Christmas Is Murder

  Val McDermid is a No.1 bestseller whose novels have been translated into more than thirty languages, and have sold over fifteen million copies. She has won many awards internationally, including the CWA Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year and the LA Times Book of the Year Award. She was inducted into the ITV3 Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame in 2009, was the recipient of the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger in 2010 and received the Lambda Literary Foundation Pioneer Award in 2011. In 2016, Val received the Outstanding Contribution to Crime Fiction Award at the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival and was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. In 2017, she received the DIVA Literary Prize for Crime. She writes full time and divides her time between Cheshire and Edinburgh.

  Also by Val McDermid

  A Place of Execution

  Killing the Shadows

  The Distant Echo

  The Grave Tattoo

  A Darker Domain

  Trick of the Dark

  The Vanishing Point

  TONY HILL NOVELS

  The Mermaids Singing

  The Wire in the Blood

  The Last Temptation

  The Torment of Others

  Beneath the Bleeding

  Fever of the Bone

  The Retribution

  KATE BRANNIGAN NOVELS

  Dead Beat

  Kick Back

  Crack Down

  Clean Break

  Blue Genes

  Star Struck

  LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS

  Report for Murder

  Common Murder

  Final Edition

  Union Jack

  Booked for Murder

  Hostage to Murder

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Writing on the Wall

  Stranded

  NON-FICTION

  A Suitable Job for a Woman

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 9781405525923

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Val McDermid 2012

  ‘A Traditional Christmas’ was first published in Reader, I Murdered Him Too

  (The Women’s Press, 1994)

  Copyright © V.L. McDermid 1994

  ‘A Wife in a Million’ was first published in Reader, I Murdered Him

  (The Women’s Press, 1989)

  Copyright © V.L. McDermid 1989

  Excerpt from The Vanishing Point © Val McDermid 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also By Val McDermid

  Copyright

  Introduction

  A Traditional Christmas

  A Wife in a Million

  Extract from Broken Ground

  Introduction

  It's Christmas, so treat yourself to a blast from my writing past. A Wife in a Million was the first short story I ever had published. I wrote it in response to a request from my editor, who was compiling an anthology of women's crime writing called Reader, I Murdered Him. As with much of my work, it was inspired by what I saw in the world around me. The story was written in the wake of the terrible economic circumstances of the Thatcher years, when the north of England suffered catastrophic decline. People were angry and desperate, and I wanted to capture the sense of frustration felt by so many. But as always, it was focusing on the characters, their lives and their relationships that made the story come alive for me. A few years later, the same editor decided to put together a sequel – Reader, I Murdered Him Too – and that seemed like a good excuse to revisit my original detective, Maggie Staniforth. The trigger for this story was a Native American proverb – but I can't say more, because I don't want to give any secrets away. Like a Christmas present, you'll just have to unwrap it yourself! Season’s greetings to you all.

  Val McDermid, 2012

  A Traditional Christmas

  Last night, I dreamed I went to Amberley. Snow had fallen, deep and crisp and even, garlanding the trees like tinsel sparkling in the sunlight as we swept through the tall iron gates and up the drive. Diana was driving, her gloved hands assured on the wheel in spite of the hazards of an imperfectly cleared surface. We rounded the coppice, and there was the house, perfect as a photograph, the sun seeming to breathe life into the golden Cotswold stone. Amberley House, one of the little jobs Vanbrugh knocked off once he’d learned the trade with Blenheim Palace.

  Diana stopped in front of the portico and blared the horn. She turned to me, eyes twinkling, smile bewitching as ever. ‘Christmas begins here,’ she said. As if on cue, the front door opened and Edmund stood framed in the doorway, flanked by his and Diana’s mother, and his wife Jane, all smiling as gaily as daytrippers.

  I woke then, rigid with shock, pop-eyed in the dark. It was one of those dreams so vivid that when you wake, you can’t quite believe it has just happened. But I knew it was a dream. A nightmare, rather. For Edmund, sixth Baron Amberley of Anglezarke, had been dead for three months. I should know. I found the body.

  Beside me, Diana was still asleep. I wanted to burrow into her side, seeking comfort from the horrors of memory, but I couldn’t bring myself to be so selfish. A proper night’s sleep was still a luxury for her and the next couple of weeks weren’t exactly going to be restful. I slipped out of bed and went through to the kitchen to make a cup of camomile tea.

  I huddled over the gas fire and forced myself to think back to Christmas. It was the fourth year that Diana and I had made the trip back to her ancestral home to celebrate. As our first Christmas together had approached, I’d worried about what we were going to do. In relationships like ours, there isn’t a standard formula. The only thing I was sure about was that I wanted us to spend it together. I knew that meant visiting my parents was out. As long as they never have to confront the physical evidence of my lesbianism, they can handle it. Bringing any woman home to their tenement flat in Glasgow for Christmas would be uncomfortable. Bringing the daughter of a baron would be impossible.

  When I’d nervously broached the subject, Diana had looked astonished, her eyebrows raised, her mouth twitching in a half-smile. ‘I assumed you’d want to come to Amberley with me,’ she said. ‘They’re expecting you to.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Diana grabbed me in a bearhug. ‘Of course I’m sure. Don’t you want to spend Christmas with me?’

  ‘Stupid question,’ I grunted. ‘I thought maybe we could celebrate on our own, just the two of us. Romantic, intimate, that sort of thing.’

  Diana looked uncertain. ‘Can’t we be romantic at Amberley? I can’t imagine Christmas anywhere else. It’s so . . . traditional. So English.’

  My turn for the raised eyebrows. ‘Sure I’ll fit in?’

  ‘You know my mother thinks the world of you. She insists on you coming. She’s fanatical about tradition, especially Christmas. You’ll love it,’ she promised.

  And I did. Unlikely as it is, this Scottish working-class lesbian feminist homeopath fell head over heels for the whole English country-house package. I loved driving down with Diana on Christmas Eve, leaving the motorway traffic behind, slipping through narrow l
anes with their tall hedgerows, driving through the chocolate-box village of Amberley, fairy lights strung round the green, and, finally, cruising past the Dower House where her mother lived and on up the drive. I loved the sherry and mince pies with the neighbours, even the ones who wanted to regale me with their ailments. I loved the elaborate Christmas Eve meal Diana’s mother cooked. I loved the brisk walk through the woods to the village church for the midnight service. I loved most of all the way they simply absorbed me into their ritual without distance.

  Christmas Day was champagne breakfast, stockings crammed with childish toys and expensive goodies from the Sloane Ranger shops, church again, then presents proper. The gargantuan feast of Christmas dinner, with free-range turkey from the estate’s home farm. Then a dozen close family and friends arrived to pull crackers, wear silly hats and masks, drink like tomorrow was another life and play every ridiculous party game from Sardines to Charades. I’m glad no one’s ever videotaped the evening and threatened to send a copy to the women’s alternative health co-operative where I practise. I’d have to pay the blackmail. Diana and I lead a classless life in London, where almost no one knows her background. It’s not that she’s embarrassed. It’s just that she knows from bitter experience how many barriers it builds for her. But at Amberley, we left behind my homeopathy and her Legal Aid practice, and for a few days we lived in a time warp that Charles Dickens would have revelled in.

  On Boxing Day night, we always trooped down to the village hall for the dance. It was then that Edmund came into his own. His huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ persona slipped from him like the masks we’d worn the night before when he picked up his alto sax and stepped onto the stage to lead the twelve-piece Amber Band. Most of his fellow members were professional session musicians, but the drummer doubled as a labourer on Amberley Farm and the keyboard player was the village postman. I’m no connoisseur, but I reckoned the Amber Band was one of the best live outfits I’ve ever heard. They played everything from Duke Ellington to Glenn Miller, including Miles Davis and John Coltrane pieces, all arranged by Edmund. And of course, they played some of Edmund’s own compositions, strange haunting slow-dancing pieces that somehow achieved the seemingly impossible marriage between the English countryside and jazz.

  There was nothing different to mark out last Christmas as a watershed gig. Edmund led the band with his usual verve. Diana and I danced with each other half the night and took it in turns to dance with her mother the rest of the time. Evangeline (‘call me Evie’) still danced with vivacity and flair that made me understand why Diana’s father had fallen for her. As usual, Jane sat stolidly nursing a gin and tonic that she made last the whole night. ‘I don’t dance,’ she’d said stiffly to me when I’d asked her up on my first visit. It was a rebuff that brooked no argument. Later, I asked Diana if Jane had knocked me back because I was a dyke.

  Diana roared with laughter. ‘Good God, no,’ she spluttered. ‘Jane doesn’t even dance with Edmund. She’s tone deaf and has no sense of rhythm.’

  ‘Bit of a handicap, being married to Edmund,’ I said.

  Diana shrugged. ‘It would be if music were the only thing he did. But the Amber Band only does a few gigs a year. The rest of the time he’s running the estate and Jane loves being the country squire’s wife.’

  In the intervening years, that was the only thing that had changed. Word of mouth had increased the demand for the Amber Band’s services. By last Christmas, the band were playing at least one gig a week. They’d moved up from playing village halls and hunt balls onto the student-union circuit.

  Last Christmas I’d gone for a walk with Diana’s mother on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. As we’d emerged from the back door, I noticed a three-ton van parked over by the stables. Along the side, in tall letters of gold and black, it said, ‘Amber Band! Bringing jazz to the people’.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘That looks serious.’

  Evie laughed. ‘It keeps Edmund happy. His father was obsessed with breaking the British record for the largest salmon, which, believe me, was a far more inconvenient interest than Edmund’s. All Jane has to put up with is a lack of Edmund’s company two or three nights a week at most. Going alone to a dinner party is a far lighter cross to bear than being dragged off to fishing lodges in the middle of nowhere to be bitten to death by midges.’

  ‘Doesn’t he find it hard, trying to run the estate as well?’ I asked idly as we struck out across the park towards the coppice.

  Evie’s lips pursed momentarily, but her voice betrayed no irritation. ‘He’s taken a man on part-time to take care of the day-to-day business. Edmund keeps his hands firmly on the reins, but Lewis has taken on the burden of much of the routine work.’

  ‘It can’t be easy, making an estate like this pay nowadays.’

  Evie smiled. ‘Edmund’s very good at it. He understands the importance of tradition, but he’s not afraid to try new things. I’m very lucky with my children, Jo. They’ve turned out better than any mother could have hoped.’

  I accepted the implied compliment in silence.

  The happy family idyll crashed around everyone’s ears the day after Boxing Day. Edmund had seemed quieter than usual over lunch, but I put that down to the hangover that, if there were any justice in the world, he should be suffering. As Evie poured out the coffee, he cleared his throat and said abruptly, ‘I’ve got something to say to you all.’

  Diana and I exchanged questioning looks. I noticed Jane’s face freeze, her fingers clutching the handle of her coffee cup. Evie finished what she was doing and sat down. ‘We’re all listening, Edmund,’ she said gently.

  ‘As you’re all aware, Amber Band has become increasingly successful. A few weeks ago, I was approached by a representative of a major record company. They would like us to sign a deal with them to make some recordings. They would also like to help us move our touring venues up a gear or two. I’ve discussed this with the band, and we’re all agreed that we would be crazy to turn our backs on this opportunity.’ Edmund paused and looked around apprehensively.

  ‘Congratulations, bro,’ Diana said. I could hear the nervousness in her voice, though I wasn’t sure why she was so apprehensive. I sat silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  ‘Go on,’ Evie said in a voice so unemotional it sent a chill to my heart.

  ‘Obviously, this is something that has implications for Amberley. I can’t have a career as a musician and continue to be responsible for all of this. Also, we need to increase the income from the estate in order to make sure that whatever happens to my career, there will always be enough money available to allow Ma to carry on as she has always done. So I have made the decision to hand over the running of the house and the estate to a management company who will run the house as a residential conference centre and manage the land in broad accordance with the principles I’ve already established,’ Edmund said in a rush.

  Jane’s face flushed dark red. ‘How dare you?’ she hissed. ‘You can’t turn this place into some bloody talking shop. The house will be full of ghastly sales reps. Our lives won’t be our own.’

  Edmund looked down at the table. ‘We won’t be here,’ he said softly. ‘It makes more sense if we move out. I thought we could take a house in London.’ He looked up beseechingly at Jane, a look so naked it was embarrassing to witness it.

  ‘This is extraordinary,’ Evie said, finding her voice at last. ‘Hundreds of years of tradition, and you want to smash it to pieces to indulge some hobby?’

  Edmund took a deep breath. ‘Ma, it’s not a hobby. It’s the only time I feel properly alive. Look, this is not a matter for discussion. I’ve made my mind up. The house and the estate are mine absolutely to do with as I see fit, and these are my plans. There’s no point in argument. The papers are all drawn up and I’m going to town tomorrow to sign them. The other chaps from the village have already handed in their notice. We’re all set.’

  Jane stood up. ‘You bastard,’ she yelled. ‘You inconsiderate
bastard! Why didn’t you discuss this with me?’

  Edmund raised his hands out to her. ‘I knew you’d be opposed to it. And you know how hard I find it to say no to you. Jane, I need to do this. It’ll be fine, I promise you. We’ll find somewhere lovely to live in London, near your friends.’

  Wordlessly, Jane picked up her coffee cup and hurled it at Edmund. It caught him in the middle of the forehead. He barely flinched as the hot liquid poured down his face, turning his sweater brown. ‘You insensitive pig,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Hadn’t you noticed I haven’t had a period for two months? I’m pregnant, Edmund, you utter bastard. I’m two months pregnant and you want to turn my life upside down?’ Then she ran from the room slamming the heavy door behind her, no mean feat in itself.

  In the stunned silence that followed Jane’s bombshell, no one moved. Then Edmund, his face seeming to disintegrate, pushed his chair back with a screech and hurried wordlessly after his wife. I turned to look at Diana. The sight of her stricken face was like a blow to the chest. I barely registered Evie sighing, ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ before she too left the room. Before the door closed behind her, I was out of my chair, Diana pressed close to me.

  Dinner that evening was the first meal I’d eaten at Amberley in an atmosphere of strain. Hardly a word was spoken, and I suspect I wasn’t alone in feeling relief when Edmund rose abruptly before coffee and announced he was going down to the village to rehearse. ‘Don’t wait up,’ he said tersely.

  Jane went upstairs as soon as the meal was over. Evie sat down with us to watch a film, but half an hour into it, she rose and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not concentrating. Your brother has given me rather too much to think about. I’m going back to the Dower House.’

  Diana and I walked to the door with her mother. We stood under the portico, watching the dark figure against the snow. The air was heavy, the sky lowering. ‘Feels like a storm brewing,’ Diana remarked. ‘Even the weather’s cross with Edmund.’