by S W Kane
‘None.’ Palmer had his back to them and pressed a button on the machine, which sprung to life with a shudder. ‘Who was she?’
‘A nurse. She worked there for thirty-odd years,’ said Anderson.
‘Is there a connection?’ Palmer set a saucer down on the kitchen top and switched off the machine, still with his back to them both, busying himself with the coffee.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Anderson.
Kirby wandered over to a door to his right. A circular glass window was set into the wall next to it. It was purely decorative, and he could see the wall outside through the mottled glass. ‘This door must lead to the passage that runs down the length of the house, down to the garden, mustn’t it?’ he asked.
‘I can show you if you like,’ said Palmer. ‘There’s a gate into the garden. It’s always locked, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I double-checked the locks after your last visit.’ He handed Kirby the coffee.
It was every bit as good as it had been the last time, and he downed it in one, handing the cup back to Palmer. ‘Thanks. You certainly know how to make good coffee.’
Palmer smiled. ‘Pleasure.’ He retrieved a bunch of keys from one of the kitchen drawers and unlocked the side entrance. ‘I rarely use this door. If I want to go into the garden I use the French windows in the drawing room – the ones we used the last time.’ He stepped outside and led the two detectives down the narrow path, to a gate at the end and the garden beyond.
‘Is the key to both gates on that keyring?’ Anderson asked, as they followed Palmer down the narrow pathway.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if anyone else has copies?’
‘I actually have no idea. There might have been a gardener at some stage, but whether they had a key, who knows? Why are you so interested?’ he asked, as they approached the heavy-looking ironwork.
‘We’re still having difficulty in working out how whoever did this – the murder next door, I mean – got into the site. We just need to be sure we’ve looked at every possibility,’ said Kirby.
‘I see.’ Palmer began unlocking the gate. It was set into a tall brick wall, which had security spikes running along the top. The image of Ena Massey trying to negotiate that was almost comical.
The gate itself was locked with one large padlock, and Palmer swung it open for them to go through.
‘Do you have the keys to the boathouse on there?’
‘I guess so. I’m not sure, to be honest. As I said, the boathouse isn’t very safe, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look?’
Palmer hesitated for a second, glancing from one detective to the other.
‘It won’t take us long and then we’ll leave you in peace. We don’t want to discover a speedboat and a length of climbing rope in there in six months’ time. It would be embarrassing, to say the least.’
‘Point taken,’ said Palmer. ‘This way then.’ He began walking across the snow-covered lawn towards the maze.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ Kirby said, as he and Anderson caught up with him. ‘Does the name Raymond Sweet mean anything to you?’
Palmer slowed down. ‘No, I don’t think so, why?’
‘He was a patient at Blackwater and lives in the Old Lodge on the far side of the asylum’s grounds. He won squatter’s rights.’
‘What, you mean he actually lives in the asylum’s grounds?’ Palmer looked surprised.
‘That’s right,’ said Kirby. ‘He’s lived there on and off since the place closed. I’m surprised you haven’t come across him. You could say that he’s your neighbour.’
‘I see,’ said Palmer as they approached the boathouse, sorting through the keys looking for the right one.
Kirby’s footprints from his previous visit were now invisible under a fresh layer of snow. It didn’t look as though anyone had been there since then.
While Palmer began fiddling with the lock, trying various keys, Kirby and Anderson stared out over the Thames, through a gap in the trees, towards Chelsea. It was gone five, and the sun was setting in a clear, orange-streaked sky. It was going to be another cold night – the Met Office’s promise of warmer weather unfulfilled. Calder’s office was just out of view from where they were standing, but Kirby imagined him sitting in his soulless glass cube, looking out over Blackwater, eyeing up the next piece of land to snap up. A Marine Policing Unit Targa sped past heading downriver, leaving deep ripples in its wake, and Anderson waved.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Palmer. ‘Even in winter.’
‘Did you grow up here?’ asked Anderson. Palmer had so far volunteered nothing about his private life, or the circumstances of his inheritance.
‘Ah!’ said Palmer, pushing the door to the boathouse open. He either hadn’t heard the question or had chosen not to answer. ‘Hang on, let’s see if the light still works.’ He stepped inside, and after a few seconds the small building lit up.
The interior of the boathouse was as Kirby had expected – rectangular, half-timbered, and with a dock that a boat could safely pull into from the river. The only difference was that the docking area had been completely covered over, so the building no longer functioned as a working boathouse, although there looked to be some kind of hatch in the floor towards the river end of the building. ‘Does this open straight on to the water?’ asked Anderson, pointing to the hatch.
‘I don’t know. I suppose it must,’ said Palmer.
The river frontage itself was one large double door, which would have opened out on to the Thames but was now secured by heavy-duty bolts and padlocks. Garden tools and machinery were piled up around the walls, which themselves were covered in shelves and old canvases. An ancient-looking kayak hung from the ceiling. There was a smell that Kirby couldn’t quite identify, sweet and slightly acrid. It was probably a mix of old fertiliser, varnish and paint, as he noticed several ancient-looking pots of Dulux and Ronseal dotted around the building. It certainly didn’t look unsafe.
‘It doesn’t look as though anyone’s been in here for years,’ Kirby said to Palmer. ‘But the lock is new – was that you?’
‘No. It was here when I arrived.’
They took a last look around the small interior. It would be a great place to hide, but no one had stolen a boat from here and floated a few yards up the Thames, then climbed into Blackwater, that was for sure. The kayak didn’t look seaworthy and had enough cobwebs on it to indicate that it hadn’t been moved in some time.
They went back outside, Palmer turning the light off and locking up after them. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ he said, as they began strolling back to the house. ‘Surely the easiest way to get into next door would be to bribe the security guard. Or this man Sweet.’
Neither Kirby nor Anderson said anything.
Palmer went on. ‘After all, people do get in, like drug dealers and vandals. Someone got in and set fire to one of the old ward blocks once, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.’
Palmer was correct, and Kirby wondered who it was who’d told him. Over the years the place had been vandalised, and there had been several cases of arson, so people did find a way in. However, most weren’t elderly ex-employees.
They were walking back up the garden when Kirby remembered the short, stumpy tower that he’d seen on his previous visit.
‘Yes, it’s a folly,’ said Palmer, when Kirby mentioned it. ‘We can go past it if you like.’
‘You’d like to see the folly, wouldn’t you?’ Kirby asked Anderson.
As they walked, Anderson asked again if Palmer had grown up here.
‘My upbringing was complicated, shall we say. But no, I didn’t grow up here.’
‘Perth, then?’ Kirby ventured.
Palmer gave a curt nod. They’d now reached the folly and stopped in front of it. It was as Kirby remembered it from Wednesday – a squat tower, no more than eight feet high, octagonal in shape a
nd topped off with a copper roof. An ornate iron gate was set into one of the walls. Wisteria had grown around the entire structure, the twisted stems now leafless, forming a basket-like cocoon for the strange building.
‘Is it used for anything?’ asked Anderson.
Palmer shrugged. ‘It’s empty apart from an old chair. Magical on a hot summer’s day, I imagine.’
Kirby turned around and looked towards the river. It would be a very peaceful place to sit, with a view of the garden towards the Thames.
‘Shall we go back?’ said Palmer. ‘Only I’m not really dressed for the outdoors.’
They walked back to the house, Palmer this time letting them in via the French doors.
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Kirby, once they were inside. ‘And sorry you got so cold and wet.’ He looked around as they made their way through to the hall and the front door, his eyes resting on a pile of post on a table by the door. ‘I’m curious, but who lived here before you inherited?’
‘My mother,’ said Palmer. ‘We weren’t close,’ he added quickly.
Close enough to leave you the house though, Kirby thought. He saw Anderson eyeballing the pile of post. ‘One more thing,’ said Kirby. ‘The main gate, is it always kept open?’
‘Yes. Or rather, it is at the moment.’ Palmer opened the front door, suddenly appearing to want them out. ‘It’s operated by a remote, which I can’t seem to find. It could be anywhere.’
‘Do you remember when you lost the remote?’ Kirby lingered on the threshold.
‘I don’t know, last week?’ Palmer sounded irritated. ‘I can’t be specific.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for your time,’ said Kirby.
‘And, our condolences,’ added Anderson.
There was a second’s hesitation before Palmer nodded an acknowledgement. ‘Goodbye, detectives.’ He turned and closed the door without giving either of them a chance to say anything else.
‘He’s hiding something,’ said Anderson, once they were in the Astra.
‘It was to do with his mother.’
‘The post was addressed to a Mrs Helen Linehan. To be fair, he did say they weren’t close.’
Anderson started the engine, and Kirby thought about Palmer, alone in the silent, beautiful house, packing up his mother’s possessions. Who would clear Ena Massey’s house – Karen? He couldn’t picture that happening for a second. Though from what he’d seen, Ena’s possessions, by comparison, were meagre. He felt a stab of sadness as he remembered his grandmother’s house in Italy after she passed away. She’d died fairly young – sixty, or thereabouts – and the house had felt like an empty shell without her.
‘What do you think?’ asked Anderson, as he drove them back to Mount Pleasant.
‘I can’t believe we’re three days in and still no nearer to finding out how the hell Ena’s body got into Blackwater. I might need to pay Connie Darke another visit – someone has to know another way into that place.’
‘An urban explorer’s hardly going to give up trade secrets though, is she?’
‘She might if – shit!’ said Kirby. ‘Stop the car.’ A young man who looked like Ed Blake had just emerged from a bookie on the other side of the road and was lighting a cigarette outside.
‘What is it?’ Anderson veered into a bus lane and slammed on the brakes, prompting a cacophony of horns. A courier cycled past and banged on the bonnet, shouting ‘You fucking cunt’ as he went.
Kirby was already halfway out of the car. ‘It’s Blake, outside the bookie.’ He ran around the car and impatiently waited for a lorry to pass before sprinting over the road. Blake had now been joined by another man and had his back to Kirby. The two men were huddled together, cigarette smoke mingling with breath as they talked. As he approached, he caught the other man’s eye and saw him say something to Blake, who stubbed out his cigarette and headed back inside. The man he’d been talking to grabbed Kirby’s arm as he walked past.
‘Got the time, mate?’ he asked.
Kirby shook him off and entered the bookmaker’s. Three middle-aged men stood apart, mesmerised by a big screen mounted in the top, far corner. Fuck only knew what they were watching, but it certainly wasn’t racing from anywhere in the UK.
Before he had time to say anything, a woman behind the counter with a perm worthy of an eighties porn star pointed a taloned finger towards the door to the fire exit and simply said, ‘Khazi.’
Through the door, Kirby found himself in a dimly lit corridor. The fire exit was at the end, padlocked; the gents to his left. He pushed open the bathroom door and went in. ‘Blake? Police. Just need a few words with you.’ There were two urinals and one stall, its door shut. He tested it; it was locked from the inside. Crouching down, he looked under the gap and saw two trainer-clad feet, the heel of one bobbing up and down – nerves or drugs. He stood up. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you come out.’
‘Whaddya want?’ shouted an unsteady voice.
‘I want to talk to you about Tuesday night. I know that you went to Blackwater and I know that you lost your phone. I need to ask you a few questions. Please, come out now.’ After a few moments he heard movement inside the stall and the bolt being drawn. He stepped back, blocking the exit in case Blake tried to make a run for it, but he needn’t have bothered.
‘Fuck,’ said Kirby, as the man stepped out.
‘Fuck,’ said the man, grinning, off his face on something or other.
He heard Anderson outside in the corridor. ‘In here!’ he shouted, just as his phone started ringing in his pocket.
Anderson came in, filling what little space there was left in the room, and saw the man. ‘Fuck.’
The man shrugged, looking from one to the other.
Kirby answered the phone, keeping his eyes on the man he’d mistaken for Blake. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said, glancing at Anderson, mouthing Kobrak’s name. ‘Yeah, sure. Thanks.’ He hung up and pocketed the phone. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ he said to the man he’d mistaken for Blake. ‘Now fuck off.’
Once they were alone Kirby recounted what Kobrak had told him. ‘Cause of death was a fractured skull – no surprises there – but Ena Massey was also full of drugs.’
‘So she’d been sedated first – with what, Rohypnol, something like that?’
‘You’re never going to guess this one: phenobarbital and methaqualone.’
‘You mean Quaaludes?’
Kirby nodded. ‘Yup. Disco biscuits.’
CHAPTER 21
Raymond’s initial feeling of relief on hearing that Ena Massey was dead was now morphing into something else. Fragments of memory had been pushing their way forward since watching the video the night before, things Raymond would rather forget. And then this morning, at the station, the police had started asking questions about her. He didn’t want to think about her, let alone talk about her. Even dead, Ena was proving a pain in the arse.
Raymond was down by the lake, its frozen surface covered in a smooth, white layer of snow. It looked so tempting, just to set foot on it, feel his feet sink into the soft, slightly squeaky flakes. He couldn’t risk it, stepping on to the ice. It might crack, give way, and then he’d be sucked under. Sucked under the lake, down to . . . well, down there. No – there was a quicker, not to mention dryer, way to get down there.
The place he was aiming for was a bit like an old pillbox. The concrete structure had been covered in green moss for as long as he could remember and blended perfectly into its surroundings; over twenty years on, it was now completely obscured by ivy and bramble. It was located between the lake and Keats Ward, and as he went past the old ward block, he found himself pausing to look up at the window. Unlike the rest of the hospital, this was the one part that he’d happily see razed to the ground. He thought of it as an infected wound that wouldn’t heal, yet despite that an invisible thread held him there, once in a while gently tugging, as if to say, Come in, come upstairs. A sudden image came into his head of Ena standing over a bed, a strange look on
her face, and then it was gone as swiftly as it had arrived. Goosebumps broke out over his body, and he hurried on, startled by the intensity of the sensation.
The pillbox was located in a particularly overgrown patch that had once been a small vegetable garden. Japanese knotweed had long since taken over, and he had to carve a passage through to reach the entrance. Snow fell off the foliage like icing sugar, and he felt it cold on his neck. He hadn’t been there in over a week; first Calder had been parading about with his site manager – Catapult, or whatever his name was – and then Ena’s body had been found, and everything had been thrown into confusion. As he emerged from the tangle of branches in front of the pillbox, a helicopter flew overhead, momentarily disturbing the silence, and he remained still until it passed. Very little snow had penetrated this area, instead forming a canopy on the tangled vegetation, and what little light there was shone through like it was frosted glass.
He pulled out a small wind-up torch that he always carried with him and stepped inside. He played his torch over the small interior. Icicles hung from the ceiling, and one of Harry’s – the old groundsman – pitchforks stood in the corner, caught in a web of ivy that held it like a skeleton clutching the bones of its decayed child. The familiar graffiti, NYCHO, sparkled in the torch beam, and beneath that the round face, its mouth forming an ‘o’ with shhh! coming out of it. Except something was wrong. He moved closer. Where had the shhh! gone? All that was left was a smear, which had taken half the mouth with it too. A fox, perhaps? Raymond patted his pockets, eventually finding a nub of chalk with which he quickly reinstated the missing part of the mouth and the all-important shhh! Satisfied that order was restored, he knelt down and flipped a two-inch block of wood from its niche in the floor, revealing a latch, into which he hooked his finger. Once he’d lifted the trapdoor a few inches, he was able to open it enough to swing his legs into the hatch and find the steps with his feet. With the torch between his teeth he lowered himself down, carefully closing the trapdoor behind him.
When he reached the bottom of the steps the familiar smell of damp tickled his nostrils, and he stifled a sneeze. He stood in the small tunnel and shone his torch towards an old, rusted metal door at the end, and made his way towards it. The only sound was the odd drip. He was a little worried about that – he’d yet to find the source – but he wasn’t in any imminent danger, he was sure. When he reached the door he pushed it open it and shone his torch inside. It was pointless really; the darkness beyond was unlike anything he’d experienced until he’d come down here. The torch beam sliced through the dark for a few feet, then gave up, as if swallowed by the blackness. It was so dark that he could almost feel it caressing his hand, as he fumbled about to his left for the old Bakelite light switch.