Doors Without Numbers by C.D. Neill Read Free Book Online Page A

own kitchen. There were the cooking books that Lyn had left him, stacked up under the boiler (still unread), several tea towels hanging over the oven door, coasters of various shapes and sizes. He remembered that an odd pair of socks were still waiting to be re-homed from their place on the radiator. He had accumulated several magnets over the years and automatically put them on the fridge door, they had no use other to secure the loose postcards he would occasionally receive. The kitchen in the photograph was a stark contrast to his own living conditions. It had no clutter at all. It was bare in all the rooms. The bedroom housed a single bed with a duvet covered in a plain beige sheet and a pillow encased in a matching plain pillow-case. A three drawer chest and a wooden chair in the corner were the only furniture. All rooms were devoid of pictures. There were no posters, no photographs, not even a pin board. Light bulbs hang from the ceiling uncovered. Judging from the photographs Hammond was viewing, Mark Callum hadn’t been alive even when his heart had been beating.
    He read the pathologist report several times. Dr Karen Leyland had confirmed the cause of death using the evidence of high levels of carbon dioxide in the blood and bloodshot eyes. Hammond peered closer at the autopsy photograph of Callum’s neck. There were traces of glue residue from the tape and tracks where the tape had been wound so tight, but there were no finger nail marks or anything to suggest an attempt to remove the tape in a last minute panic.
    Hammond leafed through the photographs, taken at different angles of the body. On one photograph, showing the back of Callum, a small scar was visible on the left shoulder-blade. Rulers beside and underneath the scar showed it measured four centimetres across and three centimetres in depth. Although the camera had taken a good clear photograph of the scar, Hammond found himself peering closer to the photograph. The scar was bright pink and looked like a bubble. It had a shape to it, as if it had grown outwards from the centre of the shoulder blade. It would have been noticeable if Callum had been shirtless. In her report Dr Leyland had described the raised area of scar tissue as a hypertrophic scar. A name Hammond had been unaware of until now. She had hypothesised in the report that Callum had sustained an injury to the shoulder blade during childhood that had caused an overgrowth of fibrous tissue.
    Footprints of a man’s shoe found at the scene had been identified as belonging to the delivery man who had raised the alarm. Hammond read the witness account. The Courier’s name was Brad Kelsey, aged 57 years. His story had been checked by the investigative team who confirmed Kelsey’s story. He had been employed by Parcel Force for the last eighteen months. Kelsey had been delegated to deliver a parcel to Callum’s neighbours. The neighbours had been away and therefore he had used his common sense to leave the parcel with Callum. He had sworn in his statement that Callum’s door had been open which was why he had ventured inside. It was luck that Callum had been found when he did, mere coincidence.
    Hammond looked again at the scene photos. Callum had died seated on the floor with legs outstretched, his back leaning against a plain wall, his hands resting with open palms beside him. The skin was devoid of any scratches or defence marks. There wasn’t even a graze on the bag to suggest he had attempted to rip open the plastic covering that enveloped his head. Hammond looked over the report numerous times, flicking from one account to another. There had been no foreign fibres found anywhere on the body, the only foreign evidence found in the apartment was a hairbrush found in a drawer with Salima Abitboul’s passport. Hammond already knew from his conversation with Harris that the hairs found on the brush were Salima’s. He leafed through the pages looking for more information on this but found