Doors Without Numbers (3 page)

Hammond had had enough. If Beech wanted him to hand over the case, so be it. It was pointless arguing about it any more. He stood up “I hope that the families of those kids are given a reasonable explanation as to why their boys’ attackers are not brought to justice.” Hammond slammed the door behind him as he left. Beech sighed, he wasn’t subservient to Hammond but he knew it was pointless arguing further. He was the superior officer, not Hammond. His word was final. If Hammond didn’t like it, he knew what he could do. Much as he respected Hammond as a man and as a detective, he had no intention of letting Hammond think he could get what he wanted.

Three hours and four rejected CD’s later, Hammond felt no happier as he drove towards Maidstone. He had raised the volume during Holst’s Jupiter Suite, usually so good at calming his soul, and tried to allow the music to wash over him, but it had failed. He knew it was pointless trying to listen to the radio, the constant talking about absolutely nothing in particular had a greater chance of making him more irritated than ever. It surprised him that the radio stations had any listeners at all and enraged him knowing how much they earned for their verbal dribble. Only last year, he had thrown the Guardian Newspaper down in disgust when Terry Wogan had been reported as earning £800,000 per year. It was ludicrous. His thoughts then turned to the futility of the morning’s events, paperwork wanting attention had plagued him, and then there had been the e-mail from a would-be novelist wanting to know what a Detective’s role was. He had answered her questions politely but he couldn’t help wondering aloud to an amused Emma how many more fictional detectives were going to solve yet more unrealistic murders. He had been tempted to ask the writer whether her story had involved a butler but had thought better of it. His thoughts were becoming muddled. It was easy for a provoked soul to fixate on everything remotely irritating. He slowed the car as if trying to slow his mind. What was he really stressed about? He knew it wasn’t really about the radio, or even his altercation with Beech, not entirely anyway. Hammond had been feeling disillusioned for a while now. Despite the efforts of all law enforcers, he couldn’t help the nagging thought that crime happened simply because people just didn’t care about one another anymore. It was becoming a greedy, self serving world.

As Hammond swung the car into the parking space at the Golf Club, he was feeling self-conscious. There was always a sense of elitism in these places. Hammond was no golfer, and looking around at the people in the parking lot, it was obvious he stood out from the crowd. He dodged his way between puddles toward the main entrance and was reminded by large printed notices on every door that the dress code excluded trainers and jeans. He looked down at his black corduroys with an embarrassed grimace and then stepped forward looking for Lloyd Harris amongst the group of lean men wearing polo shirts and chinos. His eyes drifted over the placement of green upholstered tub chairs and oak coffee tables until he saw the former Detective Chief Inspector at the far side of the room, leaning on the highly polished veneered bar as if he had been there all morning. His head was leaning on an open hand whilst his other hand repeatedly dipped into a bowl of peanuts beside him. He looked up when he heard his name being called and stared blankly at Hammond for a few moments. Hammond felt taken aback at the man’s unexpected reaction and offered his hand to his old friend almost shyly. Harris continued munching, his head now alertly raised, his eyes dilated and fixed on Hammond. There was a nervousness apparent in both men and Hammond turned to the bar man relieved at the distraction when he was asked what drink he would like, his hand still outstretched toward Lloyd who suddenly grasped it with both of his own and announced Hammond’s name so loudly, it was as he expected applause to follow. Hammond smiled at Harris and tilted his head toward the bar man to offer Harris a drink. Harris accepted with a request for a pint of Guinness and leaned back, looking at Hammond with scrutinising eyes. “So, you are here! I thought for a moment you stood me up!”

“I thought for a moment, you didn’t recognise me!” The reply was light-hearted but honest. Hammond paid for the drinks and slid the full pint glass toward Harris whilst accepting his Coke and the change.

“I am an old man, what is your excuse?” Harris bent over the glass of Guinness hooking his top lip over the rim with eagerness. He allowed the stout to slide down his throat with silence as he savoured the moment and then announced his satisfaction with a sigh. Despite the temptation to reply that he was earlier than they had arranged, Hammond gestured towards the chairs beside the glass panelled wall overlooking the course. After the morning’s discovery of muscles he never knew existed in his backside, the last thing Hammond wanted was to sit on was an unforgiving stool. They walked towards the panoramic windows and sat down opposite one another giving them to chance to study the other with interest. Hammond was shocked at how Harris had aged since they had last seen each other, but realised that his looks probably hadn’t fared any better.

“So, how’s Lyn? Is she well and young Paul? How is school?”

The absurdity of the questions directed at him made Hammond pause with his drink in mid air, Harris had seen Paul when he had graduated from secondary school, had celebrated with the family when Paul had passed his GCSE’s with A’s and B’s. It had been nearly eight years ago. The glass of Coke continued its slow journey towards Hammond’s lips as he thought about how to reply, and decided to speak honestly without questioning his companion’s lapse.

“He’s not so young Lloyd. He’s twenty-four now, as for Lyn, well, following the divorce, we keep conversation to a minimum. But I hear she’s well.”

Harris looked stunned for a moment before laughing and leaned toward Hammond.

“Ahh, but in a father’s eyes, their son or daughter will always be a child. Look at Kathleen, a grown woman but to me, an innocent girl!” The conversation now recovered, the two men discussed their families with pride and delighted in each other’s revelations. Hammond found himself listening eagerly as Harris told him about his daughter Kathleen and part of him was surprised by how pleased he was to hear she had divorced her second husband. He felt himself reddening slightly as he remembered how he had stared at her on their first meeting. It had been in 1992, he and Lyn had been married six years, still happy but over the honeymoon years, with Paul, who was five at the time. A new family excited about their future together when they had invited Harris, then Hammond’s superior officer, to dinner. Harris had brought Kathleen which had resulted in Lyn not talking to Hammond until the next evening. It had been obvious, she had said with a trembling lip, that Hammond had fancied Kathleen, so awe struck was he, that he had humiliated Lyn by practically ignoring her throughout the meal. Hammond would be the first to admit that Kathleen was a very attractive woman. Of course, she may have changed over the years, but he remembered her vividly. Kathleen had the skin of the blessed Irish, pale and flawless of imperfection. He remembered her green eyes, her richly coloured auburn hair (out of a bottle Lyn had surmised) that hang loosely down her back. Kathleen, he learnt, during the rare occasions when they had seen each other again, was a woman who made beauty effortless. All the creams and cosmetic products that Lyn had stacked in the bathroom cabinet would have never achieved the natural poise of her imagined rival.

The conversation between the two former colleagues steered toward the years they had spent working together in Medway. Following his promotion to Detective Inspector, Harris had worked on a case of drug-trafficking with CID. During the arrests of the suspects, Harris was knocked unconscious allowing the perpetrator to get away. Police Constable Hammond, who had been assigned to guarding the exits, managed to chase the suspect and arrest him. Due to the fact that the suspect had already attacked a senior officer and threatened to do the same to him, Hammond was awarded a Chief Constable’s commendation for his professionalism and courage. Partly out of appreciation for helping to get the drug traffickers be apprehended and convicted, and partly out of embarrassment for what otherwise could have been seen to be a failure as arresting officer, Harris encouraged Hammond to study for the Police Promotion Exam to earn him the rank of Sergeant. Years later Harris, as Chief Inspector, presided over the newly appointed DS Hammond.

It was for this reason that Hammond was curious as to the real reason why he was here. Harris would not have contacted him for any reason other than an interest in his work. They were friendly; hence the mutual enquiry into family, but criminal investigation was the source of their relationship. Since Hammond’s transfer to Folkestone, their only correspondence had been the Christmas cards sent by Lyn until the divorce and then nothing until now.

As if reading Hammond’s thoughts, Harris changed the tone of conversation abruptly. “It has been a while since I last saw you Wallace so I doubt you are aware that, until recently, I had been working with the Cold Case Investigation Team?”

Hammond leaned back in his chair somewhat taken aback by Harris’ news. Since Harris’s retirement, there had been considerable changes within Kent Police. April 2007 had seen collaboration between the police forces and authorities of Kent and Essex which now shared marine services and joint patrols along the Thames Estuary. A joint IT directorate had also been established but what was most significant since Harris’s departure from the force was the creation of one of the largest joint serious and organised crime units in the United Kingdom. The new Serious Crime Directorate, otherwise referred to as the SCD, consisted of six departments focusing on serious crime such as murders and serious sexual assaults across both counties. Another addition was The Cold Case Investigation Team, whose task was to focus on closing unsolved cases, formerly the responsibility of the Major Crime Unit, using the latest technology in DNA profiling. Hammond was aware that the CCIT had been successful in convicting rapists and serious offenders of crimes from twenty years previously. Neither was Hammond ignorant of the fact that the team employed retired detectives as investigation officers but he had no idea that Harris had been one of them. In particular he was surprised that Harris had not told him before now, they had always shared a mutual interest in each other’s careers.

Harris ignored Hammond’s look of surprise before continuing.

“In 1991, I was involved in an investigation into the disappearance of a nineteen year old girl by the name of Salima Abitboul. She had come from Morocco to fulfil a modelling contract in England. Her flatmate had reported her missing after she failed to return home after a day out. At the time, there was no reason to believe she had been abducted, so we were not concerned for her safety, it was possible that she had run off with a boyfriend. She hadn’t taken any personal possessions or any items of clothing with her, although her passport wasn’t found at her home, so it was assumed she had taken it with her.” Harris paused suddenly as if he was wanted to choose his words with care. Hammond waited for Harris to sip his drink and remained quiet until his friend resumed his topic of conversation.

“Salima’s family were not concerned about her disappearance. Ironically, they were confident that she was safer in the UK than at home so they were not alarmed by her disappearance despite us questioning her whereabouts. They told us that they had received letters from their daughter weeks before telling them that she was going to marry a business man.” Harris trailed off as if he were remembering the investigation. Hammond recognised a look of guilt flash across the other man’s face, he had a feeling he knew how Harris’ story would end. He sat forward in his seat hoping to appear encouraging.

“Well, you can understand why we didn’t take the disappearance that seriously. The only person who was concerned was Salima’s flatmate and it was presumed at the time that the two girls were not confidants; that Salima simply didn’t tell her friend of her plans to run off and marry the businessman. On reflection, it was a lapse of judgement not to question the identity of her fiancé or even to investigate further but, like I said, it seemed as if it were no more than a false alarm.” Harris paused to sip at his drink, his posture had changed whilst he had been talking and now he sat with his shoulders slumped, the weight of his body leaning onto the arm of the tub chair.

“We found her body a week later. She had been strangled.”

Hammond was curious where the conversation was heading. “You didn’t find her killer?”

Harris frowned, making it obvious he didn’t approve of Hammond’s interruption but he answered quickly.

“A man was charged with her abduction and murder following a confession.”

Suddenly Harris leaned forward, his eyes sought Hammond’s own with an intensity that Hammond found unnerving.

“The case was closed as far as I was concerned until four months ago. We found traces of Salima’s DNA in the apartment of a local man following his suicide.”

Hammond appraised Harris for a moment; he wanted to know why Harris was confiding this information in him.

“You think this local man was responsible for her death? You got the wrong man convicted?”

Harris ignored the latter question. “The reason I wanted to see you Wallace, was in your capacity as a Senior Investigating Officer. There is something about the case that has been troubling me, more than I cared to admit to the team. I know, but cannot prove, that Salima’s abduction is connected to a string of suicides all happening locally within the last eighteen months. The suicides themselves are suspicious enough, it is as if the people concerned compared notes of their proposed suicides before they killed themselves.”

Hammond listened to Harris’s concerns with mild interest. None of what Harris was saying made much sense; Salima Abitboul’s murder had been solved years before so there was no reason to re-open the case. As for the local suicides, he was aware of the latest craze in suicide pacts often founded on the social networking sites that glorified the act of taking their own lives and encouraging others to follow their lead. Despite the ludicrous suggestion of making suicide fashionable, Hammond knew that such websites existed with a dedicated following, especially amongst young, impressionable people. He had seen such a site a few years previously, following the death of a socially inept teenager. A search on the boy’s computer discovered he had been taught by such a website how to hang himself. The tutorial included video clippings of other suicides in progress. Instructions on how to measure the rope according to body height and weight, the best knots to use, even examples of the right way to write a suicide note. What Hammond had found particularly sickening was that there was a forum where other members wished each other luck on their future attempts. He suggested this idea to Harris, who shook his head impatiently.