by S W Kane
‘I’ve called maintenance three times now about the bloody heating. Same every year,’ said Hamer, pouring himself a generous measure of malt. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
Kirby shook his head. If there was one thing he hated, it was malt whisky. He was convinced Hamer only offered it to him because he knew Kirby would say no. It was expensive stuff.
‘The Blackwater case,’ Hamer said, dropping into his chair. ‘It doesn’t feel like we’re getting anywhere. I’m seeing the commissioner in the morning, and I’d like to have something to tell him.’
‘You saw the pathologist’s report, I take it? The victim was full of Quaaludes.’ Kirby wondered what this was really about.
‘They can’t be easy to get hold of.’
‘Pete’s out asking around, but it’s an odd choice, which I think could be important.’
‘You mean the drug is significant, like leaving the body at Blackwater?’ asked Hamer, taking a sip of whisky.
‘Yes. I mean why not Rohypnol or GHB, something easily available? And why go to the trouble of leaving the body at Blackwater when it would have been easier to dump her somewhere else? Moreover, somewhere that she wouldn’t be found.’
Hamer looked thoughtful for a while. ‘What about this money the daughter mentioned? Any sign of it? At least that would give us motive, and God knows we need something.’
‘Nothing. Her bank account looks normal and there was no paperwork at her home. Her daughter’s alibi checks out, by the way. Jaycee Morgan, who runs the Welcome Inn, corroborated her story – Karen McBride was there until closing time and went straight home in a taxi to feed a litter of puppies. She ordered a takeaway and didn’t go out again until the next day. She’s got a security camera outside her house.’
Hamer frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Puppies. They’re valuable cargo. Grand a pop.’
‘What about her son?’
‘Douglas? Worked the night shift at the twenty-four-hour Asda. Plenty of witnesses, not to mention store cameras.’
‘Damn,’ said Hamer, swirling the last of his whisky around the glass before knocking it back in one. ‘This missing teacher worries me. I think we have to assume that his disappearance is somehow connected to all this. If he’d gone on a bender he’d have surfaced by now, surely?’
‘Agreed. And from what we know about him, a bender of that magnitude and on a weekday would be very out of character.’
Hamer stood up and switched off the fan. ‘We really don’t want a second body, Lew. It wouldn’t be good for anyone.’
Not least Ed Blake, thought Kirby. Or Patrick Calder. ‘No,’ he said, standing up. ‘Oh, and we spoke to Mr Monahan again too, the security guard who Leroy Simmons said asked him to cover his shift on the Tuesday night. Seems Monahan has a poker problem, so no wonder he didn’t tell Leroy why he wanted the night off. Simmons would never have agreed if he’d known.’
Kirby and Hamer left the small office and walked into the open-plan area where everyone else worked, and Kirby went over to his desk to get his coat. ‘By the way, you know that I saw Patrick Calder this morning? He sends his best wishes.’ He looked over to Hamer, who was standing by the door, his face suddenly tense.
‘Really?’ was all he managed.
‘Yes,’ said Kirby, gathering his stuff. ‘I didn’t know that you knew each other.’
‘We barely do,’ said Hamer, as they waited for the lift to clunk its way up from the ground floor. ‘We met at some fundraiser, as you do. Patrick’s the kind of man who crops up everywhere.’
When the lift arrived, they got in and headed towards the ground floor in silence, then said goodnight. Hamer left by the main exit, and Kirby stood for a moment wondering what had just happened. He had no reason to doubt that Hamer had only met Calder once or twice; it was just odd that he hadn’t mentioned it until now. But first-name terms? It might have just been Calder’s way of warning Kirby not to fuck with him, but judging by his boss’s reaction just now, and his casual use of Calder’s Christian name, Kirby felt there was more to it than that.
He took the back exit into the car park – fuck it was cold, especially after coming out of the sauna-like office – and drove back to the boat, lost in thought. He couldn’t think of a reason why Calder would shit on his own doorstep, so to speak. Perhaps he felt he could oil the wheels of the investigation to turn that much faster if he name-dropped Hamer. As far as Kirby knew, Hamer was straight-up.
He passed the railway arch where he kept the Citroën SM. He might drive it over to his mother’s in the morning. He’d go early – unannounced – and try to get to the bottom of whatever it was that was going on with her.
He pulled up at the mooring and resisted the temptation to leave the Corsa unlocked in the hope that someone might steal it. As he made his way to the boat, his eyes were drawn to Isabel’s barge, and he pictured her inside, warm and beautiful. Reluctantly, and with some effort, he resisted the urge to sprint over, instead jumping down on to his own boat.
Inside, he cracked a beer and heated up some soup, thinking about Ena. What had she done to provoke this kind of attack, and why now? He wondered whether it could be a message or a warning – but if so, to whom? Her mobile phone was still missing, but her phone records did show that she had spoken to someone on the afternoon that she went missing. She’d been called on an unidentifiable pay-as-you-go phone and then presumably – for whatever reason – turned her own phone off, as there was no trace of her at all after that.
Kirby sat in the small kitchen area and ate the soup, copies of the letters found in Ena’s flat spread out in front of him. Letters from anxious relatives to their loved ones in hospital – nothing unusual, just signs that life was going on as normal in the outside world to which the recipient would hopefully one day return.
We had Granddad and Grandma over yesterday. They were asking about your health and we told them you’d be home soon . . . Little Patty misses you and can’t wait to have his mam home. Hang in there, we’ll all be together soon . . . The tomatoes are doing well with all this sun. Hope they let you sit outside and enjoy this weather . . . The doctors and nurses tell us that you’re doing well. Rex and Margie send their love . . .
Where were these people now? Kirby wondered; had their loved ones left Blackwater better than when they’d gone in? Had Ena treated them well? He hoped so, although Karen McBride’s words echoed in his head: Christ knows how she became a nurse, but she did. It could just have been festering bitterness talking – after all, Karen left home as soon as she could, with no love lost on either side by the sounds of things. And then there was Poppy Valance’s comment, that Ena hadn’t liked her, or her brother – in fact hadn’t liked ‘any of me’. What did she mean, ‘any of me’? That Ena didn’t like children? She certainly hadn’t had much time for her own – that was clear. And then there were the rings. Kirby had been reliably informed that they were wedding rings, and in some cases, expensive ones. What was Ena doing with wedding rings?
He listened to the comforting sound of wood spitting in the burner, with a nagging feeling that there was much more to Ena Massey than what they had so far managed to find out. What if she’d never delivered the letters to her patients at Blackwater? What if she’d kept them – reading them herself? Why she would do such a thing he couldn’t understand, but it was a possibility. And the rings – had they been left to her by grateful patients, and, if so, how did their relatives feel about it? The rings were almost impossible to trace, and none were engraved. It even crossed his mind that she might have stolen them.
The feeling in his gut was that this case was somehow rooted in the past. Women of Ena’s age were regularly targeted victims of crime, but most often it was fraud, or cybercrime, and usually because of their age. Whoever had killed Ena had done so because of who she was. She may have been physically vulnerable, but that didn’t mean she was all sweetness and light. They needed to dig into her past and find out what she was really like and what she’d done
– and, more importantly, to whom.
CHAPTER 24
After falling asleep on the sofa and crawling into bed at 3 a.m., Kirby woke with a start at 6 a.m. He’d dreamt about Blackwater. He’d been on the frozen lake near Keats Ward, unable to move or speak, falling snow rapidly covering his body, landing on his eyeballs and being sucked into his nostrils. He would suffocate unless someone helped him, but he couldn’t make any sound, and as he finally managed to roll on to his side the ice cracked beneath him. Suddenly, he was sliding in slow motion beneath the ice, the cold water of the lake caressing his body, numbing him into submission. As his head sunk beneath the ice a shape loomed above him, and then he’d woken, his heart pounding.
His mother was an early riser, so he thought he’d surprise her with breakfast. He had a shower and a quick coffee and then left the boat. The fresh snow was soft underfoot. He crossed the walkway, passing the Corsa – which was, unfortunately for Kirby, parked exactly where he’d left it – and headed towards the nearby railway arches where Malone’s Motors had its premises. Mitch Malone Jr, known to everyone as Mad Mitch merely on account of his somewhat-unkempt appearance, restored classic cars and let Kirby keep the Citroën in his workshop. He’d been one of the first people Kirby had met when he moved on to the boat – after Mitch was lured out of the arches, unable to resist the sound of the Citroën’s throaty roar. Kirby, in turn, had slowed down upon seeing the ‘Classic Cars Restored’ sign, and such was the grin on Mitch’s face when he’d clocked the SM that Kirby had pulled over. The rest was history.
Mitch hadn’t arrived yet – it was way too early for him on a Saturday morning – and so Kirby let himself in. It was one of life’s small pleasures, feeling the Citroën’s suspension gently rise, but this morning he barely noticed, his mind on other things. There was a bakery on the way to Ealing, where his mother lived, and he stopped off for baked cheesecake – Livia’s favourite. The traffic was sparse despite it being Saturday, and he made good time. When he got to his mother’s house, just before eight, the curtains were still drawn. Perhaps she was having a lie-in – if she was feeling below par it made sense – although he couldn’t remember the last time his mother had slept in past 7 a.m. She had the constitution of an ox – even after a heavy night of wine and Briscola.
He grabbed the box of cheesecake and locked the car. The snow on the drive was fresh from the previous night, and he made a mental note to clear it before he left. At the front door, he rang the bell and waited. The plants in the front garden had been cut down; usually his mother left the seed heads, enjoying the way they caught the early-morning frost. He rang the bell again. Perhaps Livia was in the shower – she’d never hear the bell from there. After what seemed like an age, he heard a noise behind the door.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ he said.
‘Lew?’
‘Yes. Come on, let me in, I’m freezing out here.’
He heard the chain being slid off and the mortise being unlocked. ‘Hang on,’ he heard his mother say, the door opening a crack. ‘Count to five and then come in and shut the door.’
What the hell was this? It was too early for party games, but he did as instructed, waiting for five beats before going in and closing the door behind him. ‘Mum, are you okay?’
Livia was standing in the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall in her dressing gown. ‘I’m fine. I just didn’t want to get cold.’
‘I see,’ said Kirby, who didn’t see at all. ‘I thought I’d surprise you. Got your favourite breakfast.’ He held up the bakery bag. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a new case and I’m going to be really—’ He stopped. ‘Mum, are you sure you’re okay?’ He took a step forward.
‘Stop!’ she almost shouted. ‘Take your shoes off!’
‘Okay . . .’ He did as she asked, and with his shoes off he headed towards his mother and kissed her on both cheeks. Kate was right, she had lost weight; her shoulders felt bony beneath her dressing gown.
‘You’re cold, Lew. Come in and get warm,’ she said, leading the way into the kitchen before he’d had a chance to look at her properly.
The first thing he noticed was that the blinds were drawn; the second thing was that the kitchen was a mess. He put down the cheesecake and began lifting the blinds, but his mother screeched from behind him, ‘No! Leave them shut!’
He turned and stared at her. ‘What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
‘Going on? Nothing’s going on. It’s just . . . just . . . I don’t want to see outside.’ She went over to the sink, bumping into the edge of the kitchen table. ‘Ouch!’
‘You okay?’
‘Yes – clumsy, that’s all.’ She picked up the kettle and began filling it with water. ‘Let me make some coffee, just how you like it. Did you bring cheesecake?’
‘Of course. It’s ages since we’ve had breakfast, and I haven’t seen you in a few weeks.’ He looked around the kitchen again. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. It looked a mess as a lot of stuff was on the counter, but from what he could see it was clean. ‘Been having a clear-out?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh, that. Yes,’ she said, switching the kettle on. ‘I’ve been cleaning the cupboards out. I had mice, and they’d crapped everywhere.’
‘You should put some traps down,’ he said, opening a cupboard.
‘I hate traps, you know that. Can’t bear that snapping noise when they go off.’
He began putting some of the crockery on the counter back in the cupboard, watching his mother from the corner of his eye. She looked tired – worse, she looked old. Livia had never looked old, and he found the thought quite shocking. He was wondering how to broach the subject of what his father had said when she swore loudly in Italian.
‘Merda!’
He turned around to see that she’d poured hot water over the work surface after missing the coffee pot.
‘Now look what I’ve done,’ she said.
‘It’s okay, Mum, let me do it.’ He got a cloth and wiped up the water. ‘Go and sit down – you look worn out.’
He finished making the coffee and put some milk on the hob to heat up, and stole glances at Livia whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. He needn’t have worried; she seemed distracted and didn’t notice.
‘How’s this new girlfriend of yours – Isabella? I haven’t spoken to you in ages,’ she said, yawning.
‘Isabel – she’s fine, thanks. But we spoke a couple of days ago, don’t you remember? Kate was here, she answered the phone.’
‘Kate?’ She looked momentarily confused. ‘Oh, that Kate. Yes, she did pop in, but that was weeks ago. But stop changing the subject, when am I going to meet her, this Isabel? Maybe once all this snow has cleared up we can all go to, um, you know – Porca miseria!’ she swore, waving her hand in frustration.
‘Alfredo’s. We’ll see. It’s early days.’ Alfredo’s was a small, family-run Italian place and the food was quite exquisite, although Kirby wasn’t sure he wanted his mother involved with Isabel just yet. He poured the coffee and put a slice of cheesecake on a plate for each of them, and sat down opposite her.
‘I spoke to Dad,’ he began, taking a mouthful of cheesecake. ‘He said there was something you needed to tell me.’ He looked at his mother as he spoke, but she was avoiding his eyes. ‘Mum, what’s going on?’ He reached out and took her hand. It felt cold and small. She had dark rings under her eyes, and there was little doubt in his mind that she was unwell.
‘We can always go somewhere else,’ said Livia. ‘If you don’t want to go to Alfredo’s.’
Kirby let his head sink down and stared at his coffee cup. ‘Just tell me, Mum. Please.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I can tell something’s wrong. This stuff with the snow, you’ve lost weight, you’re not sleeping. What is it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Is it cancer?’ he whispered.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ She pulled her hand free of his and began picking at the cheesec
ake.
‘Dad knows, but he won’t tell me. He was rude to Meredith on the phone the other night, so whatever it is, it’s affecting him too.’ He looked at his mother, who was now staring at him.
‘It’s not cancer,’ she said. ‘And it’s none of your father’s damned business. He shouldn’t have said anything to you.’
‘He only said it because he’s worried.’
‘Well, he needn’t be. And it needn’t worry you either.’ She took a sip of coffee and smiled. ‘You always did make the best coffee.’
‘Okay, if you really want to change the subject, what’s this thing with snow?’ he asked. He wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.
‘I don’t know, I just don’t like it anymore.’ Her eyes darted to the window. ‘I can’t stand looking at it. I hate the way it gets trodden into the house. Everything about it seems deeply repellent.’ She yawned again. ‘I’m sure it’ll pass. It’s probably because I’m tired.’
‘You can’t stay indoors with all the curtains drawn. It’s not healthy. How much sleep did you get last night?’ he asked.
‘I wish you’d stop asking me questions, Ludovico!’ she snapped. ‘All you’ve done is question me since you got here.’
He sat open-mouthed. There were only two times when she called him by his full name: one was when she was teasing – like she had a few weeks ago about the fucking Corsa – and the other was when she was angry. This was definitely the latter. He finished his cheesecake in silence and then got up and began clearing the table. ‘Have you been to the doctor?’
‘No,’ came the curt reply.
‘If you’re worried about going out in the snow, I can take you,’ he said, wondering where he’d find the time.
‘You’ve got quite enough on your plate without ferrying me about. I’ll be fine. They’ll only put me on sleeping tablets, and I don’t want to end up like Robert Downey Jr.’
‘Mum, I think Robert Downey had a few other problems too. I’m sure there are different treatments you could try before things got that bad.’ He tried to sound upbeat, as though her earlier outburst hadn’t happened.