Are you in a position to use this test?'
'No.'
'Oh?'
Westerberg picked up the printout Nigel had given him and dropped it slowly on the desk. 'Because I haven't got a sample to work with, just a piece of paper. If I had a DNA sample we might be in business.'
'I doubt they'll release the hair . . .'
'I don't need the hair. You said the person who owns the hair and the victim share a common maternal ancestor?'
'Yes,'
Nigel replied hesitantly.
'Then testing her DNA should tell us when the mtDNA molecule entered the bloodline. You just need to get a sample from the body'
Gary Stamey's arms were folded, face set hard. Apart from the molten hatred in his eyes, he looked angelic flawless coffee-coloured skin, delicate features and dark tight-cropped hair. Yet the cute appearance disguised an elevenyear-old bearing the criminal record of an old lag.
Just reading it made Foster's eyes water: fifty-four crimes since the age of eight years old. Mainly burglary or theft.
On one occasion he stole a car, which he drove into a wall after ten yards. Foster found that last detail strangely comforting, evidence there was still a child in there. All these crimes had been committed across different parts of Essex because he'd been moved around so many times.
Foster families, care homes, none of them had prevented him embarking on a crime spree within a few days of his arrival. Wherever he wound up the local crime figures spiked. Gary would then be arrested, sent to magistrates'
court, and dispatched to another area to be someone else's problem. His latest hideout was a care home in Romford.
A rare success. He'd not been arrested for a week.
Foster and Heather were sitting in a communal lounge.
Gary sat on a sofa next to the home's duty manager, a large woman in a tent-sized dress who spent most of her time flicking worried glances at her charge. A ripped and frayed pool table stood at one end of the room, a TV
surrounded by empty DVD cases at the other. Underneath the table in the middle, surrounded by sofas and chairs, were several battered board games. One of them was Monopoly. Foster laughed silendy and mirthlessly at the thought of Gary Stamey playing that. His Get Out Of Jail card was his age. Soon he would be banged up in some young offenders' institution or other. Then his criminal education would be complete.
The duty manager launched into a stuttering introduction as Gary slumped deeper into the sofa, staring first at the blank television screen, then turning his sullen gaze on them, ignoring every word said. Heather said hello. He turned his stare to the window and wrapped his arms tighter around his chest, sinking even lower. Soon he'll be horizontal, Foster thought. He knew straight away the 'Watch-with-Mother' shit wouldn't work. This wasn't a time to be friendly. This wasn't an ordinary child. It was an animal. Foster didn't care about the 'circumstances' that explained Gary's behaviour. It wasn't his fault some people who weren't fit to raise hamsters had children. It was his job to deal with the consequences.
'We're here about your sister, Gary,' he said, once the niceties were over.
A flicker, no more. The boy turned his head to him slowly, glanced at him for a few seconds, and then returned his gaze to the window.
'Don't you care about what happened to Leonie, Gary?'
There was a pause. The hate-filled eyes on him again.
This time the boy spoke. The first time. The voice unbroken yet sounding older than its owner.
'No.'
Back to the window. At least ten seconds of silence.
'You don't care whether she's alive or dead.'
This time the answer was immediate. Why fucking should I? Fucking bitch left me.'
The duty manager's face reddened. She put her hand on his arm. 'Gary, I really don't --'
'Get your fucking hand off me, you fat fucking cunt,' he screamed, flinging his arm to shake her off.
She sat back, hands up. Gary returned to his usual pose, eyes now ablaze. The duty manager looked at Foster.
'Can you give us a moment?' he asked.
She looked uncertain. 'I really shouldn't. . .'
'Five minutes. We'll be OK.' Foster noticed Gary's eyes were on him, though he avoided them.
The duty manager eventually nodded, got up. 'I'll be in my office,' she added, and left. She didn't seem too disappointed to be getting out of his way, even if it meant breaking procedure.
Foster stood up. He walked over to the pool table. He couldn't see any balls anywhere. Probably confiscated to stop the players putting them in a sock and knocking each other's brains out.
'I've got a problem, Gary,' he said, turning round to look at him. As soon as he did, Gary looked away. Got you, he thought. He put his hands in his pockets. 'Do you know what my problem is?' Nothing. 'Didn't think so. So I'll enlighten you. My problem is that I'm a murder detective.
I go after nasty people that murder other people. I'm not used to dealing with kids that steal DVD players and PlayStations. Frankly I don't give two shits about kids who steal DVDs and PlayStations. But I do care about people who've been murdered. Most of all I care about their families and friends who have to live knowing that some scumbag killed their mum, or their dad, or brother or sister and to even begin to start dealing with that horrible thought they need to know that scumbag has been caught and punished. Of course, that's never enough, but it's often a start.'
'What's that got to do wiv my sistah?' he said. The accent was broad East London.
'That's what me and my colleague here are trying to find out, Gary'
The boy looked confused.
'You see, I'm investigating a murder. Not only a murder.
But a kidnap, too. Someone not so much older than you who's been taken. Now, there's a chance that what you know will help me find that person.'
'Know about what?' Impatience had replaced anger.
About Leonie.'
'I don't know nuffing.' Anger was back.
'Gary, you're not listening to me. You don't know what I want to know. Let me ask you a few questions and -- who knows? Maybe you'll tell me something that helps. Maybe you won't. But let's try it out and we can get back to catching murderers and you can get back to whatever it was you were doing.'
'I don't help no coppers.'
'You can say that again. I've seen your record.'
Gary shook his head and tightened his arms around his chest, as if to say, 'I'm certainly not gonna help you now'
Foster looked over at Heather and nodded, before turning to the window and staring out at a miserable slab of concrete decorated by clumps of weeds pushing through the cracks.
'Gary,' he heard her say, her voice soft. 'The girl who was kidnapped is fourteen, like Leonie was. Now I know you hate the police and you don't want to help us, but you won't be helping us, you'll be helping this girl'
Foster heard Gary shift in his seat.
'This girl who's missing, some really nasty things could be happening to her now,' Heather continued. 'Truly terrible things. If we can find her, we might be able to stop them happening. Help us. Please.'
Foster kept staring out of the window. There was a patch of grass at the perimeter of the yard, against the fence, which was littered with empty crisp packets, drink cans and other debris. Beyond that was a car park and a parade of shops, only one of which wasn't boarded up.
There was little in the area to inspire the residents of this care home.
'OK,' he heard Heather say. 'Thank you.'
The kid must have nodded. Foster turned round, remained standing.
'In the days and weeks leading up to your sister leaving, do you remember anything out of the ordinary at home?
Anything strange or different?' Heather asked.