Eric returned to the file, producing a photocopy of the pathologist's notes and holding it aloft.
Tom looked at Tamara. "Do you think it's worth revisiting the autopsy to see if anything was missed?"
"How long ago was all of this, Eric?" she asked.
"Eighteen years, almost to the day."
"See if the pathologist is still around," she said, eyeing the report. "Although, after this amount of time they'll probably be retired—"
"Norfolk's a lovely place to retire to, though," Tom said, cracking a smile. "It would be nice to get a first-hand account rather than just having to pick over old copy."
"I'm on it," Eric said, looking at the cover sheet. "Paging Dr Alistair Langford—"
"Who?" Tom asked, exchanging a glance with Tamara.
"Lang," Tamara said. Eric and Cassie both looked confused. "Felgate had a meeting the week before last with Lang, he'd written it in his diary."
Tom tapped Eric gently on the shoulder. "Quick as you can, Eric. Find us Dr Langford."
* * *
The address Eric gave Tom took him to a chalet-style house in an elevated position on the outskirts of Sheringham overlooking the sea. On the coast it was proving to be a beautiful, crisp winter day. A stiff breeze blowing in off the sea made it feel way below zero but even without it, it was a day to wrap up. A Land Rover Discovery was parked in the driveway and Tom saw a small boat on a trailer undercover, beneath a carport to one side of the house. Cassie joined him as he made his way to the front door.
The door opened before they reached the porch, greeted with a warm smile by an elderly man with wispy white hair.
"You must be Detective Inspector Janssen?" he said.
Tom produced his identification but Dr Langford waved it away without looking at it.
"Do come in," he said, beckoning them to enter and stepping back into the house. They entered, Cassie closing the door. Dr Langford stood to one side, aided by a cane which he leaned on for support. He was dressed in cream trousers and a burgundy woollen cardigan, buttoned up to his chest.
"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"No trouble at all. It's nice to have a foot back in the game, so to speak," Langford said, grinning. The lines on his face were amplified by the smile and Tom noted liver spots forming on his brow close to the hairline. Their host ushered them through the house. The hall was clad in pine, stained a dark brown. The house decor was all very sixties in both style and substance. A large yellow paper lantern, in the shape of a ball, hung above them illuminating the hall. It was necessary despite the bright sunshine outside because the combination of the pine cladding and matching Sapele doors sucked the natural light out of the narrow passage.
Langford took them through to an open-plan kitchen and dining room, wrapping around the rear of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden. The sixties feel continued in here, the kitchen looking like it hadn't been updated since the house was built. They declined the offer of tea and took a seat before an open fire.
"When did you retire?" Tom asked, while Cassie took out her notebook.
Langford eased himself into his chair, looking unsteady on his feet while doing so and let out a relieved sigh when he was able to set aside his cane.
"Fifteen years ago." He frowned. "I still miss it. I shouldn't have let myself be pushed out of the door."
"They made you retire?" Tom asked.
Langford grinned. "Not work, no. My good lady wife thought it time I took it a little easier."
"Ah, I see," Tom said smiling and looking around. He hadn't seen anyone else. Langford followed Tom's gaze, then reached to his right and picked up a framed photograph, offering it to Tom. It was a picture of a woman, she had long blonde hair and a kind smile.
"I'm afraid Sally passed a few years ago now. This was her favourite spot," he pointed to the fireplace, "right here beside the fire. You can't beat it on a winter day like this."
"I'm so sorry," Tom said, returning the photograph. Langford put it back in the same spot, repositioning it several times. Tom guessed he was a man of detail, unsurprising judging by the profession he worked in. "We would like to talk to you about one of your old cases."
"Yes, yes. Your young detective constable said that." Langford, elbows on the arms of his chair, brought his hands together and formed a steeple with his fingers. "But he was reticent to tell me which one. It was all very cloak and dagger."
"I wouldn't quite put it that way," Tom said, smiling.
"Oh, please don't take this away from me, Inspector. It's the most excitement I've had in years. Lawn bowls and weekly bridge games don't really cut it anymore."
"What about sailing?" Tom said, looking to his left as if he could see through the walls of the house towards the boat outside.
Langford laughed dryly, gently tapping his knee. "Sadly, those days are behind me. When my children visit, in the summer, we often take the boat out but even they tell me I should sell it and be done with my time on the water! If I had my choice, when the time comes," his expression took on a faraway look, "I think I would rather like the prospect of being buried at sea."
"Why?" Cassie asked. "If you don't mind me asking?"
"Not at all, young lady. I'm not sure really, but I think it looks like fun, don't you?"
"I–I suppose so," Cassie said, evidently amused.
"Now, which case can I help you with?"
"Ciaran Haverson," Tom said. Langford's smile faded.
Chapter Nine
"Really? The young Haverson suicide; popular choice," Langford said, the lines in his forehead deepening further. "You're the second ones to ask me about that case recently. It's like waiting for a bus to come along. Not that I do that very much. Public transport – predictable, functional but expensive and not very comfortable." Tom held out his hands, encouraging him to continue. "It was a journalist who visited me, a chap called Farthing or something … now, when was it?" He pursed his lips, cupping his chin with thumb and forefinger and thinking hard. "I believe it was a week, maybe ten days ago. Something like that anyway."
"And he was asking about Ciaran Haverson?"
Langford nodded enthusiastically.
"What was he asking about specifically?"
"He wanted to go over my conclusions based on my autopsy notes, but he didn't reference anything specific that I recall." He frowned. "I don't know why, I couldn't tell him anything different to what it said in my write-up, and it was all read out at the poor boy's inquest by the coroner."
"Do you know if he was also planning to speak to the coroner?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but he wouldn't have had any joy there. Colin passed away a number of years ago."
"Colin being the coroner?" Tom asked. Langford confirmed it with a nod. "As we understand it, this journalist was usually writing lifestyle pieces rather than following up on this type of case. What was his angle, do you know?"
"No idea whatsoever, I'm afraid," Langford said, splaying his hands wide. "I asked him, of course, but all I could get from him was that he was coming at it from a new angle."
"What angle?" Cassie asked.
Langford sat forward, meeting her eye. "Didn't say." He sat back again. "I imagine he was writing a book about it or something. Isn't that what journalists do? Particularly when they are bored with writing fluff pieces."
"Fluff pieces?" Cassie repeated.
"Yes, all that guff about interior design and homemade candles and the like will drive anyone mad." Tom offered him a quizzical expression. "I looked up this Gareth Furlong chap after he'd left. You can find most things online now. I would be looking for something more interesting to write about if I were him too."
Tom couldn't help but notice Langford's short-term memories suffered with accuracy issues; he could only hope those from the past would fare better.
"One thing that stood out to me regarding the Haverson suicide was the coroner's verdict…"
"An open verdict rath
er than suicide?" Langford asked. Tom nodded. "Well, that's not so hard to understand when you think about it. Although every indication pointed towards the poor lad having taken his own life, the lack of the deceased's clothing being found anywhere near the body – along with the graze to the knuckles – indicated the possible presence of another person. That possibility left Colin with no alternative but to deliver an open verdict."
"I see," Tom said, putting his hands together, gently rubbing one palm against the other. "I've read your autopsy notes already but it pays to hear things first hand."
"That's exactly what Fulford said too."
"Right. So, in your mind, you didn't have any doubts as to the case being a suicide?"
"Well … your notes can't always convey all of your thoughts, can they, Inspector? I mean, people like us, we deal in facts and leave supposition to others, don't we?"
Tom fixed his eye on the retired pathologist. "Humour me if you don't mind? I know what you wrote but what did you think?"
"An amateur job, I must say… to put it bluntly." His expression clouded. "A good hangman's noose should be able to break the neck," he demonstrated with his hands, pulling one clenched fist away from the other in a rapid upward motion, "but this one was nowhere near up to the task. The rope was neither tightly pulled against the neck nor thick enough, in my opinion. Not that I am an expert in such endeavours. I fear the poor lad slowly strangled to the death … until the delight of asphyxiation finally took him." Langford sat in silence for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. He looked at Tom. "To answer your question candidly, I cannot say with any certainty whether young Haverson took his own life, but I was left with an uneasy feeling. And that hasn't left me to this day."
"What troubles you about it?"
"Although the tying of the noose was all wrong, therefore indicative of a novice which adds weight to the theory of suicide, there were other factors that led me to speculate otherwise. For instance, the boy's clothing."
"It was found some distance away."
"Quite right, Inspector," he wagged a pointed finger in the air before him, "a quarter of a mile away, hidden under some brush according to the search team. Why would Ciaran remove his clothes on a chilly November night and walk, or run, naked to his chosen spot. Couple that with the lack of mud on the soles of the boy's feet, irrespective of the frosty ground, I find it surprising that he was considered to have covered the ground from where his clothes were found to the location of his death barefoot. I've seen all manner of suicides over the years – and some are indeed bizarre – but this one stood out for me."
"Giving weight to the suicide theory, however, was that I could find no evidence of trauma elsewhere on the body; no sign of a struggle, defensive wounds or trace evidence under fingernails, no sign of sexual assault … nothing that one could reasonably expect to find in the event of a suspicious death. There were abrasions on his neck, caused by the rope, but they were at the correct angle to denote a hanging, as opposed to a strangulation and then a subsequent hanging. It is quite easy to tell the difference from a professional point of view." He shook his head. "No, no, Ciaran Haverson went to that place willingly, or at the very least without putting up a physical argument about it."
"What about the graze on the knuckles? Couldn't that be considered a defensive injury; the result of a scuffle maybe?"
"Possibly, yes," Langford said, nodding. "But with no other DNA or signs to reinforce the idea, it is unlikely. How could a teenager be forced up a ladder or clamber up a tree without there being more evidence for it. The absence of a ladder or other method of getting into the air was also troublesome. Maybe he climbed the tree and jumped from the branch but the abrasions on his neck, particularly with such a loose rope, didn't support that theory, so how did he do it? Then there were the contents of his stomach."
"What about them?"
"He'd recently eaten. Not a full meal but he'd filled up on junk food, crisps, chocolate bars and the like. That's not the behaviour of someone planning a suicide attempt – an impulsive overdose in a fit of depression perhaps, but not a scenario like this one. He also had alcohol in his bloodstream, but it was only point zero four, certainly not enough to consider him intoxicated to the point of impaired thought or irrational bouts of behaviour, regardless of how young he was. I recall he was a slightly-built young man, below average height for his age but, in my opinion, he would easily be able to process what he had in his system."
"Just so that we are clear," Tom said, "you don't believe Ciaran was alone on Roydon Common that night?"
Langford shook his head. "Unlikely … but it is speculation. I cannot prove it either way. That is a conclusion drawn only from viewing the evidence within my scope though. Colin, the assigned coroner, had access to much more information than I did, the boy's background, his interpersonal relationships along with his state of mind at the time. He was … a mixed-up child."
"And did you speak of all of this with Gavin Felgate?"
"Who?" Langford's eyes narrowed momentarily. "Oh, the journalist. Yes, yes, I did. I appreciate dragging all of this up again after this amount of time will be traumatic for the relatives, but if the man was writing a book anyway, then I may as well be as open and frank as possible. Particularly if someone else was present that night."
Tom passed him one of his contact cards. "I appreciate you taking the time to speak to us. If you remember anything else you think might be pertinent, please give me a call."
Langford accepted the card, holding it aloft and squinting to read it. "Haven't got my glasses on," he said, frowning. "No matter. I'm happy to be of use. It's been a long time since I could say that. Are you reopening the case?"
"Haverson?" Tom asked. Langford nodded. "No, we are investigating something else."
"How delightfully interesting, Inspector. And this … Felgate fellow is doing likewise?"
Tom shook his head, standing up. "We are following a different inquiry. Again, thank you for your time."
They showed themselves out. Tom mulling over what they'd heard, trying to decide how credible the retired pathologist's speculative thoughts were.
"Penny for them?" Cassie asked, drawing her jacket about her, as they walked back to the car.
"I'm thinking just as much about what was going through Felgate's mind as I am about Langford's theories."
"How so?"
"What was his interest – Felgate's? I mean, a teenage suicide is undoubtedly tragic, but statistically quite common, so why this one and why now?"
"True, a lot of time has passed. What's brought it to mind?"
Tom stopped, turning himself away from the wind and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "We need to revisit the Haverson suicide."
Cassie shook her head. "That'll not be easy. There wasn't a lot to go on back then and it was ages ago."
"I know," Tom said. "But specifically, where did he get the alcohol from? It was probably the same place he bought the food; that's not the type of snacks you take with you when you head out for an evening. You'll pick that type of thing up when you're out and about."
"I didn't see many convenience shops around Roydon Common," Cassie said. "What about the actual village? I've never been, is there a shop there?"
Tom shrugged. "Petrol station, sure, but we'll have to see if it has a licence to sell alcohol … and whether it did back then. There's a village shop in nearby Bressingham as well, but it's not the place to sell to minors."
"So, we're looking into an eighteen-year-old suicide as well now?"
He smiled, gesturing for them to resume their walk to the car. "Do you still think it was a suicide?"
Cassie grimaced but didn't press it. When they came to the car, she looked back at the house, nodding her head towards it.
"Why didn't you tell Langford what happened to Felgate? He was itching to know what we are investigating."
Tom smiled. "I know he was but," he followed her gaze back to the house, "we're police officers. We ask
more questions than we give answers. Until we have a better handle on what this is all about, I want to keep it that way."
Chapter Ten
The pathology lab was cold, every movement creating an exaggerated sound reverberating off the solid surfaces. A body lay on a stainless-steel post-mortem table in the centre of the room covered in a light blue sheet. Cassie, standing next to Tom, shuddered.
"These places give me the creeps," she said quietly.
"You'd be a bit strange if they didn't," Tom said.
"How long is Dr Death going to keep us waiting do you think?" she said just as the door opened and a flustered Dr Tim Paxton hurried through, a clutch of papers and two folders under his arms.
"Sorry … sorry, to keep you waiting, Tom," he said in passing, crossing to a desk against the far wall and carefully unburdening himself. "I had a quick call to make which led to a longer call, more questions and …" He waved away his excuse, coming back to stand with them and smiling at Cassie. "DS Knight. Lovely to see you again."
"And you, Dr Paxton." She deferentially bowed her head slightly, a motion the pathologist eyed warily. The polite acknowledgements of one another aside, they didn't get on. Tom judged that Cassie was a little too outspoken for Dr Paxton, him having made several references to her nature on previous occasions. Only to Tom, mind you, and never in front of Cassie herself. Tom figured he wasn't brave enough to do that. He was confident the feeling was mutual. Tom indicated the body on the table.
"Gavin Felgate?"
"Indeed, yes," Paxton said, walking to the head of the table and pulling back the sheet in a slow, controlled manner. "Not the most interesting of specimens you have ever delivered to me, Tom."
"Sorry about that," Cassie said dryly, "we'll try to find a more interesting victim for you next time."
"Sarcasm, DS Knight, will get you nowhere. Didn't your parents ever tell you that?"
"Often gets me a free drink at the bar, though," she retorted with an accompanying wink. Paxton turned his back on her, Tom casting her a disapproving look that only she would see. She whispered, "Well, it does, depending on who's behind the bar anyway."
A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8 Page 7