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Chapter 1
Christmas Eve
The run-up to Christmas is always a strange time. Not nearly enough dead bodies. Plenty of house break-ins, though: people out partying, leaving gifts visible under Christmas trees, posting on social media about heading off to visit relatives – burglars have a fine old time of it in December. But generally, summer is the best season for murder, it seems. It depends where you are, of course; I’ve scanned dozens of articles today, looking at the stats, just to pass the time. It varies in different parts of the world, but it seems that, overall, killing is more popular in warmer weather. Riots too. Higher temperatures, higher violent crime rates. In fact, one study from South Africa showed that for every one-degree rise in temperature, there’s a 1.5% increase in the number of murders. Interesting, isn’t it?
Interesting, but not very festive. I sigh and sign out of my computer.
Shall I just go home?
I glance around the room, wondering if there’s anyone who might fancy a chat, but there are only a couple of other people here this morning, and both are currently on the phone. One of them obviously turned on the Christmas lights when they got in though; in the corner by the window the elegant seven-foot blue spruce I helped Eleanor decorate three weeks ago is twinkling and sparkling, hundreds of tiny white lights entwined in its branches. I only popped into the office earlier to pick up some presents I left here yesterday; I didn’t want to lug them all with me in my bag when a few of us went for Christmas drinks after work last night. But with no real plans for today until this evening, I decided to have a quick browse online before I left, hoping there might be something I can get my teeth into when I come back to work next week.
The result? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s been like this for a few weeks now, and it’s getting a little tedious. I’m a freelance crime writer, and a good one, even if I do say it myself. I work hard, and over the past ten years I’ve built a reputation for getting to the heart of a story: in-depth interviews with relatives of victims, with detectives – and, on occasion, with the killers and rapists and fraudsters themselves, carried out in prison visiting rooms – have become my specialty. But it’s been ages now since I’ve had a good inside story, one the tabloids and magazines are keen to get their hands on, and I’m getting a little twitchy. I’m OK for money; it’s not that. But I like to keep busy, and there’s been far too much sitting around recently. I sigh again and tap the screen of my phone to wake it up. No messages, and it’s nearly two.
I might as well call it a day. Head home and get glammed up for this evening.
‘All right, Mary? Gifts from your secret admirers?’
I jump, and turn to see Edward Cooper standing behind my chair, just a little too close as always. He’s carrying a mug, obviously on his way back from the kitchen downstairs, and he’s wearing a Christmas jumper. It’s red, and a tad too small for his tall, bony frame, with a drunken-looking reindeer on the front under the slogan ‘on the piste’. There’s a faint odour about him today, stale and sweaty, and I swivel round in my chair and edge it away from him slightly as I reply:
‘Hi, Edward. Gifts, yes. Not sure about the admirers though.’
I smile, trying to sound friendly. I’m never quite sure how I feel about Edward. He’s relatively new to The Hub, the shared workspace where I’ve rented a desk for the past two years. We’re all ‘creatives’ here – Edward is another writer who joined in October, but he’s in marketing, writing public relations copy for sports brands. There are a few other freelance PRs too, including another newish arrival called Satish, who I haven’t really got to know yet but who seems OK. Then there’s a little group of web designers, nerdy but actually pretty good fun on a night out. And then there’s Eleanor, of course. Eleanor isfabulous: a tiny Welsh ball of energy who runs a thriving make-up artist agency from her desk by the end window. Her girls – and they are mostly girls – pop in and out now and again to pick up samples or just for a gossip, all glossy lips and swishy hair and practical black sweat suits. I love Eleanor – she makes me laugh, and laughs are often hard to come by in my job.
Others come and go too, and that makes it interesting. I could work from home, I suppose – sometimes it does seem like a bit of an extravagance to pay nearly three hundred pounds a month for a chair and desk here, when I have a perfectly adequate home office in my box room – but most of the time I think The Hub is worth it. I work better in a formal workplace environment, and I like being around other people in this big, bright space. We have two floors of a five-storey building in the heart of Cheltenham; as well as the main office and small, modern kitchen there’s a meeting room, a couple of ‘break-out zones’ with squashy sofas, and even access to a roof terrace where I sometimes take my laptop on balmy summer days. Unfortunately, there’s now also Edward Cooper. Oh, he’s fine really, I suppose. He just has this habit of looming over people, and I edge a little further away, reach for my handbag and start putting the presents into it. There’s a bottle of prosecco – my gift from The Hub’s annual Secret Santa – a few boxes of chocolates sent from editors I’ve written pieces for during the year, and a book-shaped object, probably a desk diary, in a cardboard wrapper. I haven’t opened that yet, so I’m not sure who it’s from, but I can do that later, I think, as I shove it in my bag, suddenly keen to escape.
‘Exciting plans for Christmas?’ asks Edward.
I think it’s partly his voice that’s a bit off-putting; it has a whiny, nasal quality. I don’t like his eyes either – they’re small, too close together, and so dark they’re almost black. Even as I think that though, I instantly feel mean.
He can’t help what he looks like, or what he sounds like, can he?
I force myself to smile again.
‘Just spending it with friends,’ I say. ‘We’re going out for dinner tonight and then having a quiet couple of days at my place. It’ll be fine.’
He nods slowly, his eyes flitting from my face to the handbag resting on my knee and back again. My hair is tucked behind my left ear and I flick it out, letting it fall across my cheek, feeling self-conscious. I know that’s my problem though, nothing to do with him, but I really want to leave now, so I zip my bag closed and stand up, reaching for my coat which is draped over the back of my chair.
‘No family get-together then?’ he whines.
‘No family get-together. And I need to get off now, Edward. Have a good one.’
I could explain; could explain that I don’t really have a family, that I’m an only child, that my mum died when I was three years old and my dad when I was eighteen, but why should I? It’s none of his business. And anyway, he could find out all that for himself, if he cared to pop my name into an internet search engine. It’s all there. I’m surprised he hasn’t done it already, actually. I don’t need to explain it to him. I’ve already shared more than I should have about my Christmas plans. My past has been well documented. My present, I like to keep private.
‘OK. Well, happy Christmas, Mary. See you on the other side.’
He doesn’t move though, and I wince inwardly as I have to brush past him, our shoulders touching.
‘Happy Christmas, Edward.’
I walk swiftly away, and I don’t look back.
