He's the sort of guy who can't hide things, especially if he thinks he can lord it over you.'
'So what did he want?'
'Talked a bit of shop.'
Khan intervened. 'We should tell Foster. Warn him that the press might get this.'
'Get what?' Heather asked. 'All he can say is that detectives were at the Family Records Centre. It means nothing. We could be tracing our family trees for all he knows, some sort of police genealogy drive.
Let the little creep do his worst.'
DC Khan stood up and went to the Gents.
Heather looked at Nigel.
'So what was that about the 'world of academia'?'
He enjoyed her interest in him, but she was veering too close to an area he wished to avoid. Nothing Duckworth said seemed to have gone unnoticed by her.
'Eighteen months ago I gave this up. It wasn't panning out the way I expected. I got an offer to work at Middlesex University, setting up a course in family history. Things didn't work out,' he explained, not wanting to go into any more detail.
*You got fed up with genealogy?'
'Running a business doing other people's genealogy.'
'But you're back doing it.'
Yes I am, he thought. Except now I'm working for the police on a murder case and it feels like a shot at redemption.
'Come on,' he said. 'Let's find the rest of those certificates.'
6
By early afternoon Heather had faxed through the references for 457 birth, death and marriage certificates.
The most Nigel had ever ordered at the end of one day was seventeen. It had taken four days before he could collect the copies. The 457 were all found, copied and faxed through to West London Murder Command in less than two hours.
Nigel was told to meet at murder squad HQ in Kensington at four p.m. He was there ten minutes early. He announced himself downstairs to a woman on the desk and was told to take a seat. He had nothing to read and there was nothing on the table for him to flick through, but then this was hardly the dentist's.
Heather finally emerged from a lift and passed him through the security gate. They ascended several floors, stopping at an open-plan office. Only a few people were milling about, some on the phones, a few more staring at their computer screens. Nigel expected more activity, hubbub, not the sort of inertia you would witness in a provincial insurance office.
The only giveaway that this was the incident room at the heart of a murder investigation was at the back of the room: a large whiteboard, which was attracting Nigel's appalled fascination long before they turned right and started walking towards it.
A series of photographs was arranged on it, two rows of two, surrounded by notes scribbled in red pen. As he neared he could see the pictures were of a person, a body. Darbyshire's. Nigel had never seen a corpse before. Without thinking, he stopped, stomach lurching. The first picture top left was of the dead man's corpse at the scene, clad in a pinstripe suit. Only the pallid, lifeless face and the pale blue lips gave any indication that the man had not just passed out. The next was more graphic. Taken from a position just below the victim's feet, Nigel could clearly make out two ragged stumps, white bone protruding where the hands had been removed.
His eyes fell on the next picture, a close-up of a naked chest, showing a small scar. The knife wound, he assumed. The last was of a series of marks and cuts; he could make out no order until he realized that it was the reference he'd been working on that day.
Nigel turned and looked at Heather.
She held his arm, squeezed it softly, then turned away. 'Come on,' she urged gently.
Nigel fell in behind her, casting a last glance back at the whiteboard.
They went to the left-hand corner of the office, across a small corridor and through a large door. The meeting room was bare apart from a wooden table in the middle. DCI Foster was there, sitting on one end of the table, scanning a certificate. He nodded at Nigel, his glance flickering with concern.
'You look like shit,' he said.
'We just walked past the whiteboard,' Heather explained.
'Sit down there.' Foster pulled out a chair with his foot. When Nigel sat, he got up, reached over to the tray in the middle of the table and poured a tea.
'Sugar?'
Nigel shook his head, the images still haunting his mind. 'I've never seen a dead person before,' he mumbled.
Foster put the cup in front of him.
'It gets easier,' Heather said. 'But not much.'
'I think I'll stick with death certificates. Less messy,' he added, looking up at her.
'Definitely less messy,' she repeated. Again the smile was warm. Other than the thrill and the excitement, he was finding another reason why he wanted to stick around this murder investigation for as long as he was allowed.
Nigel sipped a lukewarm mouthful of tea as Foster pointed to another man in the room, who Nigel hadn't noticed. He was tall, well-built, in his mid-thirties, blandly handsome.
'This is DI Andy Drinkwater.'
They shook hands.
DI, Nigel thought. Detective Inspector. A rank below Foster, one above Heather.
'DI Drinkwater and DS Jenkins will be helping you go through this pile of certificates. I have to do a press conference with the victim's widow in front of a mass of reptiles, all of them wanting to know one thing: Did she do it?' He peeled his coat from the back of the chair. 'And before you ask. No, she didn't.'
Nigel felt the shock at seeing the whiteboard's contents begin to wear off. The surname of the detective to whom he'd just been introduced finally registered with him. 'Your surname's Drinkwater?'
The detective eyed him suspiciously. 'Yes,' he said slowly.
'I've never met a Drinkwater.'
'Really,' said Drinkwater slowly.
'It's not a common name any more. Do you know what it means?'
'No.'
'It's a very interesting name,' Nigel said.
'It'll be about the only thing interesting about Andy,' Foster interrupted. He'd paused at the door, wanting to hear the etymology of his junior's surname.
Drinkwater gave him a sardonic smile. 'Why's it interesting?'
'There are two theories: either your ancestors lived in such poverty that they could not afford to buy beer, they could only drink water 'Or?' Drinkwater asked, curiosity aroused.
'Or your ancestor was such a drunk that he was given the name 'drink water' ironically.'
'It's not ironic any more,' Foster said derisively.
'Andy here doesn't drink, spends his time working out and running on treadmills with all the other pod people.' He grinned. 'That's made my day.'
Foster left for the press conference.
Drinkwater was smiling. 'Thanks for that, Mr Barnes,' he said half seriously and sat down.
On the table were three piles of paper: birth, marriage and death certificates.
'Nigel, you take the marriage certificates.'
'Are we looking for anything in particular?' he asked.
