Alex Barclay - Time of Death

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means: you’re only happy when it rains.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘And because you don’t believe that’s true, it will never change,’ said Ren. ‘It must be exhausting.’

‘I am exhausted.’

Ren let out a breath. ‘Go, get some rest. Do something nice for yourself. Why don’t you and Dad go out for dinner?’

‘I’m worried your father might-’

‘Might what ? Steal some of your French fries? Slip on a wet tile in the men’s room? Choke to death on a piece of steak? You need to get a swear jar, Mom, but instead of putting a dollar into it when you swear, do it when you start a sentence with “I’m worried…” Call it a Worry Jar. And by Christmas, you’ll have saved up enough money to go on that cruise around the world that you were worried you would never have enough money to go on. Or would you be too worried that the ship would sink?’

‘Sinking is the least of my worries. People are getting murdered on cruise ships these days.’

Ren started laughing. ‘Oh, you’ll have that money saved up by next week. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Enjoy your dinner with Dad.’

‘What if people in the restaurant are all staring at us?’

‘It will only be because they’re thinking, “Look at that handsome couple. Isn’t it wonderful that a couple who have been together that long can still be so in love?”’

‘Even if your father does drive me crazy sometimes.’

‘B’bye, Mom.’

Ren got a cab at the airport and was about to head for Annie’s when she remembered her Jeep was at Safe Streets. The taxi dropped her off. There was a light on in the office. She went in and took the stairs to the fourth floor. Gary was in his office with the door closed. Ren carried on walking, into the bullpen. There was an envelope on her desk from the lab. It was the results from the DNA cross-match with the semen on Trudie Hammond’s nightgown. She ripped open the envelope and scanned the pages.

I knew it.

Ren looked at her watch. It was 11 p.m.

If I can disturb the dead at this time, I can definitely disturb the living.

Peter Everett opened his door slowly and let his arm fall limp at his side. His hair was standing on end, his eyes red, his pupils like pinholes.

‘You must have been a very nervous man over the past few weeks,’ said Ren.

It threw him. ‘Nervous?’ He stared at her. ‘Why would I be nervous?’

‘Can I come in?’

He nodded.

They went into the living room this time. He gave Ren the sofa and stood leaning against the bureau opposite it, his arms and legs crossed.

‘Please sit down.’ Ren gestured to the seat across from hers. He sat down.

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s do this.’ She slid a photo across the table between them.

Everett’s eyes shot wide. He frowned.

‘You know who that is,’ said Ren.

‘Uh…yeah. It’s…Judge Hammond’s wife. Trudie.’

Ren nodded. ‘It is.’ She let the silence between them stretch to minutes. He had stopped looking at the photo after his first quick glance. But Ren could sense, behind his eyes, rapid traveling thoughts.

‘I won’t show you a crime-scene photo,’ said Ren.

Tears welled and disappeared into his eyes. In seconds.

‘Tell me,’ said Ren. ‘I know, but tell me.’

Another long silence.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Everett. ‘Tell you what?’

‘I’m not playing this game with you,’ said Ren. ‘This back-and-forth thing. What happened to Trudie Hammond? And do not respond with any variation on “Tell you what?” or “How would I know?” I don’t want to hear it. I don’t have the time or the patience.’

Everett’s hand had a tiny tremor when he lifted it again to rub his forehead.

‘Douglas Hammond moved from the area three months after the murder. You and Lucinda moved within two.’

‘Wouldn’t you have?’ said Peter. ‘The whole place had changed. We didn’t like the idea of bringing up our daughter on a street where someone had been murdered. Especially when the killer hadn’t been caught. And as for Douglas Hammond moving, well, he had even more of a reason.’

‘Anyway,’ said Ren. ‘I’m looking through the file and thinking about all of that and how there was something missing. I don’t know if you know much about cold-case investigations, but the main bummer is that you’re working with, in this case, a twenty-seven-year-old file and the limited homicide experience of the investigators. It was quite a thin file, all things considered.’

Everett had no idea where she was going.

‘What we did have, wrapped in a brown paper bag — God bless Detective Whoever — was Trudie Hammond’s nightgown…’

Something was slowly dawning on Peter Everett.

Ren kept going. ‘So I figured, maybe those blood stains weren’t all Trudie Hammond’s. There may have been blood stains from the killer; the vase used to beat her to death had shattered, so he may have gotten cut himself. Back then, they didn’t have the means to test for DNA and determine who the blood belonged to. So I sent the nightgown to the lab…and, no, it was all just Trudie Hammond’s blood.’

Everett appeared to be relaxing.

Not so fast. ‘But what the lab did find was semen stains. On the back of her nightgown. There was so much blood, that no one had paid any attention. And even if they had, Douglas Hammond said he’d had sex with his wife that morning. I might have overlooked that semen stain too, but I believe with a cold-case file you take what’s there and do everything you can with it. Especially something that the original investigators didn’t. So, what the hell, I ran it anyway. And it turns out, it wasn’t Douglas Hammond’s semen. But there were no signs of rape, so consensual sex was had.’

‘I don’t need to hear the details of Trudie Hammond’s death,’ said Everett. ‘Or her file. Or the stains on her nightgown.’

‘Oh, you do,’ said Ren. ‘Back to Helen Wheeler. You’re dating her. She is murdered. The judge who is trying to access her patient files is killed. You used to know him.’ Ren paused. ‘How did you meet Helen Wheeler?’

‘At a benefit.’

‘When?’

‘In September last year.’

‘Had you ever been a patient of hers?’

‘What? No. Psychiatrists are not allowed to date-’

‘Are you for real?’ said Ren.

‘Look, we met at a benefit. We dated. It went from there…’

‘This all seems a little coincidental.’

‘Well, it’s not. Not to me.’

‘So, you didn’t come as a patient to Dr Helen Wheeler and, in therapy, reveal to her that you killed Trudie Hammond? Something that you were afraid Douglas Hammond would find if he accessed the files? The newspapers reported that investigators were looking at the possibility that a patient had killed Dr Wheeler, so…’

‘What are you talking about? This is ridiculous. I did not kill Trudie Hammond. Nor was I ever Helen’s patient. And I barely knew Douglas Hammond. I swear to God.’

‘You may not have known him…Most men would rather not know the husband of the woman they’re sleeping with.’

Everett froze.

‘Did you not see that’s where I was going with the DNA thing?’ said Ren. ‘I had the lab run the semen stain against the sample you gave for the Helen Wheeler investigation. I got a match. It’s black and white. Either you used Trudie Hammond’s nightgown to-’

I can’t stoop that low.

Everett swallowed hard. He said nothing. In the silence, Ren could not take her eyes off him. She treated times like these, pauses from the guilty, as a form of meditation, one of the few times she could be still yet keep her mind on work. It wasn’t healthy meditation, she knew that. It wasn’t as serene as looking at a flickering candle or a statue of Buddha. She snapped out of it when Everett raised his head.