The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Raymond, beginning to look worried.

  ‘I’m going to see where it leads,’ she replied, staring down the elliptical tunnel in front of her. ‘And then we call the police.’

  CHAPTER 40

  ‘You lied to us about not knowing who Ena Massey was, which makes me wonder what else you’ve lied about. I think you need to tell me what’s going on here, Mr Palmer,’ said Kirby. Palmer took a few sips of the water Kirby had just fetched for him, and seemed to be weighing up his options. After a minute or so, he appeared to make a decision.

  ‘My aunt, Helen Linehan, she told me about Ena Massey,’ Palmer began.

  ‘Go on,’ said Kirby.

  ‘Helen contacted me last spring, after a diagnosis of cancer. She’d been given less than a year to live and decided to try to put right some of the wrongs done in the past.’ He shook his head. ‘As if it were that easy. At first it seemed like a miracle, hearing from my mother’s sister after all these years. Then, the more I found out, the more it became apparent what a twisted, dysfunctional family they’d been.’ He took another sip of water. ‘My mother, Sarah, was older than her sister and left home as soon as she could – she and their father, Duncan, fought like mad. Anyhow, Sarah fell pregnant with me and quickly became ill – depressed – and that’s when Duncan Carswell stepped in. He took over and had her admitted to Blackwater. Helen never knew exactly what happened, but Sarah died in childbirth, having me. Can you imagine?’ He stopped and drank the rest of the water in one go. ‘I mean, Christ, you’d think the family would be broken, would do anything to help that poor child. Me.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But no, Duncan Carswell saw to it that I was removed. Like I’d never happened. Helen and her mother, Miranda, were forbidden to talk about it to anyone, ever. And they didn’t. They didn’t – can you believe it? That was the hold Duncan Carswell had over them. He was an evil, manipulative man, and his wife and daughter were too spineless to stand up to him.’ He spat the words out in disgust.

  ‘Why was he so keen to see you gone?’ Kirby was grappling with Duncan Carswell’s motivation. ‘He sounds like the kind of man who might have been pleased to have a son. An heir.’

  ‘He might have been, but there was one small problem – Duncan wasn’t Sarah’s father.’

  ‘Miranda had an affair?’ Kirby asked. That would be enough to send a misogynist like Duncan off at the deep end.

  Palmer nodded. ‘It’s why Duncan Carswell and Sarah never got on, and why she left home as soon as she could. Removing me was his way of punishing Miranda. He made sure that she not only lost her daughter, but also a grandchild.’

  What was it that Connie had said to him? The father was a total bastard, apparently. No wonder Sarah left. She hadn’t been wrong. ‘Do you know who Miranda had the affair with?’

  Palmer shook his head. ‘My aunt didn’t know – or rather, she never said if she did.’

  ‘So where does Ena Massey fit into all of this?’ Duncan Carswell had no doubt been an ogre, but this was all over fifty years ago.

  ‘I didn’t kill her, you have to believe me,’ Palmer pleaded. ‘When you told me it was Ena who had been killed, I – I panicked. My aunt told me about her last year, said a nurse at Blackwater took care of everything for Duncan, arranged for me to be sent to an orphanage, and when that wasn’t enough for him, got me shipped off to Australia.’

  ‘What about your mother’s death? Was Ena involved with that – did Helen say?’

  ‘She . . . she . . .’ Palmer put his head in his hands. ‘She said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ena got rid of her for Duncan’s sake.”’

  They sat in silence for a moment, Kirby trying to imagine what kind of person Duncan Carswell must have been in order to sanction the death of his illegitimate daughter – and then remove the grandchild as punishment for his wife for having an affair. If Palmer had killed Ena, Kirby would quite understand why.

  ‘Why would Ena do something like that for Duncan Carswell? She must have had a good reason,’ Kirby finally asked.

  ‘Duncan was very close to the doctor who ran Blackwater.’

  ‘Dr Brayne?’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Apparently Brayne would have done anything for him – Duncan funded his research. And, in turn, Ena would have done anything for Brayne.’

  Like have his child. Kirby took out the photograph of Sarah Carswell and slid it across the table towards Palmer, who picked it up.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ said Palmer, so quietly he was barely audible.

  ‘Never mind that for the moment,’ said Kirby, not wanting to get on to the subject of Tom Ellis, who was dying in hospital. ‘That is your mother, Sarah Carswell, isn’t it?’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen this photograph before?’

  Palmer shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? Or perhaps one like it, in the same bed?’

  ‘No,’ said Palmer, emphatically. He laid the photograph back on the table and slid it back towards Kirby. ‘I’ve never seen it before. Why?’

  ‘Ena Massey’s body was found on a similar bed, marked with the number nineteen.’ He watched Palmer carefully and saw no flicker of recognition on his face. Instead, he saw something else – Palmer was making a connection. To what, he didn’t seem sure, but something was dawning on him.

  ‘What about Edward Blake? Did you know him too? He was the missing man we were looking for.’

  ‘Were?’ asked Palmer, looking up.

  ‘We pulled his body out of the Thames on Saturday.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Palmer, putting his head in his hands again. ‘What the fuck is going on? You have to believe me when I say that I had nothing to do with this – any of this.’

  Kirby felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and ignored it. ‘Tuesday night – the night of Ena’s murder – you told me you were at the Vauxhall Tavern, and the barman Vihaan James confirmed it. However, I went back to the Vauxhall Tavern. It seems Vihaan went on his break at 10.30 p.m. and doesn’t remember seeing you again until just before midnight.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Palmer looked confused. ‘I went to get something to eat. Then I went back. It’s the truth.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that? Let me be blunt: so far, you are our only suspect, who not only had motive but also opportunity. You could easily have slipped back to Blackwater, disposed of Ena Massey and then returned to the Vauxhall Tavern for closing time. It would have been tight – and I can’t figure out the details – but it would have been possible.’

  Palmer had broken out in a sweat, and Kirby could see panic written on his face. ‘No! That’s a ludicrous suggestion.’

  His phone vibrated again and he pulled it out of his pocket to see what was so urgent. It was Connie. The previous missed call had also been her, as well as a text: call me. i know how killer got in. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Palmer pushed his chair back, as if to stand. ‘You can’t just leave me—’

  ‘Two minutes,’ said Kirby, leaving the room and calling Connie’s number.

  She picked up instantly, and before he had a chance to say anything she began talking excitedly. ‘I know how the killer got in and out of Blackwater. There’s a tunnel from the asylum, which leads into the grounds of Marsh House. It comes up in the old folly – I’m there now.’

  Kirby swore to himself. That must have been how Palmer got the body into the grounds and how he then made his escape unseen. Christ, he was a good liar.

  ‘And what’s more,’ Connie went on, ‘there’s this room under the lake. It’s incredible.’

  What the hell was she on about now? ‘What do you mean, a room under the lake?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly that. Raymond goes there sometimes but says that someone else has been down there too. He’s with me now – well, he’s waiting for me.’

  He heard footsteps in the corridor and looked up to see Kobrak hurrying towards him. �
��Hang on a moment, will you?’ he said to Connie.

  ‘Sir, you’ve got to see this,’ said Kobrak, waving a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  Kobrak came to a halt in front of him, out of breath. ‘The letter, sir. The one to Ruthie. The one Margaret Halliday said wasn’t a patient?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Margaret was right. Ruthie Abbott was a nurse. She killed herself in 1966 – at least that was the official account. Seems her mother believed otherwise, thought Ena and Dr Brayne were involved.’

  Hadn’t Tom Ellis mentioned a trainee nurse to Connie?

  ‘And look at this,’ said Kobrak. ‘It was amongst Edward Blake’s stuff that we brought back from Harry Joyce’s place.’

  He looked at the piece of paper Kobrak had handed him. It was a photocopy of a newspaper cutting, showing a blurred image of a young child being led out of a cemetery by an older woman. He read the caption below and felt something inside himself shift. Ruthie Abbot’s mother, Stella Calder, with grandson Patrick, after the funeral.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he muttered.

  ‘And guess where her body was found?’

  He looked at the young sergeant. ‘Don’t tell me: Keats Ward.’

  ‘Not only that – bed number nineteen.’

  Kobrak was just about to say something else when the door to the interview room flew open, and Palmer came out. ‘You said two minutes and it’s been—’ He stopped mid-sentence and looked at the two policemen. ‘What’s happened? Wh—’

  Kirby held up his hand to silence Palmer, as he spoke with urgency into his phone. ‘Connie, you still there?’

  ‘Yes, what the hell’s going on?’ she asked.

  Kirby could feel his heart racing in his chest. ‘Listen, do exactly as I say. Go back to the Old Lodge with Raymond and wait for me there. Do not mention this to anyone, understand?’

  ‘Does this mean that Charles Palmer killed Ed?’

  He looked at Palmer standing opposite him. ‘It’s not him you need to worry about. Now, get back to the Old Lodge immediately.’ He hung up before she could ask any more questions, and spoke to Palmer. ‘All that we’ve been talking about – the orphanage, Australia, Ena Massey – have you mentioned this to anyone else?’

  ‘No . . . why?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he pressed. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Palmer hesitated. The look Kirby had seen earlier returned. He knew something. ‘There was one person but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘But he can’t possibly have anything to do with this.’

  Kirby handed him the news clipping Kobrak had found.

  Palmer studied the photograph and began slowly shaking his head. ‘No, it can’t be. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Who did you tell?’

  Palmer looked up, the truth dawning on him as he spoke the name. ‘I told Patrick Calder.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Connie stared at her phone after Kirby hung up, as though the call might magically spring back to life. There was something he hadn’t told her – she’d heard it in his tone of voice when he said it wasn’t Palmer she should be worried about. The tunnel came up on his land, so if it wasn’t him, then who? After taking a last look at the snowy garden of Marsh House through the locked gate of the old folly, she quickly made her way down the spiral staircase that led to the tunnel entrance and back to the lake room, where Raymond was waiting.

  ‘Raymond?’ she called, halfway along the tunnel. ‘We need to leave . . .’ Except Raymond wasn’t there. Bollocks, now really wasn’t the time to play silly buggers. ‘Raymond, where are you?’

  Cautiously, she made her way to the doorway of the lake room and stood on the threshold, looking around. There was no sign of him anywhere. Shit, where was he? Since her conversation with Kirby, she’d started to feel jumpy, and getting back to the Old Lodge was now a priority. Suddenly she became aware of something moving in the shadows. ‘Raymond, what are you doing over there?’

  ‘Well, if it ain’t Miss Hoity-Toity,’ said a man’s voice.

  The voice was vaguely familiar, although Connie couldn’t quite place it – but one thing was certain, it definitely didn’t belong to Raymond. ‘Who is that?’ she asked, searching the room for a weapon of some kind, should she need it.

  ‘You don’t half have bad taste in men,’ said the voice. ‘First you’re looking for that old codger Harry Joyce, then I find you hanging out down here with a fucking loony. You can do better than that, know what I’m saying?’ The man stepped out of the shadows, and Connie could now clearly see his face. She recognised the puffer jacket first, then the hat, which he now pulled off. It was Skinny from the Welcome Inn. The man she’d narrowly missed walking into as she left Marsh House. Fuck.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, trying not to sound as scared as she felt. How the hell had he got into the grounds? ‘Where’s Raymond?’

  ‘He’s gone. Don’t you worry about him.’ Skinny smirked.

  Connie remembered the voice, the bad breath, the pinprick eyes full of mean lust, and felt sick. Something about him had changed though – his voice had a confidence to it which hadn’t been there before. He almost sounded like a different person. Then another thought entered her head: where was the fat one? He wasn’t down here but that didn’t mean he wasn’t up top, keeping watch or dealing with Raymond.

  While all this was going through her mind, she scanned the subterranean room for something to put between them. She moved towards an old hospital bed, its frame rusted, a clipboard still attached. Skinny was quick, though, and darted in front of it, knocking the clipboard, which swung from a chain clipped to the frame. Connie moved the other way, wondering whether she could make a run for the tunnel, which led back up to Blackwater – unlikely, but there wasn’t much choice.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ she said. ‘Neither of us wants to get caught down here, so I suggest we get out while we can.’ She tried to sound assertive and began walking towards the exit, but he grabbed hold of her wrist. He was surprisingly strong for a wiry man.

  ‘So the coppers are coming, are they?’ He smiled. ‘Better not waste any more time then, eh?’

  ‘Let go of me,’ she said, trying to pull free.

  ‘Now, why would I want to do that?’ He pulled her close, and she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Aren’t I good enough for you? You never did give me an answer.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Dirty talk now, is it?’ He gave a lascivious lick of his tongue and smiled. ‘My favourite.’

  She was struggling to break free of his grip when his other hand grabbed her arm and she felt herself being pushed backwards.

  ‘Let me go, you fuckhead!’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said, pushing her back until she felt her legs come into contact with something – a table or a cabinet. ‘Fighting talk.’ She struggled to keep upright, his body weight pushing into her.

  ‘Stop it!’ she screamed. ‘Let me fucking go!’

  Suddenly, his hands released her arms and went up to her head, holding it vice-like as he moved to kiss her. Bracing herself on whatever she was leaning against, she brought her right knee up as hard as she could, straight into his crotch. His hands automatically let go, and she kicked out again. He staggered back, pain and confusion on his face, and hesitated – but only for a second. Suddenly he was on her again, quick as a snake.

  Connie felt the wind being knocked out of her as she fell backwards and hit the cold, damp floor. Skinny was on top of her now, pinning her down. She struggled, kicking out with her legs, shouting for him to stop, but he was strong, his hands crushing her shoulders, as he leant his weight on her.

  ‘Get off me!’ she shouted. ‘You fucking maniac, get off!’ She tried kneeing him in the balls again, but he knelt across her legs so she couldn’t move. Her coat had ridden up with all the struggling and was bunched up round her chest, rendering her even more incapacitated. She felt him fumbling with her b
elt when suddenly she heard a voice.

  ‘Stop!’

  Connie felt Skinny being hauled off her and saw him stumble backwards and trip over.

  ‘What the fuck . . .’ Skinny began, surprise written all over his weaselly face. ‘What the fuck did—’ But before he could get any further, the other man kicked him in the chest with his foot and he fell backwards, stunned. Connie watched in horror as the figure then violently kicked Skinny in the stomach, again and again, making him curl like a hedgehog.

  She pushed herself back against the wall and hugged her knees to her chest, watching as the stranger laid into him. The man kicked again, this time making contact with Skinny’s head, and Connie was sure she heard teeth break. Blood was now pouring from Skinny’s mouth, and he raised a feeble hand in front of his face to ward off the next kick. ‘I’m sorry—’

  Connie couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Stop it!’ she shouted. The bloke might have been a sleazeball, but she didn’t want to see him beaten to a bloody pulp before her eyes.

  The stranger froze, foot drawn back to strike, Skinny on the floor, panting and bloodied, eyes wide with fear. His attacker relaxed, drew himself up and looked down at him and spat. ‘You’re pathetic. Get out of here.’

  Skinny staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach with one hand, the other wiping the blood from his mouth as he spat out what looked like a tooth. ‘Why do you always spoil my fun?’

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled the stranger, moving towards him. Connie was sure he was going to lash out again, but the threat was enough.

  ‘Okay, I’m going,’ Skinny said, and he lurched towards the Blackwater exit. ‘You’ve broken my fucking teeth,’ he muttered as he stumbled into the tunnel. ‘Mad cunt.’

  Connie watched Skinny’s shadowy figure disappear, the occasional swear word bouncing off the tunnel walls, until all she could hear was the thunderous sound of her own beating heart.

  CHAPTER 42