The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  Karen shook her head. ‘Like I said, I’d had a few. Hey, you don’t think she made a will, do you?’ She took a long swig of the blue liquid, which was beginning to stain her lips, excitement in her eyes.

  ‘If she did and you’re mentioned, I’m sure you’ll be notified. Do you know if she had any more children after you left home?’ Kirby knew that she hadn’t, but wanted to know if Karen knew.

  ‘Now you really are pulling my leg with that question.’ She laughed. ‘I was bad enough. She wasn’t going to go through that again.’ She looked him over as though she were eyeing up a new ornament. ‘You ain’t bad for a copper, you know that?’ She downed the rest of the second bottle of WKD in one, a burp the final flourish.

  Kirby decided it was time to leave before she hit bottle number three, and made a move towards the door. ‘You have a son, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Douglas,’ Karen said from her armchair. ‘Good-for-nothing little sod, if you ask me. Still, I am his mum, and I love him.’

  Kirby felt a pang of sadness for Karen, whose mother had clearly never loved her. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

  ‘Probably in the boozer, the Welcome, with that nasty shit Lloyd who he hangs out with.’ She hauled herself out of the armchair, giving Kirby an eye-watering view of her cleavage. ‘Let me show you out.’

  ‘Did Douglas and his grandmother have a relationship of any kind?’ he asked.

  ‘They never met, let alone had a bloody relationship,’ said Karen, squeezing past him into the hall before he had time to get out of the way. He could have sworn he felt an electric current from the pink onesie as they touched. ‘If my Douglas done this, it’ll be the first bloody useful thing he’s ever done in his life,’ she said, holding the front door open for him.

  Kirby thanked her for her time and beat a hasty exit into the fresh air. Despite the cold, he opened the window when he got into the car, to try to rid himself of the aftermath of Silk Cut, and sat for a few minutes thinking over what Karen had told him. Two things struck him: the first was Ena’s connection to Blackwater; and the second was that she’d told Karen she was coming into some money. The latter, if true, would certainly provide motive, but it was the connection to Blackwater that really intrigued him. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  As he started the engine and pulled out on to Downchurch Road, strains of Rod Stewart drifted from the open window of the house, and he pictured Karen swaying to the music behind the hull-shaped bar, drunk and alone, the zip on her onesie fighting a losing battle.

  CHAPTER 12

  The meeting that Bonaro had scheduled over coffee that morning took much longer than Connie had expected, and when she came out it was almost lunchtime. What she’d anticipated would be some sort of housekeeping meeting, or perhaps about the James Neville drawings she’d catalogued, turned out to be something quite different: Bonaro was going away on a research scholarship and had offered her the temporary curatorship of RADE while he was gone. He’d mentioned the scholarship vaguely a few months ago, but she’d never expected it to happen so suddenly and found herself accepting without a thought. Despite the incredible opportunity just given to her and with so much to discuss, she’d been distracted throughout the rest of the meeting, one eye on the clock, and was relieved when it ended.

  It had now been over thirty-six hours, and Ed still hadn’t called. Last night she’d spoken to their closest friend, Mole, who was away exploring in Poland, and he hadn’t heard from him either; in fact, no one had. She’d called every mutual friend that she could think of and checked every social media outlet Ed used, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Then, just as she was getting ready for work that morning, listening to the radio, came the bombshell: a body had been found at Blackwater. The news had sent her into a spiral of anxiety. It couldn’t be happening again, could it?

  Relieved to be out of Bonaro’s office, Connie went straight to her desk in the reading room and checked her phone. Her stomach groaned, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten – not that she had any appetite. Her phone yielded nothing – no missed calls, no email, no nothing. She checked the BBC News app in case the Blackwater victim had been named yet, but they hadn’t. Damn, damn, damn. There was now only one thing for it; she’d have to call the police. It wasn’t a call that she wanted to make from RADE when Bonaro was around – so, grabbing her coat and bag, she headed for the stairs and was halfway down when the doorbell rang.

  They didn’t get many unscheduled callers at RADE – it was mostly appointment only – but there were a few ageing academics who popped in regularly, so she assumed it would be one of them. When she pulled open the heavy front door and came face to face with a striking-looking man in his thirties, she was slightly taken aback. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m looking for Connie Darke,’ said the man. ‘Detective Inspector Kirby, Met Police.’ He held up some ID, which she barely registered as a feeling of nausea passed through her. ‘May I come in?’ he asked.

  She nodded, letting him in to the reception area. The door swung closed with a deafening slam. ‘I’m Connie Darke. What’s this about?’ she managed to say, trying to keep her voice even.

  ‘I need to ask you some questions about a friend of yours, Edward Blake,’ he said. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit?’

  She felt her legs wobble. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘I hope so. Can we sit?’

  The relief was instant; it wasn’t Ed’s body that had been found at Blackwater. Thank God. ‘Oh, yes, of course. This way.’ She led him up the gently curving stone staircase and into the main reading room, where she closed the door, hoping that Bonaro wouldn’t come in. ‘So, what’s this about?’ she asked, offering him a chair.

  ‘Mr Blake’s phone was found at a crime scene yesterday morning, and we need to speak to him quite urgently,’ said DI Kirby, sitting down. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to help. According to his phone records you’ve been trying to contact him. You were also the last person he called.’

  ‘A crime scene? I don’t understand.’ Her mind was racing – was this to do with Sarah?

  ‘You may have heard that a body was found at Blackwater Asylum, the derelict psychiatric hospital in Battersea, yesterday. Mr Blake’s phone was found nearby, and we need to trace him as soon as possible. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ She wasn’t sure how much to say, so decided to leave it there.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why he might have been at Blackwater?’

  He was watching her carefully – he must know about Sarah, he had to. She noticed that he was wearing a silver ring on his middle finger; it looked too chunky for any policeman she’d ever seen, more like something Mole might wear.

  ‘Miss Darke?’

  ‘Um, actually, yes, I do.’ She looked down at her own small hands, the silver ring on her thumb. She twisted it off and held it out. ‘This belonged to my sister, Sarah.’

  He took the silver band and turned it round in his hands. ‘I read about her accident. I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s an inscription,’ she said. ‘On the inside.’ She watched as he read the words on the band.

  ‘Ed Blake was your sister’s boyfriend?’ he asked, looking up.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. You obviously know that she died at Blackwater, but what you might not know is that Tuesday was the fifth anniversary of her death.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ he said, handing back the ring. ‘What did you plan to do?’

  She pushed the ring back on. ‘Go to Blackwater and – well, I don’t know really. Mark the occasion somehow. It felt like the right thing to do.’

  ‘So the two of you had arranged to meet at Blackwater on Tuesday night, and then what?’ The detective’s stare was quite unnerving. ‘Break in?’

  ‘It’s not breaking in, it’s different. It’s . . .’ How could she explain to a policeman?

  ‘Am I right in guessing that you and Mr Blake are urban explorers like
your sister was?’

  There didn’t seem much point in denying it, and she nodded. ‘Yes, we planned to “break in”, as you put it, and head to the water tower where the accident happened. Except we didn’t – or rather, I didn’t.’ She relayed the events of Tuesday night: how she’d got stuck on the train due to the weather; how Ed had said he’d go to Blackwater alone. ‘It was a stupid idea, but he was determined. He loved her and always felt guilty that he hadn’t been with her on the day of the accident.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Mr Blake at all since then?’

  ‘No, and it’s not like him not to be in touch. I’m worried, I have to admit.’

  ‘So you have no real idea of whether he actually made it inside the grounds or not, then?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’

  ‘How did you plan to get in?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a hole in the fence on Daylesford Road. It’s been there since last summer.’

  ‘Just to be clear, you’ve had no contact whatsoever with Mr Blake – no text, no email?’

  DI Kirby’s eyes were the darkest green that she’d ever seen, and something about them unsettled her. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Can you think of anywhere he might go – family, a girlfriend?’

  ‘There’s his grandfather, Harry. They’re very close. Ed’s mum – well, she wasn’t around very much. Harry pretty much brought him up.’

  ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

  She shook her head and fiddled with the ring on her thumb. ‘Not since Sarah.’

  ‘What about other urban explorers?’

  ‘What about them?’ she asked, looking up. ‘Look, Ed knew loads of urbexes – sorry, urban explorers – but that doesn’t mean he’d go off-radar with any of them.’

  DI Kirby looked thoughtful. ‘How many of them have been into Blackwater?’

  ‘Loads. Half the urbex community in London have been in. Not to mention people who’ve travelled to London especially.’

  ‘Right.’ He smiled. ‘A cast of thousands. Tell me, do you know of any other ways in apart from the broken fence?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not unless you can bribe the secco.’ She didn’t know of any other way in, but even if she had, she wasn’t about to tell the police – not even the striking DI Kirby.

  ‘The secco?’ he asked.

  ‘Security guard. There’s been the odd one over the years who’d turn a blind eye, but they never lasted long. Why?’

  ‘We’re exploring the possibility that the victim and perpetrator entered the site from somewhere other than the main entrances or the hole in the fence.’

  She was suddenly intrigued. ‘You mean you don’t know how they got in?’

  ‘Not yet, no. If you have any ideas, I’d be grateful if you could let me know.’ He paused, as if mulling something over. ‘Tell me, how did you get into all this, the urban exploring? Was it through your sister? Just being nosey.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about it until Sarah died. I’d never heard of people exploring derelict buildings for a laugh – I didn’t even know she was involved, to be honest. Her accident came as such a shock, then to find out she had this secret life.’ She shrugged. ‘I wanted to find out more.’

  ‘Is that how you met Mr Blake?’

  ‘Sort of. I’d met him once or twice, very briefly, with Sarah. He seemed nice. Initially, I just wanted to get into Blackwater to see where the accident happened, but then I wanted to understand more about why she explored in the first place. I couldn’t do it alone and, well, he was the only urbex I knew.’

  ‘And did you – understand, I mean?’

  ‘Totally. It’s exhilarating. I got bitten by the bug. The adrenalin alone is worth it—’ She stopped. ‘It’s not just that though. I don’t expect you to get it, but I feel close to her when I’m at Blackwater. It’s hard to explain. Ed’s been great, he’s one of the loveliest people I know. Best drainer I’ve met too.’

  DI Kirby looked bemused. ‘Drainer?’

  ‘Drainers specialise in exploring sewers and storm drains, that kind of thing. Ed loves them; in fact, he’s known as RatRun to some of the urbexes after—’

  ‘Tunnel rats.’

  ‘Yes, how did—’

  ‘Educated guess. Sorry, I interrupted you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah – well, anyhow, he and another explorer friend really helped me. I don’t know what I would have done without them.’ She was talking too much. ‘Are we done?’

  ‘Who’s this other friend?’ he asked, standing up.

  Bollocks. She’d walked into that one. ‘I don’t know his real name – everyone calls him Mole. He’s been in Poland since the weekend and isn’t back until tomorrow or the day after, I’m not sure which.’

  ‘I see. Okay, thanks. You’ve been very helpful. And satisfied my curiosity.’

  ‘Good. I say “good” as long as you don’t arrest me.’ She smiled.

  ‘Not today, no.’

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ she said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Was she flirting with him? Christ, Mole would never forgive her. Fraternising with the enemy is what he’d call it, never mind that DI Kirby was good-looking.

  ‘Are you allowed to tell me whose body it was that you found?’ she asked, as they descended the stairs.

  ‘The name will be released to the press this afternoon, so all I can tell you now is that it was an elderly female.’

  She didn’t know what she’d expected to hear, but an elderly woman hadn’t even entered her head. ‘That’s awful. What on earth was she doing there?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  They reached the entrance, and when she opened the door an icy gust hit them both.

  ‘Damn, that’s cold,’ muttered DI Kirby, stepping on to the pavement and zipping up his jacket. ‘Thanks for your time, Miss Darke. If you hear from Mr Blake, or anyone who knows where he might be, let me know immediately.’ He handed her a card. ‘Call me any time. I can see this must be difficult for you, after losing your sister.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the card and slid it into her pocket. ‘You know they never found out who my sister was with when she fell. It’s haunted Ed ever since.’

  ‘You too, I imagine.’

  ‘I just hope he’s all right. If something’s happened to him, I . . .’ She trailed off. She didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find him, so try not to worry. Remember, call if you hear anything or have any concerns.’

  Connie watched him cross the street and turn right along the square, until he disappeared round the corner. She stood for a second, absent-mindedly twisting the ring on her thumb, with a nagging feeling – not entirely unpleasant – that she hadn’t seen the last of him.

  CHAPTER 13

  Seventy-nine Chartwell Road was on a small, neat little street of bungalows; not bad for a nurse’s pension, thought Kirby as he pulled up in the Corsa. A Scenes of Crime van was parked outside, as well as Anderson’s Astra. Kirby would give anything to be able to drive his own car for work – he owned a 1974 Citroën SM – but it was strictly forbidden. The Corsa affronted him on every level, but Pete’s Astra was just as bad, if not worse.

  He was aware of being watched as he got out of the car. Chartwell Road looked like one of those streets where nothing much happened and yet everyone knew what everyone else was doing. Kirby hoped the neighbours were talkative, as well as curtain-twitchers.

  A SOCO, who had been sitting in the van talking on his phone, climbed out and said hello, handing Kirby protective overalls and bootees to slip over his shoes.

  ‘There’s another entrance around the back,’ said the officer, pointing towards the side of the house, where Kirby could see a path. Once he’d pulled the overalls on over his clothes, the SOCO handed him some nitrile gloves.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kirby, and headed towards the house.

  There were two access paths to the house – one leading to the front and one towards the
rear – and both had been clearly labelled by SOCOs so as not to disturb any footprints. A wooden gate separated the front garden from the street, and several sets of prints led up the garden path to the front door, most likely belonging to the postman and the neighbour who’d reported Ena missing. The curtains were drawn, and Kirby sensed an empty house; before the circus had arrived, that was. He followed the other designated path down the side of the property, which led to a gate and a small patio area, and stopped for a moment, every now and then catching Anderson’s measured tones from within the house. He was on the phone, Kirby could tell.

  Ena clearly hadn’t been a gardener, and even under a blanket of snow he could tell that most of it was concrete. There was no sign of human activity, only a few animal tracks criss-crossing the small area and the narrow path the SOCOs had marked out. The garden was boxed in on three sides by adjoining gardens, which limited access for any intruder. A back door, the top half of which was glass, led into a small kitchen. Kirby pulled on the nitrile gloves and went in. Anderson was indeed on his mobile, now talking in more hushed tones, and he nodded as Kirby walked in.

  Grey roller blinds were down in the small kitchen, diffusing the light, and it took Kirby’s eyes a few seconds to adjust after the brightness of the snow outside. Washing-up was draining next to the sink – a plate and a small saucepan. He wandered over to the fridge and opened the door: a half-litre of milk still well within its use-by date; eggs – again, fresh; cheese; tomatoes; and an unopened packet of sliced ham. He checked the cupboards – a few tins of soup, sardines and pineapple chunks in one. Another held sugar, tea and a half-full jar of instant coffee; and a biscuit barrel stood on the work surface near a kettle.

  He moved into the hallway, where he met a SOCO called Asia Barsetti coming out of a room to the left, which looked like the living room.

  ‘Hey, Lew, how are you?’ She smiled, her breath fanning out before her. The house was freezing.

  ‘I’m good, thanks. Found anything yet?’

  ‘No. Nothing looks out of place. It’s as if she simply walked out and never came back,’ said Asia.