Twelve Deaths of Christmas

by Jackson Sharp

  ‘Thanks for coming, guv,’ said Cox, as her mum reluctantly released her from her embrace. ‘But listen – could you do something for me before you go?’

  ‘Sure. What?’

  ‘Get me a mirror?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll grab a nurse.’ He moved off purposefully.

  At Cox’s side, her mother let out a long, whimpering sigh.

  ‘Is that wise, darling?’ she said, bending forward to touch Cox’s forearm anxiously. ‘Do you really want to see yourself in this state? You’ll look much better in a day or two, once you’ve had a chance to put a bit of makeup on and do something with your hair –’

  ‘Ah, come on, Maggie,’ Aidan butted in, dropping into the chair Naysmith had vacated. ‘She’s a copper, she’s seen worse – though not much worse. No harm in her seeing the truth.’

  Cox nodded.

  ‘He’s right, Mum.’ She fumbled for her mum’s hand, gave it a squeeze. ‘I want to know how bad it is. I’ll be fine, I promise – I just want to know.’

  Margaret Cox nodded, uncertain. Cox looked at Aidan; he winked at her. Christ, that took her back.

  Her head was pounding again.

  Naysmith returned, a nurse in tow. The nurse was carrying a small hand-mirror.

  ‘Bear in mind, it looks a lot worse than it is,’ she said as she handed it over. ‘Nothing that won’t heal. Probably won’t even leave a mark.’

  Cox nodded, lifted the mirror to her face.

  In a way, it was good to know that she looked as bad as she felt.

  A bandage covered her forehead from the eyebrows up. No blood, except on the tips of a few strands of hair that’d worked loose from the dressing. Her right eye was dramatically bloodshot, the socket around it blue-black, the skin of her temple a mottled yellow-brown. A layer of skin had been scraped from her nose. Bruising covered the whole right side of her face, down to her jaw. There was an ugly scab on the right side of her chin, and the left side of her lower lip was puffy and red.

  ‘I look like I’ve been twelve rounds with Joe Calzaghe,’ she muttered.

  ‘Beauty is only skin deep,’ supplied Aidan jovially.

  The nurse leaned in to take the mirror back.

  ‘You should probably get some rest now,’ she said, with an apologetic sidelong look at Naysmith, Aidan and Mrs Cox. ‘Your body’ll do a great job of healing itself, you’ll see – but it needs sleep, and it needs quiet.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ Naysmith mumbled.

  Cox smiled.

  ‘Okay – clear off, all of you.’ She pulled her mum in for another hug. ‘Take care. Ade, don’t tell Matthew how bad I look.’

  ‘Do you think I want to give him nightmares? He was asking for you.’

  ‘What will you tell him?’

  ‘That your bike broke down, and that was why you couldn’t come to the party.’

  Cox nodded. That’d do.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. Felt helpless.

  As they turned to leave, she called Naysmith back: work stuff, she explained in response to the others’ questioning looks.

  They waited while the nurse picked up the flowers Mrs Cox had brought – said how lovely they were, and said it was a shame they’d have to be kept out in the corridor, not on the ward: regulations.

  Then it was just the two of them.

  Naysmith shrugged; looked anxious.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I need to get out of here,’ Cox said.

  ‘What’s your hurry? I’m pretty sure they want to keep you in at least another day or two.’

  She gritted her teeth.

  ‘Someone,’ she said, ‘tried to kill me. They followed me, ran me off the road. They tried to kill me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I’m not going to find out sitting in here.’

  ‘Okay then – why?’

  She looked at him until he met her gaze. Then: ‘You know why.’

  Naysmith looked older and more weary than ever; hunted, run down.

  ‘This Radley thing?’

  ‘You know I’m on to something here, guv, and you’re not the only one. There’s some seriously dark stuff out there. If I keep digging, I’m going to find out where the bodies are buried. And then –’

  ‘Then there’ll be hell to pay,’ Naysmith finished. He rubbed his chin, looked at her pensively. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘If you’re right, you needn’t be in such a hurry to get back out there. You’re pretty safe in here.’

  ‘This isn’t about me being safe. It’s about three suspicious deaths – and God knows how many more.’ A thought occurred, in step with the thump of her headache; a memory she’d been skating over. She lifted her chin. ‘Here, guv – what do you know about Sam Harrington?’

  Naysmith looked surprised.

  ‘Harrington? That gonk from the MoJ? What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? He was first on the scene at Radley’s death.’

  ‘Come on. The guy’s a civil servant, just another Oxbridge desk-jockey. Only in it for the fat salary and the pension pot.’ He paused. ‘Isn’t he?’

  Cox shrugged – winced at the pain in her arm.

  ‘I can’t prove otherwise,’ she said.

  ‘Well, then. And while we’re on that subject.’ He looked at her seriously, drumming his fingers on his knee. ‘I looked over the evidence from the Allis murder. The wallet.’

  ‘The restaurant receipt?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. The wallet was there, contents logged in the file: credit cards, a few receipts, for petrol, stuff like that – but nothing from any Olympus Grill.’

  Cox turned cold inside.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing from Christmas Day at all.’

  ‘But guv, I saw it, I’m telling you – I had it in my hand. Chalmers was there, and the guy from SOCO, Chang –’

  ‘Did you show it to them?’

  ‘I – no.’ She remembered: how uncertain she’d felt, there in the park – how uneasy. Mistrustful.

  Now she felt like she had a lead weight in her gut. ‘I didn’t know then what I know now,’ she muttered.

  ‘Look, Cox. Is it possible you got – carried away?’

  She fixed him with a look.

  ‘Guv. After all we’ve been through. For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t get defensive. You’re under a lot of stress, I know that. Stress makes people do funny things.’

  ‘Like make up evidence?’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘It’s exactly what you’re saying. Or do you think I hallucinated that bloody receipt?’

  Naysmith frowned.

  ‘Watch your tone, Cox,’ he rumbled with little conviction.

  Cox was about to reply – about to snap back with something angry and unwise – when she noticed the nurse hovering uncertainly behind Naysmith.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said, with a nervous smile. ‘But really – you do need to get some rest, Kerry. Perhaps the work issue could wait till tomorrow?’

  Cox hated herself for her first thought: how much did she hear?

  Naysmith was already rising to his feet, reaching for his coat.

  ‘She’s right, Cox,’ he said. ‘This can wait. You try and relax. Get yourself better. We’ll talk again soon.’

  She swallowed down her exasperation. What else could she do?

  ‘Sure. Okay.’

  ‘You look after yourself.’ He nodded emphatically. Stomped out.

  Cox asked if she’d had her phone with her when she was found. Found. The word tasted bitter on her tongue – she hated the passivity, the helplessness of it. Yes, the nurse said – tucked in her leggings pocket, and fine except for a bit of scuffing.

  ‘Better than me, then.’ Cox smiled. ‘Could I have it? Then,’ she added quickly, ‘I promise I’ll go to sleep.’

  It was in the drawer of her bedside table. The nurse, with a bit of tutting and if-you-really-must fro
wning, passed it to her.

  ‘I just need to send a text,’ Cox said.

  She texted Wilson; funny, she thought, how quickly she’d got into the habit of turning to Greg bloody Wilson when she needed help. She asked him to come to the hospital the next day, and bring her some clothes from her flat.

  A reply buzzed back quickly: What are you doing in hospital?

  Cox – head thumping, bones aching, mind spinning – barely had strength to reply, Tell you later, before she sank into sleep.

  17

  She was, with some difficulty, buttoning up her shirt when the nurse pulled back the curtain.

  ‘Kerry? What are you doing?’

  ‘I can’t stay here.’ She pulled on a grey jumper, sat down to put on her shoes.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’

  No.

  ‘I haven’t got a choice.’ She swore as a pulse of pain throbbed in her arm. ‘There are things I have to do.’

  The nurse sat beside her on the bed.

  ‘I think your boss – Mr Nesbit? – was right,’ she said. ‘You really do need time to –’

  ‘To let my body heal, yes, I know.’ Cox sighed, straightened up. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I appreciate that you’re looking out for me.’ Turned – painfully – to face the nurse. ‘Listen, I’m a police officer. There are times when I just can’t afford to take it easy. You can understand that.’

  ‘When duty calls.’ The nurse smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, I can. But still –’

  ‘It’s just pain, isn’t it?’ Cox stood, straightened her clothes. ‘I mean, my arm’s going to hurt, my head’s going to hurt, but that’s all, isn’t it? I’m not going to drop dead from a delayed reaction or anything?’

  The nurse shrugged.

  ‘I wish I could say for sure,’ she said. ‘That’s why we want to keep you in, for observation – to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us. Head injuries aren’t to be taken lightly.’

  Neither is murder, Cox thought. Neither is child abuse. Neither is conspiracy.

  She barely listened as the nurse talked her through her after-care: how to take care of the cast on her arm, to wear a sling as often as possible, how to change the dressing on her head, what sort of after-effects to look out for. Wilson was waiting in the car park, and they had work to do.

  She thanked the nurse, who shook her head.

  ‘You don’t have to thank me. But I do wish you’d stay – at least until tomorrow.’

  For a half-second, Cox hesitated. Her hip and leg hurt more than she’d expected, now that she was standing up. Her headache made it hard to think straight – and if things turned nasty, how much use would she be with her right arm out of action? She couldn’t even drive, for Christ’s sake.

  But Wilson had said he had new information – a lead. Things were moving fast. Playing safe was no longer an option.

  ‘Please take care,’ the nurse pleaded as Cox stuffed her phone and a bottle of painkillers into her bag.

  ‘I will,’ Cox promised.

  The nurse grinned.

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘You’ve got to believe me. I’m a police officer.’ She shouldered her bag, trying to ignore the protests of her joints, her muscles; left the ward.

  Wilson had agreed to drive her home. He was waiting at the wheel of his beaten-up old Renault; couldn’t wait to tell her what he’d dug up. After a pretty cursory inquiry about her health, he started in as they were pulling out of the hospital car park.

  ‘I’ve been looking into CARE – this Children’s Rehabilitation whatever-the-hell-it-is,’ he said, as they motored throatily along Kingston Hill. ‘It was a charity, but it had a big wad of private backing – set up and financed from Jersey, by a guy called Gandry, John Gandry.’

  ‘I feel like I know the name.’

  ‘You might. Wasn’t averse to getting his name in the papers. Multi-millionaire, naturally. Generally described as a “philanthropist”.’

  ‘There’s a word that rings alarm bells.’

  ‘Ha, doesn’t it just? Such cynicism. Anyway, Gandry died years back, so there’s not much to work with there – but he was a Midlands boy, born in Dudley.’

  ‘Hence the Walsall connection.’

  ‘Yup. Now, CARE was officially wound up in the early nineties. It only put out one research paper. By –’

  ‘Reginald Allis?’

  ‘Co-authored with a Dr Ian Merton.’

  ‘Uh-huh: Merton is Merritt. We had a visit from his agent the other day. Changed his name to escape some unsavoury allegations.’ She gave Wilson a warning look. ‘Tread carefully there, though. He’s got his lawyers on Defcon One.’

  ‘You know me, soul of discretion.’ They swung on to the A306. Traffic was starting to bunch; Wilson geared down, went on with his briefing. ‘The paper was published, but in a journal that’s long since closed down, Sociology Today, New Adventures in Sociology, something like that. It’s not online but I’ll look it up at the British Library tomorrow.’

  ‘How about Hampton Hall? Did you get a chance to look for a list of former inmates?’

  ‘I did. Moved hell and high water to get a response from West Mids child services during the holidays, but no dice. No such records exist in their files.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they don’t exist somewhere else.’

  ‘Give me a break, Kerry, I only had two days. I’m working on it.’ The traffic had ground to a halt on the approach to Hammersmith Bridge. Cox’s headache was getting worse; felt like her brain was beating in her skull like a heart. ‘So you’re going after the revenge angle?’ Wilson asked. ‘Someone who was abused as a kid, getting his own back now?’

  Cox shrugged uncertainly.

  ‘Who knows? But I don’t think so. Thirty years is a long time – why wait so long? Five years, ten years, I could buy, not thirty.’

  ‘So what’s your theory?’

  ‘I’ve got a few, but I’m not keen on any of them. Blackmail? Someone who was in on the abuse – an orderly at HHUC, a copper who covered Radley’s back – gets an anonymous letter, or a phone-call, threatening to go public with what happened back then, unless they hand over fifty grand or whatever. But instead of paying up –’

  ‘They set about silencing everyone who might have known anything?’ Wilson blew out a breath. ‘Whew. That’d be a big job.’

  ‘I said I didn’t like it much. But I haven’t got a lot else.’

  They speculated, trading potential motives, possible suspects, mocked-up backstories, as the little Renault crawled through Hammersmith. Cox knew all along it was still nothing but a guessing game; she hoped Wilson did, too.

  They still needed a way in, a real lead. They were still waiting for a break.

  Hammersmith gave way slowly to Shepherd’s Bush: grey-brown, cloud-covered, unlovely. Cox directed Wilson to the end of her street.

  He stopped the car with a jerk.

  ‘So what now?’ he asked, turning to Cox, propping an elbow on his seat-back.

  ‘I’m going to take some drugs and go to sleep.’

  Wilson rolled his eyes.

  ‘I meant for the investigation. What’s our next step?’

  ‘I know you did, and there isn’t one.’

  ‘We do nothing? Come on.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We do nothing.’ Gave him a look. ‘Nothing, till after the inquiry.’

  Wilson slowly lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘Aaah. Right.’

  ‘Some of us,’ said Cox drily as she unlatched the car door, ‘haven’t forgotten about that.’

  Back in her flat, she filled a tumbler of water and downed a few of the painkillers she’d taken from the hospital: her headache was almost unbearable now, an unrelenting thunder behind her eyes. Her arm, too, had grown painfully stiff in its sling. The skin of her face felt raw, peeled.

  She was physically exhausted – but mentally wired. Time for the other medicine …

  T
ook down the hard-plastic bottle from the bathroom cabinet, shook out a handful of capsules. No sense in half measures. She had to feel better; right now, she just couldn’t afford to be weak.

  Gulped down the pills. Sat down on the bed. Closed her eyes for a second.

  Was she being paranoid? In the early days, it was an occupational hazard in her business: when you worked in the shadows, you soon started to see bogeymen everywhere. But as you worked on more cases, some successful and some not so, you realized it was dangerous. Sometimes you could join the dots, be sure you had a picture, but you were kidding yourself. Life, society, it was full of coincidences and random connections that really were just that. Some things didn’t make sense – some motives were flimsy and some crimes were chaotic, because that’s what people’s lives were like.

  So someone had run her off her bike, sure, but Naysmith had a point – there were a lot of crazy drivers out there. Yeah, they hadn’t stopped – so maybe they were uninsured, or over the limit, or just a selfish arsehole? If the studies were to be believed, there were a lot of sociopathic people out there. Maybe the driver had run her down deliberately, on a whim, just because – well – he could.

  But think about the timing. Just after they’d zoned in on Euan Merritt. She didn’t think it was Merritt who’d tried to kill her, but someone else – who? – might have got word that the net was closing, that she was getting too close for comfort, and decided to take drastic action.

  More guessing games, she thought, blearily. More speculation.

  She stood – felt unsteady. Well, her body had taken a hell of a battering, of course she was unsteady. She’d get used to it.

  Moved through to the kitchen. Realized that she had pretty much no idea what time it was; since the bike ride, the fall, her hours and days had been all out of whack. Blinked at the microwave clock. Couldn’t quite make out the numbers.

  Seemed darker, gloomier, than it should have.

  She was sick of guessing. Sick of being lied to, being strung along. She needed answers. So, she thought, let’s go and get some …

  There was an inch of cold coffee in the pot. She poured a cup, slurped it down. It was bitter and viscous – but it had a kick, and that was what she needed.

  She tugged clumsily at the knot of her sling; her fingers didn’t feel right, felt numb, but the knot gave way eventually. The sling fell loose. She shook it away, flexed her arm experimentally. The cast covered her arm from elbow to wrist. The bone ached, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.