Twelve Deaths of Christmas

by Jackson Sharp

  When did you stop trusting your own damn police force? she asked herself, with a sense of disbelief.

  DiMacedo’s voicemail greeting came to the beep, and Cox left a brisk message: call me back, extremely urgent, extremely important, extremely interesting.

  That last part was the hook, she knew.

  Naysmith came in around twelve, in a foul mood and looking like hell. This, Cox knew, wasn’t going to be any fun. She wondered how much of last night’s conversation he’d remember.

  ‘My office, Cox,’ he called across the CID suite.

  She sighed.

  ‘Coming, guv.’

  The DCI’s office was scruffy and cramped and smelled thinly of last night’s booze and instant coffee. Naysmith was slumped in his chair when Cox went in and closed the door; he glowered up at her, grey-faced and clearly unhappy.

  ‘Sit down.’

  The only other chair was threadbare, springless, showing its bones. The Bollocking Chair, they called it. Cox perched awkwardly on the edge.

  ‘What’s the latest, guv?’

  ‘The latest? There isn’t any latest, Cox.’ He took a slurp of coffee from his stained souvenir Bradford Bulls mug. ‘There isn’t any latest because there isn’t any case.’

  ‘There’s a dead body and no decent explanation is what there is, guv.’

  ‘Don’t get lippy with me, inspector. The MoJ is satisfied that Radley committed suicide – and if they’re happy, I’m happy. The coroner’s report will come to the same conclusion.’

  ‘I’d like to know how you can be so sure of that. And what the hell has it got to do with the bloody Ministry anyway?’

  ‘If they take an interest, what am I going to do, tell them to mind their own business? Get real, Cox, please. Radley was high up. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’d done some work for them on the side.’

  ‘You tell them,’ Cox said, trying to keep a grip on the pitch of her voice, ‘that your investigating officer is on the case. That she will conduct a full and thorough investigation into the circumstances of William Radley’s death.’

  ‘Only she won’t, will she, Cox?’ Naysmith said tiredly. ‘Because I’m going to order her not to. I’m going to tell her she’s wasted enough time on this already. I’m going to tell her she needs to leave it alone.’

  The DCI’s flat vowels lent a heavy emphasis to his final words.

  ‘Harrington.’

  The word escaped from her like steam from under a saucepan lid. Naysmith’s eyes flashed.

  ‘Mention that man’s name to me again and I’ll have you on fucking traffic duty,’ he said.

  Cox shook her head. Keep it together, Kerry.

  But that was harder than it sounded. Sure, she’d had bad bosses before, bosses who were mean, or obstructive, or bullying, or even abusive – but this wasn’t some over-promoted arsehole or a new guy trying to make a name for himself. This was Pete Naysmith. Christ, the things they’d been through together …

  Cox didn’t find trust easy, never had. But she’d trusted Naysmith.

  Fuck it.

  ‘You’ve changed, guv. Five years ago you’d have backed me up on this.’

  He stared at her levelly.

  ‘Yeah. And look where that got us.’

  Cox acknowledged the point with a nod, gulping down an ache in her throat.

  ‘I’m right about this, guv,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I know it. This wasn’t a suicide. I followed up at the restaurant – Radley argued with someone the day before he died. Please –’

  ‘Don’t ask, Cox.’

  ‘Just let me –’

  ‘I said don’t ask.’ A dark look from under the heavy brows. A stifled sigh, a shake of the head. ‘Keep it quiet,’ he said. ‘Not a peep do I want to hear about it – not a fucking peep. And if even a word, even a whisper that you’re not leaving well alone gets through to the chief super, or to Har – to the MoJ – well, I won’t be able to help you, Kerry.’ He took up his coffee mug again. ‘Now off you go. Not a word, remember.’

  ‘Yes, guv. Thanks, guv.’

  No reply. Naysmith had taken up a file from the desk and was pretending to be absorbed in it. Cox went out; closed the office door behind her.

  One thing was clear, now: she was going to have to fight this every inch of the way.

  5

  All this, and her mother too … She’d tried to put off their lunch meeting, explained that she was in the middle of a big investigation, even dropped Radley’s name (Margaret Cox was sure to have known who Radley was: she tracked the goings-on at the Met like other women her age followed the broadsheet Society pages). But it had done no good. Her mother had insisted.

  They’d arranged to meet at a café near the nick – five, ten minutes’ walk away.

  Cox was about to turn off the main road, down the side-street where the café was, when – once again on the opposite pavement, once again concealed in a heavy coat and hat – she saw him again. The man from Ealing Broadway, the man she knew she knew …

  He was hovering outside an upmarket florist’s shop, poking unconvincingly at the bouquets on display. Different get-up – a tweed cap and waxed riding coat, this time – but, she was sure, the same guy.

  She didn’t turn down the side-road; instead she carried on, a hundred yards beyond the junction, and slipped down a passageway into a courtyard of swish independent shops. No shoppers here, only an A-board advertising a vintage clothes shop and a bicycle chained to an old-style lamppost; the emptiness of the place made her feel vulnerable. She kept moving, across the courtyard, out through another passageway into a half-full car park.

  Here she waited, half-hidden behind a parked white transit. Caught her breath. Waited for the man in the long coat to appear.

  She was going to be late for lunch. But her bloody mum could wait.

  Five minutes. Ten minutes. She felt the lurch of anti-climax in her belly; he wasn’t coming. Had she lost him?

  Had he even been following her at all? Christ, it might not even have been the same guy.

  She swore softly to herself.

  Skirting the car park, she doubled back to the far end of the side-street. The café was halfway along, next to a butcher’s shop; she walked normally, trying not to look furtive or afraid but nevertheless on high alert – expecting to see him, whoever the hell he was, at any second, appearing round a corner and stepping out of a shop doorway …

  No sign. He’d gone.

  The bell over the café door tinkled as she went in. It was a smart place, old-fashioned enough for chintzy tablecloths and hardback menus, with-it enough to offer frappuccinos and flat whites. Modern prints on the wall, tinkly jazz on the radio. A far cry from the Olympus Grill. For one thing, Cox knew, the coffee wasn’t half as good.

  Her mother was already in place, ensconced at a table in the corner (the better to keep tabs on the other customers – Cox had often thought that her mum would have made a good copper). She rose to give Cox a hug and a fleeting peck on the cheek.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay. I’ve only been waiting twenty minutes or so.’ She sat back down, eyed her daughter anxiously. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart? You look a bit pale.’

  Cox forced a smile.

  ‘I always look like that.’ And you always mention it.

  ‘No, but more so than usual.’

  ‘Probably because I’ve been hurrying. Nothing a cuppa won’t sort out.’

  ‘Hm.’ Her mother, looking unconvinced, shrugged, and caught a waitress’s eye. ‘I think we’re finally ready to order now, dear,’ she called.

  Cox went for a jacket potato with tuna, her mother a green salad (‘No onion, cucumber or tomato, thank you, dear’). They made awkward small talk until the food arrived.

  Then, as Cox’s fork was poised over her steaming potato, her mother said: ‘I’m so sorry about Christmas, Kerry.’

  The fork chimed loudly as Cox set it down on the side of her plate.
r />   ‘Mum, it’s all right,’ she said.

  ‘No, Kerry, it’s not. I upset you on Christmas Day and I’m sorry for it. That’s why I needed to see you today, even though I know how busy you must be. I wanted to clear the air.’

  There’d be no cutting this short, Cox knew. No brushing it off. Margaret Cox had decided to make something of it, and now there was only one way this was going to end: with a long conversation and a clap-cold baked potato.

  ‘Mum, you don’t have to apologize. We both got a bit … worked up.’

  ‘You don’t have to try and put a brave face on things all the time, Kerry. I know, it’s a part of who you are, I’m sure your job has something to do with it, your poor father was much the same – but the fact is, we ought to have had a lovely Christmas Day, and I spoilt it.’

  Well, she wasn’t wrong there.

  It’d been their first Christmas without Dad; both a bit fragile, a bit weepy. Margaret was cooking dinner, at the old family home in Richmond. It was so odd, she said, as they sipped a glass of sherry apiece, not having a man about the place.

  Cox had nodded along, murmuring agreement – dreading what was coming next.

  Right on cue: ‘It’s such a pity you couldn’t make things work with Aidan. It would be so nice to have Matthew here.’

  And Cox had kept nodding, kept agreeing, yes it really was, yes it really would be …

  And so it had gone on, the probing questions, the plaintive sighs, the moist, accusing stares. Christ, Kerry realized, she’d even put up a picture of Aidan and Kerry on the sideboard, from their wedding day. Talk about subtle …

  The sherry hadn’t helped. They drank the best part of half a bottle between them while they took turns checking on the turkey crown.

  ‘Now that I’m on my own,’ Margaret had said, ‘I feel the absence of a grandchild more than ever.’

  At that point Cox had cracked: ‘Think how I feel, Mum. Matthew’s my son, for God’s sake. It’s killing me not having him here for Christmas.’

  The look Margaret had given her said: well then maybe you shouldn’t have got divorced.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ she’d said. ‘It’s different for grandmothers. One feels so helpless. After all, I didn’t do anything wrong …’

  From there, things had spiralled out of control pretty quickly.

  Cox had asked her what, exactly, she was supposed to have done wrong; Margaret had said, well, they didn’t give Aidan custody for nothing, now, did they? Cox had asked if she deserved to be punished forever for a single mistake, a mistake she made during the hardest week of her life – and Margaret had said she’d never have made that mistake if she hadn’t always put her precious career ahead of the interests of her family.

  Cox had driven home to Shepherd’s Bush in tears. Christ, she’d missed her dad – missed his weary, patient presence, his ‘Now, now’, his ‘What’s all this fuss?’, his ‘Come on now, girls – it’s not worth getting het up about’.

  His hand on her shoulder. His long-suffering smile.

  Now, she took up her fork again and said what she knew her mother was expecting her to say: ‘We were both upset, Mum. I’m sorry too.’

  Margaret nodded, chewing sadly on a pea-shoot.

  She still hates the fact that I have a career, Cox thought. Still thinks the break-up was all my fault. Still blames me for not having Matthew around all the time.

  But we can live with this. We’ll get by.

  Mothers and daughters, bloody hell, she thought. No wonder Dad preferred the TV.

  ‘I thought,’ Margaret said after a while, ‘that it might be nice if we spent New Year’s Eve together. Just us, Kerry.’ She glanced up from her plate, briefly caught her daughter’s eye. She wasn’t playing games, Cox saw. She was lonely.

  Cox knew the feeling.

  ‘I – I’d like that,’ Cox lied – already anticipating the awkwardness, the stilted silences, the pointed remarks …

  Margaret nodded. Returned to her lettuce.

  Cox was casting around for another topic of conversation when she saw an elderly couple, elegantly dressed and obviously well-off, enter the café. The woman, in conversation with her companion, had her back to the Coxes’ corner table – but when she turned to address the waitress, disclosing a sharp profile and dark, intelligent eyes, Cox’s stomach did a flip. Baroness Kent, chair of the parliamentary inquiry.

  ‘Mum,’ Cox hissed urgently. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’

  Margaret blinked at her.

  ‘Go? What do you mean, go? You’ve barely touched your lunch.’

  ‘It’s – it’s complicated, Mum.’ She risked another look at the imposing baroness – and found the baroness looking back at her. She and her companion had been shown to a table near the door; the baroness, having sat down, had just taken the napkin from her wineglass. Now she let it fall to the tabletop.

  She knew who Cox was. Cox knew who she was. And neither of them wanted to be seen in public within half a mile of the other, never mind in the same damn café. Not this week.

  Cox stood abruptly.

  ‘Mum, I’ve got to get back to work.’ She fumbled in her bag for her purse – fished out a couple of crumpled banknotes. ‘Mum? Here, this is for the bill – I’ve got to go, really …’

  Margaret was staring up at her, her expression two parts confusion to one part hurt.

  ‘But – but surely they must let you have lunch, dear? We’ve barely been here –’

  ‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry. But really – it’s very urgent.’

  Her mum made a well-I’m-sure-you-know-best face. ‘If you must, I suppose you must,’ she said. ‘But it does seem rather a shame …’

  Cox didn’t need another guilt trip on top of everything else. She left the banknotes on the tablecloth, muttered sorry a couple more times, turned quickly away and made for the door.

  As she walked swiftly across the restaurant’s plush carpet, she felt the blood rising in her cheeks. Hated herself for it. What was she, thirteen years old?

  Kept her eyes firmly on the door as she passed Baroness Kent’s table – only to be stopped by the baroness’s hand on her sleeve.

  ‘Detective Inspector Cox – I do hope you’re not leaving on my account.’

  She stopped, turned; the baroness was getting to her feet, a look of concern on her strong-boned face.

  Cox’s flustered first thought was: how the hell are you meant to address a baroness?

  ‘I – just thought –’ she stammered.

  ‘You’re very wise to be doing the diplomatic thing. It reflects well on you.’ The baroness smiled, a smile not quite free of uncertainty or anxiety – but genuine, if Cox was any judge. ‘But really. I don’t think you ought to worry. If one can’t enjoy a private lunch without being called to account by the Powers That Be – well, one might as well be in North Korea.’

  In spite of herself, Cox laughed.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. I wasn’t really thinking about how it’d look to the authorities. I was more worried about the press.’

  ‘I meant the press,’ the baroness said, with a flicker of a sardonic eyebrow.

  The gentleman seated opposite Baroness Kent had found his way to his feet; he was obviously pretty frail, but he was well-built and well-dressed; his thin silver hair was combed in firm waves over his ears. As Cox shook his hand – the knuckles thick with arthritis, but the grip solid, certain – the baroness introduced him as her husband, Sidney.

  Cox mumbled something about being delighted to meet him.

  She was thinking about her mother – who, she knew, was not ten yards behind her, who was quite certainly taking all this in, who would quite certainly have recognized the baroness, and who was now quite certainly wondering what sort of daughter leaves her widowed mother sitting all by herself to go off hobnobbing with peeresses of the realm …

  She turned back to the baroness and mustered what was left of her resolve.

  ‘I’m terrib
ly sorry,’ she said, ‘but I really was leaving anyway. Duty calls. But it was lovely meeting you both.’

  Then to the door – don’t look back, don’t look back – and out: out into the wintry sunlight, the grumbling traffic, the biting fresh air.

  ‘Afternoon, Spook. Donnie Darko here.’

  Cox sighed through a smile. For a genius, Don DiMacedo didn’t half talk a lot of crap.

  She’d called in at a grubby little pub on Leopold Road for a restorative drink, and to regather her thoughts, refocus on the case, think again about where she stood – and who stood with her. She’d taken her glass of wine to a table in the deserted tap-room. When her phone had buzzed and DiMacedo’s name had come up, she’d almost dropped the phone in her haste to answer.

  ‘Don. Good to hear from you. Is your PS3 broken?’

  ‘Yeah, right. Along with my Gameboy and my Sega MegaDrive. Keep up, Cox. I got hold of a prototype PS4, don’t ask me how, but I’ll tell you, once you’ve played one of these motherfuckers, you don’t go back to boys’ toys.’

  ‘It’s good that you’re keeping busy.’

  ‘Fucking snowed under,’ DiMacedo sighed, without irony. ‘Which brings us to the point. I gather you want to add to my exhausting workload.’

  ‘I do, if you think you can handle it.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can throw at me that I can’t handle,’ he laughed.

  Swiftly she filled him in on the Radley case, the unanswered questions, the gaps in the record. Didn’t mention Harrington and the MoJ.

  ‘And what do you want from me?’ There was amusement in his voice.

  She hesitated. She could practically see the smirk on his face.

  ‘As you know, Don,’ she said carefully, ‘I’m … limited as to what I can ask you to do.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I spend every day up to my bloody ears in injunctions and gagging clauses.’ A short bark of a laugh. ‘Guess how much good they do.’

  ‘Don, I need to know more about William Radley.’

  ‘And you’re not fussy about how I come by the information.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Course you didn’t, Spook. Give me half an hour.’

  ‘You’ll need longer than –’ Cox began. But the line was dead.