by S W Kane
‘He’s clean,’ replied Hamer. ‘As Lew said, we need to find him and establish why he lied – and we know that he did lie; the security camera on the main gate clearly shows him arriving at 6.30 p.m. on Tuesday night.’
‘Idiot,’ muttered someone.
‘He might not be the brightest spark, but it does suggest that he wasn’t expecting the footage to be checked,’ said Kirby. ‘Ergo, that he’d have to be a real idiot to commit a crime the same night.’
‘Going back to this Sweet character, what’s his story then?’ asked someone else. ‘He was in the loony bin for years, wasn’t he?’
‘Correct. He was a patient at Blackwater for over twenty years after losing his mother in a house fire in 1966,’ said Kirby. ‘The exact reason for his admittance is vague. According to social services, the records covering the period when he was admitted no longer survive.’
‘How come?’ asked Anderson.
‘The doctor in charge, a Dr Alistair Brayne, took them all when he retired in the mid-seventies and he’s long gone. Anyhow, when the hospital closed in 1993, Sweet was sent to live in a B&B, only he kept returning to Blackwater and eventually began squatting – dropping off social services’ radar in the process. He won squatter’s rights and now legally lives in the Old Lodge in the grounds. He has no criminal record and no history of violence.’ He could see people exchanging glances. ‘Initial contact with him suggests that he’s lucid, albeit eccentric. How reliable he is remains to be seen.’
‘He has free access to the grounds,’ someone piped up.
‘So does Simmons,’ said Kirby. ‘And any number of people employed by the developers.’
‘The site manager, Brian Kaplinsky, is compiling a list of everyone who had access to the site,’ said Anderson. ‘There actually aren’t that many. Not with direct access.’
‘Maybe they were in it together, Sweet and Simmons,’ said Kobrak.
‘It’s possible,’ said Kirby, glancing at Hamer. ‘What we don’t know is how our victim and killer – if it’s not Simmons or Sweet – gained access to the site. None of the security cameras show either man entering the asylum with anyone, let alone an elderly woman.’
‘And none of the CCTV footage from the surrounding streets shows our victim in the area – not yet, at least. There’s still a fair bit to go through,’ added Anderson.
‘So, apart from finding Simmons, our first priority has got to be identifying the victim,’ said Hamer. ‘Someone must be missing her and she didn’t get there by herself. Once we know who she is we might be able to establish some kind of motive, and then hopefully things will be a bit clearer.’
‘There’s also the mobile phone that was found at the scene,’ said Kirby. ‘It belongs to twenty-seven-year-old Edward Blake, of 3 Worcester Gardens, SW18. A teaching assistant at Royal Oak School. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation as to why his phone was there – it might have been stolen, although it wasn’t reported – but we need to find him and eliminate him from the enquiry. Uniform are on their way to his flat now.’
The room fell silent for a moment, then Anka, one of the recorders on the case, spoke up. ‘A robbery or mugging I could understand; but killing an old lady and leaving her somewhere like that just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Agreed. The location may well be significant, but we won’t know that until we know who she is. Let’s hope that by the morning someone has missed this woman and raised the alarm,’ said Hamer.
‘SOCOs have finished searching the site for today but have so far found no other means of entering other than the main gates on Battersea Fields Drive, the Daylesford Road entrance and a small hole in the fence just past it, near the river. It’s big enough to crawl through.’
‘Awkward to pull a body through, don’t you think? Unless the victim crawled in willingly and was beaten in the grounds,’ said Anderson. ‘In which case, what was she doing there?’
‘It could that be our victim was taken in during the day by someone working on the site and kept there,’ said Kirby. ‘The place is massive. There must be plenty of places to hide a body or keep someone prisoner for a few days without anyone ever knowing.’
It was a grim thought that the elderly woman might have been held against her will at the old asylum before being killed. Kirby wasn’t discounting it, but she’d looked generally well fed and clean; whereas if she’d been held captive for a few days there would have been signs on the body and clothing. He hadn’t noticed anything himself, but until the forensics report came back they couldn’t be sure.
‘I talked to the owner of Marsh House, the property adjacent to the asylum, name of Charles Palmer, and he neither saw nor heard anything suspicious. I checked the grounds and there’s no way in from the house – there used to be an entrance in the dividing wall, but it’s long since been bricked up.’
‘What’s Palmer like?’ asked Hamer.
‘Fifties, Aussie. Recently inherited the house. In the process of clearing it at the moment. He was out last night, at the Vauxhall Tavern. I swung by there on the way back here,’ said Kirby.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Anderson, cracking a smile. ‘And there I was thinking you had a new girlfriend.’
Fuck’s sake, thought Kirby; now everyone knew he had a new girlfriend on the go. As a rule, he liked to keep his work and his social life separate. ‘I spoke to the barman, Vihaan James, and he remembered Palmer. Said he left just before closing, which is midnight. That matches up with what Palmer told me – that he got in at gone midnight. We can check traffic cameras to verify this, but it looks like he’s in the clear.’
‘What about the developer, Patricey Developments?’ asked Anderson. ‘They must have plans and access.’
Kirby was about to say something when Hamer jumped in. ‘Patricey Developments is headed by Patrick Calder, who is currently in Scotland,’ he began. ‘He flew up there yesterday on business, gets back the day after tomorrow. As I’m sure you know, this is a huge redevelopment, worth billions. It’s important both financially and politically, so he’s not going to take the news of a murder on his land very well, I imagine. I should also add that Patrick Calder is a highly influential man.’ He scanned the room as he said it, as if to emphasise his point.
‘What do we know about him?’ asked Kirby, wondering how Hamer knew the developer’s whereabouts so quickly.
‘Late fifties, self-made billionaire, has several offices around the world. Bought Blackwater Asylum from Tamanaka Holdings two years ago. And before you ask, he has no record,’ said Hamer, directing his last comment at Kirby, who shrugged. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Wealthy and influential or not, Calder was still a suspect until his alibi checked out.
‘Could be a rival wanting to discredit him,’ said Kobrak.
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Hamer. ‘Lew, go and see him first thing on Friday.’
Kirby looked up, surprised. ‘Don’t you want to handle him, given how influential he is?’
‘No. I think it’s better if you do. He won’t be pleased at having his project held up, so be nice. And take it from me, he’s not someone we want to upset.’
Yeah, right, thought Kirby, smiling to himself. ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour. Sir.’
‘Good. That’s it then, folks. Tomorrow’s a new day. Onwards!’ Hamer headed back to his office, where he shut the door.
Kirby crumpled up his water cup and chucked it in the bin. Patrick bloody Calder. He hated property developers about as much as he hated hospitals. Why couldn’t Hamer slip on the kid gloves himself for once?
CHAPTER 9
When Kirby got back to the mooring later that night, instead of doing the sensible thing and going straight to his own boat, he headed to the end of the jetty and jumped down on to a red Dutch barge. In summer the boat overflowed with flowers and herbs, but now the snow-covered terracotta pots on deck glowed in the moonlight, distorted silhouettes gently bobbing with the boat’s sway. He knocked gently on the door, an
d as he waited he wondered where Edward Blake, the missing teacher, was. He wasn’t at his flat and none of his neighbours had seen him since the day before.
After a minute or two, the door of the barge opened, and a waft of rose and geranium floated out.
‘Lew, come in.’ Isabel was dressed in an old pair of faded, ripped jeans and a T-shirt. She looked like she’d just come out of the shower, and she shivered at the cold air.
‘I’m sorry it’s late,’ he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. Come on in and get warm. Drink?’
‘Thanks.’ Kirby took off his coat and hung it by the door, kicking off his shoes at the same time. He followed Isabel into her small galley kitchen, where there was barely enough room for two people to pass each other. She was at the sink rinsing a wine glass, and he stood behind her and slid his hands around her waist.
‘I didn’t hear you leave this morning,’ she said, turning off the tap. ‘You should have said goodbye.’
‘I almost came back, but . . .’ He kissed her neck and closed his eyes. He saw the elderly woman from Blackwater on the hospital bed, surrounded by decay and forgotten memories, and quickly opened them again.
She wriggled around so that she was facing him. ‘But what?’
‘A new case. I’ll tell you later.’ He kissed her, moving his hands up her back, and felt that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
‘You’re insatiable, you know that?’
‘And you’re not?’ He slid his hands round the front, pushing her T-shirt up, and felt her leg curl around his as he pushed her against the sink.
‘You’re also incorrigible,’ she whispered, as he carried her into the bedroom.
Afterwards, they sat on the sofa, Isabel in an old kimono, Kirby stretched out next to her in a pair of tracksuit bottoms she’d found – presumably from some long-gone lover.
‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses and fell into a comfortable silence. Kirby’s mind wandered back to the body at the asylum. How did someone like that get into a place like Blackwater? It really was bugging him.
‘I had a call from the developers today,’ said Isabel, after a while.
‘What did they want?’ The moorings were in dispute with the developer of one of the new riverside apartments, and Isabel was the driving force behind the residents’ fight against them. Now he thought about it, wasn’t it the same bunch who’d just bought Blackwater? He must remember to look into it tomorrow.
‘Same old bullshit. They want a meeting. I said no, not unless they have something new to offer us.’
Kirby was deeply sympathetic towards the boat owners, some of whom had lived here for fifteen years or so. He was a relative newcomer, and hadn’t yet attended residents’ meetings.
‘If they give you notice, then it’ll have to be a good period,’ he said.
‘You mean us notice. You live here too.’
‘I know. I just don’t feel part of the crowd.’ He propped himself up and took a sip of wine.
‘That’s because you’re hardly ever here,’ said Isabel. She said it with no hint of reproach, merely as fact.
‘I’m here enough,’ he said. The truth was that he wished he were here more. He loved the boat, would love to take it elsewhere – move around, stay in other places. It just never happened. ‘Where would you go, if you – we, sorry – lose?’ He lay down again.
‘I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘I might leave altogether.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Would you care if I went?’
‘Of course I would.’ He sat up. ‘I . . . we . . . It’s good,’ he said, smiling. They hadn’t been seeing each other for very long, a few months at most, but he liked her a lot and hoped it was reciprocated. He looked at his watch. ‘D’you mind if we watch the news?’
She shrugged. ‘Sure.’
He got up and switched on Isabel’s small television. The national ten o’clock news was just coming to an end, the local news about to start. Only the basic details about the Blackwater murder had been released to the press so far, and he watched as the news reporter stood outside the main gates of the asylum relaying what little she knew. Remarkably, Raymond Sweet’s name didn’t come up, and once the short piece was over he switched off the television.
‘Is that the new case you mentioned?’ asked Isabel.
Kirby nodded. ‘You might not see much of me for a while. In fact, I should be going. Sorry.’
‘It’s the same developer who wants to move us out,’ said Isabel.
So he’d been right. ‘Who have you been dealing with – not Patrick Calder?’
‘I wish. If I could deal with him we might get somewhere, but I can’t get past his PA. It seems more than her life’s worth to grant me a meeting with him.’
‘It is what she’s paid for,’ said Kirby.
‘I’ve heard his staff are all terrified of him.’
He made a mental note to look into Patrick Calder’s past himself; the developer might not have a record but that didn’t mean he was clean.
Kirby suddenly remembered his father and the message he’d left earlier. ‘Bollocks. I meant to call my dad.’
‘Why not call him now? Is he okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure he’s fine.’ Kirby finished his glass of wine. ‘I really do need to get back to the boat, so I’ll call him from there.’ He went and got dressed, wishing it were warmer and he could just sprint back to his boat in the hope no one would see him. As it was, he’d freeze his balls off if he tried that tonight.
‘I wish you could stay,’ said Isabel, as he stepped on to the deck. She held the kimono tight around her, the thin cotton no protection against the cold night air.
‘Me too. Go back inside before you get frostbite.’ He kissed her forehead and then climbed on to the walkway that linked the boats and headed back to his own berth. As soon as he was inside, he dialled his father’s number. After a few rings his stepmother Meredith picked up.
‘Oh hi, Lew. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thanks. Is everything okay with you both? Only, Dad phoned earlier . . .’
‘Yes, we’re fine. It’s . . . well, actually it’s Liv we’re worried about.’ Livia was Kirby’s mother, but most people called her Liv.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘She called a few days ago and sounded confused,’ said Meredith. ‘Didn’t seem to know what day it was or when your father’s birthday was—’
‘Lew?’ His father’s voice interrupted on the extension. ‘I’ll take over now, Meredith, thank you.’
‘But Jon—’
‘I said I’ll talk to Lew. You go and make some tea.’
‘Bye, Lew,’ said Meredith. ‘Hope we see you soon.’
‘Bye.’ Kirby waited for her to put the phone down before he spoke. It was unusual to hear his father speak to her like that, and he wondered what was going on. ‘Dad?’
‘Sorry, Lew. This is just, well, you know,’ said his father.
‘No, I don’t know. What’s the matter?’
After a pause his father spoke quietly and seriously. ‘You need to go and see your mother. There’s something she needs to tell you.’
‘What do you mean, there’s something she needs to tell me? Why doesn’t she just call?’
‘Because—’ He stopped himself. ‘You know what she’s like. Just go and see her.’
‘Okay . . .’ said Kirby. ‘Can’t you tell me what it’s about though? Come on, Dad, we don’t keep secrets.’
His father was silent on the other end of the phone, and for a moment Kirby thought the line had gone dead. ‘I’m sorry, Lew,’ he said eventually. ‘You need to speak to her about this.’
‘About what?’
‘I need to go, we’re in the middle of a film,’ his father said quickly. ‘That tea’ll be ready now too. Meredith will never forgive me.’
‘But Dad—’
‘You must come and visit soon. Bring Isab
el if you like. Speak soon.’
He’d only told his father about Isabel in the last couple of weeks and wasn’t sure he wanted things to get that cosy just yet. ‘Night,’ said Kirby, but his father had already hung up; it was as though he couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.
Kirby sat for a few moments trying to figure out exactly what had just happened. Had his father been drinking? He hadn’t sounded drunk, far from it. There’s something she needs to tell you. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Was she ill? Christ, did she have cancer? Dear God, not that. Kirby now felt irritated by the conversation – angry with his father for not explaining, annoyed that within minutes his father had cast worry into his mind. He almost called him back but then decided against it.
Instead, he called Livia’s home number and waited impatiently as it rang. His parents had separated when he was twenty – for reasons he was never entirely clear about – but had remained on good terms. That said, they didn’t make a habit of calling each other for long chats, so what could have led to this conversation was beyond him. He cast his mind back to the last time he’d visited his mother and searched his memory for anything unusual. She had seemed a little distracted and, now he thought about it, forgetful. At the time he’d put this down to being tired – she’d said she was having difficulty sleeping, and who didn’t get like that after a few sleepless nights? Several times during his visit she’d forgotten what they were talking about and struggled for names. They’d joked about it, Kirby saying he’d wear a badge with his name on if she ever forgot who he was. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so funny.
The phone rang and rang, and eventually he hung up. She was either in bed or out with friends; God knows her social life was busy enough, so he tried her mobile. It went straight to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call him back, and hung up.
That night, Kirby went to bed and dreamt he was at Blackwater, walking through what seemed to be an eternal ward – bed after bed of patients, some strapped down, others sedated and staring into space; the elderly woman from this morning was there, lying on her back, grinning up at the ceiling. Eventually he came the last bed – the end of the ward was bricked up with no way out – only to see that the last patient was his mother.
