He was getting a feel for how the killer worked.
First, the subject was sedated in some way. Then, in the case of Darbyshire and this young woman, he severed or removed parts of their body before carving the reference. Whether they were still under sedation was unclear but they must have been restrained. Then he stabbed them through the heart.
In this case something had interrupted him, or upset him, which explained the bloody mess.
'He could've started carving the reference and got a shock when the implants burst,' Foster said to Carlisle. 'Then got angry.' He paused. 'But I suppose we all prefer our breasts as God intended,' he added darkly.
Carlisle's face betrayed a flicker of humour.
They turned to leave the garage, Carlisle stripping off his gloves.
'Did you get a chance to have a look at the unnamed tramp at the mortuary?'
'Not yet. It's waiting for me as we speak. A fun Sunday in store,' Carlisle said.
'For all of us.'
It was almost three a.m. And yet, at the perimeter of the tape they had set around the entire stretch of road, Foster could still see a few sightseers gawping.
Andy Drinkwater was standing to one side of the crime scene, in conversation with an officer.
Foster told Drinkwater the result of Carlisle's preliminary examination.
'So if she died around tea-time, he dumped the body there tonight. Or, rather, last night,' Drinkwater added, checking his watch.
'Seems so.'
'But what if we'd got the right tube station? We'd have caught him.'
'He was banking on us getting the wrong one.' He paused. 'And he was right,' Foster added. 'How's Barnes?'
'He's at Notting Hill with Jenkins. She's going through what happened with him. He's a bit shaken up.'
Who wouldn't be, Foster thought. One minute the guy is peering through his thick square specs at history books, the next he's staring at the carved-up corpse of a young woman.
'Any witnesses yet?' he asked Drinkwater.
'Only the woman who discovered the body. She got back from a dinner party at eleven thirty. We've checked that and the story stands up. The garage door was open. Thought she forgot to lock it. Opened up and . . . there she was.'
'The lock was jemmied open, wasn't it?'
'Yes. But it was in a right old state. Wouldn't have required much effort.'
'Did she own or rent it?'
'Rented. From a guy in Acton. We're on it; we've got a name.'
'Which is more than we have for our victim. Get me someone, anyone, who speaks or, better still, reads Japanese. I don't care if it's a fucking sushi chef. Just as long as someone is here soon.'
Less than an hour later, a young police translator, still blinking the sleep from her eyes, was waiting for Foster at the perimeter of the scene with Drinkwater.
She was Japanese, or her parents were. Her soft voice was unaccented English.
'Thanks for coming at such short notice,' Foster said, mustering a smile. Her handshake was soft and limp. She attempted a smile back but he could see she was terrified. She was more used to sitting in interviews, explaining police procedure. Here she was at a murder scene.
'What's your name?'
'Akiko,' she whispered.
Foster explained what they wanted. 'I need you to have a look at her shoulder and see if you can decipher the meaning. I have to warn you: her body is in a bad way. I'm truly sorry you have to do this, Akiko.'
He led the way to the garage. He made sure he stood behind Akiko as she got closer to the body, putting one arm around her to stop her if she fell.
Foster had asked that the victim be placed on her side, covered with a blanket.
'Kneel down with me,' Foster said.
While he could see her trepidation, he also sensed Akiko was more resolute than her fragile frame suggested. They both bent down and Foster flicked back one corner of the sheet revealing the shoulder and a few strands of blonde hair. He pointed to the tattoo.
Her response was instant.
'It means 'light that shines'.'
'You sure?'
She nodded.
'Does that have any special significance?'
She thought for some time. Then shook her head.
Foster replaced the blanket and stood up. 'Thanks for doing that. Sorry you had to go through it.'
'It's OK,' she said, turning to leave, but then swinging round to face Foster. 'It's very fashionable at the moment to be tattooed with the Japanese translation of your name. Quite a few celebrities do it.'
Even after years of policing in west London, where parents named their children Alfalfa and Mezzanine, Foster had yet to come across anyone called Shining Light.
9
The morning sun was too watery to cast more than a weary light into the sitting room of Nigel's flat in Shepherd's Bush. But even a blinding sun found it difficult to illuminate a room brimful with objects and books, occupying every corner and empty space.
The musty smell of old books filled the air; Nigel possessed few that weren't second-hand, used and yellowing, their covers and binding tattered and torn.
As well as being balanced in perilous, towering piles on the floor, volumes were scattered across his computer table and filled two floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves, their titles rendered even more indecipherable for being hidden behind a mass of ornaments, knick-knacks and photographs. There was no method to it, which is why he was scrabbling on his knees to find a book of names.
'Well, at least you're not the sort who stores his books and CDs alphabetically,' he heard Heather mutter, though he did not reply, so intent was he on finding the volume he needed. Shining Light was the name Foster wanted. He felt certain Eleanor, taken from the Greek, bore that meaning and had told Foster that. But when Heather took him home, with instructions to rest from Foster, he was keen to find out for sure.
'Are these ancestors of yours?' Heather asked.
She was holding a photograph from Nigel's mantelpiece, a family portrait. Father was standing sternly at the back, beard bristling with pride. His left arm was cradled in the elbow of his wife, who was seated. Her hair was tied back, her eyes so bleached of colour by the print she looked almost ghostly.
Beside her was a serious-faced boy in a buttoned-up frock coat holding a hoop, while the two girls were seated; the elder, a mirror of her mother, holding a bunch of flowers, the younger mournfully staring with wide brown eyes at the camera, her frilly white shirt in joyous contrast to the monochrome solemnity elsewhere. All, apart from Father, looked as if they had just received the worst news of their lives. It was a picture Nigel loved.
'No,' he said.
'Then who are they?'
'The Reeve family.'
'And they are?'
'I have no idea.'
'So how do you know the name?'
'It's written on the back in pencil. It was taken in 1885.'
'So how come you have it?' Heather asked, gazing intently at it one more time. She was frowning.
'I like it. These people took their family portraits seriously.'
