‘I’m touched by your concern.’
‘Don’t be. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’d be in if you got yourself hurt?’
‘There’s nothing to tie me to you.’
She snorted.
‘You sure about that?’
She filled him in on that afternoon’s painful interview with Naysmith and the lawyers; explained how Naysmith had managed to keep Wilson’s name off the record.
There was a pause. Then Wilson said: ‘Sounds like I owe your boss a drink.’
‘That’s the last thing he needs. My advice would be to stay as far away from him as possible for the foreseeable future. And keep the hell away from Colin Carter while you’re at it.’
‘If that’s your position,’ Wilson said, a little frostily, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want to know what I found out.’
Cox sighed.
‘Don’t be a child, Greg. Go on. What did you find?’
‘Carter’s got a houseguest.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You were wrong about Carter. He does go out, after dark. Thing is, a light went on when he was out. Saw someone pull down a blind. Someone was there.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
She wanted to scream with exasperation.
‘It sounds crazy, I know, but maybe Colin Carter’s made a friend,’ she said, forcing herself to keep her temper in check. ‘Stranger things have happened. Maybe he’s got a lodger, maybe he’s got family visiting. None of those things are illegal, Greg.’
‘No, but –’
‘Greg, this is not a lead. This is not helping. If you do want to help, you can do some digging: press, social services, anything on CARE, anything on HHUC. A list of employees would be a great start.’
‘Kerry, I –’
‘Or just take the night off, for God’s sake. Go home and open a bottle of wine. Just please, stop playing at being Philip Marlowe and jeopardizing my investigation.’
‘But –’
‘Goodnight, Greg.’
She rang off. Set down the phone. Ran a hand across her eyes. She felt wrung-out, tense, knotted-up. She knew what she needed – and it wasn’t a bottle of Chablis.
The cold night wind felt good, slipping through the vents in her helmet, blowing the hair back from her face. Her muscles – legs, back, core – felt strong; her pedals rose and fell in brisk, regular cadence. And it was good to feel her heart beating fast in her chest, not through stress or fear or worry but because she was using it …
Night-time was the best time for cycling, Cox thought. Not as much noisy, nerve-shattering traffic; not as much smog and smoke. It was just you, chasing a beam of lamplight, a white line down a black road. Gave you time to think. And time to not think, too, which was just as important.
She’d crossed Putney Heath and was heading further out of town, up the hill towards Richmond Park. You got a good view of the city lights from up there.
Best way to see London, she thought wryly to herself. From a safe distance.
It took her back, this. Riding her bike through the dark, up to Richmond or out into the quiet, wealthy suburbs, had been her go-to stressbuster, at one time; even in a hard week, she’d found time for three, four rides a week.
There’d been a lot of hard weeks, back then.
Climbing steadily, body and bike locked into a smooth side-to-side rhythm, Cox found herself thinking back to those days. Would they ever find Warren Boyd, she wondered? She could still picture his face, clear as day. A face she’d come to know all too well. That look, that childish pout, had been his only answer to every question she’d hit him with. Stonewalled everything, right up until the end.
Afterwards, the papers said he was ‘tough’; a ‘hard-as-nails villain’, one of them called him. She’d laughed at that, not because it was funny – nothing much had been funny, back then – but because she hadn’t known what else to do. How else to feel.
She’d seen the look in Boyd’s piggy eyes, and seen it up close. It wasn’t defiance, wasn’t contempt, however the press – and Boyd himself, come to that – tried to dress it up. It was fear. Plain and simple.
After they’d let him go – and there were plenty on the force, back then, who’d have rather seen Boyd have an ‘accidental’ fall on the nick’s back steps than walk away a free man – Cox, on a hunch, had followed him.
He’d gone no further than the nearest pub. Went in there around lunchtime and stayed there. He was drinking, the landlord told her later, like a man on borrowed time; drinking like there was no tomorrow.
He wasn’t wrong.
West of the park, the road fell into a long, steady downhill. Cox heard a car coming up the road behind her. Its lights painted a long shadow across the asphalt ahead. She kept tight to the verge; for some drivers, she knew, lights, reflectors and a high-vis vest weren’t enough. The car slowed, matching her speed maybe five yards behind her rear wheel. She waved an arm, signalling for it to come past. It was safe to overtake; the road ahead was black and empty.
At last, the car revved. But it didn’t overtake.
Her back wheel went from under her. She felt her right pedal come loose as the bike’s rear mech crumpled, as the car’s offside wing lunged across her line of momentum –
She yanked her leg free of the toe-clip, tried to go down, to pull the bike into a slide, maybe roll away – but she was going too fast, and her centre of gravity had lurched forward. The handlebars spun, and jammed; she was thrown, the bike racketing away into the hedge; the world, for a long half-second, was a blur of white light – and then she met the ground, elbow-first, her body cartwheeling, howling pain jolting up her arm. Her head struck the kerb. The edge of her helmet broke apart; her forehead was driven into the gritty road.
She tasted blood, felt vomit rise in her throat. The car, she thought, was driving on – she heard its engine go quiet, the glare of its lights grow dim.
It’d either driven on – or it’d stopped.
Her vision blurred; grew dark. The world fell silent. The pain in her arm and shoulder faded to nothing. Everything faded to nothing.
The Eighth Day of Christmas, 1986
Not seen Merton yet. All we’ve had today is Miss bloody Halcombe.
‘Someone in this dorm is responsible for bringing this into Hampton Hall.’ She waggles the empty vodka bottle, holding it like it’s the most disgusting thing she’s ever seen in her life. Who’s she trying to kid? ‘This is a very serious breach of our rules – what’s more, it’s completely against everything we stand for as a caring, responsible organization.’
And so on. Same old line we’ve been hearing all our lives: someone owns up, or the whole class gets detention after school …
I look over at Stevie. He’s on his bed, knees tucked up to his chest, not meeting anyone’s eye. Looks like shit. He must’ve shifted half that bottle himself.
I don’t feel too bad. What happened in the bogs must’ve sobered me up.
‘Do you all want to be punished?’ Halcombe yells. ‘Is that it? You all want to be punished?’
I look at her fat pink face, the empty bottle shining in the grey light from the window, the skinny kids sitting around on their bony beds. How weak they all look. How bloody hopeless.
Screw it, I think. Screw Hampton Hall.
I put up my hand.
‘It was me,’ I say. ‘It’s my vodka, my fault. It was me.’
Halcombe lowers the vodka bottle and looks at me, quivering, furious. Everyone else is looking at me, too. I feel like the big man. It’s not a bad feeling – but I can’t enjoy it, not really, not now.
‘Well,’ Halcombe says. ‘Well.’
I look back at her. She says I’m in big trouble now – that after yet another infraction she has no choice but to revoke all my privileges and put me in the cell for the night.
I hear Stan’s sharp intake of breath. Give him a wink. Don’t want him worrying.
I’m not worried, anyr
oad. The cell? Being left to yourself for a few hours? Sounds like a bloody holiday to me – given the alternative.
‘Come with me,’ Halcombe says. ‘We’ll see what Dr Allis has to say about this.’
Fine by me, I think. We’ll see what he has to say about this. Then we’ll see what he has to say when I tell him what Dr Merton does to the little boys in his care.
It’s just me and him, in the office. Allis is wearing a cravat thing instead of a tie, and a waistcoat. Fancy bastard.
He’s all right, though. Better than I thought. That’s the thing with people – the bastards always surprise you. Works both ways, though. Good and bad.
We talk a bit about the vodka; he gives me a little lecture on the dangers of alcohol abuse, on the importance of following the rules, respecting the values of the institution – but it don’t seem like his heart’s really in it.
So when there’s a pause I just come out with it. I say it as plain as I can, dirty words and everything. He hardly blinks, Dr Allis. But he leans forward seriously and lowers his glasses.
‘That, Robert,’ he says, ‘is very worrying. Very worrying indeed.’
You’re telling me, doc, I think.
‘It’s true.’
‘I don’t doubt that you’re telling me what you think is the truth,’ he nods. I don’t know what that’s meant to mean. ‘I’m going to act on this immediately,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you came to see me – this is a very serious allegation, and I’m going to make sure it’s properly investigated.’ Looks at me over his wire rims. ‘Now that, Robert, may require us to involve the police. It’s simply the only way to address such a grave allegation. Do you understand?’
I nod. I do. Even the pigs have their uses sometimes.
He nods, sits back. Even though he’s skinny there’s a baggy flap of skin under his chin that wobbles when he moves.
‘What happens now?’ I say.
‘Leave this with me, Robert,’ he says. ‘Just you leave this with me.’
Col says I shouldn’t have bothered – that I was wasting my breath.
‘They’re all in it together,’ he says. ‘It won’t do no good.’
Shrugs, looks away.
How can he be so bloody hopeless? He was the one talking about doing something – stopping that bastard Merton. It makes me so mad I could hit him.
But then he might be right, I know that. Christ I hope he isn’t.
It’s nearly lights out. Before I go down to the cell I ask Col to keep an eye on Stan for me – he don’t like sleeping when I’m not there, and I don’t want him pissing the bed again. Col says he will.
The cell’s a cell. Bed, walls, piss-bucket. Half-window covered with a grille, up at the top of the wall. Christ, it’s cold, though. They push me in, lock the door noisily behind me.
I sit on the bed. The mattress is no better than the ones in the dorm but it’s no worse, either. No rats – fuck you, Duffy.
I lie down under the thin blanket. Smells of puke. Not much to do but lie there and shiver. So bloody cold I can see my breath – until, without warning, they turn off the lights.
16
Kerry couldn’t have said which hit her first: the pain or the nausea. She came awake, saw glaring white light, breathed in the cloying smell of asepsis, felt her stomach cramp and at the same time groaned as a riptide of fierce pain swept the left side of her body.
Couldn’t keep it in. With a choked cry she bent over the side of the bed – what the hell was she doing in bed? – and threw up on the tiled floor.
Footsteps.
‘Oh, dear.’ A gentle hand on her shoulder, helping her back into the bed as she fought to catch her breath. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay.’
It was a woman, young, her hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a uniform. Copper? No. Cox thought hard. A nurse. That was it.
‘How are you feeling?’ the nurse asked. ‘Arm hurt?’
‘ … Yes.’
‘You came off your bike, out in Richmond. You have a compound fracture of the forearm but it’s nothing we can’t fix. I’ll get you some painkillers. How’s your head?’
My head? Is something wrong with my head?
She tried to lift a hand, to feel her head, her hair, her skull, but the hand was clumsily entangled in the bedclothes.
‘It – it throbs,’ she said. Felt close to tears.
‘Hey. Don’t try to move.’ The nurse reached out a hand to brush a strand of hair away from Cox’s eyes. ‘You had a bang to the head when you fell, but you’re going to be fine, you hear me?’ She perched on the edge of Cox’s bed. ‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘Kerry. Kerry Cox.’
She knew that, at least – the certainty felt good.
‘Okay, Kerry. A doctor’s going to come and see you soon, run some checks. You took quite a tumble.’ She smiled. ‘But you’ll be back on your feet in no time. Is there anyone you’d like us to call? Family, a partner?’
She said the first name that came into her head.
‘Naysmith. Peter Naysmith.’ She reeled off the DCI’s mobile number.
‘No problem.’ The nurse noted down the details. ‘We’ll give him a call. And I’ll get you those painkillers.’
She smiled; went away.
Cox closed her eyes, settled her head back into the cool pillow. Bit her lip as again the bone-deep ache gripped her body, as again her gut boiled up in revolt. She could feel the cold sweat on her face, brow, forearms.
She remembered. The bike, the road, the night, the car, the crash …
An accident?
No. She remembered that, too.
By the time the nurse returned with pills and water, it was as though a fog had descended in Cox’s mind; the pain from her arm, the throbbing in her head, the nausea, the unreality of it all … She fumbled the painkillers into her mouth, gulped them down, drank as much of the water as she dared – any more, and she’d puke again.
Then she must have fallen asleep, or passed out, blacked out.
When she awoke, Naysmith was sitting by her bed. He smiled. Looked stressed and baggy-eyed.
‘Happy New Year,’ he said.
Cox blinked. Hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what time it was, what day it was – Christ, even what year it was.
‘It’s the new year?’ She struggled to sit up. ‘God, I said I’d be at Matthew’s party …’
‘You don’t need to worry about that.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘You were out for more than thirty hours, Cox. Bleed on the brain – I gather it’s stabilized now.’
‘Who – who found me?’
‘Passing motorist, around one in the morning. You were unconscious. He called an ambulance, they brought you here. Hammersmith, if you were wondering.’
‘And Matthew …’
‘I told you, you don’t need to worry about that. When you didn’t show up, your mum phoned the station.’ He smiled drily. ‘Assumed you were at work. We told her you were on leave.’ Nodded towards the bed. ‘When I told you to go away and put your feet up, by the way, this isn’t what I had in mind.’
‘Do they know I’m here now?’
‘Uh-huh. I rang them myself on my way over. They’ll be here soon.’
‘With Matthew? I don’t want him to see –’
‘No, just Aidan and your mum. You do look a bit X-rated in that bloody bandage.’ He chuckled, shook his head. ‘They showed me your bike helmet. Split open like a nutshell.’ The chuckle faded. ‘You were lucky, Kerry. You could’ve died.’
‘I could’ve been killed.’
‘That’s what I said.’
She closed her eyes; pinched the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb.
‘Guv,’ she said.
‘They said your bike was practically bent into a figure-eight.’
‘Guv.’
‘What?’
She remembered the roar of the revved engine.
‘It wasn’t an accident.’
He smiled uneasily.
<
br /> ‘Funny thing to do on purpose. I’d already given you the day off.’
‘Guv, you know what I’m saying. It wasn’t just a hit and run. The driver did it on purpose.’
Naysmith shifted awkwardly in his seat.
‘Kerry, you’ve made some enemies in your time, we all have – but do you really think anyone’d go that far, just for a bit of payback?’ Scratched his nose, shook his head. ‘Nah. I know, it can be hard to believe, the way some people drive – some prick in an A3 doing seventy on an unlit road, you can’t credit it, can you? But –’
‘It wasn’t payback.’
‘Well, then –’
‘It was to shut me up.’
Naysmith stared at her.
The double-doors at the end of the ward opened. Aidan dashed in, with Mrs Cox following behind.
Kerry saw Aidan’s face, in the seconds before he realized that she was awake and talking, that she was going to be okay. His hair was uncombed, his jaw unshaven. He looked shocked, shaken – he looked terrified.
He smiled, a broad grin of relief, when he saw her looking at him.
Then he came closer, and the grin warped into a grimace of horror.
‘Jesus Christ, Kerry, what have you done to yourself?’ He approached the bed. ‘You’ve made a proper mess of yourself.’
‘Lovely to see you too, Ade,’ Cox muttered.
Aidan smiled.
‘Sorry. Christ, I’m glad you’re okay. I mean – are you okay? You must have taken a hell of a whack. You look like hell.’
‘Could we leave the personal remarks for now?’ Cox retorted. ‘I’ll be okay – so I’m told.’ She paused. Grimaced. ‘Am I really that bad?’
Her mum, half-hidden behind an armful of expensive-looking flowers, said: ‘You have looked more presentable, darling – but oh, goodness I’m happy to see you.’ She handed the flowers to Naysmith without looking at him and pushed past Aidan to embrace her daughter.
‘Careful, Mum,’ Cox murmured, as Mrs Cox’s elbow brushed her splinted right arm – but it felt good to be hugged, good to be loved.
Naysmith carefully laid the flowers on the floor and stood.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said, a little stiffly – not good with families, Naysmith.
Twelve Deaths of Christmas Page 16