He don’t look like much. I sit on my bed and watch as Halcombe leads him over to his corner of the dorm. Dark piggy eyes, frowning eyebrows. Bit of a porker.
First thing you always ask yourself when there’s a new lad, is: could I have him? I reckon I could have him.
If he’s mental, though, it’s different. It’s different when you don’t know what they might do.
Everyone else steered well clear. He never smiled or said anything and anyroad everyone thought he was a nutter, word’d got round.
When we was all outside he just sat by himself. I went over and started talking to him. He’s okay, really.
First thing was, I asked him why he got kicked out of his foster home. That was what I wanted to know, so I just asked him.
He looked at me, blinking like a mole.
‘Stabbed my foster dad, didn’t I.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Straight up.’ He almost smiled. ‘Done him with a kitchen knife.’
‘Killed him?’
‘Nah. Just cut him.’ He gave me another look. ‘D’you see that pig what brought me here yesterday?’
‘Yeah, I seen him.’
‘That sling he had on his arm. That were me, too.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘He come for me and I knifed him in his arm. Dirty rasher bastard.’
He weren’t what I expected, this lad.
Later in the day they took Col away. We saw him through the doorway being led downstairs.
‘The cell,’ Duffy muttered.
Our Stan looked scared. Bloody Duffy.
‘What’s the cell?’ he said.
‘It’s bloody horrible,’ said Stevie. He was all serious, like. Didn’t look like he was on the wind-up – but still, I reckon he was only repeating what he’d heard. I know what these places are like.
‘No heating,’ said Duffy. ‘No window. Bucket to shit in. You have to sleep on the floor and hope the rats aren’t hungry.’
‘Rats?’ asked Stan.
Stan don’t like rats. Who does?
‘There was one lad I knew,’ Duffy says, hamming it up something rotten, ‘they put him in there and forgot all about him, and when they went back three days later to get him, there weren’t nothing left but his bones and his belt-buckle.’ Shook his head. ‘The rats’d had the rest.’
Stan’s about to shit himself, I can see. Put a hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s bollocks, Stan,’ I tell him, giving Duffy the evil eye. ‘There’s no such thing as the cell.’
Duffy just shrugs.
Later on, when it’s just us, I say to Stan: ‘Listen. You saw Col when he was being took away, didn’t you?’
He nods.
‘To the cell.’
‘To wherever they was taking him. Point is, Stan, he didn’t look scared, did he?’
I’m not lying. Col really didn’t look like he gave a shit. I’ve seen lads scared before, lads scared shitless and trying to hide it, trying to look hard. They don’t fool me. But Col was different. He wasn’t scared of Merton and all them, you could tell. He just hated them.
‘No,’ Stan says. ‘Col looked – brave.’
‘There you go, then. Col knows this place better than any of those other bastards. If there was anything to be scared of, he’d’ve been scared, wouldn’t he?’
Stan’s head wobbles uncertainly.
‘Or maybe Col’s just braver than other boys,’ he says.
I’ve nothing to say to that.
Before lights out I go and find Miss Halcombe. Normally I’d stay out of her way, but there’s something I want to ask her. I don’t know if bloody Duffy and Stevie have put the wind up me or what but I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want Stan to stay here.
I find her having a brew with Dr Merton in the staffroom.
I want us to be moved, I tell. I say it all polite. I don’t think this place is right for us, I say – I want us to be moved to Wolvesley.
I even say please.
Halcombe rolls her eyes and tuts at me, but Merton’s giving me a look, sort of a thoughtful look. He nods, slowly. Maybe the creepy bastard’s not as bad as I made out.
‘We’ll have to see what we can do,’ he says.
Halcombe sighs, miserable old bag that she is.
‘Whatever you say, Dr Merton,’ she says.
I go back to bed feeling a bit better. Sort of hopeful.
8
She drove fast and made good time. When she hit the London traffic after Stevenage she broke out the blue light; the fast lane made way for her, and when she pulled up outside the gates of Battersea Park it was just gone six o’clock.
A ghostly white SOCO tent billowed and boomed in the wind. It wasn’t as cold here as it had been in Whitby, but that wasn’t saying much. She buttoned her coat as she made her way into the gloom of the park. Two teenagers with scooters were loitering under the trees, speculating gobbily on what had happened (‘I saw it, bruv – there was bare blood, I swear down.’). As she approached the tent, a PC in uniform approached to cut her off: Move along, miss, you’re trespassing on a crime-scene … Changed his tune sharpish when he got close enough to recognize her. Touched his cap; pointed her over to the far corner of the park, where two uniformed officers were speaking to a dark-haired man in a pale-grey suit.
For an irrational half-second she thought it was Sam Harrington, and her stomach lurched – but no, this was no MoJ fixer. It was Detective Inspector Robin Chalmers.
‘Chalmers.’
The tall DI curtly dismissed the two uniforms; turned to her with a smile. Looked faintly pissed-off beneath it, though.
‘Cox. Wasn’t expecting you.’
‘What’s the story here?’
Chalmers looked over at the tent, ran both his hands through his thick hair, sighed.
‘Pretty nasty,’ he said. ‘Old guy. Stabbed in the arm, bled out before anyone could help.’
‘Where are we at?’
‘The body’s already been taken away. I’ve got uniform scouting for witnesses.’ He looked at her. ‘I’ve got it all under control, Cox. No need for you to hang around.’
She shrugged. She had no time for this kind of jockeying for position.
‘Tell it to the DCI. He called me back from Yorkshire for this. No dinner and a five-hour drive says it’s my case, Rob.’
Chalmers made a rueful face, held up his hands in surrender.
‘All yours. Wasn’t enjoying it much anyway.’
‘So give me the detail.’
He flipped open his notebook.
‘Reginald Allis, seventy-one. Found dead on the footpath just after noon. Preliminary examination indicates that he was stabbed in the arm, and the knife severed the brachial artery.’
‘Unlucky.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He managed to crawl a few metres before he bled to death. Dog-walker found him, called it in. It’s always bloody dog-walkers, isn’t it? Poor fuckers.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘No one’s come forward yet.’
‘Do we have CCTV?’
Chalmers gave her a roll-eyed look.
‘This is London. What do you think? I’ve sent to SecuriLab for the footage.’
Cox nodded. Mugging gone wrong, she supposed. Should’ve let Chalmers keep it. She was about to go inspect the murder scene – expecting not much more than a sad stretch of bloodstained footpath – when one of the scene-of-crime team came past, rustling in his disposable suit. Cox gave him a nod; noticed that he was carrying a wallet in a clear plastic bag.
She stopped him with an outstretched hand.
‘Is that the victim’s?’
The SOCO was a young guy, a Chinese-Londoner she’d encountered before.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘A wallet? It wasn’t taken?’
‘Maybe the mugger got spooked by the blood, made a run for it?’ put in Chalmers.
She took the bagged wallet from the SOCO, turned it over in her hands. Looke
d at the guy.
‘It’s – Chang, isn’t it? Mind if I take a look?’
‘Be my guest,’ Chang shrugged.
Cox pulled a pair of latex gloves from her coat pocket, broke open the sterile packaging, pulled them on with a practised snap. Opened the evidence bag.
It was a plain leather wallet, high street quality, nothing flash. Inside she found sixty quid in twenties, a cash card, credit card, driver’s licence (she mentally noted the address in Pimlico), a loyalty card for a coffee-shop, a British Library pass, a diabetes card, with emergency contact listed (that would make things easier), a few receipts held together by a paperclip.
‘Not much,’ she muttered, half to herself. ‘But more than enough to keep a smackhead happy.’
She thumbed absently through the thin wad of receipts: a petrol station in Acton, a tailor’s in the West End, a computer-repair place …
No way …
The last receipt was for the Olympus Grill.
She smoothed it out with her thumb. Greek salad, kleftiko, moussaka. One litre of white wine. Dinner for two, surely. Dated 25 December.
She felt a jolt inside; was aware of a tremor in the hand that held the receipt. She slipped it back in the wallet, Chalmers gave no sign of having noticed her surprise: he was looking into the middle distance, smoothing a lapel. She took out the diabetes card and snapped shut the wallet. ‘There’s your next of kin,’ she said.
She handed the wallet back to Chang, thanked him, turned back to DI Chalmers.
‘So?’ he said.
‘So I want you to finish up here. Full statements from those kids with the bikes, okay?’
‘Yeah, I know the drill. But what the hell, Cox? I thought you wanted this one. What was all that crap about driving all the way from Yorkshire?’
‘Something’s come up. Can’t wait.’ She smiled, gave him a nudge as she walked away. ‘You’re back on the case, Chalmers.’
9
The black concierge (Simon, his name badge said) looked too bored to care about anything.
‘Do you know Reginald Allis? Old gentleman, white, balding with grey hair. He lived here.’
‘Allis?’ The concierge wearily consulted a wirebound folder. ‘Yes, Allis, R. H. Allis. He lives here. Flat 59.’
‘Do you know him? Personally, I mean?’
‘Nah. Not really.’
‘Could you let me into his flat?’
‘Huh?’
Cox flashed her badge. It was either that or slap him across the face. It seemed to wake him up a little. He blinked.
‘Mr Allis was found dead today,’ Cox said. ‘We’re treating the death as suspicious. I’m DI Cox. I’m heading up the investigation.’
The concierge nodded.
‘I – I see.’
‘Just the key will do.’
Ten years ago, it would have worked nine times out of ten. Now people tended to be more cautious, and it was more like one in five. If he asked for a warrant, she was ready with the next level of excuses. Do you really want me to get my chief out of bed? Better do this quietly, without upsetting any of the other residents, right? After that it was the strong arm. Can I see your work visa? Not got it with you? That’s a shame …Very occasionally, even that didn’t work, especially if they really were hiding something.
‘Can I see that badge again?’
‘Sure.’ She showed him, and he took a good long look. Cox tried to look relaxed.
If he insisted on a warrant, she’d have been screwed. A warrant would have meant going upstairs; and she was pretty sure someone upstairs didn’t want her chasing up this kind of lead – didn’t want her to join the dots.
But Simon was the one in five, thankfully.
‘Just a second – I’ll fetch the key.’
She waited while he fumbled through another folder. He produced a Yale and handed it to her.
‘Here you go. Flat 59. Third floor.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
‘Do you need me to?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Then I’ll stay here.’ The concierge dropped into his seat, which wheezed. ‘Just give me a yell if you need anything.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been – really helpful.’
It wasn’t even a lie; being left alone to do her job was exactly the kind of help Cox needed right now.
She took a lift to the third floor; stepped out into a gently lit carpeted corridor. This was a nice place: a block of retirement flats in Pimlico, south-west London, a stone’s throw from the river. Cox guessed the rents way beyond pretty much anyone employed by the Met. Quite a change from Verity Halcombe’s end-terrace. Bill Radley, it seemed, had maintained a pretty varied circle of friends.
If ‘friends’ was the right word.
She found Allis’s flat, let herself in, closed the door quietly behind her. She put on another pair of gloves and flicked on the lights. Took a few seconds to scan the place. She was no design critic, God knew, but the way this flat had been kitted out struck her as wildly overdone. The furniture was ornate and heavy-looking, the carpet deep-piled, the drawn curtains dark and thick. Gaudy modern art prints decorated the walls. Cox found the overall effect suffocating.
The place smelled of expensive air-freshener. It was cold.
She slipped off her shoes and moved through the sitting room into a spacious study. Again, the writing table was a grand piece – eighteenth-century, maybe? – and highly polished. Above the table, in contrast to the modern prints in the other room, was a copy of a Victorian oil in deep reds and browns. A bookcase covered one wall. Cox scanned the titles: mostly pretty technical stuff, ranging across psychology, education, philosophy, sociology …
One shelf, she saw with interest, was given over to books by Allis himself. She picked one at random: The Fundamentals of Child Psychology. The back cover had a black-and-white photo of the author: Allis, in cord jacket and polo-neck, staring intelligently into the lens with a crooked, knowing smile. He looked about forty. She checked the publication date: 1984 – yep, that checked out.
She replaced it on the shelf. Nothing else here seemed out of the ordinary.
There was a laptop computer open on the writing table. It had gone into standby mode. Who knew, Cox thought, what secrets that hard drive might hold? Who knew what she might uncover with a quick riffle through the Documents folder or a glance at Allis’s search history? But she scotched the thought quickly. If she even touched the laptop, she knew, she’d be in way over her head. Oh, for the skills of a DiMacedo!
She was about to return to the sitting room when her phone rang. Its strident buzz startled her; it brought home to her how quiet the flat was.
Glanced at the screen – well, speak of the devil …
‘Don. What have you got for me?’
‘How do you know I’m not just calling for a chat?’
Cox smiled; took a seat in a wicker chair by the bookcase.
‘Something must’ve piqued your interest to drag you away from GTA5,’ she said.
‘GTA5? What do you think this is, 2013? But you’re right. I’ve been looking into the old girl your friend Radley sent flowers to.’
‘For. Not to. She died.’
‘Whatever. What do you know about her?’
‘Not much. Worked with kids, from what I gather. They gave her an OBE for it.’
‘Specifically, underprivileged kids. She worked at Hampton Hall, a big children’s care home, very well thought of.’
‘Is it in the Midlands?’
‘Uh-huh. Good guess. Now, what’s interesting about old Verity’s career –’
‘I knew there had to be something.’
‘– is that, after years of diligent service at Hampton Hall, in 1987, she ups and quits. Just like that. Doesn’t give a reason, just clears off. Leaves Hampton Hall and Walsall behind for ever.’
Walsall. That tripped something in her mind. Didn’t Bill Radley start his career in the Walsall area? She’d have to check the fil
e.
‘Seems out of character.’
‘Yes it does, Spook, well spotted.’
‘Thanks, Don. Now, listen –’
‘I’m going to have to stop you there. I sense you’re about to ask me for another favour, but this is now officially well past knocking-off time.’
‘Don. Come on. This is important.’
‘You’re forgetting I don’t work for the police any more, Cox. No tidy overtime payments for me. Besides, I’m due at a cocktail reception in an hour, big client, three-line whip. And I’m not even dressed yet.’
‘That’s a mental image I could’ve lived without. But c’mon, Don – please? You can’t let this drop now. You want to know why Verity Halcombe left Hampton as much as I do.’
A long pause.
A long sigh.
‘Fu-u-u-u-ck. Cox, you owe me big-time.’
She grinned.
‘I do. I know. I’ll make it up to you.’
‘I really do have to go schmooze at this thing, though. I’ll cry off early and pull a late one on this – there’ll be an email waiting for you in the morning.’
‘Thanks, Don.’
‘Now if we’re all done with the emotional manipulation, I need to go put some trousers on. Later, Spook.’
She put away her phone. Took down another of Allis’s books – after what DiMacedo had just told her, its title had new significance. Outcomes for Children in Care.
On a hunch, she flipped to the index. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Radley wasn’t there, of course. Nor was Verity Halcombe. But right there, beside where she would have been: ‘Hampton Hall, Walsall, 152, 168’.
She opened the book. And there is was. A black-and-white picture of an austere Victorian mansion building. Cox snapped the book shut, laid it on the table. Sat for a moment, listening to her heart galloping.
What the fuck was going on? Bill Radley sent flowers for Verity Halcombe; Verity worked in a place that Reginald Allis wrote about; Reginald Allis had a falling-out over dinner with Bill Radley. The details were a mystery, still, but the outline was complete – and Cox didn’t like the way it looked.
A suicide brought on by gambling debts. A death from natural causes, heart failure, maybe a stroke. A botched mugging in a London park.
Twelve Deaths of Christmas Page 8