The Blood Detective

'Hi, Dave,' he said, before even looking around.

Sure enough, it was Dave Duckworth. Overweight, perennially sweaty, monobrowed Dave Duckworth.

He had worked with Nigel at the agency before the old man died.

'So, Nigel, I hear Branches Agency, like Lazarus, has risen from the dead.'

Their paths had not crossed in the three weeks since Nigel had returned.

'You hear right, Dave.'

Dave wore a look of fake surprise. 'So am I to infer that the wisdom of a certain N. Barnes failed to take the world of academia by storm?'

'Something like that.'

Dave smiled broadly, then nodded at Khan and Heather. 'But, it appears that you have been sufficiently remunerated as to actually hire some staff.'

Nigel could see Heather's eyes narrow. Hers was the type of face that was quick to display emotion.

She both daunted and fascinated him.

Before Nigel could introduce them both, Dave leapt in. 'I jest, of course.'

Heather's smile dripped insincerity. Nigel could tell she thought him a creep. He couldn't fault her judgement of character.

'I know you're police officers,' Dave added.

No one said anything.

'It's the talk of the FRC, how you rolled up with half of CID. What's the undertaking?'

'I think you'll find that's confidential, Mr . . . ?'

Heather said.

'Duckworth. Dave Duckworth,' he said, thrusting out his right hand. 'If you require any further expert help, then don't hesitate to give me a bell.' He pulled a couple of his cards from a brown leather wallet.

'Thank you, Mr Duckworth,' Heather responded icily. 'Mr Barnes is doing a good job but we'll bear your offer in mind.'

'Please do,' he said, beaming a smile, before turning to Nigel once more. 'Could we have a brief tete-a tete?'

'I'm busy, Dave.'

'Ten seconds. No more.'

'Excuse me,' Nigel said to the detectives.

He followed Duckworth to the wall by the locker rooms, wondering what it was he wanted. Something to do with money, he guessed. It was Dave Duckworth's god. His whole career, his whole life, was dedicated to making it. Jobs were not judged by the quality of the research, but by the quantity of the payment. Nigel never sensed any love of the past in Dave, the thrill of the search, an interest in the stories of the dead, only a need to obtain as much work, and therefore as much cash, as possible. No one knew what Dave spent it on. He dressed cheaply, had no social life to speak of, and was notoriously thrifty.

Nigel pictured him sitting at home in his fetid flat counting piles of coins with a thimble.

'I really am in the middle of something, Dave,'

Nigel said, wearily.

'I know. You're in the middle of a murder investigation.'

For

a second, Nigel was speechless. 'How do you know that?'

Dave, infuriatingly, tapped his nose. 'That's for me to know, Nigel, and you and your friends to find out. More pressing is, what do we do next?'

'What do you mean?'

Dave leaned in closer, breaching personal space.

Nigel didn't like it: there was a strong smell of rancid coffee on his breath.

'I mean, how about we inform one of my contacts among the fourth estate, brief them as to what's going on here and receive an emolument for our trouble?'

he whispered.

'How much do you know, Dave?'

'That it's something to do with the murder a couple of nights ago in Notting Hill'

'I still don't know how you know.'

'That doesn't matter. As I said, the question is what happens next.'

Nigel straightened himself up. He looked across; Heather was staring at them both.

'What happens next is this: I tell you to fuck off, Dave. I've got a job to do.' He left Duckworth and went back to the table.

Heather gave him a look of concern. 'Everything OK?' she asked.

Nigel took a deep breath. 'Yeah, he's just an old colleague.'

'You don't exactly seem to be the best of friends.'

He shrugged. 'Small world, professional genealogy and research. All chasing the same money, things get a bit competitive.'

He held back from telling her that Duckworth made most of his money these days doing the bidding of national newspapers. Whenever someone became news, the tabloids would be on the blower, asking him to research their family history, see if there were any skeletons in the closet, or help them track down other family members to speak to. Before leaving for the university, Nigel had worked for the press a few times, though he'd always loathed himself for it. But the money compensated for that.

'How did he know we were police?'

'I don't know. Perhaps someone at the GRO, or in the centre here.'

She shook her head. 'No one knows about the reference outside the team. Apart from you.'

Heather had swiftly mastered the art of making Nigel feel uncomfortable. As if realizing this, her face softened and she gave him a warm smile.

'Don't worry, Nigel. We don't reckon you've told him. Christ, we only told you eighteen or so hours ago and you've barely been out of our sight since.

Perhaps you could use your skills of persuasion to find out his source?'

'Consider it done,' he said earnestly. 'I don't think he knows about the reference or he would have told me. He's the sort of guy who can't hide things, especially if he thinks he can lord it over you.'

'So what did he want?'

'Talked a bit of shop.'

Khan intervened. 'We should tell Foster. Warn him that the press might get this.'

'Get what?' Heather asked. 'All he can say is that detectives were at the Family Records Centre. It means nothing. We could be tracing our family trees for all he knows, some sort of police genealogy drive.

Let the little creep do his worst.'

DC Khan stood up and went to the Gents.

Heather looked at Nigel.

'So what was that about the "world of academia"?'

He enjoyed her interest in him, but she was veering too close to an area he wished to avoid. Nothing Duckworth said seemed to have gone unnoticed by her.

'Eighteen months ago I gave this up. It wasn't panning out the way I expected. I got an offer to work at Middlesex University, setting up a course in family history. Things didn't work out,' he explained, not wanting to go into any more detail.

*You got fed up with genealogy?'

'Running a business doing other people's genealogy.'

'But you're back doing it.'

Yes I am, he thought. Except now I'm working for the police on a murder case and it feels like a shot at redemption.

'Come on,' he said. 'Let's find the rest of those certificates.'

6

By early afternoon Heather had faxed through the references for 457 birth, death and marriage certificates.

The most Nigel had ever ordered at the end of one day was seventeen. It had taken four days before he could collect the copies. The 457 were all found, copied and faxed through to West London Murder Command in less than two hours.

Nigel was told to meet at murder squad HQ in Kensington at four p.m. He was there ten minutes early. He announced himself downstairs to a woman on the desk and was told to take a seat. He had nothing to read and there was nothing on the table for him to flick through, but then this was hardly the dentist's.

Heather finally emerged from a lift and passed him through the security gate. They ascended several floors, stopping at an open-plan office. Only a few people were milling about, some on the phones, a few more staring at their computer screens. Nigel expected more activity, hubbub, not the sort of inertia you would witness in a provincial insurance office.

The only giveaway that this was the incident room at the heart of a murder investigation was at the back of the room: a large whiteboard, which was attracting Nigel's appalled fascination long before they turned right and started walking towards it.