by S W Kane
‘What did you do?’
‘Kicked up a bit of a stink. Said I wanted an autopsy. A second opinion. But it was no good, Brayne was a powerful man – and Sarah’s family were and all. No one would listen to me.’
‘What about the baby?’
Tom shook his head. ‘That was the worst part.’ He looked up at Connie with such a pained expression on his face that she could barely hold his gaze. ‘I never even saw the little fella. The family took him, and that was that. The only person who showed me any sympathy was a young trainee nurse. Badly affected her, it did. Heard she topped herself a few years after.’
‘Jesus,’ whispered Connie. ‘What happened to the baby?’
‘The family looked after him, but I later heard from the sister that he was sent to an orphanage.’
‘Why on earth would they do that? He could have come to you.’
‘He could have done, but really, a market trader like me, looking after a kid? I barely had rent and beer money, never mind money for a little one. My family were pretty shit too – pardon my French. No, he was probably better off going somewhere else. At least I hope so.’ Tom began coughing again and disappeared into the kitchen. Connie could hear pills being shaken from a bottle and the kitchen tap running.
She got up and went over to the dresser for a closer look at the photographs. There were several of Sarah before she became pregnant and, although she was smiling for the camera, there was a haunted look in her eyes. As Connie picked one up, a smaller photo fluttered to the floor. It was another picture of Sarah, but this time her face was devoid of any emotion. An image of Keats Ward flashed through Connie’s mind from the day before, followed by Kirby’s words. On a bed, over there . . . with the number nineteen on it.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Tom. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room and felt as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
‘Oh, um, this fell out.’
Tom looked at the picture. ‘Day before she died. I’d forgotten I had it.’
‘And you’re sure Ena Massey was involved?’
‘On my life – or what’s left of it. Used to write to Sarah, I did. Never had mobile phones or email in them days. Good old-fashioned letters is what we relied on. Only, Sarah said she never got my letters, not all of them at any rate. When I asked Nurse Massey, she just told me that Sarah’s memory must be playing tricks on her. I didn’t believe her, but what could I do?’
‘Tom, could I borrow this?’ asked Connie, tapping the picture. ‘It’s important, and I’ll make sure it’s returned, you have my word.’
‘Go ahead. Take it.’
Connie made her farewells as fast and politely as she could, and left Parkview House with her heart racing. Yesterday, when Kirby had asked whether a bed with the number 19 on it had meant anything, it hadn’t. The photograph in her pocket changed all that. Now she knew exactly what it meant.
CHAPTER 34
Kirby found Charles Palmer leaning on the railings by St Mary’s Church in Battersea, staring out over the river. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept – a five o’clock shadow crept around his chin, his eyes were bloodshot, and despite his tan his face looked sallow in the cold, bright air. When Kirby had called at Marsh House earlier, Palmer’s car had been in the drive but the curtains had been drawn, and after ringing the bell several times and getting no response, he’d called Palmer’s mobile. Looking at him now, Kirby’s guess was that he hadn’t been home, and he wondered whether he’d had a long night at the Vauxhall Tavern – or one of the other gay bars nearby.
‘What do you want, Inspector?’ Palmer asked, wearily gazing across the water towards the Lots Road Power Station. The church was in a beautiful position, directly on the riverbank.
‘Your cousin, Ian Carswell. I was hoping that you might know where I can find him.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help. I have no idea where he is. Why do you want to know?’ he asked, a bit too casually.
‘His name cropped up in relation to the Blackwater case.’ He studied Palmer’s face and noticed lines he could have sworn weren’t there a few days ago. ‘Is something bothering you, Mr Palmer?’
‘No.’ He turned and looked at Kirby. ‘Was there something else you wanted to ask me?’ He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on, as though suddenly aware of how exposed his face was.
‘Yes, your mother – Helen Linehan – she adopted you?’
Palmer returned his gaze to the river and clasped his hands together as he leant on the railings and half smiled. ‘Yes, she did.’
‘Do you mind telling me about that? Only you said that you grew up in Perth, Australia, not here in London.’
‘It’s complicated . . .’
‘So you said, the other day.’
Palmer shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s not something I like to talk about. My mother and I never really got on. Her husband, Richard, had a brother in Australia, and I spent more time over there than I did here. I suppose I did grow up at Marsh House; it just didn’t feel like it.’
‘She still left it to you though.’
‘There was no one else. I’m under no illusion that it was left to me out of love – more a sense of duty, guilt even.’
Guilt for what? wondered Kirby. ‘Going back to your cousin, Ian, can you tell me anything about him? Are there any other family members who might know where he is?’
Palmer turned to look at Kirby, shaking his head. ‘Like I said, I can’t help. He wasn’t part of my life. In any shape or form.’
Something in the way Palmer spoke felt like it was the truth, and yet Kirby sensed he wasn’t being entirely honest. He tried to see beyond the polarised lenses and into Palmer’s eyes, but all he could see was his own reflection staring back.
‘I need to get home,’ said Palmer abruptly. ‘I have a company coming in the morning to put things into storage, and there’s still a lot to pack up. You know where to find me.’
Kirby watched him walk up past the small church and turn left on to Battersea Church Road, eventually disappearing from view. There was a sadness – palpable and raw – that he hadn’t seen before, and it seemed to seep from Palmer’s very being. Kirby wondered what it was that he wasn’t telling him.
His mobile buzzed in his pocket.
‘It’s Connie Darke.’ She sounded breathless. ‘I need to see you.’
‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I need to show you something. Can we meet?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Near Clapham Common. Battersea end.’
‘There’s a small café at the top of Battersea Rise near the church. I can be there in fifteen minutes.’
He wondered what it was that was so urgent as he drove through Battersea towards the Common. Had Ed Blake’s death prompted her to open up about something? When he arrived at the small café, Connie was already waiting and he could tell that she’d been crying. The place was empty apart from a couple, both engrossed in their mobile phones. Kirby ordered a macchiato and sat down. ‘What was it you wanted to show me?’
She slid a black-and-white photograph across the table towards him. ‘This.’
He picked it up and studied the image. It showed a young woman in a bed that looked identical to the one they’d found Ena Massey’s body on, the number 19 clearly stencilled at its foot. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘From a man called Tom Ellis. Her name was Sarah Carswell,’ said Connie, tapping the photo in Kirby’s hand. ‘They were engaged to be married.’
‘This is Sarah Carswell? But—’ The barista brought his coffee over and asked if they wanted anything else. ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Kirby impatiently, waiting for him to go back to the counter before continuing. ‘How do you know Tom Ellis?’ He remembered the letter Margaret Halliday had singled out, signed, With all my love, Tom.
‘I found his name and address at Harry’s place – with the name “Sarah” underneath. I thought it
was the person Ed had found who’d been with my sister when she had her accident – or at least someone who knew who it was. Only when I got there, it was immediately apparent I was wrong.’
‘So it was Sarah Carswell, not your sister?’
Connie nodded and then described her visit to Tom Ellis, Sarah Carswell’s former fiancé. ‘He’s in no fit state to kill anyone, let alone get into Blackwater in sub-zero temperatures,’ she said, when she’d finished.
‘So he has no idea what happened to the child?’
‘None. Only that he was sent to an orphanage, but he doesn’t know which one. The Carswells closed ranks, shut him out. The father was a total bastard, apparently. No wonder Sarah left.’
This appeared to fit with what Margaret Halliday had told him, and if it was all true it was a tragic story. It looked as if the one place Sarah Carswell should have been safe turned out to be the most dangerous place she could have gone.
‘Can you write down Tom Ellis’s address for me?’ Kirby pushed a napkin towards her and pulled out a pen. ‘I’m sorry about Ed, by the way,’ he said, as she wrote.
‘Thanks. I’ve been a bit all over the place to be honest. This’ – she indicated Tom’s address as she wrote – ‘I don’t know, it gave me something to do. I guess I’ll never know who Sarah was with now.’ She pushed the address over to him.
‘Thanks.’ He glanced at it before slipping it into his pocket. It was five minutes away.
‘Do you think that’s why Ed was killed?’ asked Connie. ‘Because of what Tom told him about Ena Massey?’
‘It’s certainly something we’ll look into, but . . .’ He paused. ‘But I’m not convinced. It could be that Ed was extremely unlucky that night, stumbling into something he knew nothing about.’
‘What about the Creeper? Do you think they have anything to do with this?’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Kirby.
‘Raymond Sweet told me about it. He thinks there’s a ghost creeping around Blackwater. As if.’
‘You’ve spoken to Raymond Sweet?’
‘I bumped into him yesterday after you left. He mentioned it then.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
‘Not much. I think he was embarrassed and wished he’d never mentioned it. All he said was that it moved things in his house.’
‘It’s been in his house?’ Sweet hadn’t mentioned that to Anderson. Christ, maybe Raymond was more unstable than he’d thought.
‘So he says. He mentioned a torch – said one day it was gone, then the next day it was back. Just little things . . .’
‘Well, he’s either imagined it or someone has been in his house. Why anyone would do that, I can’t—’ He suddenly noticed Connie had gone very still. ‘What is it?’
‘This is crazy . . .’ she said, shaking her head.
‘What is?’
‘When I came home the other night, the boiler had been switched off. The cat flap was locked but the cat was outside – remember, when you called I was fiddling with it? I thought I was imagining things, losing the plot with all this stuff going on, but . . .’
‘What are you saying?’
‘If Raymond hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but now . . . Now, I think someone’s been in the Four Sails.’
CHAPTER 35
Kirby drove Connie home and checked all her doors and windows before leaving. Everything appeared to be in order, and there was no sign of any kind of break-in. The only puzzling thing was the door to the pub cellar; the key was missing. Connie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it. She never went into the cellar, or very rarely, and the key was always left in the lock. It could have gone missing weeks – or even months – earlier. Kirby suddenly remembered Palmer saying that he’d lost the remote for the gate at Marsh House, and wondered if there was a connection.
Once he’d felt comfortable about leaving her alone, he drove to Tom Ellis’s place. But he was too late; Tom Ellis had been found by a neighbour, collapsed in his hall, and been taken to St George’s. His condition was serious and there was every chance he wouldn’t pull through.
Back at Mount Pleasant, Kirby felt deflated. Someone had to know what had happened to Ian Carswell. Palmer had said that he’d spent a lot of time in Australia with his uncle while he was growing up, so Kirby went back over the information from BMD, remembering Linda saying that Richard Linehan’s brother had died a bachelor in 1995. According to his death certificate he was living in the UK at the time, which didn’t mean to say that he hadn’t lived abroad before then. It did strike him as odd that Helen Linehan would adopt a child when, in theory, she could have been a mother to her sister’s child.
Why was the baby sent away? Unless Tom Ellis recovered, they might never find out.
He brought up the government’s probate research service on his computer and typed in Helen Linehan’s details. She had died on 17 December last year and probate had been granted on 3 February. Two weeks ago. He made a note of the probate number and picked up the phone.
‘Dianne? It’s Lew Kirby. How are you?’ A small smile crept over his lips as he spoke.
‘My oh my, Lew Kirby. It’s been a while,’ said a husky voice on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m fine. How about you? Still on that damned boat?’
‘I am. I’m surprised you remember.’
‘I’m hardly likely to forget a three-legged stuffed fox,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘And it was quite a night.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Kirby, remembering all too clearly. Dianne Halloran worked at the Probate Registry, and he’d met her at a party a year or so ago. She had been sitting in a corner with a bottle of Chablis, reading a book about magic tricks that she’d pulled off the hosts’ bookshelf. After helping her finish the Chablis – which had actually been rather good – he’d suggested they went somewhere else. Several pubs later, they’d ended up on his boat.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked. He couldn’t tell if the comment was loaded or not, as everything Dianne said sounded loaded. She just had one of those voices.
‘I need you to trace a probate number for me. I’m after a will.’ Probate had only recently been issued on Helen’s will, so the information might not yet be available, although technically it was now in the public domain.
‘Give me the number,’ said Dianne. ‘Slowly.’
He concentrated on reading the number, wondering why they’d never become an item.
‘You’re in luck,’ she said, after a minute or so. ‘It’s just gone online. Shall I send it over?’
‘Thanks.’ He gave her his email address.
‘You want to go for a drink, for old times’ sake?’ she asked. ‘No strings.’
‘Thanks, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment – no pun intended.’
‘Another time then,’ said Dianne. ‘When you’re not so tied up.’
Her voice seemed to melt down the phone with such seductive intent that he found it quite alarming. ‘I’m not sure my girlfriend would approve,’ he said.
‘Are you saying you don’t trust me now?’ He could tell she was smiling.
The details of Helen’s will landed in his inbox, so he ended the conversation before he agreed to something he might regret. He put the phone down and was about to turn his attention to the Last Will and Testament of Helen Linehan when his mobile rang. It was a number he didn’t recognise.
‘Detective Kirby?’ said a woman’s voice. The line crackled.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Margaret Halliday.’
Kirby could hear music in the background – Radio 3, at a guess. ‘Miss Halliday, how can I help?’
‘I’ve remembered something. Are you ready to take this down?’ she asked, briskly.
Kirby grinned to himself. ‘Poised for action, Miss Halliday.’
‘I remembered the name of the orphanage that Ena sent that poor child to. House of Nazarene.’
‘Do you know wh
ere it was?’ he asked, jotting down the name.
‘Mitcham. I’m sure you’ll find it listed somewhere, although whether it still exists is another matter.’
‘Thank you, Miss Halliday, that’s extremely useful. Was there anything else?’
‘Well, it might be nothing,’ she began. ‘But those letters you showed me.’
‘Yes?’ He waited.
‘The one addressed to Ruthie – I knew there was something about it, only I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.’
He remembered how she’d picked out the name and had appeared on the brink of remembering something. ‘What about it?’
‘I could be wrong, but if it’s who I think it is, she wasn’t a patient – she was a nurse.’
‘Why would Ena have a letter addressed to a nurse?’ he asked, thinking out loud.
‘I have no idea. Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ asked Kirby.
‘Well, unless it arrived after she died.’
‘You’ll have to explain.’
‘She killed herself. She’d taken drugs from the dispensary and took an overdose. Allegedly.’
He swallowed, a nasty feeling beginning to bloom in his stomach. ‘What do you mean, allegedly?’
After a pause, Margaret spoke. ‘Ena found her.’
‘What exactly are you saying, Miss Halliday?’
‘Her family were adamant that she would never have taken her own life. You may draw your own conclusions.’
‘Do you remember where she was found, or what she took?’
‘I don’t, I’m sorry. I hope I’ve been of some help.’
‘You have – and thank you, Miss Halliday. You take care now.’
He ended the call and immediately dialled Kobrak’s extension, the feeling growing that they were finally on to something.
‘Take a look at the letters we found in Ena’s bedroom again, will you?’ he said when Kobrak picked up. ‘In particular, the one addressed to Ruthie. Looks like she was a nurse, not a patient, and that she committed suicide. Find out what you can.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Kobrak, the excitement in his voice palpable.
