'Should I make myself scarce?' he joked. 'Leave by the back door?' He checked his watch. "I need to leave anyway.
I'm collecting an elevenyear-old boy from a care home.'
She didn't appear to hear him. 'Hmmm, wait here,' she said distractedly.
She went to the door. He heard her open it, a few muffled words being said, and the smack of lip being lifted from lip. Footsteps down the hall. Susie explaining she'd had a visitor, walking back in slightly red-faced.
Followed by DS Brian Harris.
Neither of the men spoke for several seconds. Foster knew Harris's marriage had been in trouble, but not quite this deep.
'My life was very simple before I got involved with the Met,' Susie said. 'Drink, Brian? Lemonade or Coke.'
'Just water,' he said, eyeing Foster coolly.
He'd forgotten Harris was teetotal. It explained quite a lot.
She waved another beer at Foster but he declined. She topped up her own glass and let out another barely perceptible chuckle.
'So what are you doing here, Grant?' Harris said wearily.
He looked worn, the events of the previous days having taken their toll.
'Running an idea past Susie. It's a slice of luck you're here, actually. I was about to go to the office and catch you there, but I would've wasted my time. The triple murder out in Essex this morning. Have you heard about it?'
Harris took his water from Susie, nodded his thanks and plunged his empty hand into his pocket. She left the room. Both men watched her go.
'Heard about it?' Harris replied. 'Unfortunately, yes.
It's threatening to take away some of the TV exposure and column inches we hoped to hog with Stephen Buckingham's appeal tomorrow. Time's running out. It's our last throw of the dice. Let's hope the media still think the story of a missing fourteenyear-old is more newsworthy than the murder of a family of a well-known gangster.'
'I think they're connected,' Foster said bluntly.
Harris looked amused. 'Are you being serious?'
Foster nodded. Yes, sir. I was there.'
Harris's expression changed to bemusement. 'So that's where you were. I could have done with you pounding on a few doors.'
Foster ignored the slight.
'On what basis do you think the cases are connected?'
Harris asked.
'The victims were related.'
'How?'
'Distant cousins. They shared a common maternal ancestor.' Before Harris could intervene, he continued.
'The hair left on Katie Drake's clothing belonged to a male. You know they couldn't obtain anything other than an mtDNA sample. It turns out that the person who owns that hair and Katie Drake shared a maternal ancestor.
Could have been ten thousand years ago, could have been a hundred. Forensics knew that and didn't deem it useful.
I thought about it and decided to ask Nigel Barnes, the genealogist who worked on the Karl Hogg case, to discover just how many maternal relations of Katie Drake were still alive. Turns out he can't trace their ancestry back beyond about 1890, which means there weren't many. I fed the names into the database and I came across the Stamey family'
He paused for breath. Susie had walked back into the room. Harris's face wore an inscrutable look, but Foster knew he was listening. 'Go on,' he said.
'Leonie Stanley's mother was found dead of an overdose.
She was a junkie. On the same day, Leonie disappeared.
She was fourteen.' He let the words hang in the air for a few seconds.
'She was kidnapped?'
'The local force looked into it. They decided she ran away.'
'Sounds like valid reasoning to me. There was hardly any attraction for her to stay.'
'Then we have the slaughter of the other branch of the Stamey family'
'Which has all the hallmarks of a gangland slaying, Grant. I see where you're going with this but I don't see anything but coincidence. They were related. So what?
I'm not an expert in genealogy but even I know that you and I could share an ancestor way back in the mists of time.'
Foster expected nothing less. "I know, sir. I don't expect you to give me teams of men and resources to spend time on it. But I think there's a link. I'm in contact with the SIO
on the Stamey family killing.'
'What does he think?'
'That Martin Stamey was a naughty boy who crossed the wrong person.'
Harris gestured as if to say, 'There you go.' Then he admitted, 'Look, Grant, you know as well as I do that we aren't making a great deal of progress on finding Naomi, dead or alive. You keep pursuing this link if you want. But I need something far more concrete if we're going to invest some manpower in it.'
Foster nodded. 'I need some help. There are three living relatives from that maternal bloodline. The Stamey's daughter, who was at a friend's when they killed her family; she's under protection. There's a man in his forties who may or may not exist. And there's Leonie Stamey's younger brother. If I'm right, he might be next. I'd like to put him in a safe house.'
'Where is he now?'
'In a care home. He's a walking crime wave. I'm on my way to get him now.'
You're talking about taking him out of a home and putting him somewhere safe on the basis of a hunch?
Sorry, Grant. Essex murder squad has reason to protect the girl. I can't see the justification for protecting this boy.
Anyway, how can anyone know he's in the care home?
The details of who's there aren't public knowledge. He's as safe there as anywhere.' He looked back at his watch once again. 'Look, I must shoot. Keep me informed how this line of investigation goes. Find me some proof of a definite link and we'll have a chat about this again. We're desperate for some kind, any kind, of breakthrough.' He looked at his watch. 'The performance is due to start in half an hour,' he said to Susie.
'I'll phone a cab,' she said.
'No need. I'm driving.'
'OK, give me a second.' She left them alone once more.
Foster drained his beer. 'Going anywhere nice?'
'The opera. Don Giovanni. You seen it?'
'Not recently, no.' He put the beer down on the side.
'I'll leave you to it then.'
Harris nodded. 'Enjoy your weekend.'
Fat chance of that, Foster thought as he made his way down the hall and out. The sound of your slurping lips kissing Susie will be echoing through my mind.
'Do you have satellite TV?'
They were the first words that Gary had spoken since Foster collected him from the care home. All the way back he sat sullenly staring out of the window, his desire to be hostile quenching any curiosity about where he was being taken. Foster had turned on the radio, found a station that was playing something urban and gritty that he believed Gary might like, but eventually turned it off after he found the beat so banal and repetitive that he'd switched back to a station playing classic hits. Gary did not stir.
You're coming to my place. Not for long. Just until we get something else sorted,' Foster had told him. Again, no response.
It was late when they got back, and Foster took Gary into the lounge and introduced him to the television.
Yes, I do,' he said in reply to Gary's query. 'God knows why. Just more channels with nothing worth watching.'
He handed Gary the remote. 'Find yourself something to watch. As long as it's not pornographic or violent.'
There was a childlike glimmer of excitement in Gary's eyes as he took the thick piece of plastic from Foster. He turned the television on and went straight to the screen listing the available channels.
You know what you're doing then,' Foster said.
Gary shrugged. 'I've stolen loads of these. Is that the new Sony plasma?' he added, nodding towards the television.