The Greek Who Stole Christmas by Anthony Horowitz

by.”

KILLER WITH A SMILE
    We were on the wrong side of town. We had to cross the whole of London to reach Knightsbridge, and with Christmas just weeks away the traffic could hardly be worse. As we sat in a traffic jam on the edge of Hyde Park I could feel the minutes ticking away. Worse than that, I could see them. The taxi meter was running and Tim was staring at it in dismay, watching as the last of his earnings disappeared.
    We finally made it with about five minutes and ten pounds to spare, but even so it was going to be tight. Harrods was a huge place and the grotto was right up on the fourth floor. Worse than that, the entire store was heaving – not just with shoppers but with the usual crowd of fans and policemen who had turned out to see or to protect Minerva. There were security men on all the doors and more photographers waiting in the street, although you’d have thought by now the papers would have had enough of her. I certainly had.
    And what nobody knew was that the killer was already inside the building. He would smile at Minerva and he would murder her … and she wouldn’t even know it had happened until she woke up dead.
    “This way, Tim!”
    We had plunged off the street and into women’s handbags, then into cosmetics, then food. Harrods was every Christmas present you could ever imagine – more presents than anyone in the world could ever want. It was Christmas gone mad: hundreds of miles of tinsel; thousands of glittering stars and balls; enough Christmas trees to repopulate a forest. Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas and I’ll tear open as many presents as I can get my hands on. But as I ran for the escalators, past the groaning shelves and the grinning sales assistants, I couldn’t help but feel there had to be something more to it than this. Maybe something less, if you know what I mean.
    We reached the escalators and began to fight our way up. I had a strange sense of déjà vu as I went. Suddenly I was in another department store in a different part of London almost two years before. I’d been running then too – to escape from two German assassins who’d been trying to make sure that the only way I saw Boxing Day was from inside a box. But that was another time and another story and if you want to know about it, I’m afraid you’re going to have to buy another book.
    We got to the fourth floor and there was a sign pointing towards Santa’s grotto, “Jingle Bells” blaring out of the speakers and little kids everywhere, dragging their mothers to see the man in red.
    I stopped, panting. “I hope we’re not too late,” I gasped.
    “Yes,” Tim agreed. “Santa may not have any presents left!”
    Sometimes I think Tim doesn’t belong in the real world. Maybe he’d be more comfortable in a nice white room with padded walls. But this was no time to argue. It was twelve noon exactly. Somewhere in the clock department down below, a thousand clocks would be chiming, bleeping or shooting out cuckoos. The grotto had just been opened by Minerva. And the way ahead was blocked.
    There were toys everywhere. Vast Lego castles, cuddly toys, jigsaw mountains and Scalextric cars buzzing round in furious circles. Children were pulling and pushing in every direction. In the far distance I could see the green, plastic entrance to a green, plastic cave with a long line of people waiting to go in. That was where we had to be. But our path had been closed off by a sixteen-stone store security guard with the body of a wrestler and the face of a boxer at the end of a particularly vicious fight. At least, I assumed he was a security guard. It was hard to be sure. He was dressed as an elf.
    “You can’t go this way!” he told me. “You have to go to the back of the queue.” So he
was
a security guard. I should have known. How many elves do you see carrying truncheons?
    “Where’s Minerva?” I demanded. I was afraid I was already too late – and this brute in green tights was only making