Dan Waddell: Blood Atonement

They could not discount the idea she had done this.

Killed her own mother and run.

Foster stood in the victim's sitting room, holding and staring at a school photograph of her daughter as if it would yield him a secret. He replaced it on the mantelpiece, her face etched on his mind. The long, straight blonde hair; the pale blue eyes; the hopeful, uncertain smile of a girl on the edge of womanhood. He wondered with a sense of dread about what state she would be in when they eventually found her.

He glanced around the room. It was immaculate, barely a spot of dust anywhere, books and magazines straightened

into neat piles on the coffee table, cushions plumped and cornered neatly at each end of the sofa. Perhaps Katie Drake was one of those people who couldn't abide mess. He wandered through to the kitchen, situated at the back of the sitting room, off what was presumably once a dining room until it was knocked through.

Again, nothing out of place. Two glasses sat on the draining board. They had been washed. The kettle was unplugged and the coffee-maker pristine. Foster pressed the lid of the metal bin with his foot and it swung open. Nothing much to report in there. The fridge was well stocked. Looked like Katie and her daughter liked to eat healthily going by the amount of soups and salad materials.

Foster called a member of the forensic team over to remind them to examine the two glasses beside the sink.

He checked the windows and doors all over the house.

No sign of forced entry. The killer had been allowed in.

The girl? He glanced one more time at the photograph on the mantelpiece. Slit her mother's throat? He doubted it.

But he could be wrong.

Foster returned to the garden where Katie Drake's body still lay, housed in a tent. Edward Carlisle, the pathologist, was going about his duty with grim efficiency. The body might not be moved for a while, until the whole scene was processed.

Carlisle spotted Foster enter, the serious frown he adopted for his work lifting briefly.

'Good to see you again, Grant,' he said, his usually rich public school voice ravaged by the effects of a cold. 'On the mend?'

'Never better,' Foster replied breezily, not wanting to dwell on it. 'What have you found?'

He turned his face up. 'I'll need to have a closer look in a post mortem. The throat was slit out here, though.'

Heather slipped into the tent beside him. He could tell from her face she had more news.

What?'

'We've found Naomi's father,' she said. 'Stephen Buckingham.'

'Let's

pay him a visit.'

Stephen Buckingham looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice from which he would soon be pitched.

He sat in the blue-upholstered armchair in the living room of his house in Esher, eyes wide. Foster sat across from him, nursing a cup of tea provided by Buckingham's second wife, a shy, conservatively dressed woman, who padded around them softly, casting nervous, anxious glances at her husband. It was shortly after nine o'clock and the couple's two children had left for school.

Foster had broken the news about his ex-wife's death and his daughter's disappearance. He'd asked whether Buckingham had had any contact with either of them the day before.

'I was in Leeds on business,' he said softly, looking down at his fingers, which picked and played with each other. 'It was Naomi's birthday so I called her mobile at lunchtime. The call was very quick because she was out getting something to eat with friends and it was difficult to hear over the traffic, the sirens . . .'

Foster nodded, he knew the feeling. The sound of the city.

'She seemed pretty excited about going skating with her mum and her friends and then a meal. I said I'd see her Saturday. . .'

His voice tailed away. Foster didn't interrupt.

We were going shopping in town. My treat. Her mother wasn't fond of it, thought I was spoiling her. But there was little I did with Naomi that her mother approved of.'

Foster asked when he had arrived back from Leeds.

'I flew back. My plane arrived at Heathrow just before ten o'clock at night. I was tired so I got a cab back here. It was shortly after eleven when I got here, isn't that right, Sheila?'

Sheila bit her lip and nodded. 'About that time, yes,' she agreed softly.

'Sorry, can you excuse me?' Heather said, standing by the door. 'I just need to make a call.' She slipped out.

'When did you and your first wife separate?' Foster asked.

'Eleven years ago, when Naomi was three. It just wasn't working. It was pretty volatile for a while afterwards, but while Katie was hot-headed, she also loved Naomi with everything she had, and knew she couldn't keep me away.

We soon fell into a routine. My work takes me away, but I always make time to see her and spend time with her. I've remarried since, had two more kids, but it never affected my relationship with Naomi.'

Had Katie remarried?

Buckingham shook his head. 'No. There had been other men, that much I know from Naomi. But she wasn't a 10

tittle-tattle and, to be honest, I wasn't really that interested.

I don't think she was seeing anyone at the moment. In fact, from what I'd gleaned from Naomi, I sensed Katie had been having a hard time of it.

'In what way?'

'Not entirely sure. She was an actress. When I first met her, she was a real beauty. She got lots of work, some TV, adverts, mainly stage work, which was her real love. In recent years it had all gone a bit quiet. I think that got her down. Naomi made a few oblique references to her mother drinking. She never touched a drop when we first met, which was why it jarred with me a bit. She liked to smoke reefers back then.'

What about Naomi? Did she have any boyfriends?'

Buckingham smiled for the first time. 'You've seen her picture. What do you reckon? From what she said, she seemed to be beating them off with a stick at school.'

The smile vanished. The vacant stare returned.

Had she mentioned anyone in particular?

Buckingham looked up at Foster, as if noticing him for the first time. 'Sorry,' he muttered. 'Miles away'

'Did Naomi mention any boy in particular, one that might have been pursuing her perhaps?'

'No. She did mention one boy she fancied who was a bit older. He was in a band. The name escapes me. The reason I remember is that he was quite a bit older, seventeen or something, and I thought that was a bit too old and said so. She said she was at the back of the queue anyway'

There was another silence as Buckingham scratched at his wrist and Foster wondered whether, if his own life had taken a different turn, or his personality had, he might have been playing an active part in a fourteenyear-old's life. And, not for the first time, given the pain and suffering this man was experiencing, whether it was all worth it.

Was living your life with only one person to worry about the easiest option?

What do you think has happened to her, detective?'

Buckingham's weary voice betrayed his hopeful expression.

Foster shrugged. 'I hope we find out soon,' he said.

'Rest assured we're putting every resource we can muster into finding Naomi.'

He paused before his next question.

'Are you a wealthy man, Mr Buckingham?'

The man's eyes narrowed. Then he realized what Foster was alluding to. 'I'm comfortably off, no more. I publish three magazines, none of them that successful. You think I'll get a ransom demand?'

Foster could see a glint of hope in his manner and expression. That would at least mean Naomi was still alive. He also knew Buckingham was downplaying his wealth. This house, Foster estimated, was worth at least a million. A black Mercedes convertible was parked on the drive. He had spoken about the money he liked to spend on his daughter. They could not rule out a financial motive.