The Present: The must-read Christmas Crime of the year!. D Devlin S
you know, after my bad patch.’
His bad patch. That’s what he had come to call it, the awful, unspeakable thing that had happened to him and driven him to total breakdown. His bad patch. It was such a classic bit of Miles understatement, a mask to cover something terrible.
‘I’m just not ready to come back yet,’ he said.
‘But one day, yes?’
‘Maybe. I … Maybe.’
‘Would it help if you opened up to me about what happened to you, Miles?’
‘No,’ Miles said flatly. There was a pause, and then he said: ‘Please don’t push me on this, Anna.’
He sounded so fragile and damaged that Anna just wanted to smother him in a hug. Whatever it was that had happened to him had broken his spirit and traumatised him; the shadow of it still fell across some part of him. But Anna was resolved to be patient with him, to continue encouraging him to move out of that shadow and get back to his old self again. But all in his own time.
The two of them chatted for a while, Anna letting the conversation ramble away into trivia and silliness. Just for that brief time, her mind was relieved of the burden of thinking about Santa and Sharon Steiner and the horrors of Elm Crescent. She focused on nothing but her dear, damaged friend. She wanted to be there in Hampstead with him. She wanted to snuggle down on the sofa with him instead of being here in East London with just her mobile and a stiff drink. She’d even watch Come Dine With Me with him, if that’s what he wanted (and dear God, he watched some crap, that boy).
After twenty minutes of talking rubbish and laughing over stupid things, Miles said: ‘It’s getting late, you’ve clearly had a long day, and I don’t want to keep you up all night talking when you should be getting some rest.’
‘And you get some rest too, Miles. Proper rest. Get yourself well.’
‘I’m … working on it. Do swing by here any time you’re in Hampstead, Anna. I’m usually in and it’s always a joy to see you. I’ll even make sure there’s a whole new sticky toffee pudding here waiting for you. A really big one. From Waitrose and everything.’
‘How could a girl refuse?’ Anna laughed. ‘I’ll definitely see you as soon as I can, Miles. I don’t think I can face this horrible world without regular doses of you. And I’m so excited that you’re starting to feel ready to get back to work. But for the time being, I’ve got a lot on. This investigation I’m working on is important, it needs my full attention.’
‘Of course it does,’ Miles said, speaking with complete empathy. ‘Just be careful, yes?’
‘I’m always careful.’
‘I mean it, Anna.’
‘So do I. Good night, Miles.’
‘Nighty night.’
Anna hesitated before hanging up. She didn’t really want to say goodbye. Miles hesitated too; after a few seconds she heard him say: ‘Sleep tight.’
Another pause, then he said: ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
A few more seconds passed – and then he put down the phone at his end.
Alone again, Anna tried to hang on to the warm memory of Miles’s voice for as long as possible. But by the time she got into bed, her mood was darkening again. Some part of her felt guilty to have been joking around, talking silly stuff with Miles, while somewhere out there Sharon Steiner was cowering in terror at the hands of her murderous captor, alone and brutalised.
I’ll find her, Anna vowed to herself as she hit the light and settled down. Even if CID can’t get their act together, I can. I’ll find her, wherever she is. I swear it.
Stretched out on the sofa, Anna let the booze work its way into her system and carry her away into a fitful sleep. Nasty, disordered dreams crowded in on her. Ben and Sharon Steiner were there, drenched in blood, being dragged into deep shadow. And Miles drifted in and out too, looking worn down and dishevelled, the blood of the Steiners splashing across him and staining his clothes deep scarlet.
And there, brooding over this whole jumble of horrible images, was a big, dark shape which, despite being faceless and silent, Anna somehow knew represented Detective Inspector Jim Townsend, glaring at her, pouring his silent hatred over her like poisonous fumes, cooking up plans and plots and acts of vengeance against her to teach her – once and for all – the price she could expect to pay for making powerful enemies in high places …
Anna woke suddenly, more anxious and fretful than before. The room was dark and still. It was just gone 1.00 a.m.
Why was her heart beating so rapidly? Why were nerves jangling throughout her body? Had there been a noise? Had something jolted her awake?
Slowly, stiffly, she sat up on the sofa where she had fallen asleep, peering about the room. All was as it should be. There was nothing to be frightened of. The flat was secure, there was nobody else here, she was perfectly safe. There was nothing left for her to do except pad across to the bedroom, throw off her clothes, get under the big, warm duvet and …
Bang!
It was a dull, fist-like noise slamming hard against the front door.
Anna jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.
So that’s what had woken her up! Somebody had banged at the door while she was sleeping. And now they had banged again.
Her fists clenched and drawn tightly against her chest, Anna edged her way into the living room towards the front door, all the while bracing herself for another thud. But there was nothing. Just silence.
Two or three feet from the door, she stopped and stood there, waiting.
More silence.
‘Who is it?’ she called out at last.
No answer.
Shaking, she plucked up the courage to bring her eye closer and closer to the little spy hole. The fish-eye lens showed the street outside. Nobody about.
Still jittery and jumpy, her heart thudding against her ribs, Anna fumbled clumsily with the latch, got the door open, and thrust her head out. There was no sign of anyone. Not a soul.
Except …
There at her feet was a box, about the size of a hat box. A present. A Christmas present, neatly wrapped in shiny paper depicting the repeated image of a partridge in a pear tree. There was even a red ribbon tied into a decorous bow, and a nametag attached, also bearing the image of partridge in a pear tree.
Once again, she looked up and down the street, as if the mystery caller would suddenly be revealed. But there was no sign of him now.
Anna picked up the present. Something moved about inside, not heavy but certainly solid. Tipping it this way and that, she got the impression that there was liquid inside.
She turned the gift tag so that she could read what was written inside it. In red ink, and in bold capitals, she saw the words:
ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS
MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME …
Instinctively, she guessed it was from Miles. Before his ‘bad patch’, it had been a habit of his to leave little gifts on her desk to find when she came into the After-Dark offices.
As she carried his mystery present into the flat, she wished he’d hadn’t just left it and buggered off without a word. She wanted him here, even though he had always hated her flat and was forever nagging her to move out and find somewhere better.
Maybe he couldn’t say what he wanted to say in words, face to face. Maybe this present contained something that would make Anna understand what it was that was eating him up inside, what it was that was driving him to drink.