The policeman went over and studied it carefully. ‘It looks burnt,’ he said, lifting a sleeve.
‘There was a fire . . .’ Raymond began, trailing off. The policeman was now looking at the exposed heart and lungs of the torso that lay beneath.
‘What is this?’ the policeman asked.
‘It’s not real,’ Raymond answered quickly. ‘I found it. It lights up, look.’ He reached behind the door and flicked a switch, and his mother’s coat lit up; the holes where the fire had caught it glowed pink from the illuminated organs underneath.
‘That’s quite something, Mr Sweet,’ said the policeman, smiling. ‘And collectable, I imagine.’
Raymond shrugged. He had no idea.
‘That’s made my day,’ said the policeman. ‘Fascinating.’
Raymond followed the detective out of the bedroom and back into the living room.
‘Tell me, do you know of any other ways into Blackwater, apart from the two entrances?’
Raymond shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’ the policeman pushed.
‘The river?’ ventured Raymond, feeling he should contribute something useful. He wasn’t sure how the Creeper came and went, but then again, the Creeper could probably walk through walls.
The detective nodded. ‘Okay, thank you. And there’s no other way in that you know of?’
Raymond shook his head for the millionth time, wondering why it was so important. After reiterating that he mustn’t go wandering about the grounds and should stay on his own part of the property, the detective finally left. When he’d gone, Raymond stood by the window and surveyed his small patch of land, trying to decide what to do. In truth, he’d been putting off the inevitable for months, the task too daunting, but the reality of the situation was now very clear; somehow, without being seen, he was going to have to move his collection.
CHAPTER 8
Kirby was sitting in the dreaded Corsa, which even his mother took the piss out of, calling it a ‘student car’. He was outside MIT29’s headquarters, known to everyone as Mount Pleasant. MIT29 was one of the Met Police’s twenty-four Murder Investigation Teams in London and was located in an old abattoir in Southwark. Why it was MIT29 was a mystery to everyone, as was the name; Mount Pleasant was neither pleasant nor on a mount.
Kirby’s boss, DCI Idris Hamer, had called an 8 p.m. briefing to go through what information they’d been able to glean throughout the day, and Kirby was taking a few minutes to himself before going in. In his mind he ran over what they had so far: an as-yet-unidentified elderly woman, brutally beaten and left on a hospital bed in a derelict asylum; a mobile phone; and an ex-patient with access to the grounds. And then there was the bloody weather, erasing any trace of the murderer and confusing the sniffer dogs. Which brought him to the question foremost in his mind: how the murderer and victim had got into the asylum. Neither of the cameras over the two entrances to the asylum had shown anyone entering or leaving with an elderly woman – dead or alive. Had someone tampered with the camera and let them in – Raymond Sweet, Leroy Simmons? There was now an added problem: Leroy Simmons was missing. After Kirby had spoken to him in the Portakabin, he’d been escorted to the station where he’d made a statement. By the time Kirby and Anderson had spoken to Raymond Sweet several hours later, and discovered the discrepancy in their statements, Simmons had been released and was now AWOL.
A knock on the car window brought Kirby back to the present. It was Hamer. ‘You ready for the briefing, Lew?’ he asked through the glass.
‘Yeah, sure. Coming.’ Kirby grabbed his phone and notebook from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car.
Hamer was about the same age as Anderson, mid to late forties, and had been head of MIT29 for just shy of two years. Kirby thought he did an efficient job of managing several murder teams and was talented at the stuff Kirby knew he’d hate if he were ever to rise up the ranks – namely, being good on camera and kowtowing to the upper echelons of the Met Police. Not that Kirby was particularly anti-authority; he just couldn’t be arsed with it beyond a certain level. He had, however, detected a change in his boss over the past six months or so. He’d first noticed it at a colleague’s leaving do, when Hamer had seemed awkward and on edge, almost as though he were on his guard. Perhaps his marriage was in trouble – there were no kids that Kirby knew of – or perhaps it was simply the pressure of work.
‘Anyone been able to get hold of the security guard yet?’ Hamer asked as they walked into MIT29’s headquarters.
‘Not yet. We’ve been to his house but he’s not there. We’re trying to trace any friends or family.’
Hamer grunted. ‘We need to find him ASAP. The last thing we need is a missing suspect.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Hamer glanced at Kirby as they waited for the lift. ‘There’s something about this case that worries me already.’
Kirby felt the same. ‘Anything in particular?’
‘The location, the victim, the lack of witnesses.’ Hamer reeled them off one by one, using his fingers. ‘Something tells me this isn’t going to be straightforward. The press will have a field day.’
He was right, they would. Anything to do with Blackwater and the press were all over it like a rash.
‘Even my wife says Blackwater’s cursed,’ Hamer went on. ‘And she’s about as sceptical as you can get.’
Kirby had heard the rumours: from ghosts of past patients and strange glowing lights at night, to the land being cursed. That every major redevelopment plan had fallen through – for one reason or another – had only added fuel to the fire. Not to mention the few unfortunate souls who’d perished there in the intervening years: an urban explorer, two drug addicts and a suicide had all made the headlines when they’d died at Blackwater.
‘Ten minutes, everyone,’ called Hamer as he strode through the main office to his own, slamming the door shut behind him.
Kirby went over to his desk and sat down, absent-mindedly flicking through a pile of messages, most of which he could now bin. However, the one on the top in Anderson’s handwriting was a surprise – Jon Kirby called 19.40. His father. He checked his mobile and saw the missed call. Kirby wondered what he wanted; they didn’t see each other as often as they would have liked – his father lived in Cornwall and they both led busy lives. It was strange that he’d called the office and left a message.
‘You spoke to my father,’ he said, looking up at Anderson, whose desk was opposite.
‘Yup. Called just before you walked in.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Just that he was trying to get hold of you. Everything okay?’
‘Hope so.’
‘Probably wants to meet this new girlfriend of yours. Talking of which, how’s it going? You know . . .’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Fine. Thanks,’ said Kirby, cutting him off.
‘Good. The stuffed fox didn’t put her off then,’ Anderson chuckled.
‘No, although she was concerned about the missing leg.’ Kirby looked at his watch – if he was quick he could call his father now. He’d just picked up his mobile when he heard his name.