Dan Waddell - The Blood Detective

Jemima appeared at the top step like a ghost.

'Segar?' she whispered.

He looked at her. He felt pity, no more. She had borne him three children, but the woman was godless at heart. She prayed only because she knew he would visit his anger upon her if she did not. A simpering creature.

"It is me,' he said.

Are you hungry? Do you wish to eat?"

He shook his head and stepped on to the landing. He could smell the soap on her. For a second he was transported to another time, a distant land in which he remembered promenading hand in hand through Hyde Park, the sun on their backs, her beaming with joy, him with pride.

A different time, he told himself. I was a different man.

The call had not yet come.

'No.'

He brushed past her and made his way to the children's room. They slept in the one bed. Outside the door of his little ones, he listened. Not a murmur.

He stepped in. It was darker in here and he waited until his eyes had adjusted. When they had, he could see Abigail asleep on the left side of the bed, arm hanging outside. Rebecca was on her back, head on the pillow. Both were in a deep sleep.

He walked over. Abigail turned and murmured. When the time came he would spare them the knife and find some other way to send them into Paradise. The idea of hurting his darling twin girls, the only two people on the planet for whom he cared, who made him smile, made him feel of this earth, was abhorrent.

Both girls were bold,yet enjoyed their scripture. Not like Esau.

He went to church under duress. A timid boy, he rarely ventured far from his mother's skirts. For the past month he had been unable to look in his father's eyes, terrified by what he saw there.

But where was he now? He looked either side of the bed.

He was not on the floor, as he sometimes was, escaping the flailing arms and legs of his two younger sisters. He left the room. Esau was not in his parents' bedroom either; Jemima swore on her life he had gone to bed and not been seen since.

He stopped for a second. Had the boy grown suspicious?

Sneaked from the house and followed him? The boy was smart, perhaps too smart. He yawned. It could wait. Esau would return.

In the morning the truth would be found. Then he would use the belt.

Foster felt as if he was emerging from the deepest sleep he had ever experienced. Semi-conscious, it was a few seconds before he even considered the effort of opening his eyes. He was lying down, but his body was unable to move. It had yet to catch up with his mind.

What had happened? He remembered the pub.

Then nothing. Had he been that tired? Collapsed maybe, brought home. Yet this didn't smell like his room. It smelled musty -- a heavy scent of cardboard, like some of the archives Barnes had taken him to.

He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling by a dirty white flex. There was no other source of light, natural or not. The ceiling was bare concrete, immaculately clean. The walls beneath it appeared pockmarked. As his eyes adjusted, he could see they were lined with what seemed to be eggboxes, an attempt at soundproofing perhaps.

Foster felt his limbs prickle. Feeling was returning.

Why had it gone? He attempted to lift his right hand, but it wouldn't move. Something tight was holding it down, a strap of some sort. Likewise his other hand, his arms, both legs and chest. His clothes were gone, save for his boxer shorts. He tugged hard with his right hand, but the binding wouldn't give. He patted the surface he was lying on. A bed of some sort.

There was a flutter of panic in his stomach.

To his left were piles of boxes stretching to the ceiling. To the right were more boxes, some items of furniture, a chest of drawers and a cabinet. Either side of the bed there were perhaps three or four feet of room. However hard he tried to lift his head, he was unable to see what lay behind or in front of him, but he could sense more clutter looming. It was like being surrounded by the entire contents of a house.

There was a shuffling sound from a corner, outside of his vision. He was aware of breathing, a presence.

'Is someone there?' he mumbled.

No reply.

'Is someone there?' he repeated, more insistent.

A figure appeared at his right shoulder. Foster struggled to focus on his face. He made out dark hair, and that the figure appeared to be holding something, but he was unable to make out what.

'Who's that?' he moaned, his voice weak.

No answer. Foster repeated his question. Still no reply.

'What the fuck is this?' he asked louder, trying to move his arms.

The figure continued to stand by him. Then he spoke, voice clipped, without emotion.

'This,' he said slowly, 'is retribution.'

He strapped some tape over Foster's mouth.

Foster felt his insides lurch with terror. He tried to spit out the tape, force it off. It was impossible.

The man ignored his muffled cries, moved away out of sight. Foster felt him undo the buckle around his right ankle. Instinctively when it was free, his foot kicked out, but he had no strength and no other limb to fight with. The man held down his leg with one firm hand; there was a scraping noise as he pulled something across the floor, another smaller table of some sort. He lifted Foster's foot so the heel and ankle rested on this new platform; the section of his leg from knee to ankle was unsupported. The man strapped his ankle to its new position.

Foster's vision became clearer. At last he could make out the man. It was Karl. The instrument he was holding above his head was a sledgehammer; Foster watched as he lifted it high. He began to struggle against his bindings, trying to jerk and twist his body out of the way, but he was too tightly pinioned.

'No!' Foster screamed, but the tape blocked all sound.

He knew what was about to happen, but could do nothing except wait for the impact. There was a crack as the hammer came down with sufficient weight to smash both his tibia and fibula. The pain roared up from his shin like fire.

He let out a howl of agony no one could hear.

Then slipped out of consciousness.

Nigel stared out of the window of the FRC canteen at the grey morning, silently reproaching himself. Had he checked out the change of name sooner, they might have had a chance to warn Foster. Heather told him to forget it. Foster's phone records revealed that the call that had lured him away from the family history meeting had been made from a public phone box on Ladbroke Grove just before six p.m., well before Nigel had confirmed Foster was a descendant.

Still Nigel blamed himself. He went over all the details he had soaked up over the past week: the newspaper reports, trial transcripts, the endless certificates and census returns he had waded through, searching for some detail that might lead them to Foster and the killer. Nothing came. Time was bleeding away from them. By the end of that day Foster would be killed.

He forced himself to think once more.

Heather, face pale and wan, had gone to join the search. Every cop in London was being called in to help, all leave cancelled. Their leads were turning up nothing. During the night word had come that Eke Fairbairn and the killer's DNA were not a match.

Their one hope - that pursuing the descendants of Eke Fairbairn might lead them to Foster's kidnapper and their serial killer - had been extinguished.

Nigel felt useless, knowing of no way he could help. The last victim in 1879 had been found in a small garden square off Portobello Road. That was being watched. There seemed little more for him to do but wait and see whether half the Metropolitan Police could scour the entire area and find their colleague.

For the sake of completeness he had finished tracing Pfizer's descendants. Foster was the last of the line, the killer's only choice.