Nigel began to tread gingerly but Heather, ignoring the warnings, sprinted past him, to a corner of the room. He turned and saw the pale, lifeless figure of Foster lying on a makeshift trestle. Nigel followed her. Foster's leg was at a grotesque angle, clearly broken. The rest of his body was covered in welts and bruises. He was absolutely still.
'Grant?' Heather screamed, standing over him.
'Oh, my God! Grant!'
21
A steady drizzle blanketed Kensal Green Cemetery.
Suitable weather for a funeral, Nigel thought, as he gazed across the verdant churchyard. Where is everyone, he wondered? His only companion was the priest, alternating between impatiently checking his watch and anxiously looking for some clue from Nigel as to the whereabouts of the rest of the mourners, and two pallbearers, who had disappeared behind some foliage for a smoke.
Beside the grave, on a trestle, lay a vast coffin -- it needed to be, given the size of the body occupying it, Nigel thought. Beside it was a mound of earth, dug the night before, covered with artificial turf-like cloth. Nigel thought about calling Heather on her mobile; she and the rest of the team should have been here by now.
'Sorry, but I really do need to get away by eleven,'
the priest muttered apologetically.
'It's OK,' Nigel said, looking towards the main path that cut through the heart of the graveyard.
'I see someone now.'
It was Heather and Andy Drinkwater, dressed in black. They disappeared from view behind a tree.
When they emerged the other side, Nigel waved, then stopped dead when he saw who was with them.
Foster.
He was in a wheelchair pushed by Drinkwater.
Nigel had thought he was still in hospital. Last week he had spoken to Heather to see how he was, and she'd said he was improving, but that the medical team treating him thought he would be there for some time. He appeared to have lost some weight over the last three weeks, but then, he was having to suck most of his meals through a straw. As he came nearer, Nigel could hear him muttering like a ventriloquist through his broken jaw.
He was berating Drinkwater for being a lousy driver. 'Jesus, Andy. You can forget it, if you think you're ever getting behind the wheel of my car.'
It was the first time Nigel had seen Foster since his kidnapping. He was surprised to see him looking so well. The breaks had all been clean, apart from the fracture of his right tibia and fibula. They'd inserted a series of screws and a metal plate. The operation was deemed a success, though Foster would not be doing the 100 metres any time soon, and he would be left with some pain and aggravation. The jaw had been badly broken, but the other fractures were on their way to being healed. The main worry was his psyche: How would he recover from his ordeal at the hands of Karl Hogg?
'Nigel Barnes,' Foster's voice said through clenched teeth as he reached the grave.
Nigel offered his hand in greeting. Foster took it and gave it a tight squeeze that indicated to Nigel he had not lost much strength.
'Didn't expect you here,' Nigel said.
'Yes, well, only right and proper, given the part my family played in this poor bugger's demise.' He took a deep breath. ' Thanks for all you did. Without you, it might be me in there,' he added, looking at the coffin. He turned back. 'Not sure that wouldn't have been preferable to knowing my ancestors were German, though.' Foster flashed a smile through gritted teeth. 'Promise me one thing. Don't go jumping through boxes when you have no bloody idea what's on the other side.'
Nigel looked sheepishly at Heather, who was nodding theatrically. After the paramedics had taken Foster to hospital and forensics descended on the scene, Heather had walked up to him as he sat against the wall in the corridor of the storage unit, shellshocked.
He thought she was going to check whether he was OK, perhaps offer him a blanket.
You stupid wanker,' she said, with feeling. 'Don't ever, ever try to be the hero again. He could have had a gun and shot us both.' She had dropped to her haunches, so their eyes were level, and put her hand on his shoulder. 'That's what I'm supposed to say.
Unofficially, well done. Karl Hogg had already carved the reference on the knuckles of Foster's right hand.
He was holding the knife he was going to stab him with. Had we waited for the ART, it might have been too late.' She paused. You feel OK?' Her hand went to his cheek. It felt warm.
'Jenkins,' a voice cried out.
It was Detective Superintendent Harris, surveying the scene.
Heather smiled at Nigel, took away her hand and stood up. Yes, sir . . .'
'Here come the Fairbairns,' Heather said now, pointing across the cemetery at a couple in the distance dressed in black, arms intertwined.
The Home Office had granted Eke Fairbairn an official pardon and the Royal College of Surgeons had agreed to release his body for a proper burial.
'When was Karl Hogg's funeral?' Nigel asked.
'A week ago. Cremated. Only his Aunt Liza was there,' Heather replied.
'Good riddance,' chuntered Foster.
Foster had been unconscious when they found him. Another twenty minutes and he might have died of his injuries. Nigel had asked Heather how much of his ordeal he recollected. No one knew. He'd refused counselling.
Forensics had gone through every box and container in the storage unit. The knife Karl Hogg brandished at Nigel was the one used to stab his victims.
He was about to push it through Foster's heart. In the fridge-freezer in his flat, forensics found a small box containing enough GHB to fuel the appetite of the clientele of a London nightclub for a month.
They had been through reams of CCTV footage from the storage site; Hogg was a nightly visitor, drawing up at his unit in a van, loading and unloading boxes. On occasions they had even helped him with heavier packages, providing him with a forklift truck and driver, unaware of their macabre cargo. The staff became so used to his lengthy visits that they stopped noticing his comings and goings.
In one corner of the unit, behind a wall of boxes, Dave Duckworth had been found drugged up to his eyeballs. He had spent a few days in hospital before being arrested and charged with aiding and abetting.
'He's going to plead guilty,' Heather said. 'Five years, probably. If he's a good boy, out in three or so.'
Nigel winced at the prospect of fat Dave coping with the regime of prison life and the attentions of his cellmates. Couldn't happen to a nicer lad he thought.
John Fairbairn and his wife had made it to the graveside. They nodded a greeting to them all, then fell into conversation with the priest. After a few seconds, he stepped forwards and began to intone.
'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord . . .'
When the coffin was lowered, and the short sendee over, they bade farewell to the Fairbairns. Eke Fairbairn's life had been brutal and short, his lingering death a travesty. Yet here he had finally been laid to rest. The past had been closed.
Drinkwater pushed Foster away from the graveside.
Nigel fell into step with Heather, a slight lurch in his stomach. 'You on duty?'
'Why do you want to know, Nigel?'
'Been having a few dreams recently. Bad ones.
Wanted to speak to someone about them.'
'I'll get you a number,' she said.
That wasn't what he had in mind.
