The Greek Who Stole Christmas (2 page)

“I can’t believe it!” I said. “We’re going to meet Minerva!”

“It’s even better than that,” Tim replied. “She’s opening the grotto at Harrods. Maybe we’ll meet Father Christmas!”

I slid the CD back into the cupboard.

Minerva had just received a death threat and her husband had hired Tim Diamond. That was like getting her a knitted cardigan when what she really needed was a bullet-proof vest. Well, one thing was certain: this was going to be a Christmas to remember. I just wondered if Minerva would still be around to see in the New Year.

The Porchester was in the middle of London’s Park Lane, a five-star hotel that cost the earth. The sort of place I wouldn’t be able to stay in a blue moon. You could tell it was expensive: I spotted two celebrities in the revolving doors and by the time I’d reached the reception desk I’d passed three more. There was enough fur and jewellery in that place to fill a store. And that was just the men.

The reception area was all glass and marble, including the receptionist’s dress. That’s fashion for you. Tim and I had arrived half an hour early to drink in the atmosphere – and looking at the prices in the hotel bar we certainly weren’t going to be drinking anything else. A glass of water here cost the same as a glass of wine anywhere else, and for a glass of wine you needed to take out a loan. Nothing cost peanuts here … not even the peanuts. That’s the thing about the super-rich. They don’t mind when things are crazily expensive. It just reminds them how rich they are.

We went over to the reception desk and asked to see “Mrs Smith”. The receptionist was a slinky-looking girl with long fingernails. She had perfect teeth but she didn’t smile and she spoke through her nose, so I guessed she didn’t like showing them. She picked up a telephone and dialled a number with a fingernail that was a little longer than her finger. She spoke for a few seconds, then put the phone down. Her earrings jangled. So did my nerves.

“The second floor,” she said, barely moving her lips. Maybe she was training to be a ventriloquist. “It’s suite sixteen.”

So Minerva had a suite, not a single room. We took the lift to the second floor and I have to admit I enjoyed the journey. It’s the only lift I’ve ever seen with solid gold buttons and a chandelier. I could see Tim staring at everything as if he’d just died and gone to heaven. He’d insisted on putting on a suit, which he’d found at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was just a shame that the moths had found it first. Still, so long as nobody wondered why the jacket had seventeen buttonholes but only seven buttons, he’d be fine.

The lift door opened and we found ourselves in a corridor with about a mile of pink carpet, more chandeliers and the sort of wallpaper that seemed wasted on a wall. Suite sixteen was about halfway down – a double wooden door with gold numbers on.

Tim raised his hand, about to knock. And that was when we heard it. A sudden, loud crack from the other side. A gunshot? I wasn’t so sure but Tim had no doubt at all. His eyes widened and he threw himself at the door – shoulder-first – obviously intending to smash it down, climb through the wreckage and rescue Minerva from whoever was taking pot shots at her. It didn’t budge. Tim howled as he dislocated his shoulder. I reached out and opened the door. It was unlocked anyway.

We ran in. The door led straight into a plush living room. There were three people there. One of them was Jake Hammill, the manager who had come to our office that afternoon. The other was an older man dressed in a velvet jacket with a silk cravat around his neck. He had one of those permanent suntans that give your skin the colour of a peach but the texture of a prune. The third was Minerva. I recognized her at once with that strange buzz of excitement you get when you find yourself face to face with someone really famous. She was holding half a Christmas cracker. The tanned man was holding the other half. Well, that explained the bang we had just heard.

“Who the hell are you?” the older man asked.

“I’m Tim Diamond.” Tim shrugged and I heard a loud click as his shoulder blade somehow managed to slip back into place. Well, that was something. Minerva looked as if she was about to call the police. At least she wouldn’t have to ask for an ambulance too.

“So what do you mean just bursting in here?” the man continued. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Hammill interjected. “This is the private detective I was telling you about. The one you told me to see. Tim Diamond.”

“What about the kid?” the man asked.

“I’m his little brother, Nick,” I said.

“Yeah, well … you’d better sit down.”

Minerva had been watching all this with a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief. I sat down on the sofa next to her, thinking that a million kids would have given their right arm to be where I was right now and wondering what she’d do with a million right arms. She was dressed simply in expensive jeans and a white shirt, but even so she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She had long, blonde hair, eyes that were somewhere between blue and green and the sort of body that made me wish I was older than fourteen. Maybe she was smaller than I’d imagined but then I don’t have much imagination. And looking at her, I didn’t need it. She was the real thing and she was right there next to me.

Meanwhile, Tim had sat down in a chair. I could tell he fancied Minerva too. As far as I know, Tim has never had a steady girlfriend. He just simply hasn’t had any luck finding a woman who’s attracted to a twenty-eight-year-old with no money and no brains. To be fair to Tim, he’s not that unattractive. I mean, he’s slim and he’s dark and he’s reasonably fit. And it seemed to me that Minerva was definitely interested in him. Mind you, if the old, wrinkled guy was her husband, I wasn’t that surprised. How did a world-famous sex symbol end up married to her grandfather?

“So – how can I help you?” Tim asked with a lazy smile. He crossed one leg over the other and his foot caught a lamp, sending the shade flying.

“I told you,” Hammill growled. “Minerva needs a bodyguard.”

“With a body like that I’m not surprised!” Tim agreed.

“Hold on!” the old man interrupted. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

“And who are you?” Tim asked.

“I’m her husband!” He was perched on the arm of the sofa next to Minerva. “My name is Harold Chase.” He lay a hand on Minerva’s shoulder, and maybe I was wrong but I could have sworn she shuddered slightly. “I’m paying you to make sure nobody hurts my baby.”

“You’ve got a baby?” Tim demanded.

“I’m talking about Minerva!”

“I don’t need looking after,” Minerva said. They were the first words she had spoken, and I could hear the faint Greek accent fighting to get out. I was also reminded that this was the voice that had sold a billion CDs. “I don’t need looking after”; it almost sounded like the title of one of her songs.

“We’ve got to take control of this situation,” Hammill cut in. “You read what that letter said. Show it to Mr Diamond.”

Minerva thought for a moment, then pulled a white envelope out of her pocket. She held it for a moment. “This arrived yesterday,” she said. “It was slipped under the door of my suite. It’s from somebody who hates me.”

Tim opened the letter and read aloud:

“DEAR MINERVA, YOU ARE A MONSTER. I CANNOT FOREGIVE YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID IN TROPOJë LAST SUMMER. HOW COULD YOU DO THAT? I WILL NEVER FORGET IT AND VERY SOON I AM GOING TO KILL YOU. YOUR LIFE WILL COME TO AN END IN LONDON. THIS WILL BE YOUR LAST CHRISTMAS!”

Tim lowered the letter. “What makes you think that whoever wrote this hates you?” he asked.

Minerva stared at him. “I’m sorry?” she quavered.

“Well, he does call you
dear
Minerva…”

I snatched up the letter. It was straight out of a computer: blue ink on a plain sheet of paper. I noticed that whoever had written it couldn’t spell “forgive”. The envelope was addressed: Minerva, Suite 16.

“What happened in Tropojë?” I asked.

“Nothing happened in Tropojë,” Harold replied.

“It’s the concert,” Hammill cut in. “It’s gotta be!”

“Forget it, Jake.”

“No, Harry. They might as well know.” Hammill turned to us. “It was just one of those things,” he explained. “It happened last summer, like the letter says. Minerva was going to give a big charity concert in Albania. It was to benefit OAK.”

“What’s OAK?”

“Overweight Albanian Kids. It tries to help kids who watch too much TV and eat too many McDonald’s. Some of them have to wear elasticized clothing. Many of them are in wheelchairs. They can walk – they’re just too lazy. Anyway, they were really looking forward to the concert, but at the last moment Minerva had to pull out.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I had a headache,” Minerva replied. Obviously the overweight kids of OAK had never given her much cause for concern. Until now.

“You upset a lot of fans, Minerva,” Jake said.

“And you think one of the fans is out to get her?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

I wasn’t so sure. The idea of an oversized Albanian TV addict travelling all the way to England to kill Minerva sounded a bit far-fetched to me. On the other hand, there was that spelling mistake: English clearly wasn’t their first language. But there was something about the letter I didn’t like – and I don’t just mean the death threat. I knew there was something wrong. Something didn’t add up. But I hadn’t yet had time to work out what it was.

“My own feeling is that we should just get out of London,” the husband said. “I can’t sleep with the thought of you being in danger.”

“Harold – you’re exaggerating!” Minerva shook her head. “This trip is great publicity. Turning on the lights and opening the grotto is a big deal. I’m not going to run away just because some freak writes me a stupid letter.” She turned to Tim. “I’ve got a single coming out on December twenty-fifth,” she said.

“What’s it called?” I asked.

Tim sighed. “It’s called Christmas Day, Nick,” he said. “Everyone knows that.”

“I mean – what’s the single called?”

“It’s a song about cowboys,” Minerva said. “The title is ‘Like a Virginian’.” She fell silent for a moment and then she really surprised me. “If you boys are going to work with me, you might as well know that I hate this goddamn country and I hate Christmas.”

“Minerva—” Harold began.

“Shut up, Harold! I just want to put my cards on the table.”

“Your Christmas cards?” Tim asked.

“I don’t have any. Those stupid pictures of angels and three wise men. If they were so wise, what was all that business with the gold, frankincense and myrrh? You think a baby’s got any use for that sort of stuff?” She shook her head. “I hate everything about Christmas. Those stupid Christmas trees that drop needles all over the carpet. Those boring carols that go on and on. Santa Claus with his stupid beard.”

“What about Christmas presents?” I asked.

“Why would I care about Christmas presents? I’ve got everything I want already.” She realized she was still holding the half-cracker that she had pulled with her husband when we came in. “And I don’t like these stupid crackers either,” she went on. “They were sent up to the room by some fan or someone and all they’ve given me is a headache. As far as I’m concerned, the best thing to do with Christmas would be to forget the whole thing.”

She threw down the cracker. A silver acorn and a slip of paper rolled out onto the table.

I don’t know what it was that made me pick up the piece of paper. Maybe after Minerva’s little speech I needed a laugh. Or maybe there was something about it that whispered to me that actually it didn’t belong in a cracker. Anyway, I unfolded it and sure enough there was the same blue ink as the letter, the same typeface. There were just two lines.

WHEN MINERVA SEES THE LIGHTS
THAT’S WHEN I’LL HAVE HER IN MY SIGHTS

I read it out.

“I don’t get it,” Tim said. “It’s not very funny…”

“It’s not a joke, Tim!” I exclaimed. “It’s another death threat.”

“But that’s impossible!” Harold seized the piece of paper and held it with a shaking hand. “How did this get inside the cracker?” he demanded. He stared at Jake Hammill. “You brought them up here!” he continued accusingly. “What’s going on?”

“I just picked them up from reception!” Hammill replied. “They said they’d been left in your name by a fan.”

“What does it mean?” Minerva asked. Her voice had gone quiet.

Nobody spoke – so I did. “It must mean tomorrow,” I said. “When you turn on the Christmas lights.” I picked up the acorn. It was heavy – solid silver, maybe. “And look at this,” I said.

“An acorn…” Tim was puzzled.

“Off an
oak
tree, Tim,” I said. “They’re telling you who it came from.”

“Of course!” Harold Chase stood up. He was shaking so much, I was worried something was going to fall off. “That’s it,” he said. “We’re not going to turn on the lights. Forget it. We’re not going anywhere near them.”

“Harold…” Hammill began.

“I mean it, Jake.”

“Forget it, Harold!” Minerva had also got to her feet. “Look – I’ve already promised. I’m going to turn on these stupid lights. I’ve got to be there: the Mayor of London is coming. All the press will be out. It’s going to be a big event.”

“It’ll be an even bigger event if someone shoots you,” I muttered.

Tim turned to me. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Nick!” He thought for a moment. “Anyway, they might not shoot her. They might run her over or blow her up or possibly fix the wires so she gets electrocuted…”

Minerva had gone a little pale. “Do you think you can protect me, Mr Diamond?” she asked.

Tim smiled. “I’m the private eye who never blinks,” he replied. “And from this moment I’m not going to let you out of my sight. I’m going to walk with you, eat with you and go to bed with you—”

“Hey! Wait a minute! I’m in the bed!” Harold interrupted.

“We have a four-poster,” Minerva said.

“That’s great,” Tim said. “We can have one post each.”

Jake Hammill stepped forward. “I think Minerva will be safe enough while she’s here at the Porchester hotel,” he said. “Suppose Mr Diamond joins us tomorrow evening on the way to Regent Street?”