Guy hoisted the camera back on to his shoulder. 'Let's go again,' he said.
Nigel flicked his fag on to the grass and twisted his heel on it, shivering against the cold. He should have worn more than his tweed jacket, but felt it was the 'look' they wanted. He made his way back to the grave of Alfred Rossiter, 1829-1892, which marked the start of his walk.
He flexed his shoulders, drew in a breath and turned around. One -- two -- three.
'The dead are always with us,' he said, and started to walk. 'Sometimes closer than . . .'
'Cut!' shouted Guy.
What now?' Nigel asked, perplexed.
'You've forgotten the skull'
Shortly before lunch, Nigel was back in the more familiar surroundings of The National Archives. The Family Records Centre, previous home for birth, marriage and death indexes, was no more: he would not miss it. The indexes were now housed at TNA, which at least put an end to his daily pinball ride between leafy Kew and the urban grime of Islington.
A pile of undone work was growing -- a stack of birth, marriage and death certificates to track down and scour for his private clients.
He was skimming the April quarter of birth certificates for 1894 when he heard her voice call his name. He spun round and there she was. Heather Jenkins.
'Hi, Nigel,' she said, her smile wary.
'Detective Sergeant Jenkins,' he replied, a lurch in his stomach.
'Detective Inspector now,' she said.
'Congratulations.'
'Thanks,' she said, smiling. 'How are things?'
'OK And you?'
Tired. I've been up all night. Murder and abduction in Queen's Park. Mother killed, fourteenyear-old daughter missing.'
'God,' Nigel said. 'How awful'
'Any chance we can get a coffee, somewhere private?'
Nigel checked his watch. Midday had just passed. 'I'm very busy, but there might be a corner of the canteen we can find.'
They walked down there in silence. Nigel didn't know what to think. Four months ago she'd broken his heart.
They'd had a few dates, when her work allowed, and it seemed to be going well. Then she disappeared. Not a word. Stopped returning phone calls or e-mails. He'd even sent a text message, a first for him. Then he wrote a letter wondering what was going on. Either something had happened or he was simply terrible in bed.
She finally sent him an e-mail. Something had happened.
Her mother had died, a sudden heart seizure; she needed time and space etcetera. He understood. Gave her some room.
A few weeks later he heard she was seeing an ex boyfriend. Confused didn't even begin to describe how he felt. It was only in the past few weeks he'd managed to stop himself thinking about it. Now here she was to remind him all over again. She seemed to sense his unease.
You must be wondering what the hell I'm here for?'
Heather said, sitting down, a fake laugh in her voice.
Well, I am actually,' he said.
'Foster and I. . .'
'Foster? How is he?' he interrupted.
'Back at work this week. He seems the same as usual; or rather, he's acting the same as usual. Anyway, we're trying to find out as much as we can about the murder victim, hope it sheds some light on her murder and where her daughter might be. We also need to track down family and next of kin so they all know before we get word out to the press. But there's a problem.'
What?'
'She was very secretive about her past. Even her ex claims to know nothing. We were wondering if you could wave your magic wand and find out a bit more about her, parents, siblings, that sort of thing. Of course we'll pay.'
'I'm on it,' Nigel said, eager to help. Heather gave him Katie Drake's details, her real surname, Pratt, which he scratched into his notebook. 'Shall I phone it through? Are you still, er, on the same number?'
'I was hoping I could stick with you as you do it, and then I'll phone it through. There's a girl missing - it's extremely urgent.' She pulled a face. You don't want me around, do you?'
He wasn't sure. 'I don't mind,' he lied.
She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. 'Nigel, one day I'll explain to you what happened. I just can't do it now. Not at a time like this.'
Nigel sipped his tea. He didn't know what to think.
But one thing he did know. A woman had been killed and a young girl was missing. He would help if he could.
This was no time to act wounded. We'd better get cracking then,' he said.
It took Nigel an hour scouring the indexes of births, marriages and deaths to discover that Katie Drake nee Pratt was born Catherine Mary, the only child of Robert and Vera Pratt of Shoeburyness in Kent. When she was four, her father died of pneumonia. A year later her mother followed him to the grave, claimed by a heart condition.
Heather's face creased. 'Poor thing. Maybe the mother died of a broken heart.'
'Perhaps,' Nigel said. 'Presumably she was adopted.'
'Can we find out who adopted her?'
'As long as you know the adoptive name you can find the child in the adoption index. But unfortunately we don't know it. Let's check anyway, and see if there's anything we can find.
He flicked through to the year of Katie Drake's birth.
You're adopted, aren't you?' Heather asked.
He nodded.
'Is Barnes your birth or adoptive name?'
Adoptive. My birth name is Wilkinson.'
Why haven't you reverted to that?'
He shrugged. 'I've always been known by my adoptive name. There never seemed any particular reason to change it back.' Nigel felt the first signs of discomfort prickle his neck. The day he found out exactly who his parents were and the reason they abandoned him would be the day he took their name. He wasn't even sure Wilkinson was his real name.
There was no mention of Catherine Pratt or Drake in the adoption index.
What happened to her then?'
Nigel shrugged. 'She could have been adopted by a relative without any need for paperwork, an aunt or grandparent.
If you want, I can trace the other members of the family. Aunts, uncles . . .'
Heather thought for a few seconds. We need to know if there's any close family we should inform about her death before it becomes public knowledge. I think it's fair to say that if she didn't speak about her upbringing, then there was nobody close to her so it doesn't really matter. I see no real point for now. Thanks for your help.'
Nigel felt the need to say something. 'I hope you find the missing girl,' was the best he could manage, as Heather shouldered her bag and turned to leave. She smiled back.
'So do I,' she said, but Nigel could sense resignation in her tone. 'Send your invoice . . .'
He held up his hand. 'That was nothing,' he said. 'It's on the house.'
You sure?'
He nodded
'OK. Very kind of you. I'd better get off,' she said, gesturing with her hand towards the door. 'Thanks again.'
'Good luck with the case. And everything else,' he said.
She smiled, fondly he thought. Then she adjusted her bag on her shoulder, and turned away.
Yet again Nigel watched her walk away from him.
The net had been cast across London. Foster stood at the window of Naomi Buckingham's bedroom, a converted attic, and looked out over the roofs and chimneys and trees that stretched westwards against a pale clouded sky, wondering where in the grey benighted city she might be. Were they still looking for a living person? He checked his watch.
Almost twenty-four hours since she left school, the last time she had been seen. If she had been abducted, all his experience told him she would be dead within days. But while her body remained undiscovered there was hope.
He turned back to face the room, watched by the blue eyes of an effeminate young English film star whose name he couldn't recall. Apart from a few books, pictures and a red plastic cup filled with pens, the desk where Naomi's gleaming new personal computer once stood was now bare, the machine removed for its contents to be searched and checked. Everything else remained in place. Her unmade bed, a few items of clothing that spilled from a giant cupboard on to the floor, a stereo and a rack of CDs, and a dressing table whose top was scattered with makeup and toiletries.