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Authors: Dan Waddell
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gave him a look of concern. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.
Nigel took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, he’s just an old colleague.’
‘You don’t exactly seem to be the best of friends.’
He shrugged. ‘Small world, professional genealogy and research. All chasing the same money, things get a bit competitive.’
He held back from telling her that Duckworth
made most of his money these days doing the bidding of national newspapers. Whenever someone became news, the tabloids would be on the blower, asking him to research their family history, see if there were any skeletons in the closet, or help them track down other family members to speak to. Before leaving for the university, Nigel had worked for the press a few times, though he’d always loathed himself for it. But the money compensated for that.
‘How did he know we were police?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps someone at the GRO, or
in the centre here.’
She shook her head. ‘No one knows about the
reference outside the team. Apart from you.’
Heather had swiftly mastered the art of making Nigel feel uncomfortable. As if realizing this, her face softened and she gave him a warm smile.
‘Don’t worry, Nigel. We don’t reckon you’ve told him. Christ, we only told you eighteen or so hours ago and you’ve barely been out of our sight since.
Perhaps you could use your skills of persuasion to find out his source?’
‘Consider it done,’ he said earnestly. ‘I don’t think he knows about the reference or he would have told me. He’s the sort of guy who can’t hide things, especially if he thinks he can lord it over you.’
‘So what did he want?’
‘Talked a bit of shop.’
Khan intervened. ‘We should tell Foster. Warn
him that the press might get this.’
‘Get what?’ Heather asked. ‘All he can say is that detectives were at the Family Records Centre. It means nothing. We could be tracing our family trees for all he knows, some sort of police genealogy drive.
Let the little creep do his worst.’
DC Khan stood up and went to the Gents.
Heather looked at Nigel.
‘So what was that about the “world of academia”?’
He enjoyed her interest in him, but she was veering too close to an area he wished to avoid. Nothing Duckworth said seemed to have gone unnoticed by her.
‘Eighteen months ago I gave this up. It wasn’t panning out the way I expected. I got an offer to work at Middlesex University, setting up a course in family history. Things didn’t work out,’ he explained, not wanting to go into any more detail.
*You got fed up with genealogy?’
‘Running a business doing other people’s
genealogy.’
‘But you’re back doing it.’
Yes I am, he thought. Except now I’m working
for the police on a murder case and it feels like a shot at redemption.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s find the rest of those certificates.’
8
By early afternoon Heather had faxed through the references for 457 birth, death and marriage certificates.
The most Nigel had ever ordered at the end of
one day was seventeen. It had taken four days before he could collect the copies. The 457 were all found, copied and faxed through to West London Murder Command in less than two hours.
Nigel was told to meet at murder squad HQ in
Kensington at four p.m. He was there ten minutes early. He announced himself downstairs to a woman on the desk and was told to take a seat. He had nothing to read and there was nothing on the table for him to flick through, but then this was hardly the dentist’s.
Heather finally emerged from a lift and passed
him through the security gate. They ascended several floors, stopping at an open-plan office. Only a few people were milling about, some on the phones, a few more staring at their computer screens. Nigel expected more activity, hubbub, not the sort of inertia you would witness in a provincial insurance office.
The only giveaway that this was the incident room at the heart of a murder investigation was
Nigel took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, he’s just an old colleague.’
‘You don’t exactly seem to be the best of friends.’
He shrugged. ‘Small world, professional genealogy and research. All chasing the same money, things get a bit competitive.’
He held back from telling her that Duckworth
made most of his money these days doing the bidding of national newspapers. Whenever someone became news, the tabloids would be on the blower, asking him to research their family history, see if there were any skeletons in the closet, or help them track down other family members to speak to. Before leaving for the university, Nigel had worked for the press a few times, though he’d always loathed himself for it. But the money compensated for that.
‘How did he know we were police?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps someone at the GRO, or
in the centre here.’
She shook her head. ‘No one knows about the
reference outside the team. Apart from you.’
Heather had swiftly mastered the art of making Nigel feel uncomfortable. As if realizing this, her face softened and she gave him a warm smile.
‘Don’t worry, Nigel. We don’t reckon you’ve told him. Christ, we only told you eighteen or so hours ago and you’ve barely been out of our sight since.
Perhaps you could use your skills of persuasion to find out his source?’
‘Consider it done,’ he said earnestly. ‘I don’t think he knows about the reference or he would have told me. He’s the sort of guy who can’t hide things, especially if he thinks he can lord it over you.’
‘So what did he want?’
‘Talked a bit of shop.’
Khan intervened. ‘We should tell Foster. Warn
him that the press might get this.’
‘Get what?’ Heather asked. ‘All he can say is that detectives were at the Family Records Centre. It means nothing. We could be tracing our family trees for all he knows, some sort of police genealogy drive.
Let the little creep do his worst.’
DC Khan stood up and went to the Gents.
Heather looked at Nigel.
‘So what was that about the “world of academia”?’
He enjoyed her interest in him, but she was veering too close to an area he wished to avoid. Nothing Duckworth said seemed to have gone unnoticed by her.
‘Eighteen months ago I gave this up. It wasn’t panning out the way I expected. I got an offer to work at Middlesex University, setting up a course in family history. Things didn’t work out,’ he explained, not wanting to go into any more detail.
*You got fed up with genealogy?’
‘Running a business doing other people’s
genealogy.’
‘But you’re back doing it.’
Yes I am, he thought. Except now I’m working
for the police on a murder case and it feels like a shot at redemption.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s find the rest of those certificates.’
8
By early afternoon Heather had faxed through the references for 457 birth, death and marriage certificates.
The most Nigel had ever ordered at the end of
one day was seventeen. It had taken four days before he could collect the copies. The 457 were all found, copied and faxed through to West London Murder Command in less than two hours.
Nigel was told to meet at murder squad HQ in
Kensington at four p.m. He was there ten minutes early. He announced himself downstairs to a woman on the desk and was told to take a seat. He had nothing to read and there was nothing on the table for him to flick through, but then this was hardly the dentist’s.
Heather finally emerged from a lift and passed
him through the security gate. They ascended several floors, stopping at an open-plan office. Only a few people were milling about, some on the phones, a few more staring at their computer screens. Nigel expected more activity, hubbub, not the sort of inertia you would witness in a provincial insurance office.
The only giveaway that this was the incident room at the heart of a murder investigation was
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