Foster,
hunched over his steaming cup, did not share their resignation. Something told him this was about more than sex. Something told him Naomi might still be alive.
He sipped at his tea, watching helplessly as the clock on his kitchen wall ticked past 7 a.m. Foster hated watching time slip away but he wasn't due in until nine, as advised by his action plan, and there was little he could do until then.
He'd been up most of the night, digesting what Gary Stamey had told him about the man who had visited their house, in particular the book he had given Leonie featuring Joe and his secret treasure. He scoured the Internet for websites about comics and graphic novels but found nothing matching the description.
From the hall he could hear the muffled sound of his mobile phone vibrating as it rattled across the surface of the sideboard - he'd taken to switching it to silent, so irritated was he by the ring tone, or the way it bleeped chirpily whenever a message came through. He reached it just before the caller was diverted through to his voicemail. It was Heather.
'Hi, did I wake you?'
'No,' he said, feeling affronted. 'I've been up for a while actually.'
'Good. Listen, I've just got in and it's been logged there was a call for you last night. From Carol Stamey, Martin's wife.'
'What time?'
'Just after eleven.'
He cursed. He'd still been up then. 'Why didn't they pass it on to me?'
'They've been instructed not to bother you, remember?
They said you were off duty and asked if she was willing to speak to someone else, but she hung up. I thought you might want to follow up this morning.'
He thanked her and ended the call. Back in the kitchen he drank his tea and then called Carol Stamey back. No answer. Probably still asleep. He had no mobile number for her. Why had she hung up last night? Maybe she was calling without her husband's knowledge and he'd walked in and caught her. Or what she wanted to say was for Foster's ears only.
If it was the former, he didn't want to make it awkward for her by phoning, in case Martin Stamey answered. So he showered and dressed, got in his car and drove out to Purfleet. He doubted he'd be missed, and if they did call him then he'd make up an excuse about being at a physiotherapy session, which wouldn't be much of a lie since he did have an appointment that afternoon.
A fine drizzle was falling as Foster pulled up outside the house at 8:15 a.m., the beam of his headlights still strong.
The sort of day when morning and dusk were interchangeable.
He cursed when he saw two cars parked in the driveway, a silver Jaguar at the front. He'd hoped Martin might be out at work and the kids on their way to school. A red Alfa Romeo that presumably belonged to Carol was parked behind the Jag.
He got out of the car and straightened his jacket. He could always call on the pretext that he had a few more questions. She would tell him if it was no secret from her husband. If it was, he would leave his mobile number and hope she called him on it later. He walked up the drive.
Despite the gloom, there was no light on in the house. He rang the doorbell, expecting to hear the frantic barking of the dog. Instead there was silence. He rang the bell again and waited. No answer.
Foster stepped back from the house, looking at the upstairs windows. The curtains were drawn. Had they gone away? Yet Carol had called from the house late last night.
He wandered across the front lawn to the side of the house where there was a wooden door. He gave it a firm push. It swung open to reveal an alleyway leading to another wooden door. Along the side of the house were two dustbins, a few crates filled with empty wine and beer bottles and a stone flower vase teeming with spent cigarette butts. He walked along the alley, expecting at any moment to hear the dog, wondering what he'd do if it took him as an intruder and set about him. He'd not seen it the other night, merely heard it. And it sounded the size of a lion. He was not a dog lover and, from the attitude of most dogs he'd met, it appeared the feeling was mutual.
The heavy wooden door at the far end of the alley was open, too, sitting slightly ajar. Odd, he thought, for a crook like Stamey to leave the entrance to the back of his house so accessible. He looked back at the first of the doors. A Yale lock and two deadbolts, neither of which had been used. He walked through and found himself at the far corner of an enormous garden secluded by a high wall that ran around its entire perimeter. In the centre of a huge expanse of lawn was a swimming pool, covered by boards for the winter. To his right was a conservatory, beyond it a large, raised stone patio studded with garden furniture and a cover that shrouded a barbecue. At the opposite side of the garden was a stone feature or a fountain, which was switched off or no longer worked. But his eye was drawn back to the lawn.
Two bodies lay face down.
Foster hurried over. Both were dead. The first, arms out by his side, face down, was Martin Stamey, naked. The back of his head missing, ravaged by a bullet. Five yards to his south lay the body of a young boy in pyjamas -- presumably the son, though his face had been almost destroyed by being shot at close range. From each body lay twin trails of blood that slicked the lawn, leading to a set of French windows. One of the doors was wide open.
Using his mobile, he called Heather, told her where he was and to get in touch with the local force.
'What's happened?' she asked, bewildered.
'I don't know,' he said and put the phone down. That's what he needed to find out.
He went to the open door, stepped inside, parting the curtains. It was the room where he and Heather had sat and spoken to Stamey the other night. He glanced around. Nothing out of place. A door to the right led to the conservatory. Again, everything was intact. The large adjoining kitchen, too. He wandered back into the room, then into the hall, which led to the front door.
There was another room to the right. A sort of dining room with a large antique table, and a grandfather clock that ticked loudly. It smelled and looked as if it was rarely used.
He followed the trail of blood. It went from the French windows to the hall and up the wide, gradual steps. Foster's feet were cushioned by the thick carpet.
At the top he stopped. He listened. No sound, save the hushed sweep of traffic along the nearby dual carriageway and the ticking of the downstairs clock. In front of him was a bathroom. Empty. He turned left. There was a door on the right. From the picture of a young pop star on it he guessed it was the daughter's, a feeling confirmed when he opened the door and was met by the sort of paraphernalia he'd last seen in Naomi Buckingham's room. The bed was neatly made but empty. No blood trail.
A scarlet track led to the last door on this landing while another splattered path went up a set of stairs to an upper floor. The door was ajar. He opened it and caught a sight of the reflection in the mirrored doors of a set of floorto-ceiling cupboards. He took a deep breath and turned into the room.
Carol Stamey, spreadeagled and naked. At first he thought the sheet beneath her was scarlet but then realized from one clean corner that it was white and sluiced in her blood. There was a matting of red blood in her hair where the bullet had entered the back of her head. From the amount of viscera spread across the sheets he could see her husband had been killed beside her then dragged outside. He went upstairs; the boy's stained sheets told a similar story.