The Santa Killer

Ross Greenwood

Description

The Santa Killer is coming to town…

One night less than two weeks before Christmas, a single mother is violently assaulted. It’s a brutal crime at the time of year when there should be goodwill to all. When DI Barton begins his investigation, he’s surprised to find the victim is a woman with nothing to hide and no reason for anyone to hurt her.

A few days later, the mother of the woman attacked rings the police station. Her granddaughter has drawn a shocking picture. It seems she was looking out of the window when her mother was attacked. And when her grandmother asks the young girl who the person with the weapon is, she whispers two words.

Bad Santa.

The rumours start spreading, and none of the city’s women feel safe - which one of them will be next?

He’s got a list. It’s quite precise. It won’t matter even if you’re nice.

Ross Greenwood is back with his bestselling series, perfect for fans of Mark Billingham and Ian Rankin.

Praise for Ross Greenwood:

'Ross Greenwood is at the top of his game.' Owen Mullen

'Move over Rebus and Morse; a new entry has joined the list of great crime investigators in the form of Detective Inspector John Barton. A rich cast of characters and an explosive plot kept me turning the pages until the final dramatic twist.' author Richard Burke

‘Master of the psychological thriller genre Ross Greenwood once again proves his talent for creating engrossing and gritty novels that draw you right in and won’t let go until you’ve reached the shocking ending.’ Caroline Vincent at Bitsaboutbooks blog

'Ross Greenwood doesn’t write clichés. What he has written here is a fast-paced, action-filled puzzle with believable characters that's spiced with a lot of humour.' author Kath Middleton

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Private Investigators
• Hard-Boiled
• Traditional
• Holidays
• Thrillers
• Women
• Suspenso
• General officer
• Woman
• Psychology
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Christmas
• Noir
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 12 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804156773
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE SANTA KILLER
A DI BARTON MYSTERY


ROSS GREENWOOD
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109


Author’s note

More from Ross Greenwood

DEATH ON CROMER BEACH

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
In memory of Barry Richards
One in a million
1937 - 2020
In moments of pain, we seek revenge.
AMI AYALON
1
INGA



Stevenage town centre, four years ago

Inga paid for the macaroons at Coconut Creation Bakery just off the high street, took her change, thanked the lady, and left the shop. She smiled as she gently placed the cakes in her carrier bag on top of the rest of her Christmas gifts. December for her partner, Lucas, just wouldn’t be the same without macaroons. He was arriving home in a few days from his air force job abroad, and she couldn’t wait. This year, the holiday season would be family only. No one else was needed.
Inga opened her umbrella, put her head down and hastened towards the car park as a squall of rain tried to blast her into the road. A sudden flash of lightning overhead lit up the empty street in front of her. She nipped into a shop front and counted the seconds. The thunder rolled overhead when she reached twelve.
The rain was torrential now, as though the gods were pouring it out of pails, but Inga didn’t care about getting soaked. Her daughter, Amelie, was coming back from university tonight and, wet or dry, Inga would be at the door when she arrived. Smiling, Inga put her umbrella down so she wouldn’t get electrocuted, then half ran, half scuttled through the sodden streets.
When she was almost at the station, where she’d parked her car, Inga had a dilemma. Even in the middle of the day, she’d usually walk the long way and avoid the scary subways, which had filled with homeless people over the last few years. Yet, if it was possible, the rain was harder now. She checked the top of her bag and noted the packaging for Lucas’s macaroons was getting damp. Decision made, she sprinted through the series of underpasses and made it to the car park, where she giggled nervously with relief.
She thought of the new boots in her bag, which her daughter had wanted all year. Inga had told her they cost too much, but she’d secretly spent all year putting a bit aside out of the wages from her part-time job at their local Subway. Amelie was worth every penny.
It was going to be the best Christmas ever after a few lonely ones over the years. In fact, one year she’d had a punch in the face as her main present. Things have a way of working out, she thought. Her smile was wide as she popped the boot, but something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. It seemed as if a shadow had moved behind her. She didn’t even have time to turn before the blow landed.
Thirty seconds later, her mind floated back into her body, and she just about regained consciousness
‘Hey, lady,’ said a voice that seemed to come from someone many miles away. ‘Are you okay?’
As always, Inga’s mind was on her daughter. She managed to open one eye, even though it was like lifting a drawbridge, and saw her shopping bags were gone. Two halves of a broken brick were on the ground next to her head, which pounded as if cannons were going off inside it.
Ice-cold water from the deep puddle seeped through her coat and chilled her skin. She gasped. An involuntary keening sound escaped her lips. Blood poured from the wound on the side of her head and filled her eyes, and Inga saw no more.
2
THE SANTA KILLER



Peterborough, present day, three months before Christmas

My fingers are white on the handlebars as I cycle past the river. I force myself to breathe slower, because I’m just on another recce. Soon the time will come. The first message has been sent. The die is cast.
It’s cold enough not to seem out of place wearing a winter hat, but I’ve begun to sweat. The late autumn sun is dipping behind the rooftops, so most of those I pass are also decked in shades. With black jeans and a dark-blue coat on, I really could be anyone. But sadly, I am no one.
I pull up at the bench on the corner of Oundle Road and St Catherine’s Lane, where I’ve often sat to study Maggie’s life. She surprised me once with a different routine. It wasn’t so cold then, but I was still in disguise.
This time, I lean against the lamp post and pretend to check my phone. It must have been hard to appear inconspicuous before the digital age. I’d look like an idiot now, pretending to read a newspaper or a book, but who really stares at anyone nowadays as they walk down the street? We’re too busy focusing on ourselves to consider what others are up to, and that suits me fine.
She won’t be going anywhere just yet, because it’s exercise class night. She’ll leave the house around a quarter to seven and drive to the Swan Hotel Fitness Club. I know she meets Anne-Marie there and they do their class. Maggie doesn’t get back until gone nine, because they like to use the pool and sauna. The club is a glass-windowed building on two sides, so you can see the swimming area from the bushes. Must be nice to live so comfortably. My partner always complains about how unfair life is for us when others live so well.
Anne-Marie gets home around the same time as Maggie, because she only lives on Mayor’s Walk. I sometimes watch outside her house, too. Anne-Marie has four kids, so I have a touch more sympathy for her, but she still has it easy. I’m afraid she’s also on the list.
Maggie is first, though. The situation is intolerable now. I’ve known for a while it’s time to act. We haven’t discussed specifically what I should do, but it has to be drastic. Perhaps that’s why I’m reluctant. Yet I remember doing it before. Yes, there was guilt afterwards, but there was also satisfaction.
My phone beeps to tell me it’s a quarter to seven, so I cross the road to get a better view of her place. She’s the fifth house down. They are enormous properties, with lengthy lawns and wide drives. The lucky cow has a double garage for her fancy Audi Q5 to nestle inside. This evening, she hasn’t been back that long from work and it’s on the drive for when she goes to the gym. She always puts it away last thing at night.
Her mother is there, of course. She has a small red Mercedes sports car. Where does she get her money? They don’t deserve to enjoy all the breaks, but they do. I know little about her mother. I tried following her when she came on her bike once in the summer when I’d cycled too, but I couldn’t keep up. What the hell is all that about? She’s got to be late sixties.
I thought about adding her name to the list, but there are too many imponderables. I think that’s the right word. Besides, someone will need to care for the child.
Maggie’s huge front door opens. It’s the kind that begs for a wreath like they have in those black-and-white American Christmas films. She steps out in her tight T-shirt and even tighter leggings, brunette ponytail swishing, looking the picture of health. Regal even. Maggie has taken it up a notch of late, eating healthy, jogging, and three classes a week, so it’s no wonder she looks so good. It’s an understated look. Very sexy, but kind of normal.
She’s one of those who exercises in full make-up. Maybe nobody knows the real her. Perhaps, like me, she is hidden.
I watch her waving up at the nearest bedroom window. Her strange child is there, motionless, as she often is, and she’s the problem. I’m not sure what’s wrong with her, but it’s something. That observing child is a weak link in my forming plot. No matter. Thoughts of wreaths have given me a brilliant idea.
Maggie gets in her car and reverses off the drive. I turn and push my bike down Oundle Road towards town. She’ll be going the other way and only see my back.
I’ve cycled today. Sometimes, I walk, other times I use public transport, but no more buses. Now my path is set, I don’t want to appear on their safety cameras. Coming in a car is no-no, too. I understand enough about CCTV to know that’s not a good idea.
Although the detective shows I watch as so-called entertainment are rubbish, I bet the police rarely convict anyone unless they’re standing next to the body with a dripping knife. My dad used to shout at the TV for the villains to be smart and keep their mouths shut. I miss that now. Instead, there is silence.
I think of what happened. I consider what I did. The memor