by Dan Waddell
Don't tell anyone about this Letter or else! The end days are on their way and we will be together again in the celestial kingdom as a famlly with our mum, too. God says so. Try and stay out of trouble even though that is impossible for you!
God Loves you and so do I, Leonie x
PS. I'm married!
Foster looked up to see Gary's big brown eyes moistening.
He was desperately trying to fight back tears but losing the battle.
'Married,' Foster said. 'This was a year after she left? So she was only fifteen?'
Gary said nothing. Just looked down at his hands and sniffed copiously. Foster read through the letter once more, silently this time. It appeared that Leonie had not only got religion, but some extreme form. The people she had fallen in with were teetotal, it appeared, which made him think it was some kind of cult. And just exactly what were the 'end days'. He asked Gary, but the boy didn't know. Once again, he seemed small and alone.
'She's still alive, sunshine,' Foster said softly. 'And she said you'd be back together one day. Now that you've shown me her letter, that's even more likely. It was the right thing for you to do. And brave with it.'
'Really?' Gary said, brightening. 'You think you can find her?'
'I know we can find her.' He rubbed the hair on top of his head. 'Let me get you another glass of Coke and we'll find a film you can watch.'
Once he'd settled Gary in front of the television, he went to the kitchen and fired up his laptop. Then he went on to the Internet and typed in the phrase 'end days'. The result was a hodge-podge of the banal and the barmy.
Sites discussing the impending obsolescence of computer systems mingled with other sites predicting the end of the world -- Judgement Day and the Apocalypse. Prophecies were coming true, billions were about to die and Jesus Christ was set to return to earth. Foster took a wild guess Leonie Stamey was referring to the latter. He then typed in 'celestial kingdom'.
It led him straight to Wikipedia. The celestial kingdom was the highest of the three tiers of Heaven envisaged by the Church of Latter-day Saints.
The Mormons, he thought.
He pored over the entries. The Church's origin, Joseph Smith's visions -- was he the Joe in the book Gary had spoken of? The gold plates he found, upon which the Book of Mormon was based, his treasure, the persecution of its early followers, their flight to the safe haven of Salt Lake City and its evolution to the present and its place as the world's fastest growing religion. He learned the religion's basic beliefs, shuddered at its followers' abstinence, paying particular interest to how the Church sent its youngest recruits across the world to perform missionary work door to door. Had one been working in Leonie and Gary's area?
He needed to know more.
Foster was stiff from another night on guard on the sofa, sleeping there to prevent Gary from leaving and anyone from coming in. He made Gary and himself a bacon sandwich each; then, while he drank some tea and came round, the kid stared slackjawed at more television. While he was enthralled by some junkie cartoon, Foster slipped out into the back garden and placed some Sellotape on the join of the kitchen window and its frame, then did the same with the back door and the battered old French windows at the back of the sitting room. Before leaving for Kensington and the Mormon Temple, after getting Gary into his car, he pretended to have left something behind, and when he returned to the house he stuck another band of translucent tape across the frame at the foot of the front door.
Sunday wasn't a bad day to be hunting Mormons. Outside the chapel in South Kensington, scores of them milled around in their Sunday best waiting for their services to start. Foster did not know what to expect -- all he knew about Mormonism was that the Osmonds were members, and that it practised questionable marital practices, or used to. He was pleasantly surprised to see so many normal-looking people and not chanting weirdos in robes.
He told Gary to keep quiet and behave, and the pair followed the congregation into the chapel. He sat at the back, trying not to look too conspicuous even if all the men, and some of the boys, were in suits, and he was in a pair of chinos and a battered jumper riddled with bobbles.
Gary, in scruffy jeans and puffer jacket, looked even more incongruous, drawing more than a few concerned looks.
The ceremony lasted a long time but to Foster it felt like an eternity. Hymns, invocations, a bewildering litany of assignments and callings, blessings, namings and confirmations.
Finally,
it ended. Foster told Gary, bored to catatonia, to stay seated while he headed to the front, to the rotund, rather self-important man who had opened the service. He stood to one side as he shared a few words with the congregation, before closing in during a lull. He introduced himself as quietly as he could. The man did not respond, merely frowned and pursed his lips. 'You could have chosen a better time to barge in here than a Sunday,' he said crossly.
Barge in, Foster thought indignantly. I've just spent well over an hour of my life listening to the platitudinous bilge of you and your congregation -- time I'll never get back - but he resisted the urge.
'It's very urgent that I speak to you, Mr, er . . . ?'
'Brewster. Roger D. Brewster. I'm the Branch President.'
I'm
inquiring about a loan, Foster was tempted to say in response. 'Mr Brewster, I can't divulge why. I just need some information that may help us regarding an ongoing murder investigation.'
His ears pricked up at the word 'murder'. He appeared instantly less hostile. 'Goodness me,' he murmured. 'Let me just see these good people off, then we can talk.'
He went back to smiling, shaking hands and nodding earnestly for a few minutes until the hall emptied and the two of them, plus Gary, were the only ones remaining.
'How can I help?'
'I'm looking for some background information that might be able to help us,' Foster explained.
Well, you've got the right man,' Brewster added. 'I also happen to be the Director of Public Affairs for the Church in this country.'
'You're the PR man?'
He smiled. 'I prefer my job title but, yes, more or less.
What is it you want to know?'
Foster wondered whether it was wise to let anything slip to a man that dealt with the press. 'Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence, you understand that?'
'Of course.'
'Am I right in believing that it's usual for young Mormon men to spend time on missions?'
'That's right. And not just men. Many young women are assigned to missions, too. Usually aged between nineteen and twenty-five.'
'How long do they do it for?'
'Two years. Eighteen months for the women.'
That doesn't fit, Foster thought. There was a three-year gap between Leonie Stamey going missing and Naomi Buckingham. 'Do they occasionally last longer than two years?'
'Rarely. We have some retired couples who perform missionary work and they can last anything between three months and three years, depending on their circumstances and their means.'
What happens on these missions?'
Brewster laughed mirthlessly. 'Many things happen.
Typically the missionaries are assigned to places far away from their own homes. They'll be sent to a missionary training centre. In this country that's in Preston. If they're going to a country that speaks their native language, they'll spend three weeks being briefed about their mission, taught how to conduct themselves, study the scriptures.
If they need to learn a foreign language then they'll spend much longer, up to three months.'
'So a missionary working in this country wouldn't necessarily be English?'
'No, it's almost certain they wouldn't. It's more likely they would come from abroad, primarily the United States.'
'And what sort of work would they do? House-to house calls?'
Well, to describe it as work is slightly inaccurate, although they could be said to be doing God's work. The missionaries pay to do it -- or their fa
milies do, at least. But to answer your question, yes, the missionary companionship does undertake some door-to-door proselytizing.
Preaching the Gospel can also involve speaking to people on the streets, or taking part in community activities.'
'Missionary companionship? They don't do it on their own?'
'Never. Let me explain. Most missions are divided into geographical areas that we call zones, and those zones are divided into districts. There are between four and eight missionaries in each district. These are split into companionships of two, sometimes three, missionaries who go out together. Each is instructed never to let the other out of their sight unless they're using the lavatory or taking a shower.
These are young people we're talking about. To abandon them to the streets of an unknown country without guidance and friendship would be a gross dereliction of duty'
Gary only mentioned one man who had visited their flat. Foster was starting to think he was wasting his time.
'Do you have a record of missionaries that were active in certain areas?'
'Obviously I don't have access to that information personally but, yes, there is a record. But we'd need to have a good reason to divulge it. Perhaps if you were to submit a request in writing . . . ?'
'I could pass it on, yes.'
"I'll get something to you.' He took out a notebook from his jacket pocket. There was no need. Brewster had already produced a card from his wallet. Foster thanked him and slipped it into his pocket.
'If someone spoke about the end days, would you assume they were a Mormon?'
He shook his head. 'Not really. Almost every religion in the world has their own concept of the end times, the second coming of the Lord and the beginning of the Kingdom of God. The specific details depend upon the faith itself. Each has its own signs, traditions and beliefs about the last days. Some believe that a series of natural disasters will herald the Second Coming. Others that it will steal upon us like a thief in the night. We believe the last days are already upon us, hence the name Latter-day Saints, though that doesn't necessarily mean the end is nigh. Just that we're nearer the end of the book than the start, if you like. But we're always prepared.'
Foster wondered how someone might prepare for the end of the world. 'How about if the same person also mentioned the celestial kingdom?' he asked.
'Then I would say that they almost certainly were a member of the Church. What was the context?'
'Just a letter from a sister to a brother about how they would be reunited in the celestial kingdom after the end days. They're estranged.'
'The celestial kingdom is the highest tier of heaven, the residence of God the Father and Jesus Christ. We believe that those who have been righteous, and have accepted the teachings of the faith and lived according to the covenants and ordinances of our prophet in their mortal lives, will be reunited with their families in the afterlife. The brother -- I assume he is a member of the Church, too?'
Foster nearly burst out laughing at the idea of Gary as a devout follower of any religion. 'Not quite,' he said.
'In that case, he wouldn't be allowed into the celestial kingdom. If he lives respectably but rejects the gospel of Jesus Christ, he would dwell in the terrestrial kingdom.
Or, God forbid, if he lives less than respectably and refuses the testimony of Jesus Christ, he will end up dwelling in the teles tial kingdom with the liars, adulterers, sinners and general ne'er-do-wells.'
Sounds like more fun there, thought Foster.
'Unless, of course, they were dead and able to receive the Gospel in the Spirit World,' Brewster continued.
'Come again?' Foster said.
Well, we Latter-day Saints believe the dead can be baptized vicariously and allowed into the faith and subsequently the Kingdom of God.'
'How does that work?'
'It means someone can be baptized by proxy for their dead ancestors.'
Foster struggled to comprehend what he was being told. 'But these people are dead?'
We believe that in the afterlife people should be able to accept the Gospel, particularly if they were not able to receive it while on earth. Whether they do or not is their choice.'
The delusion of religion had always puzzled him, but baptizing the dead was among the most bizarre things he'd ever come across. Brewster seemed to sense his disbelief.
'It's not a belief shared by other Christian denominations,'
he explained. 'Though some would argue the Bible calls for it. Otherwise why did Paul say in Corinthians 15: 29, "Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? Why are they then baptized for the dead?" Regardless of that debate, it is central to our faith. Which is why we're so active in the world of genealogy. We ask all members of the Church to trace their ancestry and in temple baptize their dead by proxy'
No matter where I turn, Foster thought, I can't escape people seeking out their past. He made a mental note to discuss this with Barnes later that day. However, something Brewster said was bothering him. 'So the brother I referred to earlier, who is no angel and certainly no Mormon, he wouldn't be allowed into the celestial kingdom unless he converted to Mormonism?'
'That's correct.'
'But they would be able to convert him if he was dead?'
'He could be given the option, yes.'
'Thanks. I'll be in touch,' he said and turned on his heels, collecting Gary as he left.
They got back to Foster's house early that evening. Foster had taken Nigel into the office, leaving him to surf the Internet idly while he made a few calls and looked at the faxes sent over from New Zealand. It looked like an open and shut case of accidental death. No suggestion of arson.
The girl had jumped from the window before being overcome by smoke. The rest of her family had not been so fortunate. He put the papers in his pocket for closer study at home.
They parked up a fair distance from Foster's front door, the weekend getaways having returned and occupied most of the spaces around his house. Sunday evenings were always the worst.
They reached the front door. Foster put his key in the lock and remembered. Before opening the door, he looked down. The tape was still there. He went into the hall, took off his coat and then went into the sitting room and stuck the TV on for Gary. He had intended to pick up some food but time had run away. Another takeaway would do, though at this rate the weight he'd lost would soon be back on.
Gary slumped on the sofa, while Foster went to close the curtains across the French windows. He checked the tape.
It was broken.
Someone had been inside his house.
He fished a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around his hand and tried the door. It opened. The lock had been forced. Given its worn state, that wouldn't have taken too much effort. He left Gary in the sitting room, closing the door behind him. He went to the hatstand in the hall and picked up an old golf club, about the only potential weapon he had.
He walked upstairs. The bathroom was empty. His bedroom and the spare room, too. He checked cupboards, under every bed and inside the wardrobe on the landing.
Nothing. He breathed out.
In the kitchen he checked the unlocked window, the same one Gary had entered by. The tape was intact. Yet on the back door it was broken. Whoever it was had come in through the back garden, forced open the French windows and then exited via the back door.
His house wasn't safe any more.
Sunday night and the pursuit of Naomi was getting colder.
Nigel sat waiting, his stomach performing cartwheels.
Foster had called to tell him the exhumation was on that night and he would pick him up at nine. When he called from his car to let him know he was outside, Nigel walked out like a condemned man, unsure what to expect. He certainly didn't expect a young boy to be in the back.
'Nigel, this is Gary,' Foster said. 'Gary Stamey,' he added simply.
The kid didn't even blink, just stared out of the window sullenly.
/> 'I'm dropping him off at Heather's while we take care of business.'
Nigel knew instantly who the kid was. Why he was in Foster's car was a different matter. Nigel thought it best to save the questions for another day.
They arrived at Heather's. Nigel stayed in the car as Foster and the kid trudged up the path to Heather's terraced house. He was back within the minute. 'Heather says "hi",' he muttered as he climbed into the driver's seat.
'Did she?' Nigel asked as casually as he could muster.
There was the ghost of a smile on Foster's face. 'To the graveyard,' the detective said, turning the engine over.
It was an hour's drive across London, a city spattered with rain, the soaked pavements reflecting the blurred orange light from the streetlamps. As the windscreen wipers swept hypnotically back and forth, Nigel watched bedraggled people come and go, in and out of pubs and shops and houses, wrapped up against the elements, sitting stony-faced on buses on the road to God knew where.
Occasionally he would glimpse young lovers laughing or some kids messing around, a bolt of illumination and happiness on a dank night. There was something about Sundays he could never shake off, a feeling of melancholy and regret he had experienced every week since being a kid. All the bad thoughts, past mistakes and anxieties seemed to come back to haunt him on that night of the week, even though he didn't have to get up and slog into an office the next day like nearly everyone else. The Sunday night blues remained.
Foster broke the silence somewhere near King's Cross.
What do you know about Mormons?' he asked.
Nigel knew more than most. Without them, there'd be very few records for genealogists to search. They're probably the single biggest influence, particularly when it comes to collecting and compiling records and putting them on the web.'
Foster told him about his research trip to the Mormon chapel that morning. Baptism for the dead. 'Bloody weird, if you ask me,' he added. 'Like some sort of spiritual kidnapping.'
Nigel
could see his point but knew it was not as black and white as that. 'To be fair to them, the Mormons do say that the dead are free agents -- like us, they're able to choose to reject religion,' he said.
