The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but gradually a stream of forensics officers, SOCOs and police photographers trickled back in around him, starting work in hushed tones. Kirby began walking around the circular space, parts of which were cordoned off, his protective suit making its familiar rustle as he went. On one area of the floor, they’d found fresh blood and part of a human tooth, which they believed belonged to Lloyd Templeton, who now sat in Wandsworth nick with a lisp and broken nose, not to mention a few choice bruises. There was also a medical cabinet where they’d found drugs dating back to the 1950s, including Mandrax and other barbiturates. Kirby was about to open the cabinet that housed the unclaimed ashes that Raymond had been looking after when he heard his name being called; it was Hamer, who he hadn’t noticed come in. With everything that had gone on, Kirby hadn’t yet had the chance to speak to his boss one-to-one.

  ‘An extraordinary place,’ said Hamer, coming over. ‘How come no one knew about it?’

  Kirby shrugged. ‘Things get forgotten over the years – even extraordinary things. Out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  They fell silent for a moment, Kirby sensing a tension between them.

  ‘Has Calder’s body shown up yet?’ asked Hamer.

  ‘Marine Police are still searching. There’s no chance he survived going into the water unconscious.’

  ‘I see. Maybe it’s . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe this place is cursed. How long’s it been empty, twenty-three years?’

  Kirby nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Sometimes there’s a reason why buildings stay empty after their primary function has ended. At least, that’s what my wife tells me. How’s Connie Darke doing?’

  ‘Torn ligament in her shoulder, minor cut on her leg and a few bruises. She was lucky Raymond turned up when he did, otherwise we’d be trawling the Thames for her body, not Calder’s.’

  ‘And Palmer?’

  Kirby had been up half the night with him, trying to piece together what had happened on the night he was born and what had subsequently happened to Ruthie Abbott. The letters found at Calder’s house had helped, and Kirby was now convinced that Palmer had had no involvement in Ena Massey and Ed Blake’s murders – and so far, the lack of DNA evidence in either Keats Ward or the bone jar supported this. ‘It’s been difficult for him,’ said Kirby. ‘He knew his mother died in suspicious circumstances, possibly at the hand of Ena Massey, but he had no idea about Ruthie Abbott’s death or Ena’s involvement in that.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’ asked Hamer.

  Kirby nodded. ‘Yes. He was happy to cosy up to Patrick Calder – Calder was going to buy the house from him, for a very tidy sum, I might add – and had no reason to suspect what he was up to.’

  Hamer raised his eyebrows at this. ‘Calder wasn’t going to redevelop the house as well, was he?’

  ‘It’s listed, but they were going to sign the papers yesterday morning. Only we hauled in Palmer before Calder arrived. That must have been when Connie showed up. She said Calder was clutching papers when he showed her in.’

  ‘Palmer must have had suspicions, surely? Especially if they were . . .’ His boss left the sentence hanging.

  ‘When I first visited him, we didn’t know Ena’s identity. The second time I went, I really don’t think he made the connection. Plus we have absolutely no physical evidence that he ever set foot in Blackwater, at least not as an adult.’ Kirby tried to picture the newborn Charles Palmer being whisked to another part of Blackwater by Ruthie Abbott, while Ena Massey killed his mother. ‘I feel sorry for him. He’s had enough shit in his life, and just when something good happens, like finally finding out the truth and inheriting the house, he meets Calder and falls in love.’ He paused. ‘Calder would have happily watched him go down for everything.’

  Hamer was staring at something on the other side of the bone jar. ‘Do you think Patrick was in love with him?’

  ‘Who knows, he might have been.’ Kirby watched his boss from the corner of his eye and could have sworn he saw the smallest twitch of his mouth. Then it was gone.

  ‘Does Palmer know about his father yet?’

  Kirby nodded. He’d broken the news to him during their conversation last night. ‘He’s probably at the hospital right now. Kobrak was taking him.’

  ‘What a way to meet your father,’ Hamer sighed. ‘I had a look at the letters Ruthie Abbott wrote to her mother.’ He shook his head. ‘No wonder Calder wanted revenge.’

  The letters had painted a picture of a scared young woman. She’d found herself in an impossible situation and had eventually made the brave decision to leave Blackwater and speak out. Unfortunately, it was too late, because she had made one fatal mistake: she’d kept a diary.

  ‘It’s a shame we don’t have the diary,’ said Kirby. ‘It wasn’t among Ena’s things, and we didn’t find it at Calder’s place.’

  ‘Ena must have destroyed it. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. We have Raymond Sweet’s account of Ruthie’s murder though.’

  ‘Can we believe him?’ asked Hamer.

  ‘He has nothing to gain by dragging it all up now – quite the contrary, he’s been trying to forget it for the last fifty years.’

  The two men stood without speaking for a few minutes. Eventually, Hamer looked at his watch. ‘You heading back to Mount Pleasant?’

  Kirby shook his head. ‘I have the delightful prospect of telling Karen McBride what’s happened.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ was all Hamer could muster in response. Karen McBride’s onesies and porcelain dog collection – not to mention the poodle lighter and minibar – were now legendary at Mount Pleasant. Anderson had made sure of that.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ said Kirby, lowering his voice. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Hamer. ‘I found this in Calder’s desk. It was the only one, and you might want to look at it when you’re alone.’

  Kirby left Hamer holding the envelope, his expression unreadable, and walked back along the tunnel to the pillbox, where he removed the plastic bootees and protective suit. It was a beautiful morning, the sun bright in the sky, and for the first time in months he felt its warmth. As he walked, he could hear the sound of dripping, the sun slowly beginning to melt the snow – even the odd bird chirruped. When he reached the lake, Kirby stopped for a moment and looked out across its smooth, white surface, then turned to gaze up at Keats Ward, where Raymond had witnessed Ena Massey murdering Ruthie Abbott over fifty years ago and where, according to Raymond, his friend Gregory Boothe had also died. He thought about the photograph he’d found in Calder’s desk and Hamer’s wife, Andrea, who he liked very much, and whom he doubted knew anything about her husband’s extracurricular activities with the property developer. He hoped it would stay that way.

  On the way back to the admin block and the bastard Corsa, Kirby’s phone beeped: it was Anderson.

  ‘You’ll never guess what Forensics turned up at the house: Mandrax, in a mug in the hallway. Looks like Connie was right to tip that tea down the sink. She’d have been out cold if she’d drunk it. And if the Opus Crates guy hadn’t shown up, who knows what might have happened.’

  Kirby heard another call trying to get through and saw that it was Livia. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, Pete. See you back at MP.’ He cut the call from Anderson and took the incoming one from Livia. ‘Mum, everything okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ She hesitated. ‘Lew, I need to talk to you. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Finally, he thought, rummaging about in his pockets for the car keys. ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘Can you come over?’ she asked.

  He found the keys and pulled them out of his pocket. ‘What, now? I can’t, we’re in the process of—’

  ‘This evening then. Please? It’s important.’ Her tone was insistent.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do my best. I’ll call you later.’ With everything that had gone on in the past twenty-four
hours, Kirby had managed not to think about what might be wrong with his mother too deeply, but now the dread re-emerged, sharp and piercing. He really would try to get over there later, no matter how many reports he had to write up for Hamer.

  He was just about to get into the car when his phone went off again.

  ‘Sir?’ It was Kobrak.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Thought you’d want to know – Harry Joyce has just been brought into St George’s. Looks like a stroke.’

  CHAPTER 51

  The conversation that Kirby had had with the nurse looking after Harry Joyce had been less than optimistic, and as he waited outside the door to Karen McBride’s house, he wondered how long the old man would last. Anderson had offered to give Karen the news, his curiosity about the onesie and minibar momentarily taking over, but Kirby felt that it should come from him. He also wasn’t sure Anderson would survive an assault from The McBride; even the luck of the paw might struggle against that. After a minute or two, the front door opened, and Karen appeared.

  ‘Bleedin’ hell,’ she said, giving Kirby the once-over. ‘You’ve seen better days. Better come in, I suppose.’

  At least she wasn’t in a onesie, Kirby thought, stepping over the threshold. He caught sight of himself in a mirror and saw she was right: he did look tired, not to mention the angry scratches on his face from the night before. He rubbed a hand over his chin and realised that he’d forgotten to shave.

  ‘Hope she was worth it,’ said Karen, leading him into the dreaded sitting room, where, thankfully, the ambient temperature was lower than it had been on his previous visit. ‘Take a pew,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a seat as near to the window as possible. ‘I have some news about your mother,’ he began.

  ‘You want a drink? Look like you could do with one,’ said Karen, who was already at the helm of the hull-shaped bar, tapping the bulldog bottle opener on the palm of her left hand. ‘Cold beer?’

  Before Kirby could begin to articulate a refusal, an ice-cold bottle of Heineken was in his hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said, moving what looked like a porcelain Shih Tzu out of the way so that he could put it down; it wasn’t even midday. ‘About your mother – we’re fairly certain of what happened.’

  ‘Well, we know who didn’t do it, don’t we?’ she said, snorting. ‘I hear you got his mate in custody though. Nasty shit, that Lloyd.’

  ‘Yes, we do have Lloyd Templeton in custody, that’s true. But he didn’t kill your mother. Do you know Lloyd’s father?’

  ‘Do I fuck,’ she replied, taking a long slug of WKD, which was orange today. ‘What about him – crashed his Ferrari, has he?’ Karen emerged from behind the hull and began a hunt worthy of Forensics for her cigarettes. Today she was sporting a pair of wet-look leggings and a jumper featuring an appliquéd dog on the front.

  ‘Not exactly, no.’ Kirby gave Karen a brief account of what they believed to have happened to Ena, beginning with Calder luring her to Marsh House on the pretence that Helen Linehan had left her something in her will, to her eventual death. He left out some salient details, although he doubted that even a stomach full of disco biscuits and a battered head would faze Karen.

  ‘Well, I’m a bleeding Dutchman,’ she said when he’d finished, the cigarette hunt now elevated to high-priority. ‘So Patrick Calder killed my mum?’

  ‘We believe so, yes, and also a man called Edward Blake.’ He took a swig of beer. It was the only way to deal with the outfit. Kirby loved dogs, but this was an affront to his senses.

  ‘Did that shit Lloyd know about any of this?’ Karen eventually found her cigarettes exactly where Kirby had guessed they’d be – down the back of the sofa – along with the poodle lighter, and lit up, blowing smoke out of both nostrils.

  ‘He’s not saying much. He’s facing a sexual assault charge.’

  ‘What?’ Karen exploded, almost literally, as smoke poured from every facial orifice. ‘I knew they got up to no good, them two, but I never thought they’d do something like that. I’ll fucking kill my Douglas, I will.’ She drained the WKD bottle in one go, somehow managing to fill that with smoke too.

  Karen could have her own circus act, and Kirby almost expected smoke to appear from the appliquéd dog’s mouth and ears. He got up and opened the window without asking. ‘There’s no evidence that Douglas was involved, Karen. Lloyd was alone when it happened. He’d threatened the victim before – Douglas was there on that occasion – but nothing physical took place then. Douglas needs to be more careful with who he hangs out with.’

  ‘Too fucking right he should. Inherited my mum’s genes, by the sound of it. Little sod. Told you that she was an evil cow, didn’t I?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that,’ said Kirby, sitting down again. ‘Do the names Sarah Carswell or Ruthie Abbott ring any bells? Sarah was a patient at Blackwater, and Ruthie was a nurse. Ruthie was also Patrick Calder’s mother.’

  Karen tapped the empty WKD bottle on her teeth as she thought about this for a moment. ‘It was forty fucking years ago,’ she said, eventually. ‘But Ruthie, she’s the one that topped herself, right?’

  ‘That’s what was thought at the time, yes.’

  ‘I can hear a ruddy great “but” coming along,’ said Karen.

  Kirby braced himself – for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. ‘We have a witness who says he saw your mother kill Ruthie. And we are also led to believe that she killed Sarah Carswell.’

  For the first time, Karen seemed stuck for words – although not for long. ‘Well, fuck me,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘A murderer in the family – who’d have thought?’

  Christ, did nothing faze her? ‘Patrick Calder had his mother’s letters, ones that she’d written home after Sarah Carswell’s death in Ena’s care. She was convinced that your mother killed her, but that’s something we’ll never be able to prove. She also kept a diary, which unfortunately we don’t have.’

  Karen looked thoughtful for a moment, if such a thing were possible. ‘Hang on a sec,’ she said, getting up. ‘Won’t be a mo.’

  Kirby watched her leave the room and heard her tread on the stairs. Somewhere in his head he prayed it wasn’t a costume change. After a few minutes, he heard her come back down, and to his relief he saw that she was still in the same clothes.

  ‘You might want to have a butcher’s at this,’ she said, holding out a book of some sort.

  It was an A5 leather-bound book with Diary embossed in gold on the front. He opened it and looked up at Karen. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘When I walked out in 1978 I didn’t take much – we didn’t have much. I took my clothes, but I was determined to take something of hers too, something that would piss the old cow off. I thought that was hers.’ She nodded at the diary in his hand. ‘Only, when I looked at it a few months later, I seen that it wasn’t.’

  ‘But you still kept it?’

  ‘Only ’cos it was in a box full of my own shit,’ said Karen, firing up another cigarette with the poodle lighter. ‘Moved house with me more times that I’ve been hitched – and that’s saying something.’

  Kirby didn’t even notice the acrid cigarette smoke as he flicked through the diary in his hands. ‘Can I take this?’

  ‘Be my guest. You want another beer? I could put some music on, bit of Rod—’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Kirby, quickly standing up. ‘I have to be going.’

  Karen showed him out and leant on the doorframe, watching as he headed to the car. ‘Whoever she was, she ain’t worth it,’ she called after him. ‘You need a real woman, Mr Kirby. You know where to find me.’

  He heard her laughing as the front door slammed shut. So much for dropping the bombshell her mother was a murderer; water off a duck’s back to Karen.

  Inside the car, he put the key in the ignition and stared at the diary; it wouldn’t hold all the answers, and it wouldn’t prove anything, but it would certainly shine a light on the recent tr
agedy, as well as the ones more than fifty years ago.

  He opened its first page and read the name at the front, written in blue ink, the handwriting small and neat: Ruthie Abbott.

  CHAPTER 52

  After being checked over at the hospital, Connie had been driven home, arriving back at the Four Sails in the early hours of the morning. Mole had been waiting for her, a fire lit in the grate and her bed made up with clean bedclothes. He’d also fed Terror, who had all but ignored her when she walked in, his allegiance now firmly with Mole, his new provider of food. When she woke up the next morning, the reality of what had happened at Blackwater was undiminished, and if anything, more vivid. In her dreams she’d constantly experienced the sensation of falling, which had woken her at least a half a dozen times, and then when she was awake she kept reliving the moment when Calder had tried to push her into the Thames. As awful as they were, for the most part they overrode those of Lloyd’s wiry body pushing himself on to her. There was another recurring image, too, one that she hadn’t mentioned to anyone, not even Mole, and that was of Calder’s face as Raymond stamped on his hand.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ asked Mole, who’d slept on the banquette in the bar, apparently, with Terror.

  ‘I could do with another painkiller for my shoulder. I can barely move it.’ She sat down at the bar as Mole placed a cup of coffee in front of her.

  ‘I’ll get them for you,’ he said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Terror jumped on to the bar and sat gazing at her curiously, as though she’d changed in some way. She tickled him under his chin and was pleased when he purred and stood up to bunt her hand. ‘You’re still my big, bad boy, aren’t you?’