by Dan Waddell
‘Stop! Police!’ he heard Heather scream out.
He was lying on one side and managed to look up, seeing a dark-haired man with a knife charge across the crowded room towards them. Behind him a supine figure lay almost naked on a trestle. Nigel pushed a box out of the way and jumped to his feet, intercepting the man’s path to the door and Heather. He swung the bolt cutters back like a baseball bat and struck at the figure. It hit the man square in the chest, making him stagger backwards and drop the knife. His eyes flared with anger and he jumped straight to his feet, launching himself at Nigel. Nigel did not have time to swing the cutters once more, but used them to fend off his attacker. His face was contorted with agony, sweat streaming from his brow, teeth bared. He was doing all he could to repel the attacker, but his crash through the boxes had wrenched his shoulder and he could feel his grip on the bolt cutters giving way.
The man wrestled the cutters from his grasp. He swung them back behind his head. Nigel lifted his arms to protect himself from the impact. There was a deafening crack that echoed through the vault. He lowered his arms and saw the man on the floor, in black jeans and white T-shirt, slumped against a box. There was a small hole in his forehead, only now beginning to gush blood. The man’s eyes were open, but he was obviously dead.
Nigel felt his legs weaken and he slumped to the floor, staring ahead, ears still ringing from the shot, cordite in his nostrils. There was a silence that seemed to last for an age before all hell broke loose. Policemen funnelled in, guns at the ready. Nigel instinctively held his hands up to show he was not armed; he saw their anxious eyes scour the room in search of another assailant, then relax when they saw it was empty. One beckoned Nigel over towards them.
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!’
27
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 anytime 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 D
ave 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 service 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.
‘Anything else?’
Nigel took a deep breath. ‘Just wanted to see if you fancied a drink sometime. Now that it’s all over.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Quite fancy one now, to be honest. Let me tell Andy. He can take Ironside back on his own.’
She hurried forwards to catch up with her colleagues. The Fairbairns and the priest were already on their way out of the cemetery. Nigel turned around to take one last look at the grave of Eke Fairbairn. The drizzle halted, the sun edged out from behind the massed ranks of spring cloud.
In the distance he heard the playful caws of three crows.
Acknowledgements
Without three people this book would never have been completed. Firstly, my editor at Penguin, Beverley Cousins, whose patience and faith were greatly appreciated during the difficult circumstances in which I found myself writing the book, and whose expert editorial eye has since improved it immeasurably. Her assistant, Claire Phillips, also offered some helpful suggestions and alterations.
Secondly, I am extremely grateful to my agent, Araminta Whitley, who helped locate the real story in among my earliest drafts. She worked tirelessly to improve the book at every stage and was always at hand to offer advice, ideas and encouragement. Mark Lucas, Peta Nightingale, Lizzie Jones and the other wonderful folk at LAW also made vital contributions along the way. Thanks to you all.
I would also like to thank the following, all of whom helped in the writing of this book: Nick Barratt, resident genealogical genius; Professor Robert Forrest; Rachel and Paul Murphy; Lillian Aylmer and Gavin Houtheusen at The National Archives; Christine Falder at DeepStore; Wall to Wall productions; and my family, especially Irene and my Dad, for their love and support.
Finally, and most significantly, my wife, Emma, who died of breast cancer while this book was being written. Without her ferocious loyalty and the belief she had in me, I would never have begun writing it. Or any other book, for that matter. I owe her everything. She lives on in the heads and hearts of me, my son and many, many others.
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2008
Copyright © Dan Waddell, 2008
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved
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EISBN: 978-0-14-104098-1
