colleague will go
through a description with you,’ he told her, avoiding Drinkwater’s eye. ‘Try and remember as much as you can.’
He got up and left. Outside he sucked in the night air. The black sky was clear, though not clear enough for him to make out the stars above the London smog. He remembered his unease that morning over the use of a churchyard as a dumping ground for murder, and how it did not seem right - not with all the houses overlooking the scene. Now he knew the killer had cased the place because he knew how difficult his task would be.
Yet he still went ahead with it.
7
Nigel was sweating as he bustled his way along Exmouth Market, lazily coming to life in the chilly spring sunshine. He was late. The centre would already be open and he was wasting police time. I’ll blame the tube, he thought, not the fact that my alarm clock requires winding, and last night I forgot.
As he reached the edge of the market, where it met Myddelton Street, he could see Heather, hands on hips, standing by the steps and ramp that led to the entrance of the building. He increased his pace even further, his satchel bouncing rhythmically on his hip so that, by the time he reached her, he could feel his clammy shirt sticking to his back. He was struggling for breath.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped.
Her look was one of amusement. Her gaze was
not directed at his sweating brow, however. It was below that.
‘You’re wearing tweed,’ she said simply.
He was. Grey herringbone jacket over an open
necked striped shirt, navy-blue cords. He thought it best to make an effort, even though the jacket was second-hand, and leave behind the jumpers, jeans and duffel coat.
‘Is that OK?’
She nodded and shot him a smile. ‘It suits
you. You’ve got that bookish, floppy-haired thing happening.’
She was wearing a short black skirt, black tights and a pair of black knee-length boots. Nigel was worried a few of the older gentlemen who used the records centre might keel over.
‘Have you two finished swapping fashion tips?’ A young confident-looking Asian man in a suit, his hair gelled back, had joined them.
‘Nigel, this is DC Khan,’ Heather said.
The men shook hands. Despite her reassurance,
Heather’s look and comment had made him feel
self-conscious. Given that he had yet to cool down, he wondered if his face had reddened.
‘After you,’ he said, and pointed his hand towards the door.
Once inside, security checked Nigel’s bags and they made their way into the main area. The place was already filling up.
‘I never thought this place would be so busy,’
Khan said, surveying the bustling interior. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus.’
Nigel nodded. ‘You should see it at a weekend.
Fights break out over files.’
‘They don’t look like the sort of people who get in a ruck,’ Khan said. ‘More likely to bore you into submission.’
Nigel smiled, yet felt mildly insulted. Yes, he was often scathing about the sorts of people who pursued their ancestors fanatically; the type more comfortable retreating into the silent, quiescent world of the dead, rather than dwelling in the awkward, insolent present. But the world today was awash with information about the wealthy, the famous and the tawdry. Somebody has to help remember the anonymous ordinary men and women, who make the world turn.
‘So what’s the brief?’ Khan asked, rubbing his hands together.
They moved across to one of the enclaves housing around twenty years of bound, red birth-certificate indexes, arranged chronologically on solid wooden shelves.
‘I’m going to go through the birth indexes; you’ll do marriage and, Heather, you’re going to do death.’
‘Very appropriate,’ Khan muttered darkly.
‘The method for searching the files is the same,’
Nigel said, eager to get started: he knew he could rattle through the birth files in a few hours.
He pulled a bulky file off the top shelf, its leather cover battered and torn by use,
through a description with you,’ he told her, avoiding Drinkwater’s eye. ‘Try and remember as much as you can.’
He got up and left. Outside he sucked in the night air. The black sky was clear, though not clear enough for him to make out the stars above the London smog. He remembered his unease that morning over the use of a churchyard as a dumping ground for murder, and how it did not seem right - not with all the houses overlooking the scene. Now he knew the killer had cased the place because he knew how difficult his task would be.
Yet he still went ahead with it.
7
Nigel was sweating as he bustled his way along Exmouth Market, lazily coming to life in the chilly spring sunshine. He was late. The centre would already be open and he was wasting police time. I’ll blame the tube, he thought, not the fact that my alarm clock requires winding, and last night I forgot.
As he reached the edge of the market, where it met Myddelton Street, he could see Heather, hands on hips, standing by the steps and ramp that led to the entrance of the building. He increased his pace even further, his satchel bouncing rhythmically on his hip so that, by the time he reached her, he could feel his clammy shirt sticking to his back. He was struggling for breath.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped.
Her look was one of amusement. Her gaze was
not directed at his sweating brow, however. It was below that.
‘You’re wearing tweed,’ she said simply.
He was. Grey herringbone jacket over an open
necked striped shirt, navy-blue cords. He thought it best to make an effort, even though the jacket was second-hand, and leave behind the jumpers, jeans and duffel coat.
‘Is that OK?’
She nodded and shot him a smile. ‘It suits
you. You’ve got that bookish, floppy-haired thing happening.’
She was wearing a short black skirt, black tights and a pair of black knee-length boots. Nigel was worried a few of the older gentlemen who used the records centre might keel over.
‘Have you two finished swapping fashion tips?’ A young confident-looking Asian man in a suit, his hair gelled back, had joined them.
‘Nigel, this is DC Khan,’ Heather said.
The men shook hands. Despite her reassurance,
Heather’s look and comment had made him feel
self-conscious. Given that he had yet to cool down, he wondered if his face had reddened.
‘After you,’ he said, and pointed his hand towards the door.
Once inside, security checked Nigel’s bags and they made their way into the main area. The place was already filling up.
‘I never thought this place would be so busy,’
Khan said, surveying the bustling interior. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus.’
Nigel nodded. ‘You should see it at a weekend.
Fights break out over files.’
‘They don’t look like the sort of people who get in a ruck,’ Khan said. ‘More likely to bore you into submission.’
Nigel smiled, yet felt mildly insulted. Yes, he was often scathing about the sorts of people who pursued their ancestors fanatically; the type more comfortable retreating into the silent, quiescent world of the dead, rather than dwelling in the awkward, insolent present. But the world today was awash with information about the wealthy, the famous and the tawdry. Somebody has to help remember the anonymous ordinary men and women, who make the world turn.
‘So what’s the brief?’ Khan asked, rubbing his hands together.
They moved across to one of the enclaves housing around twenty years of bound, red birth-certificate indexes, arranged chronologically on solid wooden shelves.
‘I’m going to go through the birth indexes; you’ll do marriage and, Heather, you’re going to do death.’
‘Very appropriate,’ Khan muttered darkly.
‘The method for searching the files is the same,’
Nigel said, eager to get started: he knew he could rattle through the birth files in a few hours.
He pulled a bulky file off the top shelf, its leather cover battered and torn by use,
Similar Books
