To the married, to the many with families and friends, and even to the unemployed, Boxing Day was a day for relaxation and over-indulgence. The one day in the year, even more so than Christmas Day, when Britain decided, almost en masse its collective attempt at healthier living could be put on hold.
Back in his youth, Neil always loved Christmas Day. Family, fun, the excitement of meeting forgotten friends, and general happiness; these were the things that made Christmas great. Presents were almost secondary.
It was tradition that Neil’s mother invited everyone round on Christmas Day. Their oven, on from Christmas Eve morning cooking the two enormous turkeys forming their main Christmas fare, heaved under the added weight of cilantro potatoes, jerk turkey and yam pot, spiced roasts, coconut and split pea stew, and his mother’s exquisite cinnamon pineapple sauce.
Tens of relatives and nearly everyone on their street would descend on their house from eleven sharp, queuing at their tiny serving hatch like squatters at a soup kitchen. The house, dressed head to toe in all manner of sparkle and Christmas-inspired chintz, filled with incredible smells and the sounds of contentment.
Christmas Day was for laughter, for enjoyment, and for the pleasure of talking to people in unusually high spirits. However, once the Christmas Day whirlwind had blown itself out, Boxing Day brought the relief of solitude.
Neil’s mother and father would cuddle up on the couch, usually watching Willy Wonka or The Great Escape for the hundredth time as they relaxed after their day of excitement, their distraction giving Neil the run of the house.
Leftovers, usually several kilos of them, waited in tightly stacked bowls and dishes in the fridge. Sweets, fizzy drinks, chocolates, and presents abounded; the bounty of Boxing Day knew no limits. Every year, regular as clockwork, Neil would take the opportunity with gusto, pushing his tolerance for fat and sugar as far as they would go. The price paid in lost sleep, indigestion, and tooth decay, a small one in comparison to the feeling of freedom the day brought.
However, that was long in the past. Now, Boxing Day was just like all the others. With no family of his own, and his parents no longer alive to share the day with, Boxing Day was just another day of work.
Neil walked down Riding House Street, to the pharmacy on the corner facing the King’s Arms. There had been a robbery on Christmas Eve, and Neil was chasing up a lead to a known gang operating in the area.
After questioning the proprietor for nearly an hour, he took the opportunity to nip round the corner to Kaffeine.
Neil considered himself a connoisseur of coffee. In the police since he was twenty-one meant its consumption was now a daily ritual. Some of the chains were acceptable, but London had far better emporiums than those to offer the aficionado, and Kaffeine was definitely on that list; if not top of it.
Even on Boxing Day, Kaffeine was busy. Appreciative chatter ran through its interior and the delicate scents of roasting beans from all four corners of the world swirled round and fired Neil’s desire.
After ordering a skinny macchiato, with his obligatory dusting of cinnamon, he took up a seat at an empty table and began to read his notes.
The security camera footage recovered from the shop was grainy at best, and even though digital scrubbing techniques had come a long way, there was little chance of getting much more than a vague representation of anyone from it. It was from the descriptions given by the owner however, that there would be much more chance of getting a fit to one of Neil’s suspects.
According to his notes, the owner returned to the shop after the alert monitors went off in his house due to the unauthorised opening of his prohibited substances locker. When he arrived, some thirty-three minutes later, he saw two people, one black male, and one white male, loading boxes of drugs into a blue van. Not only had the shop owner seen the licence plate of the vehicle, but he also got a good look at the unmasked faces of the suspects. A sketch artist was booked for the next day to get a representation of the men seen and from that, identification should be simple.
Neil leant back and sipped at his coffee, pleased two of the area’s most-feared gang members may soon be in custody.
As Neil’s mind wandered to thoughts about finally pinning something on them, his radio crackled to life on his belt. Smiling awkwardly to the proprietor, he made his way outside into the crisp winter air.
“Detective Townsend, over.”
Immediate dispatch to forty-eight Lisburne Road, postcode november whisky three, two november romeo. Three bodies found at premises. Require immediate attendance. Over.
“Detective Townsend received. Heading to location at forty-eight november whisky three, two november romeo, confirm. Approximate arrival in twenty minutes. Over.”
Neil put the radio back on his belt and set off to where he parked. Another great Boxing Day, he thought, as he started the engine and began to weave his way through the one-way system and out toward his destination. A potential triple murder the day after Christmas. Someone’s holiday season it appeared, was turning out worse than his.
Lisburne Road sat in Belsize Park, an exclusive area of north-west London. Its impressive, chic terraces and exquisitely manicured streets made it a magnet for fashionistas, financiers, wealthy lawyers, and well-to-do celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow and Helena Bonham-Carter. Its tree-lined streets gave the area a beauty and calmness that stretched from the bustling centre on England’s Lane with its flower stalls, expensive patisseries, and dizzying array of cafés and bars, to the parks and recreation areas littering Primrose Hill to its side.
By the time Neil arrived at the scene, four cars of uniformed officers and two ambulances were already parked outside.
Neil stepped out of his Alpha-Romeo and retrieved his trench coat from the back seat. Both sides of the road were littered with vehicles, and angry citizens were being placated at having to move them in order for the emergency services to gain access.
Flipping his identification to an officer, who lifted the police cordon tape and allowed him access, he strode up to the front door.
The building was a Georgian town house sat in a terraced row of similar properties. Neil strode into an entrance corridor, a flight of stairs leading up to his right. A patchwork of black and white tiles covered the floor, and the white painted, twelve-foot walls, decorated with delicate architrave, led to a stucco-loaded ceiling.
As Neil gingerly stepped round a pair of SCOs kneeling in the hallway, an attendant officer motioned for him to come further down the corridor.
Neil ducked between another couple of officers and into an open plan kitchen that led to a surprisingly large garden, visible through sliding patio doors. The room was immaculate, and Neil was surprised at how spacious the inside of the house was in comparison to its small external aspect.
“Officer Daventree, Detective Townsend.” said the officer, as he extended a hand. “Dispatch told me you were on your way.”
Neil was no midget at six two, but Daventree towered above him. His heavy body suit, covered in high visibility jacket, made him very imposing, but his face was lined with creases. Wanting to know why, Neil nodded, moving the conversation directly to why he was here. “What have we got?”
“Not sure, to be honest.” Daventree said, shaking his head and glancing at the notepad in his hand. “Emergency dispatch received a call from the owner, one Michael Grayson, at nine forty-five this morning. The man was in great distress, and dispatch said he was making little sense on the phone. When we got here, Officer Bell and I found Mister Grayson in the living room with his wife and daughter. They were cuddled into a ball; sobbing.”
Neil looked to his left. Through glass-panelled doors, the living area spread out toward the front of the property. A female officer knelt down holding the hand of a clearly distraught woman sitting by her husband and her young, perhaps four year old daughter. The father, presumably the Mister Grayson who made the call, cuddled his child, rocking her gently as she cried, the female officer doing everything she could to calm the
m.
“Dispatch said three bodies were found. I assume from the distress of the child, it was the girl who found them?” said Neil, taking his notepad from his pocket and beginning to jot important details.
Neil had never seen the need to keep notes. His memory was one of his strongest mental facets; if anything were said today, he would remember it. However, during his training, it was impressed upon him that note taking was essential for two reasons: One, police work could be dangerous and someone may need to take over from you for some reason and they could not accomplish that without notes, and two, auditors and lawyers trusted written words more than spoken ones.
“Three bodies, that’s correct detective.” said Daventree, coughing nervously. “Mister Grayson had been planning to do some work to the property...” Daventree stopped, holding up a hand to his mouth, before lowering it again. “Apologies detective. It’s not every day you get to see something like this.”
“Take your time.” said Neil, calmly. “Let’s start with the simple stuff. Who lives here?”
“Just the three people in the living room with Officer Leeks.” said Daventree, composing himself. “Michael Grayson, Harriet Grayson, and their daughter Alanis.”
“And what do the principals do for a living?” asked Neil.
“Mister Grayson is a molecular scientist who works for Hybrid Incorporated UK. A genetics start-up located in Holborn, they have an office off Emerald Street,” said Daventree, flicking through his notes, “and Missus Grayson is personal assistant to the Liberal Democrat MP Clara Robertson.”
Neil nodded, hoping he had given Daventree enough time to settle his nerves. He knew occasionally, regardless of the amount of times you may have done it before, seeing a body threw you in a way nothing else could. He looked up at Daventree and smiled. The man’s face was stoic, and blood was returning to his features. “Now, when you’re ready, give me a run-down of what we are dealing with here.”
Daventree flipped back through his notes methodically, taking time to get his words across without tripping over his emotions. “Officer Bell and I arrived at the property at ten seventeen, responding to the dispatch request. Due to the caller making little sense, but as bodies were mentioned, we were advised to approach with caution. Upon arrival, we found the front door open. Entering, we could hear crying coming from the living room and found Mister Grayson and his family pretty much as you see them now.”
Daventree flipped another page and swallowed heavily. Whatever was about to be read was bothering him significantly.
Neil studied Daventree’s face. He was mid-thirties, well groomed, and his accent was formal and educated. That, put with his manner and the wording he used, told of a proud and experienced officer, unlikely fazed by the sight of death. However, his actions said the opposite. As he continued to recount his notes, Neil found himself becoming more and more fearful about what was to be revealed.
“After several minutes of trying to calm them,” continued Daventree, “we eventually managed to cajole Mister Grayson into the kitchen where he explained he had been about to start some home improvement work on their cellar that morning. Mister Grayson explained that when his work gave him the property, only six months ago, the cellar stairs led to a brick wall of recent construction. In an attempt to add increased space to the property, Mister Grayson was planning, during his Christmas holidays, to take the wall down and see if another room could be added. Excuse me sir.” Daventree reached over to a granite-topped island and grabbed a glass of water, taking a sip and breathing hard. “This morning at around nine, he took a sledgehammer down the steps behind the door to our right,” Daventree pointed to an open doorway at the edge of the room, his voice showing the first signs of cracking. “and began to knock the wall down.” Daventree paused again, closing his eyes as he turned over his final page of notes. “The bodies he found behind that wall instigated his call to us.”
Neil waited for more information, but none came. Daventree was now pale, reaching over to the water again and emptying the contents in a single swig.
Neil did not want to press Daventree further; the man was clearly on the verge of throwing up and he was doing his best to retain control. “Do we have any medical staff on site?”
“FME Bancombe is assessing the bodies at present detective. Would you like me to take you to him?”
Daventree looked utterly revolted at the thought of having to go anywhere near the cellar again, and Neil felt it best to take the matter into his own hands. “I’m sure I can walk twenty feet by myself.” he said, as light-heartedly as he could. “You go and take five outside. I’ll shout if I need you.”
Daventree nodded, delighted to be able to leave the room, and made his way through the patio doors and out into the back garden.
Neil flipped his notepad shut and, glancing into the living room to ensure the family were well attended, made his way to the cellar door.
Beyond, a flight of stone steps, worn down on their outer lip from use descended about fifteen feet to a redbrick wall. Bits of fired clay and mortar littered the floor and a hole in the wall maybe three feet across, led into a brightly lit space. Next to the debris, lying discarded amongst the rubble, a long handled sledgehammer rested awkwardly against the steps. It had clearly been dropped in a hurry.
Neil picked his way toward the room, his conversation with Daventree already heightening his trepidation about what he might find.
When he reached the opening, still pulling his latex gloves on, he looked at the brickwork. Officer Daventree and the SCOs were right. It was recent. Neil was no building expert, but the bricks were not even dusty on their outer edges. A year in place at most.
Neil looked into the cellar, steeling himself for what he might see. The room was spacious, probably covering the entire floor plan of the house above it, with a ten-foot ceiling and smooth concrete walls.
The room was empty, save for a couple of chairs sat in its centre, and a man in a white overcoat, obviously FME Bancombe, moving around in front of them. As Bancombe stepped to one side, Neil caught his breath. There, sat on the chairs, were the forms of two people; one male and one female. The pair were unbound, their heads sagging into their chests and their exposed skin drawn tight over their skeletons. They had clearly been dead a while, both clothed as if dressed for work. At the foot of the chairs, curled round the legs of the woman, a trail of golden hair showed the last living position of a young girl, maybe seven years of age, her back toward the steps.
Neil hunched, squeezing his body into the cellar. A sole bulb, dangled from a ceiling rose situated above the gruesome scene, threw long shadows from the bodies across the walls, giving the room an air of gothic horror.
As Neil moved forward, Bancombe heard his footfalls and turned.
“Are you the Detective from Scotland Yard they promised?” Bancombe asked, extending a rubber-gloved hand.
“I’m Detective Townsend, yes. I’ve been assigned to attend in this case.”
“I don’t fancy your task much.” said Bancombe, his round face breaking out into a grin. “I’ve seen some stuff in my time, but this is a real mind-bender.”
Neil was puzzled by the remark, but decided to let it go. He would do his preliminary assessment of the scene before making any comments.
The first thing Neil noticed was the pristine state of the room. The floor and walls were free of dust, the pull cord for the light was brand new, and the chairs looked like only their current occupants had used them. It almost appeared as though the room had been built to house these bodies, and these bodies alone.
“How long would you say these people have been dead?” Neil asked, opening his notepad once more.
“From their decay and state of desiccation, I would have to say about a year.” said Bancombe, stopping what he was doing.
Neil looked at Bancombe, catching the expectant stare returned. “I assume from your manner, you think there are more important questions to be asking?” he said, trying to measu
re what Bancombe was doing.
“Oh, detective…” said Bancombe, trailing the words to light expel of air, “I would never presuppose to do your job for you.”
Neil faced Bancombe. It was obvious he desperately wanted to say something. “What is it?” he said, with indignation.
“Nothing really.” said Bancombe, digging a wallet out of his pocket and tossing it to Neil. He moved behind the bodies and grabbed the man and woman by the hair. “You’re going to love this.”
Neil opened the wallet. Inside were a few credit cards and about two hundred pounds in cash. Looking back at Bancombe, he shook his head and flipped the card holder over, his heart stopping as he gazed at the picture of the family on the inside cover.
“May I introduce your murder victims, detective.” said Bancombe, lifting the corpse’s heads from their chests. “Mister Michael Grayson and Missus Harriet Grayson. The child on the floor I can only assume is poor Alanis.”
Neil stared in total disbelief at what he was seeing. The faces before him, although drawn by death, clearly the same as the people upstairs in the living room.
Bancombe let the heads drop and stepped round the chairs. He tore his gloves off with a pop and handed them to Neil, his daze making him accept the horrid items without thought. “Just so my update to you is complete, I can tell you there are no obvious signs of trauma to any of the victims, no marks you would expect from a struggle, and no discolouration to lips or skin suggesting common poisons or even asphyxiation. Like I said detective, I really don’t fancy your task much.” With a light chuckle, he made his way out through the hole and back upstairs.
Chapter 4
Meet the Victims