Doors Without Numbers (9 page)

“
In memory of Theresa Davenport. A girl who did not deserve to die. Her killers are still out there somewhere; they know I know...question is what will they do about it?”

Hammond felt excitement reading the entry and leaned closer to the computer monitor, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He didn’t understand why Cherry13 had entered the slightest suggestion of a crime on a suicide forum, but was encouraged by the brief information he had gathered on Theresa Davenport. He read people’s replies to Cherry13’s entry, hoping to identify a personal response to the implied accusation. Some were sympathetic, having read the entry as the grief-stricken ravings of someone looking to blame for their loved one’s death, others condemned the entry as inappropriate, suggesting psychiatric counsel be sought. If only he could identify Cherry13. There was a good possibility they had known Theresa personally, in which case, the note she had left may have been intended for them to read. It was evident that the entry had been specifically worded with the purpose to antagonise and this suggested that Cherry13’s identity was not anonymous to the person or people he or she were trying to aggravate.

Eventually his attention concentrated on the deaths of Lucas Dean and Claire Bennet. He couldn’t find any mention of either name in any news reports. He tried the police database and retrieved the information on Lucas Dean whom had been charged with numerous drug charges dating from 1992 to 1999 including intent to supply and being in possession of crack cocaine. His death from an overdose of a cocktail of painkillers and alcohol seemed a rational conclusion to a life dominated by drugs. It was evident to Hammond that Lucas Dean had also been a recluse. No concerned friends or family members had reported him missing during the days surrounding his death which may have accounted for the fact that his body had been in the later stages of decomposition when his body was discovered in his apartment. Dean’s death may have been left unnoticed for longer had his neighbours not complained about the smell coming from his room. Hammond sighed heavily; he couldn’t imagine a life without his son or Lyn being involved somehow. He wondered whether he would have had a similar life to Lucas Dean had he not been blessed with a family. It was Hammond’s curiosity that made him look for any mention of Lucas Dean’s background. It was mentioned that Dean had been in care during his childhood but there wasn’t enough information to create an impression of the man Dean had been. The photographs taken at the scene where his body was found were limited. The scene was dismal with definite indications of suicide rather than foul play.
“It is my time to leave.”
The message Dean had written was simple, yet it didn’t explain why it had been left or to whom it was addressed. The inclusion of the note was perhaps more significant because Lucas Dean had lived a solitary existence. Unlike Theresa, Dean had not been in any known employment, so his social contacts were more limited, yet he had left a note for someone. Similar to Mark Callum’s apartment, his bedsit was frugal and devoid of comfort. Only the bare necessities had been provided for; a single bed positioned near to a wash basin, and a kitchenette was all he had needed. As Hammond studied the photograph, he had a feeling he was missing something obvious but despite double checking every detail in the pictures, he couldn’t find anything that would justify the feeling he had. He checked his watch, he could hear movement in the corridors nearby and knew his privacy would be interrupted soon. Quickly he moved onto Claire Bennett. She had been thirty-one years of age when she had slit her wrists in the bath in her one bedroom bungalow in Greatstone. The pathologist whom had examined Claire’s body had been Dr Ed Henderson, the same doctor helping Hammond identify the body found in the woods. Hammond wondered whether it was worth questioning Henderson further, but common sense interrupted his consideration. It was better to remain discreet. If he asked a question concerning a sealed enquiry, he would have to justify it and telling Henderson that he was looking into a possible case as a favour to an old colleague wouldn’t be good enough. With these thoughts in mind, He returned his attention onto Henderson’s autopsy report, reading with interest where Henderson had highlighted several hesitation marks evident on Bennet’s wrists before she had inflicted the final, fatal cut which was performed by a razor, found lying on the edge of the bath. She had also written a last message, this time on the bathroom tiles above the bath with her own blood.
“I must do this.”

Wallace Hammond was intrigued. It was as if each death had needed to be justified to an unknown person. However, none of the messages written by their own hands, apart from Mark Callum’s, suggested their deaths were coerced. Lois Dunn had said that there were no rules to suicide but it was a common belief, although somewhat misguided, that the process of taking your own life included leaving a message to the world left behind; an acknowledgment that society or circumstances had failed them. It was more difficult to understand the reasoning behind someone wanting to take their own life, but having no family or friends guaranteed a lonely and possibly, miserable existence. Emotional ties to other people often gave a reason to live and vice versa.

Hammond entered the last name on his list into the database. The fifth death was assumed as no body had been found, although witnesses boarding the P&O ferry testified to having seen Fiona Nwasu climb over the upper deck railings and throw herself into the sea whilst the ferry was stationary at Dover Port.

Hammond sat at the computer staring blankly at the screen in front of him, trying to mentally condense all the information he had read. He couldn’t understand why his gut was telling him he was missing something, but the feeling was there, a certainty in his belly that he had missed a connection. All five people, including Mark Callum, had died by their own hand. There was nothing to suggest otherwise, so in this respect, he had no problem in concluding that no further investigation into their deaths was warranted. Hammond printed the pages off and quickly retrieved them from the printer tray, folding them carefully and tucked them amongst the folds of his wallet. He felt no more enlightened having researched the notes that Harris had given him. There were no significant correlations between the deaths other than they had occurred at similar ages and within a thirty mile radius. The deceased had all lived solitary lives but there the similarities ended. Hammond deleted his search history and left the computer feeling irritated. He had hoped that the name search would show up further inconsistencies. All he had found were paranoid ravings of a grieving friend on a web forum, and the depressing clarification that there were lonely, desperate people in the world whose only relief from their misery was to end their own lives. He felt he had been force fed a large red herring.

The office was full of activity by 8.58am. Hammond considered getting himself some coffee but decided against it. His stomach felt tender, He wasn’t sure if he needed to go to the toilet or fill himself with starchy food. Jenny’s offering of baked beans on toast the previous evening had been his second meal of beans within a few days. They must have been working hard cleaning his colon during the night. He grabbed his coat telling anyone within hearing distance he was going out to get some breakfast. It had started to spit with light rain whilst he had been indoors giving the pavement a polished sheen. With head bowed down against the cold air, Hammond walked toward the top end of the high street, his nose following the familiar waft of fried bacon and coffee towards his favourite cafe. He was greeted warmly by the proprietor who was busy serving hot drinks to a queue of customers. They shouted pleasantries to one another, performing their regular routine of pretending to hear one another over the noise of the spluttering coffee machine by nodding and showing their teeth in friendly grins. He ordered a bacon baguette with ketchup telling himself it would help his stomach settle. As he handed over the exact change to the girl serving him Hammond wondered how old she was, he couldn’t tell.

The heavens opened as Hammond left the cafe. A paranoid mind would have interpreted this as a sign that God had waited for him to exit before deliberately drenching him. The paper bag containing his breakfast was kept dry under the breast of his coat as he hot trotted over puddles and flooding drains back to the station. He arrived at the office with soaked hair and frightened a female officer as he removed his coat, realising too late that the tomato sauce in the bacon sandwich had seeped through the paper bag mortally staining his white shirt. He playfully demonstrated that he hadn’t been stabbed in the chest by showing a healthy nipple through a gap in the shirt buttons, before going to the bathroom to change his shirt. He was standing at the wash basin half naked when his mobile rang. He answered it quickly, pinning the phone between an ear and his right shoulder as he attempted to slide an arm into the sleeve of the clean light blue shirt.

“Where are you?”

Ed Henderson’s voice sounded impatient.

“At the station.”

Hammond gave up trying to hold the mobile and dress at the same time. The phone was switched onto loudspeaker and placed on top of the hand drier.

“I’ve been trying to call you for several minutes. I was told you were out the office.”

Hammond couldn’t be bothered to explain his whereabouts so asked Henderson the reason for his call, hoping the autopsy of the unidentified man had been concluded.

“I’ve managed to identify our victim.”

“You have? That’s great!”

Hammond finished fastening his buttons and tucked the shirt tails into the waistband of his trousers, listening to Henderson’s account of his activities.

“I gave the fingerprints to DC Galvin, just in case you had them on file; they matched fingerprints on your database belonging to Graham Roberts, aged 59 from Hythe. Galvin has the details; no doubt he will debrief you. In the meantime, I want to go through my findings with you here at the lab. Can you come over?”

Hammond picked up the phone from its resting place and switched off the loudspeaker.

“Galvin? You gave the fingerprints to Galvin?”

“Sure, he asked me to.”

Hammond backed out the bathroom, screwing up his soiled shirt and shoving it amongst discarded paper towels in the bin under the basin.

“Why? He knew I was chasing up the Forensic reports today.”

“Brown nosing as usual I expect.”

Hammond told Henderson to expect him at the Pathology Lab within the hour and hung up. Two people in the last twelve hours had referred to Galvin as a teacher’s pet. Was he the only one who hadn’t noticed?

Emma had left a cup of coffee on his desk. He waved to her through the glass as a way of thanks and wrote down his objectives for the day. He wanted to speak to the son of William Barnes’ cleaner. Barnes had said that the boy was often practising on his bike in the woods, in which case he would be able to provide the names of his fellow bikers, maybe provide more insight into Graham Robert’s attendance at the dirt track. It bothered Hammond that Roberts was on the police database, he hoped the reason wasn’t as ominous as he feared. Galvin was occupied dealing with members of the public offering information, DS Dunn and DC Edwards had gone to the school, it was possible they would return with the same information, but Hammond preferred having repetitive information rather than none.

The bacon baguette beckoned Hammond’s attention as he sneaked another look at Harris’s notes for what seemed like the hundredth time. He still intended to speak to Callum’s doctor, even though it could be a waste of time. It wouldn’t be possible to check all the medical records on the other people included on Harris’ list but he wanted to know as much as possible about Callum, if only to discover a reason how he had acquired a hairbrush from a girl who had been murdered two decades previously. On impulse, he decided to call the doctor whilst he had the opportunity, it would be better to resolve Harris’s enquiry before it eat up more time which could be better spent finding Graham Robert’s attacker. It took several moments to find the doctor’s number. Hammond introduced himself to the surgery receptionist and explained the reason for his call. He was asked to wait several moments whilst she checked to see if the doctor was available to come to the phone. Whilst Hammond waited, he tore a chunk from the sandwich with his teeth, delighting at the salty flavour of the bacon. His greed was abated temporarily when a deep voice came onto the phone and introduced himself as Doctor Kondaveeti. The man spoke slowly giving the impression he had time to spare.

“To be honest, Inspector, I don’t really remember Mark Callum. He wasn’t one of my regular patients, but I see we have a record on our database. One moment please...”

There was the sound of slow tapping on a computer keyboard.

“You realise of course Inspector, that I am unable to disclose any medical notes.”

Hammond explained that it wasn’t necessary to protect his patient’s confidentiality since Mark Callum had since died and had no family to protect. He purposely tried to sound reasonable and used an expression he usually hated, explaining that he was simply dotting the i’s and crossing out all the t’s.

“Ah! I see now! Yes, I do remember Mr Callum after all. He came to my surgery a total of three times, the last visit was in July this year complaining of trouble sleeping and wanted sleeping pills which I did not prescribe.”

Hammond asked why.

“Well, I remember he had anxiety problems, He was constantly fidgeting and squirming. On his first visit I was persuaded to prescribe him anti-depressants. The second time he complained of trouble sleeping. Again, I prescribed sleeping tablets but during his third visit I was not convinced that the drugs were working or that he needed them as he indicated. He was a very withdrawn man, didn’t talk much...”

The tapping sound of the keyboard continued.

“I am reading my notes here which are helping my memory and I recall he wouldn’t look me in the eye. He came across as being quite disturbed. I suspected he may have a drug problem but I couldn’t be sure. So, just to play it safe I suggested alternative means like taking more exercise, eating healthily and avoiding stimulants.”