12th April 2014
Dr John Hunter sat alone with his thoughts in the sparsely decorated reception of the Aloma Retirement Home. Although his contact with Professor Solomon Garnett had faded since the breakdown and the Professor's subsequent reclusion, the shock and pain he'd felt upon learning of his passing was real enough. After his graduation from Cambridge in Archaeology, John spent a year at the University of Florida, cutting his teeth in academia under Solomon's watchful eye. Although fifty years his senior, they became firm friends and John credited him for instilling the foundations of many of his beliefs, particularly those cemented in the Professor's specialism, ancient Egypt. When the call arrived, the decision to drop everything and jump on board the next flight to Miami had not been hard.
The funeral's attendees befitted a lecturer of Solomon's popularity and both the Catholic priest and his ex-wife, Lilly-Rose, gave moving eulogies. The wake proved a little more raucous and a good excuse for John to catch up with old colleagues and exchange stories and anecdotes whilst toasting the Professor's good name. Toward the end of the evening, in the midst of rescuing a Dorito from a salsa dip, one of Solomon's carers approached him. The woman was a rotund, friendly individual who, after establishing his name, requested he attend Solomon's retirement home before returning to the UK. Apparently the Professor bequeathed John something in his will.
So here he was, reading a dog-eared fishing magazine and awaiting the re-emergence of this self-same woman with his inheritance.
'Dr Hunter?'
John ditched the magazine and rose to greet the petite Indian woman poking her head around a 'Staff Only' door. 'That'll be me.' He smiled. 'Sorry, I was expecting the other lady.'
'English eh, cool accent. Gloria asked me to give you this. She got waylaid with a toilet emergency.' She thrust a small brown envelope into his hand.
'Nice to know, and perhaps a little too much information,' said John, taking the envelope and exaggerating his Surrey accent. 'And much obliged, madam.' The woman giggled and disappeared back behind the door.
John turned the package over in his hands and frowned. This made little sense. What could Solomon possibly have wanted to leave him? Intrigued, he slipped his index finger under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open.
A little over zealous in his assault, it split down the middle, and spat its contents onto the reception's grey carpet tiles. A key attached to a piece of folded card rolled to a stop under a nearby chair. John retrieved his prize and held the key to the light. It didn't look like anything out of the ordinary. A standard, bronze, Yale-type key embossed with the initials BA. 'BA?' he thought. 'British Airways?' It wasn't an acronym that leapt off the page. The circle surrounding it made it look like a logo but he was clutching at straws. He unfolded the card, hoping it might shed a little more light on the matter. He scratched his head. The message was an incomprehensible series of meaningless letters and numbers:
"SPTXFMM – 181858."
'Conclusive proof old Sol slipped over the sanity line, I guess,' John whispered. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped the key into the inside pocket of his linen jacket. The mystery would have to wait. Whatever it opened, he could figure it out back in England. John only had one more day left in Miami, and he fully intended to make the most of it.
John shouted a cheery Dick Van Dyke style thank you at the giggling receptionist and stepped out into the bright midday sun. Although hot compared with England, the Florida sun in April was not too uncomfortable. He remembered periods during the summer months where he'd outright refused to leave the sanctuary of UF's air conditioned offices and lecture halls. He'd lived most of his adult life in and around Cambridge, and humidity was not a mistress he enjoyed. It certainly wasn't one he wanted to return to again.
John stood on the pavement and drank in the relaxed atmosphere as he waited for a cab to appear around the bend. Miami was a strange city, in fact, such was the diversity of its populous, one might be forgiven for thinking it wasn't part of the United States. The Art Deco buildings, the laid back atmosphere and friendly disposition of its residents put it at odds with the pace and pressures more prevalent in cities such as New York and Chicago.
'Spare change, guy?'
John shook his head free of the daydream, and turned to find a downtrodden man in his mid-forties, lazing against the outside wall of the retirement home. Dressed in an assortment of ripped and stained rags, John felt a wave of pity for him. The US was not an easy place to live when one was destitute. He pulled out his wallet and removed a ten dollar bill, shoving it into the man's outstretched hand.
'Just don't go spending it on booze,' said John.
The man's accent changed. 'Thank you so much. You don't know how much this means, Dr Hunter.'
John stepped backwards, jerking his hand away. 'Who are you? How do you know my name?'
'A word to the wise, Dr Hunter; you are in Solomon's world now and you mustn't trust anyone. And I mean no-one.'
'Solomon's world? What do you mean?' The man backed away as a car rounded the bend. 'Where are you going? Get back here and explain yourself.'
'Is this man bothering you, sir?' asked an officious voice in a southern drawl.
'What? No, I mean...' Before he finished his sentence the homeless man turned tail and fled, leaving John alone with a pair of officers from the Miami Police Department.
'There's no need to protect him, sir,' said the larger of the two officers shoving his head through the window of the squad car. 'Most of our homeless community are harmless enough but one or two can get a bit touchy-feely with the tourists.'
'I'm fine thank you, officers.' John shook his head, a little shaken by the experience. 'Something he said just caught me unawares, that's all.'
'You need a cab, sir?' said the second Officer, hailing a passing yellow taxi.
'That would be great. Thank you for your help. I should be okay from here.' He waved a final salute of thanks and climbed into the waiting cab.
'Not a problem, sir. You have a good day.'
John fingered the outline of Solomon's key through his jacket. 'Hilton please, driver.' What was the old man involved in this time? And why the hell had he seen fit to drag him into the middle of it?
