Fairbairn turned it off.
'Tea or coffee?' he asked.
'No thanks,' Foster said. 'I've been mainlining coffee all day.'
Drinkwater asked for fruit juice. Mrs Fairbairn scurried off and came back with a jugful rattling with ice.
'So what's this about?' Fairbairn said.
Foster drew a deep breath. 'Can I ask if either of you are at all interested in family history?'
Fairbairn stared at him as if he had just propositioned his wife. 'Are you being serious?'
'I am, yes.'
The couple exchanged bewildered glances. 'As a matter of fact, I am. It's been a hobby of mine for several years now.'
'So you're aware of your own family history?'
'Yes. Well, only until the 1740s. My inability to read Latin prevented me going any further back. Can I ask where this is leading?'
'To Eke Fairbairn.'
Mr Fairbairn stared at Foster for a few seconds without speaking. 'How the heavens do you know about Eke?' he asked.
'Long story,' Foster said. 'Let me ask you a few questions first, then I'll explain. Do you know what he did?'
'He was a murderer. He killed two people and was executed at Newgate Prison in 1879.'
'When did you find out about him?'
He looked at his wife. 'About five years ago?' he said to her.
She nodded. 'About five years ago,' she repeated.
'And how did it make you feel, discovering there was a murderer in your family?'
Fairbairn shrugged. 'To be honest, I thought it was fascinating. I don't go in for ancestor worship.'
'Ancestor worship?'
'Yes, I see it all the time in the family history group I'm part of. People venerating one particular person, usually the most successful, or the most hardy, to the exclusion of the others. Conveniently ignoring the black sheep. Some people welcome the failures and misfits; others turn away and pretend it never happened, go into denial'
'Have you researched your ancestor's trial?'
'I've read some of the newspaper reports,' Fairbairn said, becoming impatient. 'Sorry, I really have to ask why you're so interested in this. Is the case being reopened?'
'You could say that,' Foster replied, then decided to cut to the chase. 'There's been a series of murders in West London over the past few weeks. Whoever's doing it has been copying the murders of 1879, for which your ancestor was hanged. It's our belief that Eke was an innocent man, that he was fitted up by the police in order to deflect public and press criticism.'
Fairbairn was speechless, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.
'We also think that the person who is committing these murders is aware of the miscarriage of justice and is avenging what happened back then. First, we want to rule out descendants of Eke Fairbairn.'
Fairbairn's expression turned to disbelief. 'I'm a suspect?'
'In a tenuous sort of way, yes, you are,' Foster said.
'I can categorically deny murdering anyone,' he replied bluntly. He shook his head.
'I can believe that,' Foster said. 'But it'd help if we could rule you out of our inquiries. A fingerprint would be one way.'
He agreed. Drinkwater took his print, then asked him where he had been on the nights the bodies were dumped. He was at home, a story verified by his wife.
Foster believed him, but decided to keep an eye on his movements for the next twenty-four hours or so.
When Drinkwater had completed the routine, Foster asked a few more questions.
'Have you shared the story of Eke Fairbairn with any other family, friends?'
'My immediate family know. My son, who's at university, and my daughter, who's at a friend's tonight. My brother and his wife. They live in Oxford.
And, of course, my family history group.'
'All of them?'
'Yes, I gave a small talk about it.'
'When was that?'
'A year or so ago. They were fascinated. As I said, most people who become interested in family history embrace all their ancestors, not just the ones who happened to make the most money and give birth to the most children.'
'Did you notice anyone giving what you said undue attention, asking a lot of questions?'
Fairbairn smiled rather condescendingly. Had he not been so tired, it would have pissed Foster off.
'Detective, I'm forty-nine years old. With the odd exception, in comparison to the rest of the group I am a mere whippersnapper. No one in that group is physically capable of murder. But tomorrow evening is our monthly meeting. You could come along and see if you can spot any likely killers.'
Foster smiled thinly and took the name of the group and its secretary. The circle of those who might know about the injustice had just widened, he thought ruefully, when he could do with it shrinking.
Foster got up to leave.
'What makes you think Eke wasn't guilty?' Fairbairn asked.
'I know a bad case when I see one,' was all Foster replied. He did not mention anything about Fairbairn's ancestor having been beaten and broken before he was hanged. He sensed John Fairbairn would discover that for himself now.
'It's funny,' he said, as he showed Foster and Drinkwater to his front door. 'I was only talking about this with my brother recently. When I started to research our family, my mother, who died four years ago, became very distressed. She told me I mustn't get involved because there was a murderer in the family. That was the first I heard of it. She died not wanting to know. To her, it was shameful.
It had been a dark family secret for years, rarely spoken about. Now it turns out there was nothing to be ashamed of; he was innocent.'
They said goodbye. Foster was puzzled. The family was ashamed of Eke? This probably meant Clara had not passed down the story of her brother's innocence.
Perhaps she had assumed her brother's guilt.
'Interesting that he's researched the history, isn't it?' Drinkwater said. 'He might have been lying when he said he didn't know about the miscarriage of justice.'
Foster shook his head. T doubt it.'
He thought about what Fairbairn said regarding his mother's attitude to her ancestor, and it saddened him. Eke Fairbairn had not only been condemned to die but, for more than a century, his name had been a source of shame for those who shared it.
Nigel called it a night at ten, index blindness causing his head to ache. His aim was to go home, grab a few hours' sleep and return to the FRC refreshed. He anticipated spending the next day there; probably the night, too.
Back at his flat he flopped on his sofa. I might just pass out here, he thought, rubbing his hands down his face again and again, names, dates and references pulsing through his brain. He turned on BBC Radio Four, the backdrop to his life. He even kept it on while sleeping, a low background murmur through the night. He joked to visitors that he was trying to soak up as much knowledge as possible, even at rest, when in fact he was seeking comfort. A man with a high, lisping voice was reading extracts from a book, some sort of travelogue. He settled back on the sofa and closed his eyes.
The front door buzzer startled him. Who the hell was that, at this time of night? He went to the intercom.
'Hello,' he said irritably, expecting some drunken fool who'd chosen the wrong flat number.
'It's Heather.'
'Oh,' he said.
