by Dan Waddell
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 in there. 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.’
23
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. 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. ‘I 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.
‘Sorry, did I wake you up?’
‘No. Not at all. I just got back, actually. Just had the radio on and…’
‘Can I come in? Very nice, Shepherd’s Bush, but I don’t want to stand here all night.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Bit dazed.’
He pressed the release button. He heard the entrance door slam and her feet shuffling up the stone steps. He opened the door to his flat. As Heather came towards his landing, he could see she was carrying something in her right hand. Looked like a bottle of wine.
He let her in and she walked through to the sitting room. Nigel caught a waft of her perfume as she passed. She took her jacket off and laid it over the arm of the sofa.
‘Be a sweetheart and open that up,’ she said, handing him the bottle of wine wrapped in white paper. ‘Barely had a glass all week and, given the week it’s been, I need one. Just been round to the house of one of the Fairbairns from your list. Nothing doing. It was only down the road so I thought I’d drop by, see how you were.’
Nigel smiled. Despite his exhaustion and the fact he had only come home to snatch a few hours’ sleep before heading back, he was delighted to see her and the wine. Before, on the morning after Nella Perry’s murder, her visit seemed routine – more out of professional concern. This was different. Or, at least, it felt so. For a second he cursed the circumstances – in a few hours both of them would be back at work – and wished it was a normal Friday night and their time was their own. He went through to the kitchen, rattled around in a drawer teeming with loose cutlery, tin openers and other appliances until he found a corkscrew that worked.
‘How did the research go?’ Heather asked, appearing at the door behind him.
‘Good,’ he said, cursing as the blunt corkscrew gouged the cork to shards. He forced it back in and slowly pulled it out without losing too much of the cork in the wine. From the back of the cupboard he selected two wine glasses, part of the best set he had, infrequently aired. He handed her the glass.
‘Here’s to catching the killer in the next twenty-four hours,’ she said, clinking glasses.
She gave him a smile. Nigel loved the way it animated her whole face. She took a sip then pushed a wisp of hair from her forehead.
‘How good is good?’ she said, walking to the armchair. She sat kneeling, curling her legs underneath her.
Nigel sat on the sofa. ‘Well, Ellis is going to be difficult to trace, given how common the surname is. So I’ve put that to one side. I did Darbyshire first. Bit tricky due to the possible variations in the spelling of his name, either with an “a” or an “e”. But I managed to get back to around 1879. His direct ancestor of that time, his great-great-grandfather, was a guy named Ivor Darbyshire, newspaper editor.’
‘Which newspaper?’
‘Don’t know yet. He’s not listed in the old copies of Who’s Who, so it’s unlikely to be a national. He lived in Kensington. I thought perhaps he might have edited the Kensington News; they were the ones who piled a lot of pressure on the police back then.’
Heather nodded. ‘Darbyshire’s hands were cut off. Journalists write or type with their hands, even if they talk out of their arse. Makes sense.’
‘I got a much better hit with Nella Perry’s ancestry.’
Heather pulled out a notebook from her bag.
‘Her direct ancestor was Stafford Pearcey, the main witness at Fairbairn’s trial.’
‘Bingo.’
‘It wasn’t easy. There was no sign of anyone named Pearcey being involved with the family. But I did find that, in 1892, Seamus Perry was born a bastard. His mother was Irish; her name was on the birth certificate but the father’s wasn’t. In 1891 I found her on the census. Niamh Perry. She was Stafford Pearcey’s housekeeper.’
‘Was he married?’
He nodded.
‘Dirty old sod.’
‘At least he didn’t cut her off without a penny,’ Nigel said. ‘Looks like he paid for Seamus to go to Harrow.’
‘And as a result we have the Perrys of Notting Hill. Wonder if they’re aware they only exist because their ancestor shacked up with someone below stairs.’
‘I think I know why Stafford Pearcey gave evidence that implicated Eke,’ Nigel added. ‘In 1893, he died. In prison. He’d been sentenced for embezzlement. He was probably at it for years, but he either paid the cops off or did favours for them, like the one at Fairbairn’s trial.’
Heather shook her head sadly. They sat in silence, the radio chuntering away in the background. Nigel usually leapt in to fill moments like these, feeling awkward. Not now.
‘At least we now know his motivation,’ Heather said eventually. ‘If you want revenge for something that happened more than a hundred and twenty-five years ago and don’t have access to a time machine, then the best you can do is torture and kill those who carry the guilty men’s genes.’
‘Make them pay for the sins of their forefathers,’ Nigel added. ‘I said this to Foster earlier. The past is with us all the time, buried and hidden, yet it always comes to the surface. It refuses to be ignored.’
Her glass was empty. Nigel took it to the kitchen and filled it. His tiredness had lifted, the wine having a galvanizing effect. Heather’s company, too. When he returned she was staring at him, a look of curiosity on her face.
‘Do you wonder when your past will surface?’
‘What do yo
u mean?’ he said, warily.
‘Your family past. When Foster and I first met you, in that café, you mentioned you were adopted. You didn’t know your own family history.’
‘Yes, occasionally I do think it will surface.’
That was half the truth. The secrecy of his past was a constant, lurking thought at the back of his mind. As hired historical help, he had performed thousands of successful searches of people’s family history. Yet the fact remained that he knew nothing of his own. One day, he knew, that would change.
‘I thought when you were adopted, you could access the records and find out your natural parents,’ Heather said.
‘You can.’
‘But you haven’t?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘So what happened? Sorry, I’m a bit nosy.’
He smiled. ‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘Not much to report. It gave me the address of a woman, who turned out to be dead. No record of a father and no one else around to speak to about it. I left it there. Not knowing your past doesn’t stop you living your life. Actually, it can help you sometimes; no successes to live up to, mistakes to avoid. That can be liberating. But there’s always an absence, a sense that something’s missing. Just a void and a lot of unanswered questions.’
Nigel took a large sip of his wine. Heather was looking at him, twining a strand of hair around her index finger. He sensed more questions. He didn’t mind. He welcomed her attention.
‘Do you have any music?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I have a record player,’ he replied, looking around at his room, piled with books and magazines, space at a premium. ‘Somewhere.’
‘What, vinyl? Jesus, Nigel, you’re a walking anachronism.’
‘I just like old things. Everything now has built-in obsolescence; it goes out of fashion, or they bring out a new model, make you think you have to have it. Mass-produced crap that promotes dissatisfaction. I like a thing well made. An object that, when you hold it, enables you to actually picture the man or woman who made it standing back and admiring their work.’
He got up out of his chair, wandered over to the bookshelf, shifting a pile of weathered periodicals to one side to reveal a dust-strewn record player. He lifted the lid; the arm had become detached.
