'But I'll have more hair.'
'Have you finished your searches?' Nigel asked.
Heather shook her head. 'I'm up to September, but that's only because the April to June file is missing.'
'Being repaired?'
'Yes, I asked at the information desk and they checked. It'll be back next Monday, all being well.
Let's hope what we need isn't in there.'
'That's quite common,' Nigel said. 'They get touched by a lot of grubby hands every day.'
'So does . . .'
'Don't even think of cracking that joke, Maj,'
Heather interrupted, raising a finger in warning.
Khan adopted a mock-angelic look. 'Would I?'
Heather ignored him.
'I've nearly finished,' he added.
'Well, I have finished so I can give you both a hand,' Nigel said.
Heather looked at him, eyebrows raised. 'That was quick.'
He shrugged. Nigel did not want to tell her that he had once searched through 163 years of indexes in 5 hours; or that he had once traced a bloodline back to 1837 in a single day, relying on his speed and a few hunches.
'Who's going to phone them through to Southport when we're done?' he asked.
'I'm going to fax them from the office here,'
Heather explained. 'I'll do them all together, so we'll hang on till we're all done.'
'Hello, Nigel.'
The voice was behind his right shoulder, out of his sight, but he recognized it instantly.
'Hi, Dave,' he said, before even looking around.
Sure enough, it was Dave Duckworth. Overweight, perennially sweaty, monobrowed Dave Duckworth.
He had worked with Nigel at the agency before the old man died.
'So, Nigel, I hear Branches Agency, like Lazarus, has risen from the dead.'
Their paths had not crossed in the three weeks since Nigel had returned.
'You hear right, Dave.'
Dave wore a look of fake surprise. 'So am I to infer that the wisdom of a certain N. Barnes failed to take the world of academia by storm?'
'Something like that.'
Dave smiled broadly, then nodded at Khan and Heather. 'But, it appears that you have been sufficiently remunerated as to actually hire some staff.'
Nigel could see Heather's eyes narrow. Hers was the type of face that was quick to display emotion.
She both daunted and fascinated him.
Before Nigel could introduce them both, Dave leapt in. 'I jest, of course.'
Heather's smile dripped insincerity. Nigel could tell she thought him a creep. He couldn't fault her judgement of character.
'I know you're police officers,' Dave added.
No one said anything.
'It's the talk of the FRC, how you rolled up with half of CID. What's the undertaking?'
'I think you'll find that's confidential, Mr . . . ?'
Heather said.
'Duckworth. Dave Duckworth,' he said, thrusting out his right hand. 'If you require any further expert help, then don't hesitate to give me a bell.' He pulled a couple of his cards from a brown leather wallet.
'Thank you, Mr Duckworth,' Heather responded icily. 'Mr Barnes is doing a good job but we'll bear your offer in mind.'
'Please do,' he said, beaming a smile, before turning to Nigel once more. 'Could we have a brief tete-a tete?'
'I'm busy, Dave.'
'Ten seconds. No more.'
'Excuse me,' Nigel said to the detectives.
He followed Duckworth to the wall by the locker rooms, wondering what it was he wanted. Something to do with money, he guessed. It was Dave Duckworth's god. His whole career, his whole life, was dedicated to making it. Jobs were not judged by the quality of the research, but by the quantity of the payment. Nigel never sensed any love of the past in Dave, the thrill of the search, an interest in the stories of the dead, only a need to obtain as much work, and therefore as much cash, as possible. No one knew what Dave spent it on. He dressed cheaply, had no social life to speak of, and was notoriously thrifty.
Nigel pictured him sitting at home in his fetid flat counting piles of coins with a thimble.
'I really am in the middle of something, Dave,'
Nigel said, wearily.
'I know. You're in the middle of a murder investigation.'
For
a second, Nigel was speechless. 'How do you know that?'
Dave, infuriatingly, tapped his nose. 'That's for me to know, Nigel, and you and your friends to find out. More pressing is, what do we do next?'
'What do you mean?'
Dave leaned in closer, breaching personal space.
Nigel didn't like it: there was a strong smell of rancid coffee on his breath.
'I mean, how about we inform one of my contacts among the fourth estate, brief them as to what's going on here and receive an emolument for our trouble?'
he whispered.
'How much do you know, Dave?'
'That it's something to do with the murder a couple of nights ago in Notting Hill'
'I still don't know how you know.'
'That doesn't matter. As I said, the question is what happens next.'
Nigel straightened himself up. He looked across; Heather was staring at them both.
'What happens next is this: I tell you to fuck off, Dave. I've got a job to do.' He left Duckworth and went back to the table.
Heather gave him a look of concern. 'Everything OK?' she asked.
Nigel took a deep breath. 'Yeah, he's just an old colleague.'
'You don't exactly seem to be the best of friends.'
He shrugged. 'Small world, professional genealogy and research. All chasing the same money, things get a bit competitive.'
He held back from telling her that Duckworth made most of his money these days doing the bidding of national newspapers. Whenever someone became news, the tabloids would be on the blower, asking him to research their family history, see if there were any skeletons in the closet, or help them track down other family members to speak to. Before leaving for the university, Nigel had worked for the press a few times, though he'd always loathed himself for it. But the money compensated for that.
'How did he know we were police?'
'I don't know. Perhaps someone at the GRO, or in the centre here.'
She shook her head. 'No one knows about the reference outside the team. Apart from you.'
Heather had swiftly mastered the art of making Nigel feel uncomfortable. As if realizing this, her face softened and she gave him a warm smile.
'Don't worry, Nigel. We don't reckon you've told him. Christ, we only told you eighteen or so hours ago and you've barely been out of our sight since.
Perhaps you could use your skills of persuasion to find out his source?'
'Consider it done,' he said earnestly. 'I don't think he knows about the reference or he would have told me.
