Time of Death

32

Mia Hammond was a twenty-nine-year-old orphan. There was something so poignant about it. Ren didn’t want to intrude on her grief, but if she ever let that feeling stop her, she would get nowhere. Sifting through wreckage was all part of the job.

When Ren introduced herself, Mia Hammond looked like she could have laid on the ground right there and curled up into a ball.

‘I’d just like to speak with you about your father’s funeral, please,’ said Ren. ‘It won’t take long.’

Mia looked surprised. ‘His funeral?’

Ren nodded. ‘I saw that Lucinda Kerr was there. Can I ask how you know her?’

‘I don’t, actually,’ said Mia. ‘I recognized her, obviously, because of who she is. I just thought that maybe she knew my father through work. But she came up to me afterwards and said that she remembered me from when I was a child. She and her husband used to live on our street. I had no idea.’

The Everetts lived on the same street as Douglas Hammond?

‘Did she say when this was?’

‘She said I was a toddler. So that would have to have been around 1983, because we moved shortly after mom died. Obviously, my father didn’t want to stay in the house.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Ren.

‘Sorry, but what has Lucinda Kerr got to do with anything?’

‘I’m information-gathering at this point,’ said Ren.

‘For what?’

‘I can’t say.’ I’m not sure myself…

Peter Everett’s house was another in Ren’s straight run of beautiful homes with not-so-beautiful stories to tell. He invited Ren in and led her to his study, a room with a glass wall that overlooked a softly lit pool area surrounded by pale granite flagstones, dotted with patches of snow. The house was tastefully designed and decorated, but the sadness was overwhelming.

Or maybe that’s because I know what he has lost.

Everett’s face betrayed it all — he was a very attractive man being seen at his worst — exhausted, puffy-eyed, hollowed out. He was tall and slim with dark hair in an old-fashioned side parting. He was dressed in a pink V-neck cashmere sweater with a white T-shirt underneath, a pair of dark blue jeans and brown loafers. Despite the preppy look, Ren imagined he drew all kinds of women to him without even trying and without even realizing it.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Helen,’ said Ren.

Everett nodded, but looked as though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

‘She was a wonderful person,’ said Ren. ‘You must be devastated.’

He seemed thrown. ‘Yes. I…you knew her?’

‘I always had a lot of time for Helen.’ Scheduled time.

He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Everyone did.’ His voice cracked.

Ren could barely hold it together herself. ‘Mr Everett, I wanted to talk to you about the book you said Helen was writing?’

‘It was in its very early stages.’

‘Did Helen say what the book was about?’

‘It was about her practice, about the treatment of a broad spectrum of mental illnesses, about medication versus talk therapy, et cetera.’

‘And when did she start writing it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘I wouldn’t say she had particularly started writing it. It was more at the thinking stage. Maybe for the past few months.’

‘Did she have a publisher?’

‘No. But I don’t think that would have been a concern at that stage. What she’d really been working up to was putting together a synopsis and a pitch.’

‘And had she requested permission from any of her patients for their details to be included?’

‘As far as I know, not yet,’ said Peter. ‘It wasn’t going to be public knowledge any time soon. Helen wouldn’t have dreamed of releasing anything without a patient’s permission. And a publisher would certainly never publish without it. She was even careful about the initial notes she was making.’

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.