Authors: Lee Weeks
At just past nine, Carter arrived at Gerald Foster’s house; the van was parked there; there was a large scratch, down to metal on the driver’s side. There were no lights on in the
house. He walked around to the side of the property, jumped up and held onto the top of the side gate as he peered over into the back garden. He saw a light flickering through the bare branches of
the trees at the end of the garden. Someone was working in the shed. Carter jumped back down and brushed down his coat. He cursed to himself. If there was one thing he hated it was getting his
clothes dirty. He shook his head and steeled himself as he leapt once more up to the top of the gate, gripped, pulled his weight up and swung his legs over. He paused before dropping quietly down
to the ground the other side. Apart from the faint light from the shed, the garden was in total darkness, shadowed by large overbearing trees.
Carter crept down the side of the garden. He kept to the old row of overgrown shrubs for cover. He watched the lights from the shed window as he approached. There was a blackout blind pulled
down over the window but a slight breeze inside the shed was lifting it and a bright light burned inside, dimming occasionally as someone passed between the light source and the window. Now as
Carter got nearer he realized that it was much more than a shed. It was a substantial-looking outbuilding. It went far back into the trees and must have been sixteen feet long. There was heavy-duty
electric wiring up the side of the shed. Whatever Foster did in there, he didn’t like it to be compromised by power cuts.
Carter walked around to the back of the shed, one careful step at a time. There was music coming from inside. The shed radiated warmth. He listened hard and heard the sound of someone planing
wood. Carter tripped over one of the wires leading to the shed and just managed to stop himself from falling but not before he snapped the overhanging branch of the tree as he grabbed for it. Then
the planing and the music stopped as someone had also paused to listen. Carter looked upwards and saw a camera watching him from the trunk of the nearest tree. He crouched beneath its range and
dodged the trees as he moved towards the back of the stand of trees that encased the shed. He heard the sound of the shed door opening and footsteps coming over the frozen ground towards him.
Carter set off towards the edge of the garden beyond the trees and doubled round until he came level with the open shed door and slipped inside.
Jeanie left Tracy and decided to pay Steve Collins a visit and find out for herself what was going on. Tracy said he was too busy to see her that evening. Somehow it
wasn’t sitting right with Jeanie. She drove to the hotel in King’s Cross where he was staying. She showed her badge to the receptionist who told her the room number but also said
she’d find Mr Collins at the bar.
The smell of cheap food – stale fat and reformed meat being fried – greeted Jeanie as she walked away from reception and past a lounge area and then turned left into a bar. Football
was on a big TV screen at the far end of the long bar. Several men were sitting at that end watching it. A few others were dotted around the bar eating dinner or catching up on a bit of work. She
went up to the bar and asked the woman serving, a tired-looking Eastern European, if she knew Mr Collins.
‘Steve?”
‘Yes, Steve Collins.’
The barmaid pointed to a man sitting on the far side of one of the tables beneath the TV screen.
Jeanie recognized him from the photos on Tracy’s lounge walls.
Steve Collins was halfway through a pint of beer and enjoying the football when Jeanie stood in front of him, blocking his view of the TV.
‘Mr Collins?’ He looked her over. ‘Can I have a word please?’ She showed him her warrant card. He studied her for a few seconds as if trying to gauge the severity of her
expression. He nodded and picked up his pint. As he picked up his phone from the table Jeanie saw there were three missed calls from Tracy. He slipped from his stool and followed Jeanie to a table
away from the noise of the TV.
Jeanie sat opposite him as she introduced herself.
‘Sorry to interrupt your evening.’ He didn’t answer. Jeanie was getting the feeling that he liked to stare at women a little too much. ‘I’m Detective Constable
Jeanie Vincent. I’m the Family Liaison Officer who’s been staying with your wife and part of the team investigating the kidnapping of Danielle Foster. Just wanted to update you and talk
about how we propose to go forward with the investigation. First of all I want to thank you for you cooperation in this.’
‘I don’t really have a choice.’
‘It must be very distressing for you?’ Jeanie smiled; her eyes stayed boring into his.
‘I don’t know her.’
‘I see. Even so, what affects your wife affects you?’
He looked away as he shook his head, sighed.
‘I told her – can of worms.’
Jeanie looked at him curiously.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s what she opened when she let that girl into her life.’
‘I know it must be difficult for you but . . .’
‘It’s not difficult because I’m not going to let it be. I’ve already told Tracy I’m not coming back till it’s sorted.’
‘I’d like you to reconsider that please. I’m here to tell you we’d like you to go back home now. We need you to be aware of a few things.’ Jeanie stopped
mid-sentence when he saw Steve shake his head and take a long swig of beer.
‘I’m not going back. I’ve decided. Not till it’s all over. I’m better off here, away from it all. I wouldn’t be any help to Tracy.’
‘Oh.’ Jeanie pretended to look surprised but in her heart, she’d been half expecting it. ‘We think you would be a lot of help to Tracy, Mr Collins. It would give her both
moral and physical support, plus security. She’s often on her own with Jackson.’
‘You stay with her then. That’s your job, isn’t it? What do you expect me to do?’
‘She doesn’t need me in the evenings after Jackson goes to bed. She needs you. We believe she might be in danger. Jackson, the little boy, might be a target.’
‘That’s the point. I have got enough on my plate at the moment without becoming caught up in this. I’m sorry and all that but I don’t want to get involved.’
‘Okay, Mr Collins. I am, of course, disappointed by your decision. If you’ve really made up your mind not to help then I’ll not waste any more of your time and I’ll
go.’
Steve looked her over as she stood and buttoned up her coat.
‘Sorry I couldn’t help,’ he said. Jeanie didn’t answer him. ‘Can I just ask though? Is there any compensation for loss of earnings?’
‘You have a good job though, don’t you, Mr Collins?’
He looked defensive.
‘Yes, but Tracy’s earnings.’ He shrugged. ‘They may not be much – but we need them.’
‘I’ll get it looked into. I’ll make sure I talk to Tracy about it. Thank you for your time.’
Jeanie muttered ‘
Takes all sorts
’ as she left the hotel
.
Carter looked around the shed as he kept one eye on the door. The place had a slightly stale, muggy smell, as if someone stayed in there most of the time. Here was where Gerald
Foster preferred to be. This was where he actually lived. There was a bed in the corner, lying on a raised wooden box. There was a chest of drawers. Above the bed there was a curtain covering the
wall behind. Carter walked across and lifted it. He found himself looking at pictures of Danielle. He turned to see Gerald Foster standing in the entrance to the shed with a hammer resting in his
hand. Foster stepped inside the shed and closed the door behind him.
Foster drummed the head of the hammer into his palm.
‘How dare you come in here without a search warrant?’
‘I just saw the light on.’ Carter stood his ground whilst scanning the shed for something he could use as a weapon.
‘This is private property. I would be well within my right to kill you.’
‘I think you’ll find that that’s not strictly true,’ answered Carter with an attempt at a smile. ‘I just want to talk, Mr Foster. That’s a pretty bad scratch
you have on the driver’s side of your van. Looks like you dragged something.’
‘Wasn’t me. One of the lads used it.’
‘Lads?’
‘I lent it to someone down at the Canal Museum. They borrowed it to move their son. Apparently one of his friends was larking around and drove it into some metal contraption. Bloody
typical irresponsible behaviour. Last time I lend anything.’
‘Would you be able to provide me with a name and address for the person who was driving your van today?’
Foster squared up to Carter. He nodded. ‘I’ll get it for you and ring you tomorrow. Goodbye.’
Carter pointed to the wall of photos. ‘You seem to have quite a shrine to Danielle here.’
‘Not to her. To happy times. To Marion and me. They were our best times,’ Foster repeated as he looked at the photos. ‘We were happy then. Just for a brief time.’
‘Thought Danielle brought you nothing but trouble?’
‘But for a while we were the perfect family. Then all Marion’s time was taken up worrying about Danielle and she grew sick with it. She worried herself into an early grave. But these
years . . .’ His face softened as he looked at the photos. ‘These were the best years for all of us: Marion and me – we were happy then.’ Carter looked back at the wall;
behind each smiling face of Danielle there was Gerald or his wife. ‘Search the place if you want.’
Carter pulled out drawers and lifted up the lids on the boxes and trunks around the cabin. He left the bed till last. He was looking at the way it was raised and resting on a wooden box. He
lifted the corner of the mattress, a futon, and knocked the base. There was an echo. Carter knew he was sweating. He knew he was breathing hard as he tried to stay calm and think of all the things
he should have thought of before now –
too late
was what popped into his brain.
Too frigging late.
‘Can I see what’s beneath?’
Foster shrugged.
‘Sure.’
Carter stood back.
‘Can you lift it for me please?’
Foster lifted the bedding right back, folded it into a neat pile. He folded the mattress back. Then he prised up the corner of the box enough to get his hand beneath. He paused, turned towards
Carter and, at that minute, Carter was deciding his options. He had already taken a step nearer the door and had made a note of anything he might use as a weapon. He knew he was faster than Foster
but was he stronger?
‘I need a hand.’ Foster nodded towards the foot of the bed. ‘Here.’ He handed him a wrench. Carter slid the end beneath the top of the box and together they lifted it.
Carter stood back and looked at Foster. Foster nodded.
‘Go ahead, open it.’
Carter knocked on the lid and then slid it across. Beneath it, lying in the bottom, was a shroud and an urn.
‘Marion.’ Foster looked at Carter. ‘I have left instructions that I want our ashes to be joined and scattered at Margate. That was where we used to take Danielle for day trips.
Happy times.’
‘Why do you live out here?’
‘I can’t bear to sleep alone in the house.’
‘People get ill, Gerald. There is no blame attached to cancer. People cope with it in different ways and families manage it as best they can. Danielle wouldn’t have wanted Marion to
get ill. She couldn’t have given her cancer as you suggest. There’s no justice with cancer – and no blame.’
‘I know. I know. I’m not a fool. I didn’t cope with it as well as I could have done. When I think of those teenage years with Danielle I just see my wife getting sicker and my
life spiralling out of control. It all seemed to go so wrong. All the plans, all the hope we had for the future came to nothing and the one person I loved in my life is gone. Danielle took all my
energy that I should have given to my wife in her dying years.’
Carter reached out and patted Gerald Foster’s shoulder.
‘You did your best.’
He turned to Carter. ‘Maybe. I wish we’d never adopted her. I wish we’d just had each other and not hankered after a child so much. But . . . I hope you find her. I hope she
does make a good life for herself and the little boy.’
Harding was sitting at her office desk in one of a suite of rooms in the basement of the Whittington Hospital, which housed the mortuary and post mortem room as well as her
laboratory. She looked across at Mark, who was fishing a brain out of formaldehyde ready for slicing into centimetre-wide slices, and wondered if tonight was the night she should make her move.
She phoned Robbo. It was very late – he could have gone home a few hours ago, but instead he had stayed to work on the case.
‘Results are through on examination of the ulcerated sites and necrosis on Pauline Murphy’s body. I’ll be over in a minute. I can’t get hold of Carter – his phone
is switched off. I’ll come across and see Chief Inspector Bowie instead but I’ll send you the results first – they’re interesting. You may want to get
researching.’
Harding got out of her protective work clothes and pulled on her fur-trimmed floor-length coat as she picked up her car keys.
‘I’m going across to talk to Chief Inspector Bowie. Will you be okay working late tonight?’
Mark looked up from his work and nodded.
‘You driving?’ he asked. ‘It’s really icy out there.’
‘I am driving, yes. I refuse to allow a bit of ice to stop me; plus I thought I’d pick up a couple of bottles of something for later, just in case we get thirsty.’ She waited
for him to look up again from his work. He didn’t.
Harding parked outside Fletcher House and punched in her passcode at the door. She took the lift up to MIT 17 and arrived at Bowie’s office at the same time as Carter.
‘Doctor?’ Carter waited until Robbo and Harding were settled and ready to speak.
‘As you know we took samples from the ulcerated sites. Results are back.’
‘Yes?’ Bowie was looking as rough as he always did, thought Carter.
‘They’re caused by spider bites. Those were the needle-like wounds. They were spider’s fangs.’