The 13th Black Candle

by Bob Goodwin

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Cathy, not particularly amused, as she remembered the gruesome photographs of the victims. ‘You must have known Alison fairly well; was there anything unusual, apart from marijuana biscuits, of course, that either she or Stacey were involved in?’

  ‘Stacey was a keen card player. With his style, you could be sure he’d upset a few people. Apart from that...’ McPhee paused, looked to the ground, and held his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he thought. ‘Alison was in some sort of club years ago. I don’t know much about it, only that Stacey got her out. Waterman’s the one to talk to. Stacey used to work for him before he became a pain in the arse. He used to talk to Waterman, the two were friends for some obscure reason. Maybe he can tell you a little more.’

  ‘Thanks, Marty. If you think of anything at all that may help, please let us know.’ Cathy handed over her calling card. ‘Just one more thing before I go; how did Our John’s Back go in the last race?’

  ‘Hey, Bob!’ called Marty to his offsider. ‘Where’d Our John finish in the last?’

  ‘He fell just after the start. Didn’t finish at all,’ came the reply.

  ‘That’d be right. Thanks again, Marty,’ said Cathy. She screwed the ticket up and let it fall to the ground.

  * * *

  It was fifteen minutes before Cathy Johnson was served. The fruit salad looked tasty, and rather than join another queue for a pie and peas, she took a risk and purchased an extra one, together with two natural orange juices to complement the healthy snack. After a careful balancing act, Cathy reached her grassy resting place. The horizontal Cochran landmark was unmistakable.

  ‘Our John’s Back, eh,’ she mused quietly, looking at the food in her arms. ‘Definitely requires more training.’ She took another two steps forward.

  ‘Lunch is served, sir,’ she said, raising her voice and hovering above the inspector with her hands full. He opened one eye.

  ‘Now, sit down very carefully, Johnson,’ he said, slowly. ‘Concentrate, and don’t rush.’ Cathy smiled, and executed the task without disaster. ‘I know it’s a long time since I’ve been to the races, but I didn’t think a hot pie with peas would have changed that much. And this,’ said Cochran, holding up the orange juice, ‘must be a chocolate thick shake!’

  ‘I’m sure a man with your astute reasoning ability and obvious strength of character will have both the understanding and sense of determination to accept this meal for what it really is,’ said Cathy firmly. ‘Just in case you have any doubts, this is the beginning of your journey to a longer and healthier existence. In layman’s terms it’s called a weight reduction program.’

  ‘Shit, Johnson, do you have to kick a man when he’s down? And besides, you’re not my bloody mother, you know!’ cursed Cochran loudly. ‘Aren’t you aware that injured people require nourishment to assist recovery?’

  ‘You have sufficient reserves to replace every organ in your body twice, if necessary,’ replied Cathy bravely. Despite the objections, she could sense there was a distinct lack of conviction in Cochran’s voice. It was an opportunity not only to get some of her own back, but to do the fat man some good at the same time.

  ‘Now, while McPhee wasn’t a fountain of information, he did have a couple of interesting things to say.’ Cathy proceeded to reiterate the conversation.

  * * *

  Dan Marshall sat at the desk in the front office of the police station, perusing the shortened list of names. Sergeant Carter stood behind the service counter talking on the phone. The two men had been busy with the computer, telephone, and fax machine, and had condensed the original two hundred and fifty-two down to a short list of twenty-eight possible persons who resembled the unknown murder victim and may have been in the local area.

  ‘So, you saw the man yesterday, Constable. That’s fine. Thank you for your help. Good-bye.’ Carter hung up the receiver. ‘You can cross Orson Ruscliffe off the list. He was sighted at South Adelaide yesterday reporting a stolen wallet.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name before. What’s he been up for?’ asked Marshall lifting his eyes from the list of names.

  ‘Suspected of dealing in child porn. Never charged though.’

  ‘Ah yes. I remember reading about the scumbag a few years back.’ Marshall nodded his head slowly and screwed up his face, grossly emphasising his crow’s feet. ‘Friends in high places as I recall. It’s not what you know it’s who, after all.’

  ‘He wasn’t found guilty, was he?’ announced Carter, stressing the point. ‘Just cross him off the bloody list, will you?’

  ‘Yeah, right-o. Keep your shirt on,’ said Marshall, as he drew a line through number seventeen. ‘You know there’s every chance that this joker isn’t on our files, and it may be too early for him to have been reported as missing. Nevertheless, we need to contact all transport services to see if any of these characters have travelled recently. We should also check them against the firearms registers; maybe we’ll get lucky and find a match with that .38 slug I extracted from Stacey’s pergola.’

  ‘I’d like to bet that when we find the weapon, it’ll have Stacey’s prints all over it,’ said Carter.

  ‘It’s not when we find it, it’s if we find it. We’ve had thirty cops combing the area on and around Stacey’s land. And we’ve searched his car and Devlin’s flat,’ said Marshall sharply. ‘If by chance we find the gun, and if Stacey has used it, you can be sure it will be clean. Why don’t you use your brains for what you do best, Sarge; that’s sitting on your backside shuffling papers. But if you wish to waste a few dollars, I will be more than happy to accommodate your gambling wishes.’

  Marshall and Carter, two experienced and popular members of the force, harboured a mutual dislike for one another. More than anything else it was a clash of personalities. Both men were assertive, but differed significantly in the focus of their work. For Carter, the administration and clerical areas were paramount. He was a stickler for organisation, both in the workplace and at home. Marshall, on the other hand, viewed the paperwork as a necessary evil, and consequently was rather a slob as far as the office was concerned. He much preferred being out and about policing, not clerking.

  ‘I only bet with reputable persons. Thanks for the offer.’ Carter picked up the telephone and began dialling yet another number. A flashing light appeared on the small switchboard. ‘Hey, there’s an incoming call on Cochran’s extension. Can you take it in his room?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Marshall was quickly into the inspector’s office.

  ‘Hello, Marshall speaking.’

  ‘Listen carefully, shithead. While you may be the senior detective on this investigation, when you’re on my turf, I’m the boss, so don’t try and fuck me around with your smart-arse comments!’

  ‘Carter! You prick!’ shouted Marshall as he slammed down the phone. The sergeant had worked many years in the front office, it was his domain, and he was never backward in making anyone else aware of the fact, especially Marshall. As Dan turned to leave the room the telephone began purring quietly once more. He grabbed at it angrily.

  ‘Piss off, you bastard!’ bellowed the detective.

  ‘What? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Marshall? A bit of telephone etiquette would be appreciated.’ The voice was unmistakable. It was John Cochran.

  ‘Shhh, err, sorry, sir. I, err, thought it was someone else.’ He thumped his fist into his thigh.

  ‘And who would have the pleasure of such a friendly greeting?’

  ‘Carter, sir,’ replied Marshall, opting for the truth, as no other name sprang to mind quickly enough. His grip on the phone tightened.

  ‘Carter?’ shouted Cochran. ‘He’s supposed to be there helping you.’

  ‘He is, sir.’

  ‘Is he? Well I’d be pleased if you two would stop playing childish fucking games and get on with the job. I expect to see some useful information when I return.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have you heard
anything from Dempsey or Hogan?’

  ‘They completed another unsuccessful search of the flat, sir.’

  ‘Tell Carter to get one of the local boys to watch the flat. I want those two back at the station,’ said Cochran firmly. ‘Johnson and I have had a talk to McPhee and Waterman. It appears that Stacey’s wife, Alison, was in some sort of sex club when the two first met. This so-called club was founded by a bloke called George Hartley, who Waterman describes as an absolute nutter. Hartley used to stay at the People’s Palace in the city. We will be calling in there on our way back. Meanwhile, you see what you can find out about this Hartley fellow. He’s between sixty-five and seventy years old.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?’ said Marshall sheepishly.

  ‘Yes. See if you can behave like a role model, Senior Detective.’

  Chapter 14

  Playing Chess

  ‘Shake a leg,’ called the nurse. ‘Wake up! Come on. Wake up!’

  Simon Stacey groaned, and rolled from his back onto his side. His brow was furrowed and his eyes formed into thin slits as the nurse switched on the bright ceiling light.

  ‘What time is it?’ he moaned.

  ‘Six thirty. You can have a shower and get ready for breakfast,’ said the lively young lady.

  ‘Six thirty? But it is Sunday morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘And a lovely morning it is, too. Now up you get.’

  ‘I haven’t been up at six thirty on a Sunday morning since I was being breast fed,’ replied Stacey, opening his eyes a little wider. ‘Besides, I don’t want breakfast, even if it is breast milk.’

  ‘That’s not on today’s menu. Are you awake? I’ve got other patients to attend to.’

  ‘Yes, okay, leave me be. I’m awake. Am I your favourite patient, or are you this nice to everyone?’

  ‘All patients get up now except for those in seclusion; that’s left for the day staff. Now there’ll be no need for me to return with a bucket of cold water, will there?’ said the night nurse as she left the room, not waiting for a reply.

  ‘I bet you would too, you cow,’ muttered Simon under his breath. The hospital routine was opposite to his usual pattern of late nights with a long sleep in the following morning. He looked at the wall clock in the foyer and estimated he must have had six hours sleep; not too bad, he thought, considering he hadn’t felt in the least bit tired when he was bedded down at ten. Simon wondered if the two small yellow pills he took an hour before bed might have helped. It was yesterday morning when the encounter with the red-bearded psychiatrist had resulted in the prescribing of the anti-depressant medication. Simon didn’t have any success with his continued insistence that he simply needed a few days of rest without any regular medicine. Doctor Hutchinson nodded patiently and paraphrased Simon’s remarks every time he repeated his request…

  ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. I just need a bit of time to sort myself out.’

  ‘I hear you say that you’ll be okay, Simon, but I feel your stay here will be shortened by taking a course of medication.’

  ‘I don’t want to take any drugs.’

  ‘It seems to me that there is something about taking anti-depressants that worries you. Perhaps we can talk about that.’

  ‘I’m a voluntary patient here, surely I can have some say in my treatment,’ explained Simon calmly, making a deliberate effort to keep his annoyance under check.

  ‘So, as I understand it, you’d like some involvement in your care. Can you tell me more about your ideas?’

  ‘For one thing, no medication. Let’s see how I do just being observed for a few days. What about group therapy or something?’

  ‘I’m interested to hear your suggestions. Group therapy can be organised. I’d like to know more about your objection to medicines.’

  ‘I simply don’t think it’s necessary. I just need rest.’

  ‘You’re telling me that relaxation is all you need, Simon?’

  ‘Exactly, that’s exactly right. A good helping of rest and relaxation and I’ll be back to my usual self in no time.’ Simon felt a glimmer of hope that his message had finally been received. His optimism, however, was short-lived.

  ‘It’s good we both agree on a couple of points, Simon. One, that a short period of recuperation is required, and two, that you’re not your usual self at the moment. The medicine I wish to prescribe will address both of these problems.’

  The conversation went on, with Simon finally relenting and agreeing to a trial of anti-depressants, starting with two tablets on the first night and building up to five after one week. He was discouraged to learn that he would need to be on the medication for at least two weeks before any noticeable effect would be gained. This was definitely not part of his short admission objective. On the positive side, there was a possibility of his transfer to the unlocked psychiatric ward by Wednesday, bed availability permitting. This, thought Simon, was fine, as by then he should have the information he was looking for.

  After the obligatory morning bathroom routine, Simon strolled past the central nurses’ station on his way to breakfast. The dining room was situated at the eastern end of Ward 21, to the left of the corridor through which he had entered two days earlier. Being last in, he had avoided the queue and presented himself at the counter. His meal of porridge, one scoop of scrambled egg and a slice of cold toast were presented on a tray beneath the security grill. Four staff — three men and a woman — stood at strategic locations keeping a close eye on the assortment of socially unusual individuals. With the ward only three-quarters full there were several spare seats. Stacey sat down next to his new friend and formidable chess opponent, Ras.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Spassky. Tell me, what does a chess master eat for breakfast?’

  ‘Well, a master would eat live monkey brains with a generous helping of chips,’ said the old man with a grin. ‘That’s silicon chips, of course. As for the brains, I doubt that these apes on guard duty would cooperate, not that they have much to contribute anyway.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Simon with a smile. ‘You really gave me a thrashing yesterday. What about a rematch? I’ve got a new strategy.’ Ras lowered his head and began eating his scrambled egg, not responding in any way to Simon’s question. ‘What’s wrong, my friend? Have I got you worried?’

  ‘Hey, Stacey!’ It was Mike, another one of the heavies and therapist nurses, standing right behind him. Simon wondered for a moment whether the male staff had been secretly cloned for the job. ‘It’s difficult enough to get the old man to eat without you distracting him. If you want a conversation, go to another table. I don’t know why you persist in talking with someone who usually answers only in monosyllables or psychotic riddles.’

  ‘I prefer to stay at this table. You’d be surprised what Ras has to say when he wants to.’

  ‘His name is George Hartley, and I would appreciate your calling him by his correct title. It’s of no benefit to him or us if you continually reinforce his delusions.’

  ‘Thank you for your advice,’ replied Simon. ‘Can you leave us to our breakfast now?’ The tall, well-built man walked slowly back to his position near the door. The table was in silence and remained that way until the sitting was complete. All patients were required to stay in the dining area until the count of all cutlery items was correct. Anyone too disturbed to remain was escorted to a locked single room until all items had been accounted for.

  ‘Okay, Dougy. Hand over the fork.’ Mike walked over to the short, timid man who always sat at the corner table. Doug had his head down, staring at his lap. He immediately unzipped his track suit top and removed the fork from his shirt pocket and passed it over to the waiting hand. Doug gave a series of rapid, frightened glances at Mike’s feet but never raised his head.

  ‘Count is correct. Everybody out!’ announced Mike.

  As the patients vacated the room, the staff unlocked the door to the kitchen and began helping themselves to the remainder of the scrambled egg.

  * * *
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br />   The spacious courtyard, usually referred to as the ‘greenhouse’, was a popular area for both patients and staff alike. Located on the western side of the building, it overlooked the attractive hospital grounds with a clear view through to Mount Coot-tha in the distance. The many large expanses of unbreakable glass gave the illusion of openness, a pleasant change from the ward interior. A thick, square-shaped metal mesh, partially disguised with creeping vines, provided a secure roofing. Despite the emphasis on security, the courtyard design allowed in enough sunlight and fresh air to make the area reasonably comfortable and relaxing. The fully grassed enclosure included a volleyball or badminton court, several garden settings, complete with all-weather umbrellas, and two fern gardens.

  All the regular or long stay residents — that is, those conditioned to queuing for pills, showers, and meals — habitually gathered at the greenhouse entrance half an hour before scheduled opening time. There they awaited the sound of rattling keys. Dependent upon staffing levels, the courtyard would usually be open from ten till twelve in the morning, and again from two through to four o’clock in the afternoon. Sunday was special, and the greenhouse was available for an extra hour, until five.

  It was during this bonus hour that Simon Stacey lay on the grass, chin cupped in his hands, considering his next move. It was their second game, and once again Ras had by far the superior position.

  ‘Your new strategy, I’m afraid, is worse than your old one. It’s always risky to bring your queen out too early. You should save your most powerful weapon until you can use it to your best advantage.’

  ‘Sounds like a good philosophy, not only over the chessboard,’ said Simon.

  ‘Why do you think I choose when, and to whom I speak?’ explained Ras. ‘As soon as I’m ready to leave, I’ll say the right things, to the right people, at the right time.’

  ‘Why stay in here at all? Surely there must be other places where you can feel safe.’