Twelve Deaths of Christmas

by Jackson Sharp

  But there was a coin-sized spot of blood on the toe of Thomas’s left slipper.

  Cox moved fast.

  ‘We need to come in, sir,’ she said, speaking over Harrington. ‘It really can’t wait.’

  ‘Out of the question.’ The old man hadn’t opened the door fully; the gap between door and frame was only a foot or so. Now he clung to the door two-handed, as if he were drowning and it was all that was keeping him afloat. ‘You have to go. You really do have to go now.’

  Cox took a step forward, placed the flat of her hand on the door.

  Thomas’s voice wound up in pitch.

  ‘No!’ He sounded like an old woman. ‘No – please. No.’

  She’d had enough of this.

  She shoved at the door, pushing off from her back foot, putting the heft of her body behind the move. Thomas let out a sort of squeal. The door opened inwards, maybe another eight inches, then stopped with a bump – Cox heard a pained, angry grunt.

  Sam Harrington had to take a step backwards as Thomas, whimpering, tumbled out of the door, down the step – practically flung himself into Harrington’s arms.

  ‘I’ve got you, sir, I’ve got you,’ she heard Harrington say – but now her focus was elsewhere. A man had lurched from behind the door, blood from his nose smearing his upper lip. He held a gun, a heavy revolver, in his right hand.

  Tall, broad, muscular, murderous. Trevayne.

  Carter hadn’t been kidding; the guy was a monster. His biceps, each ridged with a bulging vein, stretched the fabric of his blood-spotted T-shirt; his neck was bullishly thick, his torso a slab of muscle. His red-rimmed eyes focused on Cox – it felt like being caught in the crosshairs of a bomber plane.

  She pivoted, bringing her right foot round in a fast half-circle; her boot connected cleanly with the inside of Trevayne’s wrist; the gun went skittering across the pale stone flags.

  The big man spun, lunged back in through the door. He tried to slam the door behind him; Cox, leaping forward, managed at a stretch to jam her foot against the frame – the heavy wood crashed into her ankle.

  She swore, yelled for someone to call 999 – pelted into the house after Trevayne. He was headed, she guessed, for the back of the house.

  Too many damn outs.

  A dining room, dark but bright with polish, flashed by, then a kitchen, country-ish and airy – she saw Trevayne, bald head slick with sweat, hauling open a door in the French windows.

  ‘Stop, police!’ she bawled – knowing how much good it’d do.

  Trevayne was out the door and moving fast across the broad, up-sloping lawn. Beyond the end of the garden, by the look of it, was nothing much but stubble farmland; there were trees and a church steeple on the horizon.

  As she followed Trevayne through the open door she saw him cut right, towards some outbuildings: a long, flat-roofed shed, a moss-stained greenhouse, a clutter of compost heaps, water butts and tall bamboo canes.

  Saw him vanish into the shadows there, as she was crossing the lawn.

  She moved forwards with caution, fighting painfully for breath. Maybe, she thought, he’d gone past the shed and carried on going, through the bordering hedgerows and the smallholding beyond – maybe she’d lost him.

  A part of her hoped she had.

  But Robert Trevayne, she knew, wasn’t a man who shrank from violence; wasn’t a man who’d turn and run if there was anything to be gained by standing and fighting.

  She approached the nearest corner of the shed. There was a smell of mouldered wood, wet bark. The grass had been allowed to grow longer here; she could feel cold dampness seeping through the fabric of her trousers.

  No sound, save the repetitive beat of water dripping on to a plastic dustbin-lid from a flaw in the shed’s guttering. No sign of Trevayne.

  She moved close to the planked wall of the shed, edged warily along to her left. Felt conscious of her ragged breathing. He must’ve seen her coming after him – must know where she was –

  Queasy with anxiety, she glanced back towards the house. She’d never ducked out of a chase, not once. DI Cox was a good copper to have on a manhunt, everyone knew that: fast, strong, tenacious as hell …

  But then she’d never gone after Robert Trevayne before.

  She held her breath – edged another inch towards the corner of the shed.

  A blur of movement, a moment of shuddering impact. Her first, startled thought was: how the hell did a man that size move that fast? Then the pain kicked in.

  She was dimly aware of Trevayne crashing away through the wet trees to the right – of Wilson yelling something, and running footsteps pounding up the lawn. But it was all nothing beside the burning in her lungs as she gasped, gagging, weeping, for air, and the jagged-edged pain ripping through her from her lower ribs.

  The half-rotten log he’d hit her with lay in the wet grass beside where she lay, clutching her midriff, jaw working helplessly.

  ‘You’re okay, Kerry.’ Wilson, kneeling beside her, rubbed her heaving shoulders. ‘You’ll be okay. He’s gone.’

  I lost him, she thought, rolling on to her knees, burying her face in the wet grass.

  From the road near the house, she heard the furious roar and squeal of a car taking off at speed.

  Sidney Thomas was shaking so hard he could barely hold the glass of water Harrington had brought him. He held it gripped in both hands, suspended between his knees, as he sat on the drawing-room sofa, a blanket around his shoulders, staring at nothing.

  ‘Thank you,’ he kept saying, tremulously, over and over again. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  Cox, standing facing him in the centre of the room, had stopped listening a long time ago.

  Her mouth was dry; her ribs ached, but she’d stopped caring about that, too. She didn’t know what to say – barely knew what to think.

  Ranged along the wall in front of her, above Thomas’s bowed head, were five masks of polished leather. Each had a different expression, of joy, of horror, of surprise, of confusion – and, on the last one, a grin of wicked mischief, horizontal slits for eyes, and devil’s horns curling upwards from the temples.

  She looked across at Wilson; he was leaning in the doorway, watching her, his expression grave and troubled. Then she looked down at Sidney Thomas – an old, broken man in pyjamas, trembling and weeping in self-pity and fear.

  She stepped forward, took a breath, and told the solicitor general she was placing him under arrest.

  27

  They’d taken him to the nick on Esher High Street. The house was being sealed, and two local officers were put on guard – no one, no one to be given access. Cox herself had taken photos of the masks.

  She’d sat in the back with Thomas; he was silent, withdrawn – maybe suffering from shock. Well, let him suffer. It was an unprofessional way to think; she was in an unprofessional state of mind.

  She’d made Harrington ride in Wilson’s car, despite his protests. The guy was Thomas’s fixer; no way was she letting him speak to his boss before she’d had a shot at him in the interrogation room. He was outside now, talking animatedly on his phone as they booked Thomas in with the custody sergeant.

  Since they’d arrived, the atmosphere in the nick had been queasy, nervous. Excited, too. Short of hauling in the PM or the lord chancellor, it was hard to imagine how she could have caused more of a stir than by bringing them the solicitor general, handcuffed and still in his PJs.

  The sergeant had looked up at her uncertainly when she’d presented the old man at the desk.

  ‘The – the charge, ma’am?’

  She’d already told him once.

  ‘Child abuse. Trafficking. Rape. Murder.’

  The sergeant had looked doubtfully at the silent, hunched old man; then back at her.

  Thomas had finally broken his silence: ‘Preposterous,’ he’d muttered.

  ‘Just book him in, sergeant,’ Cox had said wearily.

  While Thomas was being led to his cell, she grabbed a cup of mac
hine coffee and went over to sit beside Wilson on the plastic chairs that lined one wall of the custody suite.

  ‘How’re the ribs?’ he asked solicitously.

  ‘Feel like I’ve been through a mangle. But I’ll live.’

  He nodded towards the cells and the lean, tottering figure of Sidney Thomas, diminutive between two blue-jerseyed young PCs.

  ‘You’re sure about this, then?’

  Cox nodded firmly, sipped her coffee.

  ‘Dead sure,’ she said.

  ‘You won’t have much to give the CPS.’

  ‘I’ll have enough.’ Looked at him. ‘I don’t have a choice, Greg.’

  The local DI, a guy named John Meadowes, called her over; wanted to go over some details of their visit to Thomas’s place. He led her into his office – it was neat as a pin, smartly furnished, lined with labelled box-files.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Cox said with a tired smile, taking a seat.

  Meadowes shrugged.

  ‘Tidy office, tidy mind, so they say. Now.’ He opened a cardboard folder. ‘We ran the registration numbers you gave us – one match, a grey Merc, bought from a dealership in Newcastle at the end of October. Buyer gave his name as Trevayne.’

  ‘You’ve put an alert out for the plate?’

  ‘Yep – I’m sure he’ll ditch it as soon as he can, but we should at least get a lead on where he’s headed first.’ He looked up at Cox. He seemed anxious; she understood why. ‘What,’ he asked, tentatively, ‘did you have in mind as the next step?’

  Her answer was prompt: ‘Search the house. Rip it apart.’

  Meadowes looked panicky.

  ‘You do know who you’ve arrested here, don’t you? Sidney Thomas? The solicitor general? Look, I hold no brief for the old bastard – I’ve no reason to doubt what you tell me – but the guy could get every officer in this nick chucked off the force with a swipe of his pen. Come on, ma’am – give me a break.’

  When did the backbone of the service turn to jelly?, Cox wondered bitterly.

  ‘How long,’ she asked, meeting Meadowes’s pleading gaze with a dour look, ‘do you think Thomas will remain as solicitor general?’

  ‘But – if the case falls through, or the CPS doesn’t like the look of it, or –’

  ‘I’ll nail him.’ She nodded, once, emphatically. ‘I’ll nail him, John, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Meadowes gave her a significant look. Sat back, folded his hands on his stomach.

  ‘Careful what you wish for,’ he said.

  She stood – thanked him for his help.

  ‘Is it okay,’ she asked at the office door, ‘if I speak to Thomas now? I know his brief’s on the way. But I’d like a quick word.’

  Meadowes shrugged. ‘Sure, but I doubt you’ll find him much of a conversationalist. I’ll tell PC George to sit in with you.’ Another pleading look. ‘Just please – go easy on him. At least for now.’

  Meadowes was right. The solicitor general wasn’t much of a talker.

  He sat calmly, dressed in a police-issue shirt and slacks, while PC George, a keen young constable with a slick side-parting, rigged up the video and sound recorders.

  Cox sat down opposite the old man, introduced herself for the benefit of the tape and formally commenced the interview.

  ‘Could you state your full name, please?’

  Silence – silence, and a blank, blue stare.

  Cox repeated the question.

  ‘I will state nothing,’ Thomas said, ‘until such time as my solicitor is present.’

  Cox looked sidelong at PC George.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘The most senior legal figure in the country – and he needs a small-town solicitor to come and hold his hand.’

  George sniggered obligingly.

  When she looked back at Thomas, he was looking dyspeptically at her down his nose.

  ‘I’m not accustomed to handling trumped-up charges levelled by unbalanced over-promoted police officers,’ he said coldly. ‘And, as you will soon learn, Christopher Seaton-Jones is no small-town solicitor.’

  Cox nodded, neutrally. She’d figured out one thing for sure: Sidney Thomas was easy to wind up.

  She started in on the details of the case. She’d get nothing but stonewalling from hereon in, she knew, unless Thomas was a bloody fool – and the solicitor general of England and Wales was certainly no fool.

  ‘Do you know the man who was at your house today?’ she asked. ‘The man who held you at gunpoint?’

  Silence.

  ‘Had you ever met him before? We believe his name was Robert Trevayne.’

  Silence.

  ‘I would have thought, myself,’ Cox mused, twisting a pen between her fingers, ‘that these were pretty simple questions. I would have thought that the solicitor general would be quite capable of answering them without any help.’ She set down the pen, smiled brightly. ‘But what do I know? I’m just an over-promoted police officer.’

  Silence.

  ‘I liked your house. Liked what you’ve done with the place, the furnishings and stuff. Interesting – decorations, would you call them? On the wall, in the drawing room? The masks?’

  Thomas’s cold, reptilian expression didn’t change; his face froze, became rigid, a mask itself.

  ‘From a theatrical production, I expect. Am-dram, is it, down at the Walton Playhouse?’ She let the playful tone slip gradually from her voice. ‘Lots of fun, I expect. Enjoy performance, do you, Sidney? Being watched? Being on camera?’

  Silence. Not a muscle twitched. The old man might’ve been carved in marble.

  Cox talked on.

  ‘He had it in for you, I assume, this Robbie Trevayne. Any idea why that might be? Why he’d hold a grudge? No? Well, maybe it was a long time ago. I’m the same, terrible memory. God knows what I’ll be like when I get to your age. Well, maybe we can help fill in the gaps.’ She flipped open her folder, sifted her pages of notes. It was all for show – she knew every detail of this case by heart. ‘We know quite a bit about Mr Trevayne. About his childhood – he had a very hard time, you know. Raised in care homes. Abused, sexually abused; betrayed by the people who were supposed to be looking after him. Hard to believe, isn’t it? That kind of cruelty. That kind of breach of trust. But it got worse for Robbie Trevayne – his brother died, in tragic circumstances. There was a fire, supposedly. Place called Wolvesley Grange – and at Christmas, of all times.’ She sighed. ‘Poor kid. Didn’t have much of a chance after that.’

  Thomas still said nothing – but he was listening, Cox knew it; she could tell, by the look in his glassy blue eyes. He was taking in every word.

  But what was he thinking?

  Let me in, you old bastard, Cox thought, biting back her impatience. Just a crack. Just give me a glimpse of the monster behind those eyes.

  ‘Maybe you could tell us what you remember about CARE,’ she said. She was getting sick of the sound of her own voice – reminded herself that Thomas must be pretty sick of it too. ‘Hampton Hall? The good old days. Your old friends, perhaps. Bill Radley. Verity Halcombe. Reggie Allis. Ian Merton.’ She tilted her head. ‘All dead and gone now, of course – such a shame.’ Leaned forward, linked her hands together on the tabletop. ‘Such – such good people, weren’t they, Sidney?’

  He’d blinked at the mention of Ian Merton, aka Euan Merritt; the mask had slipped just a fraction. She could guess why, too.

  She sat back. Gave him a hard smile.

  ‘It preys on your mind, doesn’t it, what Trevayne did to Ian Merton.’ She kept her tone flat, now, rough-edged, no-nonsense. ‘You saw the details in the police reports, I expect? The cigarette burns all over his body. The knife cuts, deep, nasty, right where he knew it’d hurt the most. That strange face cut into his chest – a bit like one of those masks of yours, come to think of it. And did you know he cut the poor man’s balls off, as well? Christ. It must haunt you, Sidney, what he did.’ Leaned slightly forwards, right in Thomas’s eyeline
. ‘Imagine what he’d have done to you, if we hadn’t turned up. And if you walk out of here a free man – I don’t know, if someone upstairs pulls some strings for you, say – well, Trevayne will still be out there. Waiting for his chance.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you’ll sleep at night, Sidney, I really don’t.’

  She gave it a minute or so – let it sink in.

  Then: ‘Interview suspended, 22.19.’ She gave George the nod; the young PC switched off the recorders.

  Thomas made to rise.

  ‘Just a second,’ Cox said, still in her seat, reaching for her bag. ‘We’re not quite done here.’

  He scowled.

  ‘I’ve heard quite enough offensive nonsense from you already, thank you, inspector,’ he said.

  Cox smiled.

  ‘It’s not me you’re going to listen to,’ she said.

  Drew out Colin Carter’s mobile phone. Scrolled to the last incoming number; hit the green button. Laid the phone on the table and switched on the speaker.

  Two rings. Then:

  ‘What do you want?’

  A deep, nasal West Midlands voice, taut with aggression and hostility.

  And now Thomas’s face did change – it contorted, contracted with fear. He shrank back in his seat, staring at the phone as if it were about to attack him.

  Cox waited.

  ‘Hello?’ the voice barked.

  She leaned forwards.

  ‘No, Mr Trevayne,’ she said, clearly, crisply. ‘It’s the woman whose ribs you smashed with a lump of timber, before you ran away.’

  A long pause – then a soft sigh.

  ‘You shouldn’t have interrupted,’ Trevayne growled. He didn’t sound angry, Cox thought – he sounded sad. ‘You shouldn’t have stopped me. You’ve only made things worse.’

  ‘You might like to know I’ve got Sidney Thomas with me now.’

  ‘Have you now?’ A faint noise, like the ghost of a laugh. ‘Hello, Sidney.’

  Thomas’s mouth was a puckered ‘o’ of horror, his eyes wild, his hands white-knuckled on the table edge. Petrified.

  ‘This is over, Robert,’ Cox said, simply, as if doing nothing more than stating a fact. ‘It’s finished. Give yourself up – let us help you.’