'And did you manage to come up with any conclusions?'
Foster asked, smiling.
'I don't know. But the police are rarely interested in diocesan business unless they're after an exhumation.'
'Got it in one.'
Brewis's eyes lit up. 'I thought so.' Then he moulded his features to fit the more serious mood he believed discussion of an exhumation required. 'Of course, you're aware of the usual processes involved with such requests?'
'I am.'
'But obviously this is urgent, otherwise you wouldn't be here personally'
'It is extremely urgent. We have reason to believe that the grave of a woman buried in East Ham cemetery, and a parishioner of St Bertram's in East Ham, contains something that will help us in the course of a current investigation.'
Foster was proud of the way he could slip into formal copper speak even after all these years, but he could see from the gleam in Brewis's eyes that he would have to give more. 'Of course, I can't go into details, but what is in that grave might help us catch a killer.'
He saw Brewis's eyebrows soar. He could picture him picking up the phone to his diocesan pals as soon as Foster's car wheels crunched away down the gravel drive to share the information.
'Ah,' he said. 'In that case, we'd better get a wriggle on and help you out. I need some details, of the deceased of course, any next of kin who need to be informed . . .'
'She died in 1913.'
'I see. Well, the ownership of the grave is passed on down the line. We will need to seek out any descendants . . .'
Foster leaned forward. 'We can help you with that -- my friend here is a genealogist. We have traced her ancestry.
There are no living descendants.'
Hidden from Brewis's sight by a large coffee table, Foster put his foot on top of Nigel's and held it down firmly. Nigel's eyebrows furrowed and he appeared to be about to speak when he felt the pressure, and looked quizzically at Foster for a few moments before getting the message.
'That's right,' he murmured. 'No, er, living descendants.'
Foster
nodded and removed his foot from Nigel's brogue. 'So you see, the only permission we seek is that of the diocese. Give us the faculty document and allow us to perform the exhumation - well, I say exhumation, but we don't intend to move the body. We simply want to open the coffin, look inside and remove what we find, before sealing the coffin shut and piling the earth back on top.'
Brewis fell silent. 'I don't see a problem, if it's in the course of your investigation, but I'll need to gain the consent of the other members of the diocese. And I'll need you to send me the relevant paperwork and details.'
'I can do that, some retrospectively. It really is very urgent.'
'When do you want to perform it?'
'Tomorrow?'
'A Sunday?' Brewis looked as if Foster had just introduced his daughter to the delights of sex and drugs. 'That isn't possible. Monday yes, but not the Sabbath.'
'I understand,' Foster said, standing up. 'These things are best done at night. So 12.01 on Monday morning it is.'
On the way back to London, Foster took two calls. The first from Dave Alvin agreeing to forward details of the crime scene and autopsy to him, so he could pass them on to Susie Danson. Alvin made clear his belief that it was a gangland killing; Martin Stamey, apparently, had no shortage of enemies. The second came from Heather. Foster had asked her to make a few inquiries about the four Robinsons who had moved to New Zealand seven years previously.
All of them had died in a house fire two years ago, apart from a nine-year-old girl, Louise Robinson, whose name Heather remembered from the list Nigel had produced.
An inquest ruled it was accidental death. The files were being dug out and faxed across.
Foster had his doubts. The girl had been in the house but escaped with minor injuries. She had since been taken into care. She, Rachel Stamey, Anthony Chapman, wherever he may be, and Gary Stamey were the last of the line.
Then he remembered David Stamey, incarcerated in jail.
Should he get him protection? He decided he was probably out of harm's way behind four walls and bars.
It was dark when he reached home after dropping Barnes off at his fiat. Foster unlocked the door and headed straight for the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of wine, before turning to the fridge to see if there was anything he could eat. The selection was uninspiring so he decided to keep it liquid for the time being. He went through to his sitting room and nicked on the light.
Gary Stamey sat rigid on the sofa, coat still on, hands plunged deep into his pockets. Foster was startled, jumped almost a foot in the air, but managed to compose himself.
'Couldn't
keep away, eh?' he said, heartbeat returning to normal. He went over and felt the radiator. Cold as ice.
Bloody boiler, he thought.
Gary didn't say a word. Or even move.
Foster went over to the armchair and sat down, watching the boy from the corner of his eye. 'Out of interest, and for my peace of mind, just how the hell did you get in?'
Gary shrugged his shoulders. 'You said this place was safe. It ain't. I came in through the kitchen window at the back. No lock on it.'
'I should hire you out. Help people discover the weaknesses in their home security. Where you been all day?'
'Round and about.'
'Why did you come back?'
Gary shrugged his shoulders again. 'Dunno. No place else to go. It was cold.'
Foster sensed there was more to it than that.
'I think I was followed.'
What do you mean? Did you see someone following you?'
He shook his head. 'I just felt it.'
Foster nodded. 'On foot or in a car?'
'Dunno. I can't explain it. Just like I'm being watched.'
Probably paranoia, Foster thought. Though given Gary was a lad who knew what it was like to be tailed, usually by the law, he wouldn't dismiss it.
'Do you think you've been followed here?' he asked.
He shrugged. 'Dunno. Don't think so. I bunked a ride on a train out of London. Then got off and hid and got a train coming back. Walked most of the way here. Got a couple of buses and a tube. Don't think anyone would have kept up.'
'You did the right thing. You're safe here. I promise.'
He changed the subject. 'Have you eaten anything?'
His face lit up. 'Nab., starving. There's nuffink in your fridge, too.'
'Want another takeaway?'
Gary nodded eagerly.
'What sort? Indian? Pizza?'
The second suggestion met with a vigorous nod.
'What flavour?'
'Hawaiian.'
