CHAPTER 6
Revulsion bubbled away in Kirby’s gut as he descended the creaking wooden staircase to the ground floor. Decades of grit, plaster and pigeon guano crunched under each step. The medical examiner had estimated the time of death somewhere between 10 p.m. and midnight – probable cause, the combination of a blow to the head and hypothermia. The blow to the head hadn’t been the one to break the elderly woman’s jaw: that had been meted out separately. The ME couldn’t say much more until he’d examined the body in detail at the mortuary.
What kind of person would commit such a brutal act on someone so vulnerable? The pressure would be on to solve this as soon as possible, and he sincerely hoped that they did. The location wouldn’t do them any favours; the media loved Blackwater despite professing to hate it.
Which all brought him back to the location: why Blackwater? The hospital was deeply embedded in the fabric of the entire local area, even after all these years. It was a place about which everyone had a tale to tell, from seeing ghosts to knowing someone who’d worked there. It had also been the location of various criminal acts since its closure in 1993 – arson and drug dealing to name but two – and one poor soul had chosen it as the backdrop to their suicide. It was the stuff of urban legends, and the press lapped it up. That the victim had been left there was no accident, he felt sure. And then there was the ward itself: Keats. What was the significance of that? It was deep in the grounds of the asylum, a fair walk from either of the two entrances. The killer would have passed plenty of other hiding places en route – not to mention locations where the body may not have been found for weeks. It could have been a random choice, but Kirby didn’t think so.
Kirby stepped outside, glad to be out of the decaying ward block, which he found profoundly depressing. A path had been marked out, for police coming and going, in an attempt to preserve any evidence outside, but the truth was that whoever had done this had come before the snowfall ended. When the first police had arrived, there were no other tracks leading into the building, or anywhere in the immediate area, apart from those belonging to Leroy Simmons.
He spotted Anderson talking to one of the SOCOs, and he waved Kirby over.
‘There’s a breach in the fence by Daylesford Road,’ said Anderson. ‘Big enough to crawl through, but difficult to drag a body through, at least without snagging it or its clothing.’
‘We’re checking for fibres,’ said the SOCO before wandering off.
‘Sweet’s got a woman’s coat in his house,’ said Kirby. ‘It’s on some sort of dummy.’
Anderson raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe he likes dressing up.’
‘Or it could belong to our victim,’ Kirby said, stamping his feet. He was frozen to the core. ‘Look, I’m going to check out the house next door, the big posh place. You want to come?’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Site manager’s on his way.’ He looked at his notes. ‘Brian Kaplinsky. I’ll wait for him, otherwise we’ll be here all day.’
It was true; they were so short-staffed that if they did everything in pairs, cases would take twice as long to get solved. ‘I’ll call you when I’m done then,’ said Kirby, and he began to make his way back towards the admin block.
He was keen to have a proper look around, but that would have to wait until the SOCOs had finished their search. When he reached the admin block, a handsome Queen Anne-style building, he skirted around the Corsa – preferring to walk, despite the cold – and set off down the asylum’s main driveway. Away from the police activity, silence once again shrouded him, like it had at Raymond Sweet’s house. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before in London. He stopped for a moment and took in the beauty of the white landscape, the snow off the main driveway pristine and undisturbed. It reminded him of a film set, and he imagined Father Christmas hurtling into view with reindeer and sleigh any moment; although, in truth, Jack Torrance from The Shining was more like it.
When he reached the main gate, the same young PC who’d first admitted him – now a lovely shade of blue – let him out of the grounds, and he turned left to walk along Battersea Fields Drive towards Marsh House. The asylum perimeter along this part of the road was boarded up: difficult to climb over in any circumstances, but with a body in tow? Impossible, thought Kirby. On the opposite side of the road to the asylum, their lower floors masked by trees, sat large, Victorian, red-brick mansion blocks. The flats at the top would afford perfect views of the asylum grounds and beyond, although the likelihood of anyone seeing something last night was slim. Officers were doing door-to-door, and Kirby hoped their efforts yielded something – the glimmer of torchlight in the dark, a strange vehicle – that might lead them to the elderly woman’s killer.
After several minutes of brisk walking, the asylum’s boarded-up perimeter came to an end, replaced by a brick wall over which he could just make out the bare branches of trees covered in thick snow. A few feet further on and he came to an open gate, flanked on either side by ivy-covered stone gateposts, the inscription Marsh House barely visible on the left-hand post. He turned off the main road and began walking up the drive. The house was easy to miss from the street, and although he had no idea of its history, he wondered if at some point it had been part of the asylum. Whatever its original purpose, it was now a highly desirable residence. Kirby rang the bell and waited.
The man who answered the door to Marsh House introduced himself as Charles Palmer and was a slender man in his fifties. Judging by his accent he was either Australian or Kiwi. After explaining the reason for his visit, Kirby was led into the kitchen, where Palmer offered him a coffee. ‘I was just about to make myself an espresso,’ he said, gesturing towards an expensive-looking Gaggia.
Kirby could almost feel himself salivating at the thought. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’
‘Milk?’
Kirby shook his head. ‘As it comes.’ He watched as Palmer made the coffee, neither man speaking – as though some kind of ritual was being observed.
When the dark liquid had finished filling two small espresso cups, Palmer handed one to Kirby. ‘Let’s go next door, it’s more comfortable.’
Kirby followed him into a handsome living room, where they sat down. The room was a jumble of partially filled boxes and crates, but despite the chaos a fire roared in the grate. Kirby finally felt himself warming up.
‘Are you moving in or out?’ Kirby asked.
‘I recently inherited the place, so I’m busy clearing things out at the moment. But I have been living here for the past month or so.’
‘Where are you from? Australia?’
‘Perth.’
‘Do you intend to stay?’ Kirby looked around, thinking how lovely it would be to have this much space. Mind you, he’d only fill it if he did.
‘I’ll probably sell. Go back to Perth.’
‘Will the development next door affect the sale?’
Palmer shrugged. ‘I hope not, although it’s not ideal. The whole area seems to be being redeveloped, what with the American embassy down at Nine Elms and all those apartments going up.’
Kirby knew about that only too well; it was a stone’s throw from the boats. Not to mention the development going up right next to the moorings. He drained his coffee. ‘Thanks, that was good. Right, perhaps we could move on to last night. Were you here?’ He took out his Moleskine.