Solomon's Key

by Tim Ellis

  I’d informed the Chief last night, as we stood in the snow-swept presidential suite that I wouldn’t be in work until after lunch. I needed to see Suzie in the hospital, and then I had a funeral to attend before another appointment with Doctor Bloody Gail. I could have done with going back to bed, but instead I went for my shower in the hope it would wake me up – it didn’t.

  Underneath my overcoat, I put on a black suit, white shirt and black tie. I’d had to use it a couple of times in the last couple of years. Being a copper was a high-risk profession.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Lexi sat giggling over the drone of the small television in the corner. The seven o’clock news came on. Harry turned it up to listen to what they had to say about last night. Lexi didn’t seem to be paying attention to it so I let it go.

  The Chief looked tired as she spoke and the lights from cameras flashed in her face. Although the killer miraculously escaped, the officer in charge of the investigation, DCI Harte, managed to prevent a sixth killing… I would hardly have called Paul’s escape a miracle. In fact, it was more like incompetence on the part of Pete Withers and his team.

  ‘Daddy’s a hero, Lexi.’ Harry said.

  ‘What’s a hero, daddy?’

  ‘Now you’ve started something,’ I said.

  Harry answered her. ‘It means that daddy is very brave.’

  ‘What does brave mean, Harry?’

  I misdirected her. ‘It means I’m very good at tickling,’ I said and began tickling her ribs. She squealed loud enough to bring the building down.

  ***

  I reached Barnaby Ward at Hammersmith Hospital at eight forty-five. Sister Alice McFarlane stood in the corridor like an immovable object, as if she’d been expecting an incursion by terrorists. She was short, but considerably wide. I imagined her being employed by Universal Pictures as a double for the Incredible Hulk. I flashed my warrant card to gain admittance, but she wasn’t the least bit impressed.

  ‘She’s resting, come back at visiting time, Mr Harte,’ she said in a broad Scottish brogue. Rank obviously meant nothing to her. I saw the duty PC smirking sat in a chair outside what must have been Suzie’s room. He’d obviously been an unwilling participant at the dress rehearsal.

  I adopted a begging expression. ‘Please Sister, I have a funeral to attend at ten o’clock, and I need to see Miss Palton before I go.’

  She looked skeptical, but moved to one side.

  ‘How is Miss Palton?’ I asked as she escorted me along the corridor to Suzie’s room.

  ‘As well as can be expected considering what you put her through last night,’ she said accusingly.

  Defensively I said, ‘Me! I was the person who saved her.’

  She wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’m sure you were instrumental in getting the wee girl in trouble in the first place, men are always the root cause.’

  She had obviously decided that Suzie’s late night admission to hospital was entirely my fault. We reached the room. The door stood open and I saw Suzie propped up in bed. Her red hair looked lackluster against the starched white of the pillows. She was anemic pale as if the life had been sucked out of her, and her green eyes stared into the distance like someone lost in a world of her own. Clear liquid ran from a bag on a stainless steel stand, along a tube, and into the back of her hand. I assumed it was replacing the blood that Paul had callously stolen from her.

  Sister McFarlane blocked the doorway. ‘You have five minutes Mr Harte. If you upset the wee lass, I’ll be throwing you out myself. Do you understand?’

  I had no doubt in my mind that she could live up to her threat. ‘I understand, Sister, thank you.’ She lowered her arm, and I sidled into the room like an uninvited guest.

  Leaning over Suzie, I kissed her on the cheek. I expected her to turn towards me so that I could kiss her lips, but she didn’t move. I put a brown paper bag of seedless grapes on the bedside table next to a tray containing a glass and a jug of water. ‘Grapes,’ I said in explanation.

  I sat down in an orange plastic chair by the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked. She didn’t look pleased to see me. It was as if the history between us had been siphoned off with the blood.

  ‘How do you think?’ Her voice sounded flat, detached, emotionless. I began to think it might have been a bad idea to visit so soon after her ordeal.

  ‘When are they letting you out?’

  ‘They haven’t said. I have to see a Doctor Andrews this afternoon.’

  ‘I know her, she’s very good.’ I thought a white lie wouldn’t do any harm. I didn’t tell her about my appointment later this morning. ‘She’s a psychologist.’ It was clear that Suzie had been traumatized by what Paul had done to her.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When they do release you, would you like to come and stay with me? Until you’re well enough to travel that is, or…’

  ‘Did you catch him?’

  ‘No, we’re still looking.’

  She began to cry. Tears gushed down her face, but no sound came from her mouth.

  I put my hand on top of the blanket covering her leg. ‘Please don’t cry, Suzie. He’s gone, he’ll never bother you again.’

  ‘You can’t know that. He was going to kill me. He won’t leave me alive as a witness.’ She turned her head away. ‘I’d like you to leave now.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Are you going to walk out using your legs Mr Harte, or would you like some assistance?’

  Sister McFarlane must have been listening at the door. I had no trouble imagining her as a bouncer at a drug-fuelled rave.

  I stood up. ‘Suzie, please, I’ll protect you…’

  ‘Now Mr Harte.’ I felt a vice-like grip on my upper arm.

  Suzie wouldn’t even look at me. I had little choice but to let Sister McFarlane steer me towards the door.

  ‘I’ll come back and see you tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want you to.’

  ‘You heard the young lady, Mr Harte. Don’t come back, you won’t get in. Now please, leave before I call security.’

  I knew it was posttraumatic stress, I’d seen it in coppers after a gun battle, but it didn’t make the rejection any easier. She would take time to heal, and to regain her trust in people. I would just have to be patient.

  ***

  Honor Oak Crematorium nestled amongst homes in a residential area in Camberwell. I arrived twenty minutes early and had to park outside a house in Brenchley Gardens. No gritting machines or snowploughs ventured this far away from the main roads. Houses were draped in Christmas lights – reindeers, Santas, elves, sleighs – there seemed to be a competition to see who could drain the most electricity from the National Grid. Snowmen and giant snowballs littered the streets and gardens. I made my way gingerly to the crematorium, over finely developed slides that could break a leg at the slip of a shoe, through waist-high snowdrifts, and snowball fights by rival gangs.

  As I hiked up the drive towards the crematorium, I noticed a beautiful stained glass window of an angel above the door. A man in a black coat, suit and tie holding a top hat in his left hand stood by the entrance next to a hearse.

  ‘Mr Stokes?’

  ‘Chief Inspector?’

  We shook hands.

  ‘Awful weather.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better either.’

  ‘A hero, from what I heard on the news and read in the morning newspapers.’

  ‘Not really, Mr Stokes. I saved one, but lost five. Hardly heroic.’

  ‘Still, one is better than none.’

  I didn’t want to pursue the conversation. I wasn’t a hero, regardless of the drivel being spewed out on the television and printed in the newspapers. Daniel did say he was going to make me famous, I would rather have remained unknown. ‘Shall we go in?’

  ‘By all means. It is nearly ten o’clock.’

  As expected, with the exception of Mr Stokes, I was the only one in the crematorium. I walked to the fr
ont and sat in the first pew. Sally’s oak coffin rested on a camouflaged conveyor belt, which after a minute began moving towards a pair of green velvet curtains until it disappeared.

  Thinking about Sally’s laughing eyes, I waited. Eventually, a nondescript man in a dark suit came out and passed a stone-coloured urn to Mr Stokes.

  ‘Shall we? Chief Inspector.’ he said.

  I had no idea where Camberwell Old Cemetery was, but I followed him out. He passed the urn to me and motioned for me to get into the passenger seat of the hearse. I climbed in, Sally’s warm ashes resting on my thighs.

  He turned right out of the crematorium, and after navigating through a maze of child-littered streets, reached the main road.

  ‘I had to pay a considerable amount to purchase a plot in the old cemetery, Chief Inspector. Apparently, they stopped burying people there in 1984. The Council only agreed because it was an urn and not a coffin.’

  ‘As I said, Mr Stokes, money is not an issue.’

  After a mile up the road, he turned left between a pair of rusty wrought-iron gates. As we meandered between snow-covered oak trees, I noticed old headstones with barely legible names inscribed on them. We came to a stop.

  ‘We’re here, Chief Inspector.’

  I clambered out of the hearse. A path, which snaked off to our right, had been cleared and gritted. Mr Stokes led the way. Carrying Sally I followed. An old man, with an Arsenal scarf wrapped around his head, similar in style to a bandaged mummy, and what appeared to be at least ten layers of clothing under a boiler suit, stood leaning on a spade. We both nodded at him.

  ‘Awright,’ he said.

  A headstone, with Sally’s details on and the words I dictated to Mr Stokes, had been positioned beneath an oak tree. In front of it, a two-foot hole awaited Sally’s remains. I squatted and placed the urn in the hole. The gravedigger stepped forward with the spade and quickly shovelled the dirt on top of Sally, flattening it down with his dirty old boots.

  Unobtrusively passing the gravedigger a roll of twenty pound notes, Mr Stokes said, ‘Thank you, Mr Ainsworth.’

  ‘Awright,’ the old man replied, slinging the spade on his shoulder and lumbered off along the path.

  ‘I’ll leave you to say goodbye in your own time, Chief Inspector. Please return to the hearse when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Stokes.’

  Heavy snow began falling again. A wedge dislodged from a branch above me and landed on my shoulder, some of it slithering down my neck.

  ‘I’m sorry you got involved, Sally,’ I said out loud. ‘I hope you like it here. I’ll try and visit from time to time.’ Tears welled in my eyes. I pulled a handkerchief out and dried them as I walked back to the hearse.

  Mr Stokes didn’t speak as I climbed back into the passenger seat. He’d had the engine running and the inside was nice and warm. He drove back to the crematorium and stopped next to my car.

  Before I could get out, he passed me an envelope. ‘I’m sorry to give you this now, Chief Inspector, but I didn’t have your home address.’

  ‘That’s all right Mr Stokes, it all went as I expected. Thank you again.’

  I slipped the envelope into my inside pocket, we shook hands, and I got into my car.

  ***

  I was late.

  ‘Fifteen minutes late, James,’ Doctor Bloody Gail announced as I burst into the reception out of breath. The lift seemed to be stuck on the third floor so I had run up the four flights of stairs. I should have been exceptionally fit with all the exercise I was getting lately, but I didn’t feel it. She stood by the open door of her office tapping the oversized watch on her left wrist that looked more like a wall clock on a strap.

  ‘Sorry,’ I panted. ‘It could be something to do with the weather.’

  She wore what looked like a Mary Quant pinafore dress with purple, orange, white and yellow rectangles separated by black lines. It seemed ridiculously short. Her thick woollen tights had a black and white triangle pattern like a harlequin’s costume, which matched the design of her glasses. There should be a health warning at the entrance to the fourth floor, I thought.

  ‘Lateness is one of the many manifestations of resistance, James. Lucky for you, I anticipated your defensive response and re-scheduled my next appointment, so we have all the time in the world. I am glad you didn’t let me down.’

  Taking my coat and scarf off, I followed her into the room. What could I say? I didn’t feel lucky. The more I protested, the more I would appear guilty, I was sure. I had wanted to give the impression of complete co-operation today. Up to now, it wasn’t going very well. I thought I’d make up for it by lying on the chaise lounge like a real patient. She sat in the chair with her infernal notebook. I wasn’t able to see her, but I could definitely hear her sliding about on the leather chair and writing another PhD thesis at my expense.

  Her voice wafted over me. ‘I’d like you to say whatever comes into your head, James.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, relaxing and interlocking my fingers on my chest. ‘I love free association.’ I’d show her. My words would be totally unconnected to the standardised words. When it came to analysis, she wouldn’t have a clue. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Building?’

  ‘Wasp.’

  ‘There is little point in us doing this if you’re simply going to sabotage the exercise by responding with unrelated words.’

  I grinned. ‘In my mind, wasp is related to building. I recalled a wasp’s nest in Aunt Miriam’s attic, scared the life out of me.’ I could hear her scribbling in the diabolical notebook.

  ‘Tree?’

  ‘Syrup.’ Ha, Ha!

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Breasts.’ Shit. She’s trying to trick me. That response should not have seen the light of day – a slip. God knows what she’d make of that. I could hear the demonic pencil in her hand making up lies about me. I must keep my wits about me. I relaxed slightly; the next word should be a neutral word.

  ‘First?’

  Yeah! Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Now I’m getting into my stride. ‘Octopus.’ That should get her going. I grinned and smothered a laugh with a cough.

  ‘Very good, James,’ she said. ‘Up to now, you come across as a schizophrenic voyeur.’

  Ha, exactly what I wanted. Hit me with another one, Miss Smarty Pants. A negative word should come next.

  I felt a prod in my chest.

  ‘Wake up, you were snoring.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t snore.’

  ‘Falling asleep, as you know, is another form of resistance. You’re really marshalling your defence mechanisms against me today, James.’

  I must have dropped off. ‘You’re determined to cast me in the role of a lone resistance fighter, but you’re misinterpreting the evidence, I only had two hours sleep last night, and I’m a bit tired.’

  ‘Excuses, James. If you wanted to stay awake, you would have done. Anger?’

  ‘Death.’ No! Oh shit. She slipped that one under the radar. How did death find its way through my lips? Do I really associate my anger with death? Whose death? Angie’s?’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere, James. ‘Sex?’

  ‘Therapy.’ Oh God, how embarrassing. ‘I didn’t mean...’

  ‘It’s all right, James. It’s simply transference, as you well know. I am not under any illusion that you may be attracted to me, and you can rest assured that there is no counter-transference.’

  Thank God for that. This wasn’t going as I’d visualised it. ‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’

  ‘It is interesting that you associate therapy with sex, James, I can’t say I’ve ever had that response before. I can imagine that you’re a bit upset at divulging your inner thoughts, but if it’s all right with you I’d like to do a few more words. We’re nearly finished now anyway. Mother?’

  ‘Dead.’ Uh Oh! I couldn’t help myself. Either I’m too tired, or my responses are really an unconscious reaction I have no control over. Dead was a l
arge deviation from the normal response. I was in trouble.

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘That’s another strange response, James.’

  I sat up and swivelled my legs off the chaise lounge. ‘It wasn’t a response. Stop the game.’

  ‘Is that how you think of it James, as a game?’

  Shit! A Freudian slip. She was writing like a demented scribe, page after page after page. I suppose in the back of my mind, I did think of these sessions with Doctor Bloody Gail as a game – a sexual game – we were involved in a courting ritual. Oh God! I didn’t really have an erotic attachment to this teenage look-a-like did I? Was it transference? I certainly hoped so.

  Today’s session had been a disaster. I was too tired; I should never have come. ‘I’m going to go now. I do have a job to go to you know.’

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve, James. I’m sure the Chief Superintendent won’t mind you being a bit late. We’re making so much progress today. I can ring her and give you an alibi if it will help?’ She grinned. Her eyes sparkled. It was the first time I had seen her smile. She looked beautiful.

  ‘I’m a Detective Chief Inspector, I don’t need alibis.’ I was so serious. It was clearly her attempt at a joke. I simply wasn’t in the mood for humour today.

  She wrote some more far-fetched stories about me. My reaction deserved a few lines in her hellish notebook I suppose.

  I stood, put my coat and scarf on, and was about to leave when she stabbed me in the back with a harpoon.

  ‘Oh, by the way, James, I’m determined to discover the details of your lost childhood. Avril has agreed to assist me in this endeavour and is obtaining copies of your school records, which will be with me soon.’

  The two of them were colluding in a conspiracy to crack me open like a walnut.

  ‘Have a lovely Christmas with your daughter, James,’ I heard Doctor Bloody Gail call after me as I smashed the door to the stairs open. ‘I’ll see you on Friday at ten o’clock.’

  ***