The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  A lone envelope lay by the front door, along with a couple of takeaway pizza menus. It didn’t look like the accumulation of someone who’d been gone for more than one or two days. He picked up the envelope, a bill of some kind, and put it on the table, along with the pizza menus. He examined the front door; it was locked from the outside, and the chain was off.

  ‘Have you found a key for this?’ he asked Asia.

  ‘Not yet. We all came in through the back.’

  Kirby went into the room Asia had just come from, the sitting room, and went over to the window. He drew back the curtain and noticed movement in the window opposite. Mrs Valance, who had called the police to report Ena missing, was out until six, he knew, but whoever it was had a prime view of the front of Ena’s house; he hoped that they had a good memory too.

  Letting the curtain fall back into place, he turned to survey the room. Floral wallpaper covered one wall, while the rest of it was painted a dusky pink. The carpet looked new, as did the furniture. In fact, the place looked fairly recently decorated. A large television filled one corner of the room – a Sony, not cheap. The remote sat on a shelf below, along with several TV guides. The rest of the wall was filled with shelves; not shelves for books but the kind of useless shelves that Kirby hated – the kind of shelves that accumulated dust and ‘things’. Ena’s collection of things was sparse: three elephants in varying sizes, some Russian dolls, and a snow globe with the Virgin Mary inside. Kirby picked up the snow globe and shook it. The Virgin stared at him through the plastic dome, her arms outstretched, palms turned upwards, as though inviting him in. He put it down and moved towards the bedroom.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, and Asia came and stood next to him.

  ‘We haven’t searched in there yet. You want to have a look first?’ she asked.

  ‘Give me a few minutes and then it’s all yours,’ Kirby replied, and stepped into the room.

  Secrets: invariably, the bedroom was where people kept them. Why, Kirby wasn’t sure. Was it the darkness at night, the feeling of being close to something private? It was also a room that visitors rarely entered, a room of privacy and seclusion. What secrets did Ena have? he wondered. Her death had not been random; of that, he was fairly certain. Ena had been chosen – for whatever reason – and her body placed somewhere very specific.

  On first impression, Ena Massey’s bedroom looked more like a hospital room than a private room in someone’s house, and was quite unlike the living room. The walls were off-white and bare, save for a crucifix over the bed. The bed itself looked like standard hospital-issue – metal-framed and narrow – and not unlike the one she’d been found on in Keats Ward. A medical chart wouldn’t have looked out of place at its end. The bed was neatly made, with starched white linen folded over at the top to reveal a flat, white pillow; a green eiderdown was the only concession to winter. A bedside cabinet in wood veneer sat to the left, on which stood an alarm clock and bedside light. Kirby walked over to the small cabinet and opened the drawer: an open packet of paracetamol, some Vicks VapoRub and a bible. He picked up the bible; the brown cloth cover was worn at the edges, the front held on by a thread. He opened it carefully, noticing that the first page was printed in red and black ink and resembled a bookplate. ‘Presented to ____ by ____’ was typeset in Gothic script, and the blank spaces had been filled in with an ink pen: Presented to Ena by Father.

  He smelt the bible’s pages and was reminded of the second-hand bookshops he used to love trawling as a child. He never seemed to have the time these days, and a pang of nostalgia hit him so forcefully that he was transported back to a summer’s day in Hay-on-Wye. His parents had let him roam the Cinema Bookshop alone; its labyrinthine interior, lined with books, felt as big as an aerodrome to the young Kirby. It was the smell, however, that had stayed with him the most – of old paper worn by a million human touches. Thinking of his parents reminded him that Livia hadn’t returned his call; usually she was chomping at the bit to speak to him.

  He flicked through Ena’s bible, a book he hadn’t read since being at school, and it fell open about halfway through. A passage from the Proverbs had been marked with a black pen: When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet.

  ‘Found something?’ said Anderson’s voice, from behind him.

  ‘Not really. Just a bible given to her by her father.’ Kirby closed the book and returned it to the drawer.

  Anderson waved his mobile. ‘Neighbour across the road saw Ena leave here at around three yesterday afternoon. She was wearing a fur coat and talking to someone on her mobile. He didn’t see her return.’

  ‘So we need to find her phone,’ said Kirby. ‘And she wasn’t wearing the coat when we found her either.’

  ‘Kobrak’s going to get on to the phone when he gets back from the hospice, although my bet is it’s at the bottom of the river.’

  Kirby sat on the bed and looked around the austere room. ‘Nothing happened here, did it? It’s as she left it.’

  ‘That’s certainly how it looks. This room wouldn’t be out of place at Blackwater, if you ask me. How did it go with the daughter?’

  Kirby recounted his visit with Karen, while looking through the other drawers in the bedside table.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Anderson when he’d finished. ‘Sounds like you barely got out alive.’

  ‘Yeah, the way she fondled that bottle opener will stay with me forever. Anyhow, if Ena worked at Blackwater, then Raymond Sweet must have known her. They were both there for decades.’

  ‘We’d better bring him in. What about this money Ena mentioned to Karen? If it’s true, and she did come into some cash, then we should find the paperwork here somewhere. Not that Sweet strikes me as someone who’d kill for money . . . Does he to you?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, but he might have had some other reason.’ Kirby went over to the wardrobe and opened the doors. It was full of the usual clothes and shoes that you might expect from a woman in her eighties: sensible shoes, plain dresses, skirts – no trousers – and a few coats. There was nothing hidden – no suitcase full of stolen money, no stash of drugs; nothing worth killing for. He sighed and closed the door. Anderson was going through a chest of drawers, which sat in front of the window. He’d just opened the second drawer when his phone rang.

  ‘It’s Hamer,’ he said, glancing at the screen. ‘Initial post-mortem results must be in. You want to carry on?’ he asked, stepping aside to concentrate on the call.

  Kirby went over and continued searching the drawer. It contained nothing but cardigans and scarves. The third drawer contained the same, only there were a few other items, such as belts and gloves. He found what he was looking for in the fourth drawer, the bottom one. Amongst some cardigans and a few scarves sat an old shoebox with Saxone printed on it. He took it over to the bed and carefully took off the lid. It contained jewellery and correspondence, and he took out an envelope at random.

  The envelope was addressed to Ruth Abbott, Blackwater Asylum, Battersea. The postmark was smudged, but he could just about make out the date: 1964. Inside was a handwritten letter, which began, Dear Ruthie. Kirby skimmed the letter and took out another – and then another. He glanced at Anderson, who was listening intently to what Hamer was telling him on the phone, then back at the letters.

  There were fifteen in total, and all appeared to be letters written from relatives and friends to patients at Blackwater Asylum. There was nothing revealing in the letters themselves, but one stood out. It was addressed to Catherine Edwards, and yet the letter inside began, My Dearest Sarah. It must have been put back in the wrong envelope by mistake, although the handwriting was the same on both. Kirby replaced the letters and began going through the jewellery. There wasn’t much: a few brooches, an old school badge, a locket containing two sepia photographs and some rings. He was looking at each in turn when Anderson finished the call with Hamer.

  ‘Looks like Ena died of a fractured sk
ull, although she wouldn’t have lasted long in an unconscious state in these temperatures. Toxicology report to follow.’

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Kirby. ‘What on earth could she have done to provoke that?’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine.’

  ‘Look at this.’ Kirby handed him one of the letters.

  ‘What about it?’ asked Anderson, skimming over the contents and then looking at the envelope. ‘It’s probably an old letter to one of Ena’s patients – what’s the big deal?’ He handed it back to Kirby.

  ‘There are fifteen of them, six different patients in all.’ Kirby put the letters back in the box and stood up. ‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Could be she just cleared out an old desk before the hospital closed.’

  On their way out, Kirby stopped Asia. ‘There’s a shoebox on the bed in the bedroom. I need a list of its contents and copies of the letters and envelopes.’

  ‘No problem,’ replied Asia. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘See if you can find any correspondence relating to the victim being left some money. Solicitor’s letter, anything like that.’

  It was dark when they left the house and headed back to the van parked at the front. They began stripping off their protective clothing.

  ‘Ena Massey wasn’t married, was she?’ said Kirby, pulling off a plastic bootee.

  ‘There aren’t any records of her marrying. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Because she had at least seven wedding rings in that shoebox, threaded on to a piece of string,’ said Kirby. ‘So if she wasn’t married, whose were they?’

  ‘Heirloom?’

  ‘If I hadn’t seen the letters, then I wouldn’t have given it much thought. A couple of letters, yes, but fifteen?’

  ‘What are you trying to say? That she was killed because of the letters and the rings? I don’t see how.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Kirby, as they crossed the street. ‘It’s more what they say about Ena’s character. If she deliberately withheld the letters, or stole them – and the same with the rings – then she was clearly abusing her position.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly possible,’ said Anderson.

  Kirby halted on the pavement, outside the house opposite. ‘And if she was, then that makes me wonder what else she might have been capable of.’

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Is Livia there? It’s her son, Lew,’ said Kirby. Alarm bells were ringing in his mind because the voice that had answered his mother’s phone wasn’t hers. He’d taken the opportunity to call while he waited for Ena’s neighbour, Julia Valance, to get home.

  ‘Lew, it’s Kate from next door.’

  He recognised the voice now. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Hang on . . .’ She lowered her voice and he heard her close a door. ‘I’ve been wanting to call you, only Livia insisted that I didn’t.’

  Kirby didn’t like the sound of this at all. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She hasn’t been herself these past few weeks – you know, forgetful, a bit confused. She’s lost weight too. Then, when I came round for coffee this morning, she was much worse.’

  ‘In what way?’ His mother was rarely forgetful – let alone confused – apart from the last time they’d met up, and he now wondered whether he’d been in denial. It hadn’t been that bad, had it?

  ‘She kept going on about the snow. Almost – this sounds daft, I know – like she was afraid of it. Anyhow, we had a coffee, chatted, the usual, but when I came to leave she wouldn’t come near the door – it was the snow thing again. It was so odd that I thought I’d come and check on her before supper. She’s in the bathroom at the moment, she asked me to answer the phone.’

  Kirby wasn’t quite sure what to say. He couldn’t imagine his mother behaving like that and wondered what was going on; at least she hadn’t fallen off a ladder and broken anything. ‘How does she seem now?’ he asked.

  Kate was silent for a moment. ‘She didn’t remember that I was here earlier.’

  Fuck, thought Kirby. Was it the onset of dementia? The thought made him feel sick.

  ‘Oh, here she is, I’ll pass you over. Nice talking to you, Lew.’ He heard her pass the phone to his mother and say goodbye.

  ‘Mum, how are you? I tried calling yesterday, but you weren’t around. I thought you were out gallivanting.’ He tried to sound as though nothing were wrong.

  ‘I’d hardly call playing Briscola gallivanting. I must have left the phone in the kitchen or upstairs.’ Kirby’s mother had taught some of her friends how to play the game, and they had regular card-playing sessions, although Kirby suspected it was just an excuse to get together and drink too much wine.

  ‘Kate said you weren’t very pleased about the snow. Has someone cleared your driveway?’ He didn’t quite know how to bring up what his father had mentioned the previous night, let alone what Kate had just told him.

  There was a pause before his mother replied, her voice a whisper. ‘I can’t go out in it, Lew. It’s everywhere, and I mean everywhere – roofs, cars, parks, even the pavements. I don’t want to be anywhere near it.’

  ‘But, Mum, you love the snow. You can’t ski without snow.’

  She carried on as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘I can’t sleep properly either, knowing it’s all over the house.’

  ‘Mum, it’s just snow. It won’t hurt you.’ He waited a few beats before going on. ‘I spoke to Dad last night—’

  ‘Kate’s husband cleared the drive for me, and offered to do some shopping, so that was kind,’ Livia cut in, oblivious.

  ‘I spoke to Dad,’ Kirby repeated with more force than he’d intended. ‘He said you needed to talk to me.’

  ‘Really? I always want to talk to you, Lew. You’re my son.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ He stopped. ‘Look, I’ll come over this weekend, okay? I’ve got a new case, so I can’t say when exactly, but I’ll call and let you know.’

  ‘That would be lovely. I’ll look forward to it. Take care, ciao ciao.’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  Kirby sat for a few moments. Since when had his mother disliked snow? She was Italian, from Trentino, and practically came out of the womb on skis. Admittedly, London snow wasn’t exactly the Dolomites, but he’d never heard her moan about it before. At sixty-two, she’d easily pass for a youthful fifty. On one occasion, about ten years ago, she’d even been mistaken for his wife – something they’d both giggled about like teenagers at the time.

  Several people – no, most people he knew had difficult relationships with their parents. Some didn’t speak at all, so he’d always considered himself lucky with his mum and dad, who were more like friends than parents. Something was definitely wrong. He’d have to see her this weekend no matter what was happening with the Blackwater case, even if it was only for an hour, although God only knew when he’d find the time.

  A woman was walking up Chartwell Road with two children in tow, and disappeared into the house opposite Ena’s; it must be Julia Valance. Kirby gave her ten minutes to get the kids’ coats off and sort herself out, then got out of the car and walked up to the house.

  Two minutes later he was sitting in the Valances’ kitchen with Julia. Her two children – Poppy, aged five, and Mikey, aged four – were in the front room watching television. Julia was busy preparing the children’s supper – she would be eating with her husband, John, when he got home later. It felt so different to Kirby’s existence on the boat.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she was saying. ‘I mean, who’d want to kill someone like Ena?’ Julia Valance was a yoga teacher in her mid-thirties; tall and slender, she was wearing a figure-hugging black tracksuit, and her streaked hair was scraped back into a ponytail. Two discreet silver-orb earrings adorned her small earlobes, and Kirby recognised them as Vivienne Westwood. He wondered how much an hour’s yoga session with her would set him back.

  ‘I gather that Miss Massey was a volunteer at a hospice where a family member of yours is living?’
he asked, as he watched her prepare the food. He’d hardly eaten and was suddenly starving.

  ‘Yes, St Elizabeth’s Hospice on Valentine Road. John’s mother is there. They do a wonderful job. We simply don’t have the time, or the room, to look after her here.’

  ‘How well did you know Miss Massey? Did she look after your mother-in-law?’

  ‘Actually, we don’t – I mean, didn’t – know her very well at all. Ena wasn’t involved with the care of John’s mother, as she’s a resident at St Elizabeth’s. We gave Ena a lift up there once or twice, when the weather was bad, but I think Ena mainly did home visits. The hospice had nothing but praise for her. She was an incredible woman.’

  ‘You mean because of her volunteering?’

  ‘Yes, of course. To have given your working life to a profession and yet still be prepared to devote your retirement to it is quite something, don’t you think? She must have really loved her job.’

  Yes, thought Kirby, she must. ‘So you knew that she used to be a nurse?’

  ‘That’s why the hospice was so grateful for her time.’

  ‘Did she ever mention any family to you – children, that sort of thing?’

  Julia Valance shook her head. ‘No. As far as I was aware, she had no family, or at least wasn’t in touch with them if she did. I never saw anyone visit her.’

  ‘Didn’t you find that a bit odd?’

  ‘Now you mention it, I suppose it was a bit. She seemed such a nice lady that I can’t believe she didn’t have any friends. Maybe they all met up elsewhere.’

  They chatted some more about Ena – how she and Julia would pass the time of the day on the street, and how, if there was an emergency of any kind, she always offered to help. Julia hadn’t seen anyone suspicious hanging around, nor seen any visitors – ever.

  As he got up to leave, Poppy ran into the kitchen clutching a stuffed-toy rabbit.

  ‘Is tea ready yet, Mummy? I’m hungry.’

  ‘Yes, darling, nearly ready. I’m just showing this nice man out.’