The 13th Black Candle

by Bob Goodwin

  He scanned over the front page, reminding himself of other stories he had read. At the bottom right-hand corner some bold print caught his attention: POLICE APPEAL FOR HELP IN KIDNAP CASE page 4. Simon turned two pages and located the page-four story.

  Police are appealing to the public for any information that may assist their enquiries into the kidnapping of Daniel Goldsmith, aged 23 months. Daniel is believed to have been abducted by his babysitter, known as Robyn Mortimer, over a week ago. The boy’s father, Dr Harold Goldsmith, says no ransom demands have been received. Melissa, the mother, remains under heavy sedation. Police have issued the following descriptions...

  Simon stopped again to collect his thoughts. Daniel and Melissa. Those names. I’ve seen them somewhere before. They were written down. Neat, bold printing. Not a newspaper. Not a magazine. Not a letter, or could it have been? No. Maybe a book?

  ‘Shit, shit, shit! What the hell is going on? Why can’t I remember?’ Even the name Goldsmith had something vaguely familiar about it. He thumped himself on the leg with his fist and gazed into space. Some movement caught his eye. It was Kym. She was in a hurry.

  ‘Simon!’ She hotfooted it into his room.

  ‘Kym, what’s wrong?’

  ‘This is dreadful. You’re in serious danger, Simon. I’m so worried. It’s Eddy.’ She looked back over her shoulder and then sat on the bed next to Stacey.

  ‘Eddy. I knew it.’ Simon nodded. ‘What the hell’s he up to?’

  ‘He’s been tampering with your medication. Those yellow pills.’

  ‘Arsehole! I knew it. I bloody knew it!’

  ‘Listen, there isn’t much time. They’re transferring you to the security hospital this morning. Anything could happen to you there and you might never get out. They could be here at any time.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! They’ve really got it in for me, haven’t they? This is going from bad to worse,’ said Stacey woefully. ‘I’ve underestimated my opposition. I’ve lost my direction, and my mind is not far behind.’

  ‘No, Simon. Don’t say that, it’s not true. Just pay attention, will you? Now, there’s one more thing,’ said Kym, glancing again over her shoulder. ‘I found this in Eddy’s work bag.’ From her pocket, she removed an item partly wrapped in a handkerchief and placed it quickly under the newspaper that lay on the bed between them. Simon felt compelled to follow Kym’s cautious lead, and he too scanned the immediate ward area. A nurse walked briskly past but paid no attention. A few patients were sitting quietly around the foyer, and a cleaner was mopping the floor. All were a reasonable distance from his room and seemed more concerned with their own activities than anything else. He gently raised the newspaper and carefully unfolded the handkerchief to reveal the knife. He ran his fingers lightly over the snake handle and moved his face closer to inspect the weapon.

  ‘Romoli?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just a strange association of ideas,’ said Simon, somewhat surprised by his own remark. He tilted his head to one side and looked back at Kym. ‘For some reason, it reminded me of someone who is not a very nice person.’

  ‘Simon, please pay attention. You must get out of here. The sooner the better. Here, you take these.’ She pulled a silver chain with attached keys from her pocket and dropped them in Simon’s lap. He looked at them. There was something familiar about this key set also. He dismissed it as an aberration. There was too much else to think about.

  ‘Oh, my God, I wish I could think straight.’ He pushed his fingers hard into his forehead and massaged his scalp.

  ‘Please, Simon, I don’t want anything to happen to you. You must listen to me and do exactly as I say. I overheard Eddy on the phone, there is some sort of meeting on Friday night. You need to give me time to find out more, but you can’t stay here. It’s just as you said, a very dangerous place,’ insisted Kym.

  ‘Friday. Ras said Friday. “Friday, it’s you,” he said.’ Stacey gritted his teeth and hit himself once on the forehead with his fist.

  ‘Simon, please. There really isn’t much time.’

  ‘Okay, okay! You’re right. I don’t want to be carted off to some lock-up security joint. I’m listening. I really am.’

  ‘The gold-coloured key opens the main doors. There will be a group meeting in…’ She looked at her watch, ‘…in five minutes. Most of the staff and patients will attend. This will be your chance. I will signal the all clear from the office by wiping my nose with a tissue. Wait for me to enter the conference room. You then walk straight to the door and let yourself out. Don’t hurry, and try to look relaxed.’

  ‘Yes, I used to be able to do that once.’

  ‘You must do it, Simon, and you must take that knife with you.’

  ‘Jesus! Why? Is it going to be that difficult to get out?’

  ‘Simon, I’ve taken a big risk doing this for you. I’ve put my faith in what you’ve told me. I’ve put my job in jeopardy.’ Her chin began to tremble. ‘The thought of that man with this knife scares me half to death.’ A tear fell and she lowered her head.

  ‘Right, Kym, I understand. Try not to worry. I’ll take the knife. I’ll wrap it in my paper rubbish bag. Now, don’t you go taking any more unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon. I’ll be very careful. One final thing. Take this.’ She handed him a slip of folded paper. ‘It’s my address. I live alone. You’ll be safe there. The door key is under the third pot-plant to the left of the steps. Now, is everything clear?’

  ‘I understand the immediate plan, yes, but I must say that everything is far from being clear. What about these keys? How will you explain their disappearance? There’s going to be questions about how I escaped. What will you tell them?’

  ‘Everything is taken care of. Trust me, Simon, please. There’s no time left. I must go. I’ll see you tonight at my house.’

  Simon watched Kym leave. She immediately started organising the patients for the morning meeting, directing some and assisting others to the conference room. Other staff soon joined in, and a procession of individuals ambled, strutted, shuffled, and even goose-stepped past Stacey’s open door. He pulled the sheets from his bed, threw them on the floor, then began to slowly straighten them back out over the mattress.

  ‘Come on, Stacey. Meeting time,’ announced Mike.

  ‘Sure. Won’t be a minute. Just finishing this bed.’

  ‘You’ve got three minutes. And what are you doing with that sheet? They normally go lengthways on the bed.’

  ‘Shit! Just not thinking clearly today.’ Simon swung the sheet the right way. ‘Okay, I’ll be there. You don’t need to supervise my bed making,’ said Simon. Mike shook his head and continued on his way.

  Come on, Stacey, get a grip. Don’t be an arse. You should relish this sort of thing. Come on, get with it, he told himself. He kept on fiddling with the bed linen and nervously glancing up at the central office and the clock. That lazy red second hand was, for the moment, the centre of his life.

  At two minutes past eight, Kym signalled. Simon waited until she disappeared, then picked up the brown paper packet containing the knife and made for the main doors. He had rehearsed this several times in his mind. A casual thirty-metre morning stroll to the unlocked swinging doors. A quiet walk in the country admiring the scenery, what a lovely day. Once past this first barrier he would be out of sight of the nurses’ station. He was doing well. He pushed on the double doors. They didn’t move. They were locked.

  ‘That’s it. I’m stuffed now. My life is over,’ he mumbled. Simon opened his right hand and examined the keys. There were four, all damp with sweat from his palm. The gold one for the main doors, he remembered that much. He tried another but it wouldn’t even fit the slot. The next slid in nicely, it felt good. It didn’t turn.

  ‘This is it, Stacey,’ he told himself. The third key slipped in comfortably.

  ‘Please, God.’ The lock slid back with a loud click that he was sure everyone must have heard. He
dared not look back. A firm shove, and the doors parted. Now out of the foyer, he continued down the corridor between the conference room and the dining room. The two locked doors lay directly ahead. A nice country walk. The birds chirping. So lovely and relaxing. How wonderful it is. He glanced to his right.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ The blinds on one window of the conference room were open; he could see everyone sitting in a large circle. No one seemed to be talking. This in itself was almost normal for these so-called therapeutic community meetings, but half of the group seemed to have their eyes fixed on him. He may as well have walked in through the conference room door, waved a red flag and announced here I am, I’ve got a set of keys and I’m running away. He saw Kym stand. She clapped her hands together and all heads turned like robots to face her.

  Maybe there’s still hope. Keep on walking through the woods. Sunlight not far away. What a calm, relaxing day it is. If it was any calmer my head would explode!

  He unlocked the first door, entered the anteroom, and locked the door behind him. Through the narrow windows of the final door he could see the outside world. There was an ambulance and parking bay just beyond the exit. Just twenty metres further was a full-sized oval which separated the psychiatric section from the main medical area of the hospital. The gold key did its job. The last hurdle had been safely negotiated. Out of the forest of darkness, I’ve done it. Now, home James, and don’t spare the horses.

  As he turned to lock the door, a van pulled up in the ambulance bay. Two burly figures, dressed in well-ironed khaki with thick brown leather belts supporting holstered revolvers, jumped out of the paddy wagon and walked towards him. Simon finished locking the door, straightened up his shoulders and let the keys swing from the silver chain.

  ‘Good morning,’ said one of the men. It was a firm, strong voice, almost a shout.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Simon.

  ‘Simon Stacey?’ The man looked over at the document his partner was holding.

  ‘Ah… yes,’ replied Simon reticently.

  ‘He is in here, isn’t he?’

  ‘Sure. Sure he is.’

  ‘Well, we’ve come to take him to the Security Hospital. Get him out of your hair and put him where he belongs. Can you let us in please?’ Simon looked back at the entrance to Ward 21. He couldn’t possibly go back in — not now. Running was an option, but how far would he get? He suddenly realised he had that package under his arm. A warm sensation travelled from his neck to his ears. What a wonderful thing this is. A poker player with a red face. Red face. Red button. Stacey, you’re a prize dickhead.

  ‘You’ll have to press the red button here and wait,’ said Simon, indicating with his hand to the message written below the black panel. ‘I’m in rather a hurry. Some nutcase playing up at intensive care. Excuse me.’ He hurried away, brushing the men’s arms as he passed between them. They turned and watched him walk through the parking bay and disappear around the corner of the Ward 21 building.

  ‘What a strange bloke.’

  ‘He’s been working here too long by the looks.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I always thought the intensive care ward was across the oval in the main hospital building.’

  ‘Yeah, I think you’re right. Where’s he going then?’

  Chapter 26

  The Great Pentacle

  Dempsey, Hogan, Marshall, Briggs, and Johnson sat quietly. All eyes were on John Cochran, who stood behind the desk at the large whiteboard, armed with marking pen and eraser. It had been five minutes since the morning meeting commenced and no one had yet spoken. Despite their investigative efforts, no major breakthrough had been forthcoming. Sergeant Carter had run a second, but fruitless, check on the list of known past offenders that resembled the body at Stacey’s place. An air of solemnity and disappointment now pervaded the team.

  The whiteboard was a conglomerate of black, blue, and red words, circles, and arrows. The most prominent feature was the name Stacey in large red letters in the centre. Taped on the wall to one side of the board were several sheets of paper. There were lists of names, various reports, computerised case data, and rough, handwritten notes. On the opposite side was the increasing collection of ghastly photographs — old George Hartley being the latest addition. The inspector drew an arrow next to the name George Hartley, then in red wrote: MURDERED. He ran one hand slowly over his head, pushing his fingers through his grey hair and then massaging the back of his neck.

  ‘Okay. Attention you lot!’ announced Cochran. He took one step back to admire his masterpiece before completing a rather ungainly pirouette to face his five charges.

  ‘Well this is a change, I must say,’ he said with some surprise. ‘No idle chatter. No scribbling in notebooks. Not a smile. Not a sound. How depressing indeed.’ Cochran strolled between the chairs like a schoolmaster.

  ‘How sad it is for the future of justice in this country that we are producing crime fighters who give up thinking, discussing, and analysing when the criminal doesn’t cooperate. Perhaps I can lodge a notice in the local rag, let me see.’ He placed one hand to his unshaven chin as he brushed against Cathy Johnson’s shoulder.

  ‘Detective Inspector John Cochran hereby requests that local thieves, murderers, and other nasty individuals temporarily curtail their activities, as it is having a deleterious effect on the mental state of his colleagues. If the persons concerned could forward any evidence, or even give themselves up, this would be greatly appreciated. We would like to advise the public that we will resume normal duties following intensive psychotherapy.’ He continued his walk, looking at the tops of heads, his fists clenched and his cheeks showing the telltale sign of discontent.

  ‘This is not a difficult case. It is too complex to be difficult,’ added Cochran loudly. ‘It is said that the more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home.’ The walkabout ceased, and the big man half-sat on the front desk, supported by his arms. ‘This case, my depressed colleagues, is far from commonplace, and therefore must be ready to crack wide open. Am I right?’ All looked. Johnson and Marshall almost nodded. No one spoke.

  ‘Am I right!?’ he shouted. Both his eyes were clearly visible — a rare sight indeed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ all replied in staggered fashion.

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ squeaked the inspector sarcastically. ‘What are you lot? A bunch of bloody schoolgirls? Get with it, for Christ’s sake!’ The group stirred in their seats. Marshall and Johnson seemed to be studying Cochran’s abdomen. Briggs and Hogan were examining the cracked paintwork on the ceiling while Dempsey flicked nervously through his notebook.

  ‘Now, this preliminary autopsy report came through late last night.’ Cochran held up the typed report. ‘It is quite clear that Hartley was murdered. Sure, we wanted to talk to him, but don’t despair; don’t go slashing your wrists just yet. Hartley can still talk. He’s told us that whoever killed him wanted it to look like suicide, and so it did initially. He did die of suffocation, but the level of tranquillisers in his blood were sufficient to render him unconscious at least an hour before the time of death. An unconscious man cannot place a bag over his head and tie pyjamas around his neck, can he, Johnson?’ Cochran was staring at Briggs, who refused to engage in eye contact. Cathy stalled, expecting Briggs to answer for her.

  ‘Can he, Johnson?’ said Cochran again.

  ‘No, sir. Not unless he did it in his sleep.’

  ‘Johnson! I said unconscious, didn’t I? Not asleep like you seem to be. Fuck!’ The inspector was still fixed on Briggs. ‘Our friend Hartley also told us that his killer has a good knowledge of drugs and access to them. Correct, Briggs?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It would also have to be someone who could get their hands on a Ward 21 seclusion room key.’ Briggs looked up briefly as he spoke, then focused on his fingernails and began picking at them with his thumb. An uneasy silence filled the room once more. John Cochran hadn’t altered his gaze. Johnson turned slowly to look at Marshall. S
he gestured with a quick glance towards Cochran and Briggs and then looked back at him. Marshall shrugged his shoulders in response. The inspector’s eyes slowly began to return to their more usual size and there was an almost indiscernible nodding of his head. Something was on his mind. Something he was so far keeping to himself.

  ‘Hartley died around three in the morning,’ continued Cochran, at last breaking his stare at Briggs. ‘The night duty staff have so far come up clean, apart from their admission that they spent at least half of the shift sleeping. Of course, this makes finding out as much as we can about this club of Hartley’s a priority. How many staff names on that suspect list, Dempsey?’

  ‘Thirty-seven, sir. Twenty-one nursing staff, six doctors, four administrators, three paramedics, two social workers, and one occupational therapist. All these people either have their own key or have easy access to ward keys. In addition of course, there are many persons who have secondary access to all those staff keys. This could add another thirty or so to the list.’

  ‘And let us not eliminate Stacey at this stage. It seems unlikely, considering the state he’s been in, and one would think he might have some difficulty getting a key. But he’s a devious bastard. Johnson, tell us all about the chessboard in Hartley’s room.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It took some checking. I talked to a fortune teller, who also claims to be a white witch. She showed me a book on black and white magic which proved helpful.’ Cathy’s words stirred everyone’s interest, particularly Briggs, who sat well forward on his seat. ‘The symbol roughly depicted on the chessboard is called The Great Pentacle,’ continued the constable. ‘The book says it is used to conjure up infernal demons and spirits. It can be used either for evil purposes or to control certain demons and thereby protect the user. The correct incantation must be used for it to be of any value at all.’