Doors Without Numbers (34 page)

“I urge you to think about this Wallace; How did Harris know that the hairbrush in Callum’s apartment had, not only foreign hairs, but those of Salima Abitboul’s? The presence of her passport could have been a clue to whom it belonged to, but there was no forensic investigation warranted on Mark Callum’s apartment following the post-mortem since everything pointed to suicide. The hairbrush wasn’t analysed.”

Hammond’s back felt clammy, so he shuffled forward allowing air to move between him and the back of the chair. “It was included on the inventory.”

Morris inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, I saw that. But how could Harris had known that? Even if he had found out somehow, the hairbrush wasn’t dusted for fingerprints and I doubt that the hairs were tested. For a start I doubt whether there was any DNA sample of Salima’s to match the hairs to, although I don’t think it would surprise me if the hairs did belong to Salima Abitboul.”

Hammond felt impatient, he had the feeling that Morris was trying to suggest something and preferred the man spoke in plain English rather than waiting for Hammond to take a hint. It was as if Hammond’s intelligence was being tested, and he had no patience for mind games.

“Wallace, you are a good detective. I’ve read your file, I am confident that the reports about you are all true. You are thorough, persistent, intuitive and fair minded. I admire your work ethics. You are like a dog with a bone, you don’t let go until you get to the truth. I like that. However, you know what they say about old dogs learning new tricks...” Morris paused, he smiled at Hammond, seemingly unperturbed he had just insulted him with his patronising air and offensive words.

Hammond sat still. He knew if he answered the words that would emit from his mouth would be vulgar. He studied his hands on his lap, concentrating on the calluses on his palm. He should use hand cream.

“Wallace. Please understand what I am trying to tell you. Like you I read the file on Salima’s murder, but unlike you I considered the possibility that Harris himself coerced a confession out of the man accused to save his own back. Harris could have solved the case with time and professionalism just like we have to. From what I read in the reports, Salima’s death was not premeditated, it was an impulsive act, one that would have left a trail of evidence yet Harris picked on the first person available at the scene. Why so desperate?” Morris stood up from his chair and circled around Hammonds, eventually resting his hands on the back of Hammond’s chair and leaned forward to Hammond’s ear.

“I think I know why and I think you do too. Harris was guilty of killing the girl and was desperate to cover his tracks.”

Hammond reacted. He bellowed with rage at the upstart who enjoyed tormenting with innuendos and a superior attitude. Yet he didn’t leave. Much as he wanted to. There was some sense in what Morris was suggesting, much as he hated to admit it. During the last few months he had learnt things about Harris that he would never had thought possible. His voice was becoming high pitched so he spared himself any more humiliation and gestured for Morris to continue.

“Harris was deeply involved with vice, he was a regular at the brothels, how else did he get to know this Pattie woman? He knew Pattie Goodchild (if that is her name), he would have doubtlessly had the opportunity to meet Salima. I have nothing against men satisfying their God given urges Hammond, but Harris was not the ideal copper you believed him to be. Think about that, that is all I am saying. I know you feel obligated to protect his interests but don’t risk your career for his sake.”

The cheese sandwich Hammond had eaten moments earlier was destined to ferment, it was unlikely any food would be digested now. Hammond was too stressed, too churned up. He felt an anger in his belly flare up as he thought about Harris. How Harris had made Hammond run around in circles, just to find out connections that Harris had already known. What had been the point?

“So, what do you propose to do now?”

Morris returned to his chair. “There’s been five suicides, an attempted murder, two deaths as a result of that attempt, two break ins at an officers’ home and now a murder. The one recurrent theme linking all the incidents isn’t just this Goodchild woman, Hammond. It’s Lloyd Harris. I want Harris brought in for questioning.”

Hammond nodded. He said the only words left to say. “I agree.”

“
What we call “morals” is simply blind obedience to words of command.”
Henry Havelock Ellis. The Dance of Life. 1923

The screaming fan belt belonging to Jenny’s Volkswagen camper heralded her return. He heard the approach from the kitchen where he was occupied with scraping the last of the Marmite from the jar and spreading it on stale crackers he had found at the back of the food cupboard. He put down his knife and went to the front door to greet her. He waited whilst she parked the van and then called to her as sprinted towards him up the porch steps, a look of concern across her face from having seen the police tape cordoning off the house from the pavement.

“Don’t panic, but don’t ask questions either.” He embraced her gently and on a moment’s impulse slammed the door shut behind him and headed towards her van. “Come on, you’re driving.”

They parked the Volkswagen by the sea front, the air was chilly but Hammond sat in the passenger seat with his window wound down, enjoying the salty taste of the breeze. It was quiet in the van. Hammond preferred to relax by listening to the waves crashing against the beach and the sound of shingle being dragged back into the foam but the seagulls were screaming loudly to each other as they dive-bombed the overfilled rubbish bins. He had updated Jenny about the break-in but wanted her to be reassured he wasn’t in danger. Even as he had spoken the words, he wondered whether he should be concerned, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and helped himself to another chip from the dashboard.

“Pleased though I am to see you, I am not so sure it is a good idea for you to be here, Jenny.”

“Oh, right, because I am a feeble woman, is that it? You can stay on your own waiting for some bully to attack you but I can’t. I never put you down as a sexist, Wally.”

Hammond threw his chip at her. “Calm down, that’s not what I meant at all, and you know it. I would feel responsible if anything happened.”

Jenny broke off some battered fish and shoved it in her mouth as if she were ravenous. Without waiting until her food had been swallowed she continued to talk with her mouth full.

“No offence Wally, but you are not in the best physical shape. If something did happen, I am more likely to be able to put up a fight. Either way, two people are better than one in the house. So, thanks, but I’m staying.”

Hammond watched a young gull drag a crisp packet around the pavement with its beak. He didn’t protest anymore, there was no point in trying to change her mind. He asked her if Paul intended to come home. He tried to keep his voice casual although his disappointment in not seeing his son belied his indifferent manner.

“He went back to college, said he had course work to complete before the beginning of next term, although personally I think it has more to do with the new lady in his life.”

Jenny sucked the salt off her fingers before reaching for the can of drink wedged in the door pocket beside her.

“Paul has a girlfriend? I never knew.” Hammond said these words with sadness, he had no idea what was happening in his son’s life anymore. He wondered how much Lyn knew.

“Who knows, he wouldn’t tell me. But he has been really sulky lately. Bound to be signs of love sickness.”

Hammond sighed heavily and helped himself to another chip.

They returned to the house just before 9pm. Jenny brought in her bags from the van and heaped them on the bottom of the stairs, then they sat in front of the television and watched a Channel Four documentary about an obese man preparing for Bariatric surgery. Hammond noticed his stomach protruding over his waistband and sat up straighter in his chair. He was simply overweight he told himself, no need to compare yourself to the man on the screen. He got up from his chair within twenty minutes of the programme starting and begun sorting through his laundry. Despite his effort in trying to keep himself distracted from thinking about Lloyd Harris, he wasn’t succeeding. Eventually he gave up trying and considered whether he had done the right thing in telling Morris everything. Then he decided he had. Harris should have been honest at the start, he should have explained what he wanted Hammond to investigate instead of using the local suicides as a ruse. What did he really want to learn? None of what Harris had asked him to do made sense anymore. He wondered whether Morris was having any luck in getting the truth. Maybe he should have persisted earlier and insisted he be the one to question Harris, instead of meekly accepting Beech’s insistence otherwise. The thoughts churned within his mind on a never ending cycle until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He groaned aloud and gave in to the temptation to phone DCI Morris.

“I thought I told you to go home and leave us to do our job.” Hammond refused to be put off by Morris’ patronising manner, he had every right to question any progress.

“Actually, Hammond. I’m glad you called. Officially you are still on sick leave but truth be told I was tempted to ask you to come in. Lloyd Harris is missing, his daughter refuses to co-operate unless she speaks to you first.”

Hammond didn’t hesitate. He hung up and looked at the time. It was half past ten.

Hammond arrived at the police station within twenty minutes. He made a point of retaining the taxi receipt and filling in an expenses form before putting it in the admin tray. He found Morris seated behind a stack of files on his desk. The man looked dishevelled, his tie had been loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up casually above his slim wrists. For a split second Hammond felt empathy for the man who was obviously fatigued, but reminded himself that this was what ambition did to you. It forced you into situations where you had to earn recognition. Even if Morris would have preferred to spend the evening with his young family, he had to prove his worth by wading through statements and past case histories. By convincing Beech that Hammond was incapable of heading the investigation into Cheryl Bailey’s murder, the pressure was now on him to unravel the web that Lloyd Harris had created.

Morris looked up as Hammond tapped lightly on the door, he waved Hammond to enter the room and watched as Hammond settled himself into a chair.

“I’m glad you called Wallace, the truth is we need your input. This case seems complicated.” Morris spoke wearily, he ran his hand through his hair, causing it to spike upwards from his forehead. “I’ve taken the common approach to look at Cheryl’s intimate relationships first. The ex-husband obliged with the formal identification, he seemed genuinely devastated. Apparently the two of them remained good friends following their divorce. He has an alibi which has been proven. They have a daughter who emigrated to New Zealand a year ago. On the face of it, Cheryl’s murder seems an unprovoked random attack, but what gets me is the effort the killer took to frame you.

We’ve got a witness statement that some kids who lived near Cheryl were approached by a male they didn’t recognise as being local. He paid them to eavesdrop on a conversation Cheryl had with a man answering your description. That is what makes me think that it is more to do with you then it is about Cheryl.”

“I think it’s likely that someone was worried Cheryl was going to tell us something.” Hammond said. “Framing me was part of a game.”

Morris frowned. “A game?”

Hammond spread his hands wide, he imagined the twelve shot glasses he had arranged on his sideboard.

“So far, my investigation has been a game of cat and mouse with an unknown opponent. My car was vandalised, then my house was broken into. Whenever I learnt anything new, something happened to distract me. I was targeted because I was the person Harris approached for help.”

“But his appeal for help was based on a fictitious reason. He lied to you.”

“I still think that Lloyd Harris meant me to satisfy his need to know. What he needed to know I can’t say but the suicides were the starting point. He may not be the innocent party but he isn’t a murderer, I am sure of that. Cheryl was a major part of the investigation, she was more than willing to share her knowledge about Salima Abitboul and the people who committed suicide recently. She knew Goodchild and Harris by sight. It is possible that she knew more than what she told me. She may have been killed to stop her from telling me more which means someone else out there is trying to stop me from finding out what Harris wants to know.” Hammond spoke slowly, he knew he was talking in riddles but he was trying to make sense out of a situation he didn’t understand.

“I spoke to Harris’ G.P; he confirmed that Harris is showing signs of dementia. It is possible that Harris was confused and didn’t know what he was asking.”

Hammond agreed. “Yet by the time I knew this, I had already started looking into the suicides. I didn’t find anything suspicious about the deaths themselves but it is strange that a family of foster children grow up to become reclusive and lead such private lives before killing themselves within weeks of each other. Apart from Theresa Davenport, there are no explanations how they earned a living, they weren’t employed, there’s no record that they were on social benefits so how did they support themselves? None of them had bank accounts. They weren’t in debt, their bills were paid in full; rent, utilities, everything. Something else that is odd; apart from Fiona Nwasu, they all left suicide notes with almost identical messages, suggesting they had no choice but to end their lives. Who were they writing to? Why bother justifying your actions if there is no-one in your life to answer to? Only Theresa had a funeral, most of the guests were work colleagues from the library but there was no family mentioned. Neither have I discovered who paid for the funeral expenses. Cheryl said that they were chosen because they were useful somehow. Who is this Goodchild woman? Why isn’t she registered as a foster carer? There must be something, social services wouldn’t have just allowed these kids to go to a perfect stranger, she must have been checked out...but under what name? We can’t find any trace of their guardianship documents. What if they worked for Goodchild throughout their lives? In which case, they must have been in contact with her yet she didn’t come forward at the time of their deaths. In my mind, that is peculiar.”