The Christmas Killer Read online

  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 tw
enty 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.