Solomon's Key

by Tim Ellis

‘Staple them together and put them on my desk, Pea. I’ll look at them later.’

  ‘Sir,’ Suzie Palton called over. I had forgotten she was still here. She had been working quietly at a desk in the corner.

  ‘Yes, Suzie,’ I said in my friendliest voice. She looked surprised that I could be so charming.

  ‘I’ve got the plaintext message from the Irene Stone murder,’ she said.

  Everyone got up and started towards her. This is what we’d been waiting for. She had hooked her laptop up to a mini-projector, which displayed the screen on the wall. It was a lot better than squinting at a small flat screen. We stared at the presentation whilst she explained. She showed us the original symbols first, then the stages of the decipherment, finally revealing the plaintext.

  You cannot serve both God and money.

  We stood there stunned. It was a shame Ali wasn’t here, I thought. She would have liked this.

  KP was the first to break the silence. ‘What do you make of it, Suzie?’

  ‘I carried out an Internet search. Apparently it’s from the Bible. Luke sixteen, verse thirteen. The complete text reads:

  No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both god and money.’

  ‘Is anybody religious?’ I asked.

  In answer the silence was deafening.

  I sighed. ‘We’ll have to get someone in to interpret what it means in context tomorrow. Well done, Suzie. Good job.’

  I was sure I saw KP smile out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Now that I know the rules he’s using to encrypt his messages, I should be able to crack the other two tomorrow.’

  What, no beauty sleep? No shopping? No Jacuzzi?

  ‘Excellent. Let’s call it a day people. KP, we’ve got the press briefing.’ She followed me out.

  It was five fifty. We walked down to the second floor briefing room.

  ***

  The chairs were all taken. I hadn’t the faintest idea why wolves needed chairs.

  I sat. KP sat next to me. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we now have three female victims and they all appear to have been killed by the same person. We have a number of leads that we are following up, but as yet, no suspects.’

  A middle-aged man with untidy black hair stood up. ‘Steve Jones from the Telegraph,’ he said. ‘We’re all aware of two victims. Can you provide details of the third one?’

  ‘Her name was Irene Stone. She was killed in Finchley in 2002.’ That set the wolves gnashing and jabbering.

  A thin woman with a large red nose shouted out, ‘Jackie Andrews, Sunday Globe. Do you have an explanation for the six-year gap between the first and second murders?’

  ‘Not as yet, but as I said, we are pursuing a number of leads.’

  The boxer stood up. ‘Cathy Cox, Manchester Evening News. Could you give us more information on the murders?’

  ‘No I’m sorry Miss Cox, I am unable to do that. I’m sure you understand the reasons for this.’

  ‘Emma Potter, London Herald.’ Cathy Cox’s partner in crime, I thought. ‘What are the reasons, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘What we don’t want is a copycat killer muddying the waters, Miss Potter.’

  ‘Jack Tindall from the Daily Star,’ a ginger-haired youth with a mass of freckles said, ‘Is there any truth in what Sally Renshall said about the removal of body parts?’

  Time to bring it to an end, I thought. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you know I can’t divulge details relating to the victims. Thank you for coming. Good night.’ I stood and left the room. KP brought up the rear.

  I went back to my office to deal with any urgent paperwork. I was just getting started on reducing the pile in my in-tray when KP came in.

  ‘Do you need me for anything else, Sir?’

  ‘Did I see you smile before in the incident room?’

  I saw the twinkle in her eyes. She didn’t even ask when, she knew what I was talking about. ‘As if I would,’ she said and smiled.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘Goodnight, Sir.’

  I started on the in-tray again.

  Avril, coat and bag over her arm, popped her head round the door.

  ‘Have a good weekend, James?’

  ‘No such luck, Chief. I’ve authorised the team to work the weekend.’ I informed her about the Darwin link, and the need to search the case records and personnel files.’

  ‘Yes, I can see the need for it,’ she said. ‘I’ll support your decision. Give me a call if you need me over the weekend.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I also told her about the plain text message.

  ‘Haven’t got much time for religion, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I hope you thanked Miss Palton, James?’

  ‘As instructed, I was as nice as grandma’s apple pie.’

  ‘Good. You should take her out for a meal. To say thank you properly.’

  She had pulled the door closed and was half way down the corridor before I could give her the answer that would probably have led to disciplinary proceedings. I smiled. Sometimes, she was more like a mother than a boss.

  I gave up. It was seven-thirty. Another late night, and another day lost in Lexi’s life. I packed my brief case, put my coat on and picked up the in-tray. I was too exhausted now. I’d be up at five in the morning, I’d do it then.

  As I walked down the corridor towards the stairs, I wondered whom to contact about the biblical message.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday 21st December

  Me again. The distorted voice said.

  It was five forty-five. I was halfway through my in-tray. The number displayed on my mobile had been Sally Renshall’s. It was him.

  ‘What do you want, you sick bastard?’

  That’s no way to speak to the person who’s going to make you famous, Harte.

  ‘Make yourself famous, more like?’

  I’m already famous. Now it’s your turn.

  ‘I don’t want to be famous.’

  Everybody wants to be famous.

  ‘Who are you?’

  I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. What I can tell you is that another message awaits you at ten Shaftsbury Mews in Clapham. Good luck, Harte.

  The phone went dead.

  I rang the communications centre.

  ‘Did you get it?’ I said to PC Diarra who answered my call.

  Yes, Sir.

  ‘Location?’

  Shaftsbury Mews, Clapham, Sir.

  ‘Can you track him?’

  No, Sir. The phone has been deactivated.

  ‘Contact Clapham, have them send someone to secure the scene until forensics get there. Then ring the duty sergeant at Hammersmith, tell them to contact forensics and Dr Holmes. Send a copy of the tape to forensics.’

  Yes, Sir.

  I rang KP.

  ‘Ten Shaftsbury Mews in Clapham,’ I said. ‘There’s another one. See you there in about an hour.’

  OK, Sir.

  I dialled Ali’s number.

  ‘There’s been another one, Ali. KP and I are going over there. Did you get Darwin’s files?’

  We had to make two trips, Sir. The personnel files were no problem. They were in two filing cabinets. The old case files though were contained in a secure storage unit in…

  ‘Good,’ I cut her off. Life was too short. ‘Get the others working on the files as soon as they get there. We’ll be in as soon as.’

  Yes, Sir. What about Mr Darwin, he’s due in at ten?

  ‘Have him wait until I get there.’

  OK, Sir.

  ‘Also, ring King’s College, see if they can loan us someone with an understanding of the Bible.’

  Right, Sir.

  I got up to go for a shower just as Lexi waddled in. I sat down again. I could spare my little princess five minutes.

  ***

  I rustled into one of the four bedrooms in the detached house in Shaftsbury Mews.


  ‘Another one, James,’ Terri said. Maybe I was being over-sensitive, but I thought I detected an accusatory tone to her voice, as if the murders were now my fault. I decided it must be my imagination and merely shrugged.

  It was seven-ten. KP had already arrived.

  The black-haired victim lay upside down on the bed. A thin, pretty girl with a folded piece of paper attached to her top lip by a safety pin.

  ‘She was sexually abused,’ Terri continued. ‘Stomach removed this time. I would say she died of shock.’

  ‘Not much blood,’ I observed.

  ‘It has pooled inside her abdominal cavity.’ She moved towards me. ‘I took a look at the PM report of Irene Stone. It was thorough. No need to exhume the body.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  She turned back to her examination of the corpse. I guessed that was all I was going to get from Terri today.

  KP came in, notebook in hand. ‘It’s a student house, Sir. There are four of them living here, two males and two females in the four bedrooms. The rest of the rooms are communal.’

  It was a large bedroom. The walls had been painted yellow. The carpet was a dark green deep-pile. It was hard to imagine a student lived in the room. It was spotless. Everything appeared to be in its place.

  Terri flashed us a sideways glance. ‘Can you take it outside,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to concentrate here?’

  As we shuffled towards the open door like naughty schoolchildren, Terri called out, ‘I’ll be doing the PM at ten this morning.’

  I turned back and nodded. Patrick Darwin would just have to wait.

  ‘You’ve interviewed the other three students?’ I asked KP once we were on the landing. White-suited forensics staff moved to and fro like resident ghosts. I was sure they were giving me murderous stares as they shambled past us. One of them stopped and stared at me whilst he passed KP something in a plastic bag.

  ‘It’s the message,’ she said, holding it up for me.

  ‘Why can’t the murdering bastard give us the bloody message in plain text, instead of making us jump through hoops?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be half as much fun.’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘For him, not for us.’

  ‘Oh! Yeah.’

  ‘One of the males, a Jason Mundy, didn’t come home last night, but I’ve interviewed the other two.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘All three of them went to a party at the College. The two that came back, got in about two-thirty this morning. Crashed out, saw and heard nothing.’

  ‘Why didn’t… What’s the girl’s name?’

  ‘India Soames, Sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t she go with them?’

  ‘She wanted to finish an assignment before visiting her parents over the weekend. She was due to leave this morning.’

  ‘The killer rang me from here at five forty-five this morning,’ I told her. ‘He must have been here all night.’

  ‘How did he know she would be here and the other three would be out?’ KP wondered aloud.

  ‘Good point. It suggests that he had intimate knowledge of what they were all doing. We need to question them all again when they’re sober to see if we can find out who knew their plans. Arrange for all of them to come to the station tomorrow morning at eleven. What about the victim’s parents?’

  ‘I’ve sent someone to inform them and remain until we get there. We need to find out whether there is a Darwin connection.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing left to do here, have we?’

  ‘No, Sir. Uniform can bring in Jason Mundy for questioning when he staggers back.’

  ‘Then we may as well go,’ I said. ‘We’ll use my car.’

  As we walked through the snow and ice to the car, she said, ‘There was another newspaper by the bed, the London Daily.’

  Now that KP had taken off the white suit, I noticed she had her hair held up by a large brown clip. In the eight months I had known her, it was the first time I’d seen her wear her hair differently. She looked really good, and emphasised her elegant neck and small diamond-studded ears.

  ‘Another piece of the puzzle we can’t solve,’ I said.

  ***

  Mr and Mrs Owen Soames lived in Holland Park, Notting Hill. We arrived at eight-fifty. It was a quiet road. The houses were set back and hidden behind tall hedges. I parked on the road and we walked down the drive of number ninety-seven. A thin gangly-looking PC from Clapham watched a grey squirrel snake up a thick pine tree in the centre of the garden. A Mercedes saloon and a Mazda MX5 were parked on the driveway. Both were new.

  ‘Is someone inside with them?’ I asked, flashing my warrant card.

  Not knowing what to do with his arms, he tried unsuccessfully to stand to attention. ‘Yes, Sir, Mary… PC Willott is with them.’

  ‘Good. Once we’ve finished inside, you can knock off.’

  A smile showed yellow teeth. He’d probably been on all night. ‘Thanks, Sir,’ he said, as if I’d given him a week off.

  KP knocked.

  PC Willott answered the door and stood to one side to let us in.

  ‘How are they?’ KP asked.

  ‘Not good, Maam.’

  The corner of one side of my mouth moved upwards slightly. I knew what was coming.

  ‘I’m a Detective Sergeant, not a Maam.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ the short PC Willott said as if she didn’t care one way or the other. She pointed to one of the seven doors leading from the large reception area. ‘They’re in the living room.’

  The smell of coffee and toast reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat yet, and it would be inappropriate to ask for anything here.

  KP knocked and opened the door. I let her take the lead, she was much better at the touchy-feely stuff than I was.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Soames,’ she said in her silky voice. ‘We’re sorry to barge in on you. I’m DS Preston, and this,’ she cast her arm towards me, ‘is DCI Harte.’

  A tall grey-haired man came towards us with his hand outstretched. He wore a blue shirt with white collar and cuffs. The gold clip in his tie matched his cuff links.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ he said as he shook both our hands. ‘All the woman constable said was that my lovely India had been murdered last night. How? Why? We don’t understand. Is it connected to Gillian Wilkinson’s death?’

  KP and I looked at each other.

  A woman, a lot younger than Mr Soames, sat on a cream sofa in a dressing gown. Behind her a large bay window looked out onto a landscaped garden with a covered swimming pool. She wasn’t crying, but she looked pale. Her hands rested in her lap, twisting the rings on her fingers round and round.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ I said. ‘Yes, we think there is a connection between your daughter’s death and that of Miss Wilkinson. I know this is not the best of times, but could you answer a few questions?’

  He sat down next to his wife and took one of her hands in his, resting it on his thigh. ‘Of course, we’ll do anything to help you catch whoever did this.’

  ‘You mentioned Gillian Wilkinson. Do you work at Darwins?’

  ‘Yes. I was interviewed by one of your men on… Wednesday, wasn’t it? Terrible what happened to Gillian… and now my own daughter.’ His eyes looked accusingly at me. ‘What’s happening? Why haven’t you caught him yet? What do we do now?’

  ‘Believe me Mr Soames,’ I said, ‘we are doing everything we possibly can to find your daughter’s killer.’

  ‘Clearly, it’s not enough.’

  ‘How long have you worked at Darwins, Mr Soames?’

  ‘Just over a year,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Soames,’ KP said, ‘Are you India’s mother?’

  ‘No,’ Mr Soames answered. ‘My first wife died of cancer seven years ago. Rosie and I have been married three years this weekend. India was coming home. We were going to celebrate.’ He squeezed Rosie’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mr Soames,
’ I said, but could you come to Hammersmith Hospital at ten tomorrow morning. We will need a formal identification. Someone will be there to meet you.’

  His shoulders slumped. It was as if it had just registered that his daughter was dead. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. Tears escaped his eyes. He pulled a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, opened it fully and buried his face in it.

  We made our way out.

  ***

  Despite the snow and ice, we arrived at the hospital at nine-twenty. It was like driving in the Siberian wastelands.

  I switched the engine off. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ I asked KP.

  ‘No.’ She didn’t look like she was suffering from malnutrition. Her blue eyes were bright and her skin was fresh.

  ‘We’ve got time,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to the cafeteria.’

  We wandered through the labyrinthine corridors, stopping to ask directions twice from blue-uniformed nurses.

  The catering staff were just finishing breakfast as we got there. I flashed my warrant card and detained two coffees, a stack of toast and an array of marmalade and jam sachets.

  Most of the tables were empty and littered with trays, dirty plates and mugs of cold tea or coffee. In a corner, a young couple sat close to each other. The woman was crying. The man had his arm around her shoulders and looked lost. I wandered to the opposite side of the room, behind a pillar, so that we didn’t have to look at them. I’d had enough grief for one morning.

  ‘I don’t think these are muti killings,’ I said. ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  She smeared a hardly noticeable layer of butter on a piece of toast, and then cut it in half. ‘Such as the messages and the sexual abuse you mean?’

  ‘Yes. None of it makes much sense at the moment, but I don’t think the murders are anything to do with muti.’

  ‘Could be sacrificial?’

  ‘Could be, but I don’t know enough about human sacrifices to hazard a guess.’