A few minutes later Foster stood in the garden as the crackle and bustle of a murder-scene investigation went on around him. He was oblivious to the fuss. As he stood there, trying to absorb what he had seen, a jet-black 4x4
pulled up as near to the house as it could. The young girl he'd seen watching television at the Stameys' house two nights before jumped out from the vehicle, dressed in her school uniform, worry and panic etched on her face. She began to run towards the house, followed by a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, who began screaming at her to stop.
As she rounded the top of the drive, Foster moved forward to intercept her. Her eyes caught his and she saw something there that brought her to an abrupt halt. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She pushed a wisp of brown hair from her face with a trembling hand, her mouth contorting. Christ, she can't be more than twelve years old, he thought.
'What's happened?' she said, her voice trembly and edgy. The brunette had caught up with them, throwing an arm around the girl.
Foster put his hands up. 'What's your name?' he said to the woman.
Amber Davidson,' she said. 'I'm the mother of Tracey, Rachel's best friend.'
What's HAPPENED?' the girl screamed. She tried to free herself from Amber's grip but it was too tight. Foster was grateful she was there.
'Rachel, there's been an incident.' He looked at Amber.
He hoped she was supporting the girl's weight as well as preventing her running away. She seemed to read his mind and brought Rachel closer into her. Given the number of policemen and the throb of activity around the house, there was no way he could delay the truth or let her near the scene. 'Your mum, dad and brother have been attacked,'
he added.
'Are they OK?'
He looked at the woman holding her. Then he looked back at the young girl. The words wouldn't come. But he didn't need to find them.
She guessed. 'Are they dead?'
He nodded his head slowly, sadly.
She continued to stare at him for a few seconds, saying nothing. 'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'No,' she repeated -- louder this time, swinging her head from side to side vehemently. Her body began to convulse, her arm flailing into Amber's face, drawing blood from her lip. Foster moved forward to help restrain her. He felt her nails rake down his cheek but he managed to wrap his arms around her. Two uniformed constables joined the struggle. Rachel started to scream wordlessly; then the fight and anger drained from her body and she fell limp. Amber held her and hugged her tight, allowing Foster to let go. He took one of the constables to one side. 'Get me a WPC and a doctor as soon as possible.'
Five minutes later Rachel was staring numbly out of a squad-car window with a blanket around her shoulders, a WPC at her side while they waited for someone to come to sedate her. Foster took Amber Davidson to one side.
'What happened?' she asked, her face streaked with mascara. She was tall and lithe, and her face tanned and healthy.
Foster shook his head. 'They've been murdered. We don't know the details,' he lied. 'Where was Rachel last night?'
'With me. She slept over. The girls had a dance class.
They often sleep over afterwards. Sometimes they sleep at ours, sometimes they sleep here . . . Oh, God.' She brought her hand to her mouth and her voice cracked as she contemplated what might have been.
'Why isn't she at school?'
'We got there and she remembered she'd forgotten her art project. We dropped Tracey off and came to get it.'
Out of the corner of his eye Foster saw a short but wiry old detective wander over. He did not look too pleased. Foster ignored him.
And everything was normal here yesterday?'
'Not really,' she said.
'How so?'
'The dog had been taken ill. He'd been violently sick.
Rachel was very worried when I picked her up because her dad had taken him to the vet's. I called later to find out what was going on, and they said the dog had died. They didn't want me to tell Rachel because they thought it might upset her and they wanted to tell her themselves . . . This.
It's just awful.'
'How old is Rachel?'
'How old is she? She's twelve, same age as my daughter.
Why?'
'Just wanted to know. And when you picked her up yesterday, did her mother say anything to you about the dog or anything else that was bothering her?'
'No, she was just worried about the dog. Carol was the one who told me later last night that it had died. She said it had been poisoned.'
He knew the reason why she had called him last night.
The dog had been killed to make an attack on them in their house easier. She had sensed the danger. Why had she not called the local force? Perhaps, given Stamey's lifestyle, she guessed they wouldn't be too sympathetic to her plight. But he had not been available. Had she been put through he might have prevented this happening. That damned action plan had contributed to these people's deaths.
The detective was at his side. He introduced himself to Amber Davidson as Chief Inspector Dave Alvin of Essex Police. His voice was a gruff rasp, as if he'd been gargling with gravel. 'Madam, I'd be grateful if you could spare me a few moments with my colleague here.' He broke into one of the most insincere smiles Foster had seen.
'Of course,' she said. "I really should go back to Rachel anyway.'
Alvin continued to smile. They watched her walk back to the sanctuary of the squad car. Once she climbed inside, Alvin turned to him, still wearing the smile. He was a few inches shorter than Foster, with a flat pugilistic nose and a thatch of thick grey hair. Foster guessed mid to late fifties, old school, not the sort to mince his words.
#'Could you precis exactly who the fuck you are and what the fuck you are doing questioning my witnesses?'
'Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster, Metropolitan Police,' he said, thrusting out his hand.
"You're going to have to give me more than that, young man,' Alvin added.
Foster put his hand back in his pocket. 'I'm the man who found those people dead.'
'So I'm told. You're a long way from home. Satnav knackered, is it?'
'Carol Stamey tried to reach me last night. I paid her and her husband a visit on Wednesday. In relation to a case I'm working on.'
Alvin pulled a long cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit it. He exhaled copiously. 'What case would that be?'
'Fourteenyear-old girl abducted in London, her mum murdered.'
Alvin's bushy grey eyebrows rose perceptibly. 'The one on the news. The blonde girl?'
Foster nodded.
You think this is related?' His rising intonation betrayed his scepticism.
"I do,' Foster said.
Another loud exhale. 'Care to tell me why?'
Foster paused. A light rain had started to fall. 'Quid pro quo. I'll answer your questions if you answer mine.'
'Fire away'
'What sort of person was Martin Stamey?'
'A reprehensible piece of shit.'
'Big time or small time?'
'Small time but thought he was big. I think he's rubbed someone even bigger up the wrong way'
'What sort of game was he in?'
'Smuggling fags, fencing, wee bit of extortion. My turn.
Why do you think this is related to your kidnap and murder?'
'Stamey and my victim were related.'
'In what way?
'Cousins.'
'Close?'
'Distant.'
'And? Was your victim shot?'
'Strangled. But the body was dragged outside. Throat slit. Did Stamey have any obvious enemies who might do this?'
'He wasn't a popular man. We'll have a task narrowing, them down to single figures. Was your victim done like this? Forced entry in the middle of the night?'