The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Connie.

  ‘He’s been living in Germany for the past five years, didn’t even know Sarah had died. Came back for a family wedding and bumped into Ed on his first day here. C’mon, I’ll introduce you. You need to hear what he’s got to say.’

  Connie looked at Kirby. ‘Do you mind if—’

  ‘It’s fine, you go.’ He watched as they went over and joined a man in his mid-thirties wearing a dark suit and a black coat. Judging from their body language, Mole already knew the man. He introduced Connie, and the three of them began talking animatedly. Kirby genuinely hoped that Connie would find out what had happened to her sister that fateful day five years ago. It wouldn’t bring her back, but it would bring some kind of closure.

  After waiting for a few minutes, he decided to slip away. Connie was absorbed in whatever it was that Jimmy Rae had to tell her, and the truth was that he just wanted to leave, to escape the smell of death that hovers over every funeral.

  He had just reached the gates of the cemetery, the Citroën parked a few feet away, when he heard Connie calling his name.

  ‘Kirby! Wait!’ She was jogging after him, holding her arm awkwardly, still clearly in pain when she ran. ‘Hang on.’

  He stopped at the gates and waited for her to catch him up. ‘Sorry, I realised I need to be somewhere,’ he said, by way of explaining his sudden departure. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes,’ Connie said, catching her breath. ‘He knew the bloke my sister was with. Said he was a bit strange – nothing serious, just a bit odd.’

  ‘Did he have a name?’ asked Kirby.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘His name was Kaplinsky, Brian Kaplinsky.’

  CHAPTER 55

  Raymond left the churchyard after sharing his Jaffa Cakes with the detective and walked home. With no buffet, there wasn’t much point in hanging around. He’d kept quiet about Gregory’s ashes, as well as Alardice’s and Barnes’s, and so far no one seemed to have noticed that they were missing. He would have liked to speak to Connie, but she had been surrounded by people and he didn’t want to intrude.

  He strolled down Daylesford Road, enjoying the fact that he no longer had to wear his scarf turban-style. Although still cold, it was considerably milder, and he could almost imagine sleeping without thermals and pyjamas. He let himself into the grounds and was walking through the small copse of trees to the lodge, when he saw a figure coming towards him. It was Calder’s site manager, Catapult or whatever his damn name was.

  ‘Raymond,’ said Catapult.

  ‘Mr, erm . . .’

  ‘Kaplinksy.’

  ‘Oh, erm, yes, Mr Kaplinsky.’

  ‘I’ve just been having a last look round the site. You know, making sure everything is in order.’ He looked at Raymond, as if it were somehow down to him. ‘There’s one piece of machinery that needs removing from the site, then that’s it, Patricey Developments are out of your hair.’

  ‘Oh, right. That’s good then. I mean, that’s, erm, useful to know. Thank you.’ Raymond tried to edge past the man, but despite the fact they were outside, the trees seemed to hem them in.

  ‘Going back to the Lodge?’ Kaplinsky asked, not moving.

  ‘Yes,’ said Raymond. ‘I’ve just been to a funeral and . . .’ He couldn’t think how to end the sentence. ‘There wasn’t a buffet.’

  ‘No. Well.’ Kaplinsky stuck out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Raymond. I’ll miss you in my own way.’

  Raymond went to take his hand, then withdrew. ‘Bye, Mr Kaplinsky,’ he said, and pushed past him. He’d never liked him and now he didn’t even have to pretend to. As he hurried back to the Lodge he was still aware of Kaplinsky standing behind him, and could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back.

  ‘Oh, and Raymond?’ he heard Kaplinsky shout. ‘Say goodbye to your mother for me, won’t you?’

  Raymond stopped in his tracks. What did he say? He must have misheard him. He turned slowly. ‘Pardon?’

  But Kaplinsky was gone.

  Raymond peered through the trees, wondering how someone could just disappear like that. Then a nasty feeling began creeping through his stomach, accompanied by a slow but very stark realisation. He turned and ran back to the Old Lodge as fast as he could, hurling himself up the steps and fumbling with the lock, until he burst into the living room and ran over to the kitchen. He noticed his mug on the draining board – a present from Mrs Muir with I Heart Benidorm on it – exactly where he’d left it earlier. Then he looked up at the shelf where he kept the tea caddy and almost screamed. Next to it, where the urn containing his mother’s ashes should have been, was an empty space.

  Unable to move, Raymond blinked a few times, swallowing the panic that was rising up and threatening to tip him over into somewhere he didn’t want to go. Eventually, he tore his eyes away from the empty space and down to the kitchen table. And there she was. ‘Mother,’ he whispered to himself, grabbing the urn. He checked inside, just to be sure, then clutched it to his chest and wept for joy.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Blackwater Asylum and its patients are entirely fictional, however certain elements are based on real places and events. During the 1960s and ’70s, Ward 5 of the Royal Waterloo Hospital did house a ‘Sleep Room’ where Deep Sleep Therapy was practised. In Australia, a royal commission was held into the treatment after it led to the deaths of twenty-seven people at the private Chelmsford Hospital in a suburb of Sydney. The ‘bone jar’ itself is based on a real building at Witley Park in Surrey.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my agent Jane Gregory who saw promise in an early manuscript and who, along with editors Stephanie Glencross and Mary Jones at Gregory & Co., patiently helped me beat this beast into shape; Jack Butler at Thomas & Mercer for taking the risk, and Martin Toseland for those pesky final edits; Simon Cornwell’s exemplary The Cult of Cane Hill website and all the other inspirational urban explorers out there; Collette Lowe, who first brought Fatal Familial Insomnia to my attention and who directed me towards D. T. Max’s excellent book The Family That Couldn’t Sleep; my friends who’ve probably forgotten who I am but who believed that I had it in me; my fellow crime writers from City University’s Crime Writing MA, as well as Claire McGowan, William Ryan and Laura Wilson; Oliver Harris, whose books have been so inspiring and who taught me the importance of obstacles; and DC Vicki Bradley, my mole on the inside. Special thanks must go to Nancy Candlin, my crime-reading comrade since early childhood, for her remarkable insight; you’ve been more help than you’ll ever know. And lastly, a canine thank you to Pancho Villa – the biscuits are on me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © Annie Peel Photography

  S W Kane has a degree in History of Design and worked at the Royal Institute of British Architects before taking on a series of totally unrelated jobs in radio and the music industry. She has an MA in Creative (Crime) Writing from City University. She began reading crime fiction at an early age and developed an obsession with crime set in cold places. A chance encounter with a derelict fort in rural Pembrokeshire led to a fascination with urban exploration, which in turn became the inspiration for her crime novels. She lives in London.