Alex Barclay - Time of Death

Not careful enough. ‘Are you saying that no part of the book was actually written?’

‘The only thing she had done were the notes that you have. She and I were the only ones who knew that that was what she was doing.’

‘Yes, we have the notes, but there’s not a lot of information in them.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. Helen was discreet…obviously.’

Ren nodded. She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘May I ask how the book is relevant to the investigation?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information,’ said Ren. ‘Oh, by the way, I was just speaking with Mia Hammond — Douglas Hammond’s daughter…’

‘The judge?’

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘She told me you used to be neighbors.’

‘A long time ago.’

‘You weren’t at the funeral.’

‘No.’

‘Your ex-wife, Lucinda was there. She went up to Mia Hammond and introduced herself.’

‘Ah,’ said Peter. ‘That’s the type of thing Lucinda would do. Yes. We lived in Everdale on the same street as the Hammonds. It wasn’t for long. I guess it was just a year or so.’

‘Were you living there when Trudie Hammond was murdered?’

‘Sadly, yes,’ said Peter. ‘It was a terrible time.’

‘Were you in Everdale for long after that?’

‘No — Lucinda was pregnant with our daughter. Everdale was only meant to be a temporary home, while our new house was being built.’

‘Ah,’ said Ren. ‘Did you know the Hammonds well?’

‘No. They were across the street and down a few houses. But they seemed like a nice family.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Well, thank you for your time.’

‘That’s no problem,’ said Peter. ‘If there’s anything else I can do…’

Ren shook his hand and left.

Gary called Ren into his office when she arrived back.

‘Good news,’ said Gary. ‘Looks like your files are going to remain secret for a long time. One of Helen’s patients got wind of the cops wanting to access privileged files, the word spread and a whole bunch of patients’ lawyers waded in.’

‘Thank God,’ said Ren. ‘Thank God. I wonder how it got out.’

‘Could’ve come from anywhere. Helen’s secretary would be a strong candidate…’

‘Yes.’ Go, Sandy, go.

‘So there you have it.’ Gary nodded. His we’re-done-here nod.

Ren stood up. ‘You are…’ So clinical. And impassive.

Gary looked up at her. ‘What?’

‘You are…’ Ren paused. ‘Do you play poker?’

Gary laid his pen down. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact.’

‘Do you win a lot?’

‘Yes. But I don’t play for real money.’

‘Isn’t that part of the fun?’

‘Maybe to some people.’

‘And when you say “people”, you mean “losers”?’

Gary was back writing. He didn’t look up. ‘Every opponent of mine is a loser by definition.’

Men are simple folk. Compete. Win. Repeat. Apply liberally to all areas.

Ren went to her desk and sat very still, her hands in her lap, her eyes straight ahead, staring at nothing.

My file is safe.

She couldn’t quite believe it would stay that way. She pulled her keyboard toward her and typed Trudie Hammond’s name into Google. Almost a decade ago, Trudie Hammond’s murder file had become the responsibility of the Jefferson County Cold Case Unit — a one-person unit run by a detective Janine Hooks. Ren went to the website and scrolled through the forty cases posted on it — missing persons, homicides, unidentified remains — the text broken up with images of the victims or their possessions or their reconstructed clay faces. She scanned through the reports. Trudie Hammond’s case was the twelfth one in and read like the news report. There were three other cold cases listed whose victims had last names beginning with H. Ren picked one at random and studied it. Then she grabbed her jacket and purse and headed for the door.

The Jefferson County Cold Case Unit was housed in a government complex off Main Street in Golden. Ren had been there before — to Dr Barry Tolman’s office, the pathologist to sixteen counties, including Jefferson. Ren went to reception and asked for Janine Hooks.

There was a temp on reception who looked as though she had never used a phone, a piece of paper or a pen before. She managed to get through to Hooks on the third attempt. She turned to Ren. ‘She’ll be free in about ten minutes. Are you OK to wait, ma’am?’

Ma’am. ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ren. ‘I’m going to go outside for a cigarette.’

‘They’re not too keen on smoking out front,’ said the receptionist, as if she was delivering a death notification.

‘OK,’ said Ren.

She went out the front door and took a cigarette from the pack she kept in her purse for use whenever she needed it. Real cigarettes, fake uses. She headed round to the back of the building where two PAs stood smoking and bitching. They gave Ren a light and, in pushing a few buttons on a keypad on their way back in, provided some helpful information she didn’t even have to ask for. She stubbed out the cigarette, popped two sticks of cinnamon gum in her mouth, and strolled around to the front entrance and up the stairs to the second floor.

Janine Hooks worked in a blow-your-brains-out office: small, brown, beige, seventies. Hooks was sitting in the visitor’s chair, facing her own empty chair. From the back, she looked like a teenage boy, her neck skinny and sinewy, her head small with short, wispy dark brown hair. She turned at the sound of Ren’s footsteps. She had huge brown eyes, faintly shadowed, sharp cheekbones and a large, wide mouth with prominent teeth and full, angular lips. Individually, it was a strange collection of features, but it came together to create a pretty vulnerability. If dogs could look like their owners, Janine Hooks could look like her job — there was something lost in there, waiting to be saved. She was a living cold case.

‘Hello,’ said Hooks, standing up, trying to repackage a sandwich with her left hand while holding out the right one.

Ren was thrown by Hooks’ body. She wondered if Hooks was used to people having a delayed reaction to her — she was remarkably thin. Probably anorexic. Her shirt was tucked in as far as it could go, her pants tied with a belt that she probably had to cut in half to fit. She was immaculately dressed. She offered Ren coffee and revealed a warm smile. There was something likeable about Janine Hooks.

‘Hi,’ said Ren, carefully shaking Hooks’ tiny hand. ‘Ren Bryce from Safe Streets in Denver.’

‘Yes, sit down, sit down.’

‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, but I read that you are investigating the…Hopkins murder from 1989 and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about it.’

‘Why?’ said Hooks. She didn’t take her eyes off Ren.

Shit. ‘I read online that Hopkins was shot and his body was dumped in the Golden River. I was wondering if you could give me any further details on that. Last year, I worked a case where the victim was dumped in the Clear Creek River. Dr Tolman performed the autopsy, in fact, if you’d like to check with him.’

‘So, what…you’re looking at body dumps in rivers as being connected?’

‘Yes, actually,’ said Ren. ‘Why not?’

‘Sure, but…’ Hooks shrugged, got up and walked over to a cabinet and pulled the file. Hopkins, filed under H. Hooks’ files were organized by the victim’s last name, not the year of the crime, not type of crime, not in a file cabinet hidden away in a back office — just right here in this grim little space.

She opened the folder. Her tiny hands had long, delicate fingers. ‘OK, let me see…here it is. GSW-’