He thought he would save the truth for another day.
We'll talk about that tomorrow. I hope so, but there are a few things we need to sort out first. I promise we'll do all we can.'
Gary looked downcast.
I better get all the bad news over with, he thought.
'You'll need to be questioned officially,' he added. 'You'll be OK. Just be polite. Difficult though you might find it.'
The boy looked knackered.
'Come on,' Foster added. 'You can have the spare room again. You've had quite a day'
Foster spoke to Naomi the next day. She was a strong young girl, terrified by her ordeal yet not crushed. He admired her resolve enormously. He felt a pang. His daughter, in whom he'd never shown any interest. Maybe one day soon he'd remedy that.
She told them with tears in her eyes how Chapman had taken her as she entered the house from school. He'd grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth and she'd passed out. She woke up, feeling groggy, in the cupboard, unaware of how she'd got there.
When did he tell you that your mother was dead?'
Foster asked softly.
It was the only time she broke down.
'I lost track of time. A day, maybe two days. I asked where she was and he said she was with the Lord and with her kin in the celestial kingdom.'
Foster had wanted to halt it there and then, pick it up another time, but she insisted on continuing the interview.
She said Chapman constantly proselytized about fundamental Mormonism, giving her books to read, testing her at night and rewarding her with food when she demonstrated her knowledge. He spoke to her about the True Church of Freedom, about how they would go there.
They would be married and escape their previously apostate and sin-soaked lives. He would preach, rhapsodize and persuade every second of the day when he was with her. Foster had seen the literature in the house pamphlets produced by the Church, and other fundamentalist texts.
The police found letters from Church members addressed to Chapman, or his adoptive name Dominic Ashbourne, helping him with genealogical information, seeking to reassure him of his reward: the chance to live among them with several wives of his own. An exchange of information and ideas on how to reunite the family under the fundamentalist Mormon banner, killing those beyond salvation, baptizing them into the faith by proxy, atoning for the sins of 1890, and exporting those with something to offer across to the US and the bosom of the Church. His computer also yielded communication with the sect, a series of strange e-mails that appeared to be in some sort of code. The techies were working on deciphering them, but it seemed as if he was the puppet and they were pulling the strings.
'Did he hurt you?' Foster had asked.
She shook her head. 'No, he treated me well,' she replied. 'Apart from locking me in a cupboard.' She forced a brave smile. He had not touched or harmed her, not even losing his temper. When the call came through from his adoptive mother, he'd walked upstairs, spoken to her through the false wall of the cupboard, said it was not God's will that she join them in the celestial kingdom. He would think of another path. She had cried, thinking that meant she wouldn't see her mother again.
Foster looked at her, wondering if the brainwashing had had any effect. 'Do you have any religious belief?'
Anger raged in her eyes. 'There is no God and there is no goodness,' she said with utmost conviction.
Foster thought about disagreeing, but how could he?
He was no hypocrite. The girl had learned the hardest way.
He was sure that it was Chapman who'd made the initial contact with the Church. Unloved, unwanted, troubled, he'd set out in search of his real family. His adoptive mother, under relentless questioning, had let slip the name of his real mother, with whom he'd formed a secretive, belated relationship. How much contact they'd had was unknown. Perhaps she explained to him why she'd given him up and the danger he faced. She had left her house to him in her will, which is how he came to use it as a base.
Along the way he'd discovered the link with the True Church of Freedom. He'd got in touch, been attracted to what it stood for and the family he craved. On their part, they could not believe their luck. Someone willing to atone for the wrongs of 1890 and able to provide them with fresh genes for their small pool in the shape of young girls like Leonie and Naomi. When he encountered Gillian Stamey he was not yet ready to spill blood in atonement -- the correspondence chided him for not doing so - but a few years later, when Naomi was fourteen, he was ready.
They had wanted him to wait until Rachel was fourteen but he said he would not, that he needed to perform his duty now. He would act, then come back for her later. Not wishing to deflect him from his course, they had agreed.
All their information had been passed on to the American law enforcement agencies. They weren't delighted with the news -- the last thing they wanted to do was to raid a commune full of religious nuts and see all hell break loose. The issue had gone to the Home Office, who were pressing for action. The decision was now a political one, taken out of the hands of the police. Unless she was forcibly removed, it looked like Leonie would be staying.
He would need to find the words to explain that to Gary.
Epilogue
The rain came down in great waves, as if the sluice gates had been opened. Foster had given up trying to keep dry and let the rain soak his head and run into his eyes. Had there not been more than a few minutes of the match left then surely the referee would have called it off, given that the pitch was starting to resemble a First World War battlefield.
Hackney Marshes was living up to its name.
That had not prevented Gary winning the game for his team on his own. They were 5--1 up with two minutes left; he'd scored a hat-trick and created the other two goals. His low centre of gravity, ball control, ability to pick a pass -- even if his teammate's ability to receive it was questionable -- and his pace over short distances marked him down as something special. There was an extra characteristic Foster recognized: hunger. The boy loved to have the ball at his feet, enjoyed the challenge of beating a man, and seized every opportunity to shoot whenever the goal came into his sight.
As his third goal went in and the smattering of parents and other hangers-on applauded, Foster had found himself giving Gary a thumbs up. A man in a large overcoat and brown woollen hat saw him do this and sidled up to him.
'Your lad, is he?'
'No,' Foster said.
'Is his dad here?'
'No. Why?'
'I'd be interested in having a word with him, that's all.
About his lad's prospects.'
'There is no dad. Or any other guardian, at the moment.
Are you a scout?'
'Something like that.'
Who for?'
'Queen's Park Rangers.'
'Really?' Foster said. 'My team, QPR.'
'So you know the lad?'
'Yeah.'
'I could give you the details. We just want him to come and train with our academy one day.'
When?'
'Saturday mornings?'
'Next Saturday then?'
The man smiled. Yeah, great. Ten a.m.'
'See you then.'
The man slipped away.
It finished 5--1.The final whistle blew, the players shook hands. His teammates all went to clasp Gary's hand or pat him on the back. Even the defeated opposition. Foster let him go to the changing rooms and get dry and dressed. He waited in the car, feeling the water drip down the back of his neck, and the cold seep into his bones.
Still, he couldn't stop himself smiling. The boy could play. Maybe he'd come and watch him even when a new foster family was found.
Gary came out a few minutes later, drinking a can of Coke, swinging his bag around. He climbed in the passenger seat. He gave Foster a big grin.