The Christmas Killer

THE CHRISTMAS KILLER

Alex Pine

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover photographs © Piotr Marcinski/Arcangel Images (snowy landscape in globe), Laura Kate Bradley/Arcangel Images (running figure), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Alex Pine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008402648

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008402655

Version: 2020-09-08

Dedication

To the latest additions to the family – Peyton Scott and Luna Raven. Wishing them both a long and happy life.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: September

Chapter One: Friday December 16th

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen: Sunday December 18th

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Monday December 19th

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five: Tuesday December 20th

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Wednesday December 21st

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Thursday December 22nd

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three: Friday December 23rd

Epilogue: Saturday December 24th

Acknowledgement

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

September

It was 6 p.m. when Annie Walker heard her husband’s car pull onto the driveway of their terraced house in Tottenham.

Moments later, he closed the front door behind him and called out to let her know that he was home.

She stayed where she was on the sofa, her heart pounding in her chest. She’d been bracing herself for bad news since he’d texted to tell her what was happening. That was three hours ago though, and the long wait had caused her stomach to twist into an anxious knot.

She held her breath now as he opened the door and entered the living room.

‘Hi, hon,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get away any sooner.’

Annie was struck by how rough he looked. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion and his dark hair was greasy and dishevelled.

‘Just tell me what happened?’ she said.

James crossed the room and sat down beside her on the sofa.

‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Annie,’ he said. ‘The bastard has been released.’

Annie closed her eyes. It felt like her heart had stopped beating. James put an arm around her and pulled her close. It made her feel better, but only slightly. It was going to take much more than a hug to repel the nagging sense of dread that was growing inside her.

‘This is a bloody nightmare,’ she said. ‘I thought the bastard was tucked safely away for at least ten years.’

James shook his head. ‘It’s hard to believe he’s got away with it. The trouble is, we haven’t been able to disprove what the other guy is saying.’

‘So that’s it then? He’s free again and able to do whatever he wants to.’

‘That’s right,’ James said. ‘But you have to try not to worry.’

‘That’s not going to happen and you know it.’

James switched his gaze from his wife to the half-empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table in front of her.

‘I need some of that after the day I’ve had,’ he said. ‘Let me grab a glass and we can talk this through.’

‘Has the news broken yet?’ Annie asked him.

He nodded as he stood. ‘Of course. I’m sure the media’s all over it.’

‘Then can you switch the telly on?’

He did as she asked and used the remote to go straight to the BBC news channel. The story was being aired right then, and the newsreader’s words sent a chill through Annie’s veins.

‘Fifty-eight-year-old Andrew Sullivan has served thirteen months of a life sentence for murder. Though he’s always denied killing nightclub owner Brendon Fox, he was convicted by a jury even though Mr Fox’s body had still not been found by the time the case went to trial.

‘Three days ago, however, Mr Fox’s body was found, the location revealed to police by a man who has confessed to the murder. As a result, a judge has ruled that Mr Sullivan, who was described during his trial as the head of an organised crime gang in London, should be released, and earlier this afternoon he walked out of Belmarsh Prison a free man. Scotland Yard has confirmed that another man in his fifties has been formally charged with Mr Fox’s murder. His identity has not yet been disclosed.’

Andrew Sullivan was one of the main reasons Annie had been so desperate to move out of London. When he was sent down it was like a huge weight being lifted from her shoulders.

The newsreader moved on to talking about Sullivan’s chequered past, his photograph displayed over the reporter’s shoulder. He looked every inch the archetypal villain, a bald, hard-faced individual with a long scar down his right cheek.

James first came across Sullivan while working with the National Crime Agency on a secondment. He spent several years trying to disrupt Sullivan’s illicit activities, but had failed to bring him down. In the process he made an enemy of the man, and received several death threats as a result. Then, two years ago, James had moved to Scotland Yard as a detective inspector with the Murder Investigation Team, and was eventually assigned to the Brendon Fox case.

Sullivan had fallen out with Fox after the night club owner banned him from entering his establishment. When their paths crossed early one evening at a pub in Wood Green, they ended up having a fist fight, after which Sullivan was overheard threatening to kill Fox.

In the early hours of the following morning Fox disappeared in suspicious circumstances after leaving his club. His car was abandoned at the roadside with the door open.

Soon afterwards, police unearthed traffic camera footage of Sullivan’s van driving past the club half an hour before Fox left the premises. Sullivan was arrested and Fox’s blood was found on his shirt. His defence was that the blood had got there during the punch up in the pub. And he claimed he was driving home from a night out when the traffic camera picked up his van near the club.

It was James who charged Andrew Sullivan with murder, after convincing the Crown Prosecution Service to make the arrest despite the absence of a corpse. Then, much to the delight of everyone on James’s team, the jury rejected Sullivan’s not guilty plea.

But five days ago the case was reopened, and Sullivan’s guilt put into question, when a prolific violent offender named Raymond Lynch confessed to killing Fox the night he vanished. He claimed he’d tried to rob the club owner as he was getting into his car. When Fox resisted, he stabbed him in the chest. He said he feared that he might have left traces of blood or DNA on his victim, so he put him into his car boot and drove to woods in Kent where he dumped the body.

Lynch had nothing to lose by confessing to a crime that James did not believe he committed. After all, he was already in prison serving a minimum of thirty years for beating to death a teenage girl in the weeks following Fox’s murder. And at the age of fifty-five, it was unlikely he would ever be released. So James and his team were convinced that the Sullivan family had persuaded Lynch to confess to killing Fox, likely in exchange for protection on the inside.

James returned from the kitchen with a glass and filled it with red wine after topping up Annie’s. He’d removed his suit jacket and shoes, and when he spoke his voice was stretched thin with tension.

‘You shouldn’t work yourself up into a frenzy over this, Annie,’ he said. ‘I honestly don’t think Sullivan poses a serious threat to us. He won’t want to put at risk his newly won freedom.’

‘But you can’t be sure of that,’ Annie replied. ‘We both know the man’s a psycho, and he hates your guts. You’ve said yourself he’s probably killed more than a few people over the years, and I don’t want you to become one of his victims. But I’ve told you so many times that it’s not just about him. I don’t feel safe here any more. The streets are full of knife-wielding nutters. The traffic is unbearable, and so is the noise. I’m stressed out most of the time, which could be why I haven’t conceived. And if we do eventually get lucky, this is not where I want to raise a child.’

James let out a breath. He’d heard it all before, and the issue had put a strain on their relationship. Annie’s mother had died eighteen months ago, leaving her the four-bedroomed family home in Cumbria, and since then Annie had been trying to talk James into moving out of London.

Of course, he had given it serious consideration, even to the point of discussing with her the possibility of joining the Cumbrian force and basing himself in Kendal, which was only about twenty-five miles from the cottage in the village of Kirkby Abbey. But James enjoyed working for the Met and, at thirty-nine, was still climbing the career ladder. It didn’t help that his extended family – with whom he was close – all lived in North London.

Annie didn’t have any strong ties to the capital. Both her parents were dead and she had no siblings, her only relative an uncle who lived in Penrith. And as a supply teacher she could work anywhere – including the small primary school in Kirkby Abbey.

As the evening wore on, James tried to steer the conversation in a different direction, but Annie was having none of it. She continued to express her fears as they got through another bottle of wine and a couple of ready meals heated up in the microwave.

It was 10 p.m. when she finally decided to call it a day. Tired and frustrated, she stood and announced that she was going to bed.

James hauled himself to his feet and started to help her clear the coffee table. But they didn’t get to finish the job because at that moment a large object came crashing through the living room window.

Annie screamed as they were both showered with shards of glass.

The object – a brick – smashed into the side of the TV before landing with a thud on the carpet.

James instinctively stepped between Annie and the broken window as they both stared out into their small front garden.

‘Who’s out there?’ Annie yelled. ‘Can you see anyone?’

‘It’s too dark,’ James shouted back. ‘Stay here while I go and check.’

Fear spiralled through Annie as James rushed out of the room. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the brick on the floor and she noticed that there was a sheet of paper attached to it by elastic bands. Her hands shook violently as she reached down to pick it up and read the note.

I don’t forgive and forget. This is just a taste of what’s to come.

James returned a few minutes later to say that whoever had thrown the brick had disappeared, which came as no surprise to Annie.

She handed him the note and watched the panic seize his features as he read it.

‘I’m willing to bet it’s a message from Sullivan,’ she said tearfully. ‘And if that doesn’t convince you that we should move away from here, then I don’t know what will.’

CHAPTER ONE

Friday December 16th

According to the Met Office, it was going to be a white, blustery Christmas. The forecast was for severe blizzards across much of the UK, and those people living in northern counties were being warned to brace themselves for the worst of the weather. It was even likely that some towns and villages would find themselves cut off.

The prospect of being snowed in filled James Walker with dread. He wasn’t used to dealing with impassable roads and momentous drifts that brought life to a standstill.

In London, things carried on virtually as normal however bad the weather. But now he was living in Cumbria and this would be his first Christmas away from the capital. He was pretty sure it was going to be very different.

He and Annie had made the move seven weeks ago and he was still struggling to adjust. The pace of life was so much slower and he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it.

Barely a month had passed since he’d started his new job as a detective inspector with the Cumbria Constabulary, based in the market town of Kendal, and he was already bored. He was missing the buzz of the Met, the big cases, the rush of adrenaline that he felt speeding to the scene of another major crime.

The cases that had come his way since the transfer included two burglaries, a domestic violence incident on a remote farm and an act of vandalism against a village pub. A far cry from the murder and mayhem that had kept him busy during almost twenty years working in the capital.

He wasn’t blaming Annie, though. Remaining in London had simply become too risky after the brick was thrown through their living room window. His wife was lucky not to have been injured, and it had forced him to concede that the threat was one he couldn’t ignore. He had to think of Annie and his family – his parents, brother, two sisters, and a bunch of nephews and nieces.

He still couldn’t be sure who was behind the attack. There had been no forensic evidence on the brick or the note that was attached to it. Naturally, Andrew Sullivan had denied responsibility when questioned, and he had a cast-iron alibi. But he could have got one of his gang members to do it for him, as revenge against James for the thirteen months Sullivan had spent behind bars before his unexpected release.

James looked across the open plan office from behind the desk that had been allocated to him. It was almost five o’clock on Friday December 16th, and most of the team had already departed for the weekend. No doubt some would be Christmas shopping, while others busied themselves with preparations for the big day.

He left all that stuff to Annie, as she’d always enjoyed buying presents and organising things. This year she had made it extra hard for herself. As well as all the effort she was putting into renovating the house, she’d invited James’s entire family to stay with them from Christmas Eve until after Boxing Day.

James had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d learned that only nine of them, including three children, were coming. It meant they could be put up in the three spare bedrooms, while Annie’s uncle, Bill Cardwell, used the fold-down camp bed in the study.

Annie hadn’t seen Bill since her mother’s funeral, when they’d had a bitter row over the fact that the house that he and his sister had grown up in had been left to Annie. He’d stormed out of the wake, claiming it wasn’t fair and demanding that she sell the property and give him half the proceeds. But Annie had refused because her mother had stipulated in her will that Annie should keep it so that she could pass it on to her own children when, God willing, she eventually had them.

Annie was now determined to get back on speaking terms with her uncle, hoping her return to Cumbria would be a new beginning for both of them.

‘I’m surprised you’re still here, guv. There’s fuck all going on.’

It was the grating voice of DS Phil Stevens that interrupted James’s thoughts. The overweight detective was the only member of the team who had made him feel unwelcome. This was apparently because Stevens’s promotion to detective inspector had been put on hold as a result of James’s arrival.

He was also clearly jealous of the new DI’s years of experience with the Met and NCA, rolling his eyes whenever James mentioned London.

‘I was just about to wrap things up and go,’ James said. ‘What about you?’

Stevens shrugged. ‘I’m here till late and that suits me just fine. The in-laws are coming over for a pre-Christmas visit and they’re not my favourite people.’

With perfect timing, James’s mobile phone rang, providing him with an excuse not to continue the conversation.

He picked it up from his desk, glanced at the caller ID, then smiled at Stevens.

‘It’s the wife,’ he said. ‘I’d better take it.’

James answered the phone as he watched his colleague turn and walk across the room towards his own desk.

‘Hi, hon,’ James said. ‘I’ll be heading home soon if that’s what you’re ringing to find out.’

‘It’s not, actually,’ Annie said. ‘I forgot to mention that the school nativity play is taking place this evening and I’m here now helping out. It means I most likely won’t be in when you get home.’

‘No problem. How has your day been?’

‘Good. I managed to clear all the junk from the bedrooms before I popped over to Janet Dyer’s house for lunch and a catch up.’

‘Isn’t she the one you used to be friends with at school?’

‘That’s right. She’s a great source of information for me because she knows the whats and wheres that I’ve missed since I’ve been away. She does have a tendency to get caught up in the village drama, though, and some people think she’s too loud and opinionated, but she’s helped me through some tough times in the past, and she’s a softie at heart.’

‘She sounds interesting,’ James said.

‘She is. Actually, I’m thinking about inviting her over tomorrow for a cuppa. I want to show her what we’re doing to the house and also give her some distraction. She’s a single mum and her ex-husband is picking her two boys up in the morning and taking them to spend Christmas with him and his new partner in Carlisle.’

‘Then I look forward to meeting her.’

‘I’m sure you’ll like her,’ Annie said. ‘Meanwhile, you drive carefully coming home. I’ve made a cottage pie for you and it’s ready to be put straight in the oven.’

‘Terrific. Love you lots and see you later.’

‘You too, sweetheart.’

One thing James didn’t miss about London was the traffic. Driving in the capital was a nightmare, and many streets seemed to be in a permanent state of gridlock.

By comparison, getting from Kendal to Kirkby Abbey was a breeze. He headed east along the A684, crossed over the M6, and then north up the A683.

The roads took him through some of the UK’s most beautiful countryside, lying between the Lake District and Yorkshire Dales National Parks. Of course, at this time of night he couldn’t see much, as the darkness stretched into the distance on both sides.

It was just after six when he arrived at the village, one of the smallest in the area with a population of just over seven hundred.

He drove past the small Catholic church and The White Hart pub, and turned left at the village store. He then skirted the small square where they held the monthly Saturday farmers’ market, and passed through the residential area that was crammed with quaint, stone-built houses.

Their detached home was a short walk from the tiny primary school where Annie worked and had a driveway and a paved front garden. There were other detached houses either side, and across the road was a gated entrance to a field that offered stunning views of the distant peaks.

James parked up and saw that Annie had left the lights on in their two-storey house. As he climbed out of his Audi, he was once again struck by how quiet the place was. It was another aspect of life here in Cumbria that he still hadn’t yet got used to.

He was approaching the front door when he noticed that a parcel had been left on the step. It was about the size of a shoebox and wrapped in Christmas paper.

His first thought as he picked it up was that it had been put there by one of the neighbours. But as he let himself inside, it struck him as odd that on the label that was stuck to it there were just three words written with a black marker:

FOR DETECTIVE WALKER

He took the parcel through to the kitchen and placed it on the table. Curiosity compelled him to open it before doing anything else.

He tore off the wrapping and lifted the lid of the cardboard box. What was inside gave him such a shock that an involuntary gasp erupted from his mouth and he jumped back in horror. In the process, his hand struck the edge of the box and knocked it onto the floor.