He leaned forwards. Karl sparked his lighter and lit the cigarette for him.
'Yes, it dawned on me this morning. Don't know why it didn't earlier.'
Foster drew long and hard, taking the smoke deep into his lungs where he held it, filling every space.
'Not sure how significant it is . . .'
Foster exhaled. The world in front of him swam.
He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Karl's, he presumed.
He was about to ask what he was doing, but his head felt hot, hotter than before, then like it was filling with water. His chin lolled on to his chest. His body weight went with it, making him lurch forwards.
He would have fallen off the stool but for Karl's hand.
'Easy,' he heard a voice say.
Noises swirled; his vision blurred.
'What's wrong?' a woman's voice asked.
'It's OK. He's a mate. Had a bit too much. Don't worry, I've got him.'
The voices sounded miles away.
Then the world went white.
19
Nigel accessed the site where it was possible to search thousands of passenger manifests for ships that left Britain during the 1880s. There was a chance Pfizer had chosen the New World or one of the colonies as a final destination. An experienced Scotland Yard detective would have no trouble in finding well-paid work overseas. There was no Pfizer listed.
He went to the Map Room. On a series of low shelves at the furthest end of the room were deed poll records. A ledger for each year from the 1850s onwards. Nigel decided to start with 1882 under P.
He found nothing for that year, or the next.
In 1884 he got his break.
There he was. Pfizer, Henry. February. Below him were Pfizer, Mary and Pfizer, Stanley.
This was not unusual. Many immigrants changed their names. Brauns became Browns and Schmidts changed to Smiths. People sought to avoid the suspicion and the wariness of their new neighbours or, if they had taken British nationality, to declare fealty to their new adopted country with an Anglicized name.
Few did it officially, like Pfizer had. It was not compulsory and it cost money. Often people did not want to draw attention to the change; they might have been unable to obtain a divorce, so just took their new partner's name for appearances' sake and to avoid accusations of illegitimacy being hurled at their children. Yet Nigel sensed that, if anyone would take the bureaucratic route and enshrine the change in law, a policeman would.
There remained one problem. The indexes before 1903 did not give the person's new name, the information he required to trace the bloodline forwards.
What he did have was a date. Pfizer might have changed his name by deed poll, but no one was to know unless he advertised it. The most common method was to place a notice in the press. Unfortunately, Nigel was at the wrong place for newspaper archives.
He turned instead to the Phillimore and Fry Index to Change of Name 1760--1901. This was the sort of insane, backbreaking project to which genealogists had always been attracted. The two authors had dedicated their working lives to transcription -- collecting and collating all kinds of information for the benefit of future genealogists. For this volume they had combed 241 years of names which had been changed by private acts of parliament, or royal licences published in the London and Dublin Gazettes, as well as notices published in The Times, and put them all in one index.
It was also shelved in the Map Room. He found it and laid it out on the table, turning immediately to P. The entries were typed, listed alphabetically. He scrolled down through the Ps until he saw it.
Pfizer, see Foster.
Nigel stared at it for a few seconds, not registering.
Surely not, he thought. He found the index entry for Foster. There were several. But there it was. Foster, H: Pfizer, H of Norfolk Place, Paddington, London.
The entry had been gleaned from an advertisement placed in The Times of 25 th February 1884.
He went to the 1891 census. There was Henry Foster, police detective, living at Norfolk Place, Paddington with his wife, Mary. Stanley had obviously flown the nest. By 1901 it appeared that Henry was dead because Mary was living on her own.
This had to be a coincidence. He rang Foster's mobile. It was switched off. He tried Heather. She was on her way to meet him.
'I've found Pfizer.'
'Good.'
'He changed his name,' he said. 'To Foster.'
She remained silent. 'You don't really think . . .'
she eventually said.
'I don't know,' he said, interrupting her. 'But we need to get into the FRC again and find out.'
Another taxi ride across town and Nigel was back at the FRC. Heather was waiting for him.
'Foster's gone home to sleep, which explains why the phone is off. Someone's going round to knock him up. Make sure he's all right,' she explained, as if there was nothing to worry about, though anxiety seeped from her pores. She disappeared to make a few further calls.
Nigel went to the death indexes to check on Pfizer/Foster's death. Aged fifty-four, in 1892.
Cancer. His only son, Stanley, married and followed his father into the Met, starting as a constable, rising to detective. He had four children, only one boy, Stanley junior. He had only one child, a boy, Martin Foster, before he joined up and met his death at Passchendaele in 1917. Martin carried on the family trade, policeman, and had four children, including two boys, Roger and James.
Roger married in 1959. Nigel turned to the birth indexes from that point onwards. In the first quarter of 1960, the couple had a child.
Grant Roger Foster.
He cross-referenced with the mother's maiden name. Definitely the right child.
He sat down, put his head in his hands. Foster was a direct descendant of Henry Pfizer.
He did not notice Heather at his side.
'It's him, isn't it?' she said.
He nodded slowly.
'Foster's not at home,' she said, voice faltering.
'He was at a family history meeting with Drinkwater earlier this evening. Andy said he got a phone call, something to do with the case, didn't say what, and he left in his car, didn't say where. His phone's off, we're getting the records. We've checked his usual haunts. All the hospitals, too. Nothing as yet.' She breathed deeply. 'He's disappeared off the face of the earth.'
It was relief he felt when he withdrew the knife from the wretch's still-beating heart. Relief that the Lord's work was done; relief that one less drunken fool was able to bespoil His work; relief that now he could turn his attentions to his next task. 'Be ye angry and sin not,' said the Lord. Let not the sun go down on your wrath.'
His righteous anger coursed through this earthly vessel. His head pounded with it. Yet the time was nigh when that sun would fall and he would accept the bountiful gifts of the Lord in Paradise.
The drunk was left gurgling and spluttering for his misbegotten life. Through the night he heard the distant wail of the trains rattling to and from Paddington. Those screams and the rustle of the cool wind were the only sounds he could hear.
He stood and waited for the drunk to relent in his pathetic resistance to death. When, after one futile heave of his wounded chest, his victim fell silent, he walked away. He checked his pocket watch for the time and left the scene of his final act.
He turned out of Powis Square, on to Talbot Road. He went left, walking past the awe-inspiring temple of All
