Foster snorted with derision, murmured an expletive at a driver in front. 'How does this work for people who did something terrible? Murderers, rapists -- can these people receive the Gospel after they're dead?'
Nigel nodded. As far as he knew, they could. 'It's caused a kerfuffle, not least with Jews who were very angry that their dead could be claimed in such a way. The Mormons have said they've stopped proxy baptisms for dead Jews who aren't direct ancestors of living Mormons.'
'Jesus,' Foster said, shaking his head. 'You see, the dead are dead. They're gone, let them rest. Bury them, don't keep them. It's all just so much hocus-pocus. Don't get me wrong; I think that about all religions. But at least traditional Christianity is based on centuries of moral knowledge and its values are the ones we've built our societies upon. Mormonism just sounds to me like a bloke made it up as he went along and hoodwinked a bunch of gullible knuckle-draggers into following him.'
Nigel was no expert on Mormonism. 'Maybe so. It has its quirks, I grant you. Speaking purely selfishly, I'm delighted they believe what they do. I don't care why they've collected all these records. We're just glad they have, and they've opened them up to us all. What do you think this has got to do with Mormonism, anyway?'
Whoever brainwashed Leonie Stamey had something to do with the Mormon faith. That seems to be clear.
Gary Stamey, the kid I just dropped off, remembers his sister having a kids' book about a boy named Joe finding buried treasure. The Mormon church was founded by some conman called Joseph Smith who was guided to a place by an angel where he dug up some gold tablets with writing on. Turns out, rather handily, that he also found some special glasses that allowed him to decipher and transcribe these tablets. Barking mad, if you ask me. But then what religion stands up to scientific scrutiny?
'But if we work on the basis that the man who visited Leonie Stamey was in some way responsible for her disappearance, which is linked to the kidnap of Naomi Buckingham and the murder of her mother, then there's every chance that the same person is responsible and he has something to do with the Mormon faith. I've just submitted a written request to the Church to see if they have any record of a missionary plying his trade in or around the area where Leonie lived, and the same for those that are working near to Kensal Rise.'
He stopped to swear at another driver, this time beeping his horn in disgust. He returned to the subject. We think he -- or they, or whoever -- will try to get Gary next.
I think they've already tried to get him. Leonie said she would meet up with him in the celestial kingdom. That can only happen if he's dead, unless she comes back to convert him in this life. Yesterday my house was broken into. There's a team there dusting for fingerprints, though I doubt they'll find anything. I'll lay any money it was the killer.'
A thought, an inkling that had been lodged in the back of Nigel's mind since staring at the parish picture of Sarah Rowley and reading the vicar's funeral address, was floating free. It took some time for it to settle, but eventually it did. Then the recognition jolted him like a needle in his side.
Cultists from across the ocean.
'Listen,' he said. 'Sarah Rowley fled some sort of cult, presumably from the United States.' What other English speaking land lay across an ocean? It tallied with Margaret Howell's reminiscences. 'Traditional Christians believed, and many still believe, that the Latter-day Saints were no better than a cult. They could well be Mormons. I could check it out for you tomorrow.'
They were pulling up at East Ham cemetery.
'Let's leave that until the morning,' Foster said, as Nigel felt his heart flutter at what lay behind the black cemetery gates. 'First let's see if there's anything buried with her that helps us out.'
The night was mild yet Nigel found himself shivering despite being layered up in a shirt, a woollen jumper, fleece, scarf and a battered crombie overcoat whose best days were long gone. The rain had relented but the smell of damp sodden earth lingered. He and Foster marched their way across the graveyard to the lot where burial records told him Sarah Rowley was interred. The grave was overgrown with lichen and weed, marked by a simple headstone that tilted upwards at an angle, as if the ground beneath was slowly trying to eject it. Or Sarah Rowley is coming out before we dig her out, he thought ghoulishly.
In his churning stomach he felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation, the latter not helped by the grim determination with which Foster was conducting himself. He could not bear to bring himself to think about what the detective's reaction might be if they discovered the coffin was empty.
A lone arc light lit the scene. A compact excavator was parked at the graveside waiting for midnight to pass and Monday to arrive. The operator looked bored and pissed off, exhaling frequently and disdainfully on a cigarette.
Beside him was another equally bored, unshaven young man whose role was unclear.
'I expected there to be more of us,' Nigel said, trying to roll a cigarette despite his shaking hands.
Foster watched him fix his cigarette.
Nigel gestured, as if to ask whether he wanted one rolling, and was met with an emphatic shake of the head.
'Not if you paid me,' Foster said. He looked at the meagre exhumation party. 'There would be more, if we'd been doing this officially. But we're not. These two guys are from a company that does this sort of thing for us and I'm paying them out of my own pocket as it stands. Keep that to yourself, though.' He glanced at his watch and strolled off to speak to the excavator operator.
Nigel took a deep drag on his cigarette and shook his head. Maybe some secrets are best left dead, he thought.
But then he thought of Naomi Buckingham cowering somewhere, alone and petrified, or lying dead in some unmarked ditch, and he told himself to stop being so precious. Yet the revelation that Foster was doing this on the sly did little to quell the bubbling in his guts. More than he would like was riding on them finding a lead in the grave. He shivered again. Foster returned.
'I tell you what, we're lucky she's buried in consecrated ground. Over there with the non-believers they're sometimes buried one on top of each other, which would have made it interesting if she was on the bottom.' He sniffed, and clapped his hands together. 'This is how it's going to play out. Mickey in the digger is going to scoop out the soil to the required depth. Then you're going to jump in with a spade.'
What?'
Foster smiled. 'Lighten up, eh? If some of these lot rose from the dead, they'd be less stiff than you. Seriously.
Once we've exposed the coffin, young Jim there will check we have the right one, hopefully by reading the inscription plate. He'll open the lid and we have to be ready. Keep clear because it could smell a bit. A lot, actually. There's ninety years or so of decomposition in there and the gases to match, so be prepared. Once the lid's opened and whatever foul gasses need to escape have escaped, then we'll have a look and see what we can find. I've got a jemmy to open the tin if we find it.'
Nigel drew the last from his cigarette before it burned his fingers. Will there be anything left of her?' he asked, flicking the stub away.
Foster raised his broad shoulders and let them fall.
'Depends. If the undertaker did a good job, then there might be a fair bit of her left. We'll soon find out, won't we?'
Nigel sensed he was enjoying his discomfort. Foster checked his watch once more. Nigel looked at his. It was midnight. They waited for a few more seconds to elapse, before Foster whirled his hand above his head and the excavator's engine roared into life. Foster gestured for Nigel to stand beside him at the side of the grave.
The wet soil yielded easily, the jaw of the machine tearing it in chunks. The operator worked swiftly, clawing lumps of soil, depositing them to one side, before slicing out another layer. Each bite at the earth caused Nigel's chest to tighten and his breath grow shorter. The hole grew deeper and wider, less of the excavator's arm visible above the ground until the unshaven man at the side of the grave leaned over to see, and then held his arm up. He made a few gestures to the unsighted operator, who responded by wielding the jaws with almost surgical care, a scratch of earth here, and a small handful there. Five minutes later, the unshaven assistant held up his hand to stop and the engine died, the silence afterwards profound and ominous to Nigel's ears.