Doors Without Numbers

by C. D. Neill

  “I have just finished celebrating with my family, now they have gone to celebrate with the ex-wife.”

  The barman made an “ah” noise as if he now understood the reasoning behind Hammond’s wish to get drunk. Hammond was aware of the other man’s presumption but didn’t bother to contradict him. He was feeling as if he should celebrate his freedom whilst he could. For the next few hours, there would be no expectations to fulfil, there would be no emergency call outs, no son to disappoint (something he had regretted to notice he was becoming quite good at.) No boss to piss off. He was under no obligation to do anything but please himself. His stool was jolted slightly as a group of women, Hammond guessed they were in their mid-thirties, clustered around the bar, all talking at once and giggling amongst themselves. Hammond smelt their perfume mingling as one, it made his nose itch and threatened to make him sneeze but he managed to contain it and watched them as they deliberated their drink orders. He found the scene being played out in front of him fascinating. The women were constantly playing with their hair as they spoke or adjusting their busts. It was like watching a mating ritual being played out on a wildlife documentary. He caught the eye of a large breasted woman and raised his glass as a toast. She smiled at Hammond. He smiled back. She walked with her companions to a free table at the far end of the room but sat at the table in a place that allowed her to maintain eye contact with him. The women sat talking animatedly amongst themselves, the laughter becoming screeches as the wine flowed amongst them. It was entertaining to watch them and Hammond did so without attempting to be discreet in his surveillance.

  At midnight, the barman wished them all loudly a happy Christmas and was invited to their table for a Christmas kiss from each woman. They stroked his bald head and covered it in lipstick kisses which he must have enjoyed because he went back a second time carrying another tray of drinks. The atmosphere within the restaurant bar was happy and manic. Hammond was tired, he wanted to leave and get to bed but he couldn’t face going home alone. He found himself thinking of Lyn and wondering if she were giving Cameron a Christmas kiss, then he wondered if Cameron was bald like the barman. For a second he was tempted to phone her but pressed Kathleen’s number instead and waited whilst it rang unanswered. He hang on for several rings before his courage failed him and he disconnected the call. When he looked up, the woman with the large breasts was standing next to him, she offered him a drink. He accepted.

  Hammond awoke feeling sick. He made it to the bathroom just in time before his stomach emptied itself with force into the toilet. He groaned and wondered why he had been so stupid as to drink too much. He hadn’t felt this ill for a long time. He sprawled on the bathroom floor, not wanting to return to bed. He knew the woman would be there, she had probably woken from the noise of his retching. He didn’t want to face her again, and wished his clothes were nearer the bathroom so he could escape discreetly. He had been drunk but not so drunk that he had forgotten what they had done. She had been a demanding lover, urging him on by whispering filthy suggestions into his ear that to his surprise had overwhelmed him with desire. He heard her calling him back into the bedroom and decided he had no choice but to leave her in a non-chivalrous manner. He hobbled back into the bedroom, realising he looked ridiculous naked apart from his ankle in plaster and bandaged ribs. The woman had sat up in the bed, she made no effort to cover herself. Her breasts were heavy and full and for a split second he was tempted to return to their cushioned warmth but instead begun to dress himself without uttering a word. He left her shouting obscenities at his retreating back.

  The taxi driver had offered to help Hammond up the steps to his front door but Hammond declined. The smell he carried on him was a potent mixture of alcohol, sex and vomit. He paid the driver a large tip and returned a happy Christmas wish before attempting each step one at a time, leaning on the concrete wall and dragging the crutches under his arm. As he opened the front door, he had an idea and managed to shout to the Taxi Driver who had left the engine running whilst talking on the radio. It took several minutes of persuasion but after the promise of a triple fare, the man agreed. With the help of a passing neighbour, the taxi driver loaded the treadmill into the car. With the back seats folded down, it stuck out the open boot which was secured with rope. Hammond handed the taxi driver Lyn’s address before scrawling a message onto a post-it note and stuck it onto the package; “Dear Paul. Happy Christmas. Love Dad.”

  Hammond spent Christmas Day nursing a hangover. He lay on the sofa bed feeling sorry for himself and watching the Queen’s Speech. A tradition his Mother, who had been a loyal Royalist, had installed in him from the days of sitting around the radio tuning in to the BBC at three o’ clock on every Christmas day afternoon. Hammond watched her Royal Highness as she talked about the importance of sport and how it could be used to create harmony. He mumbled that in his case, it was too late for sport and possibly for her too, before returning her Seasons greetings and switching onto another channel. The day passed mindlessly and quietly. The telephone didn’t ring once and he wondered whether Paul or Jenny had thought about him at all. He sent a text message to Paul wishing him an enjoyable day and then forwarded the same message to Jenny’s phone. His mobile vibrated in his hand alerting him that both messages had been received. For a moment he wondered how the woman from the previous night was. He felt guilty at leaving her the way he did but justified his behaviour as that of a free thinking adult. A one night stand was no big deal, she hadn’t wanted anything apart from one thing in particular which he had granted and from what he remembered, she hadn’t been disappointed.

  Christmas passed as quickly as it had arrived and Hammond was relieved when the street outside resumed its normal activity; car engines left running whilst commuters scraped their windscreens at seven in the morning. The paced footsteps of joggers burning off the Christmas excess. During the last two days he had worked out a plan, his investigation into Harris’ enquiry was to be resumed with enthusiasm and renewed perception. Hammond felt revived knowing that any niggling doubts he had over the Graham Roberts murder could soon be explained and more importantly, proven. Even though he had officially been taken off the investigation over a month ago, his mind would not have allowed himself to forget the questions left unanswered. But now, thanks to Edwards, he could relax knowing that the investigation had been thorough after all. He smiled as he thought of his younger colleague. Arrogant and crude though he was, he was also reliable. He knew that Edwards would help him find the information he needed, and scrolled down in his phone menu to call his number. After a few rings, a small child, he couldn’t tell whether they were male or female, answered the phone. Patiently Hammond asked to speak to Tom, the child giggled and said she didn’t know a Tom. For a moment, Hammond thought he had phoned the wrong number before asking the child if he could speak to their Father. Edwards came onto the phone, he sounded breathless.

  “Apologies, I was in the middle of washing up.” Household chores was the last thing Hammond imagined his colleague doing, he played with the image in his mind before getting to the point. His colleague agreed to his request without asking any questions and agreed to call back with the information as soon as he could. They wished each other a prosperous New Year before ending the call. It was hard to imagine that it would soon be 2011. Hammond sighed; it was as if time slipped past without him noticing anymore. In April he would be fifty-three. Only four months left of his fifty-second year. Whether he chose to admit it to himself or not, he was now on the wrong side of middle age.

  The address Edwards gave was thirty miles away in Winchelsea. It wouldn’t be a problem if Hammond had a car, but he didn’t and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to drive with an ankle in plaster. It would be presumptuous, not to mention downright arrogant to ask any of the team to act as his chauffer. They were busy investigating cases that demanded their priority. There was no choice but to travel by bus. It had been years since Hammond had travelled by bus and at first, he enjoyed sitting bac
k and letting someone else have the stress of rush hour traffic. After thirty minutes, his enthusiasm flagged and he found himself screaming silently as the elderly women from the nursing home took their time to find their bus passes. They took turns to arrange their shopping trolleys on the baggage rack before the lengthy decision process of choosing their seats whilst Hammond, feeling less than charitable, mentally urged the bus to get a move on. The journey took seventy minutes, by which time Hammond had made the decision to travel homeward by taxi. He knew it was an expense he couldn’t really afford, especially after his Christmas drinking binge, but he figured that if there was a choice between lashing an old woman to the baggage rack or having to use cheaper toilet roll for the next month, there was no contest.

  “It has always been difficult for Man to realise that his life is all an art.”

  Henry Havelock Ellis. The Dance of Life. 1923

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cheryl Bailey’s house was a detached property at the end of a cul-de-sac. It stood out from the neighbouring houses with their uniformed tidy gardens and clean windows. The garden was a jungle of overgrown weeds and vigorous ivy that reached out to pedestrians on the pavement causing them to tilt their heads sideways or walk in the road. Hammond was exhausted and feeling irritable. The lame walk from the bus stop had taken longer than he expected and his ankle was protesting at the activity. For the first time that morning he wondered whether he had done the right thing coming here. He had not forewarned of his visit. If Salima Abitboul’s former flatmate had gone away for Christmas, it would have been a wasted journey. He stood at the end of the narrow path that lead to her front door and tried to ignore the pain by forcing himself to breathe slowly, he massaged his hands aching from the crutches handle then hobbled slowly towards the front door and pressed the bell with a determined finger.

  The door was opened and Hammond saw a mass of dark curly hair and flushed cheeks of a woman in her mid forties. She looked at him and surveyed him for several seconds.

  “I don’t like Charity calls. If you want a donation, please just leave an envelope through the door.”

  Hammond spoke quickly aware that the door was about to be shut in his face. He gave his name and showed her his id badge.

  The eyes that were hidden under the thick fringe of hair were suspicious. Hammond quickly explained the reason for his visit.

  “Ms Bailey, you may not recognise my name, but you and I recently were corresponding via e-mail. I am here about your concerns regarding the death of Theresa Davenport.”

  Cheryl Bailey looked aghast, Hammond had imagined that she would have deny all knowledge of Theresa Davenport but her surprise at his words had left her vulnerable and unprepared. He could see she was panicked by his revelation, he spoke with a deliberately reassuring tone explaining that he was there to offer his help. They were distracted momentarily by a group of children who were watching them unabashedly from the end of the garden path. She looked at them before her gaze returned to Hammond. Conscious of their spectators, she reluctantly invited Hammond indoors.

  “Just so you know, if you try anything I know how to defend myself.”

  Hammond replied that this was reassuring news. It took several minutes before her face relaxed. She showed him into a small living room that was neat and homely and sat down, waiting for him to do the same. Her posture was rigid and tense, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that Hammond could see white circles appearing under her finger’s pressure.

  “You are Inspector Gadget?”

  Hammond winced with acute embarrassment at his alias name being spoken aloud and wished Jenny had used a better name but he nodded and repeated his true identity.

  “How did you know who I was?”

  “After my many attempts to translate my son’s text language I finally realised that 13 could also be seen as the letter B, and Cherry is recognised as being a derivative of Cheryl.”

  She nodded and glanced down at her hands, unfolding them and studying the marks where her nails had left an impression in the skin of her hands.

  “Not very imaginative I suppose. I have never been very creative. I am more a matter-of-fact girl.”

  Hammond smiled gently. “I should say Ms Bailey that I am here on a non-official basis. I really want to ask you some questions but I should say that you are under no obligation to answer anything or indeed, give me your time, but I confess that I feel you could help me enormously.”

  Her gaze returned to his face as his words were considered. He guessed that she had decided to trust him by the readiness of her reply.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I understand you were a friend of Salima Abitboul?”

  He was replied by a sharp nod of her head which caused her fringe to fall back over her eyes.

  “You also knew Theresa Davenport?”

  “Yes, I knew Theresa through Salima. They were fostered together before Salima and I shared a flat. Theresa was a young girl then, I didn’t know her very well to be honest but Salima treated her like a little sister.”

  “Who fostered them?”

  Cheryl Bailey hesitated. It was obvious she was nervous to continue talking, she asked to see Hammond’s id again and studied his card meticulously before handing it back to him apparently reassured.

  “I don’t know the woman’s full name, Salima used to call her Mrs Goodchild. That was what they all called her.”

  “They all? There were others?” Hammond was tempted to produce the photograph of the group of children taken from the file but held back for confirmation.

  “Yes, there were quite a few. Some stayed for only a few days, others stayed longer. When Salima was there, there must have been about six children all living there.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “Not really..why are you asking? You said I could help you but how? Salima is dead now, Theresa is dead too. Why do you want to know about them?”

  The volume and pitch of her voice had risen with anxiety, Hammond realised he was about to lose his opportunity. Very quickly he explained his interest in the suicides of Theresa, Lucas Dean, Claire Bennet and Mark Callum. He told her that he believed the deaths were connected somehow and that this made him suspicious. She listened carefully whilst studying his face and he knew she was looking for tell-tell signs of deceit. Hammond deliberately spoke as honestly as he could whilst withholding any information on Lloyd Harris.

  “I didn’t know Claire. Mark Callum, yes, I remember him. He was very skinny, used to be frightened of everything. Salima was very concerned about him, she always talked about him and said that she wanted to help him but all her attempts were refused. He wouldn’t have hurt her. I think it is more likely that he kept her hairbrush as a reminder. She became his only comfort after Katie went.”

  “Katie?”

  “Mrs Goodchild’s daughter. She and Mark were very close, inseparable for most of the time. Whenever Katie wasn’t around, he was inconsolable. I didn’t spend much time at the house, Salima used to sneak me in sometimes when Goodchild wasn’t around but I hated being there anyway. I was always terrified of getting caught. Goodchild was an absolute bitch.”

  Hammond produced the photograph and asked Cheryl to identify the faces of the children. She studied the picture for a while and traced Salima’s face with a gentle forefinger.

  “That’s Salima. Beautiful wasn’t she? Poor Theresa was very dowdy in comparison. That’s Katie with Mark staring at her as usual. And Lucas..I had a crush on him for a while.”

  “Cheryl, what can you tell me about the children? What happened there?”

  She looked at him surprised. “I am not sure what you mean. I don’t think anything happened there as such

  but I can tell you that I always felt very uneasy. Goodchild was very controlling, the kids were very much under her thumb. There was one occasion that I remember. It unsettled me so much I never went back. I think that was several months before Salima moved in with me.”r />
  “What happened?”

  “I was upstairs with Salima, I had sneaked in as usual and had brought her my personal stereo for her to listen to. The kids weren’t allowed radios or stereos and Salima missed listening to music so I would sneak it in and we would hide in one of the rooms with an ear-piece each. Anyway, we heard shouting from downstairs and I panicked because I was terrified of getting caught so Salima told me to wait outside on the window ledge! We were in a room on the first floor so it wasn’t too high up and the ledge was quite broad so it wasn’t as scary as it sounds but anyway, from where I stood I could see downstairs into the porch where Goodchild was with this man. He was shouting at her, obviously furious. Goodchild was doing nothing, just standing there poised and quiet as he was screaming at her. I don’t remember what he was shouting about to be honest but I do remember that Katie appeared and he suddenly grabbed her arm and starting to pull her towards him, telling her that she had to go and live with him. Katie started crying, then Mark appeared and started to pull Katie back. Goodchild slapped Mark across the face telling him to let Katie go, that he was never to see her again. The man left with Katie. I don’t think Katie ever went back there.”

  “You said that Katie was Goodchild’s daughter?”

  “Yes, there was no doubt about that. They looked so alike.”

  “Yet she was willing to allow this man to take Katie away?”

  “Like I said, Goodchild was a bitch. I don’t understand why she fostered the kids anyway, she didn’t care for them, she ruled them.”

  “How? Was she violent?”

  “No, I mean, she slapped Mark but in those days it wasn’t seen as abuse to slap your children if they misbehaved. But Goodchild was a very devious woman. She controlled them through mind games. I didn’t understand it at the time, I was too young, but looking back, yes, I would say that Goodchild was psychologically violent.”