Twelve Deaths of Christmas

by Jackson Sharp

  Walking carefully – the bang to her hip must’ve really screwed with her balance, she thought – Cox went to the door. Took her car keys from the hook. Went out.

  Merritt’s home address was on file, from a minor traffic infringement a few years before. A call to the DVLA had confirmed he was still at the same address. A posh suburb, outside Tunbridge Wells. It took Cox a minute to figure out the route – when she tried to visualize the roads (M25? A20-something?), they somehow slithered from her grasp – but she hit the road anyway.

  Felt dizzy. Her inner ear wouldn’t settle down.

  You shouldn’t be driving, a part of her nagged.

  Yeah, well. There were a lot of things she shouldn’t be doing.

  Crossed the river at Hammersmith. Didn’t seem to be much traffic. Just as well. The car wasn’t handling well.

  What was she going to say to him? Well, she’d figure that out when the time came. It was what he was going to say to her that mattered. He knew more than he was letting on. He was keeping something back from her, the slippery bastard. Holding out on her.

  Just like everyone.

  She carried on driving, beyond London, and eventually arrived at the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells. Being a TV quack-for-hire must pay all right, she thought, muddily. House prices in these parts were insane. Every driveway she passed had a sports car or a 4x4 – many had both.

  Slowed, scanning the street signs, after she crossed London Road. Somewhere round here …

  Took her the best part of half an hour to find it. A lot of wrong turnings and clumsy three-point turns. There was definitely something wrong with the steering, the little car was handling like a bloody Sherman tank …

  Carleton Avenue. This was the one. Parked up; made a pig’s ear of it, but what the hell.

  It was cold, clear. The sky a deep indigo.

  ‘The Hollies’: this was Merritt’s place. Nothing so common as a house number for the good doctor. The long driveway was stone-flagged, lined with rose bushes.

  Cox eased open the iron gate. Approached the house. Two-storey, detached, Georgian design but probably 1940s, the red brick picturesquely worn, the new uPVC windows out of place.

  The front door was open.

  A sharp edge of fear cut through Cox’s disorientation.

  ‘Hello?’ Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. ‘Dr Merritt?’

  Eased the door open with her foot. A high-ceilinged hall, sparsely decorated: grandfather clock, a tall hat-stand, two sepia landscape prints on the wall.

  Stepped inside. The nausea had come back, but now it had nothing to do with the crash, her injury, the drugs …

  Her copper’s instincts were screaming at her. This is bad. This is trouble.

  She could smell blood. Looked down.

  Fat red spots on the off-white carpet. A dark patch of spilled water – a vase, she saw, had been knocked from a side table.

  Okay, Kerry, she told herself firmly. This isn’t something you want to do alone.

  Fished out her phone. Dialled. 996. No. Christ. Damn fingers wouldn’t do as they were told. 99#. 989. 999. There. Hit ‘call’.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ she told the operator. ‘The Hollies, Carleton Avenue, Tunbridge Wells. There’s been – there’s been some sort of accident.’

  The operator asked her to repeat the details, said that a patrol car was on its way.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cox.

  There was a short pause on the line.

  Hesitantly, the operator asked: ‘Have you been drinking, madam?’

  Cox rang off. I wish, she thought darkly.

  She thought about going back to her car, waiting for uniform to show up. She didn’t know this place, its layout, didn’t know who might be here, what might have happened. Christ, she wasn’t even meant to be here. That police lawyer would have a bloody seizure if he knew.

  But those copper’s instincts had you both ways. She knew something bad had happened here. And she knew she wasn’t leaving till she found out what it was. It wasn’t even a choice.

  She moved forwards stealthily, trying to keep her shoes from making a noise on the polished hall floorboards.

  The hall, she saw, led on, down a step and through open glass-panelled wooden doors, to a cavernous kitchen.

  She stopped in the doorway. The kitchen smelled like a butcher’s shop.

  Maybe Merritt joints his own Sunday roasts, Cox thought wildly, stepping down into the room. Maybe he likes his black pudding home-made …

  The jack-hammer pain in her head had returned.

  There was blood on the floor, a broad, dark smear across the pale boards, between the left-hand worktop and a central island.

  The kitchen was L-shaped. At the far end, French windows looked out on to a sweep of lawn. There was a pine table with five chairs around it, but room for six. The right wall of the kitchen was hung with copper pans beside a chalk-painted Welsh dresser and a wide black Aga. The trail of blood, Cox saw, approaching warily, led around the right-angled corner, to the left.

  It occurred to her, belatedly, that she should have told the operator to send an ambulance as well as a patrol car.

  Then she turned the corner and saw that an ambulance wouldn’t be necessary.

  Euan Merritt’s body, stripped naked, was propped in a kitchen chair. Blood had pooled thickly on the floor beneath him and was creeping up the grain of the chair-legs.

  Cox covered her mouth with her hand. The world was lurching; she blinked, fought for focus.

  The man had been stabbed to death – hell, he’d practically been ripped apart. There were what looked like knife-wounds in his chest, arms, thighs and throat, the blood around them darkening as it dried. His face was a mask of red, only the TV-white teeth showing.

  On his chest …

  Time seemed to swim. What year was it? Where was she? Because this, Cox knew, choking back rising bile, was an image from a recurring dream. And she dreamed it because she’d seen it – a long time ago.

  The outline of a head, a simple oval with slits for eyes – and horns, like a devil’s horns, projecting from the temples. It had been carved in blood over Euan Merritt’s heart.

  The Ninth Day of Christmas, 1986

  Come out blinking, sleepless, cramped from the cold and the hard bed. There weren’t any rats, but I couldn’t sleep for fear of someone worse than rats coming knocking on the door. Nowhere to run down there – nowhere to hide.

  It was Allis what come and got me in the morning.

  ‘Sleep well, Robert?’

  You’re having a bloody laugh. Muttered a ‘Not really.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ He sighed, lifted his eyebrows. ‘We prefer not to have to use solitary confinement as a punishment, but, well, rules are rules. Discipline must be maintained.’ He nudged me – that gave me a start. ‘You can’t go round smashing crockery in people’s faces, Robert,’ he said. ‘Even if the little tyke deserves it.’

  Little tyke. That’s one word for that arsehole Duffy.

  Now I follow Allis up the stairs, back into the familiar corridors. The smell of carbolic and polish has faded; back to BO and boiled veg, stale piss and damp walls. Still – and I know how bloody daft it sounds – I’m glad to be back up here.

  I turn right, back towards the dorm – I want to see Stan – but Allis, with a hand on my shoulder, steers me left instead. Down the corridor, into an office.

  There’s a man in there, sitting at a desk.

  The blinds are drawn.

  My stomach shrivels up in a cramp.

  ‘This,’ says Allis, ‘is Inspector Radley. A policeman,’ he adds, like I’m stupid. I look at the bloke. No uniform. CID, then. Maybe they’re taking me seriously.

  He’s frowning at me, this copper.

  ‘Hello, Robert,’ he says.

  Allis shuts the door and leaves us to it.

  Well, I go into it all again. I don’t like talking about it. It’s not as bad as it ac
tually happening but it’s not that much bloody better. Anyroad, I know I have to, so I do. Talk and talk. The sound of my own voice starts to make me feel sick.

  When I stop, this Radley’s just staring at me.

  ‘Your sort,’ he says, ‘aren’t usually this talkative in police interviews.’

  I don’t need to know what he means by ‘your sort’. I’ve had it all my life.

  ‘Yeah, well. This is important.’

  He looks down at his notes.

  ‘These are extremely serious allegations,’ he says. Folds his meaty hands together, puts them on the table. ‘Extremely serious.’

  ‘I know they are.’

  ‘Lying about this kind of thing, Robert, can get you into a lot of trouble. A lot,’ he repeats, ‘of trouble.’

  Sounds like a threat. Gets my temper right up, that. Places like this, you get threatened a lot – you soon learn how to deal with it. You call them out, or you take your medicine. Either way, you don’t back down.

  Not going to start now.

  ‘Yeah, well. I’m not lying, am I?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  I’m not going to answer that.

  We sit in silence for a minute, and then he reads my statement back to me, and it nearly makes me gag, and then I sign it, and he stands up to go.

  ‘That it?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’

  Like I say, in a place like this, you soon learn to recognize a threat when you hear one. Starting to wonder if Col was right.

  Me and Stan sit together on my bed. Raining outside. Most of the lads are down in the rec, playing ping-pong or whatever. I’m not in the mood.

  ‘So were there rats?’

  He wants to know all about the cell. No harm in telling him.

  ‘No. I did have to wee in a bucket though.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah. And I did a poo. A massive one. So big it nearly filled the bucket.’

  He laughs.

  ‘So it wasn’t that scary?’

  ‘Nah. It was nothing really. I was fine.’

  ‘Good.’ There’s a pause while Stan picks his nose. Then he says: ‘I didn’t like you not being here.’

  ‘Wasn’t really my fault, y’know.’

  ‘I know. But I still didn’t like it.’

  ‘Well, I’m back now. And I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Good,’ he says again. Then he starts snivelling a bit. I nudge him, ask him what’s up. He says it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing. So I ask him again, and he says he misses Mum.

  I know he’s only eight. I know he’s only a little lad and he can’t help it, but still – that winds me right up.

  ‘It’s me that looks after you, Stan,’ I say. Try not to shout but I think I am shouting a bit. ‘Always has been, ever since you were little. Not Mum. Wherever Mum is,’ I say, ‘is the least of our bloody worries now.’

  He’s trying not to cry. He’s a good lad, really.

  ‘She looked after you, when you were little, she must have done,’ he says.

  True enough. I look away. Can’t be seen crying twice in two days, not even by Stan. He’ll think I’ve gone weak, and I can’t be weak.

  ‘We might not see Mum for ages and ages,’ I say. Cruel to be kind and all that. Try not to look at his face. ‘I dunno, Stan. Thing is, mate, we might not see our mum ever again.’

  He must be crying. He’s not making any noise, and I can’t look at him. But I can feel his hand creep into mine. Squeeze hard.

  ‘Robert. A word.’

  I’m popular these days. It’s Halcombe, this time, calling for me across the rec room. I follow her out into the corridor, into an office. Merton and Allis are both in there. Merton’s got a whopper of a bump on his balding head, big as a golf-ball, purple and angry-looking – cheers me right up to see it.

  Then I wonder what all this lot are doing in here together. Does Merton know what I’ve been saying about him?

  I hang back, staying near the door.

  ‘Sit down, Robert,’ says Allis. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. We have some news for you.’

  I sit down, feeling a bit sick. There’s only one sort of news you get in these places: someone’s died. Has to be our mum, or our dad. We haven’t got anyone else.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  I keep up a front. I’m fucked if I’m going to cry in front of this bastard Merton.

  But it’s not what I think. No one’s died.

  ‘We’ve been speaking to our colleagues at Wolvesley,’ says Allis.

  Wolvesley. Division One.

  ‘They’re very busy,’ puts in Merton, ‘as we all are. Too many broken families – too few resources.’

  ‘But,’ Allis smiles, ‘they have a vacancy.’

  The hope that was rising in my chest deflates like a balloon when the knot busts.

  ‘A vacancy? Just one?’

  Allis nods.

  Christ.

  ‘Give it to Stan,’ I say.

  There’s a bit of a pause, and then Merton – of all fucking people – says: ‘It really is very admirable how you always put your brother first.’

  I could smack him. But I sit still instead and stare at the tabletop.

  While we pack up his stuff, me and Stan talk about what they’ll have at Wolvesley.

  ‘Sweet shop, I bet.’

  ‘Swimming pool, with a slide.’

  ‘A zoo!’

  ‘Dodgem cars. Waltzers.’

  ‘No, I don’t like waltzers. A big wheel.’

  ‘Okay. Illuminations, like at Blackpool.’

  Not that we’ve ever been to bloody Blackpool.

  ‘A plastic football pitch, like QPR have got.’ He grins at me. ‘You can play on it even when it’s raining. I’ll go in goal, and you can shoot.’

  Been feeling sick all day, ever since they told me about Wolvesley. Now I have to turn away, choke back a big lump. The acid of it burns my throat.

  Christ.

  I’ve not told him. How can I tell him? I fold his pyjamas, stick a few comics in the bottom of his case (they’re not really his, but no one’s going to miss ’em).

  ‘When are you packing, Robbie?’

  ‘Later. I’m – I’m going on a different bus than you, Stan.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounds put out.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate.’ I punch him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Once you’re there, it’ll all be right as rain.’

  He nods.

  ‘Hope we get a room together,’ he says.

  I hold it together. Fuck knows how, but I do.

  Fucking Merton. That fucking bastard.

  We’re in the car park, and Miss Halcombe’s big old car’s there, engine running, ready to go. Halcombe puts Stan’s case in the boot, dusts her hands together.

  ‘All set,’ she says.

  Stan’s nervous, I can see, who wouldn’t be, but he’s doing okay, and I haven’t lost it yet, though God knows how long that’ll last after this car drives away –

  Merton, who’s come down to see Stan off, says: ‘Give your brother a big hug, Stanley.’

  And me and Stan hug like the soft sods we are, and I tell him not to worry, everything’s going to be all right, there’s some comics in his case if he gets bored waiting for me, and I’ll be there really soon, as soon as I can. He’s crying a bit, but that’s okay.

  Then just as he’s climbing into the back of the car Merton says: ‘I’m sure we can arrange for Robert to come and visit you, Stanley. Once you’ve settled in at Wolvesley Grange.’

  He slams the car door behind my brother.

  Stan’s only eight but he’s not daft. He twigs right away.

  Hammering on the window. Screaming my name.

  I want to kill Dr Merton.

  I want to smash open the car door and drag our Stan out of there.

  I want to cry.

  I can’t, I can’t. I can’t do anything. What I do is, I turn and run
. Back to the building. Back to Hampton Hall. I can still hear Stan screaming. I hear the car pull away, out of the car park. It’s soon gone. But in my head I can still hear Stan screaming my name.

  18

  Cox sat on the low back step outside the French windows of the Merritt place, head in hands. Felt like her skull was on the brink of breaking apart.

  Naysmith wasn’t happy. What else was new?

  Inside the kitchen, SOCO lamps glared, and the crime-scene photographers stalked back and forth, snatching every angle – every wound, every drop of blood. Cox had attended plenty of murder scenes, some pretty gory, but nothing like this. It wasn’t the severity of the injuries that made it stand out, she realized, it was the fact she’d spoken to the victim, seen him a living, breathing, walking person, just a couple of days earlier. Normally they were just corpses, and she didn’t even have to imagine what they were like before someone took their lives.

  More than anything, Dr Euan Merritt looked like slaughtered meat.

  Naysmith stood with Chalmers on the lawn. They’d been there maybe ten minutes, and the DCI hadn’t said a word to her.

  In the silence her pain – head, bones, skin – seemed to expand, to fill the world. Couldn’t think about anything else. She wished Naysmith would just say something – even if it was only to give her a bollocking.

  Eventually, he stepped away from Chalmers. Cleared his throat.

  ‘So, DI Cox,’ he said. ‘Would you like to tell me what you were doing here?’

  His tone was conversational, almost casual. She’d known Pete Naysmith long enough to know that that meant trouble was coming.

  She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to lift her pounding head.

  ‘It was,’ she muttered, ‘a legitimate line of inquiry.’

  ‘Legitimate?’ Naysmith laughed, lightly, facetiously. ‘After you were very specifically warned, in the presence of two lawyers, to keep away from Euan Merritt at all costs? That’s a very interesting definition of “legitimate”, Cox. Very bloody interesting.’

  A flicker of temper in his tone.