Read the first two chapters of Ross Greenwood‘s chilling thriller #TheSantaKiller! Now 99p/99c or FREE with Amazon Prime!
Chapter 1
Inga
Stevenage town centre, four years ago
Inga paid for the macaroons at Coconut Creation Bakery just off the high street, took her change, thanked the lady, and left the shop. She smiled as she gently placed the cakes in her carrier bag on top of the rest of her Christmas gifts. December for her partner, Lucas, just wouldn’t be the same without macaroons. He was arriving home in a few days from his air force job abroad, and she couldn’t wait. This year, the holiday season would be family only. No one else was needed.
Inga opened her umbrella, put her head down and hastened towards the car park as a squall of rain tried to blast her into the road. A sudden flash of lightning overhead lit up the empty street in front of her. She nipped into a closing shop front and counted the seconds. The thunder rolled overhead when she reached twelve.
The rain was torrential now, as though the gods were pouring it out of pails, but Inga didn’t care about getting soaked. Her daughter, Amelie, was coming back from university tonight and, wet or dry, Inga would be at the door when she arrived. Smiling, Inga put her umbrella down so she wouldn’t get electrocuted, then half ran, half scuttled through the sodden streets.
When she was almost at the station, where she’d parked her car, Inga had a dilemma. Even in the middle of the day, she’d usually walk the long way and avoid the scary subways, which had filled with homeless people over the last few years. Yet, if it was possible, the rain was harder now. She checked the top of her bag and noted the packaging for Lucas’s macaroons was getting damp. Decision made, she sprinted through the series of underpasses and made it to the car park, where she giggled nervously with relief.
She thought of the new boots in her bag, which her daughter had wanted all year. Inga had told her they cost too much, but she’d secretly spent all year putting a bit aside out of the wages from her part-time job at their local Subway. Amelie was worth every penny.
It was going to be the best Christmas ever after a few lonely ones over the years. In fact, one year she’d had a punch in the face as her main present. Things have a way of working out, she thought. Her smile was wide as she popped the boot, but something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. It seemed as if a shadow had moved behind her. She didn’t even have time to turn before the blow landed.
Thirty seconds later, her mind floated back into her body, and she just about regained consciousness
‘Hey, lady,’ said a voice that seemed to come from someone many miles away. ‘Are you okay?’
As always, Inga’s mind was on her daughter. She managed to open one eye, even though it was like lifting a drawbridge, and saw her shopping bags were gone. Two halves of a broken brick were on the ground next to her head, which pounded as if cannons were going off inside it.
Ice-cold water from the deep puddle seeped through her coat and chilled her skin. She gasped. An involuntary keening sound escaped her lips. Blood poured from the wound on the side of her head and filled her eyes, and Inga saw no more.
Chapter 2
The Santa Killer
Peterborough, present day, three months before Christmas
My fingers are white on the handlebars as I cycle past the river. I force myself to breathe slower, because I’m just on another recce. Soon the time will come. The first message has been sent. The die is cast.
It’s cold enough not to seem out of place wearing a winter hat, but I’ve begun to sweat. The late autumn sun is dipping behind the rooftops, so most of those I pass are also decked in shades. With black jeans and a dark-blue coat on, I really could be anyone. But sadly, I am no one.
I pull up at the bench on the corner of Oundle Road and St Catherine’s Lane, where I’ve often sat to study Maggie’s life. She surprised me once with a different routine. It wasn’t so cold then, but I was still in disguise.
This time, I lean against the lamp post and pretend to check my phone. It must have been hard to appear inconspicuous before the digital age. I’d look like an idiot now, pretending to read a newspaper or a book, but who really stares at anyone nowadays as they walk down the street? We’re too busy focusing on ourselves to consider what others are up to, and that suits me fine.
She won’t be going anywhere just yet, because it’s exercise class night. She’ll leave the house around a quarter to seven and drive to the Swan Hotel Fitness Club. I know she meets Anne-Marie there and they do their class. Maggie doesn’t get back until gone nine, because they like to use the pool and sauna. The club is a glass-windowed building on two sides, so you can see the swimming area from the bushes. Must be nice to live so comfortably. My partner always complains about how unfair life is for us when others live so well.
Anne-Marie gets home around the same time as Maggie, because she only lives on Mayor’s Walk. I sometimes watch outside her house, too. Anne-Marie has four kids, so I have a touch more sympathy for her, but she still has it easy. I’m afraid she’s also on the list.
Maggie is first, though. The situation is intolerable now. I’ve known for a while it’s time to act. We haven’t discussed specifically what I should do, but it has to be drastic. Perhaps that’s why I’m reluctant. Yet I remember doing it before. Yes, there was guilt afterwards, but there was also satisfaction.
My phone beeps to tell me it’s a quarter to seven, so I cross the road to get a better view of her place. She’s the fifth house down. They are enormous properties, with lengthy lawns and wide drives. The lucky cow has a double garage for her fancy Audi Q5 to nestle inside. This evening, she hasn’t been back that long from work and it’s on the drive for when she goes to the gym. She always puts it away last thing at night.
Her mother is there, of course. She has a small red Mercedes sports car. Where does she get her money? They don’t deserve to enjoy all the breaks, but they do. I know little about her mother. I tried following her when she came on her bike once in the summer when I’d cycled too, but I couldn’t keep up. What the hell is all that about? She’s got to be late sixties.
I thought about adding her name to the list, but there are too many imponderables. I think that’s the right word. Besides, someone will need to care for the child.
Maggie’s huge front door opens. It’s the kind that begs for a wreath like they have in those black-and-white American Christmas films. She steps out in her tight T-shirt and even tighter leggings, brunette ponytail swishing, looking the picture of health. Regal even. Maggie has taken it up a notch of late, eating healthy, jogging, and three classes a week, so it’s no wonder she looks so good. It’s an understated look. Very sexy, but kind of normal.
She’s one of those who exercises in full make-up. Maybe nobody knows the real her. Perhaps, like me, she is hidden.
I watch her waving up at the nearest bedroom window. Her strange child is there, motionless, as she often is, and she’s the problem. I’m not sure what’s wrong with her, but it’s something. That observing child is a weak link in my forming plot. No matter. Thoughts of wreaths have given me a brilliant idea.
Maggie gets in her car and reverses off the drive. I turn and push my bike down Oundle Road towards town. She’ll be going the other way and only see my back.
I’ve cycled today. Sometimes, I walk, other times I use public transport, but no more buses. Now my path is set, I don’t want to appear on their safety cameras. Coming in a car is no-no, too. I understand enough about CCTV to know that’s not a good idea.
Although the detective shows I watch as so-called entertainment are rubbish. I bet the police rarely convict anyone unless they’re standing next to the body with a dripping knife. My dad used to shout at the TV for the villains to be smart and keep their mouths shut. I miss that now. Instead, there is silence.
I think of what happened. I consider what I did. The memories circle around in my head, faster and faster, and a storm enters my veins. It gives me the strength to carry on, which is just as well, because I have no choice.
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