it was hazy, just out of reach.
He left the thought for a while and flicked on his stereo, wired up to his music player, set to play randomly. A song he didn't recognize came on and he hummed along absentmindedly despite not knowing the words. His mind refused to be diverted.
He hoped Alvin kept his word and Rachel was made as safe as possible. The killer might be back. Apart from her and Leonie, there were three male descendants still living in the UK. One, a Stamey, was in prison. Safest place to be. Another, Anthony Chapman, they knew little about.
They needed to find him. Quickly.
The last was Gary Stamey. He remembered the body of the other young Stamey boy in the garden. Something clicked.
He needed to make Gary safe.
