Hello! magazine.
Foster said he would follow him back soon. Harris could make sure other forces spared the men needed to interview those outside of London. It would have to be handled carefully. Turning up unannounced at people's homes, informing them someone had been delving into their family history without their knowledge, that their ancestor was wrongly executed for murder, and they were now suspects in a current murder inquiry, was not a common approach.
He was glad to be back in the thick of it, yet unwilling to leave the past behind. There was still more to be learned there.
He and Heather left the room. They were met by the detective who Harris had tasked with identifying the victim from the supermarket receipt. A few simple calls had turned up the name of the credit-card holder. A 41- year-old woman, Patricia MacDougall.
Divorced, single. They had an address. Foster jotted it down.
As he wrote her surname it hit him in the gut like a punch.
Nigel pulled fiercely on a roll-up outside the FRC.
Heather had told him of the fourth victim. Foster had been right, he mused; the man in custody had been innocent. She did not elaborate further, other than saying the victim was a woman. The image of Nella Perry's corpse flashed across his mind. Nigel puffed away. Since that night he'd been able to busy himself with the case. Once he'd faxed through the complete list of Fairbairn's descendants, his work for the police would be done. He'd be alone, time on his hands, the events of the past few days hard to deal with.
He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was Foster.
His voice was excitable, higher in pitch.
*What was the name of the judge?' he said.
'In the 1879 case?'
'No, in the trial of O. J. fucking Simpson. Of course I mean the 1879 case.'
Nigel scoured his memory.
'Justice MacDougall.'
Foster muttered some form of expletive.
'He wore a black cap, didn't he?'
'They always did when they passed a sentence of death. Why?'
'It's not confirmed but we think the fourth victim was called Patricia MacDougall.'
Could be a coincidence, Nigel thought.
'And she was scalped. Her hair was removed from the top of her head. The exact place where a black cap would have been. Do you follow what I'm saying?'
Nigel did.
'She was born on 15 th May 1965. Don't know where. Can you trace her genealogy and see if there's a link? I need it quick. Quicker than beer turns to piss.'
'What about the Fairbairn list?' He'd been working quickly. He guessed there were only a few more to trace.
'Forget about that. Come back to it,' Foster urged.
Nigel went to birth indexes for that year and found three women of that name born in that quarter. He went back outside and called Foster. They had some more information; her middle names were Jane Webster. Patricia Jane Webster MacDougall.
He identified the right one. The certificate gave the names of her parents, which allowed him to trace their wedding certificate and, from that, Patricia's grandfather. He worked quickly, skipping back three generations in no time, the calls to the General Register Office starting to stack up as he unearthed references more quickly than they could locate the corresponding certificates. Eventually the information he could glean from the era of modern civil registration came to an end and he was left with the name of the dead woman's greatgreat-greatgrandfather, Montgomery MacDougall.
Nigel felt his pulse quicken: this was their man.
He died in 1898 at the age of eighty-four, his occupation high court judge. Nigel was shocked to discover he was still sitting at his death, growing ever more senile. Nigel wondered how many other innocent men his incompetence condemned to the gallows.
He phoned Foster, who was already on his way to the FRC with Heather. Two minutes later they'd arrived and found an empty corner of the main room.
'She's a direct descendant,' Nigel said.
A look of certainty appeared on Foster's face.
'That does it. Patricia MacDougall was killed because of who her ancestor was. The mutilations have been telling us this all along. He cut off her hair to let us know why he's doing this.' He started to nod his head. 'Forget about the Fairbairn list for now. I'll get you some help to finish it off. Let's look at the other victims. Ellis wasn't mutilated, but he was found with a noose around his neck. I bet if we check his ancestry it will lead us straight back to our old friend Norwood, the executioner.'
Nigel made a note in his book. 'I'll need Ellis's date and place of birth.'
'We'll get you it. Darbyshire's hands were cut off.
Who might have used their hands in the case?'
'Someone handling evidence,' Heather suggested.
Foster screwed up his face. 'Don't think so. I'll get you his date and place of birth and you can work out if there's any link to 1879 m mere-The same with Nella Perry. Her eyes were missing. Her ancestor saw something. See if there's any link to Stafford Pearcey, the main prosecution witness. Once we've confirmed all four are related to the case, let's go back to the trial and work out who's left: who hasn't had a descendant butchered.
'Then we can find out who might be next.'
17
That evening Foster, frayed by exhaustion and intermittent bursts of adrenalin, was parked outside the house of John Fairbairn in Barnes. He was the second name on the list that Khan had completed under Nigel's tutelage. It was shorter than he thought.
Only thirty-two people. The first on the list had been eighty-three, lived in a nursing home, and ate her lunch through a straw.
More evidence had been found at the scene of Patricia MacDougall's murder. A fingerprint left on the back of the CD in the clock radio player matched the unidentified print they had lifted off the box containing Nella Perry's eyes. Foster had decided to ask each descendant for a print to rule them out.
He and Drinkwater knocked on the door. It was opened by a brown-haired man in his forties, a mug of tea in his hand. Foster noticed he was wearing slippers.
He looked at both Drinkwater and Foster.
'Yes,' he said warily.
Foster flashed his ID. 'Mr Fairbairn?'
The man nodded, eyes narrowing.
'Sorry to bother you at home. I was wondering if we could grab a few moments of your time.'
'What's happened?' he asked.
'Can we explain?' Foster said, gesturing inside, not wanting to have this exchange on the doorstep.
They followed Fairbairn in. The house was warm, the smell of baking billowing from the kitchen. A woman stepped out, rubbing her hands on a tea towel. Foster nodded in greeting.
'Something smells good,' he said.
She smiled but looked immediately at her husband for reassurance.
'These two detectives say they want a word with us.'
'You actually, Mr Fairbairn,' Foster said. 'But your wife is welcome to join us; it's not an interview.'
They went into the lounge. The TV was muted.
