Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

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.’