11

‘Is this really necessary?’

He was bleary-eyed, shabby in a checked shirt and worn cords.

Cox popped open the passenger door.

‘Just get in.’

The traffic was light – by London standards – out this way. Rain spotted the windscreen.

‘So are you going to tell me where we’re going?’ asked Greg Wilson.

‘North,’ said Cox.

‘I’d gathered that much,’ Wilson muttered as they moved out on to the North Circular.

All she’d told him on the phone was that there was another lead, a lead he didn’t know about, on the Radley case; that she was heading out to investigate, if he felt like tagging along; that she’d pick him up from his place in Kilburn in half an hour’s time.

At first he’d been resistant: ‘One minute you’re clapping me in bloody handcuffs, the next you’re bringing me along on an investigation?’

But his heart hadn’t been in it. Just for show.

Now he said: ‘I have a feeling I’m not the only one working freelance on this.’

Cox gave him nothing. Didn’t take her eyes off the road.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Come on. There’s no way your chief super wants you working on Radley’s death. There’s pressure being brought to bear on this case, heavy stuff, from high up. I got a call from my old newsdesk last night, giving me a heads-up: there’s a lot of legal noise being made in the background, Cox. Threats from the Radley family.’

‘A man died, in inconclusive circumstances,’ Cox said flatly. ‘That merits a police investigation.’

‘I know that. But I don’t think Scotland Yard agrees.’

‘I’m just doing my job,’ she said. Pulled out on to the motorway roundabout; slowed as she saw a green light up ahead switch to amber. Wilson just shrugged; happy to drop the subject – at least for now.

Cox glanced in her rear-view.

‘Can you tell me what we’re looking for,’ Wilson pressed, ‘once we get to wherever we’re going? I –’

He broke off as Cox slammed hard on the accelerator. The light was red when she roared through; a lorry lurching forwards from the left braked, rocked forward, sounded its horn gratingly. Cox checked her rear-view again; a grey Merc had come through the lights after her, slewing across two lanes to avoid an incoming motorcyclist.

She noticed Wilson’s knuckles were white on the door-handle. Well, let him think she was just a madcap driver, for now. See what happens.

‘We’re after something solid,’ she said. ‘Something that makes sense.’

Swiftly she filled him in on Verity Halcombe, the flowers Radley sent, the info about Hampton Hall in Reginald Allis’s book.

‘That place is the common link here,’ she said. ‘That’s my hunch, anyway.’

‘You got me out of bed at eight o’clock on a hunch?’

‘Don’t pretend you had anything better to do.’

‘So how do you read it? Some sort of geriatric love triangle?’

‘With two deaths, maybe that’d be worth looking into. But three? Doesn’t make a lot of sense.’ She shook her head. ‘I think it’s something – something worse than that. Something that happened, that made Verity Halcombe leave so abruptly – something that Radley and Allis knew about.’

‘They were killed to keep them quiet?’ Wilson’s tone was sceptical. ‘Thirty-odd years later?’

‘It’s my best guess,’ Cox shrugged. ‘Let me know if you come up with anything better.’

The traffic got thicker, and the rain heavier, as she moved across the motorway to the filter lane for the M4 exit.

In a forced-sounding, casual, conversational voice, Wilson asked: ‘How’s things at home? How’s it going with Matthew and – Aidan, is it?’

Cox felt an internal shutter go up. Happened automatically these days.

‘Fine,’ she said.

‘You’re still – separated?’

She moved quickly to stamp on that one.

‘We’re talking things through, working some stuff out,’ she lied.

Wilson nodded understandingly.

‘That’s good. Listen, I never wanted – I never meant to ruin things between the two of you. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry for it.’

This was a conversation she didn’t want to have.

‘That wasn’t your mistake,’ she said shortly. Moved out on to the spray-shrouded M4. ‘It was mine.’

‘My granddad died in a shit-hole like this,’ Wilson said conversationally, sparking up a cigarette in the gravelled car park.

Cox took in the rain-darkened redbrick façade of what had once been Hampton Hall – now Evergreen Care Home (‘Providing Safe and Secure Facilities in Later Life’). It looked like what it was: a run-down Victorian pile in a sprawl of suburbs near the Wolverhampton turn-off, repurposed, unloved.

Imagine having to live here, she thought. Imagine having to die here.

‘Pretty bleak,’ she said.

‘Uh-uh.’ Wilson nodded, trod out his fag. ‘I’ve seen prisons look after their inmates better than some of these places.’

‘Come on.’ Cox started down the flagged path towards the front door. ‘Let’s see if anyone here remembers nice old Miss Halcombe.’

‘Hope they’ve got long memories,’ Wilson grunted.

A harassed-looking young healthcare assistant in a white tunic answered Cox’s knock.

‘We’ve no visitors booked in today,’ she said.

Cox paused, badge in hand.

‘None? No one in this whole place has any visitors today?’

The assistant shrugged, leaning on the half-open door.

‘I’m very busy,’ she said. ‘We need to get the lunches ready. Who did you say you were here to see?’

Now she showed her badge. The assistant flinched, straightened up out of her slouch.

‘Detective Inspector Cox, Metropolitan Police. We’d like to speak to the manager.’

‘You mean Mr Latham? He’s the owner, but he’s not on site much. You might be able to talk to the matron, though. Mrs Hazlewood. I’ll see if she’s free. Hang on.’

She hurried off, leaving the door open. Cox exchanged an unimpressed look with Wilson; stepped inside.

The lobby carpet was threadbare, the walls magnolia-washed. Fine cobwebs drifted under the high white ceiling.

‘Bloody hell, it was warmer outside,’ Wilson said, zipping up his jacket.

There was a desk with a computer, a tray of files, a half-empty mug of tea. On the farthest wall, a dusty red fire-extinguisher was fixed beside a defibrillator. Three doors led off the lobby. One was marked ‘Lounge & TV’, another ‘Staff Only’. The third was open and led into a corridor. A sign gave directions to the lifts and residential rooms.

It all had the feel, Cox thought, of a cheap hotel – the kind no one would stay at twice, given the choice.

The assistant reappeared out of the ‘Staff Only’ door, gestured impatiently at them to follow her and barged through into the ‘Lounge & TV’ room.

Cox caught the door before it closed, went through. Paused to get her bearings. Heard Wilson behind her mutter, ‘Christ.’

Seven grey faces were looking up at her from easy chairs ranged on both sides of a long rectangular room. Three striplights cast stark shadows; one, badly connected, flickered strobe-like every few seconds. It smelled as though the high windows had never been opened: a fug of disinfectant, drying linen, body odour, air-freshener and urine. There was, as promised, a TV, a big old cathode-ray set tuned to a gameshow re-run.

No one was watching it. They were all watching Cox.

‘Good morning,’ she nodded uncertainly, moving ahead – the assistant had already passed out through another door at the far end of the room.

An elderly woman, wearing a grubby T-shirt under a knitted cardigan, called out to her as she passed: ‘I’m glad you’ve come, pet, Amanda’s going to take us shopping …’

A man sat by the television worked his jaw silently, his lower lip hung with fine strands of drool. Cox heard a reedy male voice behind her call out to Wilson: ‘It’s our Trev! Over here, Trev. I’m over here, son!’

‘Give me a one-way ticket to Switzerland over this, any day of the week,’ Wilson said through gritted teeth, not bothering to keep his voice low. No one besides Cox seemed to hear.

The far door was marked ‘Matron’. She knocked briskly, went in without waiting for a response; Wilson followed.

Mrs Hazlewood, the matron, was younger than she’d expected. She was seated at a desk, in conversation with the harassed assistant, when they entered; she broke off, looked up with a professional smile.

‘Inspector. Good to meet you.’ She stood, extended a hand. She was maybe thirty, thirty-five. Slim and long-faced, with dark hair knotted in a chignon.

She shook Wilson’s hand, too. He didn’t introduce himself; it was easiest, Cox supposed, for him to say nothing, to let people’s easy assumptions take over. He was with a copper, who had a rank and a badge; he looked like a copper, as much as he looked like anything else; surely, then, he was a copper.

It was better than telling a lie. Lies, she knew, could trip you up.

As the assistant hurried away, disappearing through an unmarked door at the back of the office, they settled into the plastic chairs across the desk from Mrs Hazlewood.

‘So, how can I help?’ Again the professional smile: brisk, polite, faintly chilly.

‘We’re investigating a – a historic incident.’ It sounded lame, she knew – she could almost hear Wilson’s eye-roll – but what else could she say? ‘To be honest, Mrs Hazlewood, we’re just poking about at random in the hope that something will come up.’

‘Historic?’

‘How much do you know about Hampton Hall?’

‘That was the name of this place before it became a retirement home,’ Hazlewood said. She spoke slowly and carefully – the tone of someone in the habit of assuming that whoever they were talking to was half-senile at best.

Cox nodded.

‘We know that. It was a children’s home. Do you know anything about the place in those days?’

‘No. Before my time, I’m afraid.’ She showed her teeth briefly. ‘But I believe Mr Latham was the owner back then. He might be able to help.’

She seemed keen to offload responsibility for answering their questions – or to get them out of her office. Fair enough, Cox thought. No one enjoys a visit from CID.

But they weren’t done yet.

‘What about records? Paperwork from back then? Aren’t the Hampton Hall files kept here?’

Hazlewood poked out her bottom lip, shook her head.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ she said. ‘My responsibility is Evergreen Care. I’m sure Mr Latham will be able to give you the information you need. I can find his address for you. He lives out of the country now.’

Cox glanced across at Wilson, who shrugged. They weren’t going to get much from Matron Hazlewood, that much was clear.

Cox stood, taking up her bag and coat. Hazlewood looked relieved.

‘Well, inspector, it’s been –’

‘Could we take a look around?’

The matron looked momentarily thrown.

‘Look around?’ she echoed. ‘Whatever for?’

Whatever’s there.

‘We’d just like to get a feel for the layout of the building,’ Cox improvised. ‘Put our investigation into context.’

Hazlewood still looked uncertain.

‘We-ell – you won’t be able to go into any of the residents’ rooms, of course. The personal dignity of our residents is very important to us.’

Cox ignored Wilson’s snort of derision.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s no question of infringing anyone’s privacy or security.’

‘Very well.’ Hazlewood, frowning slightly, sat back down. ‘Feel free to visit any of the communal spaces. But please, try not to cause any disturbance.’

Once more she turned on the corporate smile. Then she took up a file of paperwork and studied the first page stagily. The message was clear: interview terminated.

They walked back through the grim ‘lounge’ – the old man who’d been confused about ‘Trev’ was crying, while the nurse stroked his hand; the TV blared out canned laughter – and into the lobby.

‘I’ll wait in the car,’ said Wilson shortly, holding out his hand for the keys.

‘Sure?’

‘I need some fucking air.’

He was grimacing; looked as though he’d eaten something rancid.

‘I won’t be long,’ she said.

‘If you’re more than a week I’ll send out a search party.’ He turned away, hit the button to unlock the front door.

When he was gone, Cox moved towards the open door that led into a long corridor of residential rooms. Ugly striped carpet. More unadorned strip-lighting.

A few of the doors that lined the corridor on both sides were open. Cox tried not to look inside as she passed; tried not to hear the things called out to her, not to think about the desperate loneliness of the people who would see out their days at Evergreen; tried to focus.

For her purposes, this wasn’t Evergreen at all. This was Hampton Hall.

Halfway along, the corridor opened out into a square alcove. There was a knackered-looking lift, a cupboard full of cleaning things – and a door. She tried the handle; it wasn’t locked.

She looked quickly back down the corridor – no one around – and opened the door. Steps, an unlit staircase sloping steeply down into a cellar. The light from the corridor made an off-white rectangle on the cellar floor. Looked like concrete.

Would Mrs Hazelwood consider this a ‘communal area’? Almost certainly not. She stepped down into the gloom and pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

A single room, huge, cavernous. There was an old light-switch at the foot of the stairs, coming loose from the plaster – thank Christ. She flicked the switch; a bare 40-watt filament bulb came weakly alive.

Grubby walls, whitewashed but not recently. A dirt-streaked concrete floor. Nothing else; the room was empty. But there was a doorway, gloomy, leading through into another dark, derelict-looking space.

Cox took a pocket torch from her back pocket. Played its frail beam across the black doorway. She saw shadows, skeletal shadows.

That room was not empty. Cox moved carefully forwards. The dirty concrete was gritty underfoot.

Again the torch beam picked out the angular shadows. As she moved, they shifted and warped, shivering across the wall. Not bones, she saw – not human bones, anyway. These were skeletons of iron, rusted, brittle; they were the frames of children’s beds. Perhaps three dozen, stacked haphazardly.

She moved closer. Reached out her free hand and touched the metal of the nearest frame. Cold as a grave, coarse with corrosion. Under the light pressure of her touch the stack of beds made a noise, a soft, high-pitched whisper of protest.

Something scurried on the floor. A rat, a mouse.

What, Cox wondered, would a rat find to eat in a basement filled with nothing but scrap iron?

She moved her torch beam across the beds. Dead brown springs, comfortless tubular frames. Then, in the corner – something different. Something solid.

She sniffed the air warily. Dust. Rust. Rat-shit. Moved towards the dark shape in the corner.

Bulky, straight-edged. The torchlight gleamed briefly on metal.

Cox breathed out. She felt a soft thrum of excitement in her chest.

A filing cabinet.

It, too, was encrusted with rust. Just two drawers. She tried the upper one; it stuck, the drawer-wheels jamming on the corroded runners – but it wasn’t locked. The drawer was filled front-to-back with manila files.

There didn’t seem to be any order. Cox thought about pulling on a glove, but they were in the car. No need. She riffled through the files. Drew one out at random: two sheets of A4 typing paper, a black-and-white photograph of a young boy’s face, a few lines of personal details. Not much more: it was clear, now, what the rats had found to eat down here. The paper was filthy and gnawed away.

Still, though, it was something. She closed the file, slipped it back into the drawer. She was about to pull out another when she heard a noise behind her – became suddenly aware of a shift in the quality of the light in the cellar.

Slammed shut the drawer, turned. The door at the top of the stairs was open. A slender figure was outlined in the corridor light.

A thin but piercing voice called out: ‘Are you ready, love? Amanda’s taking us shopping! Chop-chop. Let’s be having you.’

Cox moved fast, slapped off the light-switch with the flat of her hand, took the steps two at a time. The last thing she needed was this poor old thing bringing Mrs Hazlewood running.

The woman blinked at her, smiling uncertainly, as she emerged into the corridor.

‘You’ll need your woollies, duck,’ she said. ‘It’s perishing out there.’

‘I know, I know.’ Cox forced a grin. She put an arm gently on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘There’s no need to shout. I’m right here.’

‘That’s exactly what Amanda says. But then she turns the telly right up!’ Cox winced as the woman’s right hand closed tightly on her upper arm. ‘Ages since I went shopping, isn’t it, love? I haven’t got the plastic thing, Amanda takes charge of that. Have you got the right money for the bus? It’s robbery really.’

Cox tried to pull her arm out of the woman’s grip, but the thick, hard fingers held on tight.

‘I know, love,’ she smiled desperately, scanning up and down the corridor. The woman’s voice had a penetrating quality; someone was bound to hear them. ‘It’s a disgrace. Now come on – let go of my arm, and let’s go to wait in the lounge.’

The woman’s face creased in worry.

‘Is Amanda here already? Only she’s not meant to leave work till five, I don’t want her to –’

‘Mrs Walker!’

The old woman’s hand fell away. You had to hand it to Matron Hazlewood, Cox thought, massaging her upper arm – she knew how to speak with authority.

‘What’s going on here?’ She came bustling up the corridor, straight-backed, clipboard in hand and professional smile turned up full. ‘Inspector?’

Cox thought fast.

‘I was just waiting for the lift,’ she said with a gesture. ‘And Mrs Walker here stopped me for a chat.’ She let a hint of asperity enter her tone; the faintest implication that Hazlewood’s failure to properly manage her inmates was preventing her from carrying out important police work. She was damned if she was going to stand there and be ticked off like a misbehaving schoolgirl.

‘I’m terribly sorry.’ The matron bent at the waist to speak to Mrs Walker, adopting a sing-song tone. ‘I’m afraid Amanda can’t take you shopping today, dear. We’re going to have to go back to the lounge.’ She glanced up meaningfully at Cox. ‘All of us.’

‘Yes, I’m pretty much done here.’ Couldn’t resist adding: ‘For now.’

Hazlewood nodded stiffly.

They trooped along the corridor, the matron leading, Mrs Walker shuffling along in the middle – and Cox lagging behind, mind racing, wondering what kind of information might be in the rat-eaten Hampton Hall files – and what other secrets this place might be hiding.

The young assistant came hurrying up when they reached the lobby. She took Mrs Walker by the elbow, but Hazlewood cut in briskly.

‘I’ll take care of Mrs Walker,’ she said. ‘You can show Inspector Cox here the way out.’

The way out was barely five yards from where they stood. The implication was clear: make sure she leaves.

Hazlewood shepherded Mrs Walker – who was still murmuring apologetically about Amanda and the shops – back into the dismal lounge. The young assistant hit the door-release button. As Cox was about to leave, the assistant touched her arm.

‘My nan worked at Hampton Hall,’ she whispered.

Her expression was furtive, excited and conspiratorial. Cox paused.

‘Is that so?’ Kept her voice neutral.

‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? One of those investigations. Like with Jimmy Savile and all that.’ She looked over her shoulder, then back at Cox. ‘I knew you’d come. It was only a matter of time.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The place closed down in the eighties, you know.’

‘Yes, so I gather.’

‘But you don’t know why, do you? Social services “restructure”, that was what they said. But my nan told me different. It got shut down because of’ – her eyes widened momentarily – ‘kiddie fiddlers. That’s what she said. She meant, you know, paedos.’

Cox felt her stomach lurch, nausea rising in her throat; but at the same time, there was a kick, a buzz, the thrill – she couldn’t deny it – of a case opening up, a cold lead coming alive.

She looked at the young woman gravely.

‘That’s a very serious allegation to be throwing around, Ms … ?’

‘Matthews, Kirsty Matthews. It is, I know it is.’ A defiant look. ‘My nan wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, though. I’m not naming any names. But you’ll see, if you look into it.’ She nodded. ‘You’ll see.’

‘Well – thank you, Kirsty.’ Cox smiled briefly. ‘You may be seeing us again.’

Wilson was leaning on the bonnet of the car, smoking the rest of his cigarette. He looked narrowly at her through a haze of smoke as she crunched across the gravel car park.

‘Hope that was worth a two-hour drive through the pissing rain,’ he said.

‘It just might have been.’ She pulled open the driver’s door. ‘Come on, get in.’

‘Back to civilization?’

‘Far from it.’ Backed up the car, turned with a roar of gravel towards the exit. ‘We’re going to the police station.’

The Sixth Day of Christmas, 1986

They’re staying clear of me. All the lads, they’re not coming near me today. Don’t blame them. Not in the mood for talking about bloody football or bloody BMXs or bloody Duffy’s made-up bloody stories.

Even Stan’s getting on my nerves today. He comes over.

‘Do you want a jelly bean?’ he says. ‘I’ve got a few left. Saved ’em.’

‘Fuck off with your jelly beans,’ I say.

Upsets him, that. Didn’t deserve it really but he’ll get over it. I roll over in my bed, face to the wall. Want to sleep. Don’t want to dream, though.

Late in the morning Miss Halcombe brings me a cup of tea. I’ve got nothing to say to her. I stay looking at the wall. She leaves the tea on the bedside table.

‘Because your brother’s not feeling too well,’ I hear her say to Stan.

I fall asleep. You’re not meant to sleep during the day, but they let me anyway.

When I wake up Stan’s gone. There’s no one in the dorm. I roll over; feel something sticky against my cheek.

He’s left five fucking jelly beans on my pillow.

That’s when I start crying. Can’t help it. Just sit there on the edge of my bed with my hands over my face, bawling like a bloody baby.

With perfect timing, Duffy comes in. Try and stop crying but you can’t just turn it off like a tap. Wipe my face, try to make it look like I just woke up.

Duffy’s not buying it. Big smile on his stupid face.

‘Is the little teacher’s pet missing Dr Allis?’ he says. ‘Don’t blub, Trevayne. I’m sure your new best friend will be back later to sit you on his knee and make everything all right.’

Other lads are drifting in behind him. Stevie, Judd, a few others. Stan, too.

I tell him to fuck off.

He can see I’m not mucking about. But he can’t help himself, Mark Duffy.

‘Knew it was only a matter of time before you got picked as the doctor’s new favourite,’ he says. ‘Seen lads like you before. Acting tough as fuck – but all the time, underneath –’

I just snap. Something just goes bang.

I grab the mug of tea from the bedside table, chuck it as hard as I can – right in the bastard’s face. He screams, a proper scream, like a girl. The mug bounces off his nose, hits the wall, breaks in half. Tea and blood all down Duffy’s front.

‘Have that, you prick.’

He’s sobbing, clutching at his face. The tea had gone cold, worse luck. He’ll have nothing worse than a broke nose. He can’t say he wasn’t asking for it.

Footsteps coming at a run down the corridor. I’m for it now, I know. But so what?

Before the orderlies get here to cart me away Stevie comes over and, leaning close, says: ‘You did right, Robbie.’

Then I’m being grabbed, slammed into a restrain position, heavy hands on my neck, arms, wrists.

‘Don’t worry, Stan,’ I shout, because I can hear him whim-pering.

They take me away. As they’re bundling me into solitary – the ‘cooling-down room’, they call it – I wonder what Stevie meant. Did he mean I did right just now, busting Duffy’s nose for him, giving him the payback he’s been asking for?

Or was he talking about yesterday?

They let me out after a few hours. It’s Miss Halcombe who comes to turn me loose. She gives me the usual talking-to. I’ve heard it all before. Let yourself down, violence solves nothing, learn a bit of self-control, blah bloody blah. These fucking hypocrites.

Then, as I’m walking out the door of the cell, she says: ‘If you don’t get your act together, Robert, I think we may have to separate you and young Stanley. We simply can’t have this sort of disruption.’

I turn and look at her. Try not to let anything show in my face, but she can see, all right. Fear, real fear – you can’t hide it. It’ll always show through.

Halcombe knows that, the evil old bitch.

The idea of being separated from Stan scares me right down to my bones.

‘You can’t do that,’ I say.

‘We don’t want to, of course. But I’m afraid it may be the only course of action. I know Dr Merton has been considering it – if your conduct, Robert, doesn’t improve.’

It’ll improve, I tell her. I’ll be good as gold, I tell her. She won’t hear a peep out of me, I tell her, from now on – none of them will. I’ll keep my head down and my nose clean. Just don’t take Stan away from me.

I say ‘please’ about a hundred times. I practically fucking beg her.

Col comes to find me. It’s getting dark, about half-four, and I’m in a corner of the garden. Just sitting, thinking. Snow’s all gone. Crows are making a racket in the trees behind.

‘It’s all right,’ he says.

I tell him no it’s fucking not. He smiles, and says yeah, actually, you’re right, it’s not.

We both sit for a bit, not saying anything. My hands are cold, but I don’t want to go back inside.

‘We shouldn’t let him get away with it,’ Col says then.

‘How d’you mean?’

I remember how Col knifed his foster-dad – and that copper, too. Realize that I never asked him why.

‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘We all know what he does, that bastard Merton. Him and his mates. We know it, and we just let it happen.’

Like I let it happen? I want to ask.

I hope Col knows I didn’t have a choice.