Twelve Deaths of Christmas

by Jackson Sharp

  Cox felt the blood rising to her throat and cheeks.

  ‘What if I told you I was treating Butcher’s death as a murder inquiry?’

  To her surprise, the governor laughed.

  ‘How absurd.’

  ‘I don’t think this is funny, Mr Dovey.’

  He straightened his face.

  ‘Of course – but really, inspector, you are getting carried away. A few spots of blood and you’re ready to call out the murder squad. We see this kind of thing every week.’

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you to do something about it?’

  Dovey’s face darkened.

  ‘I don’t like your tone, inspector.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you like and don’t like,’ Cox snapped. ‘A man died here – and I think he was murdered. Steven Butcher was about to give us some very significant information. Ample reason for someone to kill him – and frame it as a suicide.’

  Dovey shook his head irritably.

  ‘This is sheer fantasy, inspector.’

  ‘Leaving Steven Butcher unprotected was a serious oversight, Mr Dovey. In fact, I could make a case that it was damn near negligent.’

  ‘We take the welfare of our prisoners very seriously.’ Dovey jutted his jaw. ‘But we take the welfare of our staff seriously, too. I simply cannot – will not – make the lives of my staff more difficult than they already are by sending them on fool’s errands.’

  ‘Like saving a man’s life?’

  ‘You think we should fly into a panic over one police officer’s ill-informed hunch?’

  ‘I think you should do your fucking jobs.’

  The words echoed hollowly in the tiled room.

  Dovey went from pink to pale.

  ‘I’ll be speaking to your superiors, Inspector Cox,’ he said.

  ‘How nice for them.’ What the hell – she didn’t feel like she had a lot to lose. ‘I’ll be out of your way momentarily, Mr Dovey – and you can get back to “managing” your prison. I want to see Butcher’s cell before I go.’

  The governor was thin-lipped with fury.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Very well.’

  Stepped out into the corridor; called over a guard, an overweight man in his thirties with two-day stubble and an unhurried manner.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Cox,’ he said shortly, with a gesture. ‘I want you to show her to Steven Butcher’s cell. Let her take a look around – and then escort her to the exit.’

  ‘Yessir.’ The officer eyed Cox lazily. ‘This way, please, ma’am.’

  As she was led down the corridor, deeper into the prison-block, she called over her shoulder: ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Dovey. You’ve been very helpful.’

  But Dovey was already far away, hurrying back to his top-floor office, the soles of his polished shoes click-clacking rapidly on the hard prison floor.

  It was a jail cell, and that was all it was. No sign that Steven Butcher had ever been here.

  Butcher’s cell-mate, a fat black youth who the guard had called Marley, was waiting outside on the landing, smoking an e-cigarette. The guard stood at the door, hands behind his back, staring into the middle distance.

  Cox’s frustration grew as she searched the tiny cell. Nothing under the mattresses or in the stiff, grubby pillows, nothing on the sparse shelves, nothing in the drawer of the scuffed writing-desk – nothing anywhere, save a chipped coffee mug and a stack of dog-eared lads’ magazines.

  ‘Finished, ma’am?’ the guard said casually, after ten minutes’ futile searching.

  Too furious to speak, head pounding, Cox just nodded – let him conduct her wordlessly back to the main gate.

  She hit eighty on the A-road back through the city. She was too mad to drive safely; she felt helpless, besieged, as though everything – and everyone – was against her.

  But at the same time, the desperate urge to get at the truth, to see this thing through, consumed her like fire.

  Naysmith was waiting for her back at her desk in HQ.

  ‘Cox.’ He nodded at her. Still looked like shit.

  ‘Guv.’

  For a short moment they looked at one another; she, in her mind’s eye, was still seeing the pitiful, fat-bellied drunk passed out on the sofa – while he, she guessed, was seeing the joke of a copper who’d royally fucked up at the inquiry.

  But that was all irrelevant, for now. The case was what mattered.

  ‘I’ve just been to Pentonville,’ she began, pulling up a chair, reaching for her notes. ‘Steven Butcher is dead – they reckon he killed himself.’

  Naysmith’s face registered little emotion.

  ‘That’s a bad break,’ he said, but he seemed detached, distracted.

  ‘The place is a joke,’ Cox pressed on. ‘Not even the most basic forensics. I want to go back there, speak to the other prisoners on the block, the guards –’

  Naysmith cut her off with a heavy, gut-deep sigh. She looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘We need to talk, Kerry.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke. ‘Let’s do this in my office.’

  Heaved himself to his feet. Plodded heavily across the CID suite. This is a man under too much pressure, Cox thought, following him; this is a man ready to break.

  In the office, he invited her to take a seat; she declined. She preferred to take her bollockings standing up – and she was pretty sure that was what she had coming.

  ‘Please yourself.’ The DCI scratched his jawline, looking up at her anxiously. Or was it fear? Guilt? ‘Cox,’ he said, ‘you landed yourself in a lot of bother at the inquiry. A lot,’ he added, with emphasis, ‘of bother.’

  ‘I know that, guv.’

  ‘Then maybe you’ll know what’s coming.’ Another deep sigh. Gave her a hunted look. ‘I’m going to have to suspend you from duty, Kerry. As of now.’

  She’d guessed it might come to this – still, it hit her like a speeding bus.

  ‘Guv, I –’

  ‘There’s no point arguing, Inspector Cox.’

  She clenched her jaw. Couldn’t tell what she was feeling – anger, despair, fear, grief.

  In another half-second, though, anger had taken the upper hand.

  ‘I protected you,’ she said. ‘Christ, I was only there because you were too pissed to be seen in public – and I did nothing in there, guv, but cover your arse.’

  ‘I know. More than I deserved.’ Naysmith’s tone was utterly flat. ‘Point is, this is for your own good. I can’t protect you out there.’

  She paused, wrong-footed.

  ‘Protect me? I can protect myself, you know that.’

  ‘I used to,’ the DCI nodded. ‘Not sure any more.’ He shook his head sharply, as if to snap himself out of a daze. ‘Chalmers’ll take over the Merritt investigation. He’s a good copper. You know that.’

  ‘Sure, given a fair chance. But this is a big case, guv. Being parachuted in like this, he won’t know where to start.’

  Again Naysmith avoided her eye; pretended to sort some loose papers on his desk.

  ‘I think he’ll have a pretty good idea of where to start and where to finish,’ he said without looking up. ‘Butcher looks a safe bet to me. Should be open-and-shut.’

  Cox’s jaw fell open. Couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was this really DCI Pete Naysmith sitting in front of her, peddling a bullshit line like that and then ducking her gaze like a guilty schoolboy?

  Well, that was the point, she realized grimly: sure, Naysmith’s lips were moving – it was his flat Yorkshire grumble she was hearing – but were they really Naysmith’s words?

  She asked him straight out, struggling to keep her voice level: ‘This your decision, guv?’

  He hesitated. That was all the confirmation she needed.

  She turned for the door. Heard Naysmith say softly: ‘I’m sorry.’

  Turned back sharply, leaned over Naysmith’s desk, hands flat on the desktop.

/>   ‘This stinks, guv,’ she said. ‘This whole thing. It stinks like the Tomasz Lerna case stank – and we all know how that turned out.’

  Straightened up; left the office without a backward look.

  Dark, now, outside; no rain, but a Baltic wind scoured the station car park. Cox called up her voicemail service as she hurried to her car.

  She’d clocked the number of the missed call, was expecting to hear Aidan’s voice, checking if she was well enough to take Matthew at the weekend, or chasing up a missing toy or pair of socks …

  Matthew’s voice caught her cold. She stopped dead in the car park, frozen in the act of taking out her keys. Swallowed down a painful lump in her throat.

  ‘Mum, it’s me – Matthew.’ Christ, I know that, you stupid, wonderful boy. ‘I hope you’re not poorly any more. I know you were at the hospital so I wanted to ring you up, and Dad said it was all right. I’m ringing you up to say I hope you’re feeling better, Mum, and I love you. Bye, Mum.’

  Then the cold, impersonal voice of the voicemail service, telling her to press 2 or 7 or whatever the hell it was. She put the phone away, climbed in the car, started the engine. She couldn’t wait till the weekend; couldn’t wait another hour. She needed to see her son.

  Aidan’s place – how long since it’d been their place? – was way down in Dorking, a good hour’s drive south of the city. The miles went by in a blur; all Cox could think of was seeing Matthew – of how surprised and happy he’d be to see her. Yeah, it was a little way past his bedtime, but she was sure Aidan would be reasonable about that. They’d got on okay when she’d been in the hospital, after all.

  She drove carefully through the too-familiar roads of the residential estate where Aidan and Matthew lived. There were warm yellow lights on in practically all of the houses she passed – young families, mostly, she knew; parents spending time at home with their kids, watching TV, helping with homework …

  The job had always got in the way of that, for her. And most of the time, that’d been okay – she liked her job, felt it was important, worth making sacrifices for, even if Matthew and Aidan hadn’t always understood that.

  The problem was when work went badly – or, like now, gave way under her like a rotten bridge – well, what did you do? What was left? What else was there to keep you going, make your life worthwhile?

  She pulled up outside the house. Hadn’t been here for a while; when it was her turn for time with Matthew, Aidan normally dropped him off in the city.

  Aidan had let the garden get a bit scruffy, she noticed, but there was a bright new pot-plant by the front door. The living-room curtains were closed, but the lights were on.

  She parked up and hurried to the front door; rang the bell.

  She heard movement inside, Aidan’s voice, the chain being slipped off the door –

  A woman stood there. Thirty, thirty-two, slim and dark-haired, barefoot in jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt. She was holding a glass of wine. Smiled at Cox politely.

  ‘Hi?’ she said.

  Not this, Cox thought wildly. Not now. Not after the day I’ve had.

  ‘Who are you?’ It came out more abrupt, more hostile than she’d meant it to.

  The woman’s smile became puzzled.

  ‘I – I’m Bev.’ She blinked, peered at Cox – then her eyes widened. ‘Oh! You must be Matthew’s mum.’

  Behind her, Cox saw Aidan step out into the hallway; he was in a white T-shirt and checked pyjama bottoms – he had a glass of wine, too.

  He saw Cox; moved quickly to the woman’s side. He looked alarmed.

  ‘Kerry? What’s wrong? What are you doing here?’

  Cox felt off-balance, caught between alienation and the desperate need to see her son.

  ‘I – I was hoping to see Matthew,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light, conciliatory. ‘He left me a message. I – I wanted him to see that I’m still in one piece.’

  Forcing a smile felt like an act of heroism.

  But suspicion was replacing alarm in Aidan’s expression.

  ‘He’s in bed,’ he said sternly. ‘We have a schedule for a reason, Kerry. You should have called me.’

  ‘Could you maybe wake him?’ She knew she was sounding desperate – but hell, she was desperate.

  ‘He’s knackered, Kerry – needs his sleep. He had a long day.’

  Not compared to mine, Kerry thought bitterly.

  She saw the woman – ‘Bev’ – nudge Aidan gently in the ribs. Aidan looked at her, frowned, blinked, finally caught on – reluctantly made introductions: Bev – Kerry, Kerry – Bev.

  They shook hands awkwardly, said insincerely that they were pleased to meet each other …

  The wine glass in Bev’s hand caught Cox’s eye. It was a nice one, with a long stem and a subtle, delicate pattern circling the rim. She knew it well; she’d bought it herself, picked it up at a street market in Urbino, when she’d been there on holiday with Aidan.

  She hasn’t done anything wrong, she told herself, feeling a depth-charge of emotion going off in her gut. It’s not her fault.

  She turned a challenging stare on Aidan.

  ‘I thought we were starting Relate sessions again in February,’ she said.

  He looked at her like she was mad. Maybe he wasn’t far wrong.

  ‘We are – but that’s about Matthew, Kerry. About bringing a bit of stability into our relationship, for his sake. You know that. It’s not –’ He looked awkwardly from Cox to Bev and back again. ‘It’s not about us.’

  Kerry swallowed. She felt cold, bruised, alone.

  ‘I want to see Matthew,’ she said – it came out almost as a sob, much louder than she’d intended.

  Aidan looked lost for words.

  With an anxious half-smile, Bev suggested that, if they weren’t careful, they were going to wake the poor kid up …

  Then, from upstairs, thin, sleepy, bewildered: ‘Mum?’

  Right on cue.

  It was as though someone was pulling her by a rope. She pushed aside Aidan – he said something ineffectual, ‘Oi!’ or ‘Hey!’ – and went into the hall. The hallway light was a bleary smear; she wiped a wrist across her eyes, started up the stairs.

  He was already there, on the top step, in his Toy Story pyjamas.

  ‘Mum?’

  She smiled up at him – and he shrank back. Fear in his eyes. What the hell … ?

  Then she remembered the mess the bike-crash had made of her face. The fat lip had subsided, but the scrapes on her nose and chin were only half-healed and from her temple to her jaw was a contused chaos of blues and browns. Enough to frighten anyone.

  She touched a hand to her cheek, and grinned.

  ‘I fell off my bike, didn’t I,’ she said. ‘Ouch! But I’m still me, love – I’m still your mum …’

  Aidan had come up the stairs after her.

  ‘You can’t do this, Kerry,’ he said, his voice quiet but tense with anger. ‘It’s not right.’ He put a hand on her upper arm.

  She shrugged him off, flailing her arm backwards in annoyance. She was sick of being told what she could and couldn’t do …

  Aidan stepped back, lost balance. Grabbed for the bannister but missed. As he tripped awkwardly down the bottom three steps, his left hand flew out – a half-glass of red wine slopped down the front of Bev’s T-shirt. Looked like she’d been shot.

  She gasped; Aidan swore, flashed Kerry a vicious look.

  Didn’t hang about to be told to leave – told to leave her own son, told to leave the house she’d paid half the deposit on, half the mortgage, that she and Aidan had searched high and low for, and put all their savings into, never mind all their hopes, all their dreams …

  She told Matthew she loved him. Told Aidan she’d see him on Saturday. Told Bev not to make a fuss – the wine’d come out in the wash.

  Then she was off, out into the dark and cold.

  23

  Cox tried to stay off hard spirits – unless she’d had a really tough
day.

  This, she thought, half-filling a tumbler with vodka from the freezer, definitely qualified.

  She took her drink to the sofa, pulled a cushion over her knees, took a sip – jarring, ghastly-cold, enlivening – and ran through the case in her head. A lot of victims, now. Not so many suspects. Radley, Halcombe, Allis, Merritt – and the kids whose lives they blighted, Colin Carter and Stevie Butcher among them.

  She found herself dwelling on Carter and Butcher, a pervert and a petty criminal. Victims, once – innocent victims of the sick regime at Hampton Hall. What were they now? Few people looked on them as victims; no one argued their innocence. At some point – when? – society had turned on these men, deemed them unworthy of pity, condemned them to a life on the margins. Did they deserve it? Ah, Christ, who knew? Cox took another slurp of vodka.

  When she was a kid, back in Guildford, there’d been a vicar who’d come to the school every now and then, to speak in assembly. Sometimes he’d talk about criminals, or drug users, or people who were in prison or living on the streets. There but for the grace of God go I, he used to say. It could just as easily be you or I in that jail cell, he meant; all it took was an unlucky break, a single wrong turn.

  The phrase had stuck with Cox. You seldom heard it nowadays, she reflected.

  She was becoming more and more certain that Hampton Hall was at the root of the killings, at the centre of the web. Abuse like the kids at that place had suffered … hell, you couldn’t imagine what it could do to you, the scars it could leave, the damage it could cause.

  She thought about Matthew and the damage they were doing to him. It wasn’t even intentional, but who was to say how it would affect her son when he came out the other side? When he started playing up at school, when he made a bad decision and stayed out too late with a bad crowd? God, it made her want to weep when she thought he might suffer for the mistakes of his parents, for her mistakes, her crimes.

  She necked the rest of the tumbler and reached for the bottle. An involuntary wince as she thought of the press cameras flashing in her face. The pack scenting blood. Their collective hunger. The country loved this sort of thing – the chance to condemn a villain, their chance to mourn a victim. Poor Tomasz Lerna, dying in the dark while evil Kerry Cox indulged her carnal desires. Black and white. They didn’t stop for one second to wonder what Tomasz would have been like if they’d got there in time. What he would look like in twenty, thirty years. Happily adjusted to society? I think not … No, then they’d be baying for him too.