Solomon's Key

by Tim Ellis

  What did she mean: “Without my co-operation?” That sounded unethical. I could just imagine her injecting me with sodium pentothal – sucking the truth out of me against my will, doing illegal experiments. I could report her to the Ethics Committee, she’d be struck off, and my records would be expunged. I’d be free.

  ‘When you were holding Aunt Miriam’s hand at your parent’s funeral, can you recall how you felt?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I said. I did. I remember feeling angry that they’d left me; that I had to move and leave my friends, although I couldn’t visualize my parents, the house we lived in, or any particular friends. I didn’t understand at the time that they were dead and were never coming back.

  ‘What about your time at primary school? Were you a popular boy? Did you have lots of friends?’

  I closed my eyes so that she couldn’t see beneath my façade. I hated primary school, probably because I was the new boy. I recalled fighting a lot, but I couldn’t remember whether I was defending myself, or I instigated the fights. ‘As far as I recall, primary school was boring and I was as popular as the next boy.’

  She stared at me over her ridiculous glasses and smiled with her mouth, but said nothing. The silent treatment, make the patient feel uncomfortable, force them to speak. Huh, as if that was going to work on me. I always out-silenced everybody at university. Through the window, I could see large snowflakes falling outside. I’d read somewhere that each snowflake was unique. It would be difficult driving to Broadmoor in this weather. Another obstacle to overcome, I thought. I looked at my watch – ten-forty – another ten minutes to last. I glanced in her direction, but she was busy writing her next PhD thesis in that gargantuan notebook. It had a metal ring binder and was folded over, but the cover had vertical green and yellow stripes….

  ‘I was bullied…’ I blurted out. What was wrong with me? I had only lasted two minutes.

  ‘Because you were the new kid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you blamed your parents.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘What do you say, James?’

  She wasn’t letting me get away with anything. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good, James. I feel we have made a breakthrough, but there’s still a lot of work to do. I’m sure that you are well aware your anger does not stem from your parent’s death. There is something more profound that either you’re refusing to tell me, or you have repressed and genuinely have no memory of. You have serious issues, James. Issues that we need to get to the bottom of.’

  ‘I was all right until I came to you.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, James. You’ve been just about functioning. Whatever the issues are, you need to confront them.’

  I stood up. My session had come to an end. ‘I have a murderer to catch,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, James. Try to be on time.’

  ‘I can’t make ten o’clock; I have a funeral to attend.’

  ‘It’s crucial you don’t miss a session during these early stages. I’ll re-arrange my other patients, James. Be here at eleven.’

  I didn’t answer. I strode along the corridor and decided to take the stairs. Although I had used the lift up to the fourth floor, I felt the urge to pound down the stairs two at a time, to burn off some excess energy, to let my anger dissipate. Bloody woman, I thought. She kept chipping away at my armour-plated exterior. Soon, she would be up to her purple and yellow wellies in my unconscious, wallowing in my repressed childhood memories.

  ***

  After a tortuous journey through the blizzards on the M4, the slow-moving traffic jam on the anti-clockwise side of the M25, and the emptiness of the M3, we arrived at Crowthorne in Berkshire and skidded our way along B roads to Broadmoor mental hospital. What should have taken an hour and a quarter took us three hours. It was now one forty-five, we’d had no lunch, and there was no time to get any.

  I drove into the imposing Victorian archway up to a wrought-iron gate.

  ‘Name?’ A squat uniformed security guard with a paunch asked, holding a pen over a blue plastic clipboard.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Harte,’ I said showing my warrant card. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Preston.’

  KP thrust her warrant card across my chest towards the open window.

  The guard didn’t have to bend down very far to inspect our identity cards. ‘Ah yes, to see the Chief Psychiatrist, Doctor Pagozelski?’

  I shrugged. ‘Someone else arranged the appointment.’

  ‘Please drive through the gate, turn left, and park your car. Hand your keys into the security room, you will be handed visitor badges which you should wear at all times. We don’t want you being mistaken for patients, do we?’ His lip curled into a grimace. ‘One of the security staff will escort you to Doctor Pagozelski.’

  The guard signalled to a camera high up on the opposite wall, and the gates swung open. I drove slowly forward through the arched tunnel and open gates, and was mildly surprised by the large expanse of snow-covered countryside contained within the high walls of the hospital. I wouldn’t have minded a two-week break here myself – in the summer of course.

  I knew that security at the hospital was linked to a network of World War Two sirens that warned the local inhabitants a dangerous patient had escaped. The warning system had been set up in 1953 after an escaped inmate murdered a young girl in Crowthorne.

  Thankfully, the snow shovels had been employed and gravel liberally scattered on the path leading towards a large oblong three-storey building some distance away that the guard headed towards. We didn’t engage in conversation, preferring to concentrate on staying upright in the treacherous conditions.

  We entered the building through a heavy oak door. An old man in a checked shirt with grey wiry hair scooped back in a ponytail, droopy eyes, and a heavily lined face came towards us.

  ‘Chief Inspector Harte,’ he said offering his hand with a smile. ‘Doctor Julian Pagozelski, third generation Polish, Chief Psychiatrist. A forensic psychologist and an accredited profiler I understand?’

  I opened my mouth to answer and to introduce KP, but he had already turned and started to move off. ‘Please follow me,’ he said over his shoulder. He pressed the five, nine, three, and two buttons on a keypad, and led us through a door with a small eye-level window. Maybe he thought because we were the police he didn’t need to hide the code. Without bothering to hold the door open he bounded down a dimly lit corridor past two doors on the left before he turned into a door to the right, which appeared to be his office. It was a large room with a high curved ceiling, which was separated from the walls by an ornate cornice from which paintings of landscapes hung by wires. A chipboard desk stood facing the door, and a maroon threadbare rug barely covered the dark parquet floor. The walls had been painted a soothing lilac. He directed us to two easy chairs around a coffee table. I took my coat and scarf off and hung it on a hat and coat stand behind the door before sitting down. KP kept her coat on. The heating appeared to be working, but the hospital must have been operating on a very tight budget because it hardly took the chill from the air.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Preston,’ I said as we made ourselves comfortable.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ he said. ‘Now, I believe you want to talk about Daniel Connell?’

  He barely acknowledged KP, and didn’t shake her hand. I wondered what that was about. ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘He came to us in 1994 following a conviction for grievous bodily harm. Apparently, he stabbed a man in the face, causing terrible injuries with little provocation, and showed no remorse over his actions. I wasn’t here at the time. I came in 2002, so I can only go off what I’ve read in his notes.’

  It occurred to me then that any records, which were held at Woodgrange, might have been transferred here. ‘Do you have his notes from Woodgrange?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid children’s notes are not transferred to adult facilities, but when he was admitted here, we contac
ted Woodgrange and obtained a comprehensive summary of his psychopathy, diagnoses and treatment.’

  ‘So you’re aware that Daniel was taken from his mother in 1978 at the age of three, and she was admitted to Hanwell asylum?’

  ‘Yes, we are aware of the family history. Considerable research has been carried out on the psychopathic personality, and a strong genetic link has been found.’

  I was aware of Hervery Cleckley’s 1941 groundbreaking book on the psychopath, and more recent works by a number of eminent people in the field. They were, after all, relevant to my job. ‘What can you tell me about Daniel Connell?’

  ‘I found no evidence of any psychopathic behaviour during his time here. The few staff who were here at the time say that he was a model patient, and became the resident expert in the use of computers, helping out other patients and some staff. Why are you interested in him, if I may ask?’

  I saw no reason not to tell him. ‘We thought he might be responsible for the deaths of a number of women in London…’

  ‘Ah yes, the killings in Hammersmith.’

  ‘…but from your description of him, it sounds as though we’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Now don’t be so hasty, Chief Inspector. Psychiatrists are also detectives, but we investigate the mind. When I read Mr Connell's notes, I became very interested. As I said, he had a long history of psychopathic behaviour, which began at the early age of four years-old, yet whilst he was here there was no evidence of any such behaviours.’

  A leopard doesn’t change his spots, I thought.

  ‘Even though he was on medication, the absence of psychopathic behaviours is extremely suspicious.’

  ‘You think it was all an act?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you know yourself, Chief Inspector, that the psychopath can be charming and manipulative, and takes pride in concealing their true personality from trained eyes.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘From what I can gather, he ingratiated himself with the staff to achieve his release. He also conned them into believing he could be a trusted patient, which meant that he had a certain amount of free access. And talking to one member of staff who knew him, the doctor at the time permitted him to have a computer in his room.’

  ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Very much so. Home Office guidelines strictly advise against it.’

  ‘A standalone computer would be harmless though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Now here’s the strange thing. I don’t think it was a standalone. There is nothing in his notes about permitting him access to a computer, but the staff who knew him say that it was a standalone. But some time ago, a telephone connection was found behind a small hidden panel in the room he occupied. At the time, no one gave Daniel Connell a second thought, but as soon as I received your call the penny dropped, and I began a little investigation. Somehow, he had managed to access the main telephone junction box and run a concealed line to his room. I contacted the telephone company about the costs over that period and there was a dramatic increase, which disappeared when he was released.’

  ‘That means he was able to obtain information he would not normally have had access to.’

  ‘I suppose he must have done, Chief Inspector. This is a severe embarrassment to the hospital. I had to warn the board that there might be some fallout once you became aware of what had happened.’

  I wasn’t interested in fallout. ‘What about the computer he used. I know it was eight years ago, but what happened to it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ He got up, went to his desk and rang a number.

  I looked at KP. ‘I’m beginning to feel optimistic that Daniel Connell might be our killer. He certainly fits the profile.’

  ‘It looks as though he was busy collecting the information he needed to exact his revenge on Darwin’s prior to his release from here.’

  ‘That would be my guess. So, apart from a short period between 1993 and 1994 on the outside, during which time he obtained his Social Service records and half-killed a man, he has been incarcerated in mental institutions from the age of four until he was released in 2000. If it is Connell, we still don’t know why he waited two years to kill Sarah Stone, and we also have no explanation for the six-year gap between 2002 and Gillian Wilkinson’s murder.’

  Julian put the phone down, leaned on his desk with balled fists and said, ‘Amazing. We still have it in a storeroom in the basement. We never seem to discard anything that might be useful in the future. I’ve got a nurse, who remembers what it looked like, and a porter looking for it. They’ll bring it up when they find it.’

  ‘We should have brought Paul with us,’ I said to KP. ‘He would have been able to interrogate it, and to have asked more pertinent questions about the Internet.’ I turned to Doctor Pagozelski, ‘Would you mind if we took it with us?’

  He smiled. I noticed his teeth were yellow and stained. He was obviously a smoker. ‘Of course you can, we have no use for it.’

  ‘Thank you. You don’t have a photograph of Connell, do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We normally photograph all our patients and keep it in the notes. It helps to see who we’re talking about when we have a case conference. So, why haven’t we got one of Daniel Connell you’re asking yourself? I don’t know. Normally, the photograph is stapled to the inside cover. If it had been removed there would have been a staple, or at least the evidence of a staple. There was no photograph in the file. I can only conclude that he never had one taken, which is unusual.’

  ‘Do you record therapy sessions with your patients?’ KP asked.

  I think he’d forgotten she was in the room, or that she had anything intelligent to offer. His behaviour since our arrival suggested that he was a paid-up misogynist.

  He snapped his fingers. ‘Yes we do,’ he said. ‘Of course, now it is all done with digital recorders and transferred directly onto computer, so it’s much easier.’ He got up again and made another phone call. Before he sat down, he moved a trolley with a television and a video recorder on, towards us. ‘We keep all the old videotapes in a secure fireproof store. I’ve asked one of the technicians to bring a couple of Daniel Connell’s tapes here. I’ve not seen them myself, but I know we still have them. During therapy, the camera is always located behind the doctor and records the patient’s facial expressions and behaviour. You will be able to see his face clearly.’

  Everything arrived at once. Two men, one in a dirty white jacket and trousers from scavenging in the basement I assumed, and the other in a brown coat, manhandled the old computer, monitor and trailing wires into the room.

  Another man in a white coat brought in two VHS tapes and passed them to Doctor Pagozelski.

  ‘Could I ask for the computer to be put in the boot of my car,’ I said.

  I saw the porter in the brown coat roll his eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Alfred,’ Julian said. ‘Can you take it over to the security office and have it put in the Chief Inspector’s car.’

  ‘Yeah, OK Doc,’ Alfred said.

  ‘Sorry for mentioning it,’ I said, ‘but I’d like it to get there in one piece.’

  Alfred’s forehead creased.

  ‘It’s like a skating rink out there. If you slip, the computer will go flying, and there won’t be much left of it to interrogate.’

  ‘Yeah, I see what you mean, Sir,’ Albert said and smiled. ‘Don’t you go worrying, I’ll find a trolley to get it over there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘My car is the silver Mercedes SLK.’

  Albert wrinkled up his nose. ‘Very nice, Sir.’

  ‘Right,’ Julian said after everyone had gone, ‘let’s see what’s on these tapes.’ He switched the television on, slotted one of the tapes in the video recorder, and pressed play.

  We waited expectantly, but no picture materialised.

  Julian turned a few knobs, and then pressed fast-forward – still black and white static. Ejecting the tape, he put the second one in, which
produced the same picture. He got up and made a phone call.

  ‘Sorry about this Chief Inspector, it must be me. I’ve asked the technician to come and take a look.’

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, so do I,’ he replied.

  The same technician, who had brought the tapes, knocked and came into the room.

  ‘Rod, I can’t seem to get anything from either of the tapes.’

  Rod spent five minutes trying to obtain a picture then said, ‘I think they’ve been wiped, Doc.’

  ‘How? I don’t understand. What happened?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. The Connell tapes were before my time. Fred, the old technician, died of a heart attack three years ago, so I guess we’ll never know.’

  ‘What about all the other tapes?’

  ‘I’ll go to the storeroom and see if I can find one that works. It’ll take me about half an hour to go through them all, I’ll be back when I’m done.’

  ‘Thanks, Rod.’

  ‘Mr Connell seems to have gone to great pains in order not to be recognised,’ Julian said. ‘I’ll be surprised if Rod comes back with anything.’

  ‘Are there staff still here who remember what he looked like?’

  Julian squinted and stroked his ponytail. ‘Peter, the nurse who helped Alfred with the computer is one, and there might be others.’

  ‘I’m thinking of asking a forensic artist to come here and construct Daniel Connell’s face. Would you permit that?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call Peter and ask him to come back.’ He went to the telephone.

  ‘We’ll see if the local police have a forensic artist. If we can get one over here, they could fax the result through to us.’ I turned to KP. ‘Contact the local force and ask them if they can send a forensic artist here this afternoon. Tell them it has top priority, and that I’ll pay.’