Blood Atonement by Dan Waddell

emigrated to New
    Zealand along with Zach Robinson, a baby son, and his
    father, Brian. The male descendents were Martin Stamey,
    David Stamey, Gary Stamey— son of the recently deceased Gillian — Brad Stamey, who was the son of Martin and brother of Rachel, and Anthony Chapman. Christopher,
    another male, died three and a half years ago.
    Heather looked at the list. ‘So, there are four branches — the Chapmans, the Stameys, the Robinsons and the Pratt/Drake/Buckinghams?’
    ‘Yes,’ Nigel replied.
    ‘It’s not that big a list,’ she said.
    ‘It’s all the direct descendants of Sarah, those who share her mitochondrial DNA. The bloodline isn’t the strongest anyway. Many have died, very few kids born to replace them. The Chapman branch and Naomi’s have almost
    died out. The Stameys are the biggest clan left. Seems the Robinson branch split off and set up in New Zealand. The whole family tree isn’t much bigger, just one or two others.
    What will you do with it?’
    ‘Track these people down, the males in particular, and
    speak to them. It’s a punt, but one that’s worth it.’
    ‘Well, I’ll look into why the line disappears pre1891,
    explore some of the options. I can stay here until late, browse through some passenger lists for ships in case they came in from abroad, or have a glance at the change of name indexes to see if they shed any light on it. If I find out what happened and it leads to more ancestors and more cousins then I’ll get in touch with you.’
    Heather smiled. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
    Trevor Vickers picked anxiously at his fingers, occasionally putting one in his mouth to chew. At his side was a lawyer, a short man in an ill-fitting suit with an ill-advised comb over. Neither spoke. While they were sitting here — with the press, who had been tipped off that he was number one suspect, camped outside - the Metropolitan police were
    inside his house. They’d covered every inch but found no trace of Naomi. It was late on Wednesday afternoon. Time had been magnified, each minute carried more significance than usual: every hour that passed without a lead was as fatal as any wound.
    Foster stood watching from behind a two-way mirror.
    Harris had asked him to conduct the interview. If he was being cynical, he’d think it was to appease the pack of reporters that were trailing Vickers, to make it appear as if the hunt for Naomi Buckingham was gaining momentum. They didn’t need it. Not for the first time, they were ahead of the investigation. They’d intercepted a phone call Vickers had made to his estranged father that lunchtime, warning him of the shitstorm that was about to break. It had already broken.
    His father told him that a reporter had already been round to the house to offer him money for an exclusive interview about Trevor, and was prepared to put him up in a hotel to ‘protect’ him from other reporters. When he refused, maintaining his son was innocent, despite them having barely spoken in years, the reporter had gone even further, offering the resources of his newspaper to help his father find Trevor the best legal representation available. This from a newspaper that peddled a flog ‘em and hang ‘em line. Foster knew that was a lie - the help would never materialize. To his credit, in Foster’s opinion, the father still refused, not even backing down when the reporter became aggressive and threatened to drag his name through the slurry along with Trevor’s.
    He fitted the profile. Loner. Loser. Mummy issues. Perv
    with previous, particularly relating to young girls, to paraphrase what Susie Danson had said in her report.
    Foster entered the room. Vickers shifted uncomfortably
    in his seat. He looked on the verge of tears.
    Afternoon, Trevor,’ Foster said brightly. ‘Thanks for
    coming in. Nothing formal, just a chat.’
    Trevor Vickers nodded imperceptibly, then glanced
    anxiously at his brief who cleared his throat and spoke
    waveringly. ‘I have to say my