Stroking the Flame - 6. Secret Santa

Seven-thirty the next evening, making smalltalk in the car on the way to the hospital where Longman is recovering, Ben tells me some of the history behind Saint Luke’s in South Kensington, not a hospital I am familiar with, but one with which the Met has a close association. Originally built in 1885, during the Victorian golden era that saw a period of significant advances in medicine and the founding of a multitude of hospitals around Britain, the site has been repeatedly modernised, retaining the classic old red brick and plaster facade but now with three modern wings, new medical units, with cutting edge technology and equipment. One of those new units specialises exclusively in bullet wounds, a sad statement of our times, but one reason Saint Luke’s has become the hospital of choice for the Met. Another unit, he tells me, deals in neurology and neurosurgery, which is why Longman is in the best possible hands. Somewhat mysteriously, we continue past the entrance to the hospital and the way to the visitor’s carpark, and instead park up in a space on the main road, some one hundred yards away. Fortunately for us, Wednesday night seems to be quiet, and Ben quickly finds a place to park.

“Tell me, why are we parking here and not in the grounds?”

“Because the restaurant we’re going to afterwards is just along the road from here.”

Of course it is. After a brief walk in the chill evening air and weaving through cars in the half empty hospital carpark, Chaudhary meets us inside the over-heated building. Around the hospital reception desk, the members of staff have done their best to cheer the place up with a small, silver Christmas tree on the countertop and a smattering of paper decorations hanging above. Beside a small stool, there is even a bucket hanging from a stand with a label for what I assume to be the hospital’s Christmas charity of choice.

Following Chaudhary’s lead, we step to one side of the reception area, out of earshot of others. Since the incident, Ben told me DSU Callaghan has transferred Chaudhary and put her in charge of investigations, having pulled her off another important case, the details of which he has not shared. To be frank, I am surprised he has been as candid as he has with me about his work. I can only assume he is comfortable with me being here right now because Chaudhary and I are already well acquainted.

“I just spoke to the doctor. Longman’s now breathing independently, but he’s still not completely out of the woods. You missed Pollard. He came earlier, visiting while the parents were here. I think he wanted to placate them, let them know everything that can be done is being done.”

“I still want to see him. Longman,” says Ben. “Even if he can’t respond.”

“That’s why we’re here. Pollard told his team on the door to expect us.”

“What team?”

She looks at me briefly, before smiling and turning to Ben.

“Internal Affairs want him protected.”

Ben thinks this over for a second, before nodding. I am a little slower on the uptake.

“Makes sense.”

And although I agree with Ben about Longman, I wonder why Ben has not been offered protection, why he has simply been grounded. Does Ben know more than he is telling me? While the thought filters through me, I notice Ben and Chaudhary observing me, waiting for me to say something.

“I’m fine here,” I say, realising they are about to leave. “I’ll find a coffee machine or something. Grab a seat and find something to read. Take your time.”

Left to my own devices, I wander the corridor until I find a small cafe open for visitors, and get myself a very passable cup of Earl Grey and a scone. Rushing home from after-school meetings, I’d barely had a chance to change, let alone eat anything. Bringing the tea and cake with me, I sit on one of the rows of plastic seating and flick through a couple of magazines left by the hospital, thanking my lucky stars someone on the staff has had the good grace to include old copies of National Geographic, New Statesman and the Economist, all buried beneath a heavy pile of celebrity gossip magazines.

Every now and again I glance up at the arrival of other visitors, or to observe the hospital staff either tapping information into computers, or frantically running around behind the desk, probably following a call from somewhere in the depths of the building. On one occasion, I notice three police constables entering, conversing with the staff, before heading in the same direction Ben and Chaudhary had taken. After watching them go, I feel the phone in my jacket pocket buzz with a message, and reach in to check the display.

JANINE: How r u

ME: Good. Having dinner out with Ben and Chaudhary.

JANINE: Jo told me. Still gd for xmas shop tmw nite

ME: Of course. I’ll make sure I’m home by 6pm, at the latest.

JANINE: Gr8 pickup 7

ME: I’ll make sure to be ready. See you tomorrow.

JANINE: Culater

After I shake my head, shove my phone away, and hiss out an irritated sigh, I scan the people around me to see if anyone is watching. My sister has doubtless been influenced by her colleagues or her kids, but as someone constantly teaching his students to write full sentences, her shorthand texting is anathema to me. The one time I mentioned this to her—including asking why she ended each text with ‘Culater’ and being told this is a short form of ‘see you later’—she got antsy and shot me down in flames. Citing time issues, she challenged me to run a family household and manage a full time job simultaneously. Saving time writing shortened and often cryptic sentences apparently helped make her life easier.

After twenty minutes, I decide I need air, the antiseptic odours and suffocating heat getting to me. I stand, toss my empty paper cup and napkin into the nearest litter bin and head for the automatic doors. Even as I take my first step outside, the drop in temperature takes the breath out of me. Frost has already started to turn the windscreens of daylong idle cars opaque. I would be surprised if snow is not far behind.

Walking along the pathway, I discover a bench and decide to take a seat. Only as I sit, do I notice the cigarette ends peppered around the floor at my feet. Left by worriers waiting to hear the fate of their loved ones, maybe? I wonder if Longman’s family sat here, re-evaluating their son’s decision to join the police force. Fortunately for me, none of the smokers have braved the night air tonight and I lean back, breathe in the clean air, and think back on the past week.

Tomorrow I need to talk to Janine about the ‘Ben and the baby’ situation. As Senior Information Manager with the Metropolitan Police, she is bound to know Anna. My sister organises a meeting every month for prominent female members on the force. If she does know her, she may be able to give me a steer on whether I need to be concerned. My instinct is to ignore the situation, let matters take their course. If I am going to be honest with myself, the one thing still making me nervous is the casual nature of our relationship, like self-assembly furniture that could be dismantled at a moment’s notice. Maybe I am being over dramatic. Thank goodness my sister provides a buffer for me, helping me to see different perspectives.

Both Ben and I have agreed to spend Christmas Day with her, Mark and the kids, and then we’re going skiing in Switzerland together for the New Year, so maybe I can call that progress. After Ben’s mother passed away, his father preferred not to have a big family gathering this year, usually his late wife’s domain. Instead, his sister’s family will have their father over for Christmas. So Ben will drive up to see him on Thursday, the night of the school play, and then we will both spend Christmas Day being spoilt by Janine and Mark’s culinary prowess, and pestered by Janine’s kids and her dog. Ben will enjoy that. Even though he clearly cherishes our time together, a part of him comes to life when he is squabbling or laughing along with the kids, like an older brother.

A small shiver runs through me, and I pull my quilted coat around me. If am not mistaken, the temperature has just taken a nosedive. To test my theory, I breathe out a long steamy breath into the evening air. Time to head back inside, I decide.

Next to the reception, Santa Claus is now sitting on a small stool beside the charity bucket, done up from head to foot in a pretty authentic outfit. His attention is on a small holdall on the floor, where he is putting in what appear to be charity leaflets. People giving up their free time to collect on behalf of charities has always impressed me, the kind of selfless act I promote to the boys at school. Out of habit, I reach into my jacket and pull out my wallet, dropping a ten pound note into the bucket, before catching his eye and smiling.

When he looks up, and despite the full-faced disguised of beard and gold rimmed glasses—currently in his left hand—something familiar registers, a split second, meeting the dark eyes of the man, who has removed the glasses in order to rub the bridge of his nose. Although I cannot be sure, I think realisation and recognition flash across his face too, because he shoves the glasses back on, with their rippled lenses distorting the eyes beneath. Once in place, he raises a white gloved hand, and nods his thanks before quickly turning away to chat with the staff behind the reception desk.

Embarrassed, I hasten off and head around the corner to the rows of seats, noticing a slight increase in the number of visitors. After a quick scan, I locate a free seat and settle myself. Still pondering the familiar Santa, I spend the next ten minutes searching my memory for recognition. I know those eyes. Not intimately, but I have seen them before, know who the person is. Something like this will annoy me all night long unless I can put a name to the eyes. Maybe I could go back, introduce myself and ask his name. Or maybe he is one of those charity volunteers who are happy to dress up incognito and ask for support, but would rather not show their real selves. Those eyes are very distinctive, though, and I know I have seen them before.

And then my brain’s memory cells kick in. I do know this person. Although I have only met him two or three times in the past, I am almost positive they belong to Ben’s superior.

DCI Newnam.

Who is currently at a conference in the US, according to Ben.

How could that be?

Unfortunately, making the connection has not made even the slightest dent on my curiosity. Why is he here? Is he collecting for a charity connected to the police force? And when did he get back? Or am I actually mistaken, and is he truly away in the US still, and has a doppelgänger? Wisely or not, the curious side of me gets the better and I decide there is only one way to find out.

In order to pass by the hospital reception, I use the premise of heading back to the cafe for another tea. As I round the corner, I notice Santa Claus is no longer there. I enquire about him with the friendly receptionist across the counter, who has her head buried in a register of some kind.

“Where’s Santa? I wanted to find out if the charity he’s supporting can use my help.”

“Frankie? He’s only filling in for a couple of nights, and his shift just finished. He’s gone already. Raymond, our usual Santa, is back tomorrow, if that helps. He knows a lot more about the charity.”

“Okay, that’s fine, thanks. I’ll try to get back tomorrow.”

Instead of going to the cafe, I stride out of the doors and do a quick scan of the carpark. Nothing, no cars starting up or departing, just one entering the grounds. Still curious, I stroll between parked vehicles, to see if I can find a driver dressed as Santa. In private, the person—if it is indeed Newnam—might be more happy to speak to me. As I round the last row, having seen nobody, and with my feet and hands numb with cold, I decide to return to the waiting room.

“Where the hell have you been?” says Ben, waiting by reception, an irritated expression on his face I know only too well.

What do I tell him? That I am just chasing after the boss he believes is currently in America? I know exactly what he will say, if I tell him I have just been snooping around the hospital carpark, hunting down a ghost I believe to be DCI Newnam. I have experienced his reaction to that kind of behaviour a few times before.

“Getting some air. This place is stifling,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “But be prepared, it’s bordering subarctic out there.”

Ben’s frown combined with a quizzical look speaks volumes—he knows something is up—and, of course, he is spot on. Fortunately, I am spared by the timely arrival of Chaudhary who appears from around the corner.

“There you are,” she says, smiling and upbeat. “We were about to send out a search party.”

“All present and correct. What’s the news on Longman, Ben?” I ask, deflection being my middle name.

Fortunately for me, he lets his scrutiny drop.

“Prognosis is positive, barring any complications. He’s in and out of consciousness right now. But the doctor says they’re hoping he’s more stable in a day or two.”

“How long before he can talk?”

“I asked the same thing,” says Chaudhary. “Difficult to determine. They’ll need to do more tests once he’s strong enough, to make sure there’s no lasting damage to the brain.”

“Come on, you two. I’m starving,” says Ben, checking his watch. “Let’s carry on this conversation at the restaurant. I’ve booked somewhere just around the corner. The Athenian. Thought we’d try Greek tonight.”

Sometimes Ben and I enjoy Indian food when we dine out, but the one time we invited Chaudhary—an aficionado of all regional Indian cuisines—she spent the whole evening criticising one dish after another. So wherever we invite her along, Ben always chooses somewhere culinarily neutral.

We stroll in companionable silence to the restaurant, nobody saying much. Chaudhary comments on how cold the air has become reaffirming my opinion about the possibility of snow. Once we are shown to our table, Ben excuses himself to visit the restroom so I address my concern to Chaudhary.

“Have you heard from DCI Newnam?”

“No,” she says, her hard stare searching my eyes, the same kind Ben uses before he begins to interrogate. “Why would I? Callaghan might have. All I know is he’s in Washington attending a global law enforcement convention.”

“I see,” I reply, nodding and picking up the menu.

“Colin?” She knows me too well. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Just my fertile imagination again. Father Christmas at the hospital had the same eyes as your DCI. Just a coincidence, I expect.”

“What Father Christmas?”

“The one that turned up while you two were seeing Longman. And no, that much I did not imagine.”

Chaudhary makes me feel even more ridiculous when she chuckles aloud.

“Oh, Colin. No wonder Ben likes you so much. He’s going to love this.”

“No. Please, Jo. Don’t say anything. He’s got enough on his plate at the moment without having to worry that his partner is having hallucinations.”

“Fine. Spoil my fun,” she says, before tilting her head to one side. “So you’re officially partners now?”

She makes a good point. Have I begun to think of us that way?

“Actually, I don’t know what we are. We’ve not really defined our relationship. And I’m not sure Ben’s in a secure enough place in his career to do so.”

I wonder if he has told Chaudhary about Anna and the baby. Rather than pursue the topic, I return my attention to the menu and am relieved when I see Chaudhary do the same.

“So,” she asks, in all innocence. “How do you feel about Retsina?”

This time, I laugh aloud. Ben and I had been on the Greek island of Krystos when I turned my nose up at the classic Greek wine. Following which I received a lecture about the historical significance of the beverage which I still maintain is an acquired taste.

“I’ll stick with my preference for the French grape, thanks all the same.”