by S W Kane
Kirby nodded. ‘Ian Thomas Carswell.’ The information had come through from Linda and he skimmed through Duncan and Miranda’s paperwork, going straight to Sarah Carswell’s death certificate. It was as Linda had said – no cause of death had been noted for Sarah, and Alistair Brayne had signed the certificate. He then looked over Ian Thomas Carswell’s birth certificate and smiled. ‘If he lives in the UK, he’s still alive. There’s no death certificate.’
‘Lew?’ said a voice. It was Hamer’s; he’d opened the door to his office just enough to make himself heard. ‘A word.’
Anderson and Kirby exchanged looks as Kirby got up. ‘Run Ian Carswell through the system, will you?’ he said to Anderson on his way over to Hamer’s office.
When he walked in, Hamer barely looked up. ‘Shut the door, will you?’
Kirby did as he was asked and then sat down. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had Patrick Calder on the phone. Again,’ said his boss.
‘What do you mean, again?’
‘He called me last night. After your little visit.’ Hamer stared at him, as though that was all that needed to be said.
‘What did he want?’ Kirby didn’t remember upsetting him. Unless he’d lost his table at The Ivy.
‘He wanted to know why you’d virtually accused him of murdering Ena Massey. And what I intended to do about it.’
‘What? All I did was challenge him about knowing Ena Massey. And for the record, I didn’t accuse him of anything. Virtually or otherwise.’
‘You should have told me you were going,’ Hamer said quietly.
‘Why? He’s a legitimate suspect. He’s bloody lucky I didn’t bring him in.’ Kirby was fuming.
Hamer leant forward and tapped the desk with his index finger. ‘He has an alibi. He has no motive. I know you don’t like him, but please, from now on, leave Patrick Calder to me. He needs handling carefully; he could cause us – me – a lot of trouble.’ He started shuffling papers on his desk, avoiding Kirby’s eyes.
Kirby stood up. ‘Is that all?’
Hamer nodded, now seemingly engrossed in a crime stat report. Kirby left without another word, wondering what the fuck was going on.
Back at his desk, he said nothing to Anderson about Hamer’s warning. ‘Did you find any other link between Calder and Ena Massey?’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Nothing. As far as I can see, they met for the first – and only – time at the hospice on the day that he presented her with the award. And staff verified that Calder’s grandmother was a patient there long before Ena joined. They had nothing to do with each other. Why?’
‘Nothing. Shame, that’s all.’
‘He was really cut up about his gran dying, apparently. Oh, and Ian Carswell isn’t in the system, so he’s clean. That’s if he’s in the UK.’
Kirby thought for a moment. ‘Charles Palmer, he’s what, early fifties? That fits with Carswell’s age.’
Anderson nodded. ‘You think it’s him?’
‘It’s certainly possible,’ said Kirby. ‘And if it is him, that makes him our number-one suspect.’
CHAPTER 32
Raymond’s eyes roamed over the crumbling brickwork, ivy clawing its way up over the entrance as though trying to suck it down into the depths of the earth, and shivered. His gaze kept returning to a window on the first floor, arched, with a crack running diagonally from corner to corner. The fragments of memory that had been pushing their way forward since seeing the video at Mrs Muir’s on Thursday evening, and subsequently being questioned by the police, were becoming more and more persistent. He thought of Gregory and what had happened to him beyond the arched window, but there was something else, something he’d been party to himself. It wasn’t the treatment, he had very little recollection of that . . . This was different. Ena’s death had unlocked something in his memory, he could feel it – and now he knew it was there, he had to know what it was. Which was why he’d decided, for the first time in decades, to enter Keats Ward.
He climbed the steep bank that led up to the old ward block from the lake and stopped, panting, at the top. Police tape hung across the entrance, jogging some event half buried in his memory. He pushed on, thinking about his friends in the bone jar and especially Gregory. Ducking under the tape he stepped into the dark interior, where he made his way to the staircase and began to climb. He didn’t stop to look in the rooms on the ground floor – they were of no interest to him today; it was the room upstairs that drew him. Now he was inside the building his inner being fought to leave, but he knew he had no choice but to continue up to the room where they’d found Ena’s body. To the room where he’d been put to sleep for months and the room in which Gregory Boothe had died.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused and looked around. Pink paint flaked off the walls and ceiling; a row of doors leading to small rooms stood half open, their mesh panels brown and rusted. He didn’t remember the walls being pink before, but that was hardly surprising as he remembered very little of how he ever got here. On the ceiling the light fittings hung dark and crooked where once they had shone brightly, strobing through his eyelids as he was wheeled semi-conscious beneath them. Ahead of him lay a door, half open, the arched window just visible beyond. He felt his body spasm and almost turned and ran, a hot sweat breaking out as he inched slowly forward, the junk shop of his mind beginning to open up. On the threshold of the room he hesitated, then stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was a dead pigeon hanging from the light fitting and he quickly looked away. There was something about birds, especially dead ones, that he didn’t like. He took a moment to compose himself before taking in the rest of the room. The beds had all been pushed to one side; some still had mattresses, stained and decayed, and the smell of sweat and urine flooded his memory. Sunlight filtered through the grimy windows and he could see that black powder covered the bedframes. Now he looked, it was all over the window and doorframes too. Was it fingerprint powder? He’d seen it on telly and he recoiled, not wanting to leave any trace of his visit.
He let his eyes roam the remaining space, his body still, braced for whatever was to come. But nothing happened. He looked around the room again, this time coming to a halt on the arched window. That, too, was covered in fine black dust. But there was something else. He moved a bit nearer, the angle of the light shifting on its dirty, cracked surface. And then he saw it as clear as day: a smiley face, winking at him, crudely drawn in the dust. At first he simply stared at it, confused. How had one of his faces got here? He hadn’t drawn it and no one else had been here since the murder, as far as he knew – apart from the police, and he couldn’t imagine them drawing smiley faces. Then it hit him: the Creeper had been up here. His face flushed red hot – it did that when he got angry – because everywhere he turned the Creeper had been there before him. It was like it was in his head. He’d cycled himself up, or whatever the word was, to come back into Keats only to find that a ghost – if indeed it was a ghost, as he was now seriously beginning to doubt – had beaten him to it. There was no chance of him remembering anything now, and in a small gesture of defiance he went up to the window and with the back of his sleeve he wiped the smiley face away.
Feeling slightly mollified he turned to leave, but he had only taken a few steps when he stopped mid-stride. The hot flush of anger he’d just experienced was now being replaced by the cold sweat of shock. On the floor in front of him was a small white feather, and in a split second a memory so strong that he gasped out loud flashed before him. Stumbling towards the door he steadied himself, not caring if he left traces, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he could almost see the flashgun going off in his head. Again and again the image flashed in front of him, so fast he could barely focus on it, and then snow, lots of it, floating across his vision – except it wasn’t snow, it was feathers. Hundreds of them, small white feathers in his eyes and up his nose – one caught in his throat and he couldn’t breathe – and he ran out
of the room and down the stairs as fast as he could, tumbling out of the building like a madman, the police tape catching on a coat button and stretching until it snapped. He fell on to the snow outside, the sun blinding him as he lay staring up at the blue sky, his face smudged with black, images of Ena suffocating Nurse Abbott imprinted on his mind like a negative.
CHAPTER 33
Connie had barely slept the previous night, and had now been walking for a couple of hours, her face raw with cold, tears for Ed mingling with those brought on by the fierce wind. Her fingers and toes were numb but inside she felt brittle, as though a sharp gust of Arctic wind would break her. How could Ed be dead? How could Blackwater have claimed a second person in her life?
She was on Clapham Common and had reached the tennis courts – empty apart from a lone snowman; beyond lay some flats, a 1930s block called Parkview House. Consciously or otherwise, this was where she had been heading the whole time: to the address scrawled on the Post-it in Ed’s room. She’d been upstairs at Harry’s when DI Anderson had arrived last night and quickly pocketed the note, not mentioning it to the detective when she’d later shown him Ed’s room. In truth, she’d forgotten about it until this morning, when she’d found the scrunched-up bit of paper in her coat pocket and then it suddenly became the most important thing in the world. It really was her last chance to find out who Sarah had been with that day, because Ed wasn’t going to tell her, not now – not ever.
She climbed the steps up to the flats’ entrance and went in, the warm air inside making her face smart. The address on the Post-it had said 45 Parkview House, and instead of taking the lift up she decided to walk. She should have been nervous. She’d waited the best part of five years for this moment – to finally confront the person who’d left her sister dead, or dying, at Blackwater. But now it was finally here, she felt ambivalent; it wasn’t how she’d envisaged it at all.
Number 45 was halfway along a corridor of doors all painted pale green. It was empty and quiet, the residents either out or the doors well-soundproofed. She stopped outside number 45 and rang the bell. She thought her face must look a mess, red and puffy, and she tried to smooth her hair a bit, in a bid to look slightly less of a mad stranger. Eventually, she heard the door being unlocked and braced herself.
‘Yes?’ said a croaky voice. ‘Who is it?’ The door was open as far as the chain would allow, and she could see half a pale face on the other side.
‘I’m looking for Tom Ellis? My name’s Connie Darke.’
The door closed, and she heard the chain being slid off. When it opened again, a man who had to be at least seventy, if not older, stood in the doorway. His age was hard to determine as illness had ravaged his face. There was no hint of colour – he didn’t even have dark rings under his eyes – and his skin was like a flat grey mask. Even his stubble was grey.
‘I’m Tom Ellis,’ said the man.
She’d had no idea of what to expect, but it hadn’t been this. ‘I – I’m sorry,’ Connie said, momentarily confused. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Well, there’s only one Tom Ellis here,’ he coughed.
‘Oh . . .’ She stalled, not knowing what to say. ‘Sorry, I was here because a friend of mine, Ed Blake—’
‘Ed?’ the man asked, suddenly peering behind her as though Ed might appear.
‘Um, yes.’
The transformation was miraculous. A smile broke out on his face, the crease lines around his eyes and mouth highlighting the contours of his face, bringing it to life. ‘Why didn’t you say? Come in.’ He stepped aside and Connie found herself walking in without a second thought.
She stood uncomfortably in the small hallway while he fiddled with the door chain. A tattoo, now faded and distorted with liver spots, was visible on his left hand; Connie guessed a heart of some kind. ‘Old habits,’ he mumbled, double-locking the door.
The hall was painted white, and a few small landscapes were hung on the walls. They weren’t bad, either.
‘Come through,’ he said, and showed her into the sitting room. ‘Take a seat.’ He switched the television off and lowered himself slowly into a leather chair.
Connie took a seat on the sofa and looked around the room. It was full of framed photographs, mainly family portraits. Tom Ellis coughed again, wincing in pain. Her guess was cancer of some sort.
‘So, you’re a friend of Ed’s then? Is there any news? I saw he was missing.’
‘Um, they’ve found a body. It's Ed's.' Her voice almost cracked saying the words it’s him.’
‘Dear God,’ said Tom. ‘That’s terrible news. He was such a lovely bloke.’ He had a strong South London accent, softened with age. ‘I appreciate you coming to tell me.’
‘Actually, that’s not why I’m here,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Oh?’ said Tom, looking puzzled.
Connie wasn’t quite sure how to go on. ‘I gather Ed came to see you last weekend?’
Tom nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘About Sarah – my sister?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘You mean he didn’t come here about her accident?’
‘No, why would he? He was here for another reason altogether.’
Connie was crestfallen; she’d got it all wrong. The stress of Ed going missing and the shock at his body being found had made her jump to conclusions – the wrong ones. She stood up, embarrassed by her mistake. ‘I’m so sorry – I thought you were someone else. I don’t know what I was thinking . . .’ She felt tears running down her face from the disappointment that this wasn’t who she thought it was. ‘Sorry, what an idiot. I’ll leave you be.’
‘Here, take this,’ said Tom, holding out a tissue with his bony hand. ‘And sit down. You can’t leave in this state.’
Connie took the tissue gratefully and blew her nose. Christ, she felt like a prize fool. This was going nowhere; not even Mole was going to hear about this balls-up. ‘Thanks, but really, I should be going. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Sit down, please.’ He gave her such a pleading look, she relented. ‘Connie’s your name, did you say?’
She nodded.
‘Ed mentioned you.’
A small jolt went through her. ‘He did?’
‘Said you were almost as obsessed as him, about Blackwater.’ He smiled. ‘Been thinking about him a lot since I heard he went missing. Especially after what I told him on Sunday.’
Suddenly, her interest was aroused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, that’s what I was trying to say. He wasn’t here about your Sarah – he told me about that, by the way. Terrible. No, he was here last weekend about my fiancée, Sarah.’ He got up with effort from the chair and went over to a dresser, where he picked up a framed photograph. ‘This was taken in 1964, just before she was admitted to Blackwater. Four months later and she was dead.’ He handed her the picture.
‘I don’t understand . . .’ She stared at the young woman’s face, and a sudden irrational fear ran through her.
‘He came to interview me. About what happened.’
Connie looked at him. ‘What did happen?’
‘Ena bloody Massey, that’s what happened.’ He began coughing again and wiped his mouth with a tissue produced from his pocket. There were flecks of blood on it.
Connie was now desperate to hear what he had to say, and waited patiently for the coughing fit to subside. She couldn’t help but wonder how long he had left.
‘Sarah was the black sheep,’ he finally began. ‘Came from a well-to-do family. Nasty bunch, especially her old man. Tyrannical bloody bastard. They expected her to marry some toff and settle down, but she had other ideas, did Sarah. Ran off from the family home and came to Soho looking for some excitement – and to get away from her father. I was working down Covent Garden Market at the time. Had a stall selling flowers and that. I was young and full of myself then.’
‘Is that where you met?’ asked Connie.<
br />
He nodded. ‘We fell in love. Just like that. It was right mad.’ He smiled, and for a second she saw the young Tom, fit and healthy. The tattoo was now clearer on his left hand. A heart with a scroll across it. And a name.
‘How did her family take it?’ she asked.
‘They didn’t know to begin with – she had nothing to do with them apart from her sister. It was only when she fell pregnant and things started to go wrong that they became involved.’
Connie listened as he told his story. They’d fallen head over heels in love and Tom had proposed to her after three months, down on one knee, a bunch of his finest carnations in his hands. Despite their initial happiness, it soon became clear that Sarah suffered from some kind of depression, not that he knew what it was back then, but she was prone to melancholy periods, and when she became pregnant these bouts got worse. In the end, her sister told the family what was going on, and they intervened. They had her admitted to Blackwater.
‘What happened?’
‘She died. During childbirth.’
‘At Blackwater?’
Tom nodded. ‘It did happen, childbirth at Blackwater – not that they had a maternity ward there as such. I’ve since learned that Dr Brayne, who was head honcho back then, and this Massey woman practised what they called Twilight Sleep. That was on top of his Deep Sleep Therapy.’
‘What on earth is Twilight Sleep?’ Connie had never heard of it.
‘Women going into labour were heavily sedated with drugs and that; the theory being that they wouldn’t remember nothing.’ He coughed again. ‘So no memory of the pain – or anything else, if you ask me.’
Despite herself, Connie couldn’t help thinking that it sounded like a good idea – a pain-free childbirth? She’d sign up for that if she ever had children. ‘So what went wrong?’
‘God knows. Brayne told us that she had a severe reaction to the drugs used, but I didn’t really believe him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just a feeling. Every time I visited, Sarah was more out of it. It was like she was a zombie or something.’
