'Are you a wealthy man, Mr Buckingham?'
The man's eyes narrowed. Then he realized what Foster was alluding to. 'I'm comfortably off, no more. I publish three magazines, none of them that successful. You think I'll get a ransom demand?'
Foster could see a glint of hope in his manner and expression. That would at least mean Naomi was still alive. He also knew Buckingham was downplaying his wealth. This house, Foster estimated, was worth at least a million. A black Mercedes convertible was parked on the drive. He had spoken about the money he liked to spend on his daughter. They could not rule out a financial motive.
'Keep your phone switched on,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'If we don't find Naomi, you might want to consider making a public appeal'
Whatever it takes.'
Heather slipped back into the room, smiled apologetically at Buckingham. She caught Foster's eye and nodded.
She'd made a few calls. Buckingham's story stood up. He'd been on that plane.
'Did you know much about your ex-wife's daily life, her routine?'
Buckingham shook his head. 'Next to nothing. She was quite often at home during the day, I know that. We really had very minimal contact outside the odd conversation about Naomi.'
'Did she have friends?'
'I'm sure she did. Her best friend was always Sally Darlinghurst, another actress. They met in repertory shortly before she met me. They were inseparable back then. I think they were still in touch, but don't quote me on it.'
Foster scribbled the name down. 'One last question, Mr Buckingham. What was the relationship like between your daughter and Katie?'
He gave it some thought. 'OK. I think they were very close. Too close, perhaps.'
What do you mean?'
Well, her mother was very possessive of her. I got the feeling that as she moved away -- grew up, met boys -- her mother would feel left out. Naomi was Katie's entire world in many respects. I actually feared for Katie when the time came to cut the apron strings. Naomi was already feeling a bit smothered by her, so she said.'
'Did they fight?'
'I think so. You know how it can be, mothers and daughters.' His face dropped. 'You don't think . . .'
Foster shrugged. We need to look at all eventualities.
You mentioned to me that your ex-wife was a good looking woman. Given the fact she'd been in the public eye, did she ever receive the attentions of any unwanted admirers?'
What? Like a stalker?'
Yes, like a stalker.'
He shook his head slowly. 'Not that I'm aware of. She did get a few letters when I knew her, blokes who'd seen her in a play or on television. She once did a nude scene in a TV play that attracted a slew of cards and letters, some rather ribald in nature. The odd photo, too. I wasn't particularly enamoured with all that but she brushed it off, made me feel a bit of a prude. But no one physically followed her or pursued her -- not that I knew of, anyway.'
Foster
nodded. They were already in touch with her agent. She might know more.
'How about family? Before we take steps like making a television appeal and using the media, we need to track down her next of kin. Make sure they're all aware of her death. Can you tell us where to start?'
Buckingham rubbed his chin ruefully. 'I'm afraid I can't.'
Why not?'
'I knew Katie for more than five years, intimately. She never once mentioned any family, and never spoke about it.'
'Never?'
'Never. I asked. I probed. But she closed down any discussion about it. She acted like she had no family. She went to school, came to London and went to drama school, and supported herself by waitressing in her spare time, which is how I met her. That's all she ever told me.'
He must have noted Foster's incredulity; he sniffed derisively, as if sharing the detective's disbelief. 'I know -- madness, isn't it? But I just grew to accept that it was a closed book. I did find out that Drake was a stage name.
You'll understand why she changed it when I tell you that her real surname was Pratt.'
'But surely Naomi must have asked, wanted to know who her grandparents were?'
'She did. But her mother always changed the subject.
She told me that one day she would do a bit of research into the family history, find out more, but she wouldn't do that behind her mother's back.'
Foster found himself looking at Jenkins.
Her eyes told him she was thinking the same.
Nigel Barnes stopped walking and brought his hands out from behind his back, holding the skull. He did it too quickly. The skull wobbled in his right hand, which was itself shaking, and almost fell to the floor. He looked at it, silently counted to three, then composed himself and looked forward.
'He has remained silent too long,' he said. One -- two --three. 'Now it's time to hear his story.'
The cameraman brought his equipment down from his shoulder. 'Good,' he said impatiently. 'Only problem with that one was I clearly saw you mouthing 'one -- two -- three' before you delivered the last line.'
'And I nearly dropped the skull.'
And you nearly dropped the skull. Also, when you were walking to camera, I could see your eyes glancing down at the mark.'
Nigel cast his eyes to the floor. Three feet in front of him was an 'X', scratched into the cemetery path by the cameraman's trainer. He'd been looking at the shape for most of the twenty paces rather than at the camera, yet had still ended up missing it. He sighed.
You also look very ill at ease.'
Because I am, thought Nigel. What sort of person could walk and talk to a camera with a fake plastic skull in his hand and feel comfortable? Probably someone who had spent their life practising for such a moment in front of a mirror. The only thing Nigel had done in a mirror when he was younger was squeeze spots.
'Mind if I have a ciggie before we go again?'
The cameraman nodded. 'I need to make a call or two anyway' He looked ruefully around at the graves on either side of them. 'Think I'll go and make them on the street,'
he added. 'Seems a bit disrespectful to do it here.' He put the camera down at Nigel's feet and loped off, giving his sagging jeans an upward tug as he left.
Disrespectful, Nigel thought, sitting back on an anonymous gravestone. Unlike smoking a cigarette. He produced his fixings from his pocket and rolled a smoke. He lit it, exhaled loudly and studied the cliched, stilted script they had given him to memorize.
The call had come in a week ago. In the summer, encouraged by Scotland Yard's press office, he'd given an interview to a Sunday newspaper about his role in the Karl Hogg case. 'The Gene Genius' it had proclaimed.
'The Family Historian who helped make a savage killer history' Nigel had groaned when he read it, embarrassed by the way his role had been exaggerated, worried by what the officers who worked on the case would think of it.
Would think of him. Then the phone started ringing.
Radio, television, the odd magazine; he was too polite to say no. Not when he learned he could make some money from it. He downplayed his role, praised the police. 'Every bit the modest hero, aren't we?' a DJ from Radio Shropshire had told him, winking as if he knew what Nigel was doing. Come to think of it, what was he doing?
One of the calls had come from a TV company. They were making a pilot for a series investigating burial sites unearthed during building development. The idea was to take the remains and find out who they belonged to, how the people died, dig out their stories. Lysette, the producer, called and said she'd seen the piece and that Nigel seemed ideal. They had met in a coffee shop off Oxford Street and over lattes she ran through the idea and asked if he'd be interested in taking a screen test. Why not? he thought.
