street.
Nigel announced himself to a security guard doubling as a receptionist and was told to wait. Five minutes later Dr Chris Westerberg, bearded and blue-eyed, greeted him with a vigorous handshake.
‘Good to see you again, Nigel,’ he said warmly in a soft southern Irish lilt.
‘You too, Chris. How’s tricks?’
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ he mumbled. ‘Find it OK? Come by car, did you?’
‘I came by tube. I don’t drive.’
A look of amusement spread across the scientist’s friendly face. ‘Yes, I forgot. The man with no car and no credit card. The last of the bohemians. Ideal - you can carry on drinking because you don’t have to drive and someone else picks up the tab. Let no one say you’re not a canny man, Nigel.’
He smiled. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the Irishman’s company and good humour.
‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘It certainly has,’ Nigel replied. He guessed eighteen months, at a drab family history convention in a provincial northern town whose name Nigel couldn’t even remember. Westerberg was there touting his company and their DNA tests and kits. For two nights they drank well into the night, arguing furiously and drunkenly over the role of DNA testing in family history, both of them enjoying every second of it. Westerberg had been among the vanguard of those arguing that a genetic approach could revolutionize genealogy and family history. Nigel was a sceptic.
Westerberg led him to a lift, up one floor and down a sterile corridor to a small, cluttered office. ‘I share this with a colleague, so apologies for the mess. He’s from Scotland, that’s all I can say. Coffee?’ Nigel murmured his assent and Westerberg disappeared for a few minutes before returning with two steaming mugs. ‘Instant not filter, I’m afraid,’ he explained.
He sat down behind the desk and gave Nigel another friendly smile. ‘So how’s it going back at the coalface?’
Nigel pulled a face. ‘It’s improving.’
‘You’re joking me, aren’t you?’ he said, incredulously. ‘I saw you all over the papers. Helping police catch a serial killer.’ He let out a low whistle.
‘Certainly was a break from the norm.’
You’re the master of understatement, Nigel. That wasn’t a break from the norm; that was some fucked-up shit.’
‘I suppose it was,’ he said, inwardly rather pleased that his work and the publicity had been noticed. ‘Listen, I was wondering: can you help me catch another killer?’
Westerberg’s eyes widened. ‘Jaysus, what now? You turned into Travis Bickle, cleaning the scum off the streets?’
‘The police have asked for my help once more,’ he explained, trying to remain modest.
‘Who’s been killed?’ Westerbeg asked.
‘That has to remain confidential, I’m afraid,’ Nigel said.
‘Part of the deal in the police allowing me to come here and explore this with you.’
‘I suppose that makes sense. What’s the deal?’
‘Bear with me on this,’ Nigel said. ‘I’m a layman, after all. The police have a mtDNA sample that was found at
the scene of a murder — from a strand of hair, I believe. It turns out that it’s the same type as the victim, except it came from a male while the victim was female. According to the police’s forensic people, the victim and whoever left this hair — who may or may not be the killer — shared a common maternal ancestor.’
‘Well, we could verify that for you,’ Westerberg said.
‘Thanks. But that’s not why I’m here. The police are, in the original sense of the word, clueless. All they have at the moment is this hair and the mtDNA sample and the fact of the shared maternal ancestry. They’ve asked me to research the victim’s family tree and find out all the people extant who share this mtDNA.’
Westerberg’s face clouded over. He leaned forward across the desk. ‘Nigel, you do realize that the maternal ancestor you speak of could have lived thousands of years ago? It may
Nigel announced himself to a security guard doubling as a receptionist and was told to wait. Five minutes later Dr Chris Westerberg, bearded and blue-eyed, greeted him with a vigorous handshake.
‘Good to see you again, Nigel,’ he said warmly in a soft southern Irish lilt.
‘You too, Chris. How’s tricks?’
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ he mumbled. ‘Find it OK? Come by car, did you?’
‘I came by tube. I don’t drive.’
A look of amusement spread across the scientist’s friendly face. ‘Yes, I forgot. The man with no car and no credit card. The last of the bohemians. Ideal - you can carry on drinking because you don’t have to drive and someone else picks up the tab. Let no one say you’re not a canny man, Nigel.’
He smiled. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the Irishman’s company and good humour.
‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘It certainly has,’ Nigel replied. He guessed eighteen months, at a drab family history convention in a provincial northern town whose name Nigel couldn’t even remember. Westerberg was there touting his company and their DNA tests and kits. For two nights they drank well into the night, arguing furiously and drunkenly over the role of DNA testing in family history, both of them enjoying every second of it. Westerberg had been among the vanguard of those arguing that a genetic approach could revolutionize genealogy and family history. Nigel was a sceptic.
Westerberg led him to a lift, up one floor and down a sterile corridor to a small, cluttered office. ‘I share this with a colleague, so apologies for the mess. He’s from Scotland, that’s all I can say. Coffee?’ Nigel murmured his assent and Westerberg disappeared for a few minutes before returning with two steaming mugs. ‘Instant not filter, I’m afraid,’ he explained.
He sat down behind the desk and gave Nigel another friendly smile. ‘So how’s it going back at the coalface?’
Nigel pulled a face. ‘It’s improving.’
‘You’re joking me, aren’t you?’ he said, incredulously. ‘I saw you all over the papers. Helping police catch a serial killer.’ He let out a low whistle.
‘Certainly was a break from the norm.’
You’re the master of understatement, Nigel. That wasn’t a break from the norm; that was some fucked-up shit.’
‘I suppose it was,’ he said, inwardly rather pleased that his work and the publicity had been noticed. ‘Listen, I was wondering: can you help me catch another killer?’
Westerberg’s eyes widened. ‘Jaysus, what now? You turned into Travis Bickle, cleaning the scum off the streets?’
‘The police have asked for my help once more,’ he explained, trying to remain modest.
‘Who’s been killed?’ Westerbeg asked.
‘That has to remain confidential, I’m afraid,’ Nigel said.
‘Part of the deal in the police allowing me to come here and explore this with you.’
‘I suppose that makes sense. What’s the deal?’
‘Bear with me on this,’ Nigel said. ‘I’m a layman, after all. The police have a mtDNA sample that was found at
the scene of a murder — from a strand of hair, I believe. It turns out that it’s the same type as the victim, except it came from a male while the victim was female. According to the police’s forensic people, the victim and whoever left this hair — who may or may not be the killer — shared a common maternal ancestor.’
‘Well, we could verify that for you,’ Westerberg said.
‘Thanks. But that’s not why I’m here. The police are, in the original sense of the word, clueless. All they have at the moment is this hair and the mtDNA sample and the fact of the shared maternal ancestry. They’ve asked me to research the victim’s family tree and find out all the people extant who share this mtDNA.’
Westerberg’s face clouded over. He leaned forward across the desk. ‘Nigel, you do realize that the maternal ancestor you speak of could have lived thousands of years ago? It may
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