by S W Kane
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by S W Kane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542018876
ISBN-10: 1542018870
Cover design by Dominic Forbes
In memory of Derry, Hywel & Tuco
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
There they stand, isolated, majestic, imperious, brooded over by the gigantic water-tower and chimney combined, rising unmistakable and daunting out of the countryside – the asylums which our forefathers built with such immense solidity to express the notions of their day. Do not for a moment underestimate their powers of resistance to our assault.
Enoch Powell, 1961
PROLOGUE
He made his way up the staircase, palms sweating, nerves kicking in. He shouldn’t be here; in fact, he’d specifically been told not to go upstairs, yet he couldn’t help himself. It was a beautiful summer’s day, and he’d taken himself off to the lake, but even there he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom; so he’d returned. He hadn’t encountered anyone on his way back and had felt like he was in one of those sci-fi films where everyone disappears, and you’re the only person left. When he’d finally got back, there was no one there either: the building still and quiet, the only noise the gentle ticking of the hall clock. As far as he knew there were no visitors coming that afternoon, and the doctor wouldn’t arrive until much later. The whole place appeared deserted.
As he reached the top of the stairs he paused, surveying the landing for any signs of life. All the doors off it were shut except one: right at the end, which was ever so slightly ajar. After a few minutes, when he felt as sure as he could be that he was alone, he slowly began moving towards it. He’d only taken one or two steps when he heard something – a slight whimper – and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Despite his sweating palms, which he wiped on his trousers, his throat was bone dry, and he longed for a drink of water.
Then he heard it again – the whimper – only louder this time. He stopped halfway across the landing, heart pounding in his chest, and looked back at the staircase, wondering whether he should go and get help, but he found himself unable to move. The landing suddenly appeared vast, but retreat seemed out of the question and the compulsion to go on non-negotiable. He crept forward, passing through a shaft of sunlight catching dust in the air, and as he got nearer to the door he heard another sound: someone breathing – heavily, but with control. Then came another whimper, only fainter and slightly muffled. By now, his heart was racing faster than he deemed possible, and he briefly thought of his mother, a pang of sadness rippling through his body. After another few steps the door was within reach, and as gently as he could he pushed it open. He knew it wouldn’t creak; the door’s hinges had been specially oiled.
Inside the room the curtains were drawn, as they often were, but he could still make out the bed on the left and a familiar shape beneath its covers. A small lamp cast a pool of light on a nightstand, intensifying the dark shadows in the rest of the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realised that there was someone else in the room, the source of the breathing. They were leaning over the bed; he watched, transfixed, unsure of what he was witnessing, but instinct telling him it was something intensely private. He saw the bedclothes twitch, then lie still, and sensed the figure hunched over the bed relax. Suddenly aware that he’d been holding his breath, he let it out gently as the figure slowly straightened up; a long sigh, almost a sob, coming from somewhere deep inside. In that moment, he knew that no breath would ever leave the woman on the bed again, and was about to back away when he saw the figure bend forward and brush something from the prone body.
What little light there was in the room caught the feather as it floated to the floor and danced across the worn boards towards him. He shrunk back from the door, as the feather, caught on a summer breeze, drifted out of the room and settled on the landing by his feet. He bent down to pick it up, and when he stood up there she was, standing in the doorway, watching.
‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘She’s finally asleep.’
CHAPTER 1
DI Lew Kirby hated hospitals – it was the smell, although today that wasn’t going to be a problem. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his down jacket, he turned away from the dead woman lying on the bed and looked out across the snow-covered landscape of South London, an icy-cold wind making his eyes smart as it sliced through a crack in the window. The capital was in the grip of one of its coldest winters on record, and the ornamental lake that stood on the hospital grounds was iced over. Everything in London was frozen: the ponds on Hampstead Heath; the Serpentine; even the river between the houseboats where his own boat was moored had chunks of ice floating on it. After the previous night, it was all dusted in fresh snow and rather scenic. Dragging his eyes away, Kirby turned back to the room and the less-than-scenic picture there.
He had taken the call just as he was leaving home that morning. He’d spent the night at Isabel’s, neither of them getting much sleep – the joys of the new relationship had yet to wear off – and had only popped back to his own boat for an hour or so, to shower and grab some coffee. He’d just started his second espresso and was seriously contemplating going to wake Isabel when Vicky, the dispatch caller, had rung and told him to skip the office and head to what everyone referred to simply as ‘Blackwater’.
Blackwater Asylum, later renamed Blackwater Psychiatric Hospital, sat on the banks of the Thames at Battersea and had been closed for over two decades, its buildings left to rot on w
hat was one of London’s most valuable pieces of real estate. The journey from his mooring at Nine Elms should only have taken him twenty minutes tops, but because of the weather it had taken almost twice that. Snowploughs and gritters were out on the main roads; the side streets were all but impassable. When he’d eventually pulled up at the gates of the derelict hospital in his police-issue Corsa, which he loathed with a passion, a young red-nosed PC had directed him to the admin block, where he’d parked and been shown the way to Keats Ward, in which he now stood.
The ward was located towards the river end of the asylum’s grounds – equidistant from Daylesford Road on one side of the site and a private property on the other, and well out of view from either. The room he was in was on the first floor and contained nothing apart from six old hospital beds: five of which were empty. On the sixth bed, the one that held his attention, was the body of an elderly woman. She lay on an old mattress, stained by decades of use and neglect. Kirby guessed the woman to be in her late seventies or eighties, although it was hard to tell under the circumstances. Her face had been badly beaten; her jaw was dislocated, judging by its unnatural angle. Her features had taken on the hue of the decaying surroundings, smudged blues and pinks, darker patches where the blood had smeared. The hospital-issue bed was a steel frame, a faded number 19 stencilled at its foot. The entire scene made him feel queasy.
A police arc light stood over the bed, its beam now switched off, and Scenes of Crime Officers moved carefully around the space, walking on tread plates, which always made Kirby think of a bizarre game of Twister. He watched as the police photographer recorded the body, the digital camera shutter snapping like teeth, the woman’s injuries garish under the harsh light of the flash.
‘Not exactly Sleeping Beauty,’ said a voice Kirby recognised as belonging to his partner, Pete Anderson.
Anderson appeared in the doorway, practically filling it, and walked over to the bed, where Kirby heard him mutter ‘Jesus Christ’ under his breath. Ten years his senior, Anderson was a great hulk of a man – not overweight, just large; his fingers like sausages. In his spare time he practised taxidermy, although how those big fingers managed such delicate work, Kirby had never figured out; perhaps that was why some of Anderson’s creations were less than perfect, like the fox with three legs Kirby had back at the boat.
‘Who said that line in Withnail and I, about no true beauty without decay?’ said Anderson.
‘Fuck knows – you’re the one who stuffs dead animals.’
‘Uncle Monty,’ mumbled the photographer without looking up.
‘That’s it, Uncle Monty,’ said Anderson, snapping his fingers. ‘Mind you, it’s more like bloody Psycho than Withnail. I keep expecting to bump into Norman Bates. This place gives me the creeps.’
‘You and me both.’ The two detectives fell silent while the photographer finished his work.
‘What kind of lowlife does this to an elderly woman?’ said Anderson, when he’d gone. ‘She wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
Kirby shook his head. ‘No, she wouldn’t.’ Whoever had done it had hit the victim more than once, the bruising visible on both sides of her face and jaw. Kirby walked around the bed, hands still firmly in his pockets – nitrile gloves were no protection against the cold – and studied the woman’s clothing. The first thing that struck him was that, although she was fully clothed, she wasn’t wearing any kind of coat, which in this weather was peculiar. Her dress was in good condition, but dusty, and her shoes – flat and sensible, like he’d seen advertised in the back of the Telegraph Magazine – were also dusty. He bent down for a closer look at her hands, which were gently resting on her stomach. The knuckles and a few of the finger joints looked swollen – probably arthritis. No sign of a wedding ring, and the nails were dirty but not broken.
‘How in God’s name did she get here?’ said Kirby. ‘It’s not as though you can simply stroll into a place like this.’
‘And why here?’ asked Anderson, looking around. ‘What’s an elderly woman doing in a derelict mental hospital?’
It was a good question. Although there were no visible signs of decomposition, it was so cold that she could have been there for days.
‘The security guard who found her says there was a site visit about a week ago and that she wasn’t here then,’ said Anderson, as though reading his thoughts.
A week, Kirby thought grimly. Surely she’d have been missed if she’d been here that long? ‘Have you spoken to the guard?’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Only briefly. He’s waiting for us in his Portakabin.’
‘What about the phone that he found, you got it?’
Anderson pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and held it up. ‘Samsung. Several missed calls on the home screen. Security guard found it over there,’ he said, pointing towards a marker near the door. ‘I’ll get it over to Newlands and checked ASAP.’ Newlands was where the communications investigation unit was based.
Kirby looked around the bleak room. It was relatively spacious and probably would have held at least six more beds when it was a functioning ward. Four large arched windows ran along the outer wall, one of which had been blocked up. The floor was littered with broken glass, plaster, and decades of dust and bird droppings; a used condom by the skirting. Looking up, he saw a dead pigeon hanging from a light fitting, its wings spread as though crucified. A road map of frozen damp was spreading across the ceiling, and the walls, which had once been pale pink, now peeled like burnt flesh, revealing layers of decades-old paint beneath. It was hard to imagine it as a place where you were meant to recover.
‘Who the hell comes to a place like this?’ said Anderson, eyeing up the dead bird.
‘Let’s talk to the security guard,’ said Kirby, with a sudden urge to be out of there. He skimmed the room a final time. The dead pigeon was now gently swaying in an unidentifiable breeze and he hoped that it wasn’t the last thing she saw.
CHAPTER 2
The security guard’s name was Leroy Simmons, and he was reading a copy of Carpworld when Kirby and Anderson arrived at the Portakabin.
‘This fuckin’ weather,’ Simmons moaned, as they brought in a waft of cold air with them. ‘It ain’t no good for man nor beast.’ He waved his magazine as if to demonstrate the plight of carp.
The cabin was small and basic: a compact kitchen at one end, with a sink and microwave, and a small table and chairs at the other. Two dirty glasses rested on the draining board. Simmons sat at the table; piles of paper and magazines had been pushed to one side, a deck of cards hastily stacked on top. He was a large man, and even through his uniform Kirby could tell that he worked out. He’d have no problem carrying an elderly woman through the hospital grounds and up a flight of stairs.
‘I’d sooner be on my rounds than sat on my butt in here,’ said the security guard.
‘You won’t be doing any rounds today. Once we’ve spoken to you, you’ll need to make a formal statement at the station. Then you’ll be free to go,’ said Kirby, taking a seat opposite. Anderson stood by the door and rattled a box of Tic Tacs before flipping the tab and popping one into his mouth.
‘But I haven’t finished my shift. Will I get paid?’ asked Simmons.
‘You’ll have to take that up with your employers,’ said Kirby. ‘But first we need to ask you a few questions.’ He took out his notebook, a battered Moleskine, and opened it on a fresh page. ‘How long have you worked for Emeris Security?’
‘Six months, give or take a day or two.’
‘What time did you arrive here today?’ asked Kirby.
‘Six a.m. That’s when we change shifts.’
‘So the snow didn’t hold you up at all – getting here, I mean?’
‘Uh-uh, I walk. Live over there,’ he said, gesturing. ‘On the estate.’
‘Okay. So who did you take over from this morning?’
‘Guy goes by the name of Chips. Dunno his real name, but you best speak to him about what went on in the darknes
s.’ His hands gripped the Carpworld, which he’d rolled into a tube.
The darkness? He made it sound like some sort of religious state, and Kirby saw Anderson shift his weight and lean on the door frame, arms folded.
‘And where were you last night?’
‘In my bed, sleeping. Tries to get a good night before I gets here.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘Uh-uh. I lives alone now the wife is gone, God rest her soul.’ He crossed himself.
‘Okay, walk us through what happened. Before and after you made your discovery.’
Simmons rubbed his eyes; he looked tired, the opposite of a man who’d had a good night’s sleep. ‘I got here, made my coffee, waited for the sun to come up and then went out on my first round. That was about seven-thirty. I went to the main part of the fence on Battersea Fields Drive, then I cuts down through the airing courts and checks the chapel, and then down to the water tower and back. I don’t go down to the lake very often.’
‘But today you did. Why was that?’
‘I heard a noise. Couldn’t fathom what it was. Then, when I got nearer, I realised it was a phone.’
‘You heard the ringing from outside?’ asked Anderson, speaking for the first time since entering the cabin.
Simmons nodded. ‘Sounds crazy I know, but what with the snow, it was so quiet. Reckon I’d have heard an ant shit.’
Anderson smiled. ‘Right.’
‘And then what did you do?’ asked Kirby, wondering what an ant shitting would sound like.
Simmons paused. ‘I was scared. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no coward, but this place gives me the creeps. I stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot. Then I thought, Pull yourself together, Leroy, ain’t nothing but a phone. So I goes in. Wish to God I hadn’t.’
‘What made you go upstairs – is that where the ringing was coming from?’
‘Uh-uh. It stopped when I got inside,’ he said. ‘Then I heard a buzz, like when someone leaves you a voicemail. I dunno, maybe whoever it belonged to is deaf and needs the volume up high.’ He stopped, crossing himself again. ‘And then I seen her, lying there.’
