Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas. Stuart MacBride

Billy picked up the holdall, clenched his jaw, ground his teeth. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ It wasn’t fair – why should Dillon get the painting? What the hell did he know about art? Nothing, that’s what. Sweet bugger all. Dillon wouldn’t have a clue how to appreciate something that beautiful. Dillon was a wanker with a line in drugs and violence. Billy had a GCSE in art – got a ‘B’ too – by rights the painting should be his.

      He followed Twitch out into the hallway. Yeah: should be his. . .

      Suppose he just kept it? Suppose Dillon didn’t get the real painting, suppose Dillon got a fake instead? Billy’s sister Susan fancied herself as a bit of an artist, she was always doing those ‘paint by numbers’ things.

      Nah, it was a shite plan. That picture she did of some penguins looked more like vultures in dinner jackets. She’d just screw it up. Susan was stupid.

      The television was still blaring away as they passed the huge Christmas tree – Twitch helped himself to a couple of the presents underneath it, slipping them into his backpack.

      Maybe. . . Maybe Dillon could have an accident? A smile split across Billy’s face. Yeah, Dillon has an ‘accident’, their thirteen grand debt suddenly disappears, and Billy gets to keep Monet’s The Pear Tree. Put it up on his bedroom wall, smoke some weed and look at the colours. Sweet.

      He followed Twitch up the stairs. What kind of accident should Dillon have: car crash? Down the stairs? Back of the head caved in with a claw hammer? Claw hammer was probably best, that way Billy could just nip around to Dillon’s flat, pretend to hand over the picture . . . and BANG! Soon as his back’s turned. Maybe there’d even be some stuff lying about? Big bag of weed and a wad of—

      A plummy, public-school voice bellowed out from the foot of the stairs. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

      Twitch Froze. ‘Fuck!’ Then they legged it, hammering up the stairs two at a time.

      The old bastard ran after them. He was one of those smoking jacket and silvery hair types, but he could move. ‘Come back here!’

      Billy nearly lost it on the last flight of stairs, but somehow managed to scrabble upright, bashing into the faded wallpaper, puffing and wheezing. Twitch screeched round the corner into the room with the stuffed black bear and the African masks.

      A hand wrapped itself round Billy’s arm and he squealed, span round and flailed out a fist. Pain sparked across his knuckles and the old guy grunted. Falling back. Giving Billy just enough time to scarper through the door to the room they’d broken into, with all its boxes of junk. Billy shoved the stuffed bear, sending it clattering against the door. He leapt a cardboard box full of creepy china dolls and jumped for the window.

      Bang!

      He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why everything hurt.

      Bloody idiot: the painting’s frame was too big to go through the gap straight on.

      The door rattled. Billy struggled with the large, painting-filled holdall, working it round onto the diagonal, easing it through the open window. ‘Andy!’

      Twitch froze, halfway down the oak tree outside, glower-ing up at him, black eyes glittering in the Christmas lights. ‘Don’t use my real name!’

      ‘Catch!’ Billy swung the painting out and let go. It got halfway. There was a loud ripping sound as the holdall caught on a branch. A huge triangle of fabric tore free. The holdall dropped four feet, snagged on something, and hung there, swinging. The pear tree glowed through the jagged-edged hole, thirty foot over the frosty ground.

      A loud thump from the hallway and the black bear lurched. BANG: it lurched again. One more time and the door crashed open. The old guy charged across the room. ‘Bring back my bloody laptop!’

      Billy crawled out onto the ledge and jumped for the nearest branch, just as a hand grabbed his ankle. Caught half over the gap, Billy twisted, didn’t quite make it, banged his chin on the branch. He bit a big chunk out of his bottom lip; blood filled his mouth.

      He scrabbled for purchase on the rough wood, but it was too late: he was falling, tangled up in the Christmas lights. The cold, thick, plastic wire wrapped around his throat. ‘Ullk!’

      Billy’s fall came to a sudden halt, two storeys off the ground, legs kicking, jerking on the end of the electrical cable. Twisting. Spinning.

      His chubby fingers clawed at the folds of fat on his neck. Can’t breathe. . . Get the wire off. . . Oh God, oh God, oh God. . . CAN’T BREATHE.

      White lights sparkled all around him, the bulbs breaking under his fingers, slashing his skin, leaving it slick with blood as he twisted and struggled.

      And struggled.

      And struggled.

      And. . .

      The last thing he saw before everything went black was the pear tree at sunset, hanging in an oak, lit by Christmas lights. Still beautiful.

      2: Turtle Doves

      A Christmas tree lurked in the corner of Oldcastle City Mortuary. Just a cheap artificial one – covered with brightly-coloured tinsel, blinking lights, and little plastic angels – but it lent the dissecting room a slightly festive air. They’d even managed to find a big star for the top of the tree: a nodding Elvis doll that twitched and lolled every time a refrigerator drawer slammed shut. All shook up.

      It wasn’t exactly Santa’s grotto, but at least they’d made the effort.

      Sandra leaned back against the sink, mobile phone jammed between her ear and shoulder, eating a Chicken-and-Mushroom Pot Noodle. ‘Kevin? Hello? You there?’ Pause two, three, four. ‘Pick up, OK? Kevin?’ The answering machine went bleep. She glanced at the pale mass of flesh on the cutting table, body cavity hollowed out and empty. ‘Kevin? I’m gonna be late, OK? We’re up to our ears in some fat bastard got himself hanged. I won’t be round till later.’ Sandra shovelled a forkful of noodles into her mouth and mumbled her goodbyes. ‘Love you.’ Then hung up.

      She was just sooking the last of the juice from the carton when Professor Muir muttered his way back from the toilets. He took one look at her and sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t eat those things in here: the smell upsets Elvis.’ He pointed at the King, who jiggled and nodded his agreement as the mortuary door banged shut.

      ‘I’m finished anyway.’ She tossed the empty container in the bin and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. ‘You want me to do the spine?’

      ‘Please.’ Professor Muir went back to the mounds of offal piled up on the gurney next to the cutting table.

      Sandra pulled out the bone saw.

      Click and the vacuum whummmmmed into action, ready to whisk away any particles of blood and bone. Another click and the saw whined into life, the vibrating blade making her fingers tingle. ‘You want the chord on its own, or attached to the brain?’

      ‘Surprise me.’

      She smiled behind her mask – that was a challenge. With all the insides scooped out, the body cavity was a purple and red void, lined with shorn ribs where Sandra had popped his ribcage off like the bonnet of a car. He was a huge fat bastard, so big she could almost crawl inside and pull the lid back on. The perfect hiding place. Who’d look?

      Grinning, she went to work on his spine, making the saw shriek.

      She was bagging up the internal organs when the phone went: Oldcastle Force Headquarters, letting her know another pair of bodies were on the way. She slammed the phone down. ‘Arrrgh. . . It’s the same thing every sodding Christmas.’

      Professor Muir looked up from his preliminary report. ‘Let me guess: suicide?’

      ‘Two of them. Antisocial bastards.’ She slipped the guy’s