by S W Kane
‘Are you a pleeceman?’ Poppy asked, looking at Kirby eagerly.
‘Yes, I am. Your mummy has been helping me.’
‘Is it about Miss Massey?’
Julia Valance looked at Kirby and then at Poppy. ‘Have you been listening to us, you monkey?’
Poppy stuck out her lower lip and shook her head. ‘No, Mummy, but there’s vans outside her house and men in romper suits.’
‘That’s right,’ said Kirby. ‘They’re my special team.’
‘Have they come to take Miss Massey away?’ asked the little girl.
‘Poppy! What kind of question is that!’ said Julia. ‘Of course they haven’t. They’re just making sure her house is okay.’
‘I don’t like her,’ said Poppy, suddenly.
‘Poppy! I’m so sorry, Detective Kirby.’ Julia Valance looked at her daughter, unsure what to say.
‘Well, we can’t like everyone, can we, Poppy?’ Kirby smiled. ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he went on, lowering his voice. ‘There are some people I don’t like either.’
Poppy giggled. ‘I don’t like her ’cos she don’t like me.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Julia, kneeling down beside her daughter. ‘You must tell us if she said something nasty to you.’
Poppy seemed to sense a shift in the room. ‘Mummy . . .’
Julia smoothed her daughter’s hair. ‘Did Miss Massey tell you off for playing outside? Was that it? Were you making too much noise one day?’
Poppy shook her head. Julia looked up at Kirby for some kind of guidance.
‘It’s okay, Poppy. You don’t have to tell us now, if you don’t want to. But if you do, it can be our secret. Just the three of us,’ said Kirby gently.
‘I only don’t like her ’cos she don’t like any of me.’
‘Any of you?’ asked Julia.
‘Yes, Mummy. That’s what she told me one day. She said, “I don’t like any of you.” She didn’t even like Mikey, and he’s cute.’
Julia stood up, frowning.
‘Am I in trouble, Mummy?’ asked Poppy.
‘Of course not,’ said Kirby, smiling. ‘I won’t tell anyone, promise.’ He put his finger to his lips.
‘Now, go and wash your hands and tell your brother to do the same. Tea in five minutes,’ said Julia.
The two adults watched Poppy run back to the living room and then looked at each other.
‘I have no idea where that came from . . .’ began Julia.
‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
The yoga teacher led Kirby to the front door and held it open for him. ‘If there’s anything else we can do, please let us know.’ She looked across the road to the small bungalow. ‘What will happen to the house?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Kirby. ‘Good night, Mrs Valance.’
CHAPTER 15
After parting company with Kirby, Connie had grabbed a sandwich and gone back to work. Bonaro continued to bombard her with information on her soon-to-be new role, most of which went in one ear and out the other. The relief that the body found at Blackwater wasn’t Ed’s had been short-lived. She’d gone through every conceivable scenario to explain his absence – from having the mother of all hangovers to eloping with a secret lover. The most likely one she could come up with was that he had injured himself and was stuck somewhere – there were a shitload of ways to injure yourself exploring derelict buildings, especially at night, not to mention if you were alone. But if that were the case, wouldn’t the police have found him? Regardless of any of that, the fact was that he was missing and a woman had been murdered. None of it was good.
When Connie eventually left RADE at 5 p.m. the snow-covered pavements were glowing eerily under the new street lamps, which cast a cold, harsh light, and although the roads had been gritted, there was still very little traffic. Most places had closed early, and it already felt like a ghost town. The one place that was still open was the nail bar, where a forlorn-looking girl sat behind the counter chewing her hair. There were no trains or buses, but if you wanted a new set of nails, no problem.
She began the trudge back to the Four Sails and thought about what Kirby had said about the Blackwater victim: an old woman. What the hell had she been doing at Blackwater, let alone at night in the middle of winter? Like Ed’s phone, it didn’t make sense. And then there was the mystery of how the elderly woman had got in – every urbex enjoyed the challenge of infiltrating a new building, and Connie was genuinely curious. A sudden urge to do something swept over her; the question was, what?
She reached the intersection with Queenstown Road and stood waiting for the lights to change, mindlessly pushing the button at the crossing, when out of the jumble of thoughts something popped into her head: a pub. Ed had mentioned it – it was where some of the Blackwater Asylum staff had gone to drink when the staff facilities at the hospital had closed. He said it was a right old dive, but that his granddad, Harry, still loved going there. Connie looked at her watch; it was only just gone half five. Mole was still away, and she felt like she needed someone to talk to. It couldn’t hurt, could it? That’s if she could find the damn place.
The pub was somewhere near the station, she remembered that much, because Ed had joked about the bottles rattling when a train went past. Problem was, he hadn’t said which station: Battersea Park Road or Queenstown Road? He’d also commented on its name, which she couldn’t remember, but she could hear him laughing and saying, How fucking ironic is that? She seriously doubted that an elderly man would be out on a night like this, but she had nothing better to do.
The lights eventually changed, and she set off in the direction of both stations. As it turned out, there were no pubs directly next to Queenstown Road station, so it had to be Battersea. There were a few pubs on Battersea Park Road, but given what she could remember of Ed’s description, she dismissed them and turned on to a small side street. None of the snow had been cleared from here, and she felt it creeping over the tops of her boots. After a few minutes, she came to the only turning off the small street, and there, at the end of a small boarded-up terrace, stood the Welcome Inn. The irony of the name hit her immediately because it looked like a shithole. But, shithole or not, her feet were now so cold she would have gone into the mouth of Hades just to warm up.
From the outside, the Welcome Inn looked like a rundown corporation pub from the seventies, most likely built to accommodate the surrounding estate. A ‘Value for Money’ sign was badly painted on a board outside. She took a deep breath and went in, stamping the ice and snow from her boots on a threadbare doormat just inside the door.
‘JD and coke,’ she said to the barmaid, after walking across the sticky carpet to the bar. ‘A double.’
The Welcome Inn was anything but. Shabby didn’t cover it; it was a total dump. A sign on the wall read Top Radio DJs and Caribbean Food Friday. Connie was the only customer.
‘Anything else?’ the barmaid asked, looking her over.
‘Um, no thanks.’
‘That’ll be five quid.’
At least it was cheap. The barmaid snatched the ten-pound note she held out.
‘Actually, there is something else. I’m looking for someone who drinks here.’ Connie looked around and found it hard to imagine anyone coming here regularly out of choice.
‘Who’s that then?’ said the barmaid, peering into the till. ‘Got no change, luv, ’cos of the snow, see.’ She waggled the tenner between her nicotine-stained fingers.
‘Oh, right.’ Connie dug about in her wallet and managed to find enough change to pay for the drink. ‘Here you go,’ she said, pushing a pile of coins towards the barmaid. ‘The person I’m looking for is called Harry. He’s a regular.’
‘Joyce or Merrill?’
Connie had no idea. ‘He’s an older bloke, granddad of a friend of mine.’
‘Joyce then,’ said the barmaid, looking around the empty room. ‘He’s not here.’
�
�Any idea when he might come in?’
‘No.’ The barmaid pushed the till shut. End of conversation.
Connie went and sat down at a small corner table so that she could see anyone who came in, although she wasn’t holding her breath. She took a large slug of the drink; the Coke had come from a hose and tasted watered down, but the JD did its usual trick and she instantly felt herself beginning to warm up.
After another sip of the sweet drink, she took a more careful look around the room. It really was a dive; nothing short of a wrecking ball could make the place attractive. The sticky carpet was worn down, reflecting the flow of clientele to the bar and the toilets. A badly painted sign featuring a pointing four-fingered hand grandly informed her that there was also a ‘rear-garden’. What the fuck that was like was anyone’s guess.
There was a conspicuous rectangular patch of carpet where something had obviously stood until recently, the garish colours of the swirly pattern at odds with the rest of the faded, monotone decor. The place didn’t look as though it had been painted, or cleaned, since the smoking ban had come into effect over ten years ago. It was intensely depressing, and Connie now wished she’d just gone back to the Four Sails.
She pulled out her phone and checked it for the umpteenth time, just in case, but there was still nothing from Ed. She logged into her email account to see if he’d contacted her that way, but he hadn’t. Christ, where was he? Maybe he did have a girlfriend, someone tucked away he didn’t want to mention, and just hadn’t realised his phone was missing. It was a ridiculous thought – not the girlfriend part, perhaps, but that he’d fail to notice his phone was gone. He could easily have borrowed someone else’s to check in with her – or, God forbid, used a public payphone.
Two men wandered in from the back, Connie guessed after having a smoke in the ‘rear-garden’, and leant on the bar. They appeared to be on good terms with the barmaid and ordered two pints of Carlsberg. One of the men was tall and skinny, arrogance etched on his face. His companion was the physical opposite: chubby and meek-looking. They looked like Laurel and Hardy minus the laughs, and Connie now had an even greater urge to leave.
She looked down at her phone in the hope they wouldn’t notice her, although given there was no one else in the pub, she may as well have had a neon sign over her head. She took a sip of her drink and tapped on the BBC News app icon on her phone. She was about to click on the Blackwater story when she became aware of someone standing next to her table. It was the skinny one; the other, larger man was still at the bar, watching. This was the last thing she needed.
‘Mind if we join you?’ The man pulled out a stool from under the table.
‘I was just going. Sorry.’
‘You haven’t finished your drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll enjoy it more with some company.’
‘That’s doubtful.’ Connie stood up to leave.
‘Never seen you in here before,’ said Skinny, his tongue licking his lips. ‘I think we’d’ve remembered.’
She looked over towards the bar, seeking some reassurance from the barmaid that they were harmless, but she was nowhere to be seen. She glanced outside at the deserted street and the boarded-up terrace, and suddenly realised how isolated she was.
The larger of the two men had now sauntered over, and she was trapped behind the small, round table. To get out she’d have to move past one of them, and neither was an attractive proposition.
‘I think the lady wants to leave, Lloyd,’ said the fat one, casting a quick glance at his friend.
‘No, she doesn’t. Do you?’ He flashed a bad-toothed smile. ‘We were just getting to know each other.’
‘Excuse me.’ Connie edged round the table, brushing past the fat one, who she’d decided wasn’t quite as scary as the skinny one. She felt his body lean back a fraction to let her pass and was grateful even for that.
‘What are you doing in here, anyway?’ asked the skinny one.
Now she was free of the table, with the door on to the street a short sprint away, she felt more confident. ‘I was having a quiet drink. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Disturbed you, have we?’ said Skinny. ‘Only I was hoping we could spice up your evening.’
The barmaid reappeared from wherever it was she’d disappeared to but totally ignored them and began pouring a large gin.
Connie headed to the door and had just grabbed the handle to pull it open when a booted foot stopped it, and she felt someone’s breath on the back of her neck.
‘Lloyd, let the lady out.’ The barmaid had a voice that could shatter glass.
The breathing on the back of Connie’s neck stopped suddenly, and when he exhaled it was all she could do to stop herself gagging.
‘Sure. I was just opening the door for her.’ She recognised Skinny’s voice. He moved his foot. ‘Showing her some manners, that’s all.’ He then whispered in her ear, ‘Show you a lot more if I had my way.’
Connie yanked open the door and stumbled out on to the pavement, nearly knocking an elderly man flying. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, rushing past. Her skin was crawling and her heart pounding as she walked away, her short breaths leaving white puffs in her wake. When she reached the corner of Battersea Park Road, she risked a look behind to make sure the bastards weren’t following; but instead of Laurel and Hardy, she was surprised to see the old man she’d nearly knocked over gingerly making his way along the badly lit pavement towards her. He was waving his stick. ‘Wait!’ he called, breathlessly.
‘Did I forget something?’ She checked her bag – her phone and wallet were still there.
‘No, it’s not that,’ the man said. ‘It’s . . .’ He caught his breath, leaning heavily on his stick.
‘Yes?’ She wanted to get away from there as soon as possible – before Laurel and Hardy decided it was a good idea to follow her.
‘The barmaid said you were asking for me in the pub.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Harry Joyce.’
CHAPTER 16
After the stress of the previous day when the police had found the body, followed by the news only an hour or so ago that the police wanted to interview him again – this time at the station – Raymond had been very pleased when Mrs Muir invited him round to supper at the B&B. She was preparing his favourite meal – beef stew with dumplings – so as far as he was concerned it was a no-brainer. Mrs Muir had her faults, but when it came to dumplings, no one could touch her. Not only that, she had also promised to let him play his memory video. It wasn’t exactly a video, it was now a DVD – as her son had had it put on a disc for him – but Raymond was old-school, and in his mind it would forever be a VHS.
The radio was on in the steamy kitchen – an old Roberts with a swivel base, sticky from several decades of close proximity to food. The headlines for London sounded muffled in the warmth and smell of Mrs Muir’s cooking. Raymond had had twenty-four hours to go through things in his head – speed wasn’t his style – and had finally come up with a plan to move his collection. He was deep in thought about the finer details and trying not to worry about his police interview the next day, when a news item caught his attention.
‘Police have identified the body of an elderly woman found in the grounds of Blackwater Asylum yesterday morning,’ said the newsreader.
Raymond’s ears pricked up immediately – as, unfortunately, did Mrs Muir’s.
‘’Ere, Raymond, you get that? Your home’s on the news again.’
He nodded. Of course he had heard it. He was trying to listen, if only Mrs Muir would shut up.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, miming pulling a zip across her lips.
‘ . . . named as Ena Massey, a former nurse at the asylum, which is about to be redeveloped into luxury flats,’ the newsreader went on. ‘It’s still unclear what the former nurse was doing in the abandoned hospital, and police are asking any members of the public who might have seen her in the hours leading up to her death to contact them.’
Raymond sat stunned, the newsreader�
�s voice coming in and out of focus as he took in what he’d just heard. The voice washed over him, because all he could concentrate on was the name of the dead woman: Ena Massey.
‘Raymond, love, you all right?’ Mrs Muir’s voice penetrated his thoughts. She was looking at him, all plump and concerned. ‘It’s not the dumplings, is it?’
‘What? Err, no. The dumplings are delicious.’
Her hand patted her heart. ‘Thank goodness for that – you were giving me palpitations. For one moment I thought I’d messed up. Now wouldn’t that be a thing!’
But Raymond wasn’t listening; Ena Massey was dead. In his head he saw a little smiley face, winking at him. He popped a dumpling in his mouth – they were delicious – and wondered why it had taken so long for someone to finally kill her. He wasn’t sorry at all – not that he’d be telling anyone else that, of course. As he continued with his meal he realised that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a weight that he’d never truly acknowledged – or perhaps hadn’t even known was there until it was gone. Moving his collection suddenly didn’t seem as daunting as it had when he woke up. Crumbling it might well be, but once again Blackwater had done the right thing and spat out the bad apple.
‘What a business though,’ Mrs Muir was saying. ‘Fancy going to a derelict hospital at her age. Do you think she was dealing, Raymond, like one of those matriarchs you see in films?’
Raymond had no idea what a matriarch was, but wouldn’t put anything past Ena. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, through a mouthful of dumpling.
‘’Ere, you didn’t know her, did you?’ Mrs Muir’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘Wouldn’t that be a thing, you knowing a murder victim!’
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said, adding, ‘Poor woman,’ for good measure. He didn’t want to discuss Ena.
‘Yes, of course, poor woman,’ echoed Mrs Muir, with about as much conviction as Raymond.
‘The stew and the dumplings were lovely, thank you.’ He pushed his empty plate to one side.
‘My pleasure, love. Shall we go and watch your little film then – wait for that lot to go down before we have some afters?’
