Twelve Deaths of Christmas

by Jackson Sharp

  Then he straightened up, looked at her.

  ‘That’s how you doorstep someone.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She got to her feet, wiping her hand on the back of her coat. ‘I prefer the textbook method, personally.’

  Wilson shrugged.

  ‘Different folks, different strokes.’

  There was a sudden racket of bolts being slid from behind the door. Wilson gave her a deadpan wink.

  The door opened; the iron bars stayed intact. Carter, Cox knew, wasn’t paranoid; everyone really was out to get him.

  Colin Carter wore tracksuit bottoms and a zipped-up black hoodie and had his sparse black-grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He’d been fat the last time she saw him and he was fatter now. His baggy jowls were pale grey with stubble.

  ‘Hello, Mr Carter,’ she said.

  But Carter, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, was looking over her shoulder, at Wilson.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Thin voice, drawling Black Country accent.

  ‘This is my colleague, Greg Wilson,’ Cox said. Carter didn’t take his eyes off Wilson.

  ‘I know who this one is,’ said Carter, indicating her with a surly nod, ‘worse fucking luck for me. But who the fuck are you? If you’re a copper, she’d have said your rank.’ He paused; his deep-set eyes shrank further into his face. Then he jabbed a stubby finger through the iron bars. ‘You’re a fucking journalist.’

  Wilson sighed.

  ‘Good guess, Obi Wan. I am.’

  ‘Well, you can fucking –’

  ‘How much? Thirty? Forty?’ Cox looked round at Wilson in surprise. He was thumbing banknotes from an inch-thick roll. She sighed inwardly: once a tabloid journalist …

  ‘Fifty,’ said Carter. He said it quickly, keenly – he needed the money, it was clear.

  ‘Fifty and you’ll talk to us?’

  ‘Fifty,’ sneered Carter, ‘and I’ll tell you all there is to know about Hampton fucking Hall.’

  The living room was predictably grim. Airless and dark, strewn with grease-smeared pizza boxes, used tissues, cigarette ends. There was a TV, a decades-old gas fire, a bookcase half-filled with loosely piled books and magazines. A metal garden chair and a sunken grey sofa.

  An open door to the right led into a gloomy kitchen. A door ahead, in the back wall of the room, was closed – there was a lock on it, looked new.

  Carter, Cox noted, steered them towards the other end of the room – kept himself between them and the locked door.

  She gestured casually.

  ‘What’s through there?’

  He looked at her insolently.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something you don’t want us to know about?’

  ‘Nothing that’s any of your fucking business, unless you’ve got a warrant – and don’t say you have, ’cause you haven’t.’ He dropped listlessly into the sofa.

  Cox decided to let it go – for now. She sat down in the garden chair; Wilson, after a moment’s hesitation, perched awkwardly on the sofa-arm.

  There was a silence. Carter looked belligerently from one to the other.

  ‘Well? What’s going on?’

  Tread carefully, Cox told herself.

  ‘We’re looking into certain … activities that took place at Hampton Hall in the 1980s,’ she said, watching Carter carefully as she spoke.

  The fat man snorted.

  ‘Activities. That’s one word for it. Jesus.’

  ‘You went through quite a few care homes as a kid, is that right?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘You can call them care homes. I call them fucking concentration camps.’

  ‘Did you,’ Cox nudged, ‘witness any abuse – physical, emotional, sexual – during your periods in care?’

  ‘Are you fucking joking?’

  ‘Is that a “yes”?’

  Carter sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘Hampton Hall wasn’t the worst,’ he shrugged. ‘I been in worse. They left me alone there, most of ’em. I had a reputation.’

  ‘What do you mean? How did you get a reputation?’

  ‘Stabbing my foster dad was a good start.’ He looked up at Cox. ‘They knew I’d fight back, make a fuss. They don’t like that, most of ’em.’

  Wilson was looking nonplussed.

  ‘So you’re saying that this kind of abuse was widespread?’

  Carter gave him a contemptuous look.

  ‘“Abuse”. That’s another, what’s the word, euphemism. Hear it all the time, don’t you? No one’s scared of saying it, newsreaders and that. “Allegations of historic abuse”. Do you know what abuse is, really? Abuse is when you’re ten years old and some old bloke comes to see you in the middle of the night. Wakes you up, pulls you out of bed. Puts you on your knees and shoves his cock down your throat. Jizzes in your mouth and forces you to swallow. That’s what “abuse” is. Only they never put it that way on the Six O’Clock News.’ He looked at Cox with a sneer. ‘What were you doing when you were ten, inspector? Tea parties with your teddy-bears? Jolly-hockey-sticks at your posh school?’

  Cox held his look. She was aware that between the two of them Greg Wilson was staring at her, white-faced and way out of his comfort zone. She knew what he was thinking. How can you look him in the eye? How are you not shocked? How can you stand this?

  To which there was an easy answer. She’d heard it all before. Seen it with her own eyes.

  ‘Tell me about William Radley,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He was the officer who took you into custody after you stabbed Ken Yates. You stabbed him, too – wounded him in the arm.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Carter allowed himself a twisted smile at the recollection. ‘I remember him. Didn’t know his name, though.’

  ‘Did you see him again, after that day?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He came to the Hall quite a few times. Not usually in uniform, though.’

  Cox could feel a dark pit opening underneath her.

  ‘Was he – one of your abusers?’

  ‘Does it matter? He knew what went on there. They all fucking did.’ He sniffed again, then frowned. ‘Hang on. Radley. Was he the bloke that topped himself the other day? Heard it on the news. Fucking super-copper jumped off his balcony?’

  Cox nodded.

  ‘That’s him. William Radley.’

  Carter breathed out thoughtfully through his nose and scratched at his stubble.

  ‘It don’t make any difference to me now, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s all the same to me. But still.’ He looked at Cox. Something had changed, behind his lifeless dark eyes; there was less of a challenge there, now – more of a plea. ‘But still,’ he repeated, ‘I won’t be shedding any tears for your William fucking Radley.’

  Wilson pulled out a pack of cigarettes; offered one to Carter, who took it without thanks.

  ‘When did you last see Radley?’ he asked as he flared his lighter.

  Carter drew in smoke, shrugged.

  ‘We didn’t exactly keep in touch after I left,’ he said. ‘It’d be thirty-odd fucking years ago. Never saw him after I left Hampton and went into prison.’

  Cox had never known Carter so talkative.

  ‘You went straight into juvenile detention?’

  ‘Yeah. Start of my glittering career.’ He pulled again on his cigarette. ‘I owe it all to Hampton fucking Hall.’ Carter squinted at Wilson through the smoke. ‘But listen. I’ve said enough. You want any more, boy, you’re going to have to show me some of that fat bankroll of yours.’

  Wilson smiled grimly.

  ‘We haven’t had our fifty quid’s worth yet.’

  ‘It’s a seller’s market, pal.’

  ‘Don’t push your fucking luck.’

  Carter scowled, started up from his seat, bunching a white fist. Wilson stood, raised his hands. But Cox moved faster than both – she was between the two of them in a half-second, palms upraised, forcing Carter to meet her eye.

  ‘Easy, now,’ she said, her voice firm
, calm. ‘Easy. Sit back down. We don’t need to make this difficult.’

  Carter, flashing a last look at Wilson, swore and subsided on to the sofa. Sucked on his cigarette and said: ‘Tell that cunt not to talk to me about luck.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Wilson muttered.

  ‘Pricks like you have let me down all my life,’ Carter spat, ‘and now you talk about fucking luck? Lucky, was I, that my dad was in Wandsworth, my mum was a smackhead, my nan didn’t give a fuck, let her alky boyfriend stub out his fags on my arm? Lucky to get stuck in home after home, where I was nothing but fresh meat for rapists and perverts?’

  ‘Perverts?’ Wilson butted in. ‘That’s a bit fucking rich, coming from you.’

  Cox gave him a sharp warning look. For a second it looked as though Carter was going to swing for him again – but instead he shrugged one shoulder, made a grimace.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he muttered. ‘Cunts like you never do. Anyway,’ he added, with a resentful glance in Cox’s direction, ‘I’ve served my time.’

  ‘No one’s saying you haven’t,’ Cox said. Trying to settle the mood; trying to stop this situation lurching out of hand. They were here to do a job. ‘I’ve just got one more question, Mr Carter. Then we’ll be on our way.’

  Carter sighed. He looked exhausted, broken.

  ‘Go on then.’

  She took out her phone, brought up the snapshot she’d taken at Verity Halcombe’s house; the black and white picture of Verity as a young woman, with a half-smiling young man on her arm. It was a long shot, but they needed a break.

  She turned the screen of the phone towards Carter.

  ‘Do you recognize this man?’

  Carter leaned forward, peered at the image.

  His jaw fell slack. His face paled to paper-white. A flicker of fear passed across his eyes.

  ‘I think we can take that as a yes, too,’ Wilson murmured.

  ‘Doctor Midnight,’ said Carter. He blinked, gulped, turned to Wilson. ‘Can I have another fag?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They waited while, with quivering hands, he lit the cigarette, drew in a deep lungful. Coughed, wiped his cuff across his eyes.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he said. He looked at Cox. ‘It’s a long fucking time,’ he said, as though apologizing, ‘since I saw that fucking face.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Cox reassured him. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Dr Midnight, you said?’ Wilson prompted.

  ‘Yeah, that was what we called him. Used to come pay the boys a visit after lights-out. Liked to touch. Creepy fucking bastard.’

  ‘Do you remember his real name?’

  ‘They weren’t big on formal introductions. I think they called him Dr Merton, Dr Martin, something like that.’ He looked away, blinking. ‘Didn’t think I’d ever see that cunt’s face again. Christ.’

  Wilson reached out and took the phone from Cox’s hand. Frowned at the screen.

  Then he looked at Cox.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said softly. ‘Outside.’

  The Seventh Day of Christmas, 1986

  ‘Here’s to Hampton fucking Hall,’ says Stevie. Upends the bottle of vodka over his mouth. Drinks till it spills over his spotty chin. Laughs like a madman.

  I asked him, before, where he got the vodka. Says he got it in a trade with one of the gardeners. What’d you trade for it, I asked him. Doesn’t matter, does it, he said. Broke the seal on the bottle and took a big drink.

  They’re having a party down the hall, in the staff quarters, we can hear the music and laughing, so we thought we may as well have a party of our own, here in the dorm. Not much of a party – twenty unwanted kids and a bottle of supermarket vodka – but better than nothing. It’s New Year’s Eve after all.

  We all pass the bottle round. Even the young ones have a slurp – Stan, too. He gags on it and then says it was nice. We all laugh at him. Everyone’s telling jokes, telling stories, talking rubbish. It’s nice, almost.

  ‘Off for a wee,’ Stan says, getting up. He walks wobbly, pretending like he’s drunk. Daft lad.

  Col scoots over to sit next to me. We’ve both had more’n our share of Stevie’s vodka. He starts asking me about my family. It’s not something I talk about much – but I don’t mind, with Col.

  I tell him about our mum, how she had it hard growing up and maybe wasn’t much of a mum but was all right before Malky and his drugs come along.

  ‘How about your dad?’

  ‘He’s a nutter. Never really knew him. Wasn’t around, except to cause trouble for us.’

  Col nods, says he knows what that’s like.

  I start talking a bit about our dad, and about him going mental and getting us moved on from that last place we was in – and then I look round and think, our Stan’s been a bloody long time having a piss.

  I tell Col I’m going to go look for him. Col just nods. He’s more pissed than I am, I reckon. Not that I’m sober, not by a long bloody way. Bump into the doorframe on my way out.

  Music’s still thumping down the hall. Gone midnight, I think. Happy new year, eh.

  Push open the door of the boys’ toilet.

  Merton’s in there.

  Stan’s standing by the urinals, looking a bit awkward but okay, I think, and Merton’s leaning on one of the sinks. He sees me come in and smiles.

  ‘Ah, Robbie,’ he says. ‘Stanley and I were just having a nice little chat.’

  He’s off his tits. I can see that at a glance – got used to seeing it, with our mum. He can hardly stand up straight, that’s why he’s leaning on the sink.

  ‘A chat about what?’ I say. I’m proper mad. He shouldn’t be in here. They shouldn’t be in here.

  Stan looks from me to Merton and back to me. Chews his little finger anxiously.

  ‘Doctor’s questions,’ the bloke says.

  And that’s it, that does it, just like before, with Duffy and the mug of tea. Merton might be bigger’n me but he looks like he’s made out of pipe cleaners, and I bet he’s never had a fight in his life. I’ll give him a fucking fight.

  I lunge at him, not even throwing a proper punch but just chucking my body forward, hoping something connects, fist, elbow, forehead, knee, not bothered which – just want to hurt the dirty old prick.

  Merton stumbles to one side. I don’t really see what happens. The tiles are a bit wet, splashed tapwater, splashed piss. His feet go from under him.

  I grab Stan by his elbow, yank him out of the way.

  Merton goes over, falling full-length, too off his head to even put his arms out. His head goes clonk on the edge of a urinal, and he hits the floor hard.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Stan wails.

  Oh, Christ, I think. There’ll be trouble now.

  14

  They’d left Carter slouched on his grotty sofa, with the rest of Wilson’s cigarettes and DI Cox’s business card, plus another twenty. Call me if you want to talk some more, she’d said. Fat chance of that.

  Now they walked quickly through a fine drizzle back to where they’d parked the car, near to where the main road through the estate met the A-road.

  Wilson came swiftly to the point.

  ‘Where did you get that picture?’

  ‘The woman was Verity Halcombe. The photo was in a frame in her house up in Whitby.’

  ‘And you don’t know who the man is?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m guessing you do.’

  ‘Dr Euan Merritt.’

  Cox frowned. Didn’t ring a bell – but it wasn’t far off Carter’s guess of Merton.

  ‘You say it like I should know the name.’

  ‘You obviously don’t watch as much shitty TV as I do. Tame Your Toddler? Kid Conflict?’

  ‘He’s on TV?’ Cox blinked. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘He’s a big name, Cox. He’s the guy they always call when they need an expert on, you know, nightmare toddlers or whatever. Smooth manner, perma-tan, lots of letters after his name. The whole
package. Look.’ He took out his phone, shielding the screen from the rain with his free hand, and brought up a gallery of images. ‘Imagine him forty-odd years younger.’

  Cox took the phone from him.

  Yes – it was the same guy, no question. He wore heavy-framed glasses now, and a dodgy dark-grey hairpiece. His smile twisted to the left, just like in Verity Halcombe’s photo.

  ‘He separated from his wife last year,’ Wilson supplied. ‘Footnote in the tabloids.’

  Cox handed back the phone. Sighed.

  ‘What’s up? This is a big lead.’

  ‘No, it’s a big story. It’s a scoop for you, Greg, but it’s a fucking headache for me. A senior policeman, a beloved children’s worker, and now a bloody TV star …’

  ‘It is a great story,’ Wilson conceded.

  ‘But imagine trying to get it past the CPS. In fact, imagine trying to get it past my chief super. And on what grounds? A few educated guesses, the word of a convicted paedophile. A nightmare.’

  They walked on for a minute in silence.

  Eventually Wilson ventured: ‘So –’

  ‘We can’t arrest Merritt. We just can’t. We’d be laughed out of town.’

  ‘You’d like to, though.’

  ‘Bloody right I would. You saw Carter’s face. He’s a sly bastard but he wasn’t faking that.’

  ‘Do you think Merritt’s tied up in the killings?’

  She made a face.

  ‘Doesn’t add up, does it? But if there was abuse at Hampton Hall –’

  ‘If?’

  ‘– then he was involved. I’d put money on it. And with Radley dead, Halcombe dead, Allis dead …’

  ‘He’s at risk.’

  Cox nodded. ‘Exactly. Question is, what the hell do we do about it?’

  They’d reached the car.

  ‘Anonymous note?’ Wilson suggested as they climbed in.

  ‘Very you,’ said Cox drily, switching on the ignition, ‘but not really my style. I’d rather do this face-to-face. Is there a number?’

  Wilson glanced at his phone.

  ‘There’s a number for his agent – or anyway, his agent’s agency.’