Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

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.