by S W Kane
‘That would be very nice,’ he said.
The video had been given to Raymond by the staff at Blackwater as a leaving gift. Most of the long-stay patients had received one to remind them of the happy times they’d had at the hospital; and it was one of his most prized possessions. There was even a short black-and-white clip of his old pal Gregory Boothe playing cards, which always made him smile.
Once Mrs Muir was ensconced on the sofa with a small sherry – Raymond usually took the recliner – she put on the television. ‘Go on then, Raymond. Do the honours, will you?’
He pulled the DVD out of his jacket pocket and took out the disc. As he slipped it into the machine, Mrs Muir flicked through the TV channels.
‘I do miss Parkinson, you know,’ she was saying. ‘And here’s the thing – he only had two O levels.’
One of the channels she flicked through had the news on. It was the Blackwater story, and a man’s face came up on the screen. It was the man the police were trying to trace, the one whose name Mrs Muir had talked over in the kitchen and which Raymond now caught: Edward Blake. He didn’t recognise the name, but the face was vaguely familiar. Hadn’t he spoken to him once, at Blackwater? Then came an image of Ena, so he quickly pressed ‘Close’ on the DVD machine, and the disc slid in.
He lowered himself into the recliner and gave Mrs Muir the nod, and she pressed ‘Play’. Her technique with the remote was akin to someone being knighted.
As the video began, Raymond felt himself drifting off to a different place, the footage of Blackwater flooding his head with memories – not to mention the drowsy effect a stomach full of dumplings had on him. He had no idea how much time had passed when Mrs Muir suddenly screeched, ‘Oh my giddy aunt! Look!’
She had paused the video, the remote held aloft.
Raymond looked up; he’d been totally lost in thought, his eyes adrift in the swirls of Mrs Muir’s wallpaper, but now he refocused on the television, where Ena Massey’s face stared out at him from the screen. The shock was instant. It wasn’t just seeing her face again; it was seeing her in that room. He’d deliberately pushed Keats Ward to the back of his mind after the detective had mentioned it yesterday. But now it came charging back, knocking all other thoughts out of the way and dragging something with it. Something nasty and frightening.
CHAPTER 17
After he’d introduced himself, Connie walked Harry Joyce back to his house, two streets away. He was quite unsteady on his feet, and she marvelled at how he’d got to the pub without coming a cropper in the first place. As they walked, she explained to him who she was and how she and Ed had met.
‘We were in daily contact almost every day – until now. I’m so worried,’ Harry was saying.
They were sitting in his front room, a cosy space with a small gas fire, complete with fake logs, burning in a cracked, 1930s tiled fireplace. Connie sat on the sofa, an old worn-out thing that was surprisingly comfortable, and tried to imagine Ed sitting in her place. It was a far cry from the man she knew, who spent his spare time diving into sewers and forgotten corners of the city. It felt weird.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I hope the police don’t think he had something to do with that poor woman’s death.’
‘My Ed would never get mixed up in anything like that.’
‘We know that, but until he comes forward and explains himself it doesn’t look good to the police.’
‘I can’t think what’s stopping him,’ said Harry, with a troubled look.
‘The police thought he might be with someone. A girlfriend, maybe.’
‘Don’t be daft, love. After what happened to your sister, well . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Knocked him for six. Pleased as punch I was when he landed that teaching job. A good solid job like that, we’d’ve killed for one of those in my day. I don’t know what he sees in this buggering about in old buildings.’
‘He’s pretty obsessed with Blackwater, isn’t he?’ said Connie.
‘Probably my fault, telling him stories as a kiddie.’ Harry chuckled. ‘We lived in BelleVue Tower when he was growing up, eighteenth floor, looked down right over the whole asylum. Been pulled down now, of course, but he’d spend ages with my old pair of binoculars studying the place.’ Harry sighed at the memory. ‘He’s even started an oral history of Blackwater. Now that I can see the value in.’
‘He brought the idea up a few times, but I didn’t know he’d actually made a start.’
‘Oh yes. I gave him a few names – people I know who used to work there. And he interviewed me, of course. I was groundsman. Not a bad job, but not as good as being a teacher.’ He smiled, proudly. ‘Places like Blackwater get under your skin. He was off to talk to someone last Sunday afternoon, some new lead he’d got. He’s such a live wire, is Ed. Keeps some of his stuff here – no room for it at his studio flat.’
‘What kind of stuff?’ asked Connie.
Harry shook his head. ‘I leave him to it. Have a look if you like – it’s upstairs.’
‘I don’t think I should. It’s his personal stuff. It just doesn’t seem right.’ It had only been forty-eight hours, after all. Or was that a long time for someone to be missing? Christ, she had no idea.
‘None of this seems right. Maybe there’s something up there that might tell us where he is.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Connie hesitated. ‘He might walk through that door any moment. Like, it’s only been two days.’
‘Right,’ mumbled Harry. ‘Only two days.’
‘Okay, I’ll take a very quick look, but I won’t disturb anything. Promise.’
‘First room on the right.’ He pointed upwards with his thumb.
‘And I’ll make you a cup of tea when I come down, then I really must shoot.’
Mike Mower’s theme tune to Bargain Hunt came on in the living room as Connie climbed the stairs. The merry saxophone riffs sent a wave of depression through her, which was only heightened when she stepped into the small room where Ed kept his stuff. A writing desk stood in one corner with a chair tucked under it, and a single bed was pushed against the opposite wall, over which hung a vintage mirror, its glass mottled with age. Connie stared at her reflection, imagining Ed’s face looking back at her. On the wall behind she could see a framed photograph; it was Blackwater, the ornamental lake and water tower unmistakeable. It looked like a staff photograph with nurses in uniform, although some patients were also present, their body language making them stand out from the straight-backed, formal-looking staff. She recognised a young-looking Harry in the back row, and immediately saw the resemblance between grandfather and grandson.
Apart from the desk, chair and bed, the rest of the space was taken up with box folders, books, and bits of what most people would call junk. She recognised a ‘HAZARD’ sign that Ed had taken from an old factory they’d visited in Surrey. The urban explorer’s motto, ‘Take only photographs and leave only footprints’, was in general adhered to, but even Ed hadn’t been able to resist the odd trophy. The memory of that day felt like a stab to the heart. Where the hell is he?
Connie went over to the desk, which was covered in files and folders. A Post-it note caught her eye, a name – Tom Ellis – and address scrawled on it as though written in haste. She didn’t recognise either; but below – underlined twice – was one word that made her catch her breath. Sarah. She racked her brains, but the address meant nothing. Her immediate thought was of her sister, but in truth it could be any Sarah.
She opened a box file, but it was empty apart from a USB stick. She closed the lid and randomly chose a folder, leafing through the pockets inside. It mainly contained copies of newspaper articles about Blackwater. She pulled one out from the Wandsworth Guardian dated 14 April 1993 and headlined BLACKWATER ASYLUM CLOSES ITS DOORS FOR THE LAST TIME. An aerial photograph showed the sprawling mass of buildings – many of which had been closed years before – that made up the asylum. The article went on to talk about the last two patients, who had only left the week before, and about h
ow mental health needs had changed and most people wanted to be cared for in the community.
She put it back in the plastic slipcase and pulled out a few more. One from 2008, BLACKWATER DEVELOPMENT AXED; another, STAFF CLEARED OF MISCONDUCT, showed two women leaving Blackwater’s entrance with their heads down. Another article, BLACKWATER NURSE FOUND DEAD, told how a female nurse was discovered after taking an overdose at the hospital in 1966. A grainy photograph showed a family leaving the funeral. She flicked through the rest of the folder and was about to close it when a cutting from 2015 fluttered out. It was another from the Wandsworth Guardian and was titled LIFE IS SWEET.
Squatter Raymond Sweet was today handed the title deeds to a small area of land within the infamous Blackwater Estate. The land, which is home to a former psychiatric hospital, has lain derelict for twenty-two years but has recently been bought by Patricey Developments. Sweet, who has squatted on the land since 1994, made a claim for adverse possession when the developer moved to evict him. Patricey Developments will now have to move forward with their plans to turn the former mental asylum into luxury flats with Mr Sweet still firmly in residence in the north-west corner of the site.
She closed the folder and sat still for a moment. Raymond Sweet. She’d almost forgotten about him – a dishevelled figure, well known locally and harmless enough. He always looked like a man who was doing something he shouldn’t. Ed had tried befriending him once in the hope that he might let him in the grounds, but as far as she knew Raymond had proved a tough cookie, quiet and reclusive.
She suddenly became aware of the TV channel being changed downstairs and Harry’s voice calling her name.
‘What is it?’ she asked from the top of the stairs.
‘You need to come and see the news.’
As she headed downstairs, she wondered if Raymond Sweet had seen anything on Tuesday night.
‘Here we go,’ said Harry, turning up the volume when she walked into the living room. It was now ear-splitting, but Harry didn’t appear to notice. She sat down.
The main story on the weather was just coming to an end, and the studio newsreader began talking about Blackwater. ‘Police are appealing for witnesses after a body was found at the derelict Blackwater Asylum site early yesterday morning. The victim, who has been named as eighty-four-year-old Ena Massey, is thought to be a retired nurse from the hospital, which closed in 1993.’
Connie stared at the image on the screen and felt a shiver run down her spine.
The newsreader went on. ‘Police are particularly keen to trace a man seen in the vicinity of the old asylum on Tuesday night and have released CCTV footage of the man they want to speak to.’
She gasped as a fuzzy image of Ed walking past the main entrance to the asylum came up on screen.
‘The man is believed to be twenty-seven-year-old Edward Blake, a teaching assistant from Royal Oak School. Police are also trying to trace Leroy Simmons, a security guard from the old hospital who went missing shortly after reporting the body. If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of either man, they should contact the police on this number – 0845 1221221.’
When the story ended, Connie grabbed the remote and turned the volume down. She could barely hear herself think.
‘She worked at Blackwater,’ said Harry, pointing at the now-blank screen. ‘Ena Massey did. They called her Nurse Ratched behind her back.’ He shook his head at the memory.
Connie frowned. ‘Why?’
‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I remember going to see it when it came out. They may as well have modelled her on Ena. Nasty piece of work, if ever I’ve met one.’
She’d seen the film and remembered the Nurse Ratched character vividly.
‘I’m hardly surprised some bugger’s killed her,’ said Harry, glancing at Connie. ‘Sorry.’
‘What did she do?’
‘It’s all in the past now,’ he said, batting the comment away. ‘She won’t be missed, let’s leave it at that.’
She wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Did Ed know her?’
Harry shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I’d never have put him in touch with the likes of her, not that I even knew she was still knocking about.’
They fell silent for a few moments, then Connie realised that she needed to get going. ‘How about that cup of tea then, before I leave?’
‘That’d be grand. You’ll find everything you need.’ Harry waved vaguely towards the kitchen.
She felt bad at the thought of leaving him alone, but she couldn’t stay. Terror, her cat, needed feeding, and she had to be up for work the next day.
In the small kitchen, she put the kettle on and rootled around in the cupboards for the tea-making stuff.
Connie carried the mugs of tea – and a lonely Penguin she’d found in the biscuit barrel – into the front room, and as she set them down on the table she asked if it was okay to use the bathroom.
She took the stairs two at a time and ignored the bathroom, instead slipping straight into Ed’s room, where she picked up the folder of newspaper clippings and began searching for the one she’d seen earlier. She found it soon enough, STAFF CLEARED OF MISCONDUCT, and stared at the photograph, then at the caption below. Although the photograph showed two nurses with their heads down, the caption left no room for doubt. One of them was Ena Massey. Nurse Ratched.
CHAPTER 18
An arsehole in Armani was Kirby’s first thought on entering Patrick Calder’s office. The second was that Anderson would concur – and the third was that if Hamer ever got wind of the description he’d bollock them both to Blackpool and back. He was feeling tired and irritable that morning, having only slept a few hours the night before. He needed to keep his prejudices in check.
After leaving Chartwell Road the day before, he’d gone back to the office to write up his report and to read through the door-to door statements and CCTV reports. No one had seen anything, which was hardly surprising given the weather and the fact it had been night-time. Ed Blake had been caught on CCTV on Battersea Fields Drive and outside the main entrance, and the only other sighting of him was at the junction with Daylesford Road. There was no sign anywhere of Ena Massey, or anyone even vaguely resembling her. It was bugging Kirby more and more how she’d got into Blackwater and how the killer – or killers – had got out. After several hours of learning very little, he’d gone back to the boat tired and frustrated.
‘Detective Inspector, please sit down.’ Patrick Calder indicated a leather chair opposite the desk at which he sat. ‘Sorry I wasn’t available when this tragedy unfolded. I was away with some of our investors.’
Kirby detected a subtle Welsh accent, which lent a richness to Calder’s voice, and immediately envisaged him being able to talk his way into – or out of – anything. A useful skill to have for a property developer. Kirby sat down, taking in the minimalist decor and looking around for evidence of what he’d call work: files, reports, a printer – a fucking pen, even. Hamer’s words sprung to mind – be nice – so he mustered a smile.
‘It’s a great view, don’t you think?’ said Calder, swivelling slightly in his chair to face the expanse of glass behind him. It was a clear, bright, savagely cold morning.
‘Magnificent.’ Kirby couldn’t help but agree. They were directly opposite Blackwater, on the Chelsea side of the Thames, and Calder’s office had a clear view of the asylum and its grounds. It was, without doubt, a sprawling mess by comparison to what surrounded it, although not without interest. If Kirby had an office with a view like this, he’d never get any work done. As it was, his desk was nowhere near a window, and even if it had been, all he’d probably see would be the car park and the fucking Corsa.
‘Slightly spoilt by the old asylum, but that shouldn’t be there for too much longer.’ Calder paused. ‘I don’t suppose you have a high opinion of developers, do you?’
Kirby was startled by the question. ‘That depends.’ Across the river he could just make out the outline of the boathouse at
Marsh House, through the willow trees. Further along sat Tidal Wharf, where his boat was moored, and the massive redevelopment at Nine Elms next to it.
‘Indeed it does,’ said Calder, turning back to face Kirby. ‘There are sharks in our profession, I agree, but I like to think we do things differently here.’ He smiled. He’d had his teeth whitened, which enhanced his tan and the whiteness of his shirt collar. ‘It’s dreadful what’s happened. I hope that we’ll be able to move forward with the work on-site soon, but until then I’m here to help.’
‘As you know, we’re investigating a murder. Does the name Ena Massey mean anything to you?’ asked Kirby.
Calder sat with his legs crossed, one arm casually thrown over the arm of his expensive chair – Eames, Kirby realised with a pang of jealousy. He’d kill for an original and had little doubt he was looking at one now.
Calder had a habit of rubbing his thumb over the tip of his wedding finger, as if rolling some piece of imaginary fluff between them. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Is that the name of the victim?’
‘Yes.’ Kirby pulled out a photograph of Ena and laid it on the desk. ‘Ena Massey. She was eighty-four. Do you recognise her?’
Calder leant forward and glanced at the photograph. ‘No, sorry. Who’d want to kill a sweet old lady like that?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. You’ve been in Scotland, I gather?’
‘Correct. I flew up on Tuesday morning and back early this morning. You can check with the airline.’
Kirby already had. ‘Can you think of any reason why Miss Massey might have been on the Blackwater site? She worked at the hospital before it closed – perhaps she wanted to see it before it was knocked down?’
‘Absolutely none. And we certainly don’t allow sightseers on to the site. As I said, I didn’t know her.’ Calder sat back and resumed his casual position, flicking an imaginary speck off his immaculate trousers. Kirby couldn’t imagine him on a building site for a second.