by Dan Waddell
Blood Atonement
Dan Waddell
Genealogist Nigel Barnes's second case leads him into the dark heart of the Mormon church and a gruesome, century-old secret.
Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster is called to a homicide at the home of a single mother in Queens Park, London. Her throat has been cut from ear to ear and her body dumped in the garden. Her daughter and only child, Naomi, who has just turned fourteen that day, is missing. As the hours tick by, the feeling grows among Foster's colleagues that this is most likely becoming a double-murder inquiry. With nothing in the present to indicate a motive, Foster decides to delve into the dead woman's past only to find out she does not have one. He calls on genealogist Nigel Barnes. The trail takes Barnes back to late Victorian England where it abruptly ends with a young couple who came from the United States to England. Nigel's quest takes him on trip through the violent history of the Mormon church as he and Foster race to solve a shameful, long-kept secret that is about to have bloody repercussions in the present, and for which someone is seeking vengeance.
Dan Waddell delivers another gritty, suspenseful mystery that will keep readers guessing until the last page.
Acknowledgements
For answering what were a lot of stupid questions about police, genealogical and genetic genealogical procedure, my humble thanks go to Neville Blackwood, Nick Barratt, Megan Smolenyak Smolenyak and Jim Wilson. Donald R. Snow at the Hyde Park Family History Centre helped point me in the right direction in finding some information about early records of the LDS. Carole Reeves did likewise when it came to trying to find out more about the treatments and conditions in mental hospitals of the 1940s and 1950s. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
For reading and editing the manuscript in its early stages -- and much, much more besides -- I would like to thank my agent, Araminta Whitley, and Lucy Cowie.
Thereafter, Stefanie Bierwerth, Daniela Rapp and Shan Morley Jones all made sure the finished entity was as good as it could possibly be. Thanks to you all.
1
The candle on the ledge guttered as it neared its end, shadows dancing on the wall. Beside her Sarah sensed the rhythmic rise and fall of her sisters' chests. Henrietta's and Emma's ability to fall asleep as soon as their heads lay on the pillow infuriated her, while she tossed and turned seeking sleep that took an age to arrive.
Not tonight, though. She lay rigid, pinned down beneath layers of blankets, not wanting to move and so drown out the muffled voices from the adjoining room.
Her future, her whole life was being discussed in there.
She could hear her mother, softly pleading, occasionally sobbing.
Her father's sonorous voice in response, calm and unyielding.
"I do not mean to disobey you,' she heard her mother say. 'But he is in his sixty-seventh year. Does that not seem wrong to you?'
The low rumble of his words was more difficult to decipher.
Sarah eased herself from under the weight of her covers and crept silently to the door, the breath from her nostrils frosting in the crisp night air. She shuddered. The September night was clear and cold but the undergarments beneath her nightclothes warded off the worst of the chill. She eased the door open and slipped into the dark hall.
The words were more audible out there.
'Sarah is only fourteen!'
'You were only fourteen, Annaleah, when your father, or the man who acted as your father, pledged you to me.' Sarah sensed her father's impatience. Her boldness had reaped its harvest many times.
Her mother choked back a sob. 'May the Lord forgive me, I must protest--'
'Enoughl' Silence.
Lord, no. Not Hesker? Sarah thought of his enormous stomach, bulging eyes, sagging, bewhiskered jowls and flabby wet lips, habitually moistened with a flicking pink tongue. There was a metallic taste in her mouth now, testament to her rising bile. She felt sick.
'The matter is agreed. I will hear of it no more.'
'But Orson . . .'
'Annaleah!' The voice was resolute, commanding.
She knew then that her mother's protest was at an end. A hot tear ran silently and slowly down her cheek. She retreated quickly back to her room before her father left for his. It had been a long time since he had favoured her mother's room as his place of rest.
At her bedside, she fell to her knees and buried her salt-wet face in her hands. The Lord was her only chance of reprieve.
'Our dear Heavenly Father, I thank thee for the blessings bestowed on my family and me. The food on the table, the bounty in the fields, the health of our livestock. The manner in which foseph junior was spared when plague-ridden in the summer and it seemed all hope was vanquished. I thank thee for those and many other blessings. I beg here for thy mercy. If it be according to thy will that I be wed to Hesker Pettibone, then I beseech thee to think again. I apologise for my insolence, but I request with all reverence and humility that I not be married to that disgusting fat old hog -- I seek thy forgiveness for that ungodly description. Should thou ignore my plea, so help me, Heavenly Father, I will not answer for the actions I henceforth take. Amen.'
As Sarah climbed back into bed, her ice-block fet source of heat, she heard the soft whimpers of her mother in the room next door. Strangely it gave her strength.
I would rather be cast into the fiery pit than live a life of quiet desperation and suffering, she thought.
Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster emitted a weary sigh as he crouched over the woman's corpse, arc lights in the garden bathing them both in bright light, anticipating the first light of dawn. During his convalescence, human nature had not taken a turn for the better. He rose to standing, wincing slightly at the bolt of pain searing up his leg from the metal plate holding his right shin together, then shuddered as he felt a cold cough of wind on the back of his neck. He'd not worn a coat, assuming when he was called and told of a woman's murder at her house she would be found inside, and not outside on a small, slightly overgrown lawn.
The throat had been cut. The body was framed by a wide slick of blood. He looked around the garden. The fences at all three sides were high, giving a degree of privacy, though the upstairs windows of the properties on both sides would have had a partial view. Young professional couples lived either side and got home after dark.
Neither of them had seen the body. Still, to Foster it seemed the killer had taken a strange risk.
He returned to the house. The sitting room was neat and ordered, no signs of a struggle. Foster rubbed his face with his right hand. It was his first week back, early November. He'd insisted on being on call. The call had come that Tuesday morning at 4 a.m., four hours after the body had been discovered. He climbed into his old suit, realizing only then that he could fit his thumbs into the gap between his gut and the waistband, forcing him to dig out a belt and pull it to the tightest notch. It had been just over six months since he'd been tortured and beaten and saved only seconds from death. The thought of getting back on the job had kept him going during some long dark nights of the soul. During some nights, when the dreams were at their worst, Karl Hogg's hot breath still in his nostrils, the excruciating pain as both tibia and fibula snapped under the weight of Hogg's mallet, he'd thought this moment might never arrive.
But here he was; his first case back.
He had anticipated a gang killing, probably some hapless kid stabbed in the street in Shepherd's Bush or Kensal Rise. Instead he'd got this -- a woman lying dead in a garden, in a lavishly furnished Victorian terrace, on a quiet affluent street in Queen's Park, a middle-class ghetto between Kensal Green and Kilburn.
Detective Inspector Heather Jenkins walked into the sitting room with a scene of crime photographer at her shoulder. 'Mind if I. . .' he said, motioning
towards the garden nervously.
'Fill your boots,' Foster said.
He turned to Heather. Her hair was scraped and tied back off her face and she looked pale and worn. Bad news, he thought.
'The victim's name is Katie Drake,' she said. 'Thirty seven years old. An actress. The neighbours two doors down found her. They had a set of keys. They were alerted by a friend of Katie's after she and her daughter failed to turn up at an ice-skating rink to celebrate the daughter's fourteenth birthday'
Foster felt a shudder of apprehension. And where's the daughter?'
'We don't know. She's missing'
Everything and everyone was gathered. The Met's murder squad and all its resources out en masse. Dogs, helicopters, hundreds of officers preparing to knock on doors, ready to shake down every paedophile and pervert in West London and beyond. All waiting for the onset of daylight before they got started. A cursory check of Katie Drake's body estimated she had been dead since the previous afternoon, perhaps as early as 2 p.m. Her daughter, Naomi, was last seen leaving school at 3.15 p.m. Her schoolbag was downstairs. She'd made it home. But then what? The signs weren't good. Find them in the first six hours or you're looking for a dead body. That was the mantra when it came to a missing child. Unless . . .
They could not discount the idea she had done this.
Killed her own mother and run.
Foster stood in the victim's sitting room, holding and staring at a school photograph of her daughter as if it would yield him a secret. He replaced it on the mantelpiece, her face etched on his mind. The long, straight blonde hair; the pale blue eyes; the hopeful, uncertain smile of a girl on the edge of womanhood. He wondered with a sense of dread about what state she would be in when they eventually found her.
He glanced around the room. It was immaculate, barely a spot of dust anywhere, books and magazines straightened
into neat piles on the coffee table, cushions plumped and cornered neatly at each end of the sofa. Perhaps Katie Drake was one of those people who couldn't abide mess. He wandered through to the kitchen, situated at the back of the sitting room, off what was presumably once a dining room until it was knocked through.
Again, nothing out of place. Two glasses sat on the draining board. They had been washed. The kettle was unplugged and the coffee-maker pristine. Foster pressed the lid of the metal bin with his foot and it swung open. Nothing much to report in there. The fridge was well stocked. Looked like Katie and her daughter liked to eat healthily going by the amount of soups and salad materials.
Foster called a member of the forensic team over to remind them to examine the two glasses beside the sink.
He checked the windows and doors all over the house.
No sign of forced entry. The killer had been allowed in.
The girl? He glanced one more time at the photograph on the mantelpiece. Slit her mother's throat? He doubted it.
But he could be wrong.
Foster returned to the garden where Katie Drake's body still lay, housed in a tent. Edward Carlisle, the pathologist, was going about his duty with grim efficiency. The body might not be moved for a while, until the whole scene was processed.
Carlisle spotted Foster enter, the serious frown he adopted for his work lifting briefly.
'Good to see you again, Grant,' he said, his usually rich public school voice ravaged by the effects of a cold. 'On the mend?'
'Never better,' Foster replied breezily, not wanting to dwell on it. 'What have you found?'
He turned his face up. 'I'll need to have a closer look in a post mortem. The throat was slit out here, though.'
Heather slipped into the tent beside him. He could tell from her face she had more news.
What?'
'We've found Naomi's father,' she said. 'Stephen Buckingham.'
'Let's
pay him a visit.'
Stephen Buckingham looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice from which he would soon be pitched.
He sat in the blue-upholstered armchair in the living room of his house in Esher, eyes wide. Foster sat across from him, nursing a cup of tea provided by Buckingham's second wife, a shy, conservatively dressed woman, who padded around them softly, casting nervous, anxious glances at her husband. It was shortly after nine o'clock and the couple's two children had left for school.
Foster had broken the news about his ex-wife's death and his daughter's disappearance. He'd asked whether Buckingham had had any contact with either of them the day before.
'I was in Leeds on business,' he said softly, looking down at his fingers, which picked and played with each other. 'It was Naomi's birthday so I called her mobile at lunchtime. The call was very quick because she was out getting something to eat with friends and it was difficult to hear over the traffic, the sirens . . .'
Foster nodded, he knew the feeling. The sound of the city.
'She seemed pretty excited about going skating with her mum and her friends and then a meal. I said I'd see her Saturday. . .'
His voice tailed away. Foster didn't interrupt.
We were going shopping in town. My treat. Her mother wasn't fond of it, thought I was spoiling her. But there was little I did with Naomi that her mother approved of.'
Foster asked when he had arrived back from Leeds.
'I flew back. My plane arrived at Heathrow just before ten o'clock at night. I was tired so I got a cab back here. It was shortly after eleven when I got here, isn't that right, Sheila?'
Sheila bit her lip and nodded. 'About that time, yes,' she agreed softly.
'Sorry, can you excuse me?' Heather said, standing by the door. 'I just need to make a call.' She slipped out.
'When did you and your first wife separate?' Foster asked.
'Eleven years ago, when Naomi was three. It just wasn't working. It was pretty volatile for a while afterwards, but while Katie was hot-headed, she also loved Naomi with everything she had, and knew she couldn't keep me away.
We soon fell into a routine. My work takes me away, but I always make time to see her and spend time with her. I've remarried since, had two more kids, but it never affected my relationship with Naomi.'
Had Katie remarried?
Buckingham shook his head. 'No. There had been other men, that much I know from Naomi. But she wasn't a 10
tittle-tattle and, to be honest, I wasn't really that interested.
I don't think she was seeing anyone at the moment. In fact, from what I'd gleaned from Naomi, I sensed Katie had been having a hard time of it.
'In what way?'
'Not entirely sure. She was an actress. When I first met her, she was a real beauty. She got lots of work, some TV, adverts, mainly stage work, which was her real love. In recent years it had all gone a bit quiet. I think that got her down. Naomi made a few oblique references to her mother drinking. She never touched a drop when we first met, which was why it jarred with me a bit. She liked to smoke reefers back then.'
What about Naomi? Did she have any boyfriends?'
Buckingham smiled for the first time. 'You've seen her picture. What do you reckon? From what she said, she seemed to be beating them off with a stick at school.'
The smile vanished. The vacant stare returned.
Had she mentioned anyone in particular?
Buckingham looked up at Foster, as if noticing him for the first time. 'Sorry,' he muttered. 'Miles away'
'Did Naomi mention any boy in particular, one that might have been pursuing her perhaps?'
'No. She did mention one boy she fancied who was a bit older. He was in a band. The name escapes me. The reason I remember is that he was quite a bit older, seventeen or something, and I thought that was a bit too old and said so. She said she was at the back of the queue anyway'
There was another silence as Buckingham scratched at his wrist and Foster wondered whether, if his own life had taken a different turn, or his personality had, he might have been playing an active part in a fourteenyear-old's life. And, not for the first tim
e, given the pain and suffering this man was experiencing, whether it was all worth it.
Was living your life with only one person to worry about the easiest option?
What do you think has happened to her, detective?'
Buckingham's weary voice betrayed his hopeful expression.
Foster shrugged. 'I hope we find out soon,' he said.
'Rest assured we're putting every resource we can muster into finding Naomi.'
He paused before his next question.
'Are you a wealthy man, Mr Buckingham?'
The man's eyes narrowed. Then he realized what Foster was alluding to. 'I'm comfortably off, no more. I publish three magazines, none of them that successful. You think I'll get a ransom demand?'
Foster could see a glint of hope in his manner and expression. That would at least mean Naomi was still alive. He also knew Buckingham was downplaying his wealth. This house, Foster estimated, was worth at least a million. A black Mercedes convertible was parked on the drive. He had spoken about the money he liked to spend on his daughter. They could not rule out a financial motive.
'Keep your phone switched on,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'If we don't find Naomi, you might want to consider making a public appeal'
Whatever it takes.'
Heather slipped back into the room, smiled apologetically at Buckingham. She caught Foster's eye and nodded.
She'd made a few calls. Buckingham's story stood up. He'd been on that plane.
'Did you know much about your ex-wife's daily life, her routine?'
Buckingham shook his head. 'Next to nothing. She was quite often at home during the day, I know that. We really had very minimal contact outside the odd conversation about Naomi.'
'Did she have friends?'
'I'm sure she did. Her best friend was always Sally Darlinghurst, another actress. They met in repertory shortly before she met me. They were inseparable back then. I think they were still in touch, but don't quote me on it.'
Foster scribbled the name down. 'One last question, Mr Buckingham. What was the relationship like between your daughter and Katie?'
