by S W Kane
‘I’ve tried to imagine what kind of person would just leave her. I guess they didn’t want to get caught and took the coward’s way out – called the ambulance and scarpered.’
‘I dare say they’ve paid the price over the years, not that it excuses their behaviour in any way. They should have made themselves known,’ said Kirby.
They walked back the way they’d come. Downstairs, the ECT machine that Connie had remembered was still there. It was a Siemens Konvulsator and sat on a rusted metal trolley, its four wheels at disjointed angles – mobility something even a good squirt of WD-40 would be unable to fix. The plastic case of the machine was covered in a thick layer of dust and had a deep crack running along its top. A dead fly lay on its back next to the handle.
‘Someone’s had a Spinal Tap moment,’ said Kirby, indicating the machine’s two dials, both of which were turned past maximum.
When they got outside the air felt slightly warmer, as though Keats Ward emanated an Arctic chill all of its own, and they started to walk back. When they reached the main gate, a dishevelled-looking man in a woollen hat and overcoat was lumbering down the road towards Battersea. Connie recognised him as Raymond Sweet – Ed had pointed him out once.
‘Do you know him?’ asked Kirby, as they waited for the guard to unlock the gate.
Connie shook her head. ‘I know of him. It’s Raymond Sweet, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Lives in the Old Lodge. Does Ed know him?’ Kirby asked, as they began walking towards his car.
‘I don’t think so, or not very well at any rate. He tried to befriend him once, get some inside intel on the asylum, but it never came to anything. Do you think he has anything to do with the murder?’
They had reached the car, and Kirby took out his keys. They were on what looked like a vintage Citroën fob, the chevron logo unmistakeable.
‘Off the record?’ said Kirby. ‘No. He’s—’ But he didn’t get any further as he was cut off by his mobile, which he pulled out of his pocket. ‘Excuse me, I need to take this.’ He took a few paces away from the car and turned his back.
‘Shit,’ Connie heard him say under his breath.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, as he turned back to the car.
‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Thanks for your help.’
Connie watched as he climbed into the car and slammed the door. Whatever it was must be serious, and she became aware of a sense of disappointment as the car cruised away leaving an exhaust trail in its wake. She looked at her watch – it was gone twelve, and she’d promised Harry lunch. She began walking and paused at the top of Daylesford Road. In the distance, Raymond Sweet was visible, his ungainly figure strolling towards the river and the Daylesford Road entrance to Blackwater, near the damaged fence where she and Ed had planned to get in on Tuesday night. She checked her watch again; twenty minutes wouldn’t hurt, would it? In a split second, Connie made a decision and ran after him – Harry would have to wait.
CHAPTER 26
There had been slim pickings at the bring-and-buy that morning, so to make up for it Raymond had treated himself to a hot sausage roll, which was now keeping his right hand warm as he walked home. He should have bought two, he realised – one for each hand – as it was so bitterly cold. He reached the corner of Daylesford Road and turned down the familiar street towards home, mulling things over in his head. There was so much going on that his brain could hardly keep up, but there was one thing he was now sure of: the Creeper had been in the bone jar. The canisters had definitely been moved, like the things in his house. And then there was his smudged drawing in the old pillbox. It hadn’t been an animal, he now realised – it was the Creeper telling him he knew about the bone jar. He was glad now that he’d told the policeman about the Creeper, although whether they believed him or not, he couldn’t tell.
He was about halfway down Daylesford Road, and looking forward to his sausage roll, when he heard a shout.
‘Wait! Mr Sweet!’
It was a female voice, and he turned to look. A young woman – he’d passed her coming out of Blackwater a few minutes ago with the detective who had the shabby notebook – had just turned the corner and was jogging towards him, waving. ‘Mr Sweet, wait! I’d like to talk to you!’
He carried on walking, the entrance gate now within sight. What did she want? He could hear her muffled footsteps getting nearer.
‘Raymond! Stop!’ she shouted.
He reached the gate and took out his keys. As he undid the padlock, he could see her a few feet away. She slipped on a patch of ice and nearly lost her balance. As she righted herself, he nipped through the gate and began locking the padlock, pulling out the key just as she appeared on the other side.
‘Mr Sweet,’ she panted, her breath trailing out in long plumes. ‘I just want to talk to you, that’s all. Please—’
Raymond took a step backwards and looked at her through the wrought-iron gate, the key still in his hand. ‘What do you want?’
‘Ed Blake, the man who’s missing . . .’ She was out of breath.
The police had asked about him yesterday. ‘What about him?’ Raymond replied. The girl had very large eyes.
‘I think something might have happened to him,’ said the girl.
Raymond nodded, slowly. He wasn’t sure what to make of her.
‘The night he disappeared – Tuesday – he was coming here.’
He frowned, uncertain how to respond.
‘I mean coming here, to Blackwater. I should have been too,’ she went on, ‘but I got held up on the train. It was the anniversary of my sister’s death.’
What was she on about, her sister’s death? He was about to walk away when something stopped him.
‘My sister had an accident at the water tower five years ago. You might remember,’ the girl was saying. ‘Her name was Sarah Darke?’
Raymond did remember; he’d drawn a sad face on the tower’s wall a few days later. He’d been questioned then, too, and now he nodded slowly, wondering exactly what it was she wanted.
The girl continued. ‘Me and Ed, we planned to go there on Tuesday. Only, as I said, I was held up, so Ed was going to go there alone, and he’s now missing. You didn’t see anything, did you, on Tuesday night?’
‘No,’ he replied, quickly. Raymond wished people would stop asking him about Tuesday.
‘I just want to find out what’s happened to him.’ The girl paused. ‘He lived nearby as a kid – his grandfather, Harry, worked here. He’s been interviewing people about the place. Maybe he interviewed you?’
Raymond shook his head, feeling a bit put out that he hadn’t.
‘I’m Connie, by the way.’ She stuck a gloved hand through the gate.
He shook her hand tentatively; it wasn’t something he did very often.
‘You’re quite well known,’ she said. ‘I bet you know more about this place than anyone else does.’
Raymond shrugged. He wondered whether he should tell her about the Creeper – perhaps her friend had seen him too.
‘Listen, I don’t suppose you’d let me in, would you?’ she asked.
He hesitated. He liked her, but even so. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Okay, we’ll take a rain check. Perhaps I could ask you a few questions, interview you?’
He nodded. He would like that very much, although what a rain check was he didn’t have the foggiest. ‘I’ve got a film too,’ he added.
‘Really? What kind of film?’
‘Oh, erm, just a film. About Blackwater. My friend Gregory is in it.’
‘That’s nice. Perhaps we could watch it together, when I interview you – maybe at your house? You could tell me about your friend.’
He liked this girl. She seemed genuinely interested – was she actually inviting herself to his house? He really would need some sherry glasses if that ever happened; the thought made him giddy. Then he remembered that he didn’t have a DVD player.
‘W
ell, I’d better be going then,’ said the girl. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, Raymond. I’m glad you’ve agreed to talk me.’
‘Er, yes,’ he said, unable to recall agreeing to anything, but he didn’t really care and stood nervously. He’d never been good at goodbyes – was he supposed to kiss her? The giddy feeling returned.
‘How can I contact you?’ she asked. ‘Do you have a phone?’
Raymond shook his head. ‘You can leave me a note.’ He nodded towards the small metal letterbox attached to the fence.
‘Cool, thanks. Okay, bye then.’ She gave him a small wave and began walking back up Daylesford Road.
Now that she was leaving, Raymond didn’t want her to go, and he desperately tried to think of something interesting to say that would make her come back. ‘There was someone here that night,’ he suddenly blurted out, almost looking behind him to see where the voice had come from. It had the desired effect though, and the girl called Connie came back and grabbed the metal gate with her gloved hand.
‘Who?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ stammered Raymond, now feeling under pressure to tell her something useful. ‘The Creeper.’ There! It was out; he’d said the name out loud!
‘The Creeper? Who’s that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘I think it’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost? Right . . . And what does this ghost do?’ She was smiling now, which he liked, but like the policeman yesterday he wasn’t sure that she believed him and he began to feel stupid.
‘It moves things. In the house. One day I couldn’t find my torch, then the next day there it was, on the table. And the face—’ He stopped.
‘What face?’
‘Um, I drew a face and then its mouth got wiped away.’ Now he felt really stupid.
She seemed a little taken aback at this. ‘Have you told the police?’
‘Um, of course. The ghost bit was a joke,’ he added, in an attempt to redeem himself. ‘But I can’t tell you anything else.’ He was suddenly afraid that he’d said too much. ‘I have to go now.’ He turned and began walking back to the Lodge.
‘Raymond, wait!’ he heard the girl shout. ‘Raymond!’
He didn’t break his stride until he entered the clearing by the Lodge. Only then did he stop and take stock of what he’d just said to the girl, about the ghost bit being a joke. What if it really was a joke and the Creeper wasn’t a ghost after all? Worse, what if it was the murderer? It knew about the bone jar and if it knew about that then . . . Something suddenly clicked into place and a sense of dread ran through him. If the Creeper really was human and had killed Ena, then how much longer he could keep the bone jar under his hat was anyone’s guess. Gregory was safe at the lodge, along with Alardice and Barnes, but the rest of the ashes were still down there; he needed to move the remaining canisters pronto. He hurried over to the porch and up the steps. The key slid reassuringly into the lock and he felt the comfort of the Lodge envelop him as he stepped inside. Just as well, because there was another task he had to perform, one that filled him with even more dread than the bone jar being discovered. He felt in his pocket – the sausage roll was still warm and he gave it a gentle squeeze to reassure himself, because the truth was he was scared.
CHAPTER 27
The call Kirby had taken at Blackwater had been the news he was half expecting and half dreading: the body of a young man had been pulled from the Thames, possibly that of Ed Blake. By the time he’d arrived at Westminster Pier, where the Marine Policing Unit had retrieved the body, the snow had been so bad that the body bag was already white. It hadn’t taken long for Kirby to establish that the body did, indeed, belong to Blake. A black snake’s head poked out from the man’s jacket sleeve, its forked tongue brushing the base of his palm – an identifying mark mentioned to Kobrak by the man’s grandfather, Harry Joyce.
When Kirby returned to Mount Pleasant the mood was gloomy. Everyone on the investigation had hoped that Edward Blake would come strolling back after a few nights of hot passion, tail between his legs at the trouble he’d caused – his phone stolen, chucked over the fence, picked up by a dextrous fox and placed carefully in Keats Ward next to a dead former nurse. All bollocks, of course, but that’s what they’d hoped, willing the fantasy to come true.
‘Anyone seen Pete?’ asked Hamer, who looked harassed, as he addressed the assembled officers.
‘He was going to the hospice to return the visitors’ book. The weather’s probably nobbled him,’ said Kirby, who’d spoken to him on the way to Westminster.
Hamer let out a frustrated sigh and went on. ‘We’ll have to start without him then. As you all know, we now have a second body. Lew?’ He nodded in Kirby’s direction.
‘We’re certain it’s that of Edward Blake, the missing urban explorer. The body has a tattoo identical to the one Blake has here.’ Kirby indicated his wrist. ‘Initial examination shows that he was hit on the head and then strangled and dumped in the river. Probably dead when he hit the water, but we’ll know for sure once the pathologist has done his work. The grandfather, Harry Joyce, will have to make a formal ID – I’ll go and see him after we finish here. By all accounts they were very close, and it turns out that Mr Joyce used to work at Blackwater, so he might be able to tell us something.’
Hamer looked up sharply. ‘Did we know about the grandfather working at Blackwater?’
‘Yes,’ said Kirby, glancing at Kobrak, who he knew had interviewed Harry Joyce about his missing grandson. ‘Connie Darke mentioned it to me when I spoke to her earlier today.’
Hamer looked exasperated.
‘Mr Joyce was only questioned in relation to his missing grandson. What he did for a living nearly twenty-odd years ago wasn’t touched upon,’ said Kirby.
Kobrak threw him a grateful look.
‘Okay, so there’s a possible link between Blake and Ena Massey,’ said Hamer. ‘Make sure you ask him about it, Lew.’
Kirby nodded. ‘Regardless of that, we now know for certain that there’s a third party involved. Blake didn’t strangle himself.’
‘They could have been in collusion,’ said Kobrak. ‘Perhaps Blake and the third party fell out and Blake got killed.’
‘Or, Blake and Ena were killed by the same person for different reasons,’ said Kirby. ‘Why would Blake arrange to go to Blackwater with his friend, Connie, on the anniversary of her sister’s death, if he planned to kill someone there the same night? It’s more likely that he witnessed something.’
‘Okay, get over to Blake’s flat, see if there’s anything of interest,’ said Hamer, directing the order at Kobrak. ‘Computers, phones, paperwork – anything that could link him to Ena Massey. Newlands are going back over his emails and phone calls, but he might have had several devices. Lew, when you see the grandfather, check if Blake kept anything there – maybe a second computer, or another phone. And what about Sweet? Pete had him in yesterday, didn’t he?’ Hamer looked around the room, as if to say, Where the fuck is he?
‘Sweet admitted knowing Ena when he was a patient at Blackwater,’ said Kirby, wishing to God that Anderson would suddenly appear. ‘He didn’t like her, not that he said it in so many words. He said she kept putting him to sleep, whatever that means. Oh, and there’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost? Give me strength,’ said Hamer.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Kirby went on. ‘But apparently he saw it on the night of the murder, down near the lake, which is only a stone’s throw from Keats Ward.’
‘Can we believe anything Sweet tells us? He’s hardly a reliable source.’
Kirby shrugged. ‘Could be something, could be nothing. My guess is that he did see something but that it’s easier for him to deal with the spiritual world than the human one.’
Hamer grunted. ‘I want to know why,’ he said, standing up and moving across to the crime scene photos, where he stared at the images of Blackwater and Ena Massey’s beaten body. ‘Why her. Why now. She’s the key.’ He prodded a pho
tograph. ‘And another thing. I’m going to have to give Patrick Calder the green light to start work. I can’t hold him off any longer.’ Hamer’s eyes avoided Kirby’s as he spoke. ‘I’ll make the call first thing on Monday.’ He then dismissed the group and disappeared into his office, closing the door behind him.
Hamer was under pressure, Kirby could tell. Poor bastard, running four understaffed murder teams and answering to the commissioner, who had a reputation for ball-breaking. Telling him their only suspect was of the spiritual variety wasn’t going to go down very well. Never in a million years, thought Kirby, as he returned to his own desk.
‘Thanks, Lew,’ said Kobrak, who’d followed him over. ‘About Harry—’
Kirby held up his hand to stop him. ‘It’s fine. Hamer’s stressed, that’s all. Everyone seems to have a connection to Blackwater round here.’ Just then, the door to the office banged open, and he didn’t need to turn around to know it was Anderson.
‘Oh boy, are you going to be pleased with Uncle Pete,’ Anderson said, plonking himself down. ‘The old luck of the paw strikes again—’
Before he could get any further, Hamer came out of his office with his coat and scarf on. ‘I’ll be on the mobile,’ he barked without looking at any of them, and headed for the lift.
Anderson raised his eyebrows.
‘Not pleased you missed the briefing,’ said Kirby. ‘Where the hell have you been, anyhow?’
‘At the hospice. Drinking tea.’
‘Really. How frightfully fucking wonderful. And what did the tea leaves tell you?’
‘Ahh, well,’ said Anderson, twirling the rabbit’s paw dramatically. ‘First off, no one had a bad word to say about Ena, no one recognised any of the jewellery we found at her house and none of the names on the letters rang any bells. Then, just as I was leaving, one of the staff members told me that Ena regularly visited an old colleague of hers – an old colleague from Blackwater.’
Kirby leant forward. ‘Bingo. Who?’
‘Margaret Halliday. She was a nurse at Blackwater at the same time as Ena. Worked alongside her for years, according to this staff member.’