by Dan Waddell
‘Notting Hill have picked up the tramp who lived in the churchyard. Sheena Carroll, aka Ciderwoman. She went back to the churchyard for the night. They’ve got her at the station now.’
‘What state is she in?’
‘Roaring pissed, apparently. I could go and have a word with her tonight. If I don’t get anywhere, we could always try again in the morning.’
Foster was tempted to let him handle it. It meant he could get some rest. If the call had come ten minutes later, he might have already been asleep. As it was, he was dressed and still – hopefully, at least – under the limit. And he knew he could force himself to stay awake for another hour or two.
‘I’ll meet you at Notting Hill in half an hour,’ he said eventually.
Foster walked into the interview room at Notting Hill police station and was almost floored by Ciderwoman’s pungent scent, an unholy trinity of booze, grime and urine. She was sitting at the table, slouched back in her chair. Guessing her age was impossible. Her ravaged, pink face might have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. Her sagging skin looked as if it had tired of being attached to her body and was heading south. Her black hair was matted and few of her teeth were their original white. She looked up at Foster when he entered and scowled, her piggy eyes boring into him.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ she spat out, the words tumbling into each other as they fell haphazardly from her mouth.
Inwardly he smiled: he knew immediately that she was a frazzled, cantankerous drunk, and not mentally ill – though it was too early to gauge the effects of a two-litre bottle of cheap cider a day on her psyche.
‘And what the fuck are you keeping me here for?’ she asked before he could answer. Her voice sounded as if she had been gargling with gravel.
‘Well, you might be able to help us, Sheena,’ he explained, sitting down. ‘Which’d be a first.’
‘It’ll cost you a fucking cigarette,’ she said.
‘That’s a price I’m willing to pay.’ He turned to Drink-water and motioned for him to purloin a few fags from someone who smoked.
‘So, how can I help, Officer?’ The last word was hopelessly mangled.
‘You’ll have noticed that your bedroom is closed to the public. That’s because we found the body of a man there earlier today. In exactly the same spot where you usually doss down. He’d been murdered.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said instantly.
‘Didn’t say it was, did I, Sheena? Does anyone else doss down there?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Wouldn’t fucking dare,’ she said. ‘It’s my pitch. The only other people who go in there are a couple of kids. Smoke dope in the middle of the night.’ She smiled, a train wreck of a smile – all mangled, with yellow teeth or blackened stumps. ‘And the little bastards never give me any.’
There was a wheezing, rattling sound that seemed to emanate from the ground. It was Ciderwoman laughing. It culminated in a coughing fit, which ended with her spitting violently into her hand just as Drinkwater walked in with a couple of John Players. Once she had wiped her mouth, Ciderwoman tugged both from his hand and lit one. She inhaled mightily, like a diver about to go under.
‘Yes,’ Foster said, once the charade was over. ‘They found the body. The question is, Sheena: where were you? I’ve been led to believe you sleep there every night. Why not Tuesday night? Or last night, even?’
In three large drags she had smoked almost half the cigarette. She blew the smoke upwards. ‘Because I was told not to,’ she said.
Foster leaned forwards. ‘By who?’
‘A man.’
‘Which man?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Some gadgey like you.’
‘What do you mean? Did he look like me?’
She shrugged. ‘Can’t remember,’ she said, taking another drag.
‘What did this guy say?’
She paused to think. ‘He said there was going to be some sort of clean-up. That they were gonna come down like a sack of shit on all the people sleeping rough, so I’d better clear off for a couple of days.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Why the fuck not?’ she said, looking indignant. ‘He said he worked for Shelter, or something like that, and he didn’t want to see me banged up.’
‘Did he show you a card?’
She shook her head. Before she extinguished her cigarette, she put the second one in her mouth and lit it with the stub of the first.
‘When was this?’
‘I’ve only been away for two nights, so it was…’
‘Tuesday,’ Foster said, helping her out.
‘If you say so.’
‘Listen, Sheena, we think the guy who spoke to you might have been linked to this murder. Can you remember anything about him?’
She puffed silently on her cigarette. ‘It was early afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’m never at my best then. He wasn’t wearing a suit, because I would’ve thought he was the Old Bill and told him to fuck off. No disrespect.’
Foster made a gesture with his hands to indicate none was taken.
‘He was dressed sort of casual,’ she added.
‘Any distinguishing features?’
She thought some more. ‘He didn’t smoke,’ she added hopefully. ‘I think I asked him for a ciggie and he said he didn’t smoke.’
That narrows it down, Foster thought.
‘He gave me a quid, too. Or, at least, I think he did.’
‘Really,’ Foster said eagerly. ‘Do you still have it?’
‘What the fuck do you think?’ she said. ‘I don’t have much in the way of savings.’
He knew there was nothing more to be garnered from the conversation. ‘My colleague will go through a description with you,’ he told her, avoiding Drinkwater’s eye. ‘Try and remember as much as you can.’
He got up and left. Outside he sucked in the night air. The black sky was clear, though not clear enough for him to make out the stars above the London smog. He remembered his unease that morning over the use of a churchyard as a dumping ground for murder, and how it did not seem right – not with all the houses overlooking the scene. Now he knew the killer had cased the place because he knew how difficult his task would be.
Yet he still went ahead with it.
7
Nigel was sweating as he bustled his way along Exmouth Market, lazily coming to life in the chilly spring sunshine. He was late. The centre would already be open and he was wasting police time. I’ll blame the tube, he thought, not the fact that my alarm clock requires winding, and last night I forgot.
As he reached the edge of the market, where it met Myddelton Street, he could see Heather, hands on hips, standing by the steps and ramp that led to the entrance of the building. He increased his pace even further, his satchel bouncing rhythmically on his hip so that, by the time he reached her, he could feel his clammy shirt sticking to his back. He was struggling for breath.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped.
Her look was one of amusement. Her gaze was not directed at his sweating brow, however. It was below that.
‘You’re wearing tweed,’ she said simply.
He was. Grey herringbone jacket over an open-necked striped shirt, navy-blue cords. He thought it best to make an effort, even though the jacket was second-hand, and leave behind the jumpers, jeans and duffel coat.
‘Is that OK?’
She nodded and shot him a smile. ‘It suits you. You’ve got that bookish, floppy-haired thing happening.’
She was wearing a short black skirt, black tights and a pair of black knee-length boots. Nigel was worried a few of the older gentlemen who used the records centre might keel over.
‘Have you two finished swapping fashion tips?’ A young confident-looking Asian man in a suit, his hair gelled back, had joined them.
‘Nigel, this is DC Khan,’ Heather said.
The men shook hands. Despite her reassurance, Heather’s look and comment had made him f
eel self-conscious. Given that he had yet to cool down, he wondered if his face had reddened.
‘After you,’ he said, and pointed his hand towards the door.
Once inside, security checked Nigel’s bags and they made their way into the main area. The place was already filling up.
‘I never thought this place would be so busy,’ Khan said, surveying the bustling interior. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus.’
Nigel nodded. ‘You should see it at a weekend. Fights break out over files.’
‘They don’t look like the sort of people who get in a ruck,’ Khan said. ‘More likely to bore you into submission.’
Nigel smiled, yet felt mildly insulted. Yes, he was often scathing about the sorts of people who pursued their ancestors fanatically; the type more comfortable retreating into the silent, quiescent world of the dead, rather than dwelling in the awkward, insolent present. But the world today was awash with information about the wealthy, the famous and the tawdry. Somebody has to help remember the anonymous ordinary men and women, who make the world turn.
‘So what’s the brief?’ Khan asked, rubbing his hands together.
They moved across to one of the enclaves housing around twenty years of bound, red birth-certificate indexes, arranged chronologically on solid wooden shelves.
‘I’m going to go through the birth indexes; you’ll do marriage and, Heather, you’re going to do death.’
‘Very appropriate,’ Khan muttered darkly.
‘The method for searching the files is the same,’ Nigel said, eager to get started: he knew he could rattle through the birth files in a few hours.
He pulled a bulky file off the top shelf, its leather cover battered and torn by use, and put it down on an upturned V-shaped wooden desk with a lip at the bottom to prevent the volume slipping off.
‘This is the birth index file for 1879, the first quarter, January to April,’ he said, pointing to the print on the spine.
He opened the first page. Both Heather and Khan leaned in for a closer look. The page was smudged and grey from thousands of fingertips tracing down it in search of an elusive name, the bottom right-hand corner stiff and brittle from where people had wet their fingers to be better able to turn the page.
‘Luckily for us, the entries for 1879 have been typed so they all fit in one volume.’
‘There are loads of names on that page,’ Khan said, without relish.
Nigel shrugged. ‘The entries are listed alphabetically: first the surname, then the Christian names. But the columns we are interested in are the district and page number, 1a137 in this case. Whenever you see that number, jot down the details and make a note of which quarter it’s in. Is that clear enough?’
‘Think so,’ Heather said. ‘Does that apply to them all?’
‘More or less. Your death indexes have an extra bit of information: age at death. Write that down, too. DC Khan, your marriage index will be the same as this index.’
‘Hopefully with fewer names,’ Khan replied.
Three hours later, Nigel went downstairs to the canteen. Heather and Khan were waiting for him. Both seemed animated.
‘How did it go?’ he said, sitting down.
‘Heather’s in shock,’ Khan explained.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t believe how many kids died at birth,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘On every page, there must have been at least one where it said zero under “age at death”. Unbelievable. God, we have it easy. I mean, my mate Claire had a kid six months ago, and she was in labour for more than forty hours. Forty! Eventually she had an emergency caesarean. If that had been a hundred or so years ago then the baby would have died.’
‘She probably would have, too.’
Heather nodded and bit her lip. ‘Shocking. And while I was facing up to the horrific reality of infant mortality in Victorian England, Simon Schama here was jotting down all the silly names he came across.’
Khan picked up his notebook. ‘Listen to this: Smallpiece, Shufflebottom, Daft… Daft! Come on, if your name was Daft, you’d change it, wouldn’t you? But this is the best one: Fuchs. For Fuchs sake!’
He started to laugh. Nigel smiled. Heather’s face remained stern.
‘You’re a big bloody kid, you know that?’ she said, though a smile was playing on her lips. She turned once again to Nigel. ‘He’s like this now after less than a year as a detective. You just wait: in ten years’ time he’ll be as jaded and cynical as Foster.’
‘But I’ll have more hair.’
‘Have you finished your searches?’ Nigel asked.
Heather shook her head. ‘I’m up to September, but that’s only because the April to June file is missing.’
‘Being repaired?’
‘Yes, I asked at the information desk and they checked. It’ll be back next Monday, all being well. Let’s hope what we need isn’t in there.’
‘That’s quite common,’ Nigel said. ‘They get touched by a lot of grubby hands every day.’
‘So does…’
‘Don’t even think of cracking that joke, Maj,’ Heather interrupted, raising a finger in warning.
Khan adopted a mock-angelic look. ‘Would I?’
Heather ignored him.
‘I’ve nearly finished,’ he added.
‘Well, I have finished so I can give you both a hand,’ Nigel said.
Heather looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘That was quick.’
He shrugged. Nigel did not want to tell her that he had once searched through 163 years of indexes in 5 hours; or that he had once traced a bloodline back to 1837 in a single day, relying on his speed and a few hunches.
‘Who’s going to phone them through to Southport when we’re done?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to fax them from the office here,’ Heather explained. ‘I’ll do them all together, so we’ll hang on till we’re all done.’
‘Hello, Nigel.’
The voice was behind his right shoulder, out of his sight, but he recognized it instantly.
‘Hi, Dave,’ he said, before even looking around.
Sure enough, it was Dave Duckworth. Overweight, perennially sweaty, monobrowed Dave Duckworth. He had worked with Nigel at the agency before the old man died.
‘So, Nigel, I hear Branches Agency, like Lazarus, has risen from the dead.’
Their paths had not crossed in the three weeks since Nigel had returned.
‘You hear right, Dave.’
Dave wore a look of fake surprise. ‘So am I to infer that the wisdom of a certain N. Barnes failed to take the world of academia by storm?’
‘Something like that.’
Dave smiled broadly, then nodded at Khan and Heather. ‘But, it appears that you have been sufficiently remunerated as to actually hire some staff.’
Nigel could see Heather’s eyes narrow. Hers was the type of face that was quick to display emotion. She both daunted and fascinated him.
Before Nigel could introduce them both, Dave leapt in. ‘I jest, of course.’
Heather’s smile dripped insincerity. Nigel could tell she thought him a creep. He couldn’t fault her judgement of character.
‘I know you’re police officers,’ Dave added.
No one said anything.
‘It’s the talk of the FRC, how you rolled up with half of CID. What’s the undertaking?’
‘I think you’ll find that’s confidential, Mr…?’ Heather said.
‘Duckworth. Dave Duckworth,’ he said, thrusting out his right hand. ‘If you require any further expert help, then don’t hesitate to give me a bell.’ He pulled a couple of his cards from a brown leather wallet.
‘Thank you, Mr Duckworth,’ Heather responded icily. ‘Mr Barnes is doing a good job but we’ll bear your offer in mind.’
‘Please do,’ he said, beaming a smile, before turning to Nigel once more. ‘Could we have a brief tête-à-tête?’
‘I’m busy, Dave.’
‘Ten seconds. No more.’
‘Excus
e me,’ Nigel said to the detectives.
He followed Duckworth to the wall by the locker rooms, wondering what it was he wanted. Something to do with money, he guessed. It was Dave Duckworth’s god. His whole career, his whole life, was dedicated to making it. Jobs were not judged by the quality of the research, but by the quantity of the payment. Nigel never sensed any love of the past in Dave, the thrill of the search, an interest in the stories of the dead, only a need to obtain as much work, and therefore as much cash, as possible. No one knew what Dave spent it on. He dressed cheaply, had no social life to speak of, and was notoriously thrifty. Nigel pictured him sitting at home in his fetid flat counting piles of coins with a thimble.
‘I really am in the middle of something, Dave,’ Nigel said, wearily.
‘I know. You’re in the middle of a murder investigation.’
For a second, Nigel was speechless. ‘How do you know that?’
Dave, infuriatingly, tapped his nose. ‘That’s for me to know, Nigel, and you and your friends to find out. More pressing is, what do we do next?’
‘What do you mean?’
Dave leaned in closer, breaching personal space. Nigel didn’t like it: there was a strong smell of rancid coffee on his breath.
‘I mean, how about we inform one of my contacts among the fourth estate, brief them as to what’s going on here and receive an emolument for our trouble?’ he whispered.
‘How much do you know, Dave?’
‘That it’s something to do with the murder a couple of nights ago in Notting Hill.’
‘I still don’t know how you know.’
‘That doesn’t matter. As I said, the question is what happens next.’
Nigel straightened himself up. He looked across; Heather was staring at them both.
‘What happens next is this: I tell you to fuck off, Dave. I’ve got a job to do.’ He left Duckworth and went back to the table.
Heather gave him a look of concern. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.
Nigel took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, he’s just an old colleague.’
‘You don’t exactly seem to be the best of friends.’
He shrugged. ‘Small world, professional genealogy and research. All chasing the same money, things get a bit competitive.’
