The Greek Who Stole Christmas (3 page)

Minerva nodded. “I’m staying in all day tomorrow. That’ll be fine.”

“That just leaves the question of your fee, Mr Diamond,” Hammill continued.

“No question about it,” Tim said. “I want one.”

“Of course.” Hammill blinked uncertainly. “We’ll pay you two hundred pounds a day. But let’s get one thing straight. If anyone takes a shot at Minerva, we’ll expect you to step in front of the bullet.”

“Don’t worry!” Tim jerked a thumb at me. “That’s what he’s for.”

So there it was, signed and sealed. I still wondered why Minerva hadn’t gone straight to the police – but maybe it wouldn’t suit her being surrounded by the men in blue. I wanted to tell her that Tim would offer her about as much protection as a paper umbrella in the rain, but two hundred pounds was two hundred pounds. I watched as Jake Hammill counted out the money, and it occurred to me that the only time I’d been expecting to see the Queen that Christmas had been on her TV broadcast. But here were twenty little portraits sliding into Tim’s outstretched hand. I almost wanted to kiss her. Or him.

We took the bus home. We could have afforded a cab but we’d already decided to blow a big chunk of the money on a three-course meal at our local Italian. I was already dreaming of a twelve-inch pizza on an eleven-inch plate. Extra cheese and pepperoni. And maybe extra pizza too. But even so, I couldn’t get Minerva out of my mind. I went over what had happened in the suite. I was still certain something was wrong.

“If you ask me, Tim, there’s something strange about this,” I said.

Tim looked around him. “It’s just a bus, Nick,” he said.

“I’m not talking about the bus. I’m talking about Minerva. Those death threats! Whoever heard of a death threat inside a Christmas cracker?”

“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “And there was no sign of a paper hat.”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t making the whole thing up … the three of them. You heard what she said. All she wants to do is sell her CDs. Maybe the whole thing’s just a publicity stunt.”

Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so, Nick. I think she’s in real danger. Don’t ask me why – I’ve just got an instinct for this sort of thing. A sixth sense.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “It’s just a shame you missed out on the other five.”

I looked out of the window. It had got dark a while ago and it looked as if it was going to snow. There were a few flakes dancing in the wind. As we turned a corner, I noticed a man standing on the pavement with a sandwich board. He was handing out leaflets about the end of the world. London is full of people like that. Maybe it’s the city that drives them mad or maybe they’re mad before they arrive and it’s the city that attracts them. Anyway, this man had three words in red paint across his chest:

He seemed to catch my eye as we went past. And I found myself wondering. Was he just a harmless crank trying to sell religion to anyone who would listen?

Or did he know something I didn’t?

Everyone makes a fuss about the Christmas lights on Regent Street and maybe there was a time when they were actually worth travelling in to see. I remember when I was small, my mum would take me into town and the lights would flicker and flash and sparkle and people would cross the road with their necks craned, staring at them in wonderment, and they wouldn’t even complain when they were run over by the 139 bus.

But that was then. Nowadays the lights are more or less the same as they are on any other high street at Christmas. Worse than that, they’re paid for by big business, so you don’t just get Santa, stars or whatever. You get the latest characters from a Disney movie. Or “Harry Christmas” from J.K. Rowling. Or whatever.

Even so, turning on the lights is still a big deal. If it isn’t a member of the royal family, it’s a pop star or a Hollywood actor. All the newspapers and TV stations record the moment when the button gets pressed, and the next day you can read all about it on page one: MINERVA LIGHTS UP LONDON. And just for one day the earthquakes and the wars and the dirty politics are left to page two.

We were driven to Regent Street in a stretch limo. The chauffeur was a tall, slim man in a grey uniform and I couldn’t help wondering if someone hadn’t stretched him too. Minerva and her husband sat on the back seat. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a hearing aid, but he didn’t need it because no one was talking to him. She was gazing out of the window. It was made from special glass so that no one could look in. Her manager, Jake Hammill, had the next seat to himself. Tim and I were closest to the front – and furthest from the bar. The three of them were drinking champagne but all we’d been offered was a glass of iced water. Well, we were staff. Official security and its younger brother.

As usual Minerva was in a bad mood, but I had to admit that from where I was sitting she looked fabulous. She was wearing a bright red number with white fur trimmings. Think Father Christmas only thirty years younger and after major cosmetic surgery. Her lips were bright red too, shaped like a perfect kiss. It would have been hard to believe that this was the woman who hated Christmas. She’d done herself up like the sort of present every man in London would want to open. I glanced at Tim and saw that he was drooling. I just hoped it wouldn’t stain the carpet.

“Now, remember!” Harold Chase said to his wife. She turned round slowly and looked at him without a lot of interest. “You pose for the cameras. You make a little speech. You turn on the lights. And then we get the hell out of there.”

“What’s the big worry?” Minerva drawled.

“The big worry?” Harold’s eyes bulged. For a nasty minute I thought they were going to fall out of his face. “There could be a killer out there, baby. You’re going to be out in the open, exposed. Anyone could take a shot at you.” He leant forward and turned to Tim. “You’d better keep your eyes open, Mr Diamond,” he said.

“You don’t have to worry, Mr Cheese,” Tim assured him. “I’ve had my eyes on your wife all evening.”

“Well, you’d just better make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“What could possibly go wrong with me around?” Tim exclaimed. He threw his hands back in a gesture of surprise, emptying his glass of iced water over the driver.

The car drew to a halt. It was just coming up to six o’clock on a cold, dry Tuesday evening, but the shops were still open and there were Christmas shoppers everywhere. We got out and suddenly the night seemed to explode in a thousand flashes. They came so thick and fast that I found myself blinded. It was as if I had entered an electrical storm that signalled the end of the world.

Of course, it was nothing so dramatic. Minerva was being photographed by a huge pack of press photographers, all of them holding up great, chunky cameras with lenses that were definitely pleased to see her. For a few seconds Minerva seemed to be frozen, half in the car and half out of it. Then she came to her senses and began to smile and wave; the silent, bad-tempered woman who had been sitting opposite me was instantly replaced by the perfect star that she was as the lights flashed all around her. And at that moment I got an idea of what it must be like to be a celebrity – loved not because of what you are but because of what the cameras want you to be.

At the same time, I was puzzled. Minerva had received two death threats. Even if she had decided not to take them seriously, her husband and manager had been worried enough to hire Tim and me. And yet here she was completely surrounded by photographers. It occurred to me that any one of them could have a gun. There were a few police around, but right now killing Minerva would be the easiest thing in the world. I said nothing. I could only stand there as she turned and smiled and smiled and turned while the photographers shouted at her from every side.

“Over here, Minerva!”

“Give us a smile, Minerva!”

“This way, Minerva!”

Tim nudged me. He was standing with his back to the car, blinking in the flashlights, but I could see that he was suddenly alert. I followed his eyes and saw a rather shabby-looking man in a suit hurrying towards us and suddenly I knew what was going to happen.

“Leave this to me…” Tim muttered.

“No, Tim!” I began.

But it was too late. Tim charged forward and grabbed hold of the man, then spun him around and threw him onto the bonnet of the limousine.

“That’s far enough!” Tim exclaimed.

“I… I… I…” The man was too shocked to speak.

“What do you want with Minerva?” Tim demanded.

“I’m the Mayor of London!” the man exclaimed.

Tim looked suspicious. He was still pinning him down. “If you’re the Mayor of London, where’s your red cloak and pointy hat?”

“I’m not that sort of mayor,” the man growled. “I think you’ve been watching too many pantomimes.”

“Oh no I haven’t!” Tim replied.

By now, two policemen had appeared and had pulled Tim away, helping the Mayor to his feet. Because it
was
the Mayor, of course. I’d recognized him instantly – his bald head, his brightly coloured cheeks and his entirely colourless moustache. Jake Hammill had seen what had happened. He hurried over and placed himself between the Mayor and Tim.

“I’m so sorry!” he said. “We’ve hired private security and I guess he was a little jumpy.”

“It’s an outrage,” the Mayor exclaimed. He had a whiny voice.

“Come and meet Minerva, Mr Mayor. She’s been longing to say hello.”

The thought of shaking Minerva’s hand – or indeed any part of her – must have cheered the Mayor up because he seemed to have forgotten that he had just been attacked by Tim. Hammill took him over to his client, who was still posing for the cameras. “Minerva … this is the Mayor!” he said.

“How lovely to meet you, Mr Mayor!” Minerva sounded so genuine, I almost believed her myself. She kissed him on the cheek and night became day again as the photographers captured the moment for the morning’s headlines. “Where do we go to turn on the lights?” she asked.

“This way…” The Mayor had gone red.

We made our way to a raised platform that had been constructed at the side of the road. There must have been four or five hundred people all around us, many of them waving autograph books and flashing cameras of their own. A Salvation Army band was playing carols. They finished “Away in a Manger” and began a version of “Silent Night” that was anything but.

Minerva climbed the stairs and I couldn’t stop myself thinking of gallows and public hangings. I remembered the warning inside the cracker. Was someone really about to have a crack at her? I tried to think where I would hide myself if I were a sniper. I looked up at the rooftops. It was hard to see anything in the darkness but there didn’t seem to be anyone there. How about an open window? All the windows in the street were closed. Then perhaps in the crowd…

By now Minerva had reached the top of the stairs. Was she being brave or stupid? Or was it just that she refused to take any of this seriously?

Jake Hammill was certainly looking nervous. So was Harold Chase. He was standing to one side, his hands in his pockets, pulling his black cashmere coat around him like he was trying to hide in it. His eyes were darting left and right. Even if nobody took a shot at his wife, I’d have said a major heart attack was a strong possibility. He didn’t look like he’d last the night.

So there we all were on the platform: Minerva and the Mayor at the front, the rest of us grouped behind. There was a single red button, mounted on a wooden block, and a microphone. Minerva stepped forward. The crowd fell silent. The Salvation Army players came to the end of a verse and stopped – unfortunately not all at the same time.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” It was the Mayor speaking. His voice whined the full length of Regent Street and it wasn’t just the fault of the microphone. “I’d like to welcome you all here and I hope you’ve all remembered to pay the congestion charge! We’ve had some great stars turn on the lights in Regent Street. But this year, if you ask me, we’ve got the biggest star of all. Please welcome … Minerva!”

Everyone clapped and cheered.

“Thank you. Thank you so very much!” Minerva’s voice echoed after the Mayor’s. “I’m so thrilled to be here, at Christmas. It’s such a wonderful time of the year – the birth of baby Jesus and of course my new CD is about to be released. So Happy Christmas to everyone, and here goes…”

She lifted her finger.

And that was when it happened.

There were two gunshots. They sounded incredibly close and there could be no doubt that Minerva was the target. At once the entire atmosphere changed. There was a single second of frozen silence and then screams as the crowd panicked and began to scatter, people pushing each other to get out of the way. The band was swept away in the stampede. I saw someone fall into the big drum. The cymbal player was knocked off her feet with a final crash. On the platform, the Mayor had been the first to dive for cover. Minerva hadn’t moved, as if unsure what to do. I couldn’t see if she had been hit or not. With that bright red dress, it was hard to tell.

Then Tim leapt into action. I have to hand it to him – at least he was braver than the Mayor, who had curled into a ball in the corner of the platform with his head buried in his hands. Tim had been hired to protect Minerva and that was what he was going to do – even if the shots had already been fired. Even if she was already dead.