Twelve Deaths of Christmas Read online

  Jackson Sharp

  * * *

  TWELVE DEATHS OF CHRISTMAS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Follow Penguin

  With special thanks to Richard Smyth

  Prologue

  15 May 2014

  A muggy, fly-bitten day. A reach of colourless scrubland under a sky of shifting clouds. DI Kerry Cox climbed from the car.

  ‘You all know who Warren Boyd is, you all know what he looks like, but I want to take another look. Be sure.’ Detective Chief Inspector Peter Naysmith had to bawl to be heard over the roar of an aeroplane tracking overhead along the Stansted flightpath. He walked from officer to officer – there were six of them, four uniform, two CID, all armed – passing out prints of the man’s mugshot: a beaky nose, close-set eyes, a sulky, sour expression. Boyd.

  ‘He’s a slippery bastard,’ Naysmith went on, handing Cox the last print, propping his hands on his hips. ‘He’s resourceful, he’s cautious and he knows the area.’

  Cox looked around, took in the layout, which she’d already memorized from an aerial printout. A poorly maintained chainlink fence separated the scrubland from a bare earth track and a row of three concrete lockups, each the size of a double garage. Beyond that, a stretch of boggy fields straggled west towards an ex-council estate a mile or so away. Naysmith had wanted a chopper, but Cox didn’t want to spook Boyd. It would have been a nightmare with air-traffic control too.

  Her gun felt heavy, awkward in her hands. Wasn’t her first time on an armed op, but it never felt right. They’d got new vests since her last, though – not quite so bulky.

  ‘The GPS says he’s here,’ continued Naysmith. ‘One of the lockups. Now, these lockups, far as we know, have been disused for years: the company that owned them went bust, and there’s been no registered owner since – least until Boyd bought one for peanuts earlier this year. Bottom line, there could be fucking anything in there. So be ready.’

  ‘Do we know if he’s armed?’ One of the uniforms, chewing gum, trying to hide his nerves.

  ‘We know he’s got no firearms licence,’ said Kerry. ‘Beyond that, no idea. He might come out shooting. He might try to run, he might try to negotiate with us. Like I say: be ready.’

  Naysmith nodded: ‘Okay.’ Made a gesture. The seven of them began to move purposefully towards the lockups.

  They didn’t need the bolt-cutters to breach the tatty fence; there were holes where the wire had been hacked before, or had rusted away. One by one they picked their way through. The lockups, squat and grey, waited for them.

  Naysmith and two uniforms moved warily left, circling in a line around the back of the buildings; Cox and the rest made their way to the front. Beyond the farthest unit Cox saw the front end of a parked bottle-green car, a dusty old Vauxhall – Boyd’s.

  Her pulse quickened. She glanced at the GPS; the tracker was showing in the last lockup in the row.

  They moved anticlockwise, filing between the car and the lockup’s westward wall. Cox was hoping for a side-door. The corrugated garage doors to the front, rust-streaked and spray-painted clumsily with NO PARKING and KEAP OUT, would take too long to break open – she didn’t want to give Boyd even a half-second more than she had to.

  And there it was: a windowless, peeling uPVC door, no padlock, halfway along the wall.

  To her right, Naysmith and his guys were edging around the far corner of the lockup. Cox caught the chief’s eye; he glanced quickly at the door, gave her a nod.

  She stepped forward, gun heavy in her right hand, and tried the door-handle cautiously with her left.

  It was unlocked.

  Took a breath. Pulled the door open.

  The seven officers surged inside, torches flaring in the darkness; fanned out swiftly into a semi-circle around the door. Their torch beams raked the bare walls, the ridged concrete floor.

  Dust. Cobwebs. A hank of bindweed growing through a flaw in the iron roof.

  ‘Nothing, guv,’ someone said.

  There was relief in his voice, she thought.

  Where the fuck was Boyd? He couldn’t have known they were coming – and even if he had, he couldn’t have just vanished …

  Cox turned her torch on the wall to her right, the back wall of the lockup. Doors – four vertically folding shutter-type doors, steel by the look of them, all locked at the bottom with heavy D-locks. Behind, she calculated, a space of – what – three feet by four feet? Wardrobe-sized. Room enough to stash a bike, say, or a couple of filing cabinets, or a decent haul of drugs or guns, or …

  Again she looked at Naysmith.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘The car,’ Naysmith said, eyeing the locks. ‘Find a key.’

  Cox went out, blinking in the muddy May light. A passenger jet howled by overhead. Tried the car’s passenger door – it, too, was unlocked. Wasn’t like Boyd to be so sloppy, she thought, as she pulled it open – no, wasn’t like Boyd at all.

  Opened the glove compartment, rifled quickly through a clutter of odds and ends: a pocket A–Z, an open packet of boiled sweets, an in-car mobile charger – and a key, attached to a plastic tag.

  31, the tag read.

  Back into the lockup, the dust and darkness, the confusion of torch beams. 31: the third shutter along.

  A lockup within a lockup. A paedophile’s hiding place. There could be fucking anything in there, Naysmith had said. Well, she wasn’t exactly new to the job – whatever was in there, she was ready for it.

  She crouched, broke open the D-lock, heaved up the shutter door. Shone her torch into the darkness.

  She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready at all.

  1

  26 December 2014

  Dead white skies over London and low, cold mist clinging to the lawns of the park. Black rooks in the leafless trees. The wires and railings of the zoo enclosures glimmered dully with beads of rainwater. It was busy, despite the weather: kids restless, parents weary at the dog-end of the Christmas holidays. Kerry saw the ennui in the other parents’ eyes and wondered if she looked the same. Perhaps they’d just wanted to get out of the house after being cooped up the previous day, with the heating on too high and the kids coming down from another sugar rush. She felt like an impostor.

  The polar bear enclosure was gloomy, an angular pattern of grey water, weak shadow and dark, wet concrete. By the waterside a female bear pawed at her cub. She played roughly, tumbling the cub down the concrete slope. The ball of fluffy white fur yawped.

  At the rail, wide-eyed, togged up in scarf and hat, a young boy watched intently. Rapt. The mother bear ambled heavily towards the cub, nuzzled it, batted it with a paw. Every movement showed her strength, her weight – the damage she could do.

  ‘I’m not sure he ought to be up there. It doesn’t look very safe.’

  A youngish mum, her own toddler held in the crook of her arm, leaning across with a look of concern.

  Cox blinked.

&nbs
p; ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s your boy up there on the railing, isn’t it? I’m not sure he should be climbing on the railing.’

  ‘Yes. No. Of course.’ Mustered a brief smile. ‘Thanks.’

  Matthew had stepped on to the first rung of the railing to get a better view. What was he, eight inches off the floor? He didn’t respond when she called his name. Too busy watching the bear. She could feel the woman with the toddler watching her – judging her.

  There’s more dangerous things in the world than climbing on a bloody railing, she wanted to say. More dangerous than polar bears, even.

  Tried again: ‘Matthew. Get down.’

  This time he looked around, glowering at her under his patterned woolly hat. Grudgingly stepped down. Turned back to the bear.

  Cox sighed. Six years old, and giving her attitude already. Growing up fast. She had a good few years of that to look forward to, she thought wryly.

  At the same time, she heard the counsellor in her brain, doing that infuriating cocking of her head – maybe ‘attitude’ is the wrong word, Kerry. How do you think Matthew is feeling?

  She wondered when the next appointment was – she’d have to check her diary. No doubt there’d be a clash with work. There always was. The counsellor didn’t seem to get that police work wasn’t always neat and tidy, nine till five with an hour for lunch.

  In fact, the two-day break she’d managed to wangle over both Christmas Day and Boxing Day was a small miracle. But given how yesterday had turned out – a high-strung mum, Christmas dinner, it was never likely to go well – she was wondering if it’d been worth the effort.

  Today was going a bit better, though. At least she was with Matthew.

  She turned away from the enclosure, let her gaze drift across the busy concourse. Kids everywhere. Little girl clutching a stuffed giraffe. Twins in a buggy slobbering over ice creams. Seriously – in December? A boy with an Elmo rucksack badgering his dad to take him to see the elephants. And a dark-haired girl in a blue duffle coat wandering away from her mum.

  Cox felt her focus narrow reflexively, felt herself zero in on the kid. An instinct. Like a lifeguard at a busy swimming-pool. She found herself scanning the area for singles, dodgy-looking men, creeps, loners. This guy, smoking a cigarette under a dripping palm tree? Or this one, alone at a picnic table with a newspaper and a carrier bag?

  She chided herself inwardly. Could just as well be someone’s loving dad or granddad, she knew. But then, that was no guarantee. And it didn’t have to be a man, of course. She’d read witness statements – from other countries admittedly – about women being used to tempt the victim to a snatch location.

  Shook her head, told herself to get a bloody grip. She’d enough on her plate without worrying about other people’s kids. She shuddered at the thought of what was waiting for her back at home: stacks of paperwork, briefings from the barrister, case notes – and she’d said she’d give Naysmith a call, too.

  The woman who’d chided her earlier was glancing at her oddly. Kerry realized, in a moment of sardonic horror, that only one person looked dodgy around here.

  Nearby a camera clicked, and she turned sharply, ready to unload a volley of abuse. She’d had more than her fill of paparazzi … But, she saw, reddening at the realization, this wasn’t a pap, wasn’t some smirking sleazebag with an SLR and a moped. It was an old couple, arms about a grinning grandchild, making a pig’s ear of taking a selfie by the chimpanzee compound.

  One day, Kerry, she told herself, you’re going to have to stop expecting the worst.

  ‘Mum!’

  She turned.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Look what the bear’s doing.’

  She lifted her chin to look over the rail.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘You didn’t even see. It’s not doing it now. Wait, look – it’s doing it again.’ The mother bear had picked up its cub in its jaws and was carrying it slowly up the slope. ‘Why’s it doing that, Mum?’ Matthew wasn’t happy. His face was pink, his voice winding up in pitch. ‘Mum? Why is the bear eating its baby?’

  ‘Oh, love. She’s doing no such thing.’ She moved to the rail, put a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘She’s just helping the baby bear out, you see? She doesn’t want the baby bear to get hurt or fall in the water.’

  Matthew nodded seriously. She could see him processing. Taking it in.

  ‘A baby bear,’ he said eventually, ‘is really called a cub.’

  Then he turned away from the enclosure and looked up at her, blinking in the milky winter sunlight.

  ‘Where next?’

  ‘Wherever you like, love.’

  Matthew took her hand – the wool of his mitten was damp from the railing – and they moved off across the concourse.

  As they walked, Cox had the oppressive feeling of being watched – no, not watched exactly, but looked at, noticed. Heads turned when they passed by. She saw uncertain flickers of recognition in people’s faces, awkward grimaces as they looked away a moment too late. She wasn’t imagining it. And why wouldn’t they notice, if they read the papers.

  She could do without this.

  ‘Look!’ Matthew stopped, pointing excitedly at a queue of young families outside the penguin pond. Feeding time! a sign said. A young woman in flip-flops and a zoo sweatshirt was chatting to the kids, a metal bucket hanging from her hand.

  ‘Are they feeding the penguins?’ Matthew asked, tugging at her hand. ‘Can we go? Come on! It’s dinner time for the penguins.’

  Cox hesitated. Thought uneasily of sitting among a crowd of parents, all of them knowing who she was, what she did – thinking they knew her.

  ‘Dinner time for mum, more like,’ she said with false heartiness. ‘Let’s go get something to eat! I’ll buy you a hotdog, how about that?’

  To her relief, Matthew went for it.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I want fish, though! Like a penguin.’

  He waddled off ahead of her, ducking his head and waggling his elbows like flippers at his sides. Cox laughed – the sound of it surprised her, somehow.

  They’d just picked up their trays in the zoo canteen when Cox felt her phone buzz in her jacket pocket. As she fished it out she watched Matthew make his way hungrily towards a display of fancy iced pastries. She could already see how the next few minutes were going to play out, when she saw the number. Her appetite vanished.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Kerry. Naysmith. Can you come in?’

  The chief super. His manner as flat and blunt as his northern vowels.

  ‘Guv, I’ve had today booked off for ages –’

  ‘I know. But something’s come up. A body.’

  Christ, he knew how to play her. She could feel the buzz of excitement starting up somewhere in her chest; adrenaline beginning to pump.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ll text you the address. See you there.’

  Rang off.

  She dropped the phone back into her pocket. Smiled ruefully as she watched Matthew struggling with the tongs to pick up a frosted muffin. Well, there’d be other days.

  When she knelt beside him, curling an arm around his waist, it was like he already knew. His bottom lip poked out.

  ‘Matthew, love …’ she began.

  ‘You’re going, aren’t you.’ It wasn’t a question. Trust me to have the only psychic infant in London, Cox thought.

  ‘Yes, love, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. But I’ve got to go and –’

  ‘Save the world. I know.’

  It was an old joke between them, a line they’d used for years, whenever she had to work nights, or was late home, or missed a birthday party or a school play …

  But did he say it differently, this time? For the first time Cox thought she detected an edge of resentment in Matthew’s voice.

  ‘But I’ll see you soon, love, okay? We’ll come here again – I’ll take you to see the penguins’ feeding time.’ She kissed his forehead. He was trying not to cry, she kne
w. She wondered where they got that from. Where did boys learn that tears were something to keep hidden, keep inside?

  As they walked back through the zoo to the car park she dialled Aidan’s number.

  He answered sharply: ‘Let me guess.’

  ‘Look, Aidan, I wouldn’t ask if –’

  ‘If it wasn’t urgent. Yes, I know the drill, Kerry.’

  ‘Come on. It’s not as if you’re busy, is it?’

  A deep, withering sigh down the phone line.

  ‘You really think that’s what this is about? Matthew really wanted to spend some time with you. It’s Christmas, Kerry, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ How many times had they had this conversation? Cox felt herself engaging autopilot. ‘I’ll try harder in future. I promise I will. I’ll have a word with my boss, try and sort out my work–life balance. But just –’

  ‘Just this once.’ Aidan’s voice was heavy with cynicism. ‘Sure. Bring him over. But you need to make it up to him, Kerry. You are his bloody mum, you know.’

  ‘We’ll be there in half an hour,’ she said. Blipped open the car with the key-fob. ‘Depending on traffic.’

  The First Day of Christmas, 1986

  ‘It’s too dark, you berk. It won’t work in the dark.’

  He doesn’t like me calling him a berk. He takes stuff to heart, does our Stan. Scrunches up his face.

  ‘It flippin’ does,’ he said. ‘Point it at the bottom of the door, you’ll see.’

  I call him a spaz, but I have a look anyway. Put my eye to the eye-thing and give it a turn. Patterns. Bit of colour.

  Shrug, give him it back.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say, because I don’t.

  ‘It’s a kal-ide-oh-scope.’

  ‘I know what it is. What’s it meant to do?’ Grab it back off him, turn it over in my hands. Feels gritty. Rub my fingers and thumb together. Oh, bloody hell. ‘Here. Here, Stan, there’s all stuff coming out of it.’

  His eyes flick wide in the darkness. He snatches it from me.

  ‘Careful, you’ll get it everywhere –’

  ’Cause I can see bits of glitter coming out of the end of it.