Foster made a gesture with his hands to indicate none was taken.
'He was dressed sort of casual,' she added.
'Any distinguishing features?'
She thought some more. 'He didn't smoke,' she added hopefully. 'I think I asked him for a ciggie and he said he didn't smoke.'
That narrows it down, Foster thought.
'He gave me a quid, too. Or, at least, I think he did.'
'Really,' Foster said eagerly. 'Do you still have it?'
'What the fuck do you think?' she said. 'I don't have much in the way of savings.'
He knew there was nothing more to be garnered from the conversation. 'My colleague will go through a description with you,' he told her, avoiding Drinkwater's eye. 'Try and remember as much as you can.'
He got up and left. Outside he sucked in the night air. The black sky was clear, though not clear enough for him to make out the stars above the London smog. He remembered his unease that morning over the use of a churchyard as a dumping ground for murder, and how it did not seem right - not with all the houses overlooking the scene. Now he knew the killer had cased the place because he knew how difficult his task would be.
Yet he still went ahead with it.
5
Nigel was sweating as he bustled his way along Exmouth Market, lazily coming to life in the chilly spring sunshine. He was late. The centre would already be open and he was wasting police time. I'll blame the tube, he thought, not the fact that my alarm clock requires winding, and last night I forgot.
As he reached the edge of the market, where it met Myddelton Street, he could see Heather, hands on hips, standing by the steps and ramp that led to the entrance of the building. He increased his pace even further, his satchel bouncing rhythmically on his hip so that, by the time he reached her, he could feel his clammy shirt sticking to his back. He was struggling for breath.
'Sorry,' he gasped.
Her look was one of amusement. Her gaze was not directed at his sweating brow, however. It was below that.
'You're wearing tweed,' she said simply.
He was. Grey herringbone jacket over an open necked striped shirt, navy-blue cords. He thought it best to make an effort, even though the jacket was second-hand, and leave behind the jumpers, jeans and duffel coat.
'Is that OK?'
She nodded and shot him a smile. 'It suits you. You've got that bookish, floppy-haired thing happening.'
She was wearing a short black skirt, black tights and a pair of black knee-length boots. Nigel was worried a few of the older gentlemen who used the records centre might keel over.
'Have you two finished swapping fashion tips?' A young confident-looking Asian man in a suit, his hair gelled back, had joined them.
'Nigel, this is DC Khan,' Heather said.
The men shook hands. Despite her reassurance, Heather's look and comment had made him feel self- conscious. Given that he had yet to cool down, he wondered if his face had reddened.
'After you,' he said, and pointed his hand towards the door.
Once inside, security checked Nigel's bags and they made their way into the main area. The place was already filling up.
'I never thought this place would be so busy,'
Khan said, surveying the bustling interior. 'It's like Piccadilly Circus.'
Nigel nodded. 'You should see it at a weekend.
Fights break out over files.'
'They don't look like the sort of people who get in a ruck,' Khan said. 'More likely to bore you into submission.'
Nigel smiled, yet felt mildly insulted. Yes, he was often scathing about the sorts of people who pursued their ancestors fanatically; the type more comfortable retreating into the silent, quiescent world of the dead, rather than dwelling in the awkward, insolent present. But the world today was awash with information about the wealthy, the famous and the tawdry. Somebody has to help remember the anonymous ordinary men and women, who make the world turn.
'So what's the brief?' Khan asked, rubbing his hands together.
They moved across to one of the enclaves housing around twenty years of bound, red birth-certificate indexes, arranged chronologically on solid wooden shelves.
'I'm going to go through the birth indexes; you'll do marriage and, Heather, you're going to do death.'
'Very appropriate,' Khan muttered darkly.
'The method for searching the files is the same,'
Nigel said, eager to get started: he knew he could rattle through the birth files in a few hours.
He pulled a bulky file off the top shelf, its leather cover battered and torn by use, and put it down on an upturned V-shaped wooden desk with a lip at the bottom to prevent the volume slipping off.
'This is the birth index file for 1879, the first quarter, January to April,' he said, pointing to the print on the spine.
He opened the first page. Both Heather and Khan leaned in for a closer look. The page was smudged and grey from thousands of fingertips tracing down it in search of an elusive name, the bottom right-hand corner stiff and brittle from where people had wet their fingers to be better able to turn the page.
'Luckily for us, the entries for 1879 have been typed so they all fit in one volume.'
'There are loads of names on that page,' Khan said, without relish.
Nigel shrugged. 'The entries are listed alphabetically: first the surname, then the Christian names. But the columns we are interested in are the district and page number, 1 a 1 3 7 in this case. Whenever you see that number, jot down the details and make a note of which quarter it's in. Is that clear enough?'
'Think so,' Heather said. 'Does that apply to them all?'
'More or less. Your death indexes have an extra bit of information: age at death. Write that down, too. DC Khan, your marriage index will be the same as this index.'
'Hopefully with fewer names,' Khan replied.
Three hours later, Nigel went downstairs to the canteen.
Heather and Khan were waiting for him. Both seemed animated.
'How did it go?' he said, sitting down.
'Heather's in shock,' Khan explained.
'Why?'
'I can't believe how many kids died at birth,' she said, eyes wide. 'On every page, there must have been at least one where it said zero under 'age at death'.
Unbelievable. God, we have it easy. I mean, my mate Claire had a kid six months ago, and she was in labour for more than forty hours. Forty! Eventually she had an emergency Caesarean. If that had been a hundred or so years ago then the baby would have died.'
'She probably would have, too.'
Heather nodded and bit her lip. 'Shocking. And while I was facing up to the horrific reality of infant mortality in Victorian England, Simon Schama here was jotting down all the silly names he came across.'
Khan picked up his notebook. 'Listen to this: Smallpiece, ShufTlebottom, Daft . . . Daft! Come on, if your name was Daft, you'd change it, wouldn't you? But this is the best one: Fuchs. For Fuchs sake!'
He started to laugh. Nigel smiled. Heather's face remained stern.
'You're a big bloody kid, you know that?' she said, though a smile was playing on her lips. She turned once again to Nigel. 'He's like this now after less than a year as a detective. You just wait: in ten years' time he'll be as jaded and cynical as Foster.'
