Dan Waddell: Blood Atonement

She told him about Leon ie.

'Have you got her?'

No, came the reply, and the reasons why. Foster punched the dashboard, not so much in anger -- he knew there was no lawful reason for them to keep her. It was frustration, lack of sleep. It was the dilemma over what he would tell Gary when the boy asked about his sister. If Gary was still alive.

Heather told Foster about Dominic, and Nigel's theory about him being Anthony Chapman. In turn, Foster mentioned the full text of the revelation on the Church's website.

What shall we do now?' she asked.

'Sit tight. Not sure there is much more you can do on your own. Let me speak to Harris. First of all, though, put me on to Nigel.'

She handed the phone to Barnes. The two men exchanged greetings.

'Listen, mate, there's not much you can do from there.

But I can be your researcher here. We need to track down this Dominic from what we know. You pull the levers, I'll be the puppet.'

Nigel paused. Well, we have half a name, no address, no occupation and the major building block we do have, his birth certificate, is irrelevant because he was adopted without a paper trail.'

Foster smiled for the first time in what seemed an age.

'And the good news?'

We know his adoptive father was a brewer. There won't have been many in that parish.'

'Certainly not in the past fifty years or so. Small, independent brewers have been decimated. I've had someone get hold of a list of the current congregation of St Matthew's from the present vicar -- some of them might have been involved for a long time and they'll be worth talking to. We know the adoptive parents were wealthy. Round here, they would have stuck out like a wine merchant in a working men's club. Even if they weren't regular churchgoers, people might of known of them. Where should I start the paper trail?'

'You sure you want to get lost in the world of genealogy?'

'I'm

up for it. I've had a good teacher.'

Foster's first stop was the London Metropolitan Archives where the parish registers for most of the London churches were held. On Nigel's advice, he went through every single marriage held at St Matthew's since the end of the Second World War -- nineteen years before the birth of Anthony Chapman. Two marriages struck him in particular. Henrietta Llewellyn Oakley and Kathryn Llewellyn Oakley were sisters who married three years apart, 1957 and 1960. Their father was Henry Oakley, the grooms were Samuel Heathcote Smythe and Edward St John Ashbourne.

He looked at the names and the chip on his shoulder told him there was money here. Closer inspection revealed his hunch was right. Henry Oakley was local, a brewer.

One of Hardwicke, Oakley and Parsons, known universally as Hops, a small London brewery that passed away in the early 1980s after being bought by a national brewer.

Henry Oakley was the last of the family to run the business; in fact, his retirement was the catalyst for it being floated on the stock market.

Foster fed the information back to Nigel, who told him to head to the National Archives to check out the Oakley children. He was getting nearer. He could sense it and he was enjoying the feeling.

Henrietta Oakley bore five children, all girls. Her elder brother was Henry junior. Childless, it appeared. He did not marry either. Foster went to the death indexes; in 1962

Henry junior died of pneumonia. He returned to the birth indexes, this time in search of the offspring of Kathryn Ashbourne, nee Oakley, who married in 1960.

Her first child was born in 1969. She went on to have three, after nine years of childlessness. Anthony Chapman was adopted in 1964. Would four years have been enough time for the family to have panicked? The brewery was still in their hands. The firstborn was dead, the only male.

Their elder daughter was giving birth to a string of females.

The younger was in her fourth year of marriage, no child.

Obviously the anxiety would be most keenly felt by Kathryn, who would want a child of her own. But wouldn't the lack of a male heir to a family business increase the pressure, persuade the family to take drastic action?

There was no reference to Kathryn Ashbourne in the death indexes. She was still alive.

Next was the National Newspaper Library at Colindale. The Times had run a detailed obituary of Henry Oakley. At the end it mentioned nine grandchildren. The BMD

indexes confirmed eight. He cross-referenced his information with an old copy of Who's Who, which also said nine grandchildren.

One was unaccounted for.

Foster hurtled along the M40, on his way to Clifton Hampden and the home of Kathryn Ashbourne.

He turned up a gravel drive that led to the old vicarage, which had been the family's home for the past twenty-five years. The electoral register told him the Ashbournes lived there alone, the children long gone. As he got out of the car, Foster noticed the silence. A dog barked way in the distance, but apart from that nothing. It always made him feel edgy. He was a city boy -- he needed the background thrum of the city, and the lack of noise made him feel uneasy.

He went to the side of the house and saw a portico entrance. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang again.

Please let them be in, thought Foster. Just as he was about to give up he heard the sound of footsteps. A latch was dropped and the wooden door swung open, revealing a tall, proud and still-handsome woman in her late sixties.

'Mrs Ashbourne?'

'Yes, I'm Mrs Ashbourne,' she said in soft yet clearly enunciated tones.

'Sorry to disturb you at home. I'm from the Metropolitan Police. May I come in?' He flashed his ID.

The woman's pale ivory skin appeared to blanche further.

'Oh, no,' she said, panicked. Whatever's happened?'

'Nothing to be alarmed about, madam,' Foster explained softly. "I just need a quick chat, if you have the time?'

'Yes, yes, of course,' she replied, and ushered him in.

The house was silent, apart from the sonorous tick and tock of a large grandfather clock. They went through a reception area into a drawing room. The windows at the back looked out on to a vast and well-manicured garden.

She gestured him towards a sofa while she went and made tea. After five minutes of oppressive silence, just the sound of his breathing and the solemn ticking of the clock, she returned with a tray replete with teapot, jug of milk, sugar and cups with saucers.

'Is your husband around, Mrs Ashbourne?' Foster said, accepting his tea.

She shook her head. 'No, he's retired but he spends a few days a week as a non-executive director for some companies up in town. There's a meeting today. He's due back around four.' She glanced at a wall-mounted clock. It was just gone two.

She heaped two sugars into her tea and gave it a vigorous stir. Then she sat down, perched on the edge of the chair. She seemed fit and active. Foster guessed the immaculate garden was her doing. He also wondered at her resolve. He had been in the house for some time and not once had she asked the reason for his visit.

Are you here about Edward?' She took a sip of tea.

'Your husband?'

Yess, my husband, Edward.'

'No.' Foster took a sip of tea. It was scalding hot. The woman must have asbestos lips. He put it back down on the table. 'It's quite a delicate situation, to be honest.'

'Oh. Really?'

'I'm sorry, there's no way for me to do this without being blunt. I apologize in advance.' He paused. 'Did you adopt a child in 1964?'

She said nothing. Just stared at him without blinking.

Then she took a sip of tea before she glanced down at the floor. 'So it's about Dominic,' she said quietly.

Yes.'

She sighed. Her face no longer appeared proud. She looked sad, almost broken, as she nodded her head. 'I suppose deep down I've been waiting for this day for a long time. What has he done?'