4
That Friday morning had gone badly for Nigel. A girl was missing and her life in mortal danger, yet he spent precious hours stumbling through another screen test with predictably dire results. This time the show's producer Lysette, a fresh-faced, enthusiastic brunette in her mid thirties had been there along with Guy, the glum cameraman, yet despite her exhortations and encouragements Nigel simply couldn't get it right. Partly because his mind was elsewhere, partly because the scripts they kept giving him to read were so dire. He simply could not rid himself of self-consciousness. When they'd watched the final playback before lunch, Nigel-had winced at his stilted voice and nervous, flicking eyes. Lysette made some positive noises but he knew that was to protect his ego. Guy's world-weary sighing offered a more honest assessment.
He felt certain that the next few days would bring a phone call putting him out of his misery, announcing they were going to look for another presenter.
Foster's panicked call was welcome, despite the detective's agitated state. You remember that list you gave me?'
he said. 'The one with all the descendants? Presumably it was so small because you couldn't trace the maternal line back beyond this couple.' Nigel agreed it was. 'Well, two of the people on that list were murdered last night, as well as another connected to them. Katie Drake is dead, too.
Naomi Buckingham is missing. Another girl on the list is missing and her mother dead. We know from our records that a family of four emigrated to New Zealand seven years ago. That leaves three people, one of whom Heather and I spoke to yesterday. His name is Gary Stamey; it's his sister Leonie that's missing. The mum died of an overdose, apparently. He told us that a man visited his sister shortly before she vanished. This man wore a suit and gave them a book about a boy called Joe and his secret treasure. Can you see where I'm going?'
Nigel did. The past was invading the present.
'I'm thinking the past has finally caught up with this family.'
'What about the people left on the list?'
'Don't worry about the Stameys. One's in prison. One girl is missing and the other girl is safe. At least, I hope she is. Leave the elevenyear-old boy to me. I want you to find the non-Stamey. He's called Anthony Chapman, born in East London in 1964. I've asked for a search of all the databases we use and so far we can't find any record of him. None whatsoever. I was hoping you might be able to work your magic and see what you can find out about him.
Because if I'm right, and someone's working their way through the bloodline, then he could be next.'
With that, he rang off.
Nigel already had Anthony Chapman's birth certificate.
He worked forwards from that and searched for death and marriage certificates but found neither. He was the only child of Reginald and Edith Chapman, both of whom were dead. Edith was the last to go in 2003, aged 72. She died at her home in Selby Street, Bethnal Green. The same address that was supplied on Anthony's birth certificate. That gave him one route to explore. In the absence of any others, he rode the tube to Bethnal Green, finding the street tucked away off Vallance Road, a winding old Victorian terrace that was once home to the Kray twins. The area still carried the flavour of the old East End. Selby Street was small and almost traffic-free. The front doors opened straight out on to the street. Neighbours stood chatting to one another. All it required was a few children kicking a ball back and forth across the road -- but they were in school, and he doubted the nostalgia would stretch that far.
The Chapmans' former home was at number 17. He headed towards two women standing talking outside number 11; both turned to eye him suspiciously as he approached.
He smiled. 'Sorry to bother you, ladies. This might seem rather impertinent, but I'm looking for some information you might be able to help me with.' His manner and voice appeared to make them soften, but a glint of suspicion remained. 'Did either of you know old Mrs Chapman who used to live at number 17?'
One of the women, who had been pulling furiously on a cigarette, let a stream of smoke out of her nostrils. 'I did.
I live here.' She gestured to the door at her back. 'I knew old Edith pretty well. Lovely old lass. She died a few years ago. Why do you wanna know?'
Nigel was prepared for that question. He was a dreadful liar but he feared the truth might persuade people to clam up. 'I'm researching my family tree. It turns out that I'm related to Mrs Chapman. Of course, she's dead. But I'm very keen to trace her son, Anthony.'
'Son,' she said, disbelief in her voice and written across her face. 'There was no son. She and Reg didn't have no kids.'
'Are you certain of that?'
Yeah. I moved in here twenty-odd years ago. There weren't no son then and she never mentioned none. You sure you got the right person?'
Nigel looked at his feet. 'I think so. Anthony Chapman was born to Edith and Reginald Chapman of this address back in 1964.' From his pocket he produced a folded copy of the birth certificate. Both women leaned in to see, trailing with them a combination of perfume and smoke.
The resident of number 11 peered at it for several seconds, then looked at Nigel. 'Well, you learn something new every day, don't you? She never once mentioned a son.
We just thought they never had any kids. Medical reasons or something. And all that time she had a boy she never mentioned. Wonder what happened to him?'
'That's what I'd like to know,' Nigel replied. 'Is there anyone around here who might know? Another elderly resident who might have lived around here then -- or the people who now live at number 17, perhaps?'
'No, it's a bloke, out-of-towner. Not from round here.'
She thought for a few seconds. Pulled hard on her cigarette and thought some more. Nigel noticed for the first time that she was wearing a pair of carpet slippers on her feet. She pointed her finger at him and started nodding her head. You know where you could try? St Matthew's Church. It was her life, that place.'
The church was deserted. He idled away the afternoon until it came to life, as the early winter light closed in and the temperature, barely above freezing anyway, began to plummet. At least the rain had stopped. St Matthew's, despite having almost been flattened by the Luftwaffe, was the focal point of the local community, and shared its rich, villainous history. It was here that the funeral services of the Krays were held. In the gathering gloom, silhouetted against a clear dusk, the old church, still surrounded by the churchyard that afforded it a distance from the hurly-burly, seemed to loom in judgement over the area.
The vicar was inside, laying out hymn books. Nigel strode down the aisle and introduced himself.
You better be quick,' he said, eyes twinkling cheerily.
He was in his late sixties, Nigel guessed, florid face, rheumy eyes, exuding a gentle, avuncular warmth. Nigel could imagine parishioners queuing up to share their problems with him.
'It's about one of your former parishioners actually. An Edith Chapman?'
He looked up. 'Edith? Dear woman. What about her?'
'Well, I hope you'll excuse me prying like this, but I'm a genealogist.'
'Fascinating! I'm a bit of an amateur myself.'
Yes, Nigel thought, seems like everyone is these days.
'Really? Excellent. But going back to Mrs Chapman . . .'
'My mother's side is easy,' the vicar continued. 'I'm back to parish registers. But that was where I inherited the ecclesiastical calling from. So there's a record there. But my father's is a mystery beyond about 1878 or something.
Bizarre how the trail goes cold, isn't it? Perhaps I should employ you?'
'My rates are good,' Nigel said. 'Mrs Chapman . . .'
Yes, a dear old woman. A valuable member of the parish. What is it you want to know?'
'The records say she had a son.'
His face changed. The twinkle departed. 'Do they now,'
