Blood Atonement (4 page)

simply decided to clean up her act.’

‘You may be right. Have they tracked down the next of

kin?’

‘She was adopted. Unofficially, probably by family or

friends, Barnes thinks.’

Barnes? he thought. She’d always referred to him as

Nigel. He’d been aware that the pair of them had something going on, not that he cared. There had been enough things for him to worry about — like walking without

agony — without worrying whether the two of them were

going to swap body fluids. They clearly hadn’t. Or not for long, at least. Foster had heard she’d shacked up with an old flame, a copper from Murder South. Might explain why she seemed a bit different since he’d returned to work.

More passive, less feisty.

‘How was he?’ he asked

‘OK.’ A smile played on her lips. ‘He’s doing the pilot

for some TV show. About digging up the dead.’

‘Who’s interested in watching that?’ he sneered.

‘You really don’t watch TV much these days, do you,

sir?’ Heather said.

He shrugged and turned back to the window. The street

below was closed, silent and empty. They had knocked on

almost every door within a mile radius. So far, they had one lead, a white van seen entering the street around four o’clock the previous afternoon by two independent

witnesses, who both watched it pull up somewhere near

the Drake house. Neither had seen it go and so far they

had no other witnesses who saw it leave. A team was

spooling through hours of CCTV coverage to see if

there was any sight of it. But the clock was ticking and each second that passed reduced the chance of Naomi Buckingham being found alive.

The smell in the morgue had not changed, Foster thought, as he and Heather made their way to the post mortem suite that evening. The stench of death always won

through the masking scent of deodorizer and disinfectant.

He’d not missed this place: the tiled floor that echoed

every footstep; the sterile, gleaming stainless-steel equipment; the unnerving quiet; and the cold that eventually seeped into your soul. But it was here he hoped the hunt for Katie Drake’s killer and her daughter’s abductor might begin in earnest.

Inside, a technician was preparing to stitch Katie

Drake’s corpse back together. Edward Carlisle signalled

for him to hold on as he took the two detectives through what he’d discovered.

‘The cause of death was asphyxiation,’ the pathologist

told them.

‘She was strangled first?’ Foster replied, unable to hide his surprise.

Carlisle nodded gravely. ‘Without doubt,’ he said. He

gestured towards the woman’s neck. ‘In situ, the wound

and blood from it hid a light ligature mark on her neck, but you can clearly see it above the cut.’

Foster leaned in and noticed a faint red weal above the

gaping wound across the neck.

‘The hyoid bone is broken and there is severe damage

to the thyroid and cricoid cartilage. The assailant was very strong, almost certainly a man.’

At the very least that ruled out any notion that Naomi

Buckingham had been physically responsible for her

mother’s murder, Foster thought.

‘The ligature wound, as I mentioned earlier, is not too

severe, so I would guess it was made of soft material,

perhaps a towel or scarf

Foster guessed the killer might have removed the

evidence, but made a note to tell forensics to examine

every item of clothing and material in the house.

‘What about the wound to the throat?’ he asked.

‘Committed post mortem,’ Carlisle responded. ‘The

carotid artery and jugular vein remain intact so the cut is not actually all that deep. More of a token gesture. Your killer is right-handed by the way. There are also signs of bruising and lividity on the back. I’m not yet one hundred per cent certain, but it seems likely she was killed inside the house, then dragged outside where her throat was slit.’

That made no sense to Foster. Most killers took care to

hide a body. This one had done the opposite, bundling the body from the privacy of a house out into a garden where it might be seen.

‘There was no blood in the house,’ Foster said. ‘But

there was plenty in the garden.’

Carlisle nodded slowly. ‘The lividity on the back is congruent with being dragged outside, which is why I made an educated guess that he killed her inside, then hauled her into the garden where he made the wound on her throat.’

This really isn’t adding up, Foster thought. Any sign of sexual activity?’ he asked.

Katie Drake had let her murderer into her house. Had

she allowed him into the bedroom or had he followed?

Was she surprised by his attack or quiescent? They could not rule out some sort of sex game, even though she was fully clothed.

Carlisle shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’

A few scenarios ran through his mind. Had Naomi

Buckingham arrived home and interrupted the killer? Is

that why she had been abducted? But he had the tools at

his disposal to kill her there and then. Why risk being seen taking her away?

‘Any idea of the time of death?’

‘Difficult to be absolutely precise, but I’d say with some certainty that it was around mid-afternoon yesterday.’

Naomi could have disturbed the killer. Yet there had

been no sign of a struggle anywhere in the house. Which

indicated that Naomi might also have known her abductor

and gone with him willingly, unaware that her mother

lay outside murdered.

‘I’ve sent samples of blood to toxicology,’ Carlisle

continued. ‘The liver was quite fatty, in the first, very early stages of liver disease, which indicates the victim was a heavy drinker. Other than that she was in reasonably good physical condition. She hadn’t eaten for a few hours, not since breakfast.’

Any idea when the nail varnish was applied to her

fingers and toes?’ Heather interjected.

Carlisle shrugged.

Heather wandered over and took a look. ‘I’d say very

recently. And with some care, too. She was wearing quite a lot of make-up when we found her. Mascara, foundation, lippy, the works … What have you done with her clothing?’ she asked Carlisle, urgency in her voice.

‘They’re about to go forensics. They’re in a bag somewhere …’ He turned to one of his technicians for confirmation.

A few moments later the bag was produced.

Heather put on a pair of gloves and took it to an empty

dissecting table, where she poured out the contents, Foster at her shoulder. She ignored the blood-soaked shirt and skirt, and went straight for a black, diamante-studded bra, which she picked up between thumb and forefinger.

‘Ta da!7 she said, turning to show it to Foster, making

him flinch. ‘Push-up bra. Not the sort of thing you wear around the house on a Monday afternoon. As I thought: she was on a promise.’

Naomi Buckingham was wrong. Her mother did have a

man.

They managed to track Sally Darlinghurst, Katie’s best

friend, down to a small terraced house in Kentish Town.

Darlinghurst had been out all day, but returned at some

point during the evening. She’d already been told the news of Katie Drake’s death and her proud, handsome face, which looked familiar to Foster, presumably from one of

her TV appearances, was still blanched by shock. She let Heather and Foster into her sitting room, adorned with ethnic artefacts, grotesque carved masks, a few wooden

statues and colourful batiks hanging from the wall. The

air smelled of incense and smoke. Once inside and seated on the sofa she lit the first of a chain of cigarettes.

Foster made their apologies and offered the usual

condolences. Darlinghurst drew deeply on her cigarette,

pushing away a blonde curl of hair that constantly fell

over her right eye.

Awful,’ she said in a crisp, well-enunciated voice. ‘Just fucking awful. Any news about Naomi?’

Foster shook his head sadly. Heather explained the

reason for the visit — to build up as detailed a picture as they could of Katie Drake’s life, in the hope it might lead them to her killer.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What sort of person was she?’ Foster asked.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘What a place to start. What sort of

person was she?’ Katie’s friend looked away for a short

period of time, lost in thought. ‘She was honest. She was loyal. She was a fabulous mother, a good friend and a fucking good actress.’

‘How long had you known her?’ Foster asked.

‘Sixteen years. She was twenty-one and I was a year

older. We were in rep, doing a version of Salad Days. Bloody awful play. But we had a scream doing it. We came back to London and stayed friends. Through marriages, divorces, childbirth, for her at least, and all manner of job crises. She was always there for me, as I was for her.’

Foster nodded. ‘How had she been recently?’

She tapped another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

‘How had she been?’ she said, repeating his question once more and glancing away. After another drag she answered.

‘I haven’t seen her for two months, though we spoke on

the phone a couple of weeks ago. She was … OK. I mean, work was causing her a bit of angst, or rather the total bloody lack of it. I’d just landed a little part in a TV drama.

Load of bloody shit it is, too, but it’s work. Usually we took great pleasure in each other keeping the bastards at bay and finding work, but I did sense she was a bit deflated. I think it must have been a year since she did anything and I’d not been doing too badly in comparison …’

‘What do you mean by “keeping the bastards at bay”?’

Heather said, the beginnings of a smile on her face.

‘Oh, that? Well, when you’re an actress approaching

forty the work tends to thin out, either that or the roles you get are pretty shitty ones. The men, of course, just keep getting more work. But that’s the way it is. You can either plug away and keep the bastards at bay, or you can give up and walk away and … well, God knows what you’d do. Teach, or something.’ She pulled a face.

‘So if work had dried up, do you know how Katie spent

her days?’ Foster asked.

‘She read. She wrote. I know she was trying to write a

novel of some sort. Two days a week she helped out in a

charity shop near her home.’

‘Which one?’

‘Cancer Research. Other than that, I know she had

other friends, ones she’d made through Naomi, other

single mums.’

‘What did she do for money?’

A bit of voice-over work every now and then. Crappy

but it pays good money. She had a lovely, clear voice. And whatever contribution she received from her ex-husband, though most of that was towards Naomi’s upkeep.’

Was there a man in her life?’

She let out a derisive snort. “Men? We’d given up on those shower of bastards a long time ago,’ she said and laughed.

‘Sorry, detective,’ she added, looking at Foster. And no, she wasn’t a lesbian if that’s what you’re thinking. Bloody hell, no. What I meant is that neither of us enjoyed much luck with men. Both had a failed marriage. A couple of aborted relationships since. It was a major topic between us — that and the whole work thing. I think it must have been at least a year since her last relationship. Maybe even longer.’

Heather went through the details with her; the names

of other men she’d seen in the past. Darlinghurst’s memory was not too good with the details, and the ex-lovers would take some tracking down.

‘But there was no one recently?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Why, do you think someone she

knew did this?’ Her voice betrayed her disbelief.

Foster nodded. ‘We do. Can you think of anyone, absolutely anyone who would wish Katie or her daughter harm?’

‘No one whatsoever,’ she said without thinking. ‘She

was a very passionate woman, quick to anger and quite

tempestuous, but she was also kind, decent and loyal.

Everyone who knew her absolutely adored her. I can’t

think of anyone who would do something like this.’ She

picked up an empty wine glass and walked towards the

kitchen. ‘Can I interest either of you, or is all that stuff about being on duty true?’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ Foster replied.

‘Tea? Coffee? Water?’

Heather asked for water, Foster said he was OK.

A few seconds later their hostess re-emerged with a

brimming glass of white wine and a tumbler of water.

‘You’d known Katie for some time,’ Foster continued.

‘Did she ever speak to you about her past, her upbringing maybe?’

‘Never,’ she said emphatically. ‘She was adopted, I know that. She once mentioned both her parents died. But she made it very clear it was a part of her life that she wanted to forget. You find a lot of people in this business are trying to escape their backgrounds - or transcend them, at least — and she was one.’

‘Did you get an indication that it was the result of some event or incident in her past?’ Foster asked.

‘You mean abuse?’

Foster was somewhat startled by her frankness. “I suppose I do, yes.’

Again, the scramble for a cigarette and a pause while

she gave it some thought.

‘No. And I don’t think it was anything like that. I’m not basing it on fact, but simply because I truly think she would have told me. I just got the sense that she and

whoever it was who brought her up didn’t get on. She was quite wild; at least, she was back then. I sensed they, whoever they were, were quite conservative.’

‘Do you know who “they” were?’

‘They lived in Kent somewhere, some shithole seaside

town. The bloody name escapes me. But she hated it.’

‘Kent?’ Heather said. ‘Not Shoeburyness in Essex?’