The Ghost of Hamilton Coe

For years, Billy Ure and I celebrated the successful conclusion of a case by going to Jurassic Burgers, a now defunct Stirling restaurant with a prehistoric theme, where we would open and conclude proceedings with a cry of " Friendship! Integrity! Valour! " After the Karen Gardner case, recounted in detail by Nina Kelly, I altered the last of these to " Justice " in order to spare Billy, who hadn't covered himself in glory in the course of that particular investigation, the embarrassment of extolling a virtue he clearly didn't possess. Billy's role in my investigations gradually diminished: stricken by several breakdowns, he spent weeks at a time in a series of teenage psychiatric gulags. By the conclusion of my investigative career, he was effectively housebound and I commemorated the resolution of a case with my sister and my niece. I also reverted to the original slogan, though, I have to say that neither Christine nor Muriel ever declaimed it with much gusto.

Had I realised that the supper marking the successful conclusion of the Andrew Forrest investigation, was to be the last of these celebrations, I might have done more to savour the occasion. How easy it is to take things for granted! We wander blindly through life, committed not only to the same routines, but the same thoughts. How many of us spend hours brooding over the same scenarios, while remaining oblivious to our simple joys? We revist events and reflect on what we should have done and said while failing to give our full attention to what we're doing now . Retrospection is as pernicious as any other addiction. What we commonly refer to as nostalgia is just an affectionate word for a compound of senility, surrender and regret. We stare into the mirror wailing, "Whatever happened my youth!" and all the while, the shadows gather around us.

The Forrest celebration was, at the outset, a pleasant enough evening, albeit one tinged by its association with shattered lives. I remember attempting to lighten the mood by explaining to Muriel how, if necessary, I could simulate Houdini's Chinese Water Torture stunt by escaping from Marcocilli's ornamental fish tank. (I've always felt an affinity to Houdini: according to various theories, he was killed by a blow to abdomen, poison or black magic - all methods, co-incidentally, used in attempting to despatch Hamilton Coe.) This conversation was overheard by members of the party at the next table who, with escalating belligerence, encouraged me to put my theory into practise. They were drunk, of course. While they weren't deliberately offensive, their intemperate hilarity in summoning inappropriate images of me chained and confined within the tank soured the evening, as did the repeated offer of financial incentives to make good my boast: grubbily crumpled pound notes pelted in my direction. My niece, who was twelve at the time, had always seen me in a heroic light which others might consider incongruous with reality: Muriel is now sixteen years old, prone to moodiness and burdened by the occasional presence of a father who is fat-headed and vain. Nobody enjoys seeing his or her hero debunked and, while I'm accustomed to derision, she was obviously distressed by my treatment at the hands of our fellow diners. I'm not sure that our relationship has ever fully recovered.

Marcocilli's superb coffee is normally my favourite part of the meal. On this occasion, with consideration to Muriel, I chose to forego the pleasure. While I was waiting for the bill, however, one of my tormentors turned sideways and sneezed, propelling a viral spray into the side of my face. While I don't dispute that this was unintentional, the consequence was a virus that incapacitated me for weeks and depleted my psychic abilities. To splutter over someone is equivalent to hawking phlegm into his soup or punching him in the face. Young people, who claim expertise on any conceivable topic, now fail to recognise the simple courtesy of despatching their germs into a handkerchief. This negligence will at some stage, inevitably, result in a global pandemic. That, however, is by the by. Suffice to say, the incident precipitated the first protracted period of illness I'd suffered since childhood. By the time we returned to the house, I was already unsteady on my feet while my brain simmered like a poisonous yolk.

Weeks later, the Bucharest police department invited me to assist in the investigation of Cosmin Balescu's murder, a crime that exhibited signs of magic ritual, not uncommon in that part of the world. I've worked with police in Central and Eastern Europe on various occasions. Detectives in poorer countries are more inclined to respect the expertise of outsiders. Our own policemen have an unrealistic confidence in their own capabilities and resent what they perceive to be interference. At the time, I was still convalescing, but, having been entrusted with the resolution of a case which had thrown Transylvania into a panic, I was reluctant to prove the Rumanians' faith misplaced. While I prevaricated, a local psychic, Iorgu Zeklos, insinuated himself. I knew Zeklos from a conference in Vancouver from which he'd been sent home in disgrace after a horrible incident in his hotel bathroom. The thought of him swanning around Bucharest stroking his greasy moustache and ogling street-children while charging his bar-bills to an already impecunious police department caused me to behave rashly. I had only partially recuperated when I attempted to scrutinise the objects sent for analysis. My sister, who was attending me, tried to intervene, but I wouldn't listen. Whether I was intent on exposing Mr Balcescu's killer or thwarting Zeklos, as Christine subsequently insisted, is irrelevant. Evil is evil, whatever form it might take. The experienced detective recognises this. The space between an evil thought and an evil act is non-existent. The neophyte might find this concept hard to grasp. He'll have to take my word for it. Where evil is concerned, there's no grading system, simply right and wrong.

In her account of the Karen Gardner investigation, Nina Kelly refers to me constantly appearing in trees or patches of foliage, items of underwear pulled tightly over my scalp, a comical image, perhaps, but one with little bearing in reality. While this isn't the place to go deeply into my method, I should briefly explain the art of the psychometrist. To the receptive mind, every object retains impressions. It's entirely possible reconstruct an entire life-history from a discarded cigarette butt. Certain objects can be analysed more effectively than others. Underwear, for example, retains the essence of its wearer. An experienced psychometrist knows that a sock, vest or pair of underpants will yield more information than less intimate items. Over the years I've been the victim of various misunderstandings on this account, most of which have been repeated by Nina with leering relish. Anyone who knows me, however, is aware that if I'm wearing a bra on my head, some darker business is indicated than the mere indulgence of a puerile fetish.

Like most forms of clairvoyance, psychometry is potentially hazardous. An emotionally or mentally fragile practitioner has to exercise caution. Every clairvoyant knows at least one horror story of someone overwhelmed by what, for want of a better phrase might be termed the psychic residue contained within some apparently innocuous object. I've always been robust. Perhaps that's why in investigating the murder of Cosmin Balcescu I behaved so incautiously. When I held his glove over my brow I immediately went into seizure. I've no memory of what happened. According to Christine, I convulsed violently and bellowed in a dialect she instinctively associated with the Middle East. When I emerged from the fit, the front of my brain hissed gently, like a damp sponge placed on a hot ring. The mind previously sensitive to information gleaned from a bar of soap or a cigarette butt, was as sluggish as gum discarded on a radiator. For the first time in my life, my mind was blank.

Since this initial period of illness, I've been particularly susceptible to bugs. This latest, co-incided almost exactly with my fortieth birthday. I spent the evening shivering in a blanket as Christine and friends from the Drumfeld players performed a pagaent ('Hamilton Coe at 40!') incorporating episodes from my Case Book. "He's already lapsed into mid-life crisis!" said Spencer as their rendition of my adventure in the Cottage of Concupiscence momentarily caused my eyes to brim. This, of course, was nonsense! 'Mid life crisis' is nothing more than a ridiculous justification for caddish behaviour imported from Hollywood. A sense of anti-climax and failure is to be expected in those who have lived as slaves to compromise. Anyone who imagines that squandered potential can be compensated by means of an illicit affair or purchase of a sports car probably had little to recommend him in the first place. It's true, however, that having spent the bulk of my life peering into the abyss, I've struggled to adjust to a more routine existence. A lot of my time, obviously, is taken up by writing, lecturing and broadcasting, but this is mere retrospection. My place in the history of detection is assured. My role in the present, unfortunately, is less clearly defined.

 

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