shown me her letter, that's even more likely. It was the right thing for you to do. And brave with it.'
'Really?' Gary said, brightening. 'You think you can find her?'
'I know we can find her.' He rubbed the hair on top of his head. 'Let me get you another glass of Coke and we'll find a film you can watch.'
Once he'd settled Gary in front of the television, he went to the kitchen and fired up his laptop. Then he went on to the Internet and typed in the phrase 'end days'. The result was a hodge-podge of the banal and the barmy.
Sites discussing the impending obsolescence of computer systems mingled with other sites predicting the end of the world -- Judgement Day and the Apocalypse. Prophecies were coming true, billions were about to die and Jesus Christ was set to return to earth. Foster took a wild guess Leonie Stamey was referring to the latter. He then typed in 'celestial kingdom'.
It led him straight to Wikipedia. The celestial kingdom was the highest of the three tiers of Heaven envisaged by the Church of Latter-day Saints.
The Mormons, he thought.
He pored over the entries. The Church's origin, Joseph Smith's visions -- was he the Joe in the book Gary had spoken of? The gold plates he found, upon which the Book of Mormon was based, his treasure, the persecution of its early followers, their flight to the safe haven of Salt Lake City and its evolution to the present and its place as the world's fastest growing religion. He learned the religion's basic beliefs, shuddered at its followers' abstinence, paying particular interest to how the Church sent its youngest recruits across the world to perform missionary work door to door. Had one been working in Leonie and Gary's area?
He needed to know more.
Foster was stiff from another night on guard on the sofa, sleeping there to prevent Gary from leaving and anyone from coming in. He made Gary and himself a bacon sandwich each; then, while he drank some tea and came round, the kid stared slackjawed at more television. While he was enthralled by some junkie cartoon, Foster slipped out into the back garden and placed some Sellotape on the join of the kitchen window and its frame, then did the same with the back door and the battered old French windows at the back of the sitting room. Before leaving for Kensington and the Mormon Temple, after getting Gary into his car, he pretended to have left something behind, and when he returned to the house he stuck another band of translucent tape across the frame at the foot of the front door.
Sunday wasn't a bad day to be hunting Mormons. Outside the chapel in South Kensington, scores of them milled around in their Sunday best waiting for their services to start. Foster did not know what to expect -- all he knew about Mormonism was that the Osmonds were members, and that it practised questionable marital practices, or used to. He was pleasantly surprised to see so many normal-looking people and not chanting weirdos in robes.
He told Gary to keep quiet and behave, and the pair followed the congregation into the chapel. He sat at the back, trying not to look too conspicuous even if all the men, and some of the boys, were in suits, and he was in a pair of chinos and a battered jumper riddled with bobbles.
Gary, in scruffy jeans and puffer jacket, looked even more incongruous, drawing more than a few concerned looks.
The ceremony lasted a long time but to Foster it felt like an eternity. Hymns, invocations, a bewildering litany of assignments and callings, blessings, namings and confirmations.
Finally,
it ended. Foster told Gary, bored to catatonia, to stay seated while he headed to the front, to the rotund, rather self-important man who had opened the service. He stood to one side as he shared a few words with the congregation, before closing in during a lull. He introduced himself as quietly as he could. The man did not respond, merely frowned and pursed his lips. 'You could have chosen a better time to barge in here than a Sunday,' he said crossly.
Barge in, Foster thought indignantly. I've just spent well over an hour of my life listening to the platitudinous bilge of you and your congregation -- time I'll never get back - but he resisted the urge.
'It's very urgent that I speak to you, Mr, er . . . ?'
'Brewster. Roger D. Brewster. I'm the Branch President.'
I'm
inquiring about a loan, Foster was tempted to say in response. 'Mr Brewster, I can't divulge why. I just need some information that may help us regarding an ongoing murder investigation.'
His ears pricked up at the word 'murder'. He appeared instantly less hostile. 'Goodness me,' he murmured. 'Let me just see these good people off, then we can talk.'
He went back to smiling, shaking hands and nodding earnestly for a few minutes until the hall emptied and the two of them, plus Gary, were the only ones remaining.
'How can I help?'
'I'm looking for some background information that might be able to help us,' Foster explained.
Well, you've got the right man,' Brewster added. 'I also happen to be the Director of Public Affairs for the Church in this country.'
'You're the PR man?'
He smiled. 'I prefer my job title but, yes, more or less.
What is it you want to know?'
Foster wondered whether it was wise to let anything slip to a man that dealt with the press. 'Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence, you understand that?'
'Of course.'
'Am I right in believing that it's usual for young Mormon men to spend time on missions?'
'That's right. And not just men. Many young women are assigned to missions, too. Usually aged between nineteen and twenty-five.'
'How long do they do it for?'
'Two years. Eighteen months for the women.'
That doesn't fit, Foster thought. There was a three-year gap between Leonie Stamey going missing and Naomi Buckingham. 'Do they occasionally last longer than two years?'
'Rarely. We have some retired couples who perform missionary work and they can last anything between three months and three years, depending on their circumstances and their means.'
What happens on these missions?'
Brewster laughed mirthlessly. 'Many things happen.
Typically the missionaries are assigned to places far away from their own homes. They'll be sent to a missionary training centre. In this country that's in Preston. If they're going to a country that speaks their native language, they'll spend three weeks being briefed about their mission, taught how to conduct themselves, study the scriptures.
If they need to learn a foreign language then they'll spend much longer, up to three months.'
'So a missionary working in this country wouldn't necessarily be English?'
'No, it's almost certain they wouldn't. It's more likely they would come from abroad, primarily the United States.'
'And what sort of work would they do? House-to house calls?'
Well, to describe it as work is slightly inaccurate, although they could be said to be doing God's work. The missionaries pay to do it -- or their families do, at least. But to answer your question, yes, the missionary companionship does undertake some door-to-door proselytizing.
Preaching the Gospel can also involve speaking to people on the streets, or taking part in community activities.'
'Missionary companionship? They don't do it on their own?'
'Never. Let me explain. Most missions are divided into geographical areas that we call zones, and those zones are divided into districts. There are between four and eight missionaries in each district. These are split into companionships of two, sometimes three, missionaries who go out together. Each is instructed never to let the other out of their sight unless they're using the lavatory or taking a shower.
These are young people we're talking about. To abandon them to the streets of an unknown country without
