Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas
Stuart Macbride
Stuart MacBride
Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas
1: A Partridge in a Pear Tree
Billy Partridge wasn’t really cut out to be a cat burglar, but Dillon hadn’t really given him any option. It was either do the job, or come up with thirteen grand by Thursday . . . or have both legs shattered. And the leg thing didn’t even write-off what they owed Dillon, just deferred the interest. Come the 15th of January, there’d still be thirteen thousand to pay.
Grunting, Billy hoisted himself further up the tree, his XXL designer jeans smeared with moss and dirt. That’s what he got for trusting Twitch to bring the sodding stepladder.
Of course Twitch didn’t need a stepladder. He’d clambered over the outside wall like a bloody monkey, so the old oak tree growing close to the manor house hadn’t been much of a challenge. Even if it was strung all over with heavy-duty Christmas lights. But then Twitch looked like a collection of manky coat hangers – dressed up in drainpipe trousers, baseball cap and camouflage hoodie – not a single ounce of spare flesh on him, while Billy had to haul twenty-one stone of asthmatic underachiever from branch to branch, wheezing like his lungs were about to explode.
He struggled up to the same branch as Twitch, right outside a darkened window. Billy hugged the trunk, stuck his head against the bark, puffing and panting. ‘Ah. . . Ah, Jesus . . . Jesus Christ. . .’
‘Thought you was gonnae peg out on me, like.’ Twitch tried for a wink. Not easy with a pair of panda-black eyes and a freshly broken nose: Dillon ‘reminding’ them not to screw this one up.
‘You could have bloody helped!’
Twitch grinned, his teeth manky brown in the shadow of his baseball cap and hooded top. ‘Looked like you needed the fuckin’ exercise.’
Billy didn’t need the exercise. Billy needed a joint and a packet of Jaffa Cakes. But not till they’d got in, got the painting, and got the hell out before anyone called the police, or ‘released the hounds’. It was that kind of place.
From up here, in the tree, Billy had a perfect view all the way down Fletcher Road: big Victorian sandstone piles with huge gardens, festooned with discreetly shimmering white lights. None of your inflatable Santas and flashing snowmen here – nah, this was where Oldcastle’s old money lived. With a fine view of the Bellows and the Kings River, Castle Hill was not for the likes of Fat Billy Partridge and Andy ‘Twitch’ McKay.
‘Well?’ said Billy. ‘We going to do this or not?’
‘Aye, aye, hud yer horses.’ Twitch pulled out a knife, leaned across the gap between the branch and the building, and wheegled the blade in between the top part of the sash window and the bottom, keeping the sound of splintering wood to a minimum. How come rich bastards couldn’t stretch to double glazing? Billy and his mum might be living in a crappy council semi by the North Station tracks, but at least they had double-bloody-glazing.
Twitch eased the blade back and forth until something inside went click. ‘Bingo.’ He grinned again. ‘OK, you ready?’
‘I was born ready.’
‘You were born a fat bastard.’
Billy scowled at him. ‘Shut up.’
‘You shut up.’
‘Oh for God’s sake. . .’ Billy grabbed the bottom part of the window and hauled it up, gritting his teeth as the ancient wood squealed.
Twitch gave him a slow round of applause. ‘Oh, my hero: you’re so big and strong!’
Billy kept his voice low, going for a Clint Eastwood growl and failing miserably. ‘You want us to get caught? That what you want? You want to go back to prison? No?’ He gave the sarky bastard a wee shove. ‘Then shut up and get your arse in there.’
Twitch pursed his lips. ‘Don’t be such a gaywad. Dillon said they were both deaf as a post. . .’ He slipped inside like a shadow.
Billy took a deep breath, said a wee prayer, then scrambled across the yawning chasm into the house. Didn’t look down. Didn’t fall to his death. Didn’t crap himself.
From the outside, Number Seven Fletcher Road looked all prosperous and well maintained, but the foosty smelling room Billy clambered into was piled with old boxes and tea chests, all just visible in the dim glow of the garden’s Christmas lights, and-
MONSTER!
Billy grabbed the window ledge, heart trying to kick its way out of his chest. They were going to die. . .
No. Not a monster: a full-sized stuffed black bear leaned back against the wall at an alarming angle, next to a grandfather clock and a suit of armour. Creepy bastard taxidermy lurking in the shadows.
‘Look at this!’ Twitch dug into a box and pulled out a pair of matching African masks, like they had on the Discovery Channel. ‘These have to be worth a bob or two.’
Billy snatched them off him and stuffed them back where they’d come from. ‘Don’t be an arse: everything in here’s junk. If it wasn’t they wouldn’t keep it in this shite hole.’
He opened the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. Dark and empty, faded rectangles on the wallpaper marking where paintings used to be. No carpet, no furniture. Light spilled up the stairwell from the floors below, the tip of a huge Christmas tree almost coming level with the balustrade. The tree was festooned with shimmering white lights – like the garden – and covered in burgundy and gold baubles, ribbons and swags. A wee bit swankier than the four-foot high artificial thing clarted with pink and blue tinsel in Billy’s living room.
A television blared out Britain’s Next Big Star from somewhere below as Billy and Twitch crept from room to room.
The whole place was vacant bordering on the derelict . . . except for the room nearest the stairs. It had been done out as a study, the walls lined with books, and a desk facing the window complete with fancy-looking laptop and colour printer.
Twitch rubbed his skeletal hands together. ‘Payday.’ He grabbed the laptop, pulling up all the cables and wrapping them round the thing before squeezing it into a leather case he found beside the desk. ‘That’s got to be worth a couple of hundred down the Monk and Casket!’ He went for a high five, but Billy missed. Twitch shook his head, slung the case over his shoulder. ‘Last one downstairs is a fat poofy bastard.’
They snuck down to the middle floor. This bit of the house had more of a lived-in feel: carpets, sideboards, occasional tables, framed photographs. Six doors led off the corridor and they picked their way through them carefully, making as little noise as possible, even though there was bugger-all chance anyone could hear anything over the TV. Four dusty guest bedrooms with fading wallpaper, a huge, cold bathroom.
Billy eased the final door open and peered inside: must be the master bedroom. Breathy snoring came from a large divan bed. A white-haired woman lay flat on her back in the darkness, wearing one of them sleeping masks, surrounded by a nest of frilly pillows.
He scanned the walls. No sign of the painting.
Time to close up, move on, and- ‘Hoy!’
Twitch squeezed past him, into the room. Billy grabbed at his sleeve but the wee sod was too quick.
Billy shifted from foot to foot on the threshold, voice a sharp-edged whisper. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Come back here!’
But Twitch wasn’t listening, he was rummaging through the old lady’s drawers, pulling out camisole knickers and support stockings, letting them fall to the swirly carpet. ‘Shut up and watch the corridor.’
‘We’re going to get caught!’
‘You are such a fat. . .’ Twitch paused, smiled, then pulled a wooden box out of the bottom drawer. He cracked it open and the smile got even bigger. �
��Ya beauty!’ He scurried back to the door and showed Billy what was inside.
‘Fuck me.’ Gold and silver and diamonds: necklaces, rings, earrings, and a couple of watches.
‘See: you stick with your uncle Twitch, he’ll see you right.’ He shut the door, licking his lips as he fingered the rings out in the corridor. ‘This’ll keep Dillon off our backs for a bit. How about you and me bugger off out of it while we’re ahead?’
Billy fidgeted, looking from the glittering jewellery to Twitch’s two black eyes and squint nose. Dillon’s instructions had been very clear. ‘He said we have to get the painting: if we don’t he’s going to break our legs.’
‘But-’
‘You want him to give you another spanking?’
Twitch sighed, then closed the wooden box. ‘Maybe not.’
Billy squared his wide shoulders. ‘Let’s do it. . .’
They inched down to the ground floor.
The massive Christmas tree dominated the front lobby. Gifts were piled round the base: all multicoloured and shiny with bows and ribbons, like something out of Harry Fucking Potter. Be lucky if Billy’s mum stretched to a selection box and a pair of socks this year, and these sods had all this? How was that fair? Rich bastard deserved to get his painting stolen. Serve him right.
Billy made Twitch hide behind the tree and keep an eye on the lounge, while he checked out the rooms on the ground floor: kitchen, cloakroom, drawing room, sun lounge, conservatory. . .
The painting was in the dining room. A large teak table sat in the middle, surrounded by a dozen fancy-looking chairs and a sideboard covered with silverware. A glass cabinet opposite the door was full of objets d’art: porcelain terriers, glass swans, ceramic clowns – that kinda thing. Some of which Billy’s mum was going to find under their crappy plastic tree on Christmas day. Grinning, he helped himself, slipping the choicer looking pieces in his hoodie’s pockets. And then it was painting time.
Dillon had given them a big holdall to put it in and Billy unrolled the thing and spread it out on the dining table. Then he turned the torch on the painting. And everything stopped.
A pear tree stood in the middle of a canvas as big as a widescreen telly – the leaves a mixture of delicate greens and dark blue, tinged with purple; the sky a riot of vermillion, ultramarine and gold as the sun set. And in the branches a single pear glistened. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
He was still standing there, mouth hanging open like a total mong, when Twitch shuffled into the room. ‘What the flying fuck on a bike’s taking you so long, Fatwad? And are those candlesticks gold, ’cause I’m having them if they are!’
Slowly Billy came back to earth. The mood was ruined, but the painting still called to him like it was wired right into his bloodstream: like the first joint of the day, or an armful of smack. . . No wonder Dillon was willing to write off their debt. According to the little brass plaque on the ornate gilded frame, this was ‘THE PEAR TREE BY CLAUDE OSCAR MONET – 1907’. Thirteen grand? This had to be worth millions.
Billy reached out and lifted the painting off its hook, not even daring to breathe as he lowered it into the unfurled holdall. It almost hurt to zip it up.
There was a clink from the sideboard. ‘Now that’s more like it!’ Twitch stood up, clutching four bottles: Bombay Sapphire, Smirnoff, Talisker, and Courvoisier, wiggling his hips. ‘We’re on the bevy tonight.’ He gyrated to a halt. ‘What? You look like someone’s crapped in your porridge.’
‘Nothin’.’ Billy picked up the holdall, clenched his jaw, ground his teeth. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ It wasn’t fair – why should Dillon get the painting? What the hell did he know about art? Nothing, that’s what. Sweet bugger all. Dillon wouldn’t have a clue how to appreciate something that beautiful. Dillon was a wanker with a line in drugs and violence. Billy had a GCSE in art – got a ‘B’ too – by rights the painting should be his.
He followed Twitch out into the hallway. Yeah: should be his. . .
Suppose he just kept it? Suppose Dillon didn’t get the real painting, suppose Dillon got a fake instead? Billy’s sister Susan fancied herself as a bit of an artist, she was always doing those ‘paint by numbers’ things.
Nah, it was a shite plan. That picture she did of some penguins looked more like vultures in dinner jackets. She’d just screw it up. Susan was stupid.
The television was still blaring away as they passed the huge Christmas tree – Twitch helped himself to a couple of the presents underneath it, slipping them into his backpack.
Maybe. . . Maybe Dillon could have an accident? A smile split across Billy’s face. Yeah, Dillon has an ‘accident’, their thirteen grand debt suddenly disappears, and Billy gets to keep Monet’s The Pear Tree. Put it up on his bedroom wall, smoke some weed and look at the colours. Sweet.
He followed Twitch up the stairs. What kind of accident should Dillon have: car crash? Down the stairs? Back of the head caved in with a claw hammer? Claw hammer was probably best, that way Billy could just nip around to Dillon’s flat, pretend to hand over the picture . . . and BANG! Soon as his back’s turned. Maybe there’d even be some stuff lying about? Big bag of weed and a wad of-
A plummy, public-school voice bellowed out from the foot of the stairs. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Twitch Froze. ‘Fuck!’ Then they legged it, hammering up the stairs two at a time.
The old bastard ran after them. He was one of those smoking jacket and silvery hair types, but he could move. ‘Come back here!’
Billy nearly lost it on the last flight of stairs, but somehow managed to scrabble upright, bashing into the faded wallpaper, puffing and wheezing. Twitch screeched round the corner into the room with the stuffed black bear and the African masks.
A hand wrapped itself round Billy’s arm and he squealed, span round and flailed out a fist. Pain sparked across his knuckles and the old guy grunted. Falling back. Giving Billy just enough time to scarper through the door to the room they’d broken into, with all its boxes of junk. Billy shoved the stuffed bear, sending it clattering against the door. He leapt a cardboard box full of creepy china dolls and jumped for the window.
Bang!
He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why everything hurt.
Bloody idiot: the painting’s frame was too big to go through the gap straight on.
The door rattled. Billy struggled with the large, painting-filled holdall, working it round onto the diagonal, easing it through the open window. ‘Andy!’
Twitch froze, halfway down the oak tree outside, glower-ing up at him, black eyes glittering in the Christmas lights. ‘Don’t use my real name!’
‘Catch!’ Billy swung the painting out and let go. It got halfway. There was a loud ripping sound as the holdall caught on a branch. A huge triangle of fabric tore free. The holdall dropped four feet, snagged on something, and hung there, swinging. The pear tree glowed through the jagged-edged hole, thirty foot over the frosty ground.
A loud thump from the hallway and the black bear lurched. BANG: it lurched again. One more time and the door crashed open. The old guy charged across the room. ‘Bring back my bloody laptop!’
Billy crawled out onto the ledge and jumped for the nearest branch, just as a hand grabbed his ankle. Caught half over the gap, Billy twisted, didn’t quite make it, banged his chin on the branch. He bit a big chunk out of his bottom lip; blood filled his mouth.
He scrabbled for purchase on the rough wood, but it was too late: he was falling, tangled up in the Christmas lights. The cold, thick, plastic wire wrapped around his throat. ‘Ullk!’
Billy’s fall came to a sudden halt, two storeys off the ground, legs kicking, jerking on the end of the electrical cable. Twisting. Spinning.
His chubby fingers clawed at the folds of fat on his neck. Can’t breathe. . . Get the wire off. . . Oh God, oh God, oh God. . . CAN’T BREATHE.
White lights sparkled all around him, the bulbs
breaking under his fingers, slashing his skin, leaving it slick with blood as he twisted and struggled.
And struggled.
And struggled.
And. . .
The last thing he saw before everything went black was the pear tree at sunset, hanging in an oak, lit by Christmas lights. Still beautiful.
2: Turtle Doves
A Christmas tree lurked in the corner of Oldcastle City Mortuary. Just a cheap artificial one – covered with brightly-coloured tinsel, blinking lights, and little plastic angels – but it lent the dissecting room a slightly festive air. They’d even managed to find a big star for the top of the tree: a nodding Elvis doll that twitched and lolled every time a refrigerator drawer slammed shut. All shook up.
It wasn’t exactly Santa’s grotto, but at least they’d made the effort.
Sandra leaned back against the sink, mobile phone jammed between her ear and shoulder, eating a Chicken-and-Mushroom Pot Noodle. ‘Kevin? Hello? You there?’ Pause two, three, four. ‘Pick up, OK? Kevin?’ The answering machine went bleep. She glanced at the pale mass of flesh on the cutting table, body cavity hollowed out and empty. ‘Kevin? I’m gonna be late, OK? We’re up to our ears in some fat bastard got himself hanged. I won’t be round till later.’ Sandra shovelled a forkful of noodles into her mouth and mumbled her goodbyes. ‘Love you.’ Then hung up.
She was just sooking the last of the juice from the carton when Professor Muir muttered his way back from the toilets. He took one look at her and sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t eat those things in here: the smell upsets Elvis.’ He pointed at the King, who jiggled and nodded his agreement as the mortuary door banged shut.
‘I’m finished anyway.’ She tossed the empty container in the bin and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. ‘You want me to do the spine?’
‘Please.’ Professor Muir went back to the mounds of offal piled up on the gurney next to the cutting table.
Sandra pulled out the bone saw.
Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas Page 1
