Blood Atonement (7 page)

‘She didn’t mention the fact she was seeing someone?’

They raised their eyebrows so high it looked as if they

might leap from their heads. ‘Was she?’

Again, the pair glanced at each other.

‘Did you know that, Maureen?’

“I didn’t know that, no,’ Maureen replied. ‘I’m surprised.

Katie used to joke about it. She used to say, “I’ve had it with men. They’re nothing but trouble. A woman needs a man like a fish needs batter and chips.’”

The two of them laughed.

‘Oh, we’ll miss her,’ Maureen said. Her eyes began to

moisten.

Foster let them drink some of their tea. There was a

loud rap on the door behind him. He turned to see a large man with unkempt hair and burgeoning beer gut, wearing an anorak over a navy V-neck jumper and white shirt and

a pair of grey slacks. Foster guessed he was in his late thirties. He looked agitated.

‘It’s Trevor,’ Maureen announced, and went over to

unlock the door to let him in.

The man stepped in, wiping his feet furiously on the

floor despite the fact it wasn’t raining outside and there was no mat to wipe them on.

‘Hi, Yvonne,’ he said to the elderly woman, eyeing

Heather and Foster warily before looking away. Are they

here about Katie?’

‘Hi, Trevor love,’ Yvonne replied. ‘Yes, they are. They’re investigating her death.’

Trevor gazed directly at Foster. ‘I wish I could get my

hands on the bastard who did it,’ he said in a flat monotone that belied the ferocity of his statement, though his face had reddened. What sort of animal could do that?

And take a young girl, too.’

Foster introduced himself and Heather. ‘Let me go and

hang my coat up and use the loo,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be

right back.’

After he disappeared, Yvonne leaned in towards the

two detectives. ‘Trevor works here full time, though like the rest of us he isn’t paid. He’s not really up to taking a proper job. He’s had a few problems, you see. We’re a bit worried how he’s going to take all this because he was very close to Katie.’

What sort of problems?’ Foster whispered.

Well, he had a job in an office somewhere and had a

nervous breakdown after his mother died. They were very

close. So he had to give the job up and he’s never been

back. He gets incapacity benefit and spends his time with us.’

‘Does he work here all week?’

‘Every day apart from Tuesday. He takes that off in lieu of Saturday’

Trevor re-emerged from the shadows at the back. ‘Sorry

about that,’ he said, sighing deeply. And sorry I’m late.

Bloody buses.’

‘Don’t worry about it, love,’ Maureen said. ‘They were

just asking us about how Katie was when she was here on

Monday. Did you notice anything different about her the

last time you saw her?’

‘No. Not in the slightest. She seemed as bright as ever.

It was Naomi’s birthday coming up, and she was looking

forward to spending time together at last.’

At last?’ Foster said. ‘Had she been away?’

‘No, no. You know what fourteenyear-old girls are like, always out, always with friends, never at home.’

Foster nodded.

‘That’s right,’ Yvonne said. ‘I remember now. She left at lunch to catch a bus to Portobello Road and get Naomi a present.’

‘Do you know what it was?’ Heather asked.

‘Some clothes. A brand I’d never heard of. And some

make-up, I think.’ She gave the name of the shops.

Heather made a note. They would get CCTV camera

footage from each of the shops, see if there was any sign of her being followed.

‘Can you cast your minds back and remember if there

were any customers in the shop who took an unusual

interest in her? Or any times you can think of when you

remember Katie having a dispute with a customer?’ Foster asked.

The three went silent.

‘You don’t have to tell me now,’ Foster said. ‘But if anything comes to mind, anything at all, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it may seem, then let us know.’ He took a card out of his wallet and put it on the counter. ‘If it’s OK, we’ll take your full names and contact details in case we need to get hold of you when you aren’t at work?’

They agreed. Heather jotted the details down before

Foster bade them farewell.

As they made their way to their car, Heather spoke.

What do you reckon to Trevor Vickers?’ she asked, looking at the name in her notebook.

Foster didn’t hear, his eye caught by two men loitering

at the curbside near the shop. One was tall, hair slicked back, walking around in circles while talking into a mobile phone. The other was squat and sullen, slouched with a camera over his shoulder, smoking. The press. The tall

one caught Foster’s eye and put his phone down. Foster

recognized him, but then all hacks looked the same to

him. The reporter narrowed his eyes, obviously pondering over why a senior detective was at the charity shop.

Routine, or something more? Let him stew, Foster

thought.

What was that?’ he asked Heather.

Heather repeated her question.

‘He fits the profile,’ Foster said.

‘There’s a profile?’

‘Yes, they’ve asked Susie Danson to do one.’

Who’s she?’

‘She’s good. Knows her stuff, rarely wrong. She thinks

it’s a man in his late thirties or early forties, who knew Katie, knew the area, who might have previous, particularly relating to teenage girls. Though she did say he had charm; Vickers seems to have precious little. Let’s feed his name into the computer and see if we can get any hits.

Get in my car and phone in from there.’

They climbed in. Heather dialled the incident room on

her mobile. Foster checked the latest with Harris. They

had managed to get hold of Katie Drake’s application

details for RADA. Her address was a London one, not

Kent. They’d made a few inquiries that led them to a

studio flat on IfHey Road in Hammersmith. A secondary

school in Deal was listed. The school’s policy was to

destroy pupil records ten years after leaving; her details were long gone.

The harder they looked the more elusive her past

became. Was it even relevant? What was becoming clear

was how vulnerable Katie Drake appeared before her

death, as if she was undergoing some sort of mini midlife crisis.

Heather ended her phone call, green eyes galvanized by

excitement.

What is it?’

‘Trevor Vickers is on the Sex Offenders Register,’ she

replied. ‘He accepted a caution for possessing indecent

images of children on his computer in early 2006.’

‘Just a caution?’

‘The children were clothed apparently — or at least, they were wearing some clothes. But the poses were indecent.’

Foster snorted. He’d bang up anyone who had that filth

on their PCs for five years minimum. Clothed or not,

those kids were still being abused and exploited. ‘It’s a leap from having sordid pictures of kids on your PC to abduction and murder,’ he said. ‘But it’s a leap we’ve seen before.’

‘That’s not all,’ Heather added. ‘Because it was recent, under the guidelines he was asked to give a DNA sample.’

God bless Big Brother, Foster thought. ‘We need to

find out what she was wearing on Monday at work,’ he

said. ‘If it was the same outfit then his hair could have got on to her while they were lifting dead people’s clothes around. If it was different, well, it’s unlikely she would put on an unwashed top for her big date, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll go ask,’ Heather said, getting out of the car.

Foster watched her walk back towards the shop. The

reporter and photographer were about to enter but backed off when they saw Heather approaching. She looked them up and down before going inside. Foster thought about

Vickers. They knew he’d taken the day off on Monday,

which implicated him further. Something at the back of

his mind urged caution, but he was the only possible suspect they had.

Heather re-emerged. ‘Different. She was wearing a

black top and jeans on Monday. There’re also two reporters hanging …’

“I know. I’ve seen them,’ Foster interjected.

What do you want to do about Vickers?’ she asked.

‘It’s not my decision. Harris is calling the shots. We’ll let him know and see if he wants him bringing in. If that DNA sample matches the hair on Katie Drake’s clothes,

then we’ve got our man.’

The nation’s press and broadcasters laid siege to the charity shop. The two that Foster and Heather had witnessed loitering on the street had been the vanguard. Reinforcements arrived en masse as word spread that Katie Drake had worked voluntarily for Cancer Research, a morsel the press weren’t going to pass up. Her deification was under way. Maureen, Yvonne and Trevor spoke of her as some modern-day saint. Trevor Vickers in particular was especially effusive, breaking down in tears at the end of one interview. The rolling news channel Foster caught back at the office showed his collapse in an endless loop. They ran the picture of Naomi, a uniform standing sentry outside the house, tributes from old friends and colleagues, garnished with footage of Trevor dissolving into tears.

Calls and information poured into the incident room, all of it dutifully logged. But none of it brought them closer to Naomi Buckingham or her mother’s killer. The teenager was out there, somewhere, and the possibility of finding her alive was bleeding away.

At the same time as they were filming him weeping

about his colleague’s death, the papers were alerted to

Vickers’s brief criminal past and began scrambling around for more info. The phones of Scotland Yard’s press bureau rang hot with reporters wondering whether Trevor Vickers was a suspect, would he be brought in for questioning, would he be charged? One public-spirited reporter called in to tell them that a neighbour insinuated the relationship between Vickers and his mother wasn’t normal, without quite saying why. ‘They’re making him out to be Norman

Bates,’ Foster said to Heather.

He was in the incident room when Heather called.

‘The results of the DNA test on the hair found on Katie

Drake’s clothing are in,’ she said.

‘Do they match with Trevor Vickers?’

‘No. How much do you know about DNA profiling

from hair specimens?’

‘That it’s not straightforward. That’s about it.’

‘I’ve been speaking to the lab. All they had was a hair

shaft and a dead follicle. This hair fell out — it wasn’t pulled out. If they’d had a fresh follicle then they might have been able to obtain a full DNA profile, but in this case they’ve no chance.’

‘So it’s no use?’

‘No. Not exactly. They weren’t able to provide a match

against the database. All they’ve been able to do is extract some mitochondrial DNA.’

Foster was no expert in either forensic science or genetics.

But he did know that mitochondrial DNA was passed

down by the mother and there was no database to check it against; it was useless unless there was a sample it might be compared to.

‘They extracted it in case it became relevant in the hunt for Naomi. And they’re going to see if they can get a sample of Vickers’s hair to see if it matches. But there’s one fact which interested me.’

‘Go on.’

‘The DNA sample matches the victim’s.’

What do you mean?’

‘The victim and the person whose hair we found on her

clothing share the same mitochondrial DNA.’

‘It’s the daughter’s?’

‘No, that’s what I thought, too. They’re certain it’s not the daughter’s. It’s a short hair, congruent with that of a male, and it’s black. The mother and daughter had brown and blonde hair. They’re going to carry out some more analysis on it but we’re certain this sample belonged to a male.’

‘So it’s a relative?’ he replied. As far as they knew, she had no male relatives.

‘How much do you know about mtDNA haplotypes?’

‘About as much as I know about Belgian rock music’

Well, mitochondrial DNA barely changes over time — the pattern can last for thousands of years.’

‘I’m still lost in the land of ignorance here, Heather.’

‘OK, what I’m trying to say is that we know that the

victim and whoever left this hair share a common maternal ancestor. Unfortunately, the problem is that we don’t know when they shared her. It could be one generation ago. Or it could be a hundred generations ago.’

‘So this ancestor could be their mum or it could be

Cro-Magnon woman?’

‘Exactly. There are some mfDNA haplotypes that many

people share. But there are less-common haplotypes, too.

This is one of them, but it’s still shared by around one per cent of the population.’

‘Then narrowing it down to one person, or even a small

group of people, will be impossible.’

‘Virtually. Harris and his cronies think that it’s no use

unless we find a perfect match for it. Ideally, for them and for us all, obviously — that would have been Trevor Vickers. They’re going to get a strand of his hair and compare it to this, but as far as they’re concerned the DNA sample is useless because it tells them nothing.’

Foster could sympathize. The clock was ticking, a girl was missing; it would be easy to dismiss it because it appeared to offer no solutions. Concentrate instead on the present, the leads you already have, sketchy though they may be. But twenty years of detective work had taught him that police investigations often ran aground because of a failure of imagination. Forensics told you this, a criminal profile told you that, blood spatter patterns indicated this. He was no Luddite, far from it, but that only went so far. Sometimes you had to take a risk and listen to your gut. Which is exactly what Heather was doing and why she had called him. While unsaid, both of them realized this was not a usual, routine case and it required more than a usual, routine solution.