been cleared and reinstated after no charges were brought against him.
Detective Inspector Grant Foster, 39, was arrested two months ago after his father, Roger Foster, a retired detective, was found dead at his home in Acton last July. His son made the call to the emergency services reporting his father's death.
Last month an inquest into Mr Foster senior's death recorded an open verdict. The coroner said at the time: 'It is clear that Detective Inspector Foster helped his father end his life. It is not the duty of this inquest to decide whether that help was criminal. That is a matter for the police and the Crown Prosecution Service.'
The news that DC I Foster will not be charged and will return to his job has already attracted criticism from anti euthanasia compaigners.
Last night, Adrian Lewis, Conservative MP for Thewliss, said: 'I'm not sure what message this sends out to the general public. It is not for us to decide whether someone has the right to die - it is our Lord's decision. I do hope this isn't a case of one rule applying to members of the public, and another to members of the Metropolitan Police.'
Nigel sat back to absorb what he'd read. Regardless of whether he had been charged, there seemed to be an admission that Foster in some way assisted his father's death. In that case, how did he keep his job?
Nigel checked his watch. He could plough on and find more stories, but it had been half an hour since Ron had descended into the bowels of the building and time was getting on.
Back in the reading room there was no sign of life.
He decided to go and find Ron himself, hurry him up, get an estimate for how long it would take. He walked across the reading room to the double doors through which the attendants disappeared when they retrieved an order. Nigel had always wondered what lay behind them. A vast cavernous hall stacked with shelf upon dusting shelf of yellowing files? He opened the door and stepped on to the landing of a brightly lit staircase. In front of him was a lift.
He pushed the button and it opened immediately.
He half expected Ron to step out, clutching his microfilm or file. But it was empty. He entered and looked for the list of buttons on the wall. There was only one: B. He pressed it, the doors closed and with a slight judder the lift began its long descent.
It juddered once more when it hit the bottom, and with a weary clank the doors parted. Nigel was faced with an area with three exits: one ahead, one to the left, the other to his right. Which to choose? The window of each door was frosted, so he could not peer through. There was no light behind the glass on either side, but the path ahead appeared to be lit. Ron must be down there, he thought.
He opened the door to a long corridor, its walls uninterrupted by doors or windows. At the far end was another double door. Nigel hesitated. What if Ron wasn't down here? What if he was upstairs wondering where the hell Nigel was? He should turn back. But, no, he was certain Ron was down there and he needed those newspapers. He started to walk, his footsteps the only sound.
He reached the door, dark green and swinging slightly on its hinges. He pushed at it slowly and was immediately hit by the unmistakable, sweet waft of ageing paper and dust. But the area beyond was inky black. Funny, he thought. If Ron is down here, then why isn't the light on? The corridor light behind him was on, the only source of illumination. He shrugged and stepped through into the darkness. He reached with his left hand to the wall inside the door. His hand touched something cold and hard. Steel, he thought. He patted the area around the door hinges, finally locating a switch. He turned it on.
It took him a while to fully realize the dimensions of the room in front of him. Then he saw that it was a long, low tunnel. He looked up. He was an inch under six feet tall, yet the ceiling could not have been more than two feet above him. There were metal shelves either side from floor to ceiling, containing bound volumes of various newspapers. He thought of Ron and smiled. How did he fit down here? He must weigh twenty stone. Perhaps that's why he had taken so long. Perhaps, like an adult Augustus Gloop, he had become wedged in one of these tunnels.
Nigel knew enough about the newspaper library to realize that this was one of the four storage units.
These were more than 260 feet long. Nigel believed it: he was unable to see the door at the far end. But he could see rows and rows of files. This is what becomes of yesterday's news, he thought. Not wrapping chips, but bound together in silent volumes in this tomb.
There was the sound of a door shutting. Ron, he thought. He called his name out, though it emerged only as a hoarse whisper, which caused him to cough, choking on the dust generated by twenty-eight miles of shelf. When he finished, there was silence.
'Ron,' he said, louder this time.
No reply. Had the sound of the door closing come from behind or in front? It was difficult to tell. It must be the front, he decided. He peered down the long tunnel in front of him, waiting to see Ron's bovine figure heave into view.
Another door closed. That was definitely in front of him. He stepped away from the door at his back and called again. His uneasiness increased. I should have stayed upstairs and waited, he told himself. The door behind him opened without noise, but he sensed it, a waft of musty air at his back. He spun around.
'Shit!!/' he screamed.
Ron dropped the microfilm boxes he was clutching to his chest.
'Jesus,' he said, putting his hand on his heart.
Nigel held his hands up, more out of reflex than anything else. For a few seconds, neither man could speak.
Ron broke the silence. 'What the hell are you doing here?' he said, his face turning from surprise to anger.
'I came looking for you,' Nigel said eventually.
'I thought you ... I don't know what I thought, actually.'
'You scared the crap out of me,' Ron said.
He bent down and collected the microfilm boxes.
Nigel helped him. When the boxes had been located and picked up, both men looked at each other.
'Sorry,' Nigel said. 'I'm a bit jumpy. Like I said, don't know what I was thinking.'
Ron shrugged. 'Well, promise me you'll leave the collecting to me, eh?'
Nigel nodded.
Ron handed the films over to him. 'But you can take these up,' he said. 'I need a fag after that.'
Nigel made his way back to the reading room with the reels. He delved first into the Evening News, finding reports on each of the murders, each filling increasing space as a connection between them was made. But in the report of the third murder, and the shock and fear it had spread throughout Kensington - or 'dread and consternation', as the Evening News described it - there were no further details on the location of the body, only mention of it being found near Notting Hill station. He checked the next day's paper to see if any more mention was made. While there was a large report about how terrified local residents were, again no exact location was given.
He loaded the Evening Standard. It was as if the same reporter had penned both sets of articles; they were identical in detail and length. He scanned every report, soaked up every word, but there was nothing new for him to pass on to Foster. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. He checked his watch; an hour had passed in seconds, peering at the dimly lit screen in a dark booth. He noticed the familiar signs of a headache settling in behind his eyes, and he decided to go outside and grab some air to clear his head.
He told Ron, who was back at his station.
'I'll join you, mate,' Ron said jovially, obviously having forgiven him for his trespass. 'Need another fag.'
Nigel had put his coat on. Ron wandered down in just his T-shirt. Outside the front entrance, he lit his cigarette while Nigel watched a few cars flash past, not interested in a roll-up. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched it on.
No new messages. Not that he expected to be the first person to be told when they arrested the killer.
'Low battery' flashed up on his screen. He cursed himself for failing to charge it that morning and turned it off once more to save what little power he had.
'How's it going?' Ron asked, exhaling with force.
Nigel looked at him apologetically.
