Hazlewood still looked uncertain.
‘We-ell – you won’t be able to go into any of the residents’ rooms, of course. The personal dignity of our residents is very important to us.’
Cox ignored Wilson’s snort of derision.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s no question of infringing anyone’s privacy or security.’
‘Very well.’ Hazlewood, frowning slightly, sat back down. ‘Feel free to visit any of the communal spaces. But please, try not to cause any disturbance.’
Once more she turned on the corporate smile. Then she took up a file of paperwork and studied the first page stagily. The message was clear: interview terminated.
They walked back through the grim ‘lounge’ – the old man who’d been confused about ‘Trev’ was crying, while the nurse stroked his hand; the TV blared out canned laughter – and into the lobby.
‘I’ll wait in the car,’ said Wilson shortly, holding out his hand for the keys.
‘Sure?’
‘I need some fucking air.’
He was grimacing; looked as though he’d eaten something rancid.
‘I won’t be long,’ she said.
‘If you’re more than a week I’ll send out a search party.’ He turned away, hit the button to unlock the front door.
When he was gone, Cox moved towards the open door that led into a long corridor of residential rooms. Ugly striped carpet. More unadorned strip-lighting.
A few of the doors that lined the corridor on both sides were open. Cox tried not to look inside as she passed; tried not to hear the things called out to her, not to think about the desperate loneliness of the people who would see out their days at Evergreen; tried to focus.
For her purposes, this wasn’t Evergreen at all. This was Hampton Hall.
Halfway along, the corridor opened out into a square alcove. There was a knackered-looking lift, a cupboard full of cleaning things – and a door. She tried the handle; it wasn’t locked.
She looked quickly back down the corridor – no one around – and opened the door. Steps, an unlit staircase sloping steeply down into a cellar. The light from the corridor made an off-white rectangle on the cellar floor. Looked like concrete.
Would Mrs Hazelwood consider this a ‘communal area’? Almost certainly not. She stepped down into the gloom and pulled the door firmly shut behind her.
A single room, huge, cavernous. There was an old light-switch at the foot of the stairs, coming loose from the plaster – thank Christ. She flicked the switch; a bare 40-watt filament bulb came weakly alive.
Grubby walls, whitewashed but not recently. A dirt-streaked concrete floor. Nothing else; the room was empty. But there was a doorway, gloomy, leading through into another dark, derelict-looking space.
Cox took a pocket torch from her back pocket. Played its frail beam across the black doorway. She saw shadows, skeletal shadows.
That room was not empty. Cox moved carefully forwards. The dirty concrete was gritty underfoot.
Again the torch beam picked out the angular shadows. As she moved, they shifted and warped, shivering across the wall. Not bones, she saw – not human bones, anyway. These were skeletons of iron, rusted, brittle; they were the frames of children’s beds. Perhaps three dozen, stacked haphazardly.
She moved closer. Reached out her free hand and touched the metal of the nearest frame. Cold as a grave, coarse with corrosion. Under the light pressure of her touch the stack of beds made a noise, a soft, high-pitched whisper of protest.
Something scurried on the floor. A rat, a mouse.
What, Cox wondered, would a rat find to eat in a basement filled with nothing but scrap iron?
She moved her torch beam across the beds. Dead brown springs, comfortless tubular frames. Then, in the corner – something different. Something solid.
She sniffed the air warily. Dust. Rust. Rat-shit. Moved towards the dark shape in the corner.
Bulky, straight-edged. The torchlight gleamed briefly on metal.
Cox breathed out. She felt a soft thrum of excitement in her chest.
A filing cabinet.
It, too, was encrusted with rust. Just two drawers. She tried the upper one; it stuck, the drawer-wheels jamming on the corroded runners – but it wasn’t locked. The drawer was filled front-to-back with manila files.
There didn’t seem to be any order. Cox thought about pulling on a glove, but they were in the car. No need. She riffled through the files. Drew one out at random: two sheets of A4 typing paper, a black-and-white photograph of a young boy’s face, a few lines of personal details. Not much more: it was clear, now, what the rats had found to eat down here. The paper was filthy and gnawed away.
Still, though, it was something. She closed the file, slipped it back into the drawer. She was about to pull out another when she heard a noise behind her – became suddenly aware of a shift in the quality of the light in the cellar.
Slammed shut the drawer, turned. The door at the top of the stairs was open. A slender figure was outlined in the corridor light.
A thin but piercing voice called out: ‘Are you ready, love? Amanda’s taking us shopping! Chop-chop. Let’s be having you.’
Cox moved fast, slapped off the light-switch with the flat of her hand, took the steps two at a time. The last thing she needed was this poor old thing bringing Mrs Hazlewood running.
The woman blinked at her, smiling uncertainly, as she emerged into the corridor.
‘You’ll need your woollies, duck,’ she said. ‘It’s perishing out there.’
‘I know, I know.’ Cox forced a grin. She put an arm gently on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘There’s no need to shout. I’m right here.’
‘That’s exactly what Amanda says. But then she turns the telly right up!’ Cox winced as the woman’s right hand closed tightly on her upper arm. ‘Ages since I went shopping, isn’t it, love? I haven’t got the plastic thing, Amanda takes charge of that. Have you got the right money for the bus? It’s robbery really.’
Cox tried to pull her arm out of the woman’s grip, but the thick, hard fingers held on tight.
‘I know, love,’ she smiled desperately, scanning up and down the corridor. The woman’s voice had a penetrating quality; someone was bound to hear them. ‘It’s a disgrace. Now come on – let go of my arm, and let’s go to wait in the lounge.’
The woman’s face creased in worry.
‘Is Amanda here already? Only she’s not meant to leave work till five, I don’t want her to –’
‘Mrs Walker!’
The old woman’s hand fell away. You had to hand it to Matron Hazlewood, Cox thought, massaging her upper arm – she knew how to speak with authority.
‘What’s going on here?’ She came bustling up the corridor, straight-backed, clipboard in hand and professional smile turned up full. ‘Inspector?’
Cox thought fast.
‘I was just waiting for the lift,’ she said with a gesture. ‘And Mrs Walker here stopped me for a chat.’ She let a hint of asperity enter her tone; the faintest implication that Hazlewood’s failure to properly manage her inmates was preventing her from carrying out important police work. She was damned if she was going to stand there and be ticked off like a misbehaving schoolgirl.
‘I’m terribly sorry.’ The matron bent at the waist to speak to Mrs Walker, adopting a sing-song tone. ‘I’m afraid Amanda can’t take you shopping today, dear. We’re going to have to go back to the lounge.’ She glanced up meaningfully at Cox. ‘All of us.’
‘Yes, I’m pretty much done here.’ Couldn’t resist adding: ‘For now.’
Hazlewood nodded stiffly.
They trooped along the corridor, the matron leading, Mrs Walker shuffling along in the middle – and Cox lagging behind, mind racing, wondering what kind of information might be in the rat-eaten Hampton Hall files – and what other secrets this place might be hiding.
The young assistant came hurrying up when they reached the lobby. She took Mrs Walker by
the elbow, but Hazlewood cut in briskly.
‘I’ll take care of Mrs Walker,’ she said. ‘You can show Inspector Cox here the way out.’
The way out was barely five yards from where they stood. The implication was clear: make sure she leaves.
Hazlewood shepherded Mrs Walker – who was still murmuring apologetically about Amanda and the shops – back into the dismal lounge. The young assistant hit the door-release button. As Cox was about to leave, the assistant touched her arm.
‘My nan worked at Hampton Hall,’ she whispered.
Her expression was furtive, excited and conspiratorial. Cox paused.
‘Is that so?’ Kept her voice neutral.
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? One of those investigations. Like with Jimmy Savile and all that.’ She looked over her shoulder, then back at Cox. ‘I knew you’d come. It was only a matter of time.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The place closed down in the eighties, you know.’
‘Yes, so I gather.’
‘But you don’t know why, do you? Social services “restructure”, that was what they said. But my nan told me different. It got shut down because of’ – her eyes widened momentarily – ‘kiddie fiddlers. That’s what she said. She meant, you know, paedos.’
Cox felt her stomach lurch, nausea rising in her throat; but at the same time, there was a kick, a buzz, the thrill – she couldn’t deny it – of a case opening up, a cold lead coming alive.
She looked at the young woman gravely.
‘That’s a very serious allegation to be throwing around, Ms … ?’
‘Matthews, Kirsty Matthews. It is, I know it is.’ A defiant look. ‘My nan wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, though. I’m not naming any names. But you’ll see, if you look into it.’ She nodded. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Well – thank you, Kirsty.’ Cox smiled briefly. ‘You may be seeing us again.’
Wilson was leaning on the bonnet of the car, smoking the rest of his cigarette. He looked narrowly at her through a haze of smoke as she crunched across the gravel car park.
‘Hope that was worth a two-hour drive through the pissing rain,’ he said.
‘It just might have been.’ She pulled open the driver’s door. ‘Come on, get in.’
‘Back to civilization?’
‘Far from it.’ Backed up the car, turned with a roar of gravel towards the exit. ‘We’re going to the police station.’
The Sixth Day of Christmas, 1986
They’re staying clear of me. All the lads, they’re not coming near me today. Don’t blame them. Not in the mood for talking about bloody football or bloody BMXs or bloody Duffy’s made-up bloody stories.
Even Stan’s getting on my nerves today. He comes over.
‘Do you want a jelly bean?’ he says. ‘I’ve got a few left. Saved ’em.’
‘Fuck off with your jelly beans,’ I say.
Upsets him, that. Didn’t deserve it really but he’ll get over it. I roll over in my bed, face to the wall. Want to sleep. Don’t want to dream, though.
Late in the morning Miss Halcombe brings me a cup of tea. I’ve got nothing to say to her. I stay looking at the wall. She leaves the tea on the bedside table.
‘Because your brother’s not feeling too well,’ I hear her say to Stan.
I fall asleep. You’re not meant to sleep during the day, but they let me anyway.
When I wake up Stan’s gone. There’s no one in the dorm. I roll over; feel something sticky against my cheek.
He’s left five fucking jelly beans on my pillow.
That’s when I start crying. Can’t help it. Just sit there on the edge of my bed with my hands over my face, bawling like a bloody baby.
With perfect timing, Duffy comes in. Try and stop crying but you can’t just turn it off like a tap. Wipe my face, try to make it look like I just woke up.
Duffy’s not buying it. Big smile on his stupid face.
‘Is the little teacher’s pet missing Dr Allis?’ he says. ‘Don’t blub, Trevayne. I’m sure your new best friend will be back later to sit you on his knee and make everything all right.’
Other lads are drifting in behind him. Stevie, Judd, a few others. Stan, too.
I tell him to fuck off.
He can see I’m not mucking about. But he can’t help himself, Mark Duffy.
‘Knew it was only a matter of time before you got picked as the doctor’s new favourite,’ he says. ‘Seen lads like you before. Acting tough as fuck – but all the time, underneath –’
I just snap. Something just goes bang.
I grab the mug of tea from the bedside table, chuck it as hard as I can – right in the bastard’s face. He screams, a proper scream, like a girl. The mug bounces off his nose, hits the wall, breaks in half. Tea and blood all down Duffy’s front.
‘Have that, you prick.’
He’s sobbing, clutching at his face. The tea had gone cold, worse luck. He’ll have nothing worse than a broke nose. He can’t say he wasn’t asking for it.
Footsteps coming at a run down the corridor. I’m for it now, I know. But so what?
Before the orderlies get here to cart me away Stevie comes over and, leaning close, says: ‘You did right, Robbie.’
Then I’m being grabbed, slammed into a restrain position, heavy hands on my neck, arms, wrists.
‘Don’t worry, Stan,’ I shout, because I can hear him whim-pering.
They take me away. As they’re bundling me into solitary – the ‘cooling-down room’, they call it – I wonder what Stevie meant. Did he mean I did right just now, busting Duffy’s nose for him, giving him the payback he’s been asking for?
Or was he talking about yesterday?
They let me out after a few hours. It’s Miss Halcombe who comes to turn me loose. She gives me the usual talking-to. I’ve heard it all before. Let yourself down, violence solves nothing, learn a bit of self-control, blah bloody blah. These fucking hypocrites.
Then, as I’m walking out the door of the cell, she says: ‘If you don’t get your act together, Robert, I think we may have to separate you and young Stanley. We simply can’t have this sort of disruption.’
I turn and look at her. Try not to let anything show in my face, but she can see, all right. Fear, real fear – you can’t hide it. It’ll always show through.
Halcombe knows that, the evil old bitch.
The idea of being separated from Stan scares me right down to my bones.
‘You can’t do that,’ I say.
‘We don’t want to, of course. But I’m afraid it may be the only course of action. I know Dr Merton has been considering it – if your conduct, Robert, doesn’t improve.’
It’ll improve, I tell her. I’ll be good as gold, I tell her. She won’t hear a peep out of me, I tell her, from now on – none of them will. I’ll keep my head down and my nose clean. Just don’t take Stan away from me.
I say ‘please’ about a hundred times. I practically fucking beg her.
Col comes to find me. It’s getting dark, about half-four, and I’m in a corner of the garden. Just sitting, thinking. Snow’s all gone. Crows are making a racket in the trees behind.
‘It’s all right,’ he says.
I tell him no it’s fucking not. He smiles, and says yeah, actually, you’re right, it’s not.
We both sit for a bit, not saying anything. My hands are cold, but I don’t want to go back inside.
‘We shouldn’t let him get away with it,’ Col says then.
‘How d’you mean?’
I remember how Col knifed his foster-dad – and that copper, too. Realize that I never asked him why.
‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘We all know what he does, that bastard Merton. Him and his mates. We know it, and we just let it happen.’
Like I let it happen? I want to ask.
I hope Col knows I didn’t have a choice.
12
‘This tea,’ Wilson said, ‘is piss. Must be the soft wate
r.’
Cox looked at him, bemused. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a connoisseur,’ she said acidly.
Wilson shrugged. ‘Given up the booze, haven’t I? Three months and counting.’
‘Give yourself a medal,’ said Cox.
A young PC had just dropped a bulging cardboard box on to the table and stepped back, brushing the dust from his hands. That made four: four full crates of files.
The PC blew out a breath.
‘That’s the lot, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Thanks, constable.’
‘Everything from back then is on paper.’ He made an apologetic face. ‘They’ve been talking about digitizing it, but we’ve just not got the manpower. Sorry, ma’am.’
She looked up at him wryly.
‘That’s all right, constable. Some of us, believe it or not, can remember a time before Microsoft and the iCloud.’
‘We should be thankful it’s not on floppy disk,’ put in Wilson, setting down his plastic coffee cup, ‘and we don’t have to fire up the Amstrad.’
Cox smiled. The constable looked blank. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. She thanked him again for his help and dismissed him.
She sat back, looked at the boxes. Didn’t know quite what to expect. She’d asked for everything they had, every file on every case relating to domestic violence and the abuse of children, from Walsall, Wolverhampton, Sutton Coldfield, between 1980 and 1990 – and they’d brought her the lot.
It was an occupational hazard for a cold-case investigator, she knew. It was easy to get paranoid, to feel that the data-onslaught was strategic, that it was being done on purpose – that someone in a smoke-filled room somewhere was darkly muttering bury her in paperwork …
But the fact was, police work meant paperwork. What could you expect?
Wilson was looking grimly at the boxes, hands in pockets.
‘This doesn’t look like fun,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go down the council offices, speak to someone in social services? They’ll be able to fill us in.’
‘If you think you can find a council office that’s open for business on a Saturday afternoon, be my guest.’ Cox stood, prised open the nearest box. ‘You’re an investigative journalist, for Christ’s sake, Greg. I thought digging through dusty archives was what you people lived for.’
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