A Twist of the Knife

Santa drops in

Roy Grace had that nightmare again last night. The one in which he woke up on Christmas morning and realized he’d forgotten to buy his beloved wife, Cleo, a card or any presents. It was the same dream he used to have regularly a week or so before Christmas, all those years back before his first wife, Sandy, had disappeared.

But the Sussex Detective Superintendent was in better shape than usual this year. At least he’d made a start, and had bought Cleo a card and a few silly bits for her stocking. But he wanted to buy her a nice piece of jewellery, and he had in mind a silver bracelet, which he’d seen in the window of the jeweller Stanley Rosen, in Brighton’s Lanes. He still had time, it was Friday today and Christmas Day was not until next Tuesday.

The current murder enquiry into a woman found dead on the beach, which his team had been working on for the past two months, was winding down after a successful conclusion, with the suspect charged and on remand in Lewes Prison. Friday afternoon, and an air of frivolity had settled on the normally sombre major incident room where his team was housed. Glenn Branson, Emma-Jane Boutwood, Guy Batchelor, Norman Potting and all the rest of them were unwrapping their Secret Santa gifts. This was their last day all together before the Christmas holidays, although some of them would remain on call over the holiday period.

Norman Potting eagerly unwrapped his gift, then chortled, as he held up a knitted willy warmer. Roy Grace grinned at his, an ancient copy of a Ladybird Easy Reading Book entitled, People at Work — The Policeman, wondering which of his colleagues had bought that for him. He felt in a relaxed mood. For the first time in many weeks he had a free weekend ahead — and tomorrow he planned to nip down to the Lanes and buy the bracelet. Although he was well aware that as the on-call Senior Investigating Officer, there was always a risk of a major crime occurring. In particular, levels of domestic abuse rose around Christmas time. Tensions could run high. Last year there wasn’t even a let-up in the number of 999 calls made during the fifteen-minute duration of the Queen’s Speech. Fights, accidents, vehicle thefts and even robberies.

There was one shadow on his mind as he drove home, taking a detour past the swanky homes of Dyke Road Avenue to enjoy the Christmas light displays outside some of the houses. Some miscreant the press had nicknamed Scrooge had committed several attacks on displays in the main shopping precinct. Hopefully he would be caught soon by Brighton CID, who had deployed undercover officers in an attempt to apprehend him before he hurt someone, or by the city’s network of CCTV cameras.

Then, as he drove down towards the clock tower in his unmarked Ford Focus estate, he saw a long tailback ahead. As he pulled up, a patrol car screamed past him on blues and twos. He frowned, wondering what was happening. Clearly a major incident. He turned up the volume on his police radio and called the duty Ops 1 controller, Inspector Andy Kille, to ask what was happening.

‘The Christmas tree in Churchill Square has fallen over, sir,’ he replied. ‘Reports of two casualties.’

‘I’m close by,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll attend and take a look.’

The spectacular tree, one hundred feet high, was the biggest the city had ever erected. Visit Brighton, the city’s tourist board, had decided to give its retailers a recession-buster of a Christmas this year, and they had really gone to town on the street decorations. Tomorrow afternoon the city was having its biggest ever Yuletide event. A concert on the Hove Lawns, headlined by local superstar celebrity Norman Cook, aka Fatboy Slim. And the highlight of the day was going to be Santa Claus arriving by parachute. A crowd of twenty thousand was expected, and he was planning on taking Cleo and their baby, Noah, to see what promised to be a spectacular occasion.

The Detective Superintendent switched on his blue lights and siren, pulled out and raced down to the clock tower, then made a right turn into Western Road. Ahead was a blaze of strobing blue lights. He could see several police cars, two fire engines and an ambulance. Two uniformed officers were taping off the road ahead of him.

He climbed out and saw the mayhem in the square. The massive tree was lying on its side, some of its lights still twinkling, and part of the tip lying through the shattered shop window of WHSmith, surrounded by demolished festive displays of books. Several of the crowd of onlookers were taking pictures with their phones. He ducked under the tape and walked up to the figure of Bill Warner, the duty Inspector.

‘What happened?’ Grace asked.

‘Evening, sir. I have reports from two witnesses who saw a man rush up with a chainsaw, cut through the base of the tree and run off. Hopefully we’ll get something from CCTV. We have two injured — a mother and her small boy, neither serious — and several in shock. One of the undercover CID officers gave chase, but lost him. It appears Scrooge is stepping up his attacks.’

‘I was just heading home. Anything I can do?’

‘I think we have it under control, thank you, sir.’

The Inspector took him over to see the severed tree stump. ‘What a miserable bastard,’ Grace said, staring at the clean cut, and the raw, fresh wood that was exposed.

‘My thoughts exactly. I think John Street CID can handle this. I’d go home if I were you.’

‘OK, but keep me posted.’

Bill Warner promised him he would.

Half an hour later, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt in Cleo’s town house, he was helping her put the finishing touches to the tree. There were bowls of festively scented pot pourri around, and several beautifully wrapped presents around the base of the tree, which reminded him of his shopping task tomorrow. Cleo was making sure that Noah’s first Christmas was going to be special indeed, even if he was too young to appreciate it.

Noah, in a striped onesie, was lying on his play mat, blinking up at his Christmas mobile under the watchful eye of Humphrey, their black rescue Labrador-Collie cross. Marlon the goldfish was circumnavigating his bowl, as ever. Must be a bit dull for a fish, he thought. At least a dog could get excited by wrapping paper and appreciate a few extra Christmas treats. Maybe Marlon could at least enjoy the Christmas lights, he wondered. He stared lovingly at Cleo, her long blonde hair clipped up and looking gorgeous, and suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of happiness. Their first Christmas together and their baby son, Noah’s, first ever.

Then his mobile phone rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, his heart sinking. He hoped desperately this wasn’t going to be a fresh murder inquiry, which would put pay to all his plans. To his relief, he recognized the friendly but serious voice of Chief Constable Tom Martinson. Although it was unusual for the Chief to be calling him personally, it would not be about a murder.

‘Sorry to bother you on a Friday evening, Roy,’ he said, ‘but we have a potential problem. Brighton Council and the Police and Crime Commissioner are extremely worried about crowd safety tomorrow, in light of all the recent attacks, and especially today’s. I should also mention that a minibus bringing kids from the Chestnut Tree House hospice is coming along. As you know, it’s a charity Sussex Police have raised a lot of money for; they’re our special guests tomorrow and we don’t want them disappointed.’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Although the Public Order Team have had all leave cancelled for tomorrow,’ the Chief Constable continued, ‘and we have drafted in officers from all over the county, I’ve had a discussion with the Assistant Chief Constables, and we’ve decided we should have the Major Crime Team as additional observers in the crowd tomorrow. How many of your officers could you muster?’

Inwardly, Roy Grace groaned. He would be spending the next two hours solidly on the phone. ‘About twenty, sir.’

‘I want them all deployed. Liaise with Nev Kemp who’s Gold Commander for tomorrow.’ Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp was the Divisional Commander for the city, and heading the police operation for the event tomorrow.

‘Yes, sir, I’ll get onto it right away.’

‘Good man.’

The phone went silent. Along with Roy Grace’s festive joy — for tonight, anyway.

Snow was forecast for the week ahead, but at 10 a.m., beneath a cloudless cobalt sky, Roy Grace was snugly wrapped up inside a fleece-lined parka, rubbing his gloved hands together as he stood on the promenade, above the sparkling, frosty grass of Hove Lagoon, which surrounded Norman Cook’s Big Beach Café. Half a mile to their left was the bandstand that had been erected overnight. Earlier, he’d briefed the eighteen members of his team that he had been able to muster in the warmth of the Conference Room of the Sussex CID HQ, and now they stood in a ragged circle around him as he deployed each of them in turn to their points.

A large white circle had been taped on the promenade — the drop zone, where Santa would make his landing, wind permitting. Fortunately there was only the faintest breeze — the weather could not be more benign for a parachute jump.

He yawned. Bill Warner had phoned him after midnight, to tell him he was emailing him CCTV footage of the suspect who had chainsawed the Christmas tree. There had been several sightings of him across the city caught on camera.

A few joggers and dog-walkers passed them by. The tide was out, and a wide expanse of mudflat, riddled with worm casts, lay beyond the pebble beach. Over to the east was the skeletal ruin of West Pier, and glitzy Brighton Pier half a mile beyond that, beneath the ball of ochre that was the low winter sun. The Detective Superintendent watched, warily, an elderly man in gumboots working his way along the beach with a metal detector, and another man with a bucket, digging for lugworms in the mud for bait. To his trained, suspicious eye, everyone at this moment was a potential suspect.

Parked all along the road behind was an endless line of police vans. The entire area, as far as the eye could see, was ring-fenced with blue and white police tape and a massive presence of uniformed officers, most of them huddled in groups, nursing beakers and Styrofoam cups of tea and coffee. It was going to be a long morning.

Members of the public were starting to arrive. The first of two warm-up bands, both local groups, was due on at 11 a.m., and they would play until midday. The second band would play until 1 p.m., when Norman Cook was due to come on. He would end his act by announcing the arrival of Santa Claus overhead. With luck, the whole event would start winding down after Santa landed on schedule at 2 p.m., and he would have time to rush over to the Lanes and buy that bracelet for Cleo from Stanley Rosen.

Over the course of the next hour the crowd swelled, parents with their excited children bagging the best spots, closest to the circle. By the time the band was halfway through its set, there were several thousand people amassed. Grace left his station on the promenade to enter the Police Mobile-Command-Centre vehicle, equipped with cameras covering a large part of the surrounding area. So far, everything was fine. The band was great and the crowd seemed happy. Queues were lengthening outside the mobile burger and hot-dog stalls and portable loos, which had been placed on site. Street vendors were out in force, flogging Santa hats, festive balloons and other seasonal tat. Excitement was growing.

By midday the crowd was estimated at over fifteen thousand. So far there were no incidents, other than a couple of arrests of people drinking alcohol in public and one pickpocket caught on camera. By the time Fatboy Slim came on, to a tumultuous cheer from the crowd, there were well over twenty thousand people. On one of the cameras, Grace saw a group of children, mostly in wheelchairs, leaving a Chestnut Tree House minibus. He felt a pang of sadness, thinking about his own baby son. These were all children suffering progressive life-shortening or life-threatening illnesses. This was his son’s first Christmas, but for many of these kids, it would be their last. Despite himself, looking at their happy faces, he dabbed tears from his eyes.

It was easy to forget, amid all the excitement and happiness of Christmas, that for so many people it was the very opposite. For the lonely, and particularly the elderly on their own, it was a time when their loneliness felt more acute. For parents of sick kids, it was a time of emotional turmoil. But at least at this moment, as he carefully scanned the crowd through the monitors, everyone here was having a good time. Occasionally he picked up a local villain he’d encountered in the past. But all those he saw seemed to be with their families, looking happy.

He spoke to key members of his team at their stations. Glenn Branson; Norman Potting; Guy Batchelor; Nick Nicholl and Emma-Jane Boutwood. All of them reported nothing suspicious, so far. A great time was being had by all. Somewhere in the melee were Cleo and Noah, though Grace had no idea where. He glanced at his watch — 2 p.m. was fast approaching.

He stepped out of the command centre and walked down to the promenade, eager to watch the spectacle for himself. Just as Norman Cook’s music was reaching a crescendo, a breakbeat remix of Paul McCartney’s ‘Wonderful Christmas Time’, he heard the sound of an aircraft overhead and looked up. A small plane was banking and beginning a wide arc overhead. He watched the crowd. At first, only a few people seemed to notice and start looking up. Then Fatboy Slim raised his hands in the air. ‘Happy Christmas everyone!’ he shouted into the mic. ‘Here’s Santa!’

Grace saw the awesome sight of thousands of faces all turned to the sky. A banner trailing from the plane, now low in front of them, bore the words ‘MERRY XMAS!’

In the silence following the music, Roy could hear the gasps and cheers of the crowd. The excitement was palpable when, moments later, a second plane appeared, higher up, flying directly overhead. Suddenly an object fell from it. It grew larger as it dropped, until Grace could see it was red. He heard the excitement building in the crowd. More cheering. He watched the sea of upturned faces, then Santa again. Steadily, over the course of the next fifteen seconds, the falling figure grew bigger still. And bigger. And the red became brighter and brighter.

And brighter.

He was leaving it late to open his parachute, Grace thought. All part of the thrill!

The figure became brighter red. And brighter. At any moment the parachute would deploy.

But still it didn’t.

This guy was good, Grace thought!

He kept on falling. Getting closer, bigger, brighter.

Santa was heading towards the ground now at a speed Grace could almost measure. Surely he was going to pull the ripcord now?

Surely?

He kept on falling.

So close now that Grace could even see what he was wearing. A Santa outfit, the coat flailing upwards, red leggings, black boots, beard being blown ragged, and something trailing upwards above him like a sack.

Open your chute man, open your chute!

The figure grew bigger. Bigger. Bigger.

He was heading towards the beach.

The crowd fell silent.

And Grace, holding his breath, realized that his parachute wasn’t opening.

Santa Claus continued to plummet towards the promenade, only his sack trailing above him, no sign of a parachute deploying. He missed the carefully marked-out white circle on the promenade by about one hundred yards, and instead hurtled down onto the pebble beach, a good twenty feet below the promenade railings. Mercifully, Roy Grace thought, he was out of sight of the twenty-thousand-strong crowd gathered on the Hove Lawns.

The Detective Superintendent was as stunned as everyone else as he heard the impact. A sickening crunch, as if a giant sack of potatoes had fallen from the sky. Except it was a human being.

For several seconds you could have heard a pin drop.

Then, his training kicking in, Roy Grace sprinted forward. He yelled instructions to the line of uniformed Constables on crowd duty, keeping the area of promenade around the drop zone clear. ‘Make sure everyone stays back!’ He ran over to a Public Order Sergeant he knew. ‘Get crime scene tape and seal the area! Don’t let anyone near the beach!’ He sprinted up to the promenade railings and looked down.

And wished he hadn’t.

Surrounding the horrific sight of a clearly dead Santa Claus, gift packages, their pretty wrapping torn and their contents broken, lay scattered on the pebbles. These were the presents that Santa had been destined to hand out to the children from Chestnut Tree House, who had been given a front row view of his arrival.

Grace’s brain was racing, wondering, speculating. Was this a terrible accident, or was there something more sinister behind it? The handiwork of the creep who had chainsawed the tree in Churchill Square?

He thought quickly through what he needed to do. His immediate priority was to secure the beach and surrounding area to protect the scene. Subsequently, it would be to find out everything about the unfortunate skydiver who was acting the role of Santa Claus, to interview the pilot of the plane that had dropped the skydiver, to impound the plane and to find out, urgently, who had packed the skydiver’s main and reserve parachutes.

He could hear the cacophony of sirens above the wailing of children, and the quiet hubbub of shock and disbelief from the subdued crowd, and then the sound of his phone ringing. He knew who the caller was before he answered, and exactly what he would be saying. He was right on both counts.

It was Chief Constable Tom Martinson, asking for an update on what was happening at the scene. This was a tragedy for everyone, not to mention a disappointment for all the children in the crowd who had just seen Santa Claus die in front of their eyes.

‘I’m cancelling all leave for my team until we establish whether this is just a tragic accident or if there’s something more sinister behind it, sir. I haven’t worked out how yet, but I’m going to make sure that at least some of the kids will see Santa in one piece,’ he added grimly.

At the briefing later that day, Detective Sergeant Norman Potting, well known for his politically incorrect comments, said, ‘Maybe we could get a better flat-pack Santa from IKEA than the one on the beach.’

There were a few stifled grins, but no one laughed, other than Potting chortling at his own joke.

‘Thank you, Norman,’ Grace chided. ‘I think we can do without gallows humour right now.’

‘I was just thinking about elf and safety, Chief,’ Potting continued blithely.

That did produce a titter of laughter, and even Grace found himself grinning, for a brief, guilty moment. ‘Thank you, Norman. Enough, OK?’ he said sternly.

The fifty-five-year-old, with his bad comb-over and ill-fitting suit, looked suitably chastened and mumbled an apology.

Roy Grace, his Policy Book open in front of him, glanced down at his hastily prepared notes, then up at Potting, who despite his appearance and appalling sense of humour was one of his most trusted detectives. He nodded at DS Guy Batchelor. ‘Can you and Norman report on your visit to Shoreham Airport?’

‘Yes, boss,’ DS Batchelor said. ‘The aircraft that carried Richard Walker, the skydiver dressed as Santa, has been impounded. We interviewed the pilot, Rob Kempson, who told us that Walker is — was — an extremely experienced skydiver. He’d represented England in many international stunt-jumping events and was qualified to pack and check his own main parachute and his reserve. Apparently his wife, Zoe, was equally experienced but hadn’t jumped for several years after a bad landing, following which she suffered back problems. He tended to rely on her to pack his parachutes, as she had done on this occasion. The procedure today was the same as always and nobody noticed anything untoward.’

‘Did the pilot have any comment on the relationship between Walker and his wife?’ Grace quizzed.

‘We did ask him that, Chief,’ Norman Potting said. ‘So far as Kempson knew they had been a happy couple, but lately they were in severe financial difficulties, and Walker had got mixed up with some loan sharks, who were making threats to recover their money. We are following this up — whoever he owed money to must at this stage be considered a suspect, Chief.’

‘There’s a specialist team from the British Parachute Association coming tomorrow,’ DS Batchelor said. ‘Hopefully we’ll find out more from them.’

Grace nodded, mindful that he needed to hold a press conference at some point during the next morning, which he was dreading. ‘What time will this team be here?’

‘Nine a.m., boss,’ Batchelor said.

‘There is another thing of possible significance,’ Norman Potting said. ‘According to the pilot, Walker had joked that he had a big life insurance policy and that if he ever died, his financial woes would be sorted and his wife, Zoe, would be well taken care of.’

Grace noted this down. ‘Nice work,’ he said.

Detective Constable Emma-Jane Boutwood raised her hand. ‘Sir, an officer spotted someone who fitted Scrooge’s description shedding his Santa hat ten minutes after the Christmas tree was felled in Churchill square last night, and replacing it with a baseball cap. He’s been identified as Sidney Carp.’

‘Sid Carp?’ said Potting. ‘He was always a fishy blighter.’

The entire team groaned in unison. But they all knew the name. Sid Carp was a frequent flyer with Brighton Police. An old lag and a true recidivist — or revolving door prisoner as they were known — a nasty petty thief and small-time drug dealer. ‘Sid Carp?’ Grace said. ‘He must be older than God.’

‘Got to be nudging seventy,’ Potting said.

‘Old enough to play Santa, anyway, sir,’ DC Boutwood continued. ‘He’d been the resident Father Christmas in the Churchill Square shopping mall until a week ago, when he turned up drunk and was fired. Apparently he went round telling several of the staff that if he couldn’t be Santa, no one would be, and the store and Brighton were going to regret it. So it sounds like this could all be about his revenge.’

‘How on earth did he get past the security vetting?’ Grace asked, shaking his head. Then he turned to Potting. ‘Norman,’ Grace said. ‘I want you to come with me to see Walker’s wife — we need to find out if, in his financial predicament, she thinks he might have been unstable.’

An hour later, Roy Grace and Norman Potting climbed out of Grace’s car in front of a smart, mock-Tudor house on Woodland Drive — a street nicknamed by locals as Millionaire’s Row. It was freezing cold, the stars glittering like heavenly bling above them. There would be a frost in the morning for sure, the Detective Superintendent thought, as they strode past two cars on the driveway, a convertible Audi and a BMW coupé. He rang the doorbell, waited, then rang again. Then he rapped hard on the door.

After a good couple of minutes it was opened by an attractive blonde, with dishevelled hair and streaked make-up. She was wearing a slinky dressing gown with her boobs half falling out.

Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Mrs Zoe Walker?’

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Potting from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I understand you have been informed of the very sad news about your husband?’ he said.

‘I have, yes.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Just for a moment, thank you.’

The two detectives entered the hallway and she shut the door behind them.

‘Can I offer you gentlemen a drink? Tea or coffee, or something stronger?’

‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Grace replied. They briefly talked through what had happened that afternoon, and gave her an outline of the police investigation to date. ‘We don’t want to keep you tonight,’ Grace said. ‘But I understand your husband may have had financial worries. I believe he owed a lot of money and had recently been threatened.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid he was a bit of a gambler. He told me he was sorting it all out. I...’ She hesitated for a moment and he saw her shoot a sudden glance upstairs. He studied her eye movements carefully.

‘What do you think has happened?’ she asked.

‘It’s really too soon to say — we need more information. We have to establish whether this was a terrible accident, murder or possibly suicide.’

‘Well now you mention it, Richard did mention suicide occasionally, but only in the way many people do when things are bad — you know. I never thought he — you know — he would actually do it. He’s not the type.’

‘What do you think might have happened to your husband?’ Grace pressed.

‘I don’t have an explanation,’ she said and began sobbing. The detectives waited for her to regain her composure. ‘He was highly experienced, and even if his main chute didn’t open, his reserve should have done, for sure.’

‘Accidents do occur,’ Grace said, ‘from what I’ve read up today.’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, I packed his parachutes immaculately. I know I did.’

Grace nodded. ‘OK, well, we have the British Parachute Association team coming down tomorrow, so hopefully we will be able to establish exactly what happened. I won’t trouble you any more until we have all the facts.’

As she closed the front door on them, Potting gave him curious look. ‘That was a bit short, Chief.’

Grace patted the bonnet of the Audi, which was icy cold. ‘Nice cars, these,’ he said. Then he touched the bonnet of the BMW and could feel the heat from it. ‘I like Beemers. Always have.’ He made a mental note of the registration number.

‘Know what BMW stands for, Chief?’ Potting said as they climbed back into the car.

Grace stared at him, knowing it was going to be something rude. ‘Don’t go there,’ he warned. He started the engine, drove a short distance from the house, then pulled over and radioed for a PNC check on the BMW, reading out its index number to the controller.

Roy Grace delayed the Sunday morning briefing to the afternoon, to give the parachute investigation team a chance to carry out their work. Meanwhile his own officers were still trying, urgently, to trace Sidney Carp. At 10 a.m. Roy held a press conference at which he gave public reassurance about the numbers of officers on the case, leave being cancelled, and his enquiry team working through the holiday period to establish what had happened and make the city safe.

In the early afternoon, just as his briefing was about to commence, Norman Potting came hurrying in. ‘We’ve netted our suspect, Sidney Carp!’

‘Brilliant work, Norman!’ Grace said.

Then Potting looked gloomy and shook his head. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid, chief, he’s going to be the fish that got away.’

There was another loud groan from the team.

Potting continued. ‘He was arrested at Victoria Station in the early hours of Sunday morning, in a drunken state, with a holdall containing a chainsaw, and is still in custody, having refused to give any details or explain why he was carrying a chainsaw.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily eliminate him,’ Grace said, ‘but he’s no longer our best suspect. I think I have a better one.’

An hour later, Grace was armed with the preliminary, but fairly conclusive, information about why both parachutes had failed. The two detectives returned to Woodland Drive. As they climbed out into the sub-zero air and walked to the front door, Grace noted that both the Audi convertible and the BMW were coated in frost.

This time, slightly to Potting’s surprise, Roy Grace enthusiastically accepted Zoe Walker’s invitation for coffee. She sat them on the large sofa in the sitting room, and proudly pointed out the two cabinets filled with Richard Walker’s sky-diving trophies.

‘There is something I’ve remembered, Detective Superintendent. When I was at Shoreham Airport yesterday, I’m sure I saw a man sitting in a car on the perimeter road who I recognized — he was one of the men who had been threatening my husband.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll just go and get the coffee.’

The moment she had left the room Grace said, ‘Norman, I want you to go outside, slam the front door loudly behind you, get in the car and drive off.’

The DS frowned at his boss. ‘You do?’

‘Come back when I call you,’ Grace said. ‘Go!’ He could see all kinds of doubts in Potting’s face. ‘Go!’ he said again.

Potting shambled off, and a moment later, Grace heard the door slam, even louder than he had intended. Then he heard the sound of his car starting.

A few moments later, just as Zoe Walker came back in, holding a laden tray, a gruff male voice called down from upstairs, ‘Was that those coppers again, darling? What did they want this time?’

She turned sheet white and froze in the doorway. The tray slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. Roy Grace leapt to his feet, ignoring the mess. ‘You always packed your husband’s parachutes, is that correct?’

‘Yes. Well, almost always.’

‘Well the reason his parachutes failed is fairly clear. The lines on both the main and reserve chutes had been cut clean through. You’ve got your husband’s former business partner, Jim Brenner, upstairs in your bed. And your husband had a two-million-pound life-insurance policy. More than enough to cover his debts and for you to start a new life.’

She said nothing. He could see her eyes darting around nervously.

‘Not smart to let your lover leave his car on your driveway with a warm engine when your husband’s body’s not even cold, Mrs Walker.’

‘It’s not like you think it is,’ she said.

‘Oh it is, trust me. It’s all too often exactly how I think it is, sad to say.’

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Zoe Walker, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of your husband Richard.’ Then he read her out the formal caution.

‘What... what... do you mean?’

He snapped the cuffs on her wrists. ‘I’m also arresting your bedfellow on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. The one bit of good news I can give you, as it’s Christmas, is that in prison you get an excellent turkey dinner, with all the trimmings. Some local villains have themselves banged up deliberately every December so they can enjoy it. There’ll be plum pud and crackers. You’ll have a lovely time. A much nicer Christmas than your husband will in the mortuary.’

It was almost midnight by the time Roy Grace left the custody centre and drove home. Although Zoe Walker had broken down and confessed, he would have to appear in court tomorrow in front of a magistrate, to get an extension to keep her and her lover in custody whilst enquiries continued. In addition to this, he would have a morass of paperwork to wade through.

She thought she could blame the people her husband owed money to, but there was one flaw in her plan — she didn’t know he had already paid off his debts a week earlier, after a huge win at the casino. He’d been planning to tell her the good news as a Christmas present.

Then, as Grace stepped out of the shower, his phone rang.

Dreading news of another homicide, he picked it up with trepidation. But it was the Chief Constable again.

‘Well done on your fast work, Roy,’ he said. ‘I understand you have two in custody.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There’s one problem the arrests haven’t solved though: all the kids who now think Santa Claus is dead. I’m particularly concerned about the children at Chestnut Tree House hospice — for some of them, sadly, it might be their last Christmas. You’re a resourceful man, Roy, and a father yourself. Any thoughts?’

‘Leave it with me, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up with something.’

A life-size wooden reindeer stood in the gazebo-style porch of the sprawling mansion, Chestnut Tree House, along with a huge inflatable snowman. Fairy lights twinkled all around in the late afternoon darkness. Snow was falling and there was a sense of the magic of Christmas in the air. A crowd of fifty adults and youngsters, all wearing Santa hats, were outside, singing a carol. In the front row were children in pushchairs or wheelchairs, and one small boy on a wooden chair playing a trombone larger than himself.

Out of the darkness came a loud, ‘Ho-ho-ho! Hello boys and girls!’ Santa Claus, in his full costume and thick beard, staggered towards them under the weight of a huge, laden sack. For twenty minutes he chatted animatedly to each child in turn, before handing them a beautifully wrapped gift with their name on the tag.

When he had finished, the director of the hospice called out, ‘Let’s all say, ‘Bye, Bye, Santa!’

All the kids shouted out in unison, ‘BYE BYE, SANTA!’

Roy Grace fought back tears as he trudged back down the driveway to his car, safely out of sight of the house. He wiped snow off the windows and mirrors and climbed in, desperate to remove the beard and moustache, which were itching like hell. It was 6 p.m., he realized with a heavy heart. It had taken him all afternoon, since leaving court, to get the kit sorted out and buy the presents, ticking each off the list he had been given by the hospice, paying for them himself, then wrapping and labelling them. He had been determined to show all the kids that Santa was alive and well.

But the shops would all be shut now, and it was too late to get to The Lanes to buy that bracelet. Cleo was going to be disappointed in the morning at not getting a proper present, and he felt lousy about that.

A shadow fell and there was a sudden rap on the window, momentarily startling him. He saw a man he recognized in a smart overcoat — one of the parents he’d seen in the crowd — standing by his door. Grace wound down the window.

‘I just wanted to say, Detective Superintendent, how grateful all of us parents are for what you did. If there’s ever a way any of us can repay your kindness, please let me know. I hope you get all you wish for this Christmas.’

‘That’s very nice of you,’ Grace said. He grinned. ‘I have only one wish. If you could get Stanley Rosen, the jeweller, to open up his shop in Brighton tonight for just five minutes that would really make my Christmas!’

The man smiled. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

‘You do?’ Grace said, surprised.

‘I am Stanley Rosen.’

An hour and a half later, Roy Grace drove out of the underground car park and turned left onto the seafront, towards the pier. Heading home to Cleo. It was 8.30 p.m., and Christmas, for him, was really beginning. He’d phoned her to say he was on his way, and she’d told him Champagne was in the fridge, waiting.

On the seat beside him was the blue velvet box with the name ‘Stanley Rosen’ monogrammed in gold on the lid. He couldn’t believe his luck! They truly were going to have a great Christmas after all. His and Cleo’s first Christmas together, and Noah’s first Christmas ever. He felt a surge of deep happiness.

Then his phone rang.