The Greek Who Stole Christmas, Page 2

  Meanwhile, Tim had sat down in a chair. I could tell he fancied Minerva too. As far as I know, Tim has never had a steady girlfriend. He just simply hasn’t had any luck finding a woman who’s attracted to a twenty-eight-year-old with no money and no brains. To be fair to Tim, he’s not that unattractive. I mean, he’s slim and he’s dark and he’s reasonably fit. And it seemed to me that Minerva was definitely interested in him. Mind you, if the old, wrinkled guy was her husband, I wasn’t that surprised. How did a world-famous sex symbol end up married to her grandfather?

  “So – how can I help you?” Tim asked with a lazy smile. He crossed one leg over the other and his foot caught a lamp, sending the shade flying.

  “I told you,” Hammill growled. “Minerva needs a bodyguard.”

  “With a body like that I’m not surprised!” Tim agreed.

  “Hold on!” the old man interrupted. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

  “And who are you?” Tim asked.

  “I’m her husband!” He was perched on the arm of the sofa next to Minerva. “My name is Harold Chase.” He lay a hand on Minerva’s shoulder, and maybe I was wrong but I could have sworn she shuddered slightly. “I’m paying you to make sure nobody hurts my baby.”

  “You’ve got a baby?” Tim demanded.

  “I’m talking about Minerva!”

  “I don’t need looking after,” Minerva said. They were the first words she had spoken, and I could hear the faint Greek accent fighting to get out. I was also reminded that this was the voice that had sold a billion CDs. “I don’t need looking after”; it almost sounded like the title of one of her songs.

  “We’ve got to take control of this situation,” Hammill cut in. “You read what that letter said. Show it to Mr Diamond.”

  Minerva thought for a moment, then pulled a white envelope out of her pocket. She held it for a moment. “This arrived yesterday,” she said. “It was slipped under the door of my suite. It’s from somebody who hates me.”

  Tim opened the letter and read aloud:

  “DEAR MINERVA, YOU ARE A MONSTER. I CANNOT FOREGIVE YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID IN TROPOJë LAST SUMMER. HOW COULD YOU DO THAT? I WILL NEVER FORGET IT AND VERY SOON I AM GOING TO KILL YOU. YOUR LIFE WILL COME TO AN END IN LONDON. THIS WILL BE YOUR LAST CHRISTMAS!”

  Tim lowered the letter. “What makes you think that whoever wrote this hates you?” he asked.

  Minerva stared at him. “I’m sorry?” she quavered.

  “Well, he does call you dear Minerva…”

  I snatched up the letter. It was straight out of a computer: blue ink on a plain sheet of paper. I noticed that whoever had written it couldn’t spell “forgive”. The envelope was addressed: Minerva, Suite 16.

  “What happened in Tropojë?” I asked.

  “Nothing happened in Tropojë,” Harold replied.

  “It’s the concert,” Hammill cut in. “It’s gotta be!”

  “Forget it, Jake.”

  “No, Harry. They might as well know.” Hammill turned to us. “It was just one of those things,” he explained. “It happened last summer, like the letter says. Minerva was going to give a big charity concert in Albania. It was to benefit OAK.”

  “What’s OAK?”

  “Overweight Albanian Kids. It tries to help kids who watch too much TV and eat too many McDonald’s. Some of them have to wear elasticized clothing. Many of them are in wheelchairs. They can walk – they’re just too lazy. Anyway, they were really looking forward to the concert, but at the last moment Minerva had to pull out.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I had a headache,” Minerva replied. Obviously the overweight kids of OAK had never given her much cause for concern. Until now.

  “You upset a lot of fans, Minerva,” Jake said.

  “And you think one of the fans is out to get her?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  I wasn’t so sure. The idea of an oversized Albanian TV addict travelling all the way to England to kill Minerva sounded a bit far-fetched to me. On the other hand, there was that spelling mistake: English clearly wasn’t their first language. But there was something about the letter I didn’t like – and I don’t just mean the death threat. I knew there was something wrong. Something didn’t add up. But I hadn’t yet had time to work out what it was.

  “My own feeling is that we should just get out of London,” the husband said. “I can’t sleep with the thought of you being in danger.”

  “Harold – you’re exaggerating!” Minerva shook her head. “This trip is great publicity. Turning on the lights and opening the grotto is a big deal. I’m not going to run away just because some freak writes me a stupid letter.” She turned to Tim. “I’ve got a single coming out on December twenty-fifth,” she said.

  “What’s it called?” I asked.

  Tim sighed. “It’s called Christmas Day, Nick,” he said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “I mean – what’s the single called?”

  “It’s a song about cowboys,” Minerva said. “The title is ‘Like a Virginian’.” She fell silent for a moment and then she really surprised me. “If you boys are going to work with me, you might as well know that I hate this goddamn country and I hate Christmas.”

  “Minerva—” Harold began.

  “Shut up, Harold! I just want to put my cards on the table.”

  “Your Christmas cards?” Tim asked.

  “I don’t have any. Those stupid pictures of angels and three wise men. If they were so wise, what was all that business with the gold, frankincense and myrrh? You think a baby’s got any use for that sort of stuff?” She shook her head. “I hate everything about Christmas. Those stupid Christmas trees that drop needles all over the carpet. Those boring carols that go on and on. Santa Claus with his stupid beard.”

  “What about Christmas presents?” I asked.

  “Why would I care about Christmas presents? I’ve got everything I want already.” She realized she was still holding the half-cracker that she had pulled with her husband when we came in. “And I don’t like these stupid crackers either,” she went on. “They were sent up to the room by some fan or someone and all they’ve given me is a headache. As far as I’m concerned, the best thing to do with Christmas would be to forget the whole thing.”

  She threw down the cracker. A silver acorn and a slip of paper rolled out onto the table.

  I don’t know what it was that made me pick up the piece of paper. Maybe after Minerva’s little speech I needed a laugh. Or maybe there was something about it that whispered to me that actually it didn’t belong in a cracker. Anyway, I unfolded it and sure enough there was the same blue ink as the letter, the same typeface. There were just two lines.

  WHEN MINERVA SEES THE LIGHTS

  THAT’S WHEN I’LL HAVE HER IN MY SIGHTS

  I read it out.

  “I don’t get it,” Tim said. “It’s not very funny…”

  “It’s not a joke, Tim!” I exclaimed. “It’s another death threat.”

  “But that’s impossible!” Harold seized the piece of paper and held it with a shaking hand. “How did this get inside the cracker?” he demanded. He stared at Jake Hammill. “You brought them up here!” he continued accusingly. “What’s going on?”

  “I just picked them up from reception!” Hammill replied. “They said they’d been left in your name by a fan.”

  “What does it mean?” Minerva asked. Her voice had gone quiet.

  Nobody spoke – so I did. “It must mean tomorrow,” I said. “When you turn on the Christmas lights.” I picked up the acorn. It was heavy – solid silver, maybe. “And look at this,” I said.

  “An acorn…” Tim was puzzled.

  “Off an oak tree, Tim,” I said. “They’re telling you who it came from.”

  “Of course!” Harold Chase stood up. He was shaking so much, I was worried something was going to fall off. “That’s it,” he said. “We’re not going to turn on the lights. Forget it. We’re not goi
ng anywhere near them.”

  “Harold…” Hammill began.

  “I mean it, Jake.”

  “Forget it, Harold!” Minerva had also got to her feet. “Look – I’ve already promised. I’m going to turn on these stupid lights. I’ve got to be there: the Mayor of London is coming. All the press will be out. It’s going to be a big event.”

  “It’ll be an even bigger event if someone shoots you,” I muttered.

  Tim turned to me. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Nick!” He thought for a moment. “Anyway, they might not shoot her. They might run her over or blow her up or possibly fix the wires so she gets electrocuted…”

  Minerva had gone a little pale. “Do you think you can protect me, Mr Diamond?” she asked.

  Tim smiled. “I’m the private eye who never blinks,” he replied. “And from this moment I’m not going to let you out of my sight. I’m going to walk with you, eat with you and go to bed with you—”

  “Hey! Wait a minute! I’m in the bed!” Harold interrupted.

  “We have a four-poster,” Minerva said.

  “That’s great,” Tim said. “We can have one post each.”

  Jake Hammill stepped forward. “I think Minerva will be safe enough while she’s here at the Porchester hotel,” he said. “Suppose Mr Diamond joins us tomorrow evening on the way to Regent Street?”

  Minerva nodded. “I’m staying in all day tomorrow. That’ll be fine.”

  “That just leaves the question of your fee, Mr Diamond,” Hammill continued.

  “No question about it,” Tim said. “I want one.”

  “Of course.” Hammill blinked uncertainly. “We’ll pay you two hundred pounds a day. But let’s get one thing straight. If anyone takes a shot at Minerva, we’ll expect you to step in front of the bullet.”

  “Don’t worry!” Tim jerked a thumb at me. “That’s what he’s for.”

  So there it was, signed and sealed. I still wondered why Minerva hadn’t gone straight to the police – but maybe it wouldn’t suit her being surrounded by the men in blue. I wanted to tell her that Tim would offer her about as much protection as a paper umbrella in the rain, but two hundred pounds was two hundred pounds. I watched as Jake Hammill counted out the money, and it occurred to me that the only time I’d been expecting to see the Queen that Christmas had been on her TV broadcast. But here were twenty little portraits sliding into Tim’s outstretched hand. I almost wanted to kiss her. Or him.

  We took the bus home. We could have afforded a cab but we’d already decided to blow a big chunk of the money on a three-course meal at our local Italian. I was already dreaming of a twelve-inch pizza on an eleven-inch plate. Extra cheese and pepperoni. And maybe extra pizza too. But even so, I couldn’t get Minerva out of my mind. I went over what had happened in the suite. I was still certain something was wrong.

  “If you ask me, Tim, there’s something strange about this,” I said.

  Tim looked around him. “It’s just a bus, Nick,” he said.

  “I’m not talking about the bus. I’m talking about Minerva. Those death threats! Whoever heard of a death threat inside a Christmas cracker?”

  “Yeah,” Tim nodded. “And there was no sign of a paper hat.”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t making the whole thing up … the three of them. You heard what she said. All she wants to do is sell her CDs. Maybe the whole thing’s just a publicity stunt.”

  Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so, Nick. I think she’s in real danger. Don’t ask me why – I’ve just got an instinct for this sort of thing. A sixth sense.”

  “Sure,” I muttered. “It’s just a shame you missed out on the other five.”

  I looked out of the window. It had got dark a while ago and it looked as if it was going to snow. There were a few flakes dancing in the wind. As we turned a corner, I noticed a man standing on the pavement with a sandwich board. He was handing out leaflets about the end of the world. London is full of people like that. Maybe it’s the city that drives them mad or maybe they’re mad before they arrive and it’s the city that attracts them. Anyway, this man had three words in red paint across his chest:

  He seemed to catch my eye as we went past. And I found myself wondering. Was he just a harmless crank trying to sell religion to anyone who would listen?

  Or did he know something I didn’t?

  REGENT STREET

  Everyone makes a fuss about the Christmas lights on Regent Street and maybe there was a time when they were actually worth travelling in to see. I remember when I was small, my mum would take me into town and the lights would flicker and flash and sparkle and people would cross the road with their necks craned, staring at them in wonderment, and they wouldn’t even complain when they were run over by the 139 bus.

  But that was then. Nowadays the lights are more or less the same as they are on any other high street at Christmas. Worse than that, they’re paid for by big business, so you don’t just get Santa, stars or whatever. You get the latest characters from a Disney movie. Or “Harry Christmas” from J.K. Rowling. Or whatever.

  Even so, turning on the lights is still a big deal. If it isn’t a member of the royal family, it’s a pop star or a Hollywood actor. All the newspapers and TV stations record the moment when the button gets pressed, and the next day you can read all about it on page one: MINERVA LIGHTS UP LONDON. And just for one day the earthquakes and the wars and the dirty politics are left to page two.

  We were driven to Regent Street in a stretch limo. The chauffeur was a tall, slim man in a grey uniform and I couldn’t help wondering if someone hadn’t stretched him too. Minerva and her husband sat on the back seat. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a hearing aid, but he didn’t need it because no one was talking to him. She was gazing out of the window. It was made from special glass so that no one could look in. Her manager, Jake Hammill, had the next seat to himself. Tim and I were closest to the front – and furthest from the bar. The three of them were drinking champagne but all we’d been offered was a glass of iced water. Well, we were staff. Official security and its younger brother.

  As usual Minerva was in a bad mood, but I had to admit that from where I was sitting she looked fabulous. She was wearing a bright red number with white fur trimmings. Think Father Christmas only thirty years younger and after major cosmetic surgery. Her lips were bright red too, shaped like a perfect kiss. It would have been hard to believe that this was the woman who hated Christmas. She’d done herself up like the sort of present every man in London would want to open. I glanced at Tim and saw that he was drooling. I just hoped it wouldn’t stain the carpet.

  “Now, remember!” Harold Chase said to his wife. She turned round slowly and looked at him without a lot of interest. “You pose for the cameras. You make a little speech. You turn on the lights. And then we get the hell out of there.”

  “What’s the big worry?” Minerva drawled.

  “The big worry?” Harold’s eyes bulged. For a nasty minute I thought they were going to fall out of his face. “There could be a killer out there, baby. You’re going to be out in the open, exposed. Anyone could take a shot at you.” He leant forward and turned to Tim. “You’d better keep your eyes open, Mr Diamond,” he said.

  “You don’t have to worry, Mr Cheese,” Tim assured him. “I’ve had my eyes on your wife all evening.”

  “Well, you’d just better make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  “What could possibly go wrong with me around?” Tim exclaimed. He threw his hands back in a gesture of surprise, emptying his glass of iced water over the driver.

  The car drew to a halt. It was just coming up to six o’clock on a cold, dry Tuesday evening, but the shops were still open and there were Christmas shoppers everywhere. We got out and suddenly the night seemed to explode in a thousand flashes. They came so thick and fast that I found myself blinded. It was as if I had entered an electrical storm that signalled the end of the world.

  Of
course, it was nothing so dramatic. Minerva was being photographed by a huge pack of press photographers, all of them holding up great, chunky cameras with lenses that were definitely pleased to see her. For a few seconds Minerva seemed to be frozen, half in the car and half out of it. Then she came to her senses and began to smile and wave; the silent, bad-tempered woman who had been sitting opposite me was instantly replaced by the perfect star that she was as the lights flashed all around her. And at that moment I got an idea of what it must be like to be a celebrity – loved not because of what you are but because of what the cameras want you to be.

  At the same time, I was puzzled. Minerva had received two death threats. Even if she had decided not to take them seriously, her husband and manager had been worried enough to hire Tim and me. And yet here she was completely surrounded by photographers. It occurred to me that any one of them could have a gun. There were a few police around, but right now killing Minerva would be the easiest thing in the world. I said nothing. I could only stand there as she turned and smiled and smiled and turned while the photographers shouted at her from every side.

  “Over here, Minerva!”

  “Give us a smile, Minerva!”

  “This way, Minerva!”

  Tim nudged me. He was standing with his back to the car, blinking in the flashlights, but I could see that he was suddenly alert. I followed his eyes and saw a rather shabby-looking man in a suit hurrying towards us and suddenly I knew what was going to happen.

  “Leave this to me…” Tim muttered.

  “No, Tim!” I began.

  But it was too late. Tim charged forward and grabbed hold of the man, then spun him around and threw him onto the bonnet of the limousine.

  “That’s far enough!” Tim exclaimed.

  “I… I… I…” The man was too shocked to speak.

  “What do you want with Minerva?” Tim demanded.

  “I’m the Mayor of London!” the man exclaimed.

  Tim looked suspicious. He was still pinning him down. “If you’re the Mayor of London, where’s your red cloak and pointy hat?”