back. He looked inside.
“He’s right!” he said.
He didn’t need to tell me. Looking over his shoulder, I could just make out part of an alarm clock, some loops of wire and something that could have been Plasticine but definitely wasn’t.
Snape looked up. “Plastic explosive,” he whispered. “It’s connected to an alarm clock. It’ll blow up when the bell goes.” He squinted through the square he had cut out. Then, very slowly, he handed the package to Boyle. “All right, Boyle,” he said. “This is timed to go off in forty minutes. You’d better get it down to the bomb disposal squad.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive away.”
Boyle stared at him.
“See if you can find a short cut,” Snape advised.
Boyle disappeared – in a hurry. Snape turned to me. “So what’s this all about?” he demanded.
“Santa just gave me that!” Minerva rasped. She was standing there dazed.
“Have you been a bad girl this year?” Tim asked.
“It’s not Santa!” I said. “Come on…”
The five of us – me, Tim, Minerva, Jake Hammill and Snape – dived into the grotto. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the security guard talking into his radio, presumably calling for reinforcements. There was nobody else left on the fourth floor – as far as I knew, there was nobody left in Knightsbridge. White plastic snow crunched underfoot as we followed the path into the cave. White plastic stalactites hung down and white plastic stalagmites pointed up – or maybe it was the other way round. I can never remember. We passed a couple more mechanical singing reindeer and arrived just in time to see a familiar red figure, about to leave by a back exit.
“Hold it right there, Santa!” I shouted.
Santa froze, then slowly turned around.
“It’s … it’s … it’s…!” Tim exclaimed. He stopped. He had no idea who it was, and with the red hood, the white beard and the golden-framed spectacles, I couldn’t blame him. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him. His own wife hadn’t.
I walked forward and pulled off the beard. And there he was.
“Harold!” Minerva exclaimed.
“Harold?” Hammill quavered.
“That’s right,” I said. “Harold Chase.”
There could be no doubt about it. The old man reached up and lowered the hood, revealing more of his face, his silver hair and his hearing aid. He had concealed his permanent suntan with make-up. But there could be no disguising the venom with which he was looking at his wife.
Snape took over. “You just gave Minerva a bomb,” he said.
Harold Chase said nothing.
“That’s a very original present,” Tim commented.
“Not really, Tim,” I said. “He was trying to kill her.”
It was the word “kill” that did it. The bomb had been taken away. But Harold Chase exploded. “I hate her!” he screamed. “You have no idea what it’s been like living with her! I know why she married me. She wanted my money! But now that she’s so big and so famous she doesn’t need me. And so she humiliates and belittles me. She’s made my life hell!”
He took a step towards us. Tim took three steps back.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” Harold went on. “She’s a hypocrite. She smiles at the crowds on Regent Street when secretly she despises them. She hates Christmas too – and every year she’s ruined it for me. No carols, no presents, no tinsel, no fun. She’s stolen Christmas from me and that was a good enough reason to want to see her dead.”
By now, he was frothing at the mouth and I almost wished Boyle was there to deal with him. Fortunately the security guard disguised as an elf had appeared with two colleagues, and the three of them dragged Harold out. He was still screaming as he went.
The five of us went back downstairs to a champagne bar on the ground floor. It was somewhere quiet and we had a lot to talk about. Minerva paid for champagne for herself and the others. I got a glass of lemonade. I had
“He’s right!” he said.
He didn’t need to tell me. Looking over his shoulder, I could just make out part of an alarm clock, some loops of wire and something that could have been Plasticine but definitely wasn’t.
Snape looked up. “Plastic explosive,” he whispered. “It’s connected to an alarm clock. It’ll blow up when the bell goes.” He squinted through the square he had cut out. Then, very slowly, he handed the package to Boyle. “All right, Boyle,” he said. “This is timed to go off in forty minutes. You’d better get it down to the bomb disposal squad.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive away.”
Boyle stared at him.
“See if you can find a short cut,” Snape advised.
Boyle disappeared – in a hurry. Snape turned to me. “So what’s this all about?” he demanded.
“Santa just gave me that!” Minerva rasped. She was standing there dazed.
“Have you been a bad girl this year?” Tim asked.
“It’s not Santa!” I said. “Come on…”
The five of us – me, Tim, Minerva, Jake Hammill and Snape – dived into the grotto. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the security guard talking into his radio, presumably calling for reinforcements. There was nobody else left on the fourth floor – as far as I knew, there was nobody left in Knightsbridge. White plastic snow crunched underfoot as we followed the path into the cave. White plastic stalactites hung down and white plastic stalagmites pointed up – or maybe it was the other way round. I can never remember. We passed a couple more mechanical singing reindeer and arrived just in time to see a familiar red figure, about to leave by a back exit.
“Hold it right there, Santa!” I shouted.
Santa froze, then slowly turned around.
“It’s … it’s … it’s…!” Tim exclaimed. He stopped. He had no idea who it was, and with the red hood, the white beard and the golden-framed spectacles, I couldn’t blame him. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him. His own wife hadn’t.
I walked forward and pulled off the beard. And there he was.
“Harold!” Minerva exclaimed.
“Harold?” Hammill quavered.
“That’s right,” I said. “Harold Chase.”
There could be no doubt about it. The old man reached up and lowered the hood, revealing more of his face, his silver hair and his hearing aid. He had concealed his permanent suntan with make-up. But there could be no disguising the venom with which he was looking at his wife.
Snape took over. “You just gave Minerva a bomb,” he said.
Harold Chase said nothing.
“That’s a very original present,” Tim commented.
“Not really, Tim,” I said. “He was trying to kill her.”
It was the word “kill” that did it. The bomb had been taken away. But Harold Chase exploded. “I hate her!” he screamed. “You have no idea what it’s been like living with her! I know why she married me. She wanted my money! But now that she’s so big and so famous she doesn’t need me. And so she humiliates and belittles me. She’s made my life hell!”
He took a step towards us. Tim took three steps back.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” Harold went on. “She’s a hypocrite. She smiles at the crowds on Regent Street when secretly she despises them. She hates Christmas too – and every year she’s ruined it for me. No carols, no presents, no tinsel, no fun. She’s stolen Christmas from me and that was a good enough reason to want to see her dead.”
By now, he was frothing at the mouth and I almost wished Boyle was there to deal with him. Fortunately the security guard disguised as an elf had appeared with two colleagues, and the three of them dragged Harold out. He was still screaming as he went.
The five of us went back downstairs to a champagne bar on the ground floor. It was somewhere quiet and we had a lot to talk about. Minerva paid for champagne for herself and the others. I got a glass of lemonade. I had
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